The Shadow Knight (A Shadow Knight Novel Book 1)

by Jason L. McWhirter

  When the bright light was gone, floating in the air, still wrapped in tendrils of red energy, was a long bone staff, and jutting from one end was a disfigured ball of hard bone, spikes of white jutting from the club-like head forming a dangerous looking weapon. On the other end, the staff narrowed to a sharp point. With a flick of its fingers the bone staff shot into the demon’s hand, the red energy disappearing as the beast held the weapon high.

  “Bring me the males,” Maltheil hissed. Quickly, the black cloaked men went to work dividing the men from the women. Once done, they pushed the men and boys at sword point towards the demon. There were nineteen of them and they looked up at the demon like frightened deer. But the fear they were feeling was immobilizing them, causing them to shake violently before the beast. Even if they could work up the courage to run, they were incapable of breaking free from the manacles of fear. And if somehow they could miraculously break free from the spell and run, the demon spawn in the trees would rip them apart and feed on their blood. Without skipping a beat, Maltheil brought his great head back, and breathed upon them all. This time the smoke was red, and as it coated the men before it, they all fell to the ground, writhing and screaming as Maltheil’s breath entered their bodies, hunting down what made them human, and killing it, replacing it with the demon’s will. After a few minutes the screaming ended, and rising from the blacked ground were nineteen pale bodies, their sunken eyes staring at their master, waiting for orders.

  “Bring me the females,” the demon hissed. If Maltheil could smile, it would have. The beast was hungry, and there was nothing like the blood of a scared woman. Not to mention, turning them into his demon spawn was always so satisfying, like filling an empty stomach with blood from its victims.

  ***

  Peron was in his sanctuary, the one place he felt at home. Even in their magnificent castle, with countless luxurious rooms, he never really felt welcome. Everywhere he went he was under constant watch, either for his protection, or under the looming visage of his father, or the disapproving stares of the men and women at court. Maybe it was more his imagination than anything. He had thought of that. He knew he was insecure, and being a learned young man he knew that perhaps he was imagining much of the negativity. Either way, he had a hard time shaking the feeling that he was not the prince that everyone wanted. Or maybe, if he were to be brutally honest with himself, he wasn’t the prince that he wanted to be.

  One thing was certain, his insecurities did not carry over to one thing; his ability to tinker, to create, to solve problems. And he had been working on one such problem the last week, ever since he had heard about Maltheil’s escape, and even more so when a runner had arrived the other day carrying word about the attack at Gyeen. Luckily, the Earl had survived the attack. Now the castle guards had doubled, and he had four Red Guard soldiers accompanying him everywhere he went. The officers were under constant guard while the king and his brother were away with the procession to escort King Rothar’s new bride. The two sides still had a treaty to work out once they met at Angar, so it was likely they would not return for another week. Tyril was with that procession and it worried Peron. What if the demon attacked them on the road? Peron was still trying to figure out if what they did three years ago had somehow freed the beast. It didn’t make any sense. If they had done something to free the creature, why would it just now have broken from its prison? And if they hadn’t accidently freed the demon three years ago, then who did? Was there an enemy in the ranks? The heavy questions had been nagging at him the entire week.

  Peron coped with stressful situations by spending time in his sanctuary, as he had come to call it. The room was an old barrack located near the castle gardens just inside the castle walls. At one point the gardeners used it for storage and a work station, but the king agreed to retrofit it for Peron for his tenth birthday. Even then Peron was a thinker, and he wanted a space to do his thinking away from everyone. There were a few windows but Peron had long ago had carpenters build thick wood shutters to keep out prying eyes. A big open stone fire pit was in the middle of the room, the smoke rising to a covered opening in the vaulted wood ceiling. The walls were lined with shelves covered with everything from books to tools and other equipment and supplies. He even had a small forge and the necessary equipment to work with iron, leather, and wood. Peron was no blacksmith, but he had spent a year working with Dynin, the king’s armorer, volunteering his time to learn the basics of the trade. With no light coming in from the windows, Peron had to rely on oil lanterns placed all around the large room. It was his favorite place in the entire castle.

