Shadowlith (Umbral Blade Book 1)

by Stuart Thaman

  Alster swallowed hard. “Agreed,” he said.

  Elsey leaned a hand against the wall to the side of the suit of armor. When she put her weight on it, the clicking sound returned. It was louder than the first time they had heard it, but it clicked only twice.

  “Aha!” she quietly exclaimed. “The other stablehands told me stories of secret passages and hidden rooms all over the estate. I never believed them, but this has to be one!” She set the lantern down and put both hands on the wall, pushing with all her weight. To Alster’s surprise, the wall shifted silently backward several inches before locking into place on unseen hinges. When she took her hands away, the clicking returned and the wall slowly ascended, revealing a pitch-black stone passage.

  “We should leave!” Alster said again, though he couldn’t fully deny his own curiosity.

  Elsey grabbed him by the hand and they both took a step into the dark passageway, keeping the lantern out in front of them.

  Somehow, Alster fought the urge to turn back. He hobbled behind her, taking each step with measured patience to keep his balance on the slanting floor.

  The tunnel sloped downward beneath the ground and away from the archive. The stones under their feet felt worn and smooth, as though they had once been used regularly. The dust that fell into their faces and the cobwebs which clung to their skin made Alster think no one had been in the tunnel for at least a few years.

  After nearly half an hour of descent, the tunnel leveled out and expanded, connecting to an ominous chamber whose dimensions Alster could only guess. He looked up to the ceiling, but he could not tell where darkness ended and stone began.

  Elsey led him into the chamber and to the left, keeping the light from her lantern focused on the ground in front of them. Several paces in they reached a set of metal bars which looked like a prison cell. “A dungeon?” Alster asked, though he knew Elsey did not have the answer. “Why would there be a dungeon?”

  “Look,” Elsey said, flashing the light behind the bars. “If it was a dungeon, it isn’t one any longer. There’s just a bunch of stuff in there.”

  Alster put his face up to the bars and followed the light. “More armor?” he said. A fresh wave of curiosity crept up into his mind. On the other side of the bars, he saw a helmet, a breastplate, and a pair of gauntlets sitting on a wooden table. He recognized them. “Alistair’s armor,” he said in wonder.

  “Are you sure?” Elsey asked. She reached through the bars and tried to touch one of the objects, but it was just beyond her reach.

  “It has to be,” Alster responded. He felt a connection to the armor, like a cord had wrapped around his chest and was pulling him closer.

  Supporting his weight on the bars, Alster slid his walking stick through them and extended it to the nearest table of artifacts. The bars were not set particularly close together, and he thought he might be able to pull the helmet or the gauntlets through.

  Elsey helped him steady the walking stick as he angled it through the bars. When the end of the stick was resting on top of the helmet, she pushed it up high and then pulled, knocking the helmet from the table. It clattered noisily to the ground, but it was within reach. Alster wasted no time snatching the antique object from the ground.

  “A helmet from the First Conquest of the Shades,” he said, completely awestruck. “I’ve seen helmets like these in books.” Alster didn’t know how to describe what he felt with his hands on the old piece of battle-scarred metal. A sense of validation came over him, as though all the legends he had heard of his namesake had been proven true at once.

  The helmet was heavy, heavier than Alster had expected, with a thick metal visor over a small eye slit. On the back, Alistair’s seal had been etched into the metal. The seal, something Alster had only seen a handful of times before in books or scrolls, showed a riderless horse on its hind legs in front of a roaring fire. Alster knew from his lessons with Wilkes that the seal was something highly respected and controlled—no smith would ever etch it onto anything without being directly commanded by Alistair himself. Only Alistair’s personal belongings, and those of his closest officers, were permitted to bear such a mark.

  Alster set the helmet down by his feet and reached his stick through the bars once more, angling it toward the gauntlets. Since their leather straps were still fastened, they proved easier to fetch than the helmet.

