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Conquerors Emblem
Conquerors Letter
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The First Book of Shane: VENOM
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by Nick Eliopulos
SHANE’S LIFE CHANGED FOREVER THE DAY HE WOKE TO the sound of screaming.
It was a scream right out of a nightmare — a sound of terror, and mourning, and fury all tangled together. It was barely human.
He’d never heard anything like it before, yet he knew at once that it was coming from his sister.
Shane leaped from bed and bolted from his room. At some point he stubbed his bare toe on stone, but the pain wouldn’t register until much later. At the moment there was only Drina, and the distance that kept him from her. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause at her threshold to wonder what terror awaited him, what monstrous sight could tear such a howl from his sister’s throat.
But he paused when he entered the room and its unnatural twilight. His own bedroom had been bright with morning’s light, and the hallway too. Something in Drina’s room was blocking the light. A frayed and tattered tapestry? Thick strands of cotton? Shane couldn’t quite make sense of it.
Drina had stopped screaming, but she lay convulsing in bed. Something was terribly wrong.
He went to her and gripped her by the shoulders, willing her to be still, but her body jumped and jerked beneath his fingers. She looked up at him with eyes that didn’t see him. They registered only horror.
He realized he was saying her name, over and over again. “Drina. Drina.”
Then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.
He didn’t turn all at once. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his ears prickled. He knew somehow that making any sudden moves would be a terrible mistake. So he kept his hands on his sister’s shoulders, and turned his head slowly, very slowly, until he was looking into the far corner of the room.
Squatting there in the shadows was the largest spider Shane had ever seen.
It saw him too. It stared back at him with eight eyes, alien and unreadable. Other than the bands of yellow along its abdomen, it was entirely black. Venom dripped from its fangs to the floor.
It stayed absolutely still, and Shane tried to stay still too. But he couldn’t suppress a shudder of fear and revulsion.
He had to do something. Others would arrive soon — others must have heard Drina’s scream. And the next person through that door would step right beneath those dripping fangs.
He took a heavy brass lantern from Drina’s bedside.
He turned away from her slowly, so that he faced the spider. He would have to put all his strength behind his throw. He might only have one chance at this.
Those alien eyes stared back, unblinking.
Shane shifted his weight and gritted his teeth. He reared back with the lantern, ready to let it fly when —
Suddenly Drina screamed again. This time, she produced a word: “No!”
She lurched from her bed, shoving into him with all her might. Shane went flying; his head smacked against stone. The world reeled, and he hit stone again, and the lantern shattered all around him, covering him with broken glass.
“He’s mine,” his sister said. Through a haze of red he watched her take an unsteady step toward the creature on the wall, her arm outstretched, palm up. “He’s mine.”
It was only then that the true horror of the situation finally dawned on Shane. Despite his fervent hopes, his sister had summoned a spirit animal.
Unconsciousness came for him, and he did not fight it. He didn’t want to see what happened next.
Shane never woke slowly. In the two years since Drina had summoned her spirit animal, he jolted awake each morning, usually in a cold sweat, always with a sense of dread. This morning was no different. He immediately scanned the ceiling, then checked the four corners of his bedroom for any sign of an animal. He kept the stone walls bare and the room clear of any clutter: the better to be sure nothing could hide from him. Finally, before daring to place his feet upon the floor, he leaned over the side of his bed, peering into the shadows beneath it like a young child checking for monsters.
It was only after he was satisfied that he had not summoned a spirit animal in his sleep that he remembered to breathe.
Shane knew the odds of being Marked were slim. He reminded himself of that fact every day. Yet despite the odds, every member of his immediate family had summoned an animal. People said they were cursed, and there were times Shane himself believed it.
He was nearly thirteen years old now. If he was going to get a spirit animal — and the bonding sickness that usually came with it — it would happen soon.
Shane slipped from bed and pulled his damp nightclothes over his head. He took a fresh tunic and trousers from his wardrobe — a wooden antique from which he’d removed the doors. That way it was one less hiding place for him to fear. And besides, Shane’s uncle had use for any wood he could get his hands on.
As he dressed, Shane remembered a time in his childhood when a servant would wake him, bathe him, dress him. But nearly all the servants were gone now. And it was just as well — there was no money with which to pay them, little food with which to feed them.
Shane knew very little about the lands outside of Stetriol, but he suspected he was the poorest prince in the world.
He walked the long hallway that led to the dining hall, trailing his finger along the stone wall and tapestries, leaving a line in the dust. The tapestries showed legendary scenes of Stetriol’s ancient past. On one, torrents of water flowed from the mouth of a frog, creating all the lakes and rivers. Another showed two lizards painting patterns on each other, one with a fine brush and an eye for detail, the other without care.
Shane knew of other tapestries — forgotten tapestries that still hung from the rafters in a dark and disused corner of the castle. Those artworks celebrated other animals entirely: formidable birds of prey, and huge, vicious cats, and an octopus with startlingly intelligent eyes. But the Great Beasts had cursed Stetriol. They were better forgotten.
