“Who is it?” A voice came from within.
“My King, Master Moran is here to see you,” the guard said.
“Let him in.”
The guard opened the door, stepping inside and allowing for the wizard to enter. Moran walked in and the guard closed the door behind him without a word.
King Gyveel Rothar was pouring himself a cup of wine at a table behind a massive cushioned couch. It was early for wine, but Moran understood. It had been a stressful morning. Not to mention the King had a lot of work to do to prepare for the coming wedding as well as the trip to Angar, and the wizard knew that work always flowed much faster with a glass of good wine, despite the early hour. The room was spacious and comfortable, with plenty of soft cushioned seats, most of which faced a roaring fire. Moran was always jealous of the fireplace. It was huge, able to fit four foot logs, and the mantle was stone, carved into muscular warriors standing, the mantle was their arms stretched wide, each holding a sword. It was beautiful. But he wasn’t there to admire the workmanship.
“Would you like some wine?” the king asked.
“That would be nice, thank you. My king, I’ve come to discuss a few more things in private.”
The king raised his eyebrows at that, handing him a cup of wine. “Please have a seat,” he said as he made his way to the couch before the fire and sat down. Moran followed suit. “What would you like to say that could not have been said at the council?”
“It’s about the book. I never said anything at the council as I was afraid to implicate your family. But the spell that wards the books location can only be thwarted by me, or someone with royal blood, and that means you, your brother, or your son.”
King Gyveel narrowed his eyes at the mage. “You’re telling me that if anyone else, even if they knew the location of the book, tried to access it, that they would have triggered the wards?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“And what would the wards have done?”
“Killed them with a shock of energy so powerful that it would have fried them to a crisp,” Moran responded.
King Gyveel paused and looked into the fire, taking another long pull of wine. “So if I didn’t do it, then it was either my brother, or my son.”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“Not entirely,” the king interjected, turning to look at the mage. “It could’ve been you.”
Master Moran looked shocked. “Technically that is true. But why would I do such a thing?”
“Why would any of us do such a thing?” the king queried. “It makes no sense.”
Master Moran sighed in frustration and took a long drink. “I do not know.”
King Gyveel was rubbing his chin in thought. “What if someone had access to royal blood…would they be able to use it to thwart the wards?”
Master Moran looked thoughtful. “It’s possible. Frankly I never thought of that. But how would anyone get your blood?”
“I don’t know,” the king spat. He was clearly frustrated at not having the answers. “There must be another explanation. Keep looking,” the king ordered.
“And what will we do about the beast?”
“What can we do? I have a wedding to plan. I will have more men stationed along the walls. I will order General Moore to send out more patrols, telling the men that there has been an increase in highway robbery so they do not know the real truth. I will have scouts go to Gyeen and Angar with sealed messages for the Earls informing them of the demon’s escape. They too need to prepare.” The king paused as he drank his wine. “Perhaps the demon will leave us alone, returning to its home plane.”
“One can only hope,” Moran said, sounding doubtful. “I will use all the magic at my disposal to find more answers.”
“Please keep me informed,” the king said, nodding towards the door.
Moran got the message. “Of course,” he said, standing and setting the near empty glass on the table. Then he left, knowing that he had more questions than answers.
One week later…
Bearit stood in the back of the room where the shadows were thickest, his threadbare wool cloak wrapped tight around his muscular arms. The screaming of the people before him echoed in the underground room, a room that smelt of sewage and stale sweat. Glancing from person to person, Bearit knew he shouldn’t be a part of what was happening. Their filthy clothing, scraggly hair, and gaunt features, the latter combined with their murderous howling making them look like crazed corpses recently dug from their graves. He was pretty sure he didn’t belong there.
