The Shadow Knight (A Shadow Knight Novel Book 1)

by Jason L. McWhirter

Tyril thought about it for a moment. Dying in that fiery place would be bad. But Tyril had to agree that being stranded there would be worse. “You might be right there. Come, let’s bathe, eat, and rest. We have a big day tomorrow.”

  ***

  Peron knocked on the large heavy wood door, an escort of ten Red Guard soldiers behind him. The door was four heads taller than he, and well built, surrounded by thick white granite walls, the second floor dominated by ornate stone balustrades, green plants growing well and hanging over the sides. It was the home of wealthy person. It was the home of Lord Vannearon, Kyron’s father, located in the wealthy part of the city just inside the north wall. They had spent hours at the council table working over the plan. Peron was tired, but he was eager to speak with his friend.

  The door opened and a young servant girl was just about to respond when she fully noticed who it was at the door. Stumbling, she said, “My King, I…who… what can I do for you?” Everyone knew that Peron and Kyron were childhood friends, but it had been at least a year since he had paid a visit to their home. Word had spread quickly of Peron’s father’s death. And even though they had yet to properly coronate Peron as the new ruler, everyone knew he was now their king. “I am hoping to speak with Master Kyron. Is he here?”

  “I’m sorry, my King. He is not. He is at the warehouse with his father. But he should be back shortly for dinner.”

  “I will wait for him in his chambers,” Peron said matter-of-factly.

  “Oh, umm,” she said, stumbling again over her words. “Yes, please follow me.” She opened the door and Peron entered with four soldiers. The rest stood guard at the entrance.

  The foyer was grand and opulent; a large chandelier covered with hanging lanterns made of expensive blown glass the center of attention. “I know the way,” Peron said, walking through the foyer into the massive high ceilinged living space. Kyron’s living quarters were on the main floor with the two guest and servant’s rooms, while the entire upstairs was his father’s quarters and office. Peron turned right down the stone hall, hanging lanterns lighting the way. The door to his room was locked and Peron looked at the servant, who was quickly following him.

  “Please open it,” Peron said kindly. The servant girl hesitated. It was obvious that her orders were to keep the room locked. She only opened it to light the fire in the evening, which she had already done. But it was the king that was asking, and she had no choice. Fumbling with a set of keys around her neck, she found the one she needed, and opened the door. “Very good. Will you please light the lanterns,” he asked her. Then he looked at the guards. “Stay out here.” They nodded, but said nothing. She went inside and lit the lanterns throughout the room. The fire was going strong but the room was still chilly. “Thank you,” Peron said. “You are dismissed.” She eagerly left Peron alone in the room.

  Peron had spent a lot of time playing here when he was young. The room looked different now of course, matching Kyron’s growth into a well-traveled young man. There were tapestries and carvings from all around Kraawn, as well as beautiful artwork and palatial furnishings. Soft chairs faced the warm fire and book shelves lined one wall entirely, a massive wood desk sitting in the middle, the shelves expertly built around it. There was a single door that went into Kyron’s sleeping chambers.

  Peron went to the desk and opened the drawers. He didn’t know what he was looking for. There was something nagging at him, something pulling at his memories, trying to piece things together. There were files there, ledgers with account information, most of which looked like purchases and payments. He knew that Kyron had taken over much of his father’s business since his mother had left, leaving Lord Vannearon to his depression and vices. Kyron had been forced to run the business or lose all that his father had worked for. Everything looked to be in order.

  Then he went to the book shelf and found what he was looking for. Long ago, when Kyron was young, his father had his builders put in a secret panel for Kyron. It was more for fun, and Peron remembered fondly hiding all kinds of things behind the panel. There most prized possession was a book of drawings that showed in great detail, not only the female anatomy, but also what a man and women can do with their anatomy. Peron had stolen it from the royal library and they had hidden it in Kyron’s secret panel. Peron removed the ten books by placing them on the desk. Then he placed his hand on the wood panel behind and dragged it sideways. The panel slid open easily, which told Peron that it had been used recently. Inside was a secrete shelf that was a half a pace deep.

