Exile's Gamble_The Chronicles of Shadow_Book II

by Lee Dunning

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Dramatis Personae

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Lee Dunning

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Exile's Gamble

  Copyright 2015 © Lee Dunning

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  urn:uuid:e5d8855f-8f83-4bf6-8564-dbc1baa174c2

  To My Sixth Grade Teacher Dixie Gaisford

  I'm sorry we fell out of touch, Mrs. Gaisford. If you happen to see this, please know how much I appreciate all you did for me. You opened my eyes to worlds of imagination. I still have the Tolkien buttons you gave me—I will always treasure them.

  Prologue

  Umbral fought the urge to yawn. He stood at attention during the latest lesson conducted by Ruaz’Daem for the purpose of smoothing out the young elf’s rough behavior. The demon’s voice filled the vast hall, bouncing off the polished red quartz walls and the obsidian tile. “It’s perfectly acceptable to tread the path of evil,” the demon lord said to Umbral, “but there is absolutely no excuse for poor manners.”

  Umbral forced his drooping eyelids open as Ruaz demonstrated the proper way to lay out a place setting. He’d set everything a knuckle-length from the edge of the banquet table with its pristine cream-colored tablecloth. The demon lord positioned four forks to the left of the plate, each one a different size depending on its intended use. To the right, all of the knives, like rigid, gleaming soldiers, faced the plate. A spoon sat next to the last knife on the far right.

  Five glasses clustered above the knives, again in different sizes and shapes. Each course would have its own wine of appropriate color. Ruaz’Daem loved his wines. He considered it a sign of his success and sophistication. Umbral hated wine. Regardless of its color, age, or ingredients, it all tasted like bile to him.

  Ruaz’Daem turned his attention to another series of cutlery lying above and horizontal to the center plate. Umbral couldn’t remember what purpose they served. He tried to stifle another yawn. He’d never slept a day in his life, but the close room, the too-tight uniform Ruaz forced him to wear, and the mindless boredom of the demon’s etiquette lesson made it difficult to stay awake.

  “Are we keeping you from more pressing matters, little prince?” Belatedly, Umbral realized the demon lord had asked him to identify and correct an error in the completed place setting. The boy jerked to attention, but the damage was already done.

  Ruaz’Daem steepled his long fingers and peered balefully at Umbral. His voice dipped to a volcanic rumble. “I’m terribly disappointed in you, Lord K’hul. I’m merely attempting in some small way to elevate you above the beasts, and you haven’t even the decency to feign interest. No wonder your father exiled you.”

  At the mention of his father, Umbral’s lip curled. “Yeah, we couldn’t agree which side of the plate the salad fork should go. Complete anarchy.”

  The viciousness of the blow threw Umbral across the room, impaling him on a spiked shield displayed on the far wall. The massive central spike, as long as an arm, protruded from Umbral’s abdomen. He stared at it with glazed eyes, barely registering the dripping length of intestine dangling from it.

  Then came the searing pain and the stench of blood and bowels.

  Umbral fought back the shrieks trying to escape his throat. A vestige of clear thought kept him silent. Even soul rending agony couldn’t eclipse his terror. Umbral had learned early on that things would go much worse for him if he so much as whimpered.

  The demon lord sighed. “You’ll need at least a day before you’re able to attend class again. At this rate, it will take a millennia to prepare you to lead my army. And look what you’ve done to your uniform! That is the third one you’ve ruined.”

  Ruaz’Daem did an about face, turning his back on Umbral’s misery. “I’m too angry to chastise you properly without killing you. You may hang there for a bit. You won’t die and perhaps the pain will teach you something. I’ll have Baez collect you after lunch so you can regenerate. In the meantime, I suggest you contemplate your many shortcomings—chief among them your smart mouth and coarse grammar. It is an affront to my ears. If I ever hear ‘yeah’ come out of your mouth again, I shall be forced to eat your tongue right out of your head. I beseech you to spare me the horror.”

  Ruaz’Daem marched out of the dining hall, his back stiff with indignation, the almost elven façade he wore wavering as he fought to control his ire. Umbral’s eyes refused to focus, but his mind still worked. When Ruaz’s minions had first dragged him in that morning to start yet another ridiculous lesson, the elf had wondered what seating arrangements, perfectly coifed hair and good posture had to do with leading a demonic army.

  Umbral now had his answer. It was all painfully clear. Ruaz’Daem was insane.

  Chapter 1

  W’rath’s eyes moved beneath his lids. Raven shifted on the bench where she kept her vigil. The head healer, Lady Sera, had promised the young warrior this new development meant W’rath’s brain continued to repair itself. “I think he’s dreaming,” Lady Sera had said before excusing herself.

  Alone with her mentor, Raven continued to fret. “Are you really dreaming?” she asked W’rath’s still form. Her words hung unanswered in the stillness of the atrium-like room. A tiny wren flitted in through an open window and perched on the edge of a delicate table formed out of pale wood. The wren snatched up a petal fallen from the bouquet centered on the table. With a flash of wings, it escaped with its prize to the outside. Normally the simple perfection of the wren would have delighted Raven but today it only served to as a reminder of the fragility of life.

