The Shadow Knight (A Shadow Knight Novel Book 1)

by Jason L. McWhirter

  “Well I was. And the book, well, Master Moran was my tutor for several years. During that time he taught me languages and history, and on more than one occasion he brought up the story of Maltheil, even going as far as discussing the location of the book. He never took it out of course, but I have known of its location for quite some time now. I have thought it all just a story and legend since I was a boy. Are you telling me that the demon is real?” Peron was thinking fast on his feet, the words pouring from him as his mind tried to put the pieces together. He had no idea if what he had done three years ago was somehow connected to the demon’s escape, but either way, he needed to deflect suspicion away from him.

  “I’m afraid it is no mere story,” the king responded, clearly despondent.

  Peron was watching Master Moran carefully and again he saw a furtive glance his way. Was there something the wizard knew? Peron’s quick mind was jumping all over the place. Was he just imagining things, his nerves getting the best of him? Or was his feeling that the wizard was pointing a finger at him justified?

  Suddenly there was some commotion near the north entrance and everyone looked up to see Prince Dalland Rothar quickly enter, followed by two guards. He was in a sweat and looked dirty from the road.

  “My Brother,” he said, his eyes worried as he addressed the king. “We have found the missing patrol, or what’s left of it.”

  “What do you mean?” the king asked, his tone on edge. A tax cart guarded by ten Red Guard soldiers was due in last night, but they had not yet arrived.

  “We found the cart, and it was intact, nothing stolen,” Dalland responded. “There were dead horses, several of them eaten by some animal, but no men. We could not find a single man.” The prince was ten years younger than his brother, but thicker in the shoulders, with a wide square jaw that made him look more imposing than the king. There were few who could fight as well as the prince, and many whispered that the kingdom would be better off if he were to take the throne instead of Peron. But to his credit, Dalland had never spoken ill of Peron, at least not to his face, and he had always treated him fairly and with kindness. Dalland was a warrior through and through, but he seemed to have inherited all the kindness of the Rothar family, for the king rarely showed his son any such deference.

  “Who would take the men but leave the gold?” Lord Anteel asked out loud.

  “The demon,” Master Moran whispered, setting the book on the table.

  “It is said that the breath of Maltheil somehow controlled its victims, and that the beast could turn ordinary men into fighting servants, shells of their former selves.” It was Peron who spoke again, and everyone turned their gaze to him in one smooth motion. It was obvious that they were surprised he had spoken, when he had just said that he thought the story just a legend.

  Peron was surprised himself. He had not intended to speak, but when he knew something, anything, he rarely could hold back the desire to express his knowledge. It was a character flaw, one that earned him the reputation of a know it all. After the incident three years ago at the mausoleum, Peron made it his duty to learn as much as he could about the demon and the time of troubles associated with the beast. He read every book he could find, and a year ago he had visited the great wizard tower of Shyval as part of his studies, and there was no other place on Kraawn that had more knowledge and books than there. The visit was part of his tutelage, and he had taken every advantage of it. He read tomes that you could not find anywhere else, and he spoke with wizards and scholars, gleaning whatever he could from the vast amounts of knowledge available there. After all, that was why people with the unique talents to become a wizard went there, to learn, to investigate, and to sharpen their minds. He was sure there were very few people who had more knowledge of the demon than he.

  “What do you know of the demon?” General Sig Moore asked, his tone like the snap of a whip. He realized that he sounded overly harsh, and softened his next words. “After all, you just said you thought the story a legend only.”

  Peron had to cover his trail. “I am an admirer of history, and as Master Moran, and my father know, am quite inquisitive.” He wasn’t lying there, that was for sure. “So when I went to Shyval, I wanted to find out if there was any truth to the story.” It was the next part that was the lie. “Although I found lots of information that was really quite interesting, I’m afraid that most of what I found seemed to be conjecture and hearsay, and therefore I deemed the story a fine tale woven by bards and nothing more.”

  Master Moran looked at Peron, his skeptical expression not hidden well, perhaps seeing through his lie. But he did not challenge him. It was Lord Anteel who spoke. “What else did find out about this demon?”

  King Rothar looked at the lord with a perturbed expression, almost as if he was annoyed that he was addressing his son on a matter concerning the kingdom. Peron saw the look but ignored it, taking some satisfaction in his father’s annoyance. “Well, the beast is said to be from the sixth plane, as you would guess. According to the histories he was summoned from that plane by Master Moran’s great ancestor. Although his intentions were altruistic, the end result was the enslavement of the entire royal family as well as a war against the Kingdom of Tur’el.”

  “We know all this,” Master Moran snapped. “He was trying to gain help against the Ronith tribes from the south.”

  “Hence, altruistic,” Peron shot back. Normally, confidence was not his strong suit, but when it came to knowledge and semantic wit, there were few who could best him. It was rare that he spoke at all during council meetings as most matters discussed were military, and he cared little for them.

  Lord Caynon ignored the mage’s tone and continued to address Peron before the mage could respond to Peron’s challenging tone. “We know that the demon used some magic to enlist followers, servants if you will. Did you find anything at Shyval that shed more light onto how the beast was able to do that? It seems to me that that is our immediate concern, especially in light of what has happened to our men. We can only assume that they are now under the beast’s sway.”