  Looking inside Peron saw a small chest. He lifted it out and was amazed at how heavy it was. He set the chest down on the desk and opened the lid. It wasn’t locked. Perhaps Kyron thought the hiding place alone was significant enough. Inside was gold. Lots of it, piled to the edge of the chest.

  Peron frowned, reaching in he picked up a single coin. It was then his heart stopped. The coin was stamped with the Tur’el mark.

  Just then the door opened and Kyron entered, Peron’s guards remaining just outside the door. Kyron’s eyes narrowed momentarily, glancing at the chest, before he sighed heavily, his face going pale before moving to a jug of wine on a side table. “Would you like some wine?” he asked, pouring himself a glass. He looked nervous.

  “No, thank you,” Peron said calmly, trying to slow his beating heart.

  Kyron lifted the glass towards Peron. “To old friends.” Then he drank the entire glass. “I didn’t think you would come here,” he said, his voice tired.

  “Why do you have a chest of gold stamped with the Tur’el mark?”

  Kyron stepped closer to Peron, his expression stolid. “I think someone as smart as you can figure that out. In fact, if I know you, which I do, I bet you already have several possible answers.”

  Peron dropped the coin back into the chest. Absently he touched the scar on his wrist. All the loose connections he had been feeling began to assemble into a hypothesis, one that if he were honest with himself he had already thought about in his subconscious, but was unwilling to admit to it. He rubbed the scar, the same one caused by Kyron’s accidental strike during their swordsmanship class over a month ago. “Was it you?” he asked incredulously.

  This time Kyron’s self-control faltered, his false confident gaze and posture shifting slightly under Peron’s accusation. He poured another glass of wine and drank it quickly, looking at Peron now with a pleading look. It was then that Peron knew he was guilty. “I did not mean for it to escalate as it did,” he said.

  Peron put up his hand, his anger rising. “Just tell me!” he snapped. “Was it you that helped them free Maltheil?”

  Kyron’s eyes dropped and he seemed to deflate. “Yes, but you have to understand. They came to me. They offered me contracts and gold, lots of it, enough to get the business back on its feet.” Kyron’s voice was now beseeching, his tone shrill as he argued his defense. “You don’t understand, Peron. We were going to lose everything. I would have lost the estate. I would have been thrown out on the street.”

  “You could have asked for help,” Peron said, his anger palpable.

  “They promised me that you would not be hurt,” Kyron continued. “I…I would have been destitute. It was the only way.”

  “You’re a fool,” Peron snapped. “How did you get past the wards on the chest?”

  “Wards?”

  “If anyone outside the Rothar royal family attempted to open the chest, the magical wards would have killed them. How did you survive?”

  Kyron stepped back to the wine, pouring another glass. “I…I didn’t know that,” Kyron said. “It must have been your blood.”

  Peron’s hand went to his wrist again. “You cut me on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he exclaimed. “But I knew you would be healed. When I helped you wrap the wound I kept the blood soaked towel. Once I transferred some into a glass, it was enough for Carvathian to use to free the demon. I had it with me when I stole the book. It must have been that which saved me.” Kyro
n slammed another glass of wine and stumbled towards Peron. “Please Peron, you have to forgive me. I didn’t think it would get this out of hand.”

  “You freed a demon!” Peron shouted. “What did you think was going to happen!? Your actions, based on self-preservation, may be the downfall of Lanard! Guards!” Peron shouted. The door opened and the Red Guard troops entered, hands on the hilts of their swords. “This man is under arrest for treason! Take him away!”

  “Yes, my King,” the lead officer said, grabbing a stunned Kyron and leading him from the room.

  Kyron was yelling I’m sorry, his voice dying away as he was dragged from the Vannearon estate. Peron’s anger subsided and turned to heartbreak. Despondent, he sat in Kyron’s chair, anguish at his friend’s betrayal feeling like rocks strapped to his back. He put his head in his hands, and hoped that he would have the strength to see his people through their predicament. Right now, he felt sick, empty, and wanted to fall asleep and wake up in a different world.

