Kingdom of Shadows

by K M Reynolds

  A stone altar had been erected in the center of the clearing, and around it stood the full strength of Lord Bainbridge’s army. While few in number, they seemed to emanate an unmatched ferocity and bloodlust. Adelaide drew her eyes back to the alter and she felt her stomach drop. Lying bound atop the altar was a young boy, no more than thirteen years of age. He wriggled futilely against his restraints, his cries of distress muffled by the heavy gag around his mouth. Standing over him was a hooded figure, playing the flute that they had heard. Adelaide heard Charles’s sharp intake of breath as a young man, dressed lavishly, came striding toward the altar. He stopped opposite the hooded figure and spoke with authority.

  “It is time. Let the sacrifice commence.”

  The hooded figure drew itself up to its full height and threw back the dark red cowl. Long black hair framed an alabaster face, and deep, soulless eyes stared down at the terrified boy. Charles gasped again, gripping Adelaide’s forearm.

  “That’s Thanaeron,” he whispered, hardly daring to breathe. “We have to go!”

  “You know her?” Adelaide asked, glancing between the now-chanting sorceress and Charles.

  “Yes, and she is bad news. We need to leave, now!”

  A flash of metal caught Adelaide’s eye and she turned to face the clearing just in time to see Thanaeron plunge the knife into the boy’s chest. She clapped both hands over her mouth to stifle her cry of shock. A cloud of green smoke billowed from the altar, and Thanaeron’s chanting reached a crescendo. Adelaide felt Charles pulling on her arm, and she turned to him, eyes blurring with tears. Together they raced away from the grisly sacrifice as quietly as possible.

  As they stumbled out of the forest back onto the rocky bluff overlooking Greystone castle, Charles wheeled to the side and vomited. He dropped to his knees, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Adelaide gently rested her hands on his shoulders and waited for him to speak. After several long minutes, his shoulders grew still.

  “I know that witch. She is part of my father’s council.”

  “You knew your father had dark magic on his side this whole time? That would certainly explain how he was able to take the castle so easily, but why didn’t you say anything about her before?”

  “Because,” Charles took a deep breath, shaking his head. “She looks exactly the same now as she did in this time. She hasn’t aged a day.” He stood, his knees trembling. “I didn’t realize she was old enough to have been here when my father took the kingdom. I thought she was new. I only started seeing her regularly around the castle a few years ago.”

  “Oh. That makes sense, I suppose.” Adelaide cringed, remembering the terrified boy tied to the altar. “What do you think that sacrifice was for?”

  “I don’t know, but Wynne might. We need to get back to her and Cambria now.” Charles grasped Adelaide’s hand. “Whatever this is, whatever we are up against, I think it’s a whole lot bigger than we know. We need to be ready, and we are not.”

  Adelaide nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”

  Wynne sat motionless as Adelaide and Charles recounted what they had seen. Adelaide watched her face carefully, searching for reassurance, but none came. When they finished their tale they leaned forward, anxious to hear what Wynne would say. She sat silently for several long minutes, her eyes closed. Finally, she looked up at Adelaide and Charles.

  “You said green smoke?”

  “Yes,” Adelaide answered. “Green. Why is that important.”

  “Because this changes everything. Join hands, we are getting out of here. I’ll explain back at the lake house. We can’t risk being here for another minute.”

  Wynne began to chant and Adelaide closed her eyes. A few moments later, she was surrounded by the now-familiar icy winds and whispering demons. She held on for dear life, her mind racing as she turned over Wynne’s grave demeanor in her mind. This will all make sense once we are home.

  the daskuji

  A delaide’s brow furrowed and she leaned forward on the cushions. “The who?”

  “The Daskuji. A very old, very powerful sect of dark magicians. They were wiped out more than a hundred years ago. Their old stronghold lies across Deadman’s Bay, at the base of the Howling Mountain.”

