Nathaniel Grey and the Obsidian Crown

by Farrell Keeling

  Nathaniel Grey and the Obsidian Crown

  The Phoenix Saga

  Book 2

  FARRELL KEELING

  Nathaniel Grey and the Obsidian Crown

  Text Copyright © 2019

  Farrell Keeling

  Cover art by Liza Nazarova (print edition)

  All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or transmitted in whole or in part in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission from the author.

  ISBN: 9781097136490 (print edition)

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Many decades ago, one boy’s struggle against a vile creature of the Foglands is falling into legend.

  Yet, old records were poured over, and the priests of the City of Light had finally unearthed their champion: Horizon’s Warder of Shadow, Wielder of the Flames of the First, King-in-Waiting of the Broken City, and Fierslaken’s heir.

  The Phoenix had risen.

  Chapter 1

  The cave entrance was quiet, all except for the crackle of the Cloaks’ torches. The two men, peering through their jet-black masks into the distance beyond the cave, watching silently for any sign of trouble. Within moments they found it.

  A silhouette formed on the ground before them, perplexingly without an owner to cast it. Then, suddenly, this silhouette began to rise – or rather, coalesce – wisps of shadow merging as they floated upwards, as if pulled from the earth itself. Tendrils flicked out and stabbed at the open air, as the black mist emerged from the ground. What appeared to be a head raised itself from the central mass. It was poorly defined at first, as if someone had pulled a black veil over a doll’s face. Then a torso and arms, the body writhing and rolling over itself, congealing as it formed into a solid state. One leg lurched forward, dragging the rest of the body with it.

  The Cloaks relaxed the grip on their daggers, as the figure, now corporeal, stepped into the flickering light cast by their torches.

  ‘Crow,’ they said, stepping aside in unison to allow him entry into the cave. Red-trimmed robes whipped about the man’s legs as he strode past the Cloaks, without a word of acknowledgement.

  The Cloaks followed, at a safe distance.

  Even though he was long since used to the caves, Crow still found himself shivering involuntarily every time he crossed the threshold. Although tempered by their cage, his masters’ powers remained a frightful prospect, as Crow had experienced first-hand.

  Nothing grew in the dank soil outside the cave and nothing that lived dared approach it. Inside, it was worse. Every step taken towards the centre of the cave system, where all the trails converged, seemed to draw all the warmth from your flesh.

  The wind swirled around him, crying out a warning, as if feebly attempting to snatch him back from the cold clutches of the cave. But the gusts retreated quickly, as soon as he’d turned the first corner. Even the flames that crackled from the Cloaks’ torches appeared to angle back towards the cave entrance, as if desperate to flee with the wind.

  But most disconcerting of all, were the voices. A multitude of whispers and hisses followed his every step, as formless shadows darted across the illuminated cave walls.

  Crow stopped in front of what appeared to be a dead end in the cave. This dead end, however, was a most curious thing, for three shapes, distinguishable from the muddy brown of the cave, jutted out from the rock. Two of them looked resigned to their fate, but the one in the middle had been caught in motion, hands outstretched before it, as if seeking to throttle an unseen foe.

  Crow took a few steps further, until he was but an inch away from the middle figure’s contorted hands and the whispers fell suddenly silent. Expectant. The crackle of the torches and nervous intakes of breath from the Cloaks were the only sounds to be heard, as Crow slowly descended onto one knee. His outstretched hands curled open, as if to receive an offering.

  Flames sprouted from his open palms, but these were only a deathly imitation of fire. The flames were black as shadow and exuded no warmth. If anything, his hand was made colder for them. Unlike the desperate flickering of the torches, the black flames in Crow’s hand undulated and billowed, like dense smoke from a chimney stack.

  ‘What does this one seek?’ the walls suddenly hissed.

  ‘An audience with my masters,’ Crow replied.

  ‘What does this one offer?’