  When Alster turned the gauntlets over in his hands, he noticed a small blade that had been slipped between two of the leather pieces on the back of one gauntlet. Alster didn’t know if the blade was supposed to be a military dagger designed for fighting or just a razor used by Alistair to shave, but he knew it was sharp. He had never seen his brother training with such a small weapon, and he imagined it would be difficult to actually kill someone with it in battle. Unlike the gauntlets and helmet, the dagger showed no signs of rust. The short blade was barely longer than Alster’s palm, and the hilt was equally diminutive, though ornately adorned with red filigree to match the gauntlets.

  Alster couldn’t tell if the dagger’s blade was made of steel or some other material. With a level of reverence he had never experienced before, Alster slipped on the right gauntlet, then the left. Using the scalloped fingers on the right gauntlet, he slowly slipped the dagger from the webbing over his left wrist. In his hand, the dagger felt weightless. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew he could see the glimmering edge of the blade, though there was barely any light.

  “What’s it like?” Elsey asked from his side.

  Alster didn’t let her words break his concentration in the least. His focus was solely on the dagger in his grip. It fit nicely into the shape of his hand, and he wondered how such a mighty general as Alistair the Fourth had wielded the small weapon in battle.

  “The gauntlets,” Elsey said more loudly. “They fit you.”

  Alster looked up from his trance with a puzzled expression on his face. “What?” he asked, finally remembering she was in the room with him.

  “The gauntlets fit,” she repeated, pointing to the rusted metal.

  Alster smiled. “They do.”

  “In the painting,” Elsey continued, “Alistair looked massive. Shouldn’t his armor be bigger?”

  “I don’t know,” Alster said, not fully understanding the implications of Elsey’s question. He turned the gauntlets over, still holding the dagger in his right hand, and searched for Alistair’s seal. On the back of each hand, Alistair’s horse had been etched into the metal. “They have his seal,” Alster said after a moment. “They must be his.”

  “Perhaps he had them made for someone else?” Elsey asked. She yawned, rubbing some of the sleep from her eyes. They weren’t sure how long they had been in the hidden room, but the darkness made them both tired.

  “They were his,” Alster said with finality. He slipped the dagger away, took the gauntlets off, and tucked them under his arm. “We should go,” he said. He considered taking the helmet with him as well, but something about the piece didn’t feel right, and he didn’t get the same sense of connection that he felt with the gauntlets when he held the helmet.

  Elsey was glad to be leaving the strange place. She nudged the helmet back through the bars and took Alster by the hand, leading him carefully toward the tunnel. “Do you think showing your tutor the armor is a good idea?” she asked.

  Alster sighed. “I don’t think he will tell my father,” he replied. The dagger in his pocket gave him a new measure of confidence. He thought he could feel Alistair’s mighty presence walking alongside him and telling him not to be afraid.

  SHARP THINGS

  “Have you completed your task?” the tutor asked, his aged voice rattling in his throat. The man sat in a high-backed leather chair and stroked his beard while he looked out one of the windows to the courtyard.

  Behind him, Alster hobbled into the library with the gauntlets wrapped in one of his old shirts. When he had his walking stick safely propped against a bookcase, he let the bundle fall from his arm and clang o
nto the table as the gauntlets within rattled against each other.

  “What’s this?” the tutor asked, eyeing the bag from his chair.

  Alster sat on his customary cushion in the windowsill opposite the tutor. He was late to his tutoring on account of his overwhelming tiredness, and the effort he had expended to reach the library had made him short of breath. “Armor I found,” he said after a moment. “They’re from the First Conquest of the Shades.”

  “Oh?” the tutor said, arching an eyebrow. He pulled the shirt gingerly aside to reveal the gauntlets, as though he was handling an object of immense value. Alster’s heart lifted as the tutor turned the gauntlets over, inspecting their details. He knew they were authentic, he felt his ancestor’s presence in the armor, but he still yearned for the tutor’s confirmation.

  “They belonged to Alistair the Fourth,” Alster said eagerly.

