In Shades of Grey
The Elder Blood Chronicles - Book One
by Melissa Myers
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011, 2012, 2013 Melissa Myers
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved, except as permitted by U.S. Copyrights Act of 1976.
No part of this publication can be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form
or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system
without prior written permission of the author.
Map of Sanctuary
Dedications
To my children who have remained patient throughout all of this.
You have considered me a good mother, even when work often kept me from it.
To my mother, who has supported me on everything I have ever put my mind to.
Thank you for helping me when everything was so hard.
“Life cannot be defined in simple black and white. In everything, there exists both good and evil. It is perspective and motivation that define a thing. An action of evil may have to occur for the greater good, while this may be viewed as either black or white depending on perspective. It is the motivation that makes it grey.
“Our world itself displays this. For those of the Elder Blood who remember, it is a prison they cannot escape. For those of us who were born here, it is a home to be protected. For all of us, it is a battlefield. Be it by sword or word, the wars between the Houses have raged since creation. Both the war, and the individuals who fight in it, are far more than black and white. With every word we speak, with every action we take, we exist in shades of grey. It is the motivation for our actions that define how dark of grey we are. It is a perspective that defines what shade others see us in. There are those in this world whose motivations are nearly white, but our perspective of them names them outlaw.”
~Quoted from Christian Morcaillo during a debate on Ethics at the Sanctuary Academy.
Prologue
Veir
Death sang loudly, her mournful voice composed of the screams of the wounded and the clashing of steel. The sound was as unwelcome as the bloody waves crashing against the sand near his feet. A funeral dirge for my land and people, Damon mused and spat blood from his mouth. It wasn’t his blood; it belonged to the fool that was even now charging back in for another strike at Damon. His first strike to the man had been a savage one, which nearly severed the arm. The spray of blood had caught him full in the face. By rights, the soldier should have dropped from that wound alone, but battle lust had him too far in its grips. Have I ever actually felt battle lust? Damon wondered. His mind was working far better than his body at this point. With a weary sigh, he brought his sword up at the last moment and sank it deep into the man’s chest, adding another scream to the symphony. It was not a grand flourish, not even done in anger. It was done simply of necessity as every other death he had dealt this morning had been delivered. Damon was too tired for anger and had never been the sort to show off. Wearily he pushed the man’s corpse from his blade and barely spared the body a glance as it fell to the sand. His eyes were already scanning his surroundings for another fool that he would have to kill. His stretch of the coast seemed to be blessedly free of anything moving, though. Corpses lay sprawled in a circle around where he stood. He suppressed a snort of disgusted laughter. He’d been on enough battlefields to know to avoid the man who had the circle of corpses around him. Obviously these fools hadn’t had such learning. No doubt they all wanted the honor of bravely killing High Lord Veirasha. Damon shook his head at the mere thought and his gaze rose to the ships rocking at anchor off his coast. Undoubtedly, thousands more fools lacking proper learning awaited there, just as eager for his head. This first landing had merely been those too eager to keep on the ships. A test of sorts, to see what kind of fight Veir could put up in its current state.
He turned away from the ships. He was too tired to contemplate how many enemies waited or how skilled they were. He would face them as they came, for the time for strategy was long past. To use strategy, you needed an army. While a year ago his had been the strongest there ever was, it was no more. Now he barely had enough men to hold this small strand of coast. The fabled Knights of Veir were gone. All that remained was a ragged bunch of men fighting back sickness as much as they were fighting off the invaders.
His eyes roamed down the coast where his youngest son was directing what remained of his men. If his son was feeling the effects of the sickness, he wasn’t showing it. He sat tall and proud above them from the back of a prancing black warhorse. One of the few horses left in Veir now. He felt a pang in his chest at the sight of his son who didn’t belong on a battlefield. There was no doubt that Zachary could fight; he simply belonged in a brighter place. He was more suited for tourneys than the blood and mess of war. The year before, Zachary had been a tourney knight and the girls had swooned at the sight of him. Damon smiled bitterly at the memory. Although it wasn’t often that I left my lands, I had gone to see him ride. Damon himself had never been the sort for tourneys, but to see Zachary had filled him with such pride. Zachary had taken after his mother, with strong characteristics of charm and vibrancy that Damon himself had never possessed, even at the boy’s young age of seventeen. His son had come in second in the lances and had bragged over it for days.
The young man on the white horse beside Zachary had taken first place. He couldn’t see his son’s third companion, but his eyes fell on the huge red horse the young man had been riding. Its body was half buried in the rising tide with sea foam the color of rust rushing over it. He hoped the young man hadn’t joined his horse in death. He had liked the bluff spoken little Firym. All three of them were too young and too filled with life for this much death. Damon gave a weary sigh and felt his lungs clench in protest, fighting back a fit of coughing as he watched Zachary and his remaining men finish off the last of the invaders.
