Ravenshade

by C S Marks

  Ravenshade

  A Tale Of Alterra, The World That Is

  BY

  C. S. Marks

  Cover Art by John Connell

  Maps by Carie Nixon

  Edited by Leslie Wainger

  Ravenshade

  Copyright © 2014 by C. S. Marks, Iron Elf, LLC

  The characters and events this book are entirely fictional. No similarity between any of the names, characters, persons, and/or institutions in this book with those of any living or dead person or institutions is intended, and any such similarity which may exist is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photo-copying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

  Published by Parthian Press, all rights reserved

  ParthianPress.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9859182-8-6

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  For Thaylon and Mom

  Home is a place where my heart can sing freely

  Where fear and doubt fade, and the spirit find rest

  I dare not return until duty release me

  When all is made whole, and I meet the last test.

  Home is a word that to him has small meaning

  A dark place of shelter from love and from light

  In her stony embrace he can hide from redeeming

  ‘Til fate drives him forth again into the night.

  I will go home, home to the Greatwood

  Stars burn bright above, shine on all souls the same

  In this life or the next, I will see my fair country

  When my people are free, and forgotten his name.

  Black as a raven’s wing, cold as the stone

  Old as the mountain’s heart, ever alone

  The stars, they are bright tonight, shining above

  How can they reach a soul who has never known love?

  —Gaelen Taldin

  FOREWORD

  “Write what you know” is a well-established maxim among writers. This might prove difficult when it comes to fantasy, as I would suspect very few of us have Elves living in our back yards, or have recently engaged in an epic battle against the Powers of Darkness. Yet even fantasies (at least the good ones) deal with very real, human issues. We can draw on our experiences in this world to enhance the telling of the tale in our imaginary world. Sometimes, if we do our jobs well, the characters inhabiting those fantasies seem as real as their flesh-and-blood counterparts. We cheer them on, weep with them, curse them, suffer with them, and mourn them when they’re gone. They become our friends.

  Writing what you know makes the story come to life—personal experiences breathe life into it. For example, readers have often commented on the depth and realism of the horses in these books. That’s because I have spent most of my life in the company of horses. I know what it’s like to ride at speed for a hundred miles in a day over rough terrain, and can empathize with Fima when I am barely able to move the next day. Several of the horse characters (Toran, Finan, Eros, Réalta, Angael, and Siva) are modeled after my own animals. I did not mention my horses in any acknowledgments, but I probably should have.

  I can relate to the trials of the long road, having spent years as a field biologist tramping all over various parts of North America and Australia, and I know what it’s like to cope with rain, cold, and heat. I have kept watch on many a dark night, taking in the sights, scents, and sounds of my surroundings. Like some members of the Company, I have occasionally wished for civilization…yet I, too, was awed by my first sight of a starlit desert night.

  I have been surprised and elated at the number of young readers who have taken up these books and loved them. I hope these works may serve as an example to them—that they will identify with and admire some of the upstanding characters within these pages. Emulating the behavior of a man like Rogond is not a bad thing. Even with the slightly darker nature of Ravenshade, I am pleased to state that I can look the parents of a ten-year-old in the eye and assure them that the books are suitable for most young readers.

  I hope also that my readers will be inspired to produce writings of their own. Some have done so already, to my delight. My advice to any would-be authors is this—don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t do it. If a story is asking to be told, then tell it.

  I would encourage those readers who wish to learn more of Alterra to contact me. You can find the information on the copyright page—we’d love to have you join us on Facebook, as well. I would enjoy hearing from you and answering whatever questions you may have. Watch for new features, such as the Alterran languages lexicon, on the site.

  This has been a long journey for the characters and for me, yet it has only begun. I finished the last chapter with mixed emotions, because I was not ready to bid farewell to these hardy souls with whom I had spent so many enjoyable years. I have seen this part of the story through its development, bringing it to a climax and then to an end. I’ve already started a new Alterran series, the Undiscovered Realms, as I have come to know this world, and the characters in it, very well indeed. Writers, as we have been told, should write what they know.

  —C.S. Marks

  PROLOGUE

  I’m cold.

  So cold…I cannot stop shaking. Everything hurts. The cold is terrible, but the sounds I hear are worse.

  I’ve been hearing them for a while now. They drown out the comforting, steady beat of the drum—that sound that tells me the world is safe…that I am safe. The drum-beat has risen to a frightening crescendo, as it has done many times before, but these sounds are new. Sounds have pierced my dark haven before, but not like these. I do not know how to describe them—only that they terrify me. The walls of my sanctuary are closing around me, no longer in safe embrace. I feel their agony. Something hurts me. It cuts my face, and I taste blood. I’ve tasted it before…and I like it.

  Whatever made the blood…hard, cold, and sharp, has withdrawn, but everything hurts. The Something has gripped me! It rips me from my warm place, though I struggle against it. Light burns my eyes. Still, I must try to open them. The world is no longer safe. What are these things that would grab my limbs and hurt me so? They shake me, they slap me…but I cannot cry out, though I would wish to. The world spins—a horrible dance of shadow and shapes, and I know nothing of them. Will they kill me? I’m afraid.