  “Gods,” Raven muttered. For the millionth time she found her gaze roaming from W’rath to the painting of his father, the First, dominating the wall over the her mentor’s comatose head. Now that she’d noticed the resemblance between the First and W’rath, it jumped out at her. How did no one else see it?

  The soul sharing her body vibrated in agreement and concern. She sensed Linden’s worry—not for W’rath but for her. He’d given his life for her, trusted and cared for her, but he’d grown up on fearful stories about the Traitor. I’m sorry, Linden, she thought. I judge W’rath by his actions not by the twisted words of the past.

  Two weeks of worry and frustration brought Raven to her feet. She rubbed her stiff back while glaring at the painting. She couldn’t sit under the stern countenance of the First any longer. She had to do something about it. Throwing a blanke
t over the portrait would simply draw more attention to it. Logic said she should ignore it. After all, none of the healers who popped in throughout the day paid it any attention.

  But I can’t. Arguing with herself about how her obsession with the portrait was immature and irrational did nothing to alleviate her concerns over its presence. Hells teeth, just do something about it already.

  Raven took in her surroundings. Paintings hung everywhere. Beautiful, uplifting images sat like jewels upon each pastel wall. Hundreds of partially enclosed rooms made up House of Laughing Waters, each adorned by fantastic scenes. Any one of them should do but she wanted the portrait nowhere within sight.

  Raven stretched over W’rath’s still form to lift the painting of the First from its place on the wall. The weight of it surprised her and she nearly dropped it. She tottered away from the bed, eyes wide, and fought to keep from tipping over backward. She finally wrestled the canvas to the floor and stopped to settle her nerves.

  This is what comes of letting emotion dictate my behavior. Having started this foolish misadventure, she might as well get on with it.

  Aside from W’rath no other patients remained. His room lay at the center of the complex. A series of hallways spreading out from it like rays of the sun. She chose a hall at random and hurried down it, peeking into each room as she passed, fearful of running into one of the healers. Satisfied she was alone, Raven scooted into a room lugging the unwieldy painting of the First. She quickly swapped the portrait for a cheerful landscape full of wildlife and mischievous sprites. Her nefarious act left Raven feeling a bit sprite-like herself. She spun on her heels and trotted out of the room and back down the hall, eager to finish her task, and came to an abrupt halt. Three startled Shadow Elf boys goggled at her from next to W’rath’s bed.

  “Oh!” Raven gasped and only just managed to keep herself from trying to hide the large painting behind her back. Gods, could she behave any more guilty? If she planned to be the sort of person who aided notorious villains, she had to work on her skills with subterfuge.

  Two of the youngsters gawked at her. The third seemed more intent on hiding behind the older boys. Raven forced herself to breath normally. She was the adult here, the authority figure, the scary, exotic Exile. They didn’t dare question her odd behavior. In fact they probably feared punishment for slipping in to peek at W’rath.

  Raven cleared her throat, more to make sure her voice didn’t betray her by cracking or squeaking than any need to draw attention to herself. It made the boys jump, easing her nerves. She finally recognized the two older boys. She smiled at them and they went pale. So much for trying to appear friendly.

  “You’re the twins,” Raven said, marveling at how much the boys had changed in the few weeks since their rescue. Their eyes no longer bugged out of their sockets. Someone had snipped off the patchy wisps of hair that had clung to their skulls, and now a good half inch of fuzz sprouted there. They had eyebrows again. Thanks to good food and sunshine, even their bowed legs had almost fully straightened.

  “I’m Ryld and this is Caeldan.” The boy sounded wary, as if concerned they had drawn unwanted attention by virtue of their unusual birth.

  “I thought I was Ryld and you were Caeldan,” the second boy said.

  So, he was the bolder of the pair. Or the more reckless. At any rate, his quip had the desired effect. His brother couldn’t repress a snicker. “That was yesterday. You can be Ryld tomorrow.”

  The tension broken, Raven eased past the three, and set her replacement painting on the wall above W’rath’s bed. She fought to fix her face into something besides the frivolous grin threatening to ruin her air of maturity. She gave up and turned back to the boys. “Ryld and Caeldan,” she said. “Not even a month out of your hole and already you’ve turned cheeky.”

  “That would be us, Councilor,” Ryld said.

  “Someone told us females appreciate that sort of thing,” Caeldan said.

  “I see,” Raven said. She didn’t trust herself to say more. Caeldan was definitely the bolder of the two. It seemed cruel to burst out laughing at his attempt to flirt, though. No Exile boy would have ever dreamed of acting so forward. No, an Exile boy, assuming he didn’t already have a spike through his brain, would have done his best to hide—much like the boy lurking behind the twins. She cleared her throat again. “What does your friend have to say about this?”

  Ryld and Caeldan peered over their shoulders at their third member. The boy’s eyes grew enormous and he made a pitiful attempt to disappear behind his spindly arms. “I didn’t want to come. They made me,” he said, voice as small as a dormouse.

