The Book of Shane

by Nick Eliopulos

Anya’s scowl deepened.

  “But the bow and arrows? That was an inspired little piece of manipulation. Did she tell you I have a weak spot for girl archers? Did she think I’d be more likely to trust you if you reminded me of someone I care about? Don’t think I didn’t notice that every time you needed a weapon, you went for the machete. Have you ever even used a bow?”

  She looked ready to spit fire at him, but still she didn’t speak.

  “Where is Yumaris?” Shane hissed, fighting to keep his rage under control.

  “I don’t know.” Anya ground out the words, simmering with fury herself. “She paid me to lead you here. To this temple. She didn’t say anything about Conquerors or … or crazed spirit animals. And she certainly didn’t mention you were out to kill her.”

  Shane lowered his weapon. “You did what she paid you for. Get out of here.”

  Anya scrambled to her feet but showed no interest in leaving. “Whatever twisted game the two of you are playing here — you can walk away from it, Shane!”

  He shook his head. “I can’t, though. I can’t forgive her for what she did. Not ever.”

  “But you would like Erdas to forgive you, though. Right?”

  “That’s different,” Shane said sullenly. “I was — I was tricked. I only ever wanted to make the world a better place.” He hung his head. “I’d only just gotten Drina back and —”

  “And she was a monster,” came a raspy voice from the darkness.

  Shane swung around, raising the torch as high as he could in the cramped space.

  She crept forward slowly. Shane could hear the clomp of her staff, the shuffle of her feet. Clomp, shuffle, clomp. She stopped some yards away, where the light only barely reached her, but Shane could see that it was Yumaris. She was filthy and shrunken, even smaller than he’d remembered, almost lost in the folds of her cloak. Her face was shrouded in shadow.

  “My king,” she rasped in greeting.

  Shane gritted his teeth and held up his saber.

  “King of dead things,” she continued. “Dead lands, dead ambitions.”

  “Dead tutors,” Shane said. “You know why I’m here, Yumaris.”

  “I do,” she said. “You blame me for your sister’s death.”

  “Of course I blame you,” he growled, taking a step forward. “You killed her. You killed Drina!”

  “The serpent killed your sister.”

  Shane sneered. “You held her down.”

  “And you gave her the Bile,” Yumaris responded calmly. “And Zerif led you to that, because Kovo bid him to. And on and on.”

  He took another step. “You’re not escaping the blame for what you did.”

  “And will you, Devourer? Escape the blame for all you’ve done?” She clucked her tongue. “Once we drank the Bile, weren’t we all Gerathon’s puppets? Perhaps none of us were responsible for our actions in the war. Perhaps we all deserve to be pardoned.”

  Anya touched Shane’s shoulder lightly. “Maybe she’s right, Shane. Maybe there’s a peaceful solution here.”

  Shane shuddered with barely suppressed rage. He shrugged her hand away. “She claims to see the future, you know,” he told her, eyes still on Yumaris’s shadowed form. “Is that what you see now, Yumaris, when you peer into the mists of time? Conquerors and Greencloaks living in peace and harmony? Singing happy songs?”

  “I do not see or hear so much as sense,” Yumaris said sharply. “I can make predictions.” She tilted her cloaked head toward Anya. “I can pay girls to help those predictions along, just in case. I’m never quite sure until the final moment whether a person will go left or right. Up or down. But I can sense which way they lean.” Yumaris took a shuffling step forward, and the light of the torch illuminated her pointed chin and her dry, cracked lips. “Gerathon was going to kill one of you that day. By stepping in when I did, I ensured it wasn’t you.”

  Shane shook his head sadly. “You made the wrong choice.”

  “Drina was not well, and you know it. The bonding sickness had left her twisted. Wicked. Vicious. And is it any wonder?” She clucked her tongue again, sadly this time. “We adults feed our children a steady diet of poison, and then we’re surprised to find they’ve grown up to be poisonous.”

  Shane narrowed his eyes. There was something odd about the way she tilted her head. Something suspicious about the way she stood just past the threshold of shadow. “What are you using for light down here, Yumaris?” he asked. “Where is your torch?”