  Cam nodded, biting her lip. “The name sounds familiar, maybe from a childhood story?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Wynne affirmed. “These guys were the stuff of nightmares, and it took everyone in the magic community to finally take them down. There have been rumors of a few that survived, but nothing concrete… until now.”

  “And you are sure Thanaeron is one of these… Doojukis?” Charles asked.

  “Daskuji. And yes, I am sure. You described green smoke during her sacrifice. That’s a trait unique to Daskuji sorcerers. No other magic produces that type of energy. It is magic born of death and shadow. The magic the Ka’tellna sought to protect the world from.”

  “Well, at least we know,” Cambria sighed heavily and rested her head in her hands. “What can we do about it, besides panic?”

  “Henry!” Adelaide exclaimed as she sat straight up.

  “What?” Charles asked.

  “Henry, the map man from Briarhead,” Adelaide clarified, looking at Cambria. “Remember? That’s where we know the Daskuji from. He mentioned them.”

  “That’s right! Henry!” Cam nodded in agreement. “Yes, he tried to warn us.”

  “Well, if a simple cartographer as far north as Briarhead knows about the Daskuji and thought to give you a warning, perhaps this problem is even worse than we already feared,” Wynne mused, clasping her hands and pressing them to her chin. “Charles, what can you tell us about this particular sorceress? Any information you have will be helpful.”

  “Well, it’s like I said to Adelaide, I didn’t realize she was this old, or this powerful. I had heard whispers of an evil enchantress that was to join my father’s council, and then about three or four years ago I began to notice her around the castle. I didn’t know she had been there all along, in secret.”

  “That’s all well and good, but none of that information helps us,” Wynne pressed. “We need something more.”

  “She’s as twisted as they come,” Charles offered. “No one dares speak her name, save in a whisper. When she comes down the hall, people flee. When she looks at you, it’s like she’s looking into you. Through you. Her eyes are cold and dead, and it’s like you are staring into the eyes of Elios himself.”

  “The eyes of Maelron,” Wynne corrected, her voice terse.

  “Maelron?” Adelaide asked, her gaze flitting between Charles and Wynne.

  “Yes, he is the deity the Daskuji worship. He is also known as The Devourer of Souls, or, as the Ka’tellna called him, Old Father Death. They pledge their eternal life to his dark service, in exchange for power, youth, and wealth.”

  “Why have we never heard of this Maelron?” Cambria asked.

  “Well, he isn’t in the traditional Echarian pantheon,” Wynne explained. “His mythology is just as old as The Five, but it’s all contained in separate tomes. Occasionally, in texts about The Five, you’ll come across a reference to a fallen demon by the same name. He’s treated by those who worship The Five as a minor inconvenience, something that howls in the distance on a dark night. In the literature devoted to him, however, he is cited as the one ultimate being, and he used to have a thriving following. Over the centuries, his name has lost power and meaning, and people have forgotten that his followers once carried out chaos and destruction across the world. They slaughtered entire peoples, enslaved families, and did unspeakable evils to people who were helpless to stop it, all in his name. Now he’s but a shadow, lurking behind closed doors and in dusty reliquaries. The people have forgotten.”

  “How does an entire civilization manage to forget about a deity so evil? To forget the atrocities committed in his name?” Cambria whispered. “It’s not right.”

  “No, it’s not,” Wynne agreed. “But people tend to forget the things
that don’t impact them personally, and the people that suffered most at the hands of Maelron and his followers aren’t here anymore to speak up, and to remind the world of their suffering. And no one has chosen to speak for them, and to shine light on those dark memories. The Daskuji were the last remaining stronghold of Maelron’s cult, but they were thought to have been wiped out. Now, they are forgotten relics of the past, growing stronger in the darkness while the world ignores their existence.”

  “I had no idea that such evil still existed,” Charles spoke quietly, shaking his head. “Or that it ever existed, for that matter. And I lived in the same castle as it for years.”