  “Actually, I don’t think it’s magic at all,” Peron said. “Or maybe partly. The histories describe it as an inherent skill, like the great peorn bird that can stand still for hours, days even, waiting for its prey to swim below its sharp beak. It is said that Maltheil can project different breath weapons; some can burn and kill, while others allow the demon to somehow take over the minds of its victims, and yet another that turns its victims into crazed demon-spawn that drink the blood of their prey. But a demon is born from magic, so perhaps its skills are in fact magic, no one really knows. One of the accounts I read was written by a soldier who escaped such an attack, watching the entire scene play out before him while he hid in the woods. He said the men screamed and thrashed about, their bodies shaking and jerking uncontrollably. The man said that they turned pale and all their hair fell out. That was all he could see from his vantage point and therefore the account told no more. Perhaps it is magic, I do not know for sure, but either way the implication of such powers is alarming.”

  “How do we stop something like that?” Dalland asked softly, his warrior’s mind having a hard time thinking of a way to battle a fog. They were all thinking the same thing.

  “I don’t know,” the king said. “But the question still remains, who released the demon?”

  “If the only people who had access to the key and book are in this room,” Prince Dalland said, “then it seems clear to me that somehow someone else stole those tools and freed the beast.”

  Peron was relieved. His redirection had worked and none of the lords, except for perhaps Master Moran, thought that he had anything to do with the beast’s escape. But his relief was short lived when he thought about the implications. The demon Maltheil had broken free, and the real question was…did the actions of Peron and his friends three years ago somehow help that dreadful event occur? Was he responsible? What was he going to do? If there was anything he hated, it was q
uestions that he could not answer.

  They all left the council room soon after, agreeing to tell no one and strengthen the perimeter guards around the castle. The city of Lanard was beautiful, built long ago along the edges of the north fork of the Onith River just before it dumped into Milnos Bay. The walls were tall and built of huge gray stones from the Peaks of Annure, each one the size of a wagon. The spires of the inner castle, home of the Rotharian family, were tall and round, the blue flags depicting the Rothar family crest in black, fluttering high in the clouds. The sprawling city spanned out from the inner castle, its thousands of homes and buildings wrapped protectively in its massive walls. The guards that patrolled the walls, if the sky was clear, could easily see the blue waters of Milnos Bay from their vantage point.

  Peron had no intention of keeping the news to himself, and found himself quickly making his way to the north barracks. It was still early, but he had a suspicion that he would find his friend awake regardless of the early hour. The walk through the castle grounds to the barracks would not take him long, but it was enough time to mull over what he had just heard. Was the demon truly awake? And if so, what did it mean? What would the beast do? How had it happened? He needed to find answers, and he was afraid that the one person who had those answers was Master Moran. Something didn’t seem right with the mage. He had never been on great terms with his father’s court wizard, but they were not enemies either. Master Moran had been his teacher for over a year, and during that time they had developed a cordial relationship. He had never been overly kind, but he had shown him respect and had even admired his quick wit and intelligence. But he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was amiss with the wizard. One thing was for certain, Peron was nervous. Maybe Master Moran was just picking up on his nervousness. Thinking back, he remembered the book sucking up his blood, and when he had cut himself on the sarcophagus, the blades jutting from the tomb had done the same thing, drawing in his blood like it was hungry for it. He didn’t know what it meant then, and he still didn’t. Something about those events had his hair standing on end. Did his blood somehow bring the demon back from its prison?

  As he came around the corner to the practice yard between the north barracks and the mess hall, he heard a familiar sound, and seeing who it was making it, was relieved. Tyril was standing before a thick log about five feet high, its base a steel wheel holding it in place. Two stout sticks as big around as a man’s ankle were sticking out from the log at about chest height. There were several other practice dummies about but Tyril was the only soldier up this early. At eighteen years of age he was just a novice soldier, having signed up last winter. But when looking at him you wouldn’t know it. He looked just like his father, tall, big in the chest and shoulders, with a thick beard and a head of curly hair that joined with the ample facial hair. His forearms were massive and they easily spun the large bladed spear with practiced precision, the short sword blade at the tip striking the dummy again and again as he expertly moved his body across the thick stone pavers. For someone so large, Peron was always amazed at how fast he moved. Tyril had a lot to live up too. His father was the Royal Battle Lord, second only to General Sig Moore, and head of the Red Guard, the elite Rotharian soldiers. At an early age Tyril had begun his career, lifting a sword before he started his schooling when he was eight. He trained harder than anyone Peron knew, hoping one day to follow in his father’s footsteps. Peron knew from experience that the pressure a parent puts on their children can be overwhelming, but luckily for Tyril, thus far he had lived up to his father’s desires. There were few, even amongst the veterans, who could fight as well as the young man.

  “Tyril,” Peron said as he quickly moved towards him.

  Tyril stopped and faced his friend, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. The big man smiled warmly. “Peron, what are you doing up so early?”