  “And then there’s you,” she continued, ignoring his question entirely. “Crossing the world in pursuit of vengeance — an evil act. But you’ve done good along the way. Helped people. Inspired people.” She let out a dry chuckle. “I wish I could see for myself how you’ve grown.”

  Yumaris stepped fully into the light then, and pulled back her hood. Anya gasped, and Shane felt a wave of revulsion. Revulsion … and pity.

  It was her eyes. Her eyes were gone. In the hollows where they’d been there was now only pink flesh.

  “What happened to you?” Shane croaked.

  “The world is on the precipice of great change,” she said. “I saw the signs myself, and they are the last things I will ever see.”

  “What does that mean?” Anya asked, her composure cracking.

  “The Wyrm is coming,” Yumaris hissed. “And Erdas is in terrible danger.” She tilted her head again, and the light shone flat against that eerie skin. “The world above will need a protector who can walk the line between good and evil. Light and shadow.”

  “The world … above?” echoed Shane.

  “You’ve visited every continent on Erdas this year, my king. And yet you’ve only seen half the world.” She flashed her crooked teeth. “Spare my life, and there is still much that I could teach a willing pupil. Kill me … and Erdas may pay a steep price.”

  Shane gripped the hilt of his sword so hard it hurt. His face was placid, but his gut was a swirl of conflicting emotions. Part of him wanted to strike her down, just to prove that he could. To show that she had no power over him. That no one would ever have power over him again.

  But he’d never been as bloodthirsty as Drina — that much was true.

  What if the rest of what Yumaris had said was true as well?

  What if he had a chance to redeem himself?

  “Shane, no,” Anya said, and she tugged at him, turning his eyes away from Yumaris. “Remember what I said,” she whispered. “You can walk away from this. Right up this slope.” She smiled, but her eyes were sad. “The sun is shining up there. The war is over. Let someone else play at being the hero.”

  “I’m not a hero,” Shane said. “I know that. But I’m not a villain either. I’m a king.” He turned away from Anya, and his eyes fell again upon the hunched horror Yumaris had become. “And a king uses all the tools at his disposal.”

  Yumaris shuffled off into the darkness, and Shane followed her. He didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t look back.

  But as the darkness closed around him, the tattoo on his chest began to itch.

  “The Greencloaks have many fine qualities, but there are stories that they’d prefer to forget.”

  — Fall of the Beasts: Book 1: Immortal Guardians

  THE NIGHT BREEZE WAS COOL AND CARRIED THE SCENT of the ocean, but Shane was in no position to enjoy it. Inside the rough burlap sack that had been shoved over his head, the air was warm and sour. He couldn’t smell anything but his own breath.

  He stumbled, his foot catching on a rock or root, and he would have crashed to the ground if not for the hands gripping his elbows. Two soldiers were leading him up the steeply inclined path. His captors kept him from falling, but they weren’t gentle. They held his arms tight enough to bruise.

  Shane knew they were nearing their destination when the ground leveled out. They had reached the peak of the island, which rose like a single flat-topped mountain from the ocean. The sounds of people echoed through the night — a lot of people.

  It sounded l
ike an army.

  “Who goes there?” called a voice.

  “It’s us,” said the soldier to Shane’s left.

  There was a sound of rattling chains, then the groan of metal hinges as a gate swung open. His captors shoved him forward without another word, and Shane stepped past walls he could not see.

  He counted one hundred and twelve steps before a kick to the back of his legs brought him down hard on his knees.

  “Stay,” growled one of the soldiers.

  The other said, “Tell Maddox to get out here.”

  Shane tested the rope that bound his hands. The knot held tight.

  Without warning, the sack was torn from his head, and Shane squinted in the torchlight. A figure loomed above him: a scowling beast of a man, thick of neck and shoulder, with a matted red beard and a crooked nose once broken and poorly healed. His eyebrows rose nearly to his bald pate as recognition lit his craggy features.

  “Well, now,” the man — Maddox — rumbled. “I must be coming up in the world if royalty is bowing to me.”