  “Evil can disguise itself as many things, even sometimes a lesser evil. People brush off a lesser evil, and it lurks in the darkness, gathering strength and followers. Then it will rear its ugly head again, and the world will be shocked that such a powerful evil exists, even though they did nothing to stop it when it was a smaller threat. Ignorance and willful blindness are what the evil things that lurk in the shadows count on.”

  “So how do we fight this?” Adelaide’s lower lip trembled. “How do we stop this, and save the kingdom?”

  “There’s no simple way.” Wynne sighed deeply, continuing, “We just have to keep our heads up, be ready for anything, and never stop fighting. It’s going to be a hard, long fight, but it needs to be fought. The more support and help we can gather as we fight, the better.”

  “Well then.” Cambria stood and extended her hands to help her companions up from the cushions. “I guess we’d better get to work.”

  Martin shivered as he wrapped the tattered remains of his shirt around his broad shoulders. His breath caught as the rough material scraped against the raw skin that crisscrossed his back. A rat scurried through the cell, its feet making soft splashing sounds against the damp stone floor as it crossed from one iron-bar wall to the other. Martin peered across the narrow corridor at Chloe, sleeping curled up in the fetal position in the cell opposite his. He could barely make her out in the darkness, a little quivering ball of humanity hidden away in the bowels of Greystone Castle.

  A door clanked at the end of the corridor and Martin stiffened, recognizing the tell-tale rattle of the jailer’s keys. Chloe sat up slowly, bleary-eyed. She glanced at Martin, her voice coming in a raspy whisper.

  “How much longer will this go on?”

  “I don’t know, my love.” Martin shook his head, sighing deeply. “I don’t know.”

  Torchlight flickered as the jailer waddled up to Martin’s cell. “Alright then, baker man. It’s your turn to answer some questions,” the jailer snorted, breathing heavily and wiping the sweat from his flushed, round face. The keys jangled against the lock as the jailer swung the cell door wide, grunting a bit with the effort. “You know the drill. On your feet.” He waved his pudgy hands at Martin, motioning for him to rise.

  Martin stood on wobbly knees, still weak from his last round of questioning. Even stooped and sore as he was, he towered over the portly jailer, creating an intimidating shadow as he emerged into the torchlight. As he stepped out of the cell, he looked down at Chloe. He felt a lump growing in his throat as he took in her haggard appearance and the fresh bruises that marred her legs.

  “I love you, Chloe.”

  Smack. Martin’s eyes watered from the impact of the Jailer’s wooden paddle across his cheek.

  “Hey, baker man! You know the rules. No speaking unless spoken to.” The jailer shoved Martin in front of him, pressing a knife to his back. “Now, march!”

  Martin cast one last look at Chloe and complied, shuffling slowly down the damp dungeon corridor. There were two young boys carrying torches, one in front of Martin, the other behind. The firelight bounced off the wet stone walls, illuminating the mold, spiders, and insects that called the dungeon home. The jailer puffed along behind him, keeping the knife securely pressed against Martin’s spine. They reached the large metal door at the end of the corridor and went through it, then up a spiraling flight of stairs. Martin’s muscles twitched and spasmed as he climbed, and his vision grew cloudy. It had been days since he had eaten, and the physical strain on his body had nearly worn him to his breaking point. At the top of the staircase, the first boy placed his torch in a holder mounted into the wall and flung the door open. Sunlight poured through the open door, flooding the group with a brilliant light. Martin’s vision went white and his hands flew to his face. The knife pressed deeper into his back, pricking the already-tender skin.

  “Move along, baker man!” huffed the jailer, gasping for breath.

  Martin shuffled cautiously forward, blinking rapidly as his eyes tried to adjust to the glare of the sunshine. It was easy to lose time in the dungeon, with no way to tell how many hours had passed besides the pangs of hunger, which came and went several times over the course of their imprisonment. Sometimes, they were brought up for questioning during the day, and other times it was night, and stars glittered in the heavens above. Martin felt the cold breeze kiss his cheek, and he inhaled deeply, drinking in the fresh air. The group hurried across the courtyard, passed the piles of snow that had been shoveled aside to clear a path. They entered the castle through a large wooden door, and Martin turned to take the right corridor, as they had done countless times since his arrest.

