by Jayne Castel
Mira’s panic ebbed slightly. At least they weren’t blind in here. She glanced around and could make out the lines of a lofty entrance hall. Stone slabs lay beneath their feet, and a high vaulted ceiling rose above. Before them stretched a forest of thick rock pillars.
“Move,” the Nightgenga ordered.
The thud of their foot falls echoed through the stone hall as an escort of Dusk Imps, Hiriel, and Nightgengas herded them up its length. There was intense purpose in the way these creatures moved, in their insistence they keep moving, and Mira wondered once more at their destination, and why they were even still alive.
She looked over at where Asher walked beside her. He stared ahead, his profile bathed in hoary light. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t known about this place. The whole point of the Order of Light and Darkness was to keep watch over The Four Kingdoms of Serran and ensure the shadows never again held sway, that enchantment was never put to ill-use.
She wanted to be angry with him, to blame him for leading them into danger, but the words stuck in her throat. Raging against him was pointless. He’d done what he thought was best. He hadn’t known that the shadow creatures had taken refuge in this forest.
Their journey together was now coming to an end.
Grief twisted under Mira’s rib cage, catching her by surprise. Bitter disappointment followed. She’d wanted to lie with Asher, to give herself to him. He’d given her a chance to start again. Only now her one chance was slipping from her.
Soon it would cease to matter at all.
28
Darg
HEAVINESS PRESSED DOWN upon Asher with every step that took him deeper into the Dim Hold.
Irana will get her wish after all. The High Enchanter would be rid of Ninia—and of him as well.
Not for the first time he wished he’d confided in Ryana. His friend could keep a secret, and she had no love of Irana. I should have said something before leaving … now no one will ever know.
Doom weighted every step. They traveled a labyrinthine network of windowless halls, chambers, and passageways built of dark stone, passing groups of shadow creatures as they went. Some loitered against walls, sniffing the prisoners as they passed, while others moved with purpose past them, leering and snarling.
Asher wondered how these shadow creatures spent their days. Do they have chores or errands? Do they meet and make plans?
So this was where those who had survived The Battle of the Shadefells had fled? All these centuries after the fall of Valgarth, and they had been gathering their strength here—waiting. But for what?
Did it matter?
The air reeked of hot iron with the hint of something sweet and putrid just beneath. It didn’t smell like any place he’d ever been; no mortal had ever lived here. No fire had ever been lit to warm the air, and sunlight had never filtered inside and pooled on this floor.
Their captors led them to a dank stairwell, and down into an ever darker dungeon below.
The air smelled stale and fusty down here, and so damp that Asher felt moisture coat his skin as the shadow creatures herded them into a cavern-like space. Like everywhere else in this keep, there were no windows and no torches to illuminate the oppressive darkness.
Asher turned to the Hiriel that had followed him inside, panic rising within him. The creature watched him, its pinprick eyes unblinking and shark-like.
“What now?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain calm, even if he felt like clawing his way past the creature. He’d never been fond of enclosed spaces, and it suddenly felt as if there wasn’t enough air around him. It was a struggle to draw breath.
“Now, you wait.” The Hiriel drew back, taking its silver iridescence with it. The other shadow creatures withdrew as well, and an iron gate swung closed, screeching on rusty hinges, before it slammed shut against the stone.
Asher stood before the gate, pressing himself up against the chill iron, as the shadow creatures departed, taking the last of the cold light with them.
The darkness they left behind was smothering.
Asher stood there for a while, listening while his companions shifted around the cavern, exploring the limits of their cell. It was a difficult task with their hands bound. Somewhere at the back of the space, water dripped a steady, relentless tattoo. Smothered curses followed shortly after as the men of Anthor exchanged words. Their captain said nothing.
Heaving a deep breath, Asher slid down the iron bars and lowered himself to the floor. A hand touched his then. Mira. Her fingers were slender and cool. Wordlessly he responded, his hand squeezing hers.
“This is my doing,” he murmured. “I suggested we come this way.”
She huffed. “Save the self-pity … too late for that.”
“Mira’s right,” Ninia spoke up nearby, her voice husky. Had she been crying? “We all agreed to travel west.”
Asher leaned his head back against the bars. They were wrong. He might have spared their lives back at that island in the marshes, but now they faced a far worse fate.
I need to talk to Ninia. The thought fluttered up unexpectedly, causing his pulse to quicken. She’s the only one with the ability to save us.
The thought lingered for a few moments, before Asher dismissed it. He couldn’t speak to Ninia here, not with the others listening.
There were some conversations that had to be private, some secrets that couldn’t be shared.
“What do they want from us?” one of the men nearby rumbled. He had a guttural, heavily accented voice.
“Don’t ask daft questions,” another soldier snapped. “It doesn’t matter what they want—we’re all done for anyway.”
“Maybe they’ll just leave us here to rot,” someone else offered.
A tense silence followed, before Mira eventually broke it. “There’s no point wondering what they’ll do with us. A better question is why they’re hiding in this forest at all?”
“Gathering their strength?” Asher suggested. “Waiting for the Shadow King to rise once more.”
“They’ll be waiting a long time for that,” Mira replied.
