The Shadow Knight (A Shadow Knight Novel Book 1) Page 3

  “Whoa,” Kyron said softly. “It’s true then. Atticus Belthar did kill Maltheil.” Atticus Belthar was an ancient druid who had helped defeat the demon and seal him away for good. “And that book was written by him, that’s incredible.”

  “It would seem so,” Tyril said. “Keep reading.”

  Peron flipped the page and as he did so blood from his cut dripped onto the aged paper. “Damn,” he swore, wiping the blood drops from the page with the corner of his sleeve. It did nothing but smear the crimson across the yellowed paper.

  Almost instantly the blood soaked into the page and disappeared in a puff of smoke that rose slowly into the dank air. Then there was a small pulse of wind in the room causing them to step back a pace.

  “What was that?” Kyron asked, looking worriedly at the sarcophagus.

  “It felt like it came from the coffin,” Tyril said.

  They were all staring at the spike covered coffin when there was a small flash of light followed by a glimmer that danced across a translucent shield that covered the coffin. They couldn’t see the shield before, and it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. It looked like the surface of a tranquil lake after a stone was thrown in, the ripple moving across the smooth surface just before the glimmer vanished.

  “Peron, the book sucked in your blood,” Kyron stammered, clearly frightened. “That cannot be good.”

  “The blood of kings is its key,” Peron whispered, still staring at the coffin. “You don’t think…”

  “That your blood, blood of the Rothar family line, just opened the coffin.” It was Kyron who interjected, vocalizing Peron’s thoughts.

  “It can’t be,” Peron said, shutting the book. Being careful not to get any more blood on it, he shoved the book back in his backpack.

  “Well something just happened,” Tyril said. Even he seemed worried.

  “Look, the coffin is still shut. I think we are fine,” Peron said with confidence he wasn’t sure he felt. Then he faced them both. “Listen, we have to make a pact to never tell anyone what just happened. I’ll get the key and book back and no one will be the wiser. Do you both agree?” They were clearly worried, but the coffin looked intact, and they nodded their heads in agreement. “Good. Now let’s get out of here.”

  They needed no further encouragement, running to the door, eager to leave the confines of the dark room. Peron was the last to leave, shutting the heavy door behind him, his torch light descending across the sparkling steel of the sarcophagus as the door closed shut, returning the room to darkness.

  In the black room there was another flash of light, followed by a second ripple across the translucent shield covering the coffin. Then it was dark again.

  ***

  In a far off place, a void between worlds, a form floated in the nothingness. Long gangly arms tipped in sharp claws were held wide, as if suspended in water, its long snake-like tail slowly undulating to a silent song, like grass blowing back and forth in a gentle wind. It hadn’t moved or opened its eyes in thousands of years, its mind as imprisoned as its body. But then it felt a pull, a slight tug from an invisible tether. Black eyelids snapped open, yellow eyes wide. It was just a knock on its prison door, but somehow a connection to the material plane had just nudged it, and maybe that was all it needed. Hope was an emotion the demon didn’t have. Maybe it was desire, but the beast felt something, like a possibility to quench its anger that had been festering for thousands of years. That little nudge was a pin prick, reminding the creature of a time long ago, and just maybe the beast would once again unleash its anger on the world.

  ***

  Present time…three years later

  It was dark, the forest calm, all animals and creatures silent, hiding as the shadowed form shambled through the dense brush. With each step, the earth shrank from its presence, grass and moss turning black as one clawed foot stepped before the other. It wasn’t supposed to be here, in this realm, and the land knew it. The thing had not had a corporeal form for thousands of years. Its body felt far away, its mind fragmented as it tried to take in all the senses it was now feeling. It knew it was free, as it had been striking the fracture in its prison with mental hammer blows, widening it but unable to break free. There had been a faint knock at the door, a glimmer of freedom’s hope, then nothing, the door to its prison still locked. There was no concept of time in the Nethers, but long after the knock, the demon finally felt something again, and then the door was gone, its prison shattered in a flash. Someone had freed it. Maltheil felt it, a connection to someone, a powerful binding. But there was no calling, so the demon now walked free upon the earth.

  Being sucked from a prison of nothingness, to the material plane, was disorienting at first, even for the great beast. Nearly everything felt strange, even its body. But one thing felt familiar; hate, a sense of rising anger that it knew from experience could only be quenched by blood. Stopping, it looked up through the canopy of trees, and stretching its clawed hands out wide, its long tail twitching from side to side, it roared with such magnitude that the ground shook beneath it. Then it caught the scent of something, its dog-like head snapping toward the aroma. It was man, the familiar smell rushing through its mind with exultation. It was hungry, and besides, the demon needed servants.

  Not far off a wagon pulled by two oxen meandered through the forest road, ten horses with mounted warriors guarding the front and rear. Lanterns held aloft by poles at each corner of the wagon lit the road and the vigilant riders carried torches. The thick canvas of the wagon was painted with the Rothar family insignia, a dragon perched atop a mountain peak, and the warriors all wore the armor of the Red Guard, the center embossed with a black dragon, its wings spread wide, their red sashes and red capes marking them as personal guards of the king. They were the best, strong and brave, picked from the most skilled fighters, but even they didn’t have a chance against the danger lurking in the shadows.