  “It’s a long story,” Peron said, his tone serious.

  Tyril read his expression clearly. “What is it?” he asked, his concern evident.

  “Are you on duty today?”

  “Not until noon. I’m to go with a contingent of soldiers to meet the princess and her family at Angar.”

  Peron ran his hand through his hair. In all the chaos of the morning, he had forgotten about the princess. Princess Kylin Oneck, the youngest daughter to King Haten Oneck of Tur’el, was to wed his father. The arrangement had been made the previous year in the hopes that it would bring peace between the two kingdoms. It was an important event as the two Kingdoms had a long history of war, dating all the way back to the wars with the Ronith tribes and the troubles with the demon Maltheil. According to the stories, once the demon enslaved the Rothar king, the beast sent its army to destroy the kingdom of Tur’el. If the stories were accurate, which Peron doubted, then the ancient king of Tur’el, along with the druid Atticus Belthar, had somehow defeated and banished the demon. Perhaps there was some truth to the story as Peron thought back to three years ago when he had first opened the book. The writing was in Old Lanarian and written by the hand of Atticus Belthar. Peron’s head was spinning. There was too much he didn’t know, and he hated that.

  “We have a few hours before you have to leave. Follow me.”

  Peron led Tyril to the Laughing Gnome, a place they frequented often, knowing it was a popular morning establishment and would be open for business. Two Red Guard soldiers followed behind them. Whenever Peron left the inner castle, which wasn’t very often, he always had escorts. He hated it, as he could never blend in to his surroundings, preferring to be anonymous rather than the Prince of Lanard. Sure enough, the morning crowd was quickly filling the tavern, but once the proprietor saw Peron and his Red Guard escorts, he found a quiet table near the fireplace for them. The two soldiers stood outside flanking the door. Many people eyed them both as they sat, whispering Peron’s name in quiet conversation. Peron preferred his anonymity, but he had realized a long time ago that was just not possible. He had come to terms with the fact that he could not go walking about without others knowing who he was, but that didn’t mean that he was used to it. Trying to ignore the many stares, they ordered coffee and an egg pie they were famous for before Peron got right to it and told him the news.

  “What!?” Tyril exclaimed, catching his tone and leaning closer to Peron, lowering his voice to a whisper. “The demon has escaped?”

  “It has.”

  Tyril was shaking his head in disbelief. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Do you think it has anything to do with what we did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does Kyron know?”

  Peron shook his head. “No. I just found out myself. Is he at his estate?”

  “The last I heard was he was trying to help his father secure business in Onith. He should be home in a few days.” Kyron’s father was once a very successful merchant whose ships traded up and down the Algard coast. His main source of income was selling weapons to the kingdom. But he had fallen on hard times since peace had been established with Tur’el nearly three years ago. The king was spending less on military equipment, and had completely dissolved his contracts with Kyron’s father. He had been forced to sell all but two of his ships, trying to expand his business ventures north and south. Malbeck’s War had rocked the lands, even this far west, and it seemed that conflict and war had been coming in second to diplomacy and peace. Kyron’s family business had slowed to a trickle, and according to Kyron his father had become moody and depressed. It had gotten so bad that Kyron’s mother had left them last year, and Kyron was now trying to pick up the pieces.

  “Peron, what are we going to do?” Tyril asked, clearly worried.

  Peron let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know. We don’t even know if it’s really true. All I was told is that the sarcophagus was open and the doors leading to the crypt were broken and ripped apart.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “Master Moran. He said he inspected the tomb himself. But something didn’t seem right.
”

  “What do you mean?”

  Peron shook his head. “I’m not sure. But he seemed to be suggesting that I might have had something to do with it…almost like he knew.”

  “But that’s impossible.”

  “I might have been just imagining it,” Peron said. “I was pretty nervous, and perhaps he was just picking up on that.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you that one of the patrols guarding a tax cart never returned last night. Prince Dalland said they found the horses dead and the cart intact, but no bodies of the men.”

  Tyril looked worried. “Really? Who would leave the gold but take the men?”

  “They thought it was the demon.”

  “If it was the demon wouldn’t it just have killed the men?”

  Peron shook his head. “No, according to all I’ve read about the beast, the demon has the power to turn men into servants. That was how it took over the kingdom and raised an army.”

  “How does it do this?”

  “If the books are true, some sort of breathe weapon, like a sickness of some sort.”

  “That sounds awful,” Tyril said as his hand went unconsciously to the hilt of his sword. “Peron, should we tell the king what we did?”

  “No, absolutely not. Whether we did it or not doesn’t change anything. If the demon has escaped, who did it is irrelevant. The important thing is finding a way to stop it.”

  “It’s not irrelevant if someone else freed the beast,” Tyril suggested.

  “That’s true,” Peron agreed.

  “What are we going to do?”

  Peron frowned. “I don’t know.” He wasn’t accustomed to that, and he didn’t like the way it made him feel.

  ***

  In the meantime, soon after the meeting was over, Master Moran was hustling down the hallway of the inner castle heading for the King’s private chambers. There was a guard at the door who stepped aside and knocked on the door once he saw it was the wizard.