Simon Blackfyre and the Corridor of Shadows: Book 2 of the Simon Blackfyre sword and sorcery epic fantasy series

by A J Allen

  The charging thing squealed and slowed, malodorous, viscous fluid bubbling around the blade stuck in the cloven wound. Pausing, it turned its black obsidian eyes, the size of shields, toward Mr. Byrch and sprung its beak open to rip him apart.

  Mr. Byrch raised his dirk, the long blade dagger hardly visible his huge hand. He slowly backed Shamus away. “Your Lordship? I’d like to fetch Gertie back if you don’t mind.”

  Instinctively, Simon vaulted forward and swung his garden hoe, smashing the blade into one of the bulging eye sockets.

  The creature squealed and tried to shake it loose. Simon held on with all his strength, pushing and twisting until the blade hit bone and the handle snapped. Out the corner of his eye he glimpsed Esther streaking toward them.

  The fierce hawk swooped in and dug her talons into the creature’s other eye. She flew away clutching a large piece of its black pupil. Blinded, the vile serpentine monster recoiled, shaking its head violently from side to side.

  Lord Lionsbury gripped his sword with two hands and leveled the blade toward it.

  “Fiend, thine unholy name is Nekrolos and you perish this day by Irkalla, my family’s sacred blade.”

  He rushed forward and thrust in a single smooth motion, up into the distracted creature’s exposed underside near its head. The moment its scaly exterior was sliced open, it released a garbled shriek, its spiked legs jerking uncontrollably in every direction.

  With a deft grip, his Lordship slit the thing’s throat from eye to eye until its head lolled on a loose strand of flesh. Its legs gave way and it collapsed to the earth with a final thud at Simon’s feet.

  Lord Lionsbury slumped forward, pale and winded. Steadying himself once more he took a deep breath. “Why did you not run when I ordered all to safety?”

  Simon gasped and looked around as though he’d just been shaken awake from a deep and terrible dream. “I... I could not, my lord. The voice was the same as before.”

  “Voice?”

  “In the Corridor of Shadows. It was the same one.”

  “You will inform the Holy Seer at once.” Lord Lionsbury drew a deep breath and examined his blade. “And what say you now, young Blackfyre?”

  “Your Lordship?”

  Lord Lionsbury wiped his sword with a rag. “Now do you believe?” He looked waxen and drained as though he too had suffered a wound yet none was visible.

  Byrch rumpled his nose and yanked Gertie out of the creature’s head. “Phew. I’ll be lucky if I ever get the stink off her. Needs a good clean now, she does.”

  His Lordship tossed him the rag. “Mineral oil with a tincture of carbolic and lemon then let it dry in the sun for two days. Scrape off any… thick residue… with a knife. And bury the scrapings.”

  “Let it dry for two days? Is that wise, my lord, considering its friends may come looking for it?”

  The thought of that monstrosity having a band of merry friends almost made Simon keel over. Simon stared again at the monstrous hundred-legged worm, its scaly skin already smoking and rotting in the fading light of day. He fought to control his gut from spilling its contents.

  “What… what… I mean, what creature is this, your Lordship?” He pulled the gore-covered handle of the garden hoe out of the socket. “It’s like nothing I ever—” He shut up, aware that any answer would only make him feel worse.

  “This? This is just a lowly foot soldier sent to test our defenses and our will to fight, no matter the cost.”

  “Oh. Right.” Simon feared the answer to his next question. “And… erm… where does it come from?”

  “Better to ask whose bidding it served and you will have your answer. If you are going to ask questions, please make them the right ones.”

  Lord Lionsbury stared at him, disappointment creased in the corners of his tired eyes.

  “The Holy Seer and I wish it otherwise, yet it matters not that you still do not believe in these things and all the magic that goes with them. What matters more, then, is that they believe in you, Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby, for you alone have seen something in the Corridor of Shadows that did not wish to be seen—and it knows now that you are here.”

  Simon shook his head, his recollections of his near-deadly sojourn in that accursed realm causing nothing but a dull ache and dizziness. “I’m sorry, my lord. I remember only what I have said before.”

