Shadowlith (Umbral Blade Book 1)

by Stuart Thaman

  Farther into the cave of his mind he walked, until eventually Alster turned a corner and saw a stone door. Unknown symbols and words were carved into the door and covered by years of dirt, but the image in the middle brought a rush of recognition to his mind. Alster saw his ancestor’s symbol shining vividly as though it was made of light.

  Transfixed in the dream, Alster began to feel something heavy creeping over his shoulders. He couldn’t tell if what he felt was real or only in his dream, and he tried to rip his focus from the door’s brilliant symbol, but his dream self refused to obey.

  Then everything went black.

  When the sun arose, Holte was already awake. He knew exactly how much he had to walk to reach Whitecliff, and he wanted a few good hours to stretch his aging legs before he began. He sat in the central room of the inn where he and Palos had stayed, energized from his early morning calisthenics, and sipped on a tankard of dark ale which tasted like thick bread.

  Half an hour after sunrise, Palos made his way down the small staircase to Holte’s left. Two seemingly hung-over women followed him, and neither of them spoke before they bolted through the door.

  “Long night?” Holte asked. He lifted his hand to signal the barkeep to bring Palos a pint.

  Palos cleared his throat as he buttoned his shirt. “There is a reason why I like this inn so much,” he said, dropping himself into a chair.

  “Perhaps there are two reasons,” Holte said with a laugh.

  The barkeep set a fresh round of ale down in the center of the table. “Perhaps there is now a third reason,” Palos added, taking a large swig of the black drink.

  “To Whitecliff today?” Holte asked.

  Palos nodded. No one other than the barkeep was awake at such an early hour, so he didn’t mind speaking candidly. “If King Gottfried has heard of similar events with shadowliths from other regions of Vecnos, this may become a very interesting meeting,” he said.

  “That is the great question,” Holte replied. He had considered the possibility of widespread shade activity, and the notion brought him both excitement and fear. An all-out war with eastern Vecnos would certainly be a terrible thing, but that was exactly what Holte had dedicated much of his life to. In his heart he knew he was a soldier, and a soldier was nothing without a war.

  The two men finished their ale a few moments later, and then their journey began—always uphill and seemingly endless.

  They made Karrheim’s third rise only an hour-and-a-half later. From the stairs connecting the second and the third plateaus, they could finally see the highest pinnacles of Whitecliff. The grand monastery-turned-fortress towered so far into the sky that the clouds themselves frequently obscured the highest spires.

  From what Holte could see of the outside, Whitecliff appeared completely calm. White and blue banners fluttered in the wind, and birds circled the towers. Sadly, he knew the outer serenity of the building never translated to calm or quiet within. Looking up from the third plateau to Whitecliff, Holte understood why monks had chosen the place as a holy site built for worship and contemplation. Holte smiled to himself. If he had believed in any of the gods, he would have been easily convinced that they lived in Whitecliff and had built it themselves.

  Almost all of the third plateau was devoted to Karrheim’s residents who could afford not to live down on the forest floor. Since getting building materials to the third rise was both costly and difficult, almost all of the houses were small, single-story structures with low roofs and little ornamentation. Holte liked the houses of the third rise. He knew the people who owned them were all wealthy, but the houses did not reflect that. He found it somewhat puzzling that so many of Karrheim’s upper class chose to live in what often amounted to little more than shacks when they could have built mansions down on the ground level. Something about the sight struck Holte as refreshing.

  Palos and Holte reached the fourth rise around noon, and both of them were nearing exhaustion. “This place always smells like shit,” Holte remarked. The fourth plateau was where most of the real work of government took place. To the left, a huge administrative center spread out to cover most of the rise, and the king’s vaults were located to the right. Unlike the somewhat sleepy tier below, the administrative center of Karrheim was always alive with action. Hundreds of people, most of them dressed in fine silk, hurried from one building to the next, or carried armfuls of scrolls like ants scurrying for scraps of food.

  “Ha,” Palos laughed. “There aren’t any horses, just bureaucrats.”

  There were perhaps more guards stationed on the fourth rise than any other. Holte nodded to a group of soldiers sitting on stools in front of one of the vault entrances as he passed. He had never seen the inside of the vaults, but he had heard stories about their construction. Long ago, one of Karrheim’s kings had dug the vaults deep into the fourth plateau and had commissioned giant stone trapdoors to be built over top of them. Since the vaults had been built vertically, accessing them required a complex system of ropes and wooden platforms, making them impossible to rob, or so everyone believed.

  “Almost there,” Palos said when they reached the stairs leading to the fifth rise. At that guardhouse, Palos was required to show his silver necklace and write his name in a record book. The fifth plateau was where the nobility lived. All the members of the king’s high court, save for Palos, made the fifth rise their home. They lived nearly as well as the king himself, staying in lavish palaces, expansive estates, and some had even constructed towering spires in which to lay their heads.

  When Palos and Holte reached the fifth plateau, a line of wagons was waiting at the top of the staircase. The wagons were full of soft cushions, bottles of wine, and all manner of finery. Still, no horses could be brought to the fifth rise, so servants pulled each cart with the strength of their backs.