  ‘A gift of shadow,’ said Crow, raising his hands aloft, ‘that was gifted unto me.’

  The shadows along the walls paused for a moment, as if to scrutinise this offering, then one by one they trickled down the walls. Slinking and writhing across the soil, like dark snakes they approached.

  He made no attempt to resist, as the shadows slithered up the hem of his robes. But his back contorted and he groaned softly, as they explored the exposed flesh of his arms. Circling the black flames in his palms for a moment, they then withdrew – seemingly satisfied with what they found – and departed back to the walls.

  ‘The masters would speak,’ the shadows announced.

  ‘The Crow would listen.’ Crow bowed his head, extinguishing the black flames with a clench of his fists.

  The cave slowly darkened as the torch flames behind Crow were dimmed. No matter how hard the flames fought and flickered in protest at the shadows, they were gradually suppressed until they barely rose above the brim of the torch cups. Naught could be seen of the figures before Crow except for the tips of fingers clawing out of the darkness.

  ‘You have returned, Crow,’ a husky voice rasped. ‘What news do you bring?’

  ‘Greetings, my lords, I wished to report the progress of my mission,’ Crow said.

  ‘The Szar is willing?’ the voice sounded almost surprised.

  ‘After some discussion, yes. The Regal’s hate for Lycans is rivalled by none, my masters. All that stands in the way is the Emperor.’

  ‘Yes, this Tolken is quite the nuisance,’ a guttural voice from the other corner spoke. ‘You are certain the Szar will not fail?’

  ‘For the good of his people? It is without question.’

  ‘And yet you seem disappointed, Crow,’ a silky voice washed over him. Its dulcet tones were smooth, like the flat of a blade, but with a sharp edge never too far away.

  ‘Not at all, my masters,’ Crow said, adding hesitantly, ‘but why wait? The Phoenix is gone. The kings of mankind, gone. The old banners that swept the sky have fallen, even as we speak, Räne – Fog take it – crumbles to dust. Who is there to stand against the Reckoning?’

  The voices were silent for a short while. Long enough for the Cloaks to begin twitching anxiously and for Crow to wonder if he had asked the wrong question.

  ‘Horizon teeters on the edge of chaos, Crow. But before we are free to save it, it must embrace the beginnings of its end,’ the silky voice said, although its tone suggested that Crow was wandering dangerously close to its edge.

  ‘And what of Grey?’

  ‘If all goes to plan, he won’t be a concern for much longer,’ the guttural voice said, ‘proceed with your task, Crow. Everything rests on the Obsidian Crown.’

  ‘As you wish, my masters,’ Crow bowed his head further.

  ‘From darkness comes new beginnings,’ the three voices sang in a horrid cacophony that shook the foundations of the cave, causing small chunks of rock to dislodge from the ceiling.

  With that, light flooded back, illuminating the cave, as the shadows that cupped the torches withdre
w and resumed their unsettling chorus of whispers.

  ‘From darkness comes new beginnings,’ Crow echoed faintly.

  Chapter 2

  A low groan escaped from Nathaniel’s lips. He feebly attempted to raise a hand, to shield his eyes from the light that had unceremoniously tore into the room.

  ‘And good morning to you as well,’ a voice rang out distantly.

  Whistling away, far too merrily for the time of day, a slightly younger Regal with short blonde hair that was slicked back like his brother’s red, yanked back the other curtain.

  ‘So! How are we feeling today?’ Solas inquired with a broad, deeply dimpled, grin, snatching up a chair by Nathaniel’s bedside.

  Nathaniel could only find the strength to groan his discontent, burying himself even deeper into his pillow.

  ‘Athrana’s grace. That well?’

  ‘Three,’ Nathaniel mumbled contritely into the pillow.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Three… I only had… three drinks.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Fortunately, however, I do remember last night, so perhaps I could paint you a more accurate picture?’

  ‘Please don’t,’ Nathaniel begged.

  ‘You see, you got the number right, but you were awfully far off on the quantity.’