  “And, perhaps that is the intention. The sacred books write that the Choldath will bide their time amassing strength and legion in their world… and they shall bide until they believe the moment has been ordained to manifest and strike with the full fury of their demonic power and monstrous force… into ours,” Lionsbury said.

  Mr. Byrch walked up to them leading Shamus by the reins. He watched the limping and wounded guards gathering the small remains of their dead comrades. “We lost good men today, my lord, and soon there will be more, many more if we do not prevail,” he said.

  “There is much troubling news of late, my friend, here and in Avidene though I cannot speak of it yet until we are certain,” Lionsbury answered.

  “I have heard many rumors during my travels, my lord. Trust that they will not be repeated until they are confirmed, which I pray, they are not,” Byrch added.

  “Thank you,” Lionsbury said. “I will send a sealed report with the messenger returning to Avidene requesting a War Council be convened as soon as possible. Our Kingdom must prepare—whether there is a King to lead us or not.”

  Simon speared a small piece of smoking flesh with the broken handle tip. “Why did it turn to you when you spoke in that strange tongue, my lord?” He faced Lord Lionsbury.

  “Look,” he said, vexed. “There is much to say and little time to do it. We cannot stand here and answer to your… party game of asking too many questions of those who cannot tarry to gossip. We must wash ourselves and eat quickly to replenish our strength,” he said.

  “Yes, your Lordship,” Simon said, not wishing to incur more wrath. “I’ll head off, then, and get wash—” But Lionsbury had not yet finished speaking and interrupted again.

  “Not yet. Lord Dowrick and his party have not returned or answered our hails,” he said. “Choose two of the Evermere protectors, with the exception of Marcus, and meet us at the front gate. We must find them before night falls.”

  “But why not Marcus?” Simon asked. “He wishes to be given another challenge to prove his worth in the Council’s eyes.” He was aware it was another unsolicited question, but hoped it was a better one this time. He was relieved Lord Lionsbury simply responded.

  “And he will, but as the eldest son in a rightful contender’s bloodline, we are sworn to protect him at Farrhaven until the rites are concluded and the King crowned.”

  Simon tossed the broken garden hoe aside. “I mean no disrespect, my lord, but first you tell me I must help choose a king and now you want me to go to war against something I don’t understand and to do so only by trusting your honorable word.

  “I will do as I am instructed behind these high stone walls but will not venture forth to fight a powerful enemy with only my bare hands and a stick. And we all saw what happened when our noble friends earlier fought hand-to-hand based only on a word…that was untrue.”

  He seemed to have stunned Lionsbury into a silence. The man simply shrugged.

  “We shall see,” he said. That was a phrase Simon already knew meant, you will find out in a bad way, and thus sorely regret speaking to me impertinently.

  Simon glanced toward the pile of wood practice weapons stacked near the shed; no way could he protect anyone, armed only with a pole. He felt he might as well cast wet washcloths at the enemy or try to trip them up by sticking out his leg as they crowded toward him with murder in their eyes.

  Esther flew down and alighted on Simon’s shoulder, her talons firm yet not sharp against his skin, her dark brown eyes seeming to search his face for a deeper sign of understanding as though such a thing was possible between man and bird. “Sorry, girl. I have nothing f
or you.”

  “And did you think I forgot about you, lass?” The hawk hopped onto Byrch’s massive shoulder. He reached into his pouch and fed her a biscuit. Shamus snorted and neighed. “Now, none of that, mister. She’s not taking any of yours,” Byrch said. “There’s enough here for the both of you.” He reached into his pouch again and pulled out a wilted turnip.

  “There’s a reason, lad,” he said to Simon, “Why you walked the Corridor of Shadows for three days and returned. Don't you want to find out what it is?”

  “Yes, Mister Byrch. I do... but only if it will bring me one step closer to becoming a freeman like you.”

  Lord Lionsbury sheathed his sword. “Then the time has come to put away your childish playthings and shut your forever over-running mouth. Bear now the weight of something more substantial… if you can. Now, come.”

  Simon hurried alongside his Lordship and Mr. Byrch toward the Great Hall, as a pelting rain began to fall, bouncing high from the muddied surface to spatter his boots.