  Palos handed the nearest cart puller a few copper coins and got in the wagon. Holte sat across from him, facing the impressive facade of Whitecliff. He leaned his neck backward and tried to see the top of the highest spire, but he couldn’t quite make it out.

  “Someday,” Palos said quietly.

  Holte turned his attention back to the wagon. “You think you’ll live there?” he asked. He knew Palos had ambitious political aspirations, but he did not know exactly how high those aspirations reached.

  “Perhaps,” Palos answered cryptically. Only a handful of people other than the king and his family were permitted to live inside Whitecliff, and those were the king’s closest advisors, the people he trusted with the kingdom’s secrets.

  “If you keep me as head of your security, I’ll support anything you do,” Holte replied.

  “You love this city more than I do,” Palos remarked. The wonder was clear to see on the captain’s face. “If I ever live in Whitecliff, you’ll certainly join me.”

  Holte nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “Just once, I would like to see the city from one of those spires up in the clouds,” he mused.

  “I’m not sure I have the clout for that,” Palos replied. “You know how Gottfried is. If you don’t have a specific purpose for being somewhere in Whitecliff, he won’t let you in.”

  “Do you think he’s hiding something?” Holte asked. He had never considered the possibility of King Gottfried concealing something nefarious in Whitecliff, but the notion did not seem too outlandish to be true.

  Palos thought for a moment before responding. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “That kind of thinking is dangerous, but if it could be right, it is worth exploring.”

  “What would he have to hide?” Holte wondered.

  “And that is exactly why I will not be making any subtle inquiries regarding the king’s private matters,” Palos answered. “Gottfried is well-liked and has more social and political power than anyone in Vecnos. I do not believe he has anything worth hiding up in Whitecliff.”

  “You’re probably right,” Holte conceded. “At the worst, he has a mistress or two, or maybe even a dead body stashed in
one of those towers. None of that is worth dying to uncover.”

  The servant pulling their cart came to a stop at the foot of the final staircase, a grand and ostentatious construction flanked by two massive, marble gargoyles. On the other tiers, practicality tended to rule over what the citizens of Karrheim could or could not build. At Whitecliff, practicality was a foreign concept which had never been considered.

  Even the guards who checked Palos’ necklace before admitting them to the staircase were dressed beyond all notions of pragmatism. The soldiers wore chainmail and leather, but everything they had was adorned with metal wings made from thinly hammered steel, and the entire ensemble was painted blue and white. If any of those men ever had to fight to defend their gaudy white staircase, their own winged armor would be their first enemy.

  As he ascended the stairs, Holte couldn’t help but marvel. He looked over his shoulder almost constantly, seeing Karrheim spread out in all its glory beneath him. Few people in Vecnos would ever have the opportunity to view the city from such a height, and Holte considered himself lucky every time he went to Whitecliff.

  At the top of the final staircase, two more guards with wings protruding from their elbows, knees, breastplates, and helms greeted them. “Lord Palos,” one of them said, recognizing them.

  “I trust the king is within?” Palos asked. The guard nodded. “Good. Tell the herald I wish a private audience with his majesty,” he ordered.

  The soldier nodded again and opened the towering door to Whitecliff. Inside, the ceilings were taller than the highest point of Palos’ estate, and every footstep echoed loudly. Holte coughed, and the sound reverberated from the ornate walls several times before dying.

  “Now we wait,” Palos said, moving toward one of the parlors to his right. The two of them watched the soldier go to find the king’s herald presumably closer to the audience hall or the throne room. They entered a parlor on the southern side of the plateau and sat in tall chairs facing a wall made almost entirely of stained glass.

  The view was breathtaking. The forest, small splotches of green and brown nearly a thousand feet below them, looked more like a carpet than countryside.

  “How long until we are granted audience?” Holte asked.

  “The longest I have waited was two days,” Palos responded. “But Whitecliff feels quiet today. I don’t think we will have to wait long.”

  A small cat brushed up against Holte’s legs and made him jump. “I don’t think I would mind remaining here for two days,” the captain said absentmindedly.

  “It isn’t as great as it looks,” Palos laughed. “You’ve never sat on the high court. Twelve men situated around a table, no windows, no air, barely enough light, stifling heat, and every one of them bickering over minutiae,” he explained. “You’d hate it.”

  Holte nodded and smiled. “You’re right,” he said. “But if it allowed me a view like this, I’d do it.”

  Palos thought of the women he had enjoyed the night before on the second plateau. “The view is only a single advantage among many,” he began, “just one drop in an endless stream.”

  KINGS FROM THE PAST

  Rai saw a puff of smoke reaching up from a small copse of scraggly trees along the horizon. Snowflakes danced in the air and mingled with his icy breath. He knew they had not reached the Frosted Coast yet, but they were close. On the horse, Alster had his cloak pulled tightly around his body. He had a shirt wrapped around his face and the top of his head as well.

  “Let’s go,” Rai said, steering them toward the smoke. He hoped there was a house with a chimney behind the trees, but he could not see much through the hazy air.

  As they walked, Rai knew they needed to find heavier clothing. He hoped there was a village beyond the trees where he could buy more supplies. He had brought plenty of food with them, and he thought he might be able to trade some of that for more animal hides if he had to.