  Why is everything red?

  My own drum-beat is strong, but it races with my terror. I try to breathe through the blood and ooze covering my face. Something wipes it away, and I shudder as it touches me, screwing my eyes shut, trying to make the Light stop burning them. I would give anything to be warm again.

  Something tugs at my belly. The thing that hurt my face…I can see it now. Thin and cold—the only thing here that is not red—moving savagely back and forth, pulling at my flesh. Then it stops, and I am free. Now it is red, too.

  The Light brings awareness, awakening my thoughts. I must live. I must breathe. I want to cry. I want to be warm. I want to feed. I want to be safe. I want to be loved. I breathe, tasting the air and filling my lungs for the first time, and then I cry. At first, I can only hiccup. I am still shaking so hard…but then I draw in another deep breath, and I wail. Perhaps, if I make enough sound, someone will hear me. Perhaps someone will save me. The sound of my own voice frightens me, and I am screaming now. Please…I am so cold! Won’t anyone help me?

  I hear sounds—I think they must be voices—but I do not know what they mean. Something wraps me up, and the cold fades a little, but I am still shaking. I don’t understand anything that is happening. And then, I see her. This is my mother! She will love m
e…feed me…keep me warm and safe. Something rips at her, exposing more of her flesh, and lays me down beside her.

  She brings everything I need—warmth, food, comfort—and I drink. The hot milk runs down my throat, filling my belly. I am voracious, pulling at her frantically, desperate for the things she will give me. But I can feel her life-force, and it is not strong. Worse than that—I can feel her emotions. Something makes me look into her face.

  Even I am aware that she is beautiful. Her eyes are blue—the first blue I have beheld—and her hair is golden. But her face and hair are smeared with red, even as I am. There is a Light within her, and that Light does not hurt me…not yet. It radiates from her, and it is familiar. I long for her to embrace me, to keep me safe. Our eyes meet for the first time.

  Will you love me?

  Her face twists into a grimace as her eyes fill with loathing. Her thoughts reach me—I can perceive them. Monstrous…hideous…evil…

  But I am innocent! Please love me. I start to cry again, terrified and forlorn. She cringes back at the sound of my voice.

  It bellows like a beast. I would rather die than look upon it again!

  She shoves me away, her life-force ebbing further. She will not love me. Her loathing burns my soul. I am not evil! How can I make her understand? I reach for her. Please, hold me. Do not push me away! I need you! I love you! I am innocent!

  Her eyes soften for a moment, and then grow hard, cold, and dead. Her sorrow is overcome by revulsion, disgust. I see my own hands—desperate, grasping—they are not like hers. I have not yet seen my own face. Her only thought: I cannot love you. She shoves me away, and I know she would kill me if she had the strength.

  Something…someone…presses my face into her flesh again, even as she tries to push me from it. Then her body stiffens, and her life-force drains from her. I can feel it. I look into her eyes for the last time, and see only hatred. I am innocent! Will you not care for me? I am your son! I long for her love, but will never receive it. This time, when I drink, the milk has already grown cold.

  Chapter 1

  AT THE EDGE OF DARKNESS

  It is said that one of the greatest gifts we are given lies in the ability to make choices. Often we are told that we are at the mercy of Fate, and sometimes it may seem to be so, yet such claims do not survive close scrutiny. Feet may be set upon a path, but the way they travel on that path is directed by choice. One may even turn from the path altogether, if the strength is there.

  Gaelen Taldin, a Wood-elf of the Greatwood Realm, had summoned her bitterest and most deadly foe, Gorgon Elfhunter, to stand before her that he might pay for his dark and terrible crimes. Gorgon, cruel beyond all reason, had tortured and killed Gaelen’s friend, the gentle and steadfast Thorndil, only to announce his return in a manner that she could not ignore. Gaelen was a being of Light, and yet her choice to face her enemy had come from the darkest of emotions: hatred, rage, guilt, grief. Her hatred of Gorgon and her grief for those he had slain had drawn them both to the very edge of Darkness. Her rage and guilt had unbalanced her, and had fueled the reckless courage that had allowed her to summon him to this reckoning. She chose the battlefield.

  Gorgon Elfhunter, on the other hand, had been taken unaware. He was normally so highly attuned to the dark emotions of his mortal enemy that he would live out the rest of his days wondering how she could ever have concealed her plan from him, yet she had done so. This pathetic, undersized She-elf, unsophisticated and unenlightened, had dared to gaze into Gorgon’s mirror. She had drawn him from his hiding place to stand before her, though he did not yet know the nature of the realm in which they stood. He was unprepared, confused, and not a little fearful—his body felt strange, almost as though he walked in a dream. There was very little sensation in his strong limbs, but there was weariness. A mist surrounded his enemy such that he could not see her clearly, yet as he looked into her eyes he knew that, although she shared his weariness, she did not share his confusion. Gaelen had walked in this realm before.