  “It’s a new experience for me too,” Shane said.

  “Is it? Because I’d heard otherwise.” Maddox smiled, showing crooked, broken teeth. “I’d heard that our king had taken to kneeling to just about anybody. Great Beasts. Foreigners with fancy beards.” He drew his tongue across those jagged teeth. “Greencloaks.”

  Shane spat at the man’s feet. “I’ve never knelt to a Greencloak. Give me my weapon back and say that again.”

  Maddox threw back his head and laughed. The torchlight gleamed off of his armor, and Shane caught sight of the symbol emblazoned on his chest plate: an angular C ringed with spikes.

  “I’m not here to cause trouble, Maddox.”

  “That’s General Maddox to you … Shane,” the man said, obviously refusing to use Shane’s own title. The message was clear. Here, in this armed camp on this volcanic island in the middle of Oceanus, Shane was not a king.

  It didn’t bother Shane. He had bigger things to worry about.

  Bigger, older, more terrifying things.

  “Just what are you doing here on my island?” Maddox demanded.

  “Haven’t you guessed? I’m here to join you.”

  Maddox lifted an eyebrow.

  “All hail the New Conquerors,” Shane said with a wicked smile.

  A young man named Abhay was tasked with escorting Shane to an open cot. He eyed Shane warily, but unlike Maddox and the soldiers who had dragged him up from the beach, Abhay wasn’t from Stetriol — and he didn’t have an obvious grudge.

  “You were Maddox’s king?” he asked as he led Shane across the campgrounds. The entire site sat inside a caldera, a natural depression in the landscape. Once, when Erdas was young, this island had been an active volcano. Now it was a lush green mountain, one of the Hundred Isles. From this high up, the island would offer a spectacular view of the ocean on all sides … if not for the high wooden wall that encircled the campsite.

  There was a single watchtower in the east, and a single chained gate below it.

  Only one way in, Shane noted. And one way out.

  “I am Maddox’s king,” he corrected. “He’s just angry and throwing his weight around. Sometimes grown men throw the biggest tantrums.”

  “There were rumors …” Abhay hesitated. “People said that, at the end, you fought alongside the Greencloaks.”

  “It’s a lot more complicated than that. But I never stopped fighting for Stetriol.” Shane paused as they skirted the edge of a training ground, a large open space among the rows and rows of tents. Men and women had partnered up for sparring. Most wore the oiled leathers and metal pauldrons of the Conquerors, but nobody seemed to have a full set. Missing pieces of the uniform had been replaced, giving the entire militia a patchwork quality. They sparred with swords and maces, staves and battered shields — apparently anything they’d been able to find.

  “A little rough around the edges,” Shane said.

  Abhay shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s home.”

  “You really think of this place that way?”

  He shrugged again. “For now.”

  “I recognize your accent,” Shane said. “Southeastern Zhong, right? Beautiful place.”

  “I thought so too,” Abhay said sadly. “That’s why I decided to help the Conquerors.”

  Shane wrinkled his brow in confusion. “I don’t follow.”

  Abhay turned to watch a sparring match between two young women armed with swords and shields. “I love my homeland, and I fought fiercely to protect it — at first. But the more we fought against the Conquerors, the more ruin they brought. Zhong burned all around us. I only wanted to put out the flames.” He sighed. “I was a message runner for the resistance. It was an easy thing to betray them to your army. But your army lost anyway, and I was branded a traitor.”

  Abhay lapsed into silence, and the clang of swords on shields rushed in to fill the space.

  “I had no place to go,” he said at last. “Your war cost me my home. I don’t blame you — I made my choice. But when I heard that Maddox had put out the call … that he was offering a place to those who needed it … well, I leaped at the chance.”

  “Even if it means going to war all over again?” Shane asked.

  “You don’t understand,” Abhay said. “For us, the war never ended.”

  Shane dreamed he summoned a wolf.

  They ran alongside their pack, hunting by the light of the moon.

  And he knew he’d never be alone again.