Why was he there he thought. The deep rumbling of his stomach and his bare toes breaking through his worn leather boots answered that question. Come to think of it, his appearance, minus the crazed visage, probably didn’t look much better than the people around him. He was starving and had nowhere else to go, the promise of food pulling him beneath the city, through dirty and foul smelling catacombs to this very room. The hunger he felt was not the gentle rumbling one feels after a hard day of work and the promise of a warm meal soon to come. It was much deeper. It was a longing, a desire to fill a void that begged every moment to ease the pain. Over the last year, he had felt that deep emptiness often, and the desire to fill the void had finally won, beating down any resemblance of morals or common sense.
He was taller than everyone there and from his vantage point he could clearly see the four dark cloaked men torturing the man roped to the wall on the far side. There were perhaps fifteen others watching and cheering, the violence of the scene stirring them into an animalistic frenzy. Two more men, also wearing dark clothes and carrying long swords, walked amongst the onlookers, handing them loaves of bread and mugs of ale.
One man stepped toward Bearit and held a loaf of stale bread before him, a rictus grin sending a shiver down his spine. Unconsciously he reached up and gripped the rope that held his woodsman’s axe in place, strapped to his broad muscled back. Of all the things he had sold and done to feed himself, he would not part with his axe, the one tool that was given to him by his father and had seen him through so much. The man’s hood was off, the black wool pooling around his neck revealing pasty white skin and no hair, his skull bald and as pale as fresh milk. A black sigil snaked up his neck and swirled around his sunken eyes in an ominous pattern. His eyes were dark pits and lined in red, like he was sick. Even the gums around his teeth were crimson, not bleeding, but like they were stained from drinking too much wine. “Eat,” he whispered, his voice soft but somehow audible over the yelling.
Bearit was appalled by the man, but he was hungry as well, his last meal coming three days ago. And that was no meal, but half a rotten apple and a chunk of stale cheese he managed to pull from some garbage. Reaching out, knowing he shouldn’t, he took the bread and the man glided past him, his horrible smile turning to a gurgling laugh as he disappeared into the throng of men.
Pain filled screaming jerked his attention from the bread to the man on the far side of the wall. One dark robed man held a red hot length of iron as long as a sword. The prisoner was still wearing a leather tunic and some sort of black armor that looked to be made of hardened leather, steel, and chainmail. Sweat drenched his long dark brown hair that clung to his face. It was dark, the room lit by six torches as well as several burning braziers on either side of the roped man, casting ominous shadows around them. The dark cloaked man lifted the red hot steel again and slowly traced it along the man’s bare arm, smoke rising from the burning flesh. Again the man screamed.
Who was this man, Bearit thought? What had he done to be the brunt of this group’s entertainment? The man’s arms were unusually strong; the tautness of the ropes, each held by a man that was pulling hard on the other end through a round ring embedded into the ceiling, pulled his powerful arms wide exposing massive arms and strong shoulders. Besides the new wounds being inflicted, the prisoner’s flesh was marred by many old scars, the white puckered skin visible even in the dim light. One thing that really c
aught his eye was both his arms bore tendrils of some sigil that snaked around his biceps in an intricate pattern that looked like the branches of a tree. The mark was blue and lined in silver which sparkled occasionally as it caught the torchlight. Nothing about the prisoner seemed right to Bearit. The man was built like a warrior, and even though he was screaming in pain there was no mistaking his confident eyes as he panned the audience trying to lock gazes with the men around him. It was like he was looking for something, the pain he was enduring and his seemingly hopeless predicament an afterthought. Then the prisoner’s eyes landed on his and stopped, narrowing as their intensity bore in to him. Bearit couldn’t move, the strength of the man’s gaze holding him still. Then there was a subtle nod of his head, as if he was communicating with him, before he screamed again, the red hot tip of the steel burning the side of his neck.