  ***

  Tyril found Peron in Toolm’s temple, speaking with High Priest Vollen. The young king was tired, and he looked it, the typical intelligent sparkle in eyes replaced with resignation. Kyron had been arrested two hours ago and Tyril had just found out, knowing that Peron was at the temple as a runner had come for his sword, just as they had planned earlier that day. They were standing beside Toolm’s altar, which was located in the middle of the sanctuary, a large statue of Toolm looming down at them against the wall facing the pews. Lying on white translucent silk that draped over the altar were Tyril’s sword, as well as Bearit’s axe. If they were to face the demon, they needed their weapons to be enchanted, a process entrusted to Toolm’s High Priest.

  “Peron, is it true?” Tyril said, walking briskly towards him from the aisle. He was clearly despondent. High Priest Vollen raised his eyes at the young man’s breach of etiquette; after all, they were childhood friends no longer. Peron was now the king, and it was obvious that the High Priest felt they should act accordingly.

  The High Priest cleared his throat. “Perhaps, my King,” he said, emphasizing the word, “you would like some privacy.”

  “No, no, we have much to do,” Peron said. “You may stay.” Peron turned to face his distraught friend. “I’m afraid it is.”

  Tyril was shaking his head in disbelief. “I cannot believe it! He betrayed us!? What is going to happen to him?”

  Peron knew that Tyril was aware of their laws, but perhaps there was a part of him that hoped that Peron would be able to give their friend some allowance. But he knew that was not true. “He will be tried for treason. And if found guilty, executed.” All crimes against the state were tried by the high council, and that meant Lord Inan, Lord Caynon, and Lord Anteel. It would be up to the tribunal to decide his fate.

  Tyril ran his hands through his hair, sitting down on a nearby pew, looking utterly drained. He looked just as Peron felt when he had learned of Kyron’s betrayal. The three of them had been friends for as long as they could remember. It was inconceivable that Kyron had betrayed them. “How could he do this?” Tyril mumbled.

  Peron sat next to him. “I’ve been asking myself that very same question. The truth is…we have all grown apart over the last few years. I knew that Kyron’s family business was nearly bankrupt, and that his father was more or less incapable of running the business any longer, but I did very little to help Kyron, or at least try to understand what he was going through. Kyron had a lot of strain placed upon him, and under its weight, he cracked.”

  Tyril looked up from his hands. “You are defending him?”

  “No, just trying to rationalize why he did what he did. It was wrong, there is no doubt. He was nearly thrown out into the street. They had not paid their taxes for over a year, and it’s my guess that it was his families’ rank, as well as their relationship with me, that kept my father from doing so. I was angry at first, really angry. Now I’m just sad. In a moment of weakness he made a choice that will change his life forever, and perhaps our own.” Peron stood and put his hand on his friend’s muscled shoulder. “You need to get some sleep. We have much to accomplish tomorrow.”

  Tyril stood, his doleful expression accentuated by his red eyes. He nodded towards the weapons. “How goes the blessing?”

  “We just started,” Peron answered.

  Tyril nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned and walked away.

  Peron watched his friend go and sighed heavily, turning back to High Priest Vollen, who had already begun the preparations. “How long will this take?”

  High Priest Vollen looked up from his task. He was brushing anointed oil upon the blades, covering every inch of the steel with slow methodical strokes, the nut brown oil slowly seeping into the steel. “For me, all night. You are not needed here, my King. Go and get some rest.”

  Peron could not agree more with him. “Thank you, Master Vollen, for everything.” Then he turned, eager for his bed, afraid however that sleep would elude him.