  Morning dawned bright and beautiful. With nothing to obscure the view, the sky above the caldera seemed huge, a vast dome of blue broken only by swift-moving clouds and wheeling, diving seabirds.

  By the light of day, Maddox’s operation was more impressive than it had seemed the night before. There were no fewer than two hundred men and women within the campsite’s walls, all of whom seemed to have one task or another that morning, from guard duty to food preparation to waste disposal. There was a blacksmith reforging damaged weapons, a leatherworker stitching a scuffed and battered bracer, and a farrier outfitting one of several horses with new shoes.

  But Shane was inevitably drawn back to the training grounds at the very center of the caldera. There was no way around it — the militia was a long way from being ready for true combat. Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of fighters who had come to rely on spirit animal bonds — bonds that had evaporated when the Bile had lost its power. It was like watching men and women who had lost a limb relearning combat from scratch.

  Rumor had it that Maddox had an elite band of warriors at his disposal. But if that was true, they weren’t on the training grounds this morning.

  He saw Abhay facing off against a pale-skinned girl with short black hair. They were both awkward; their technique was sloppy, even lazy. As their wooden swords clacked against each other, Shane realized neither of them was trying very hard.

  His uncle, Gar, had insisted on daily weapons training back in Stetriol. Shane had resisted for a long time, having little interest in the arts of war. Now he recognized that same reluctance in every swing of Abhay’s sword.

  As he watched, Shane thought he caught a scent of something on the breeze — a foul smell, strangely familiar. But the wind shifted and the scent was gone, replaced with the salty tang of the ocean all around them.

  Suddenly a heavy hand came down upon his shoulder. Maddox towered above him.

  “Let’s see what you can do,” the man grumbled, and he gestured at the rack of weapons to one side.

  Shane flashed a smile. “I thought you’d never ask, General.” He strolled along the weapons rack, ignoring the din of the people fighting all around him and evaluating his options. He saw his own sword, the curved saber that had been confiscated when he’d surrendered at the watchman’s outpost at the foot of the mountain. It hung there among swords of all types — long swords and short swords, needlelike rapiers and two-handed claymores, and the ornate katana blades favore
d in some parts of Zhong.

  He could beat Maddox with a sword. No question.

  But it was hard to hold back with a sword. And stabbing the New Conquerors’ general on his first day probably wouldn’t help him blend in.

  He selected a quarterstaff. It was well balanced, with greater reach than any sword but far less deadly.

  Then he turned and saw Maddox had chosen a morning star. It was as brutal a weapon as Shane had ever seen: a massive, spiked iron ball at the end of a heavy chain.

  Maddox’s hideous smile split his face. “I have a feeling only one of us is going to enjoy this.”

  Shane faced Maddox in a circle that had been marked off in the dirt. All around them, sparring pairs stopped mid-match as they realized that their general was about to fight — and who their general was about to fight.

  He heard them murmuring. Some called him the king. Others called him a traitor. He had to block it all out. He had to focus … on the huge spiked sphere already arcing toward him.

  Shane easily sidestepped the blow, jabbing Maddox in the ribs as the morning star struck dirt.

  Maddox shifted his bulk, bringing his arms back and swinging the spiked ball up and around. Shane dodged again, jabbed again, stepped back. Maddox’s style was reckless; with the weight of his weapon, his moves were easy to anticipate, and he left himself open to attack. But the general was clearly betting that he could land one blow before all of Shane’s smaller hits could add up to anything. That single blow, coming from such a powerhouse, would likely be enough to end the fight.

  The morning star struck dirt again, and Shane knew Maddox would need precious seconds to pull it free. He stepped forward, not anticipating that Maddox would release his grip on his weapon with one hand and lash out. The general backhanded him full in the face and Shane saw stars, but he swung around with the momentum of the blow, whirling to smack Maddox across the temple with his staff.

  A sharp crack rang out, and Maddox grunted. He’d felt that.

  Shane couldn’t help it — he smiled.

  Yumaris had warned him about just this sort of thing. He still didn’t understand just how much of the future she could see, if any. But she had an undeniable and uncanny ability to predict what people would do … and the trouble they would get into.