  “How close are we to the ocean?” Elsey asked. Her teeth chattered as she spoke. Rai had said they weren’t in danger of dying from the cold, not yet, but losing a toe or a finger might be within the realm of possibility. He had underestimated how cold southern Vecnos was. After all, most of what he knew had come from stories, and those were often clouded by lies.

  “We should be able to see it in a few days,” Rai told her. “It will get colder, but we will make it.”

  Elsey nodded and continued trudging forward.

  “Someone is there,” Alster said, pointing toward the trees.

  “I don’t see it,” Rai replied. He pulled his bow from the quiver on his back and strung it. “Where is it?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

  Alster saw the flicker of movement again, and he knew it was a person. “There!” he said, and Rai saw the silhouette as well.

  Someone darted from one tree to another, apparently watching their approach. Rai couldn’t tell if the individual was holding a weapon or not. As they got closer to the trees, Rai decided to leave his arrows on his back. He slung his bow over his shoulder, ready to use it if he needed to, but he kept his hands out at his sides.

  When they were close enough to presumably be within earshot of the figure, Rai could see a small cabin similar to the one he had left standing behind the trees. He looked for any sign of another person lurking within the copse, but he saw none. “Hello?” he called out. The figure did not respond.

  The three continued walking closer to the area. They could smell the fire in the air. “Hello?” Rai called again.

  A woman stepped from behind one of the trees. She was wrapped in furs, and only her face and a few strands of her dark hair were visible. “What do you want?” she yelled at them. Her voice was strong, but she did not sound like someone ready for a violent ambush.

  Rai wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t simply yell to the woman that they were on their way to Scalder’s Inlet and hoping to cross the Rift. “We’re looking for a map, or at least some directions,” he finally responded.

  The woman paused for a moment.

  “Do you think you could help us?” Rai called to her.

  “What’s in it for me?” the woman answered. Her hand wavered near her waistline and Rai assumed she had a knife or perhaps a sword on her belt.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Rai replied. “I have a few copper coins, if you’ll help us.”

  The woman laughed at him. “Where would I spend it?” she said, throwing her arms wide. “You see a store near here?”

  Rai smiled. The more the woman talked to him, the more he figured she felt at ease. “How about a few pounds of deer?” he asked.

  “Is it raw?” the woman called back.

  “Smoked,” Rai answered.

  “Alright,” the woman said, turning her back and waving them in. “I’ll tell you where you need to go.”

  “The king will see you now,” Gottfried’s herald said from the doorway.

  Holte and Palos both jolted awake in their chairs. “Thank you,” Palos said. He stretched as he rose from his cushioned seat. It was hard to tell exactly how much time had passed due to the elevation, but it was considerably darker than when he had sat down.

  “Is there any food?” Holte asked.

  “Certainly,” the herald responded with a smile. “I’ll have one of the cooks bring something up.”

  “Up?” Palos asked. “The king is not in the audience hall?” He had met with Gottfried several times in various chambers throughout Whitecliff, but he had rarely been invited to the second or third floor.

  “King Gottfried will meet with you both on the fourth floor. He is currently waiting on the western balcony. I will take you there at once,” the man said.

  Palos and Holte followed the herald through several hallways and chambers before they reached a small staircase on the western side of the fortress. Palos had never seen the stairs before, and they looked as though they were designed to take servants to various floors without being seen by the guests.

  When they reached the
fourth floor, the herald showed them to a small door and departed.

  “King Gottfried,” Palos said, opening the door.

  The king stood with his back to the door, leaning over the railing and taking in the view. He wore simple clothes, a plain blue and white shirt with cotton pants, and his head bore no crown. From the back, he looked tired.

  “My lord?” Palos asked, walking up beside him to get the man’s attention.

  “Palos,” Gottfried replied, his voice betraying his old age. “I’m told you have news for me. I have some for you as well. In fact, I believe a royal messenger will be appearing at your estate within the next two or three days with my summons. The high court will be convening as early as tomorrow evening.”

  Palos’ eyes went wide. “What news?” he practically demanded. “Has something happened? What is it?” His mind whirled with notions of a grand war against the shades, a second conquest, one which would bring his family glory once more and make his son a legend.

  King Gottfried straightened the hem of his shirt and cleared his throat. “There is news of my brother,” he said quietly, as though the words pained him.

  “Yes?” Palos implored.

  “Hademar has been wandering through Nevansk for nearly twelve years,” the king explained. “When he departed, he left behind a journal detailing his intentions. I never made it public because I believed it was nothing more than a wild fantasy by a mind driven mad from isolation and loss.”

  “Why did he leave?” Palos asked before he thought better than to interrupt the most powerful man in Vecnos.

  “He went in search of a formula, an alchemy of sorts, and it seems he has found it,” the king went on with a scowl.

  Palos had heard of alchemists living in Xathrin who were able to turn iron into gold or blood into fire with a wave of their hand, but he had never believed any of it. In his mind, alchemy couldn’t be real. If it was, he reasoned that alchemists would have taken over Vecnos by then.