Shades of Truth: Path of the Wielders 2

by Cleave Bourbon

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Shades of Truth…

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Note

  Copyright

  Glossary

  Shades of Truth

  Path of the Wielders 2

  Cleave Bourbon

  Shades of Truth…

  The forces of darkness have a new weapon and they are using it to great effect, taking the magic wielders totally by surprise. Not only does this new weapon take on the form of anyone it chooses but it also mimics their quirks, mannerisms, and voices as well. The stakes are high. An ancient battlefield, reduced to a wasteland long ago, is making a comeback, and exuding high levels of the magical energy used to fuel the most elaborate spells, which makes the battlefield a prize worth winning.

  Kaxen, his friends, and a handful of magic wielders have fallen victim to the devastation of the shapeshifting monsters used by the enemy. Having nowhere to turn, they must now travel to the ancient and wise Asterial, a master wielder, and seek his council on what to do next. But, Asterial is old, out of practice, and has never faced anything as destructive as what he must face now. Time and time again, his plans lead to death and despair. But, just over the horizon is the lucky break they need to turn things around…if they can manage to stay alive that long!

  Copyright © Cleave Bourbon 2017

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  Map

  Prologue

  Malanor clutched the edge of his enormous, velvet chair; his attention darted from painting to painting on the walls of his study. His grey-blue eyes almost running up inside his skull. Malanor’s pale white face contorted hideously. He watched in fascination as the wall paintings slid and twisted. Battles that never took place raged on dingy tapestries, and ancient ancestors shook their heads disapprovingly, mocking him as he rocked back and forth on his throne-like chair. The colorful mosaics of his hanging tapestries moved and slithered like snakes in tall grass. Clouds blew across the ceiling in a storm of imagination as he nervously ran his hand through his oily, wild, black hair. He stared for a long moment at the pungent black liquid contained in his silver goblet. It was supposed to be medicinal but it made him see things and it kept him off balance. He abruptly cut his eyes to one painting in particular, and in a sudden burst of anger, he rose up from his chair and screamed curses at the painting of his lover, Kimala.

  “I cannot hear you!” he yelled at her pale face. “What witches brew have you concocted for me?” He threw the goblet against the wall. “You would have me poisoned!”

  “Why would I want to such a thing?” a voice said from behind him. “You are unwell. The potion is to restore your health.”

  Malanor whirled around to see Kimala standing in the flesh. All at once the paintings and tapestries went silent and stopped moving. “And what illness would that be, my pet?”

  “What do you see in that devious mind of yours when you stare at those paintings and tapestries?” She changed the subject.

  “What do you mean?” He asked.

  Kimala slowly and seductively made her way to Malanor, placing her full red lips an inch from his ear. “You asked what I wanted.”

  “I did?”

  “Aye, Malanor, you wish to please me.”

  “Aye, what is it you want?”

  “Power, my dear Malanor, power.” She recoiled giggling.

  “Ah yes, my precious Kimala, you poor thing. Always hungering for more no matter how much you are fed.”

  “Would you have me be any other way?” she said, tossing her jet-black, shoulder-length hair out of her face with a flick of her slender neck.

  Malanor did not answer. Instead, he left his chair and marched away from her into the forum of his castle. He stopped and stood in the forum with a maniacal smile. He gazed amusingly at a young, handsome woman who tilted her head sideways and licked the black wall near one of his bookshelves and clawed the side of her face with her hand. Malanor began to laugh as another man, in the far corner opposite the handsome girl, pounded his head on a large wooden table. “You are all positively mad,” he said gleefully. He turned to Kimala, who had followed him. “What is the matter with them all?”

  “Potion testers, my love. We had to make certain your potion was safe for you to consume, didn’t we?”

  “Why are they all hanging around in here? Shouldn’t they be with the apothecaries?”

  “You wanted to see for yourself, my lord. You wanted them near you in case of poisoning and treachery. Shall I send them away now?”

  One man near the opposite entrance of the room stopped what he was doing to see why Malanor had come, and Malanor’s glee turned to anger. Malanor spoke through gritted teeth deliberately in a low, grumbling voice. “You…are…mad!”

  The man’s startled glance converted into one of pain, and he quickly resumed burning his fingers with a candle, laughing with a high-pitched cackle.

  “Much better,” Malanor said, gleeful once more. “No, I want them here. I want them to remind me of the price of wellness.”

  Kimala signaled one of the nearby attendants, “The master has spilled his medicine. Would you run down to the apothecary and get him a new one?”

  “At once, mistress.” The attendant said. He turned and left with haste.

  Malanor the Mad picked out a book, decorated with silver bindings and red runes on the cover, from an isolated shelf and returned to his study with it. “Here is your power, my precious Kimala.” He began laughing hysterically. Kimala stared at the tome puzzled. A knock at the open study door broke Malanor’s crazed laughter. A youthful man dressed in black entered the room.

  “Your grace,” the man in black said with a bow. “I hesitate to bother you, but Master Drakkius rides to the main gate.”