  Try as he might, Simon could no longer easily dismiss their dire words or the Holy Seer’s warnings. What this unnatural creature was, dead and moldering before him, he couldn’t say, yet of one thing he was certain.

  If he hoped to survive this dangerous place and walk out of the gates a freeman, he could no longer deceive himself into believing there would always be reassuring explanations for everything his life depended on.

  Chapter 11

  Forest of Sorrow

  The rain ended and washed away some of the stench of the decaying creature.

  Under Lord Lionsbury’s orders, Mr. Kovoth, grumbling and cursing when his Lordship was not present, reluctantly issued swords to Jack and Simon from the padlocked armory adjacent to the noble’s residence.

  Simon and Jack swung their blades, testing their weight and balance.

  They practiced a few sparring maneuvers, laughing as they ducked and darted around the other’s thrusts and parries.

  “Careful you bloody savages,” Kovoth barked. “You can cut each other’s heads off after we find Dowrick and Callor.”

  Simon was enjoying his first sensation of real power that was gripped within his hand. It was a fine blade, the very same as carried by the guards, no less, freshly cleaned and sharpened by Goran Velizar himself.

  He sheathed his sword. And since when did a noble ever venture to do such painstaking work for a slave?

  Marcus had insisted he also join in the search, until Lord Lionsbury explained the importance of protecting the eldest son of each noble family. Simon was glad that Jack was eager to help in his brother’s stead. Rachel didn’t protest when he chose her too.

  Rachel received a newly-strung hunting bow and a quiver of steel-head arrows. “Finally, I’ll be able shoot something more than pointy sticks,” she said.

  Her superior archery skills were still unsurpassed by any after the initiation and Simon needed a friend who could strike in silence and with stealth from a distance. Something was still bothering her from the previous night and if she wanted to talk about it, Simon reasoned, she would. But there was nothing they could do at the moment, except listen to and obey the orders of the foul-tempered guard in charge.

  Mr. Kovoth locked the armory door and jiggled the padlock chain to make sure it was secure. “Follow me and do exactly as you’re told.” He led them across the field toward the front gate. “You think you’re something special now but I’ve heard when the plant’s poison eventually wears off, everyone will go back to the way things were before.”

  He sneered at Simon. “Mark my words, lad. Once the true King is crowned, there’ll be a great day of reckoning. A glorious day for some… but if others think they’ll be forgetting what the lash of a whip feels like, they can be assured they’ll be feeling it again soon enough... and more.”

  Jack swung his sword behind Kovoth’s back. All it would take was one blow and that would be the end of this wretched man. Jack winked at Simon. “But none of us knows for certain what will happen, do we Mister Kovoth? Not even the Holy Seer knows who’ll be our next King.” He sheathed his sword.

  “The seers can live for many a year, much longer than regular folk, it’s true, but everyone’s last breath comes sooner or later and who can say what will happen after she breathes her last? Maybe she will be the last of her kind then... just like you lot.”

  “Is this a test, Mister Kovoth?” Rachel asked. “Will you report to Lord Dowrick how we reacted to your dire words?”

  The hunched guard paused and faced them. “All I’m saying, young missy, is that you need to ask yourself what happened to the first protectors from the Age of Heroes, those Asmadu Vohra ghosts whose blood now flows through your veins? Not even Rabek speaks about them and nothing more is written in the sacred books after the first king was chosen as far as I’ve ever been told.”

  No one questioned Kovoth further. They had less than two hours until all the lower world would be palled in the night’s gloom and though Simon didn’t like Callor, he didn’t wish him to suffer some tragic end either. The same could just as easily happen to Rachel or Marcus. Simon’s spirits rose when he saw Mr. Byrch near the front gate.

  Byrch flattened down the hood of his bearskin cloak. “All right, Kovoth. I’ll take charge of them now. I suspect Lord Dowrick and the others will be hungry when we find them so make sure you leave supper enough for all of us.”