  “Ah ah ah, not today, baker man. Today, we go left.” The jailer motioned down the opposite hall, and Martin adjusted his course.

  As they shuffled down the hall, Martin could hear the faint melody of a harp, and he began to smell delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen. He could smell roasting meat, fresh bread, and some kind of sweet spice. His stomach growled and his knees trembled again as he remembered how long it had been since he had eaten. They came to the end of the corridor and passed through another door. Martin blinked in surprise, taking in his surroundings. They were in a lush ballroom, with a large feast laid out on tables in the center. To one side, a harpist strummed peacefully, filling the room with the sweet, sad sound. At a smaller table near the feast, a thin woman and a bearded man sat together, eating and talking. Both rose as Martin and the jailer approached.

  “Martin! Good to see you,” cried the man, smiling and spreading his arms wide. “We are so glad to have you here with us.” He glanced at the jailer, waving his hand towards the door. “You can go, I will summon you when you are needed again.” The jailer nodded and waddled rapidly back the way they had come.

  Martin’s gaze flitted from the man to the woman to the feast and back again. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

  “Come, sit, with Thanaeron and me, and let’s talk.” He clapped his hands twice and a servant appeared. “Get Martin some food, and some wine,” he commanded enthusiastically.

  “Yes, Lord Bainbridge,” the servant whispered, bowing and scuttling off to do his master’s bidding.

  Martin felt his eyes widen, and he finally spoke. “Lord Bainbridge?”

  “In the flesh!” Lord Bainbridge laughed jovially. “And this here is my right hand man… er… woman!” He motioned to Thanaeron, who smiled at Martin.

  Martin felt a cold trickle move down his spine as he looked at Thanaeron. Though she was smiling, her eyes were black and dark, like a deep well with no visible bottom. “What is all of this?” Martin rasped out, motioning to the room.

  “Oh, this? Well, we realized that we haven’t been treating you very well, and if we want to get information from you, perhaps a change in technique was needed, since obviously brute force wasn’t going to work.” Lord Bainbridge chuckled, taking a large bite of his roast. “You’re a stubborn one, I’ll give you that! Besides,” he continued with his mouth full, “you haven’t eaten in a while, and that can’t be good for your memory.”

  The servant returned, placing a heaping plate in front of Martin. He scuttled off again and quickly returned with a full goblet of wine and a flagon of water. He bowed to Lord Bainbridge, and Martin could see that his hands were trembling. “Anything else, my Lord?”
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  “No, that will be all, thank you.” Lord Bainbridge waved dismissively as he gulped from his wine glass. The servant didn’t need to be told twice, scurrying away from the table like a mouse fleeing a cat.

  Martin watched him leave, the hair on the back of his neck standing up in warning. He glanced down at the food before him. His mouth was watering, and his vision was beginning to darken in the periphery. The smell of the food was overpowering.

  “Well, man, eat up!” commanded Lord Bainbridge.

  Martin obeyed, raising the food tentatively to his lips. The first bite was like heaven, and Martin closed his eyes, afraid to faint from the rush of emotions that overtook him. He quickly shoveled more food into his mouth, alternating between savoring each bite and devouring it like a beast. In no time, the plate was empty, and his belly was full. He sat back in his chair, sighing with contentment, hardly bothered by the tattered skin on his back.

  “Now, we have some questions for you,” Lord Bainbridge announced pleasantly, also leaning back in his chair.

  Martin shifted uneasily in his chair. “Well, to be honest, sir…” he swallowed and took a deep breath. “If it is the same thing you’ve wanted to know all along, I can’t help you.” He looked at Lord Bainbridge, his heart rising in his throat and his pulse thundering in his ears.

  Lord Bainbridge leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together and resting his chin on them. “Oh, is that so?” He smirked and shook his head. “And why is that?”