  Captain Torgarrian pulled in on the reins, slowing his horse to a halt, his men doing the same behind him. He held his hand up for them to be silent. He heard, or felt, something in the night, something unfamiliar, something that didn’t belong, and whatever it was left his hair standing on end. He leaned forward in the saddle and held his burning torch higher as his other hand touched the pommel of his sword. There was something before him, in the middle of the road, but he couldn’t make it out. It was a shadow, but that couldn’t be as it was taller than he was sitting on his giant warhorse.

  Like a striking snake something shot forward from the darkness, Torgarrian’s torchlight reflecting off its scaly hide just as a jet of red steam erupted from its fanged mouth. Swords rang from scabbards and men screamed, but their steel did little against the red fog as it covered them in a swath of hot air, bathing everything in its path for over twenty paces.

  The men fell from their horses gagging and choking, their swords falling from their hands. Torgarrian’s eyes bulged as he fought for breath, rolling on the ground and trying to stand. He could feel something inside him, growing rapidly throughout his body until he could no longer control his arms and legs. Screaming, his body arching in pain, his hands clawing into the dirt, he tried to fight off whatever was happening to him. He finally coaxed himself to his knees, still screaming. His torch was burning on the ground next to him and the orange flames shed just enough light to see his own hands. They were pale white. With what little will power he had left, he ripped his helm off and threw it aside. In the chaos of what was happening to him, he could make out his men around him in similar disarray. His head pounded in pain and he screamed loudly, his hands reaching up to his skull. Pulling them away, his hands were full of hair, and somewhere in the last vestiges of his consciousness he could feel his long dark hair falling out around him. Just then there was an itching feeling on the side of his neck, followed shortly by a burning pain as something snaked up and around his neck to the top of his skull. Looking up into the night sky he screamed again, the noises of his men around him were muf
fled cries through his own agony. Then something snapped in his mind and the pain was gone. But so was he, and something else stood in the darkness.

  ***

  Peron was hustling down the castle hallway, the message to assemble in the council hall urgent. It was very early and he hadn’t even had his morning meal. He was curious as to why his father had called a meeting so early, and with such urgency. One thing was for certain, he did not want to be late.

  Peron had only grown a few inches, much to his frustration. He was no taller, or heavier for that matter, than a typical boy three years his younger. And for that, he was not taken very seriously. But that was nothing unusual, his size and lack of martial talent made him a disgrace in the eyes of his father’s court. Combined with his lack of athleticism and his craving for academic pursuits and he had been the brunt of many jokes his entire life. And nothing had changed now that he was nearly eighteen, his birthday arriving in two days. Of course the members of his father’s court didn’t say anything directly to him, but he could tell, he could always tell.

  He walked out the door of his family palace, the two guards flanking it taking no notice of him. He cleared the courtyard at a brisk pace, the cold morning air nipping at his skin as he pulled his thick fur lined cloak around him. It would be winter soon, the air already cold and crisp. Unconsciously his hand went to his wrist and the pink scar there. The scar itched some, but he knew it would be much worse if the royal healers had not worked their magic. A couple of days previous, in his swordsmanship class, he was accidently cut by his friend Kyron. Kyron was appalled at his actions; not just because he had hurt his friend, but also that he had accidently injured the Prince. Peron felt sorry for him, as no one ever wanted to spar with him for that very reason. Peron knew that Kyron practiced with him because he felt bad for him, and now his kindness, and Peron’s lack of agility, had caused Kyron further guilt. Injury was always a possibility in sparring but, paired with his lack of skill, the odds of it happening to him went up significantly.

  The double doors to the council hall were already open and under the watchful eye of two Red Guards. They nodded at him as he entered, their eyes void of emotion. But he could sense their disdain. No matter how hard they tried, he could always see it in people’s expressions. It was like a slight shimmer in their eyes, and then it was gone, replaced with fake respect one must give their future king.

  His father was standing beyond the conference table talking with Master Moran, his court wizard, and Peron couldn’t help but notice the book that the wizard was holding in his hands. It looked all too familiar. Peron had hoped he would never see the book again, but now it was here, and his heart began to beat fast at the implication. The two seemed to be in a heated discussion, and the book was the focal point.

  Sitting at the large round conference table was General Sig Moore, and next to him was Lord Inan, and opposite him were the other two members of the council, Lord Anteel, and Lord Caynon who had just entered from the north entrance and was sitting down when Peron entered and made his way to his own seat at the table. The conference room was built for the council meetings and it was spacious, with a large roaring fire on the west wall. The room was lit by a huge iron chandelier hanging by a heavy chain from the stout wood beams that crisscrossed the high ceiling. The fixture was round, like the table below it, and hanging from it were ten lanterns to match the ten chaired table. Perched atop the large stone fireplace, was a thick wood mantle, and above that a shield embossed with the Rothar standard, crisscrossed by two swords behind it.