  Holding up the light leather hood Peron inspected his work. The leather was soft and supple and stitched well, the seams smeared with a malleable wax. Stitched to the mouth opening was something that looked like a muzzle of a dog or wolf, the entire thing made of the same leather. The end of it had ten holes punched into it, and inside it, and sealed where it touched the mouth, was another piece of leather that had similar holes. Inside the muzzle was densely packed fibrous cotton. Peron had no idea if it would work, but he hoped that the packed cotton would act as a filter, allowing clean air in but keeping unwanted contaminates out. If the demon was really alive, which based on the missing person reports and the attack on the Earl, it seemed that that was a real possibility, then Peron wanted some sort of protection from the beast’s breath, if indeed all the reports he had read were true. He had no idea if his mask would protect the wearer from the demon’s breath, and even if it did, for how long. Perhaps it would give the wearer just enough time to get away before being consumed by the demon’s power. Maybe it would do nothing. But he had to do something. The eyes of the mask had been the most difficult. Glass was the only substance that was clear enough to see through and yet not permeable. But attaching the glass lens to the leather had been very difficult. He had a local glass blower help him by melting lead to the edge of the lenses with many holes running the perimeter. Then he stitched them into the leather, covering the seams with the same malleable wax. It was hard to see well when the hood was on, but it would do. The final problem was how to seal it around the neck. After many different tests, he ended up going with a draw string configuration. The problem was how to seal it, so little or no air would enter. Stitching in a draw string at the base of the hood would create small gaps at the seal, even when the string was pulled and tied tight. Not to mention it was very uncomfortable on the neck. Finally he came up with what he hoped was a solution. At the very bottom edge of the mask he stitched in a soft flap of leather. He filled it with cotton and folded it over itself and then stitched it on the inside of the mask, forming a thick soft lip all the way around the circumference of the opening. Then he stitched in the draw string above that line. When pulled tight and tied off, the soft edge of the inside lip, which he smeared with thick grease used for wagon wheels, was pulled tight against the skin, hopefully forming a tight seal. It was the best he could come up with, and hopefully he would never have the opportunity to test the seal, or the cotton filter covering the mouth. Looking at the mask, Peron had to admit that it looked a little ominous, which he thought ironic as it was made to protect the wearer from a demon. He had two hoods completed and he was just about to start the work on a third when there was a knock at his door.

  The guards outside knew not to disturb him so he was a little annoyed. “What is it?”

  “My Prince,” the guard said through the door. “Master Kyron is here to see you.”

  Peron smiled at that. He friend had been gone all week, away on business with his father, hopefully securing contracts to get his father’s business back on its feet. Kyron did not know about the demon and Peron was eager to talk with him. “Let him in,” Peron said.

  The door opened and Kyron entered. The young man was tall and lanky, like his father, with shoulder length hair, dazzling blue eyes, and a short pointy beard. Peron and Tyril had made fun of him for it as he had worked nearly six months trying to grow the small patch of hair on
his chin. He couldn’t grow a full beard yet so he made it seem as if the little goat-like growth was his end game. But Peron had stopped with the jests once he realized that he was trying to look older as he was taking over more and more of his father’s business, or at least what there was left of it. As usual, Kyron was wearing immaculate and opulent clothing, a soft cotton shirt the color of gold edged in silver stitching, intricate designs of silver leaves stitched across the front. Smooth brown leggings tucked into soft brown boots lined with fur finished his ensemble, along with a long matching coat of soft spun wool. They were a merchants traveling clothes, but of the highest quality. Kyron looked tired, but he gave Peron a welcoming smile nonetheless.

  “How was your trip? Any luck finding any contracts?” Peron asked as they shook hands.