Silence fell then, and no one felt compelled to break it. They settled in for a long wait in the darkness. The cold, damp stone made an uncomfortable seat, and the only sound in the cavern—save for the constant drip of water and the rasp of breathing—was that of the other prisoners attempting to ease their cramped, numb limbs on the hard floor.
Time drew out, and Asher fell into a fitful doze. He awoke disoriented, hungry, and thirsty. They’d lost their packs in the clearing during the attack, including all the supplies he’d bought in Horncastle. Asher wondered how long any of them would last before they attempted to lick water off the walls.
Mira had fallen asleep against him; he could feel the rise and fall of her breathing, the warmth of her body curved along his flank. He was grateful for the contact, for it kept the walls from closing in on him. However, now he was awake his imagination started to churn. What if the shadow creatures just left them to die down here? A slow, terrifying end would ensue. Thirst would get them first, before hunger did. There was no privy, no drain for them to relieve themselves in. It would be a pitiful, painful, stinking death witnessed only by the darkness.
Asher closed his eyes—these thoughts weren’t helping.
“What’s your story, enchanter?” A voice, low and hard, sounded just a few feet to Asher’s left. He realized that the Captain of Anthor had been sitting closer to him than he’d thought.
Asher stirred, gritting his teeth as he stretched out his left leg in an effort to get rid of pins and needles. “I don’t have one,” he grunted.
A snort followed. “I’m hunting the princess and her guardian … only to find they’ve got a protector. Why are you helping them?”
A beat of silence passed before Asher replied. “Queen Rena sent a goshawk to Rithmar, just before Veldoras fell, warning the king that her daughter was traveling north. He sent me to find her.”
“Nathan sent
you?” Asher heard the incredulity in the man’s voice. “Why would he choose an enchanter and not members of his own guard?”
“An enchanter has skills soldiers don’t.”
“Skills indeed,” the captain replied with a sneer in his voice. “From the sounds of things you led all of us into a trap.”
Asher stiffened. Of course, the captain had heard every word of their murmured conversation earlier. “Who’s the fool that followed us?” he replied coolly.
To his surprise, the Captain of Anthor laughed. “Aye … I suppose that makes both of us dolts.”
It was a long while before the shadow creatures came for them.
Asher had fallen into another cramped, restless doze, when he heard the scuff of feet and the scrape of claws on stone. Moments later a dim, silver glow intruded. Asher twisted around toward the gate, blinded as two Hiriel glided down the stairs toward them, followed by an entourage of Dusk Imps—the latter started yelping when they caught sight of the prisoners.
Next to Asher, Mira and Ninia’s faces were drawn and pale, their gazes hollowed.
“Your wait is over,” the Hiriel chimed. “Our leader will see you now.”
Leader.
Asher glanced right, at where the Captain of Anthor stood, leaning against the wall. The man’s face was a mask, impossible to read. Yet when their gazes met and held for an instant, Asher glimpsed a flicker of disquiet. The shadow creatures followed no one but their king.
Had another taken his place?
They exited the cavern and climbed the steps to the floor above. Asher’s limbs felt leaden, and his head spun dizzily. His tongue felt swollen and dry. How long had they been down there? Time had lost all sense of meaning; he had no idea if it was day or night outside.
At the top of the stairs, the shadow creatures herded them left, and they walked down a series of wide colonnaded corridors until they at last came to their destination—a vast hall with a high domed ceiling, deep inside the Dim Hold. They entered a circular space through an arch, framed by the same twin curved horns as outside the gate. They then walked down an aisle between rows of stone seats which faced a high stone dais in the center of the hall.
The procession stopped before a set of steps leading up to the dais. Here, the shadow creatures drew back from their captives, leaving them alone in the aisle, and perched upon the stone benches flanking them.
A rustling sound followed, and Asher peered into the shadowed recesses of the hall to see figures emerging from the dark mouths of passageways lining the space. Shadow creatures of every shape and size—some resembling parodies of men and beasts, while others more wraithlike—filled the hall. Unlike the world beyond these walls, where the servants of the shadows announced their arrival with shrieks, howls, and chattering, they kept a respectful silence here.
Asher watched them, momentarily forgetting his fear as he observed how different they all were to each other. The Dusk Imps traveled in packs, bickering and chattering amongst themselves, whereas others—Nightgengas and Fen Hounds—kept apart from the rest of their kind. Fen Hounds were dark, wolf-like beasts with long sinewy bodies, protruding ribcages, and drooling jaws. They snarled and snapped at any creature that unwittingly came too close. Asher remembered the carnage the hounds had caused during the Battle of the Shadefells; those jaws were lethal iron traps. The Hiriel drifted amongst the crowd like shades, trailing starlight behind them.
“What’s this … an audience?” Mira murmured from next to Asher.
“Or a trial …” The Captain of Anthor spoke up from behind her.
Asher felt the pressure on his arms, which had been there since the clearing, release. He glanced down to see the bindings dissolve. Reaching up, he rubbed his upper arms where the mist had gripped him. It had dug into his flesh for so long it felt as if the indentations in his skin were permanent. Nearby, he witnessed the others also rubbing at their arms; the mist bindings left a strange sting in their wake.