  She had taken a desperate chance in using the mirror. It was bound to Gorgon, meant to be used by him alone. The Shadowmancer had given it to him, and it was his until he breathed his last. Gaelen was the vessel, the servant of the mirror and therefore of Gorgon. She was never meant to control it. She did not know what would befall—perhaps she would die, or turn to ashes, or simply lose her mind. Yet she would not allow fear to dissuade her, for she would confront Gorgon and make him pay for his dark deeds…it was the only way to be free of him.

  When their eyes met for the first time, there was an immediate exchange of astonishment from Gorgon and profound fury from Gaelen. He took a step back from her bright gaze—she would have withered him into ashes had she been capable—but her strength had been drawn away by the mirror and by the journey into this shadowed place, and for a few moments they stared at one another in fascination as she slowly mastered herself. Then, Gorgon smiled.

  Ah, little Vixen! Well met at last! I summoned you, and you have come out to face me. Even I must admire your original choice of battlegrounds. What place is this? He looked around at the swirling, multicolored mists that surrounded them, taking note of the darkness at his back. Something told him that he must avoid stepping beyond the mists into that blackness, for he would never return from it.

  We meet on the edge of Eternity, said Gaelen. Here your evil will end, for I intend to see you thrown into darkness. You will wish you had never drawn breath before I have finished with you!

  Gorgon laughed. Do you not know that I wish that already? Yet I must fulfill my life’s purpose of preying upon the Elàni, and I shall begin with you. Approach me if you dare!

  Gaelen was smiling now. Oh, have no fear, Dark Horror, she said. I will meet your challenge. But first, I must correct you. You did not do the summoning here…it was I who commanded you. You would never have had courage enough to face me had you known.

  At these words the smile faded from Gorgon’s face, for there was truth in them. He had thought to lure Gaelen and her companions into harm’s way and take them down one by one, striking them from the shadows until only Gaelen remained. Then he would meet her upon some battleground where he would surely prevail, for he was many times her size and strength, and he was highly skilled in such things. He would pay her back for the hurts she had caused him.

  He snarled and took a step toward her, as the mists lifted so that he could finally see her clearly. Gaelen appeared to be wreathed in a fiery golden-orange glow, her tousled hair fanned by unseen winds, an inner heat emanating from her. Otherwise she appeared much as she did in the physical realm, save for her eyes, which were even brighter.

  Such was not the case with Gorgon, whose spiritual essence had never before been seen. His aura, disunited and confused, was like his spirit—the result of the blending of beings so dissimilar that there was no hope of unity. The colors surrounding him, discordant and ever-changing, swirled from muddy yellow to deep indigo. There was blood-red and gold, a sickly green and malevolent purple, but there was also an occasional flash of bright blue-white. Gaelen was both horrified and revolted as she imagined being encumbered with such a spirit.

  She looked into Gorgon’s pale eyes and saw death and suffering, yet she saw also the bright stars reflected. She perceived his longing for their beauty, and knew that she had given him this gift—it was surely one of the reasons that he so hated her. You are powerful, Elfhunter, but there is no harmony in your soul…

  He drew himself up before her and, to her astonishment, his features seemed to melt and re-form. Even his eyes changed until a strong Elven face looked back at her, golden hair waving like silk in the odd breeze. The beautiful Elf threw his head back and laughed. You have no idea how powerful, little fire-spirit…and harmony is over-rated. I have strengths given me by many progenitors, including the Dark Power itself. You have no notion of what you are toying with. This was true, and Gaelen knew it, yet she simply stared in revulsion at the handsome, strong face with eyes
grey and cold and filled with malice. In this form Gorgon was stronger than she, and could well prevail over her.

  A pity you could not embrace this part of yourself, for your life would have been much different, she whispered.

  Gorgon overheard, and his fury showed immediately upon his face. I take many forms, and this is the only one of which I am ashamed! Look you now upon me and be afraid!

  His features melted and changed again and again, from the tall, strong Elf into a massive, hideous Ulca, to something resembling a dead, decomposing version of a long-vanquished Elf named Gelmyr, and even to a huge, dark presence with fire in its eyes. This manifestation alone filled Gaelen with fear. Luckily, it was fleeting. Then she watched as he became much smaller and nearly frail, a child without love or hope. She shook her head slowly. I despise you, Dark Horror, but I hold as much pity for you now as hatred. You truly are the most miserable of souls.

  As she said these words she braced herself, knowing that he would most likely become further enraged, and she would soon do battle. She summoned thoughts of Thorndil hanging from a spike, flayed alive and dripping blood onto the floor. A kind soul and a worthy companion, his only crime in Gorgon’s eyes had been his friendship with her. I have to stop you…here and now!

  She had been right about the effect of her words upon Gorgon; he had settled back into his normal appearance, his face as dark as a thundercloud. You need not feel pity for me. Feel it instead for yourself! You cannot stand against me, and your very presence is intolerable. Keep your pity, for I will not brook it. Give only your hate! With those words he rushed at her, and the battle was joined.