  “Yes, yes,” the tutor replied, though he did not look up. Alster thought he heard a hint of recognition in the old man’s voice.

  After several minutes of silence, Wilkes finally set the gauntlets down between them and folded his hands in his lap. “Where did you get these?” he asked.

  Alster tried to sound convincing. “From the archive,” he said.

  The tutor nodded. Alster wasn’t sure if the man nodded because he believed the lie, or if he nodded because he had expected the lie. “And have you completed the second half of your assignment?” the tutor asked.

  “The gauntlets were worn by Alistair the Fourth during the war,” Alster said. He had thought the importance of the armor pieces was obvious, and the tutor’s question made him uneasy.

  The tutor pointed to the riderless horse on the back of the left glove. “This symbol means they certainly belonged to the legendary Alistair,” he began, “but how do you know he wore them during the war?”

  Alster thought to what he knew about the First Conquest of the Shades from his lessons and books, but he knew there was nothing definitive in his memory. “He wears the gauntlets in the portrait,” Alster answered. “He probably wore them when he killed the last shade in The Shadow King’s army.”

  The tutor smiled, letting Alster relax slightly. “And how do you know Alistair killed the last shade?” he asked.

  “The histories-”

  “The histories were written by Alistair’s generals and followers, were they not?” the tutor asked.

  Alster nodded.

  “And you trust them to be perfectly accurate?” Wilkes asked.

  “I think so,” Alster said, though his confidence wavered.

  The tutor leaned back in his chair with another deep sigh. Outside, Alster’s brother had already begun his daily training regimen. Jarix and a dozen or so boys from other nearby estates stood in formation holding spears over their shoulders.

  “You are right to believe the histories,” the tutor said after a moment. His hand returned to his white beard and his eyes seemed to glaze over as he watched the activity in the courtyard. Alster knew the expression meant a lengthy lecture was about to begin.

  “Alistair might not have worn these exact gauntlets when he dispatched the final shade,” the old man began, “but he was at least wearing something similar. Have you heard the history of the last shade? Do you know what happened at the battle of Mournstead?”

  Alster had heard of the battle many times, but he had never been told the story in any great detail. The history fascinated him, as anything having to do with his ancestors often did. “Alistair the Fourth stood in front of the gates of Mournstead and called to The Shadow King, challenging him to a duel. When the king came out, Alistair killed him, saving Vecnos from the plague of the shades,” Alster explained.

  The tutor laughed softly, as though something humorous had happened outside. “That is certainly the legend,” he said slowly, “but perhaps there is more to the tale than you know, and perhaps it is time you learned the truth of your namesake,” the man continued.

  Wilkes settled deeper into his chair, but he continued to watch Jarix and the others training outside as he spoke. “When Alistair’s army reached the great stone walls of Mournstead, The Shadow King’s impregnable citadel near the northern shore of Vecnos, the general was nearly defeated. Alistair’s forces had suffered incredible losses on his journey through eastern Vecnos. Shadowliths, the mages trained by The Shadow King himself, had plagued Alistair’s army. Every night when Alistair made camp with his soldiers, the shadows would come alive. Shadowliths hid in the darkness of the forests and worked their magic, creating shades and sending them into the camp to wreak havoc upon the army.”

  Alster rocked on the edge of his seat. He had never heard of shades possessing enough strength to kill trained soldiers. In the stories he had been told, shades were more akin to possessed fragments of shadow existing between the light and the darkness—they could see and hear and whisper, but they could not move or touch things. The shadowliths were dangerous because they sometimes created shades they could not control, shades with wills of their own. The Shadow King had used all the information the shades had gathered to win his military victories, but those victories were still with swords and shields in the hands of men, not shadows.

  The tutor read Alster’s worried expression as easily as he understood the words in the books around him. “You have not been told how dangerous the shades really were, have you?” the tutor asked, though he knew the answer.

  “I’ve heard that they couldn’t touch people, but I’m not sure I believe it,” Alster responded hesitantly.