  Peron’s smile disappeared but he attempted to quickly replace it with something short of casual indifference. “One small contract with a merchant from Onith. Seems he needs more weapons for his caravan guards.”

  Peron knew that that would do little to help with their financial burden. “How is your father?”

  “Not well,” he said as he sat at a stool next to Peron’s work table. But he offered no more. Peron had done some research on his own and found out that Kyron’s father had turned into a recluse after his wife left him and his business began falling apart. At one point he was one of the wealthiest merchants in Lanard, trading weapons and textiles up and down the Algard coast. Once Kyron’s mother left his father, and he had lost the king’s contract for weapons and clothing for his army, he began to fall apart. He drank often and it wasn’t long before he lost more contracts, a self-fulfilling result of depression. His family’s wealth was nearly gone and Kyron was doing all he could to keep the business afloat. Peron knew that it had been hard for Kyron. Not only had his mother left them, but his once opulent lifestyle had diminished considerably. Their recent business trip was the result of Kyron finally convincing his father to leave his study and his drunken morose haze. But by the sound of it they were unsuccessful. Peron worried for Kyron’s father, and in turn for his friend.

  “Kyron, I have some grave news to discuss with you,” Peron said, changing the subject as he sat opposite his friend.

  “Does it have something to do with that awful hood you are holding?”

  “It does.” Peron had no idea where to start so he thought he would just be frank. “Kyron, Maltheil has escaped.”

  Kyron didn’t saying anything for a moment and a flurry of emotions raced across his face. He went from shock, to worry, to denial, to fright, all in a matter of moments. Once he realized that Peron wasn’t saying anything else he decided to speak. “You’re not joking?” Kyron looked nervous and scared, a fitting reaction for such disturbing news.

  Peron shook his head. “It happened last week. The tomb was torn open and the doors to the mausoleum broken and smashed.”

  “How did this happen? You don’t think it was…”

  “I don’t know,” Peron interjected. “It’s been three years since we entered that tomb and the beast happens to escape now. That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t think it had anything to do with what we did.”

  “How can you be sure?” Kyron asked nervously. “Did you tell anyone about what we did? Does Tyril know?

  “I’m not sure. And no, I have told no one. And yes, Tyril knows. He is away right now with the procession escorting the young princess from Tur’el.”

  “Has anyone seen the demon?”

  “We have not and there have been no reported sightings. But a platoon of Red Guard soldiers went missing and several small villages have been attacked, most of the people taken away. And two nights ago Earl Magnar was attacked by some creatures he described as demon-like.”

  “You think this is all connected to Maltheil?”

  “I do. Which is why I made this hood. The demon can turn its victims into servants using its breath, like a dragon breathes fire. I’m hoping this will protect us from that attack.”

  Kyron knew that Peron had become obsessed with Maltheil after their incident three years ago. If anyone knew about the demon it would be him. “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Peron answered honestly. “My father has brought in the reserves to strengthen the army and we are on high alert.”

  “I was wondering why there were so many soldiers by the docks when we came in. Do you think the demon will attack us here?”

  Peron looked concerned. “I think Maltheil is raising an army using the missing villagers. The attack on the Earl was just a precursor to something bigger.”

  “How will we stop this creature?”

  “I don’t know.” And once again, Peron was tired of saying that.