“Father,” a voice called softly from behind him. My other son, the stoic and practical one that is a pure image of me at a younger age, Damon mused. He shifted his weight, pushed back from where he had been leaning on his sword, and turned to regard Tyber. His son looked about as bad as he himself felt. His skin was pale and his blue eyes were sunken. Blood smeared across one cheek, though Damon doubted it was his son’s blood. His normally pristine armor was covered in gore, his tabard torn and bloody. His eyes were the worst though. They reflected every emotion Damon himself was trying to push away. Disgust, anger, grief, and further back at just the corners where it could almost be ignored lurked despair. He held the reins to his grey gelding and waited for his father to bid him to continue. Tyber was always proper. Zachary would have blurted out whatever he wanted to say before Damon had even turned, but Tyber waited patiently as he always did.
Damon looked past his son to the gelding. The creature’s head was held low, almost to the ground. His sides were sunken, and his legs were braced in a fashion that suggested they might buckle soon. Puss trickled down from the corner of the animal’s eyes, and its breathing seemed labored. With blister-filled lungs, he would soon begin bleeding from his nose and mouth. Damon had lost his own horse days ago in the same fashion. With the first sign of the plague being fever, a loss of appetite was soon to follow. And soon after that, things became truly unpleasant. It had started with the animals before it moved to his people. Only the strongest of the beasts had survived the firs
t wave, but now apparently they too were succumbing.
I know, Father, he is almost done for. I wish I could end his suffering. He deserves better. But I fear I may need the last of his strength. We’ve just gotten word that Merro’s men have broken through in the north. If we don’t answer, they will win through to the capital.” Tyber’s voice was thick with grief and came out almost choked. “I doubt he will make it too far, but anything is better than nothing,” he added.
Damon remained silent. He was unsure how to tell his son there was nothing in the capital to save. Word had come this morning before the battle that his wife and daughter were victims to the plague. Damon gritted his teeth and forced his imagination away from the images of their bodies twisted in sickness. He wanted to keep his last memories of them as pure as they had been. There could be no denial though; he would have to tell his son they were dead. He would have to tell them all that the capital was burning. He had ordered it so himself. It had reached the point where it was easier to move the living from the city than it was to move the dead. He stared past his son in the direction of his home, his former home, he corrected. By now, it would be nothing more than ashes. How exactly did one tell his children that their beloved mother was dead? The woman who had nursed them at her breast, cradled them when they were upset, and loved them so fiercely. How could he tell his two sons that their little sister, who was not even old enough to have known a first kiss, was dead, despite how they had always protected her? No matter how strong they had been, no matter how large their armies, no matter how proud their house, Veir had fallen. Slain by an enemy they could not fight before this army had even arrived. House Veirasha’s last survivors stood on this corpse-littered beach, with an army twenty times their own, rocking at anchor in their harbor. Veir was lost; there could be no denying it. Despair crept over his mind again, and he firmly pushed it away once more. He had two children left. He must do what he could for them.
“Father?” Tyber’s voice came again, pulling him back from his dark line of thoughts. He looked back at the gelding before turning his attention to his son. Damon could remember teaching his son to ride on that horse. Tyber had spent countless hours on the sturdy grey, training with lance and sword. Not for tourneys of course, Tyber was his father’s son and had never been the sort for that glamour. He and that horse had trained for this day to come, when Veir would need protecting, if it were ever invaded. There was no way to train for what they faced now, no way to prepare for plague-stricken lands. Damon watched as the animal swayed back and forth. It was so far gone, yet it refused to give up. No matter how hard Tyber had pushed the animal during training, it had remained as stubborn and solid as his son, never admitting defeat and never giving up. Sometimes we are not given a choice on the matter though Damon thought grimly. What was that saying the knights had? “A knight is nothing without his horse.” There was also, “A knight is only as good as his horse.” Neither rang well on his ears at the moment. His son was still watching him, his grief turning to concern at his father’s long silence.
“Put him to rest, Tyber. End his suffering in thanks for the loyal service he has given you. Then fetch your brother and his comrades and bring them to me at my tent. We have much to discuss.” Damon’s voice was barely above a whisper.
A ragged cheer broke from his pathetic army, and they both turned to look in amazement. A cheer was the last thing Damon expected from a defeated army wracked with plague. These men could barely stand and hold swords; how did they possibly find the energy for yelling? His eyes found the source of their attention soon enough. Victory, the young man on the white horse, gestured toward a ship with one hand. Damon tried to ignore the sick irony to the boy’s name. It was like the Faydwer, to name their children in such a fashion, no matter how wrong it might prove to be in the future. No, that wasn’t fair. This was his defeat, not the young Faydwer’s. Damon felt the brush of strong magic wash across him. He narrowed his eyes and watched Victory with curiosity. The boy’s hand was still raised out in front of him, his arm rigid with the muscles straining. His palm turned upwards as though he were lifting a great weight.
Tyber raised his eyebrow and looked to his father. “The ships are protected. The Barllen on the hulls will absorb the magic. What is he doing?”