  ‘Oh, Gods.’

  ‘Because after a couple of tankards of Gamrial’s finest, we stumbled into our old friend, Pegs.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Who happened to have just arrived in the day with a fresh supply of wine.’

  ‘Please stop.’

  ‘Now, not only did your eye wander to one of the good dwarf’s barrels, but you, in your infinite wisdom, thought it would be a great idea to challenge him - A dwarf, I might remind you - to a drinking contest.’

  Nathaniel was pretty sure already that he didn’t want to hear how this particular story would end.

  ‘And?’ he breathed.

  ‘Oh, Pegs finished his barrel long before you did,’ Solas’s glee was palpable. ‘Although, you had lost consciousness about halfway through.’

  Solas roared with laughter, as he watched the horror dawn on his brother’s face.

  ‘Then… how did I get back here?’ Nathaniel murmured, glancing about the room for some evidence of his return. A pale tunic, blemished with wine, lay tossed on the floor beside his bed along with a shoe on its side. The other curiously appeared to be missing.

  ‘Don’t worry, I just about managed to drag you back,’ Solas smiled, jumping out of the chair. ‘Although, not a moment sooner before the city got a chance to witness you wail out ‘A Fine Maid’s Awaiting.’ He winked wickedly at his brother, vanishing through the open doorway, before the hairbrush had even left Nathaniel’s hand.

  ‘Aespora toray,’ Nathaniel cursed under his breath.

  Once he had reluctantly prised himself from his bed, Nathaniel pulled on some fresh clothes and stumbled down the freezing steps outside his room, only to find his father at the door. The man on the other side was someone he’d not seen before.

  He was dressed in all black with hooded robes trimmed with red. Under the hood, a sharp chin poked out. The man’s gauntness was accentuated by a small amount of facial hair cropped to a fine point, which gave his jaw a dagger-like shape.

  ‘What you’re asking of me is treasonous,’ Nathaniel heard his father whisper back wearily. ‘I need time to think about it.’

  ‘Time is in short supply, Grey,’ the man spoke in clipped tones. ‘You have until the wedding to decide where you – and your family’s – loyalties lie.’

  The silence that followed was palpable. Nathaniel wondered if the two had resorted to an even lower volume and edged further down the stairs to investigate.

  He thought he saw the man’s head turn slightly in his direction upon the first creak of wood, but if he had been noticed, no other indication was given.

  ‘Until tomorrow,’ the man said briskly.

  Nathaniel’s father only nodded in reply, then closed the door, as soon as the red hem of the man’s robes had whipped out of sight. He muttered something incoherently under his breath, freezing when he turned and caught sight of his son crouching on the stairs above.

  ‘I can come back later,’ Nathaniel said guiltily.

  At first his father gave him a look that suggested he was due a scolding, but he merely sighed and shook his head.

  ‘No need,’ he motioned for Nathaniel to come down the stairs.

  ‘Who was that?’ Nathaniel inquired.

  ‘An old friend,’ his father replied curtly, failing to hide a grimace. ‘All recovered this morning? I hear you had an active evening.’

  Gods, Nathaniel thought, had Solas told him everything?

  ‘Never better,’ Nathaniel lied, trying hard to ignore his stomach’s garbled protests.

  ‘Really? Well, in that case then, you won’t mind giving your brother a hand down at the markets? There’s a few things that need doing before the wedding, nothing too strenuous I’m sure for that heavy head of yours.’

  Nathaniel groaned. It was his wedding, couldn’t his brother handle it?

  ‘Yes, father,’ Nathaniel said, slumping forward. Truth be told, he was more worried about going back into the city after the celebrations the night before.

  ‘Try not to get into too much trouble now, alright?’ Nathaniel’s father ushered the young Regal to the door. ‘We wouldn’t want your bride to be too embarrassed when you meet her, now would we?’