  Malanor’s horrified expression became somber as he comprehended the servant’s words. “Excellent, Dredor, see that he makes his way in here to me.”

  “As you wish, your grace,” Dredor said, bowing as he backed his way out of the study.

  A few moments later, a man dressed in crimson armor entered the study. His hard face was lined with sharp edges, and his brow tilted downward as if he were contemplating the best way to proceed with some evil task. His eyes were of a frightening nature, piercing, black, and cold. He surveyed the room, tossed his long black braid to one side of his armored shoulder, and gave Kimala a gaze commanding power, confidence, and respect. Kimala strolled seductively to the crimson-clad Abaddonian and kissed him deeply on the lips. She stopped with an evil grin as she rubbed her lips from left to right with an index finger, licking the tip as she went along.

  “Keep away from me garish wench! I’ll not fall victim to your wiles.” Drakkius addressed Malanor with abject disgust. “Do you not care that this wench so boldly defies you before your very eyes?”

&nbs
p; Malanor, barely glancing up from reading a passage in the silver-bound book, replied stoically, “Hmm, what? Oh, Kimala, not at all. Her heart is as black as a lump of coal and just as cold. She goes to whomever she perceives has power, wealth, or both. I suspect she would kill me if it suited her needs.” Kimala smiled contemptuously. Malanor shut the tome with a thud and stood up from his desk. “Be gone from us now, wench, I will play with you later. Drakkius and I have much to discuss.”

  The attendant entered with a new goblet. Drakkius took it from him and sniffed the contents, “This wench poisons your mind!”

  Malanor took the goblet from Drakkius, sloshing some of it out on the floor, “I make my own decisions when it comes to my health.”

  “Sure you do.” Drakkius looked at Kimala, “Didn’t Malanor tell you to leave?”

  Kimala’s grim smile turned into a venomous snarl. “I am just as much a part of the plan as anyone,” she said.

  “Not this time!” Drakkius said with an ominous step toward Kimala.

  “I’ll not soon forget this,” she said, her voice tapering off as she left the room.

  “You say far too much, Malanor. You are reckless as well as foolish.” Drakkius looked back through the still open door. “Why do you surround yourself with insanity? Does it cloak your own madness?”

  Malanor slammed his fist on the desk. “And you are far too presumptuous about things you have no mind for.” He took the book to his desk. “What of the army, is it ready?”

  “Aye, it is ready. What of the Silver Drake, have your servants found it yet?”

  Malanor grinned. “I know where it is, and I know how to use it; however, we must take Symboria before I can get my hands on it.”

  “How do you expect to capture it? It tore Toborne’s soul from his flesh just for trying.”

  Malanor burst out in his raspy, low laugh. “I will control it.” He tapped the book. “I have the secret, the key; I am its master. Do not fear so, Drakkius. Have faith, have faith. If you keep up your end of the plan and assemble the army for the conquest, I will keep mine.”

  “I have assembled all of your foul creatures and some of my own, as well as Scarovian and Abaddonian troopers. The army stands strong.”

  “Good, good, I want you to lead it to the Southern Pass first. I hear that the second tome I made no longer resides in Symbor. Krullen Thul tell of a band of wielders from Brookhaven that defeated an entire brood of Dramyds.” Malanor again pounded his fist on his wooden desk. “I want Brookhaven to fall first. Level the filthy village to the ground! Kill everyone within its wall, no prisoners.”

  “What of the armies of the West stationed near Brookhaven?”

  “They will meet you at the pass, of course, where I have a little surprise for them.” His eyes gleamed with madness. “As well as the rest of the Western army. When they meet our army on the march through Symbor, they will be ill-prepared for what I have planned.”

  Drakkius watched as Malanor moved his hand through the flame of a black candle on his desk.

  “The enemy knows of our army,” Drakkius stated coldly.

  Malanor looked up from the candle. “I know that. I would have it no other way.”

  “Then you are twice as mad as I expected. That potion has rotted your brain.”

  “Am I?” His gaze turned thoughtful. “Or could it be that my plan is really that good?” He put his hand to his temple and tapped it with an index finger mockingly. “Is my plan good, is it good, and is it brilliant? Aye, it is brilliant. I expected as much from myself, and I was right. I trust me, do you not, Drakkius?” He scowled at Drakkius with his last statement.

  “Just make sure you do not fail, or you will see how brilliant I can be,” Drakkius replied.

  “How,” he searched for a word, “original.”

  Drakkius scowled and left the room without another word.

  “I hope I do not offend,” Malanor called out after him. As soon as Drakkius was out of earshot, Malanor laughed at his own wit.

  A few moments later, Dredor returned with several parchments. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I have several matters of the castle to discuss with you.”

  “Not now, Dredor,” Malanor said, waving the servant off.

  “Sir, you have put these matters off for a week. I must insist.”

  “I said not now,” Malanor snapped.

  “When then, your grace?”

  “When I am not so tired of your constant persistence,” Malanor replied. He took a long drink of his medicine.