Damon shook his head slowly in answer. Tyber was right about the Barllen. They had discovered that fact the first day of the assault. Magic was useless when Barllen was involved. The metal was not picky about what it absorbed. Whether helpful or deadly, it stole both.
Victory’s hand rose slightly and his horse pranced in the surf sending a spray of seawater several feet in the air. Damon wondered idly, how is it that the plague chose its victims with such care. Only days before, Tyber’s horse had been as hale and healthy as the white. Today, it stood on death’s door while Victory’s danced. His musings were suddenly silenced as the army gave another cheer and a thunderous bellow split the air. The water around the anchored ships boiled and churned. Screams of terrified men washed back toward them. A scaled head nearly the size of one of the ships broke above the waves and let loose another bellow that seemed to shake the ocean itself.
“By the Aspects,” Tyber said in a voice barely above a whisper. “He summoned a bloody serpent and a damn big one at that,” he finished in a tone of disbelief.
The enraged serpent rose higher in the water with its neck and head now cresting nearly thirty feet over the biggest of the fleet. With a triumphant yell, Victory released the magic that controlled the animal and sagged in his saddle. Cheers erupted from his army once again as the serpent turned its full wrath upon the ships. The sound of cracking timbers and dying men came to them faintly across the harbor, and Damon watched in silence as half a dozen of his enemies’ ships found a grizzly end.
“Impressive,” Damon admitted with a slight nod. He turned back to Tyber. “Still not enough though. See to the horse Tyber, and then fetch them as I said,” he said as he walked slowly toward his tent. As far as he could see, only one choice remained to save his sons, and it wasn’t a good one. He could try to convince them simply to leave Veir, but he knew without speaking the words, they would refuse. As much as he himself would refuse, had anyone suggested it to him, which left only the most drastic of choices.
The tent flap pushed open, and Zachary strode in. Although his raven black hair was in disarray and he seemed worn down, he wore a fierce grin. “Did you see the serpent, Father?” he asked.
“How could he miss it?” Havoc muttered as he followed into the tent. The Firym was typical of his people in coloring with swarthy skin and red hair. In this tent, he looked as out of place as a cardinal amongst ravens. Damon gave a slight nod and motioned them to a seat. The news he had was not pleasant, and he’d rather his son be seated and disarmed. Getting his sword away from him was doubtful but he would settle for seated. Zachary was fiery of temper, a trait he must have gotten from his mother. Damon doubted he himself had ever qualified as fiery.
Victory entered next, looking exhausted from his efforts yet triumphant. He gave a respectful bow to Damon and took a seat himself. Damon motioned the boys to the food on the table. He, himself, had no appetite He hadn’t felt hungry for days, especially not since the fever had finally gone. And, it’s already begun on my lungs he thought grimly. He watched the entrance and waited patiently for Tyber.
The tent flap pushed open for a last time, and Tyber entered, his expression bleak and his eyes filled with grief. “I just received the report from the capital, Father,” Tyber said.
Damon gave a slight nod and motioned his son to sit. “Your brother has not as of yet,” he reminded Tyber gently.
“What news?” Zachary asked, his tone filled with concern. He looked between his father and brother and his expression darkened. “What news?” he asked again, this time making it more of a demand.
“Calm yourself, Zachary,” Tyber warned.
Havoc and Victory exchanged glances, and Victory rested a hand lightly on Zacha
ry’s arm. “I’m sure that is why Lord Veirasha has called us in here, Zach, to tell us.” Victory smiled gently as he spoke in a weak yet firm voice.
“They have broken through our northern border, Zachary,” Damon began. He watched Zachary tense at the words, exactly as he had expected him to. If he didn’t push forward now, Zachary and his two companions would be riding north within the hour. It would seem the way to tell his children the wretched news was quickly and bluntly. He didn’t have the luxury of time to spare Zachary’s feelings. “Our capital was already lost, however. I received word this morning that your mother and sister died in the night. What remains of our people have set the city to flames. There were too many dead for the survivors to tend properly.” Damon watched grief wash over his child’s face and had to force himself to continue speaking. “Veir is lost,” he finished, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“We still live! Veir is not lost until I no longer breathe!” Zachary all but yelled his defiance in a voice that burst with pure raw emotion.
“My Lord Veirasha, if I call, my people will answer. Give me leave, and I will send for Faydwer’s armies. I know my father would never refuse you,” Victory offered.
“The Firym are always ready for a fight. We will guard your borders while your lands recover. My cousin waits even now with a full contingent of Flame Riders at the borders. Give your word and they will fight either here or in Merro,” Havoc added, not to be outdone by Victory.
Damon shook his head slowly. “Your offer is generous, both offers. But no, I will not bring my troubles to allies. I cannot risk that the plague would spread farther,” he said with regret.
The Elder Blood Chronicles Bk 1 In Shades of Grey Page 1