Bearit looked away but his mind was reeling. What he was witnessing was wrong, and all for a loaf of bread. Two years ago he would never have entertained such a gathering. But times had been rough on him. He was a logger through and through, trained by his father and wielding the axe since he was eight years old. He had matured early, like his father, and grew into a bear of a man, heavily muscled and toughened from the years of working long hours in the woods swinging the axe and lifting and carrying the fruits of his labor. His dark hair was curly and grew into a thick beard, and despite the fact that he was only nineteen years his mature stature made him look much older. He had never met anyone stronger, but now, as he watched the prisoner being tortured, he didn’t feel so powerful. His father was killed in a logging accident three years ago and Bearit knew that if he was looking down at him now that he would be ashamed of him. Soon after his father’s death the work dried up as the King of Lanard suddenly stopped purchasing the lumber for his navy. The lands were at peace, and military expenditures had decreased significantly as a result. He moved throughout Onith getting small jobs here and there, but there was never enough work, and after two years of scraping together work he found himself begging and wondering if he would freeze to death when the winter snows came. And now he was here, in this room, lured by strange men…told that he would be given food and shelter if he did a few things for them. Who were these pale and dangerous men? Who was this strange man they were torturing for their amusement? His mind elsewhere, Bearit unconsciously dropped the bread and looked back to the man on the far side of the room. By this time one of the dark clad men had given one of the onlookers in the crowd the hot poker and coaxed him into approaching the prisoner. Bearit saw that he was just a kid, perhaps fifteen years old. His clothes were disheveled and threadbare, just like his own, and his dirty skin was pulled tight to his bones. The kid looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Bearit couldn’t hear what the dark clad man said to the boy, but it seemed pretty obvious that he was enticing the kid to burn the secured prisoner, perhaps luring him with more food and drink. The kid’s eyes were wild and chunks of bread spit from his mouth as he screamed in frenzy with the others around him. They were cheering him on.
Bearit adjusted the rope around his shoulder and swung his axe free, giving little thought to what he was doing. Just as he gripped the worn wood handle of his axe, the prisoner looked right at him and smiled. Then the man rose from his knees and screamed something at the top of his lungs. Instantly his armor lit up in a brilliant blue light outlining the symbol of a glowing oak tree. It flared brightly, causing the onlookers around him to shield their eyes and back away from him. In a blink it was gone. Simultaneously he yanked hard on both the ropes. The men holding him were so surprised by the man’s strength that he jerked them forward, one actually releasing the rope. Bearit watched with wide eyes as the prisoner ripped the free rope through the metal rung, and now that the tension was relieved on that end, he shot towards the other man and snapped his right foot forward, breaking the man’s nose and launching him into the darkness. The ropes around his wrists were tied with slip knots, and now that the pressure was gone, he quickly loosened the knots and withdrew his hands from the nooses.
Just in time it would seem as the black cloaked men were on him in moments, their swords drawn and flashing in the dimly lit room. It was then that Bearit noticed that all the dark cloaked men looked similarly, with pale skin and bald heads, their eyes haunted and their lips curled back over red gummed teeth, snarling like animals as they attacked. The man was unarmed, but it didn’t seem to matter. In a blur he spun around the attackers, avoiding their sword thrusts and attacking with lightning fast kicks and punches. Bearit watched as the man sidestepped a sword thrust, the move subtle, then gliding forward and leading with a snap punch to the man’s throat, continuing his movement as he fought furiously. Several men were thrown and within four heartbeats he had disarmed one man, and was now using his sword against the others. Most of the onlookers were watching in shock, unable to register how the prisoner had reacted so quickly. But several of the black cloaked men that were in the audience had drawn their blades and moved to help their brethren.
Then a rumbling growl came to Bearit’s left, towards the entrance to the room. From the darkness burst a huge wolf-like form as big as a horse, the thing’s fur mottled gray and black, blending in well with the dirty stone surroundings. Bearit gripped his axe before him as the great beast launched into the stunned onlookers, knocking bodies aside with its massive head. The creature, whatever it was, was heading towards the warrior.
By this time most of the onlookers, screaming to get away from the huge beast and the attacking prisoner, had run back and out of the room. For some reason Bearit stayed behind, watching as the man spun expertly from man to man, their swords clanging loudly in the underground room. Six of the black cloaked men were down and the big wolf had another in its jaws, shaking him violently before tossing him against the stone wall like a used toy. Bearit could hear his bones break as he smashed against the rock. There was a side room that Bearit hadn’t noticed in the darkness, and four more men ran from it, their swords drawn.