  *

  As Nathaniel perused the line of stalls, he was finding it difficult to remove the man with the red-trimmed robes from his mind. Who was he? And if he was an ‘old friend,’ why had he never met him before?

  What you’re asking of me is treasonous.

  No matter how many times Nathaniel turned the words over in his head he could glean no further meaning from them.

  What did the man want from his father that was so horrible it could be considered treasonous?

  ‘So, who do you reckon Father has set you up with?’

  Nathaniel snapped out of his thoughts and gave his brother a bewildered look. ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I said, what poor soul do you reckon is going to be stuck with you for eternity?’ Solas smirked.

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Nathaniel laughed, punching his brother playfully across the shoulder. ‘You’re just jealous.’

  Solas snorted, ‘please, at least I can talk to girls.’

  To demonstrate, he paused by one of the stalls to offer a few honeyed words and a wink to one of the vendors. The girl made a show of rolling her eyes, but a wry smile and a faint blossom of red on her cheeks gave her away, once her attention had reverted back to her wares.

  ‘See?’ Solas swept his hand grandly before them, ‘effortless.’

  ‘And how much did you tip her?’

  ‘My sheer charm is payment enough.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  They paused by another stall, so Solas could buy some items on their father’s list. Despite his brother’s best efforts, the storekeeper insisted upon taking them through all his other wares; in particular the more expensive alternatives to their intended purchases. Nathaniel’s eyes began to wander.

  Their city was truly a marvel.

  Sunlight shone in between the two mountain peaks that guarded the city, making the snow that dusted them glisten. Beyond the concentric circles of market stalls lay a long, paved stone road that rose into the third mountain, bisecting increasingly affluent and ornate buildings. The tiered plateaus rising into the mountain, on which the houses and taverns were built, forming a spiral staircase to the main gates of the palace.

  The Regal palace, the centrepiece of their grand city, with all its high-rising spires and dome-topped towers, looked incredibly fragile against the mountain face. Indeed, the sight of the palace barely clinging on to the rock made Nathaniel feel somewhat uneasy. He wondered how anyone ever managed to get any sleep inside.

  At that m
oment, a strange nagging feeling brought Nathaniel’s attention back to the markets. His brow furrowed as he caught sight of someone familiar. A man, covered from head to toe in black hooded robes that trailed past his feet and blossomed around him, stood in front of the stall that he and Solas had passed but a moment ago.

  Wasn’t this the man that his father had been talking to at their house?

  He made to move toward the man but paused. What would he say? Would the man even answer his questions about his father?

  As if aware of the torrent of thoughts aimed in his direction, the robed figure turned away from the stall and looked straight at him. Although, it was impossible to tell for sure where his eyes wandered, given that his head was swallowed completely from sight by his low, drooping hood.

  However, that was not even nearly the strangest thing about the man. It was the scythe; similar to that used by farmers to harvest their crops, except the blade was far longer, and the handle was bleached white, like bone. While that in itself was peculiar, it was more that people didn’t seem to notice it.

  This was not the man he’d seen before.

  Nathaniel’s hand crept to his rapier. It was forbidden to unsheathe your weapon in the markets, let alone anywhere within the mountain’s glare. Yet here, as clear as day, stood the man with a brandished scythe, untroubled by the market guards.

  The girl at the stall dropped an array of trinkets on the table before her. Nathaniel felt himself tense, as he waited for her to notice the tall scythe-wielder ahead of her.

  She eventually took her eyes off her wares and, for a brief moment, looked straight at the man in the robes. She didn’t even flinch. In fact, she didn’t seem to register the man’s presence at all, let alone his gleaming scythe.

  Was he missing something? Was this just normal now? Surely someone else was seeing this?

  The pair stood there for what seemed like a while, gazes – he thought – locked, then the man raised his arm and waved toward him.

  Nathaniel’s eyes widened when a bony hand – literally, it appeared to be just bone and nothing else – slid out of a cavernous sleeve.