  ***

  Atticus flew through the night. He had a plan, and if successful, would increase their odds of success in the coming fight. His raven form caught the currents, and luck was with him this night as the wind was blowing strong from the west, pushing him east, his wide black wings expertly using it to his advantage. Hours later he saw the camp, his bird-keen eyes easily spotting the hundreds of fires as the army of Tur’el desecrated his forest, filling the long road for miles and miles as they camped for the night. He came in closer, flying low over the thousands of tents, looking for one in particular. He could feel the demon nearby, but knew he would not find the beast camping with the army. It was impossible. But the link between Carvathian and Maltheil was a tight leash, and the demon and his army of minions had to be close, likely nestled in the forest, ready for when Carvathian lost his strength, their very presence a blight on the land around them. When the war was over, if he survived, he would have to spend many years healing the land, asking the Sanga for the power to make it whole once again, to eradicate the black stain of the demon and its army.

  He flew over the king’s tent, spotting it easily, its wide berth literally filling the entire road, as well as occupying space to either side, likely where trees and shrubs had been hacked down to accommodate its size. But it wasn’t the king’s tent he was looking for. He came in low and landed gracefully on a low lying branch flanking the road, his black eyes darting back and forth, analyzing one tent in particular. It was near the king’s tent, as it should be, the cloth dark blue. Two guards stood at the entrance, tall burning torches pounded into the ground on either side. The tent was spacious, but not quite as grand as the king’s. Flying low, Atticus glided to the side of the structure, its edge masked in shadow, the light from the torches blocked by the corner of the tent. Quickly he took on his human form, looking from side to side to make sure no one could see him. It was pitch black, and he would only be spotted if someone walked around the tent with a torch, which was a likely possibility as part of the guard’s duty. He had to hurry. Atticus grabbed a stick from the ground and held it before him. Taking a deep breath he began to chant quietly, the soft words barely discernable. Moments later the stick moved, undulating back and forth as if it was alive. Finishing the spell quickly, the stick was no longer a stick, but a small brown snake that wrapped its scaly body around his wrist and hand. Holding the snake before him, he whispered more unintelligible words. The snake’s head came up and stopped just inches from his mouth, holding its writhing body still, as if it was listening. Then he laid the snake on the ground and watched it slither away, easily finding the seam on the tent flap and disappearing within its confines.

  Atticus turned back into a raven and flew into the night air, moving high above the canopy and landing upon a perch overlooking the entire camp. He knew from experience that Carvathian likely had wards protecting him from attack. In fact he could feel the magical wards all around the tent, which was confirmation that Carvathian indeed slept insi
de. He knew the wards would protect the wizard from magical or physical attacks, but hoped they would not defend him from a natural creature such as a snake. He would find out soon enough.

  Moments later he heard a scream of terror and pain from inside the tent. But it was the sound that soon followed that he was hoping to hear. A roar, loud and unworldly rocked the still night, and Atticus flapped his wings, flying higher above the forest. His sharp black eyes caught the movement easy, as it looked like the forest was undulating like prairie grass in a strong breeze. If Atticus could have smiled, he would have. The snake’s poisonous bite had killed Carvathian, thus freeing Maltheil from his control. Moving through the forest at an incredible pace, fueled by anger and rage, was Maltheil and his army of demon-spawn. He could not see them in the dark night, but knew they were coming for them. The demon army did not sleep. They did not eat. He knew they lay in wait, and that they would crash into the unsuspecting Tur’el forces and unleash their fury, killing, turning, or scattering them all. He had just increased their odds considerably. If Maltheil could indeed crush the Tur’el forces, and if they could find a way to defeat the beast, then they just might have a chance. Atticus angled west and headed to Lanard. There was still much to do to get ready.

  ***

  It was still dark when two thousand Lanard soldiers marched through the main gate, led by five hundred Red Guard cavalry. At the head of the column were King Peron, Tyril, Jonas, Bearit, Atticus, Lord Caynon, and Captain Korrin, who had been asked to follow Jonas and the others through the gate to Maltheil’s home plane. According to Tyril, he was the finest swordsman in the ranks now that his father was no longer with them, and his weapon was enchanted, given to him as a gift from Peron’s father for winning the yearly combat tournament to mark the summer solstice. The Captain had agreed to join them, despite the possibility that he would not survive.