None of the captives could do any harm in here. Dusk Imps had relieved Mira and the men of Anthor of their weapons after the soldier had tried to escape in the clearing. With the absence of light in here, Asher and Ninia could not gather the Light either. The silver glow that the Hiriel emitted was not a source of light an enchanter could call to their bidding.
The hall filled up, and when there were no more spaces on the benches, the remaining shadow creatures jostled for position along the walls. Some of the smaller ones clambered onto the backs and shoulders of the larger creatures so that they could get a view.
Ninia reached out and gripped Asher’s arm, squeezing hard. “Look,” she hissed. “Up there.”
Asher shifted his attention up to the dais, where he saw three tall figures shrouded in grey glide across the platform toward them. They appeared to float rather than walk, the hems of their robes dragging across the stone. They wore deep cowls with nothing but blackness beyond.
Asher went still. He also remembered these shadow creatures from The Battle of the Shadefells. One had attended the parley just before the fighting began.
These were Thracken—servants of Valgarth himself, and once his personal guards.
The newcomers halted in the center of the dais, and Asher noted that the one in middle of the group stood at least a foot taller than his companions. He towered around eight feet, taller than any man. Of all the shadow creatures, Thracken were the ones folk feared the most. Watching them, Asher knew why: they were the most human of the assortment of creatures in this vast chamber. They could have been big, cloaked men except for the emptiness inside their hoods and the deathly cold that wrapped itself about them. There was something disconcerting about facing an enemy without eyes.
After a drawn out silence, the tallest of the figures spoke. “I am Darg, Lord of the Thracken.” The voice was low and chill, yet it held a deep power. “Kneel before me, mortals.”
Asher glanced over at Mira and Ninia, and all three of them complied. They lowered themselves to the stone floor. The rustle of cloaks and the creak of leather followed as the Captain of Anthor and his men followed suit.
The Lord of the Thracken inched forward. “The penalty for crossing into this domain is death.”
“We didn’t mean to,” Ninia burst out, her voice shrill. “We had no idea you lived here—we would have taken another path if we’d known.”
“Silence, girl.”
“But we … I …” Ninia’s voice trailed off as the Thracken fixed her with its empty stare. Blood drained from her face, and she cowered against Mira.
Darg seemed to grow larger then, looming over them. “All of you are doomed.” The voice was devoid of emotion, incapable of pity. “But before you die, you will tell me all you know … I have waited a long time to learn about the plans of mortals.” The empty hood shifted to where the Captain of Anthor stood flanked by his men. “We shall start with you. Man of war—name yourself.”
29
Retribution
THE CAPTAIN STARED up at the Thracken. Silence stretched out between them, before he finally replied. “I am Elias, Prince of Anthor. I captain the king’s army.”
Asher’s breathing stilled.
Finally, too late, he made the connection he’d been struggling with ever since first setting eyes on the Captain of Anthor in Thornmere; the missing piece he’d been trying to place. He’d met this man’s younger brother, Saul, the year before—the man who’d first aided and then betrayed the bearer of The King Breaker, Lilia. In the end, Saul had died for his trouble.
Asher watched the captain, seeing him with fresh eyes. Did Elias know of his brother’s fate? He searched the man’s face for any sign of fear. He saw none. If Elias was scared, he was hiding it well.
“A prize indeed.” Darg’s voice was flat, lifeless. “I will hear of your father’s plans.”
The captain stepped forward and spat on the ground. “You’ll get nothing from me and my men. Kill us now and be done with it.”
The horrified look on hi
s men’s faces at this was almost comical. However, the captain wasn’t paying attention to them. Instead, he glared at the Thracken lord, angry and defiant.
A pause followed, before Darg raised a long, bell-like sleeve and stretched it toward the captain. “I am waiting.”
The Captain of Anthor’s mouth flattened into a stubborn line.
Darg drifted closer to the edge of the platform. “So arrogant. You might think that your kind has beaten us—but you’re wrong.” A cold, threatening silence followed, before the Thracken continued. “Ever since the fall of Valgarth, we’ve been gathering our strength. The Battle of the Shadefells set us back, but there are still many shadow creatures dwelling in dark places in The Four Kingdoms. Many others live here, in the Dim hold, where they have found their purpose.”
A muscle bunched in the captain’s jaw. “And what’s that?”
“We will have vengeance upon your kind.” The Thracken’s hood drew back, like a snake readying itself to strike. “When we are strong enough, we shall leave this forest and travel under the cloak of darkness. We will find the rulers of the land and bring them down—one by one. Your father will be among the first to fall.”
Elias of Anthor’s mouth twisted. “Good luck with that.”
A hush followed before Darg spoke once more. “Tell me what Reoul plans. He has taken Thûn. Will he attack the other kingdoms?”
The captain didn’t reply.
“You defy me?” The shiver in Darg’s voice made the entire chamber grow still—yet the Captain of Anthor didn’t seem to care.
Elias stared back at him. “I might as well … you’re going to kill me anyway.”
“How much is your life worth, prince?”
“Nothing.”
“To you perhaps, but to your father? What would he give to have you back?”