Lost in thought, Shane jolted with surprise when he rounded a corner and saw a cloaked figure standing before him. He hoped she hadn’t seen him flinch, but it was hard to sneak anything past his tutor.
“Yumaris,” he said, nodding his head in greeting.
“My prince,” she said, lowering her own head in a sort of bow. Shane imagined if she attempted to lower herself any more than that, she might never manage to get up again. She clutched her staff as if without it her heavy robes might drag her to the floor.
He wasn’t sure exactly how old she was, but during her history lessons it was easy to imagine that she spoke from personal experience. The oddest thing about her, though, was that she sometimes spoke of the future as if it were history too.
Shane watched curiously as the woman produced a sheathed sword from the folds of her robes. It was the saber he had been training with lately, at his uncle’s insistence. “You will be glad to have this blade,” she said, holding it out to him.
He wasn’t so sure, but he took the sword and affixed it to his belt. “You’re my tutor, Yumaris. Aren’t you supposed to favor the pen?”
“A prince must have many tools in his arsenal,” Yumaris answered, a faraway look in her eyes. “For words and learning do little to impress a jackal.”
Shane tightened his belt and gave his tutor a questioning look. “There are no jackals in Stetriol.”
Yumaris shrugged. “A figure of speech, my prince. Now, I fear you have more pressing business this morning than breakfast.”
Shane sighed. “What is Gar up to this time?”
The thron
e room was brightly lit, with flaming sconces running along its length. Gar was at the far end, standing on the dais so that he towered over the others assembled around him. He knew better than to actually sit upon the throne, but Shane noticed he stood close enough that he could reach out and touch it.
Gar was Shane’s uncle and the king’s younger brother. He had no true claim to the throne. But as Shane’s nearest living relative who was not confined to bed, Gar had been named regent. In theory, that meant Gar was responsible for advising Shane and teaching him the ways of statecraft. In practice, it meant Gar was more or less in charge until the day Shane was crowned king.
Gar might not have had bonding sickness, but Shane didn’t consider him fit to rule. He was hotheaded and cruel. Whereas other members of their family were physically unwell, Gar seemed to have a sickness of the spirit.
“Uncle!” he called out as he crossed the room. “Forgive me for being late. I wasn’t aware we were entertaining guests so early.”
Gar smiled, but it looked like a grimace. “I see Yumaris found you in time, nephew. Now that you’re here, we can begin.”
As Shane closed the distance, he took in the scene. There at the foot of the stairs, two guards stood at attention. Between them, a man crouched low, bowing before Gar. The sight made Shane furious.
“And who is this?” he asked, stepping past the guards and ascending the stairs. He only came to a stop once he was a hairbreadth from the throne, closer to it than his uncle was. He loved that throne. It was an ancient master-piece of iron adorned with a dozen mismatched animal features — wings and scales and antlers — and entirely gray except for the colorful snakes running along its sides. They were red and orange, green and yellow, and rumor had it that King Feliandor himself had added them during his reign, sometime after he had taken to calling himself the Reptile King.
Gar took an awkward sideways step to make room for Shane, and had to turn to address him. “Dear nephew,” he began, “this man is a criminal. He stands accused of flouting Royal Edict Thirteen, the rule against —”
“The rule that states all wood in Stetriol belongs to the royal family, for the purpose of rebuilding Stetriol’s fleet,” Shane finished coldly. “I’m well aware of the edict.”
The edict, in fact, was Gar’s pet project. He pursued it like a rabid dog. Shane didn’t particularly care what the commoners did with their wood, and he knew for a fact that his father didn’t care either.
But wood in Stetriol had always been scarce, owing to the mostly arid climate. That was only made worse after the great war and the Greencloak invasion, when the island nation’s shores were overrun. After King Feliandor was assassinated and his Conquerors were defeated, the invaders hadn’t been content simply to sink Stetriol’s entire armada. They set fire to her coastal forests, as well. To this day, wood was exceedingly hard to come by.
People made do. They crafted their homes from stone and clay and iron, all of which were abundant.
But you couldn’t rebuild a fleet of ships with stone and metal. And lately Gar seemed very keen to build ships.
“This man,” Gar continued, “took an ax to a tree in broad daylight. Given the king’s passionate and absolute belief in the necessity of Royal Edict Thirteen, and the boldness of the crime, it is clear he must be swiftly punished.”
“You want to make an example of him,” Shane clarified.
“As you say, my prince.”
“And what does the prisoner say?”
The man at the foot of the stairs did not lift his head. “Your grace,” he began. His voice was deep and confident, with an unusual inflection. “I am but a humble commoner and family man. The nights grow cold, and soon snow will fall upon the highlands. I only sought to keep my children warm, to stave off the cold and the illness it brings.”
“And so you steal from the crown,” said Gar.
“Perhaps if I could make my apologies to the king,” he said. “If I could speak to him, one father to another.”
Something about that request bothered Shane. He had a sudden suspicion that the man before him knew more than he let on about the condition of Stetriol’s king.
“The king —” began Shane.
“The king does not deign to speak to common criminals,” Gar spat. “He is a busy man who has made his wishes on these matters known. Guards! Take this ‘humble father’ to a cell.”