  “Alistair’s army thought the same thing,” the tutor replied gravely. “You see, most of the shades were simply small spheres of darkness given meaning. They would hover around, moving through Alistair’s army and observing, then reporting back to their king. When the war began, The Shadow King had fewer than one hundred thousand soldiers under his command. Vecnos rallied behind your ancestor, and Alistair the Fourth marshalled a force of nearly a million. Men and women answered the call from hundreds of miles away, from the far reaches of the kingdom, all eager to serve under your namesake.”

  “How did the shades learn to fight?” Alster asked. He thought of the time he had spent with Elsey in the room beneath the archive. Had there been shades watching him? They can only exist in light and darkness, he reminded himself.

  Wilkes smiled. He clearly enjoyed explaining the history of the war to Alster, and his body seemed more alive than it had in decades. When his mouth opened to continue the lecture, instead of words, a shrill yelp issued forth.

  “What is it?” Alster practically cried. His eyes shot to every corner of the room. The morning light was powerful in the library, banishing every possible shadow, but his mind still conjured images of malevolent shades stalking him from every nook and cranny.

  “You brother,” the tutor said, pointing to the courtyard beyond the window. “He just took a spear to the chest.”

  Alster pressed his face up to the glass. He saw Jarix staggering and struggling to keep his balance. Then his brother turned, and Alster witnessed a spate of blood running between his brother’s fingers.

  “Your lesson is concluded, Alster,” Wilkes said hastily. “I must attend to your brother, but we have not come close to exhausting this topic.” The old man bolted from his chair, displaying far more speed than Alster would have thought possible for someone his age.

  Alster knew he would never be able to keep up with the tutor. He was rarely permitted to leave the estate, even to go into the courtyard, so there he sat, staring out the library window. Jarix collapsed to his knees in the dirt. Though his chest was certainly bloody, Alster thought the wound did not appear to be fatal.

  Throughout the courtyard, the military men who had been training now acted as battlefield medics. Everything was chaotic. Toward the northern end of the lawn, a terrified boy ran as fast as he could. Alster assumed he had been the one who had struck Jarix. Accident or not, Alster knew the boy was right to run. Palos would surely kill anyone w
ho injured his favorite son. Alster had once witnessed a serving maid scourged for clumsily spilling hot tea on Jarix’s lap. His brother had not been burned, merely inconvenienced, but the punishment had still been brutal.

  After several minutes, the tutor arrived amidst the panic with a large bag of medical supplies. Alster watched with curiosity as Wilkes ordered the soldiers around. When he pointed to something, one of the young men brought it to him without hesitation. When he barked a command, the soldiers followed it.

  Something about the entire scene struck Alster as odd. He knew the tutor was respected on account of his age, but he did not know exactly how much authority the man held. Alster wondered if the tutor would be held accountable in the event of Jarix’s death.

  Alster watched for several more minutes until things seemed to settle down in the courtyard, and it appeared as though his brother would live. Grabbing Alistair’s gauntlets under one arm and his crutch under the other, Alster hobbled from the library and toward his room. He was out of breath by the time he reached his door.

  He took out the small knife he had found and, falling onto his blanket, turned it over in his hands for what felt like the millionth time. He kept the dagger in a cubby under a loose floorboard beneath his blanket, though he knew hiding it was practically pointless. No one ever entered his room. There was no bed, so the servants had no sheets to change. He had no hearth, so no fuel was ever delivered to his room either.

  Alster smirked. He contemplated his solitude as he mindlessly twirled the dagger above him, and he found that in the moment, he enjoyed his room. He imagined what Jarix’s room might look like. He had never seen his brother’s sleeping quarters, but he imagined Jarix slept in a well-decorated and warm space. Smiling, Alster decided he was thankful for his solitude. No one would ever find the dagger hidden away beneath the floor. No one would ever come to check on him in the night and discover him missing when he prowled around the estate. No one would even interrupt him if he happened to by idly daydreaming in his blankets on a cold winter day. Alster liked that solitude.