  ***

  Tyril hated the pomp and circumstance when traveling with the royal family, let alone two. They had arrived at Angar, the border city between Lanard and Tur’el, the previous day. For hundreds of years the two kingdoms had fought over land, and Angar, over the last five hundred years, had been part of both kingdoms as they battled along the border. For the last hundred years the Lanard Kingdom had occupied Angar, taken in battle by King Gyveel Rothar’s grandfather. The royal family of Tur’el had arrived later the next day with one hundred soldiers and nearly thirty retainers as well as several important lords and their families. There was a great feast that night as King Haten Oneck, his wife, Queen Lorel Oneck, their daughter, the Princess Kylin Oneck, dined with King Gyveel Rothar. The Rothar king also brought with him several lords and their families as customary for a peaceful meeting such as this. With King Oneck was his court wizard, Carvathian, who was in his fifties but looked older, with long gray hair pulled back into a single braid. There was food, wine, and dancing, and despite the tension between the longtime enemies, conversation flowed casually between the esteemed guests as soldiers guarded their liege lords with vigilance. As agreed upon, King Rothar had also been escorted by one hundred soldiers, twenty of which were members of the Red Guard, including the young Tyril and his father, the Battle Lord of Lanard, Baylock Reen, and his brother, Prince Dalland Rothar. Of course he too had his court wizard in attendance, leaving behind General Sig Moore and the other council members to run the kingdom while he was away.

  Tyril hated interacting with aristocrats, even though he technically was one. As the son of the Battle Lord, he was expected to occasionally rub elbows with other lords and ladies, some already at the pinnacle of power, and others jockeying their way higher up the ladder to gobble up whatever piece of the power pie they could get. And this evening was no different. At the main table were the three members of the Tur’el royal family, General Hyrim Galstar, leader of the Tur’el army, Carvathian the wizard, as well as King Rothar, his brother, Prince Dalland Rothar, Earl Gallinor, the governor of Angar, Tyril’s father, Master Moran, and of course, himself. He never felt comfortable at events such as these, preferring to wrap his big hand around the hilt of a sword rather than a dainty salad fork. But he was raised to play the part if need be, and he was performing his role admirably, staying out of the main conversation unless directly spoken to.

  He looked up from his salad and made eye contact with Kylin Oneck, the young princess arranged to marry King Rothar. He looked away quickly; his eyes fluttering back momentarily to see her still staring at him. A slight smile broke through her somber expression. She was a beautiful girl, with long hair the color of sparkling gold and blue eyes that held his own for a brief moment before he looked away a second time. Her skin was pale white, like freshly fallen snow, her thin but strong lips a light shade of pink in stark contrast. Ever since they had sat down and introductions were made, she seemed sad, like a melancholy cloud was hanging over her. She was polite and soft spoken, but it seemed to Tyril that she would rather be any place but there. He could definitely relate to that sentiment. He assumed that she did not want to marry his king. King Rothar was a handsome man, but he was over twice her age, and although arranged marriages such as this w
ere quite common amongst the royal families, it was rare that love was ever involved. On top of that she was going to live in a far off land, a land of strangers that had been enemies of her family for as long as anyone could remember. Tyril felt for her.

  He looked up as he saw her lean forward. “I can see that you are just as excited as I to be here,” she whispered. She was smiling sarcastically.

  Tyril looked to his left and saw that the others were in a heated conversation, surely talking about treaty stipulations tied to the upcoming marriage. Once both parties came to an agreement, their scribes would write up the documents and both parties would sign, all of this happening before the marriage in several weeks. He shrugged. “Dinners such as this are not…”

  “Your thing?” she interjected.

  Tyril smiled. “No, they are not.”

  “So what is your thing, young Tyril Reen, son of the famous Rothar Battle Lord?”

  Tyril didn’t need to think about that question. “Fighting, like my father.”

  “Are you as skilled as he?”

  He was not as skilled as his father, at least not yet. He was still young and had much to learn. “I can hold my own but there is much I do not know.”

  “Modest, I like that.” The princess took a sip of her wine, her sparkling blue eyes appraising him, her mouth posed in a slight smile.

  He felt uncomfortable under her gaze so he broke the silent moment. “So what is your thing?”

  Her smile went away. “It doesn’t matter. I am to wed my enemy’s king. My life will be as he sees fit.”

  “I hope we will be enemies no more,” Tyril said. Looking over to make sure they were all still occupied in conversation, he leaned closer to her across the table. “Besides, King Rothar will give you all you need. You will have a good life in Lanard.”