The guards lifted the man by his armpits. Shane saw his face for the first time then. He was sunburned, his nose peeling, and his dark beard was unkempt. For all that, though, there was something noble in his demeanor. And his eyes showed no trace of fear.
Most curious of all, though — the man’s features and skin tone gave him the look of a foreigner. But Shane knew that was impossible.
“What’s your name, stranger?” he asked, almost on impulse.
“Zerif,” the man said, and then he was dragged away.
Shane visited Drina every day, but it never got any easier. Sometimes he would walk up and down the hallway for hours, eyeing her bedroom door with dread. A closed door meant Drina was alone with her spider, Iskos, and Shane had no desire to step into their parlor.
An open door, though, meant that Magda was there. Fearless Magda, who each day entered that darkened room, threw wide the shutters, and swept away any cobwebs she could reach. Shane had actually seen her shoo away the monstrous spider one afternoon, as if it were nothing more than a pesky dog underfoot.
Magda was there now, piling dishes upon a tray, and she curtsied when she saw Shane enter. “My prince,” she said in greeting.
“Hi, Magda. How is she?”
Magda smiled a small smile. “She’s just eaten. You should visit with her while I run to the kitchen and back.”
Shane nodded, scanning the room as he slipped into the cushioned chair beside Drina’s bed. There were webs in the far corners of the ceiling, but the spider was nowhere to be seen. By this time it was most likely out looking for its own breakfast. Spiders were hunters, and Iskos did not accept any food it hadn’t caught itself. Shane shuddered, but was grateful that it sought its meals outside, on the castle grounds.
He took Drina’s hand. “Hey,” he said.
She turned to look at him, and she smiled from her pillow. They had the same light blond hair, but where his skin was a healthy tan, Drina was so pale as to be nearly translucent. He could see blue veins against her skin, and her hand was cool to the touch.
“No fever today?” he asked, and he smiled back at her. Her eyes were blue and clear and sharp with awareness.
“I feel good,” Drina said. “Magda said I may be able to go for a walk this afternoon.”
“It’s a beautiful day,” Shane said.
“I haven’t been to the gardens in ages,” Drina said. Then she saw Shane’s reaction. “What?” she asked.
“Gar is … using the gardens right now.”
“Ah, he must have taken a prisoner.”
Shane nodded. “I hate it,” he said softly. “Every time he locks someone away there, I feel like he’s tarnishing some part of our childhood.”
Drina laughed. Shane hadn’t expected that, and he smiled. But the smile died on his lips as Drina’s laughter went on. It was a wild sound, aggressive and ugly, and it ended in a harsh cough.
Shane stood, but he froze in place, unsure whether he should go or stay.
“You’re still a child, Shane,” she said once her coughing had subsided. She threw her blanket aside and placed her bare feet upon the floor. “Gar’s never going to respect you. Why should he? Why should anyone?”
Suddenly she pounced, quick as a spider. Before Shane knew what had happened, she had shoved him back, drawn the sword at his hip, and now held him against the wall. She had her forearm against his throat and the blade against his cheek.
He tried to say her name but found he couldn’t produce any sound. He felt a drop of hot blood trickling down from where the saber touched him, like a burning tear.
�
�You’re twelve, brother. Just a baby. But you’ll be all grown up soon. I wonder what animal you’ll get?” Her breath was sour, and her eyes were crazed. “A worm? A slug? Something small and worthless.” She pulled away from him, and he slid to the ground, gasping for air.
“It’s not fair,” she said, dropping the sword so that it clattered on the stone. Just like that, she sounded small and weak again. It seemed to take a great effort for her to pull herself back into bed. “I’d be great. I’d be so great.”
As Drina was overtaken by another coughing fit, Shane’s hand found the hilt of his saber. He gripped it and watched his sister’s convulsing body from her bedroom floor. He reminded himself that she was sick; he told himself it wasn’t her fault. But in that moment, he felt no pity for her, and no love — only hate.
Then he saw the handkerchief she held against her mouth. It was wet and heavy with blood.
One of Shane’s earliest memories was of panic and pain.
Worse. It was a memory of golden sunlight and happiness that had turned to horror in an instant.
He had been running through tall grass and laughing, chasing a bright white rabbit. The rabbit would wait for him to get close, then hop away, leaving Shane’s little arms to close on empty air. Something about the chase struck him, in his wide-eyed youth, as hilarious. He cackled with laughter each time the animal leaped beyond his reach.
Then suddenly there was a snake. In the time it took Shane to blink, the snake darted forward, sunk its fangs into his calf, and retreated back into the grass.
The shock and terror struck first, so that by the time the pain came he was already wailing, rolling around with his face in the dirt.
Drina reached him immediately. He saw fear in her eyes, saw how she hesitated, unsure what to do. It made him cry harder.
But then their mother was there. In his memory, her hands were everywhere at once: cupping the top of his head, wiping tears and snot from his face, ripping away the sleeve of her dress to make a tourniquet. He had no memory of what words she spoke, but to this day he remembered her tone. Her calmness calmed him.
The Book of Shane #1 Page 1