  “Not good enough, sir, I need to—”

  Malanor sighed. “All right, all right, I will look at your parchments, but first, hand me the parchment on that table to your left.” Malanor pointed.

  As Dredor responded and turned to retrieve the parchment, Malanor took the candle from his desk and casually tipped it to light the back of Dredor’s robes on fire. Black smoke began to rise above the servant’s head.

  “What is that smell?” Dredor asked after he handed over the parchment.

  “It’s you. I believe you are on fire.”

  “What?” Dredor asked confused.

  “I lit you on fire,” Malanor repeated, appearing nonchalant.

  Flames leaped up from behind Dredor. A look of utter panic crossed his face, and he screamed.

  Malanor laughed maniacally as he enticed the flames to completely engulf Dredor. The burning man ran screaming from the room. Malanor’s head was swimming from the potion as he stumbled over the charred body of Dredor when he left his study.

  “Clean that up,” he said to a maid as he passed her in the hall, “and make sure someone buries it, not just toss it away like the last one.” The maid hid her horror and managed to curtsy in acknowledgment.

  As he entered his private gardens, Malanor sniffed the air. Rain clouds were gathering above. A storm is brewing, he thought. He plucked a red flower with large petals from a bush nearby and inhaled its fragrance. A slight rustling in the adjoining bushes made Malanor’s eyes narrow as he realized he was not alone. He inhaled the flower once more before he finally spoke. “The attack has failed, has it not?”

  A voice that sounded as if someone were trying to speak while swallowing a stone issued from the bushes. “I fear what you ask is so, my lord.”

  “What good are Dramyds if simple boys from a desolate mountain village can defeat them so handily?”

  “They have some powerful help, my lord,” the voice said.

  The flower in Malanor’s hand began to die and decay rapidly, turning to dust and falling between his fingers. “So do I, Krullen Thul, and I was under the impression that your underlings could defeat the help these boys have acquired. Will you force me to get involved? Do I have to illustrate to you what dark magic can do?”

  The Krullen Thul cackled, which made even Malanor take a step back. “You need me, and I will deliver. Already our trap waits.”

  Malanor felt a shiver as the creature gurgled and began flapping its leathery wings as it took flight. A sudden flash of lightning silhouetted the creature briefly in the stormy skies. “Fool thing. Toborne the Destroyer may have created them, but so far I am not impressed with the mighty, fearsome Krullen Thul or their underlings.” His nose twitched as he rounded back toward the castle. “I will have to create my own minions. Aye, I believe it is time.” Malanor clasped his hands together and snickered to himself as he entered the castle. He rushed through the corridors quickly before the paintings hanging in the hall had time to stare or laugh at him.

  Chapter 1

  The skies above the Vale of Morgoran grew darker as a late afternoon thunderstorm rolled in. Streaks of lightning followed by thunderclaps hastened the party onward. As they neared the outskirts of the Vale, a cold rain began to fall. Kaxen remembered hearing about the Vale of Morgoran at a young age. Stories of a maimed wielder living within a tall white tower at the center of a large vale circulated throughout Symboria. However, since law forbade commoners from entering the Vale, Kaxen had neve
r been within a league of the place. The narrow Vale stretched out for several leagues into the Symborian hill country, not far from the southern road between Brookhaven and Symbor. The woods grew thicker and darker southwest of the Vale in a region called the Tolennor Forest. The travelers visiting the Tiger’s Head Inn told many stories about the woods of the Tolennor, saying they were haunted and cursed. Kaxen glanced over his shoulder; Aurelie remained close to Asrion, trying to keep the rain off him with her body. “It won’t be long now,” Kaxen told her.

  The ragtag group stood at the front gate of the village just after first morning light and hailed the guards. The bulk of the gates were wooden and thick, and the walls surrounding the village were brightly polished stone indicating dwarven craftsmanship. Two guard towers at either end of the main gate were manned by two guards per tower. Kaxen noticed they wore armor resembling that of Rodraq and his guards.

  Lady Shey let down the hood of her cloak and spoke to the guards. “Open the gates and summon Brother Kerad. We have wounded.”

  “My lady,” the guard said. “Is that you, Lady Shey?”

  “Aye, now open the gates at once.”

  The guard cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted down behind the gates, “Open the gates. It’s Lady Shey’s entourage.”

  The huge gates rumbled open, and the guards bowed as the group moved into the village. Two guards rushed from behind the guard tower to relieve Kaxen and Gondrial of the cart. Kaxen stretched his neck and shoulders as soon as he was relieved of the burden.

  “Take this cart to the temple of Loracia and see that Brother Kerad tends to the boy,” Gondrial commanded.

  “If you don’t mind. I will accompany Asrion to the Clerics.” Andiel said.

  “So shall I,” Trendan said.

  Gondrial nodded his approval.

  The guards pulled the cart away. Andiel, Aurelie, and Trendan followed them. Kaxen stepped in behind Trendan, but Gondrial grabbed his arm to stop him. “Let Trendan, Andiel, and Aurelie go with Asrion. I need you to stay here for the moment.”