  Kovoth held his head arrogantly back as though sniffing something. “Not to worry, Mr. Byrch. They must have struck camp for the night as Lord Fromund says. With boar and deer aplenty in the valley, we shouldn’t be surprised if the young Tiberion wanted to hunt larger game and bring us all back a great stag for the spit.”

  “And if Lord Dowrick encouraged him, maybe now he’s regretting that decision. Just because someone’s been initiated doesn’t mean they’re any smarter than they were before, least not until they humble themselves and honor the blessings they’ve received.”

  Mr. Kovoth picked at his teeth with his finger and leered at Rachel. “Right you are, friend. That must be it. They’re all safe and sound, tucked in around a campfire… although you can’t be too careful out there at night. Who knows what you might bump into after what we’ve seen today.” He spat and stomped away.

  Byrch snorted and picked up an unlit torch. “All right, Simon and Jack grab one and light it only when I tell you. Keep your sword hands at the ready and your eyes and ears open.”

  “But, Mister Byrch.” Simon looked back at the noble’s residence expecting to see Lord Lionsbury emerge at any moment. “His Lordship said he was coming too. There was more he wanted to say to me.”

  “I know, lad, but it will have to wait. He’s called an emergency Council meeting after receiving new orders from Avidene. What you witnessed today happened on the outskirts of Arenfjord on the southern coast. I arrived after the local garrison had finally overpowered it by sheer force but not before losing over thirty brave souls. And that’s not the worst of it, but to that I cannot speak until we learn more.”

  Rachel checked the tip of one of her arrows. “There’s more than one of those things?”

  “Like scorpions in a den if you believe the old stories which seem to be coming truer by the day.”

  Jack withdrew his sword. “How did they lose so many? His Lordship dispatched the creature with a single blow.”

  “Aye, but the garrison at Arenfjord was not so fortunate to have a noble with one of the holy swords in their ranks that day.”

  Simon increased his stride. “I saw something, only for a few moments, a shimmer of orange light on his blade as though drawn from the fire before he spoke those strange words.”

  “A sight to behold was she not, lads? The Lionsbury family sword, Irkalla, one of a handful of scared ancient blades handed down from the five patriarchs to the noble families who helped them forge our great Kingdom. I’ve long since read about them but that is the first I’ve seen of such living steel. She had as much to do with dispa
tching the demon as his Lordship’s skill and bravery.”

  “She? Mister Byrch?” Jack exchanged a smirk with Simon. “What kind of name is Irkalla?”

  “From the ancient tongue, lad, and don’t you be smart with me. Marcus is privileged too. Shortly he’ll receive Belessunu from your father.”

  “You mean Bella? That rusty old thing over the mantelpiece?” Jack swung his sword masterfully through the air. “He can have it. I’ll take one these Farrhaven blades any day. Mister Gellworth is a master swordsmith.”

  “Fine as they are, they be no single match for a demon. That much we’ve already seen.”

  Simon gripped the hilt of his sword.

  “Magic swords, Mister Byrch? Are they all like that?” he asked.

  Byrch grunted and rubbed his beard. “Only his Lordship’s has ever been tested in battle, though I suspect we’ll see soon enough about the rest.” He drank from his wineskin. “And soon there’ll be no light to see at all if we stand around jabbering like magpies. Get a move on, all of you.”

  Once outside the front gate, Byrch led them down a down a slender, twisting path that disappeared into the dense woods. A twilight breeze ruffled their hair as they surveyed the impenetrable forest on all sides.

  After a steady slog, Mr. Byrch stopped and crouched on the ground. “We must be getting closer.”

  Jack leaned over. “How do you know?”

  Byrch rubbed something between his fingers and sniffed it. “Blood.”

  “Animal or man? Can you tell?”

  “Almost dry. So, could be either... or.” Byrch stood and rubbed his hands together.

  “Or what?” Rachel slid an arrow out of its quiver. “What were you going to say?”

  “Calm yourself, lass. See? Boar tracks.”

  Simon picked up a bloodstained handful of dead leaves. He studied the scattered lines on the trampled ferns and the frantic pattern of tracks on the path. He’s right, but the tracks are fresher than the blood. “Don’t worry. It’s wounded and running for its life.”