  King Gyveel Rothar glanced over and saw that everyone was there except for his brother. He cut his conversation off with Master Moran and moved to address the group. Peron thought he looked tired and stressed, more than normal. The king’s hair was long with streaks of gray that shone like silver, but his immaculately trimmed beard was black as night, with no hint of fifty years, and his steel gray eyes were just as intense, despite the fact that they were red and rimmed in shadow, like smudges of smoke, that only comes from lack of sleep.

  Peron looked nothing like him, more like his deceased mother, who he had never met as she had died giving birth to him. Something his father rarely let him forget. He had smooth flawless skin and green eyes that shone brightly next to his pale complexion. After all, he didn’t get out much, spending more time in a book than anywhere else. And though he did share his father’s thick black hair, he wore it short, trimmed above his ears and neckline.

  The king of Rothar quickly glanced at each person at the table, his gaze more or less skipping over Peron as if he didn’t matter. “I’m going to just get to the point, gentleman. Something seemingly impossible has happened, something that may threaten our very Kingdom.” The lords glanced at one another with uncertainty, never before seeing their king speak so dire. “Somehow, Maltheil has escaped from its prison.”

  No one said anything for a few moments as they tried to digest words that made no sense spoken aloud. But they were spoken, and for a split second, they all hoped for them to be a joke. But the King’s expression, as well as Master Moran’s, silenced that thought just as quickly as it came to them. Peron’s heart beat faster and he swallowed nervously, leaning back in his chair and bringing his hands under the table. He didn’t want anyone to see them shake.

  It was Lord Anteel who spoke first. The man was in his sixties and looked every bit his years. He wore a splendid sage green robe of cotton lined and trimmed in maroon silk. A matching belt was cinched tight and held a short sword that showed years of use. He wasn’t overly built, but his hands were huge, and each finger looked like thick sausages. Peron had always liked him. He was blunt, honest, and seemed fair, and he had always treated him with respect. “I am assuming that you are not joking, which brings to mind an obvious question. How can this be true? I thought the demon was sealed away for eternity.”

  King Rothar glanced at Master Moran who was standing next to him. Master Moran cleared his throat. The wizard wore a dark blue jerkin lined with silver thread, and a white silk shirt underneath. A matching blue cape hung over his shoulders, the silver clasp graced with a beautiful depiction of the Rothar insignia. Master Moran’s black hair was cut short near his scalp and a pointy, narrow goatee complemented his thin face nicely. If the king looked tired, Master Moran looked nervous, after all, it was his task, as it was the court wizards before him, to make sure that the demon remained sealed away. Very few knew the true story, and they were sitting in the room, all except for Peron, who was sitting in shock, the realization of his father’s words hitting him like a slap in the face.

  “It is true, I’m afraid,” Master Moran answered. “Two guards came to us early this morning saying they were patrolling the burial grounds, which they do every other day, when they came to the royal mausoleum. The doors had been destroyed, torn asunder, and they came to us immediately to deliver the news. I inspected the tomb myself.”

  “But the door was magically sealed,” Lord Caynon said, his voice filled with horror. Lord Caynon was younger than the other lords, not yet in his fifties, and he looked even younger. He was retired from the king’s military, being an officer in the Red Guard for most of his life. The man was a warrior, and he looked it, with stern brooding eyes, and several scars visible across his hands and muscled forearms. “How did the demon get out?”

  “I have some ideas,” Master Moran said, glancing at Peron before returning his gaze to the others.

  Peron’s heart pounded in his chest. What was that look for? Did he somehow know? Or was he just being paranoid?

  “The only way to open the door into the tomb is with this book,” Master Moran continued, “and I’ve had it locked away safely. There are only a few people who knew of its location as well as had access to the key.”

  “And who had the key?” General Sig Moore asked, also glancing at Peron for a quick moment. The burly warrior had not missed the mage’s quick flicker of his eyes towards the young prince. Peron never liked the General. H
e was gruff, and despite the fact that he was his cousin, he never showed him any respect. Perhaps it was his lack of skill with a sword, he did not know, but the man had never been kind to him. When he wasn’t scowling at him, he was treating him with indifference, as if he did not exist.

  “I did,” the king replied.

  “It stands to reason,” the General added, “that someone was able to get the key and use the book, returning them with no one the wiser. Who had access to the book besides you,” he asked as he addressed Master Moran, “and the key?” He finished as he looked at the king briefly, before swinging his cold gray eyes on Peron.

  Peron’s mind was reeling. Did they know? Or were they just fishing, putting one and two together? Or were they picking up on his nerves? After all, he was having a hard time hiding them. In fact, it seemed as if they were leading the discussion right to him. Thinking quickly, which was one thing he was good at, he headed them off. “Well, of course I had access to the key, after all I am to be the next king.”

  King Rothar looked at his son, seemingly confused that he had spoken, or maybe at the fact that he said he had access to the key; after all he had never explicitly shown him the location. “How do you know the location of the key and book?”

  Taking the wind out of Master Moran’s sails, Peron quickly spoke before the mage could interject. “Master Moran of course. Well at least he told me the location of the book, albeit indirectly. As far as the key, well you did. On more than one occasion, when I was but a boy, you checked on the location of the key, as well as your other treasures.”

  “The secret panel?” the king queried, remembering back. “I didn’t think you were paying attention.”