Seeing the men, Bearit reacted on instinct, running silently forward using the darkness against the wall as cover. He was no warrior, but he was not a stranger to violence and brawls. His father had taught him how to fight and he had bloodied his knuckles and nose more times than he cared to remember. But he had never faced a man with a blade. At the last moment one of the men in the rear caught his movement from his peripheral and spun towards him, his sword slicing for his stomach. Bearit jumped back and narrowly avoided the sword, following up with a massive two hand strike of his own. The warrior lifted his blade to block the blow but was not prepared for the strength and power of the attack. His blade struck Bearit’s axe just below the heavy steel head, doing very little to hamper the blow. The sharp edge of the axe came down like it was splitting a log, cleaving the man’s face in two. Bearit kicked out with his foot, the power of the kick dislodging the axe from the gruesome wound and sending the man catapulting backwards into a second warrior, nearly knocking him down in the process. Bearit leapt forward and swung his axe sideways, hoping to catch the surprised man in the stomach. But he was faster than Bearit thought and he jumped back, avoiding the axe as it struck the stone wall, sending sparks and shards of stone into the air. Reversing direction, the man came at him, his sword swinging for his chest. Bearit was out of position, the power of his strike and the weight of his axe knocking him off balance. He would not be able to bring his axe to bear to block the attack.
Suddenly the man was hit with some unseen force and knocked hard against the stone wall where he was held off the ground. Glancing to his right, Bearit saw the prisoner approach with one hand raised, the other black cloaked men dead, scattered around him. The big wolf was walking beside him, its massive shoulders reaching to the man’s head. Blood drenched the wolf’s maw and it was growling low, the deep rumbling sending a shiver down Bearit’s spine. The man lifted the hand that held the sword and in an instant the blade zipped across the room, slamming into the man’s chest w
ho was still held against the stone wall with some unseen force. Then he casually dropped his other hand and the man fell to the ground, the last of his life leaving his body in a gurgling hiss. With a subtle flick of his wrist, the sword ripped from the man’s flesh to return to his hand, crimson dripping from the silver blade.
Bearit stood before him dumbfounded. He had never seen anything like that, or witnessed such martial skill. Nor had he ever seen a beast such as the one who stood casually before him, the blood from its victims staining its fur. “Who are you?” Bearit asked, his voice stronger and more confident than he felt. Another lesson from his father…always show confidence, men respect it, and women love it.
The warrior stood before him, his eyes smoldering in intensity. “Jonas, Jonas Kanrene.”
Chapter Two
“Are you hurt?” Jonas asked as he knelt next to one of the black cloaked men.
“No.” Bearit was too stunned to say anything else.
“What is your name?”
“Bearit.”
Jonas was inspecting the body, looking for clues as to who these men were. They were all pale and bald, which in itself was interesting, and troublesome, as he had never encountered anything like them. Originally when Tulari led him further west, over the Tundren Mountains, he encountered servants of the Forsworn, infiltrating and destroying several of their lairs in both Onett and Mynos. He had helped a couple of boys free themselves from the tyranny of their father and his group of thieves and cutthroats. Then he was pulled further south, Tulari leading him to the trading city of Gyeen built on the shores of Fish Lake. The busy city was a hub for trade coming from Ronith, Onett, and even as far as Finarth across the Tundren Mountains. Lumber from the Lasur’een forest, fish from the lake, iron ore from the Peaks of Annure, all brought great wealth to the Kingdom of Lanard, but all of it paled in comparison to the expensive and rare fish eggs harvested from the vareeny, a rare bottom feeding fish that could only be found in Fish Lake. As a consequence, the huge lake was the home of many fisherman and sailors, all hoping to make it rich on the rare delicacy.
The Shadow Knight (A Shadow Knight Novel Book 1) Page 5