  “We’re just trying to help you grow a pair, Seismis,” Ryld said, nodding like a wise sage.

  “I think a pair might be asking too much,” Caeldan said. He eyed Seismis’ shivering form. “Maybe one?”

  No, the twins had nothing in common with the males Raven had grown up around. Seismis, however, would have fit in perfectly. Her stomach twisted. No one should live in so much fear. “Stop it you two,” she said, and pushed between the twins.

  Raven managed to cup the back of Seismis’ head before he could escape, and guided him to the bench next to W’rath’s bed. “Come, sit,” she said, addressing all of them. “I assume you three troublemakers sneaked in to see Lord W’rath, and not just to spout inappropriate comments?”

  “Inappropriate? Oh! Ancestors, I’m sorry, Councilor,” Caeldan said. His mouth had lost its sarcastic tilt. Ryld’s face had grown sober as well. The two took a seat next to Raven and Seismis, and silently contemplated the comatose councilor.

  Raven could imagine what thoughts tumbled through their minds. It had to be difficult to reconcile the person who lay before them with the overpowering personality who had taken on a First Born to win their freedom from the suppression collars. Then he’d appeared invincible, but now... “He’s doing quite a bit better,” she said in an attempt to lift the pall that had fallen over them. “Lady Sera believes his brain has healed enough he can now dream.”

  One of W’rath’s hands shot out from beneath his blankets to latch onto Seismis’ wrist. He squeaked and turned frightened eyes to her. “Lady Raven?” he asked.

  Raven tried to pry W’rath’s fingers from the boy’s frail arm. The strength of an iron golem filled him. Even Raven’s immense brawn couldn’t loosen the bone grinding hold he had on Seismis. The boy’s whimpers turned into agonized cries. Seismis flailed, desperate to tear himself free but whatever battle W’rath’s unconscious mind fought made him as unyielding as granite.

  Ice water raced up Raven’s spine. W’rath’s face, no longer placid, twisted into a grimace of rage and pain. His other hand reached out, fingers hooked into claws and started shredding the duvet. Feathers exploded into the air. “Gods! You two find Lady Sera,” she told the twins as she continued her fight to free Seismis.

  Ryld and Caeldan jumped up and raced for the door. Whether they reacted out of obedience or simple fear didn’t matter—only the result concerned Raven. She needed the healer. Whatever had a hold of W’rath’s mind was no dream.

  “Tonight we celebrate,” Ruaz’Daem said, showing more teeth than any mouth should hold. “At long last the hard work I invested in you has paid off.”

  Umbral didn’t say a word. He deemed silence the safest option. Unless the demon lord posed a direct question to him, Umbral considered it always best to assume a stance indicating respectful attention and nothing more. The demon lord could interpret even the most inconsequential noise as an interruption. And that would be rude. Abyss protect you if Ruaz’Daem deemed you rude.

  “You led my army to victory over Lady Slavia’s mongrel hordes. Even now she flees her castle and seeks to hide in the wilderness of the Ascension Range.”

  Ruaz’Daem beamed with pleasure. Umbral continued to play mute and waited for the inevitable horror to come. It would be something singularly awful. Only the form it would take remained unanswered. Umbral found he envied Lady Slavia. Homel
ess, without resources, her army scattered, the succubus had lost everything, yet she still had the freedom to flee while he must endure what passed for a celebration under the roof of Ruaz’Daem’s citadel.

  The demon lord continued to congratulate himself for his wisdom in choosing Umbral as his general in the campaign against Lady Slavia. The demoness had cost Ruaz much over the years. Past losses to her had forced Ruaz to rebuild his army at least five times over the course of several millennia. She and her army relied on their overpowering ability to twist the perceptions of their foes. Repeatedly this strategy had worked well for her, even against demons with powerful magic. She’d met her match in the form of one small Shadow Elf. Umbral had shielded his army from her mind-altering powers and they had annihilated her troops.

  It was simple really. Her natural ability to hide her true form behind a seductive illusion had no effect on Umbral. He could see through any of her, or her soldiers’, mind-altering powers. The Shadow Elf extended his power to the soldiers under his command, making whatever fantasies appealed to demons ineffective. The valley leading to Lady Slavia’s former castle lay thick with the corpses of her army.

  “Do you prefer succubus or incubus?” Ruaz’Daem asked.

  And so it began. Presented as a direct question, Umbral must answer. “I’m sorry, my lord, in what context would my preference be required?”

  “Dinner, of course,” Ruaz’Daem replied, seemingly baffled by the question. “Personally, I find incubus overly tough. If you’re not careful, though, succubus can prove greasy. But since I have the finest chefs at my disposal, you needn’t worry on that account.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Umbral said. “I shall bow to your greater experience and have the succubus.” He kept his face neutral, relying on stoicism to stay in the demon’s good graces. Since Ruaz’Daem had brought him to heel, the demon had subjected him to any number of vile dinner options. As disgusting as Umbral found the natural form of succubae, he’d had far worse things show up on his plate. Perhaps this night would prove bearable after all.