Rise of the Shadowalker Read online

  Rise of the Shadowalker

  CJ Perry

  Art of the Arcane

  Hernando, FL

  Copyright © 2017 by CJ Perry.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  CJ Perry/Art of the Arcane

  E. Amherst Street

  Hernando, FL 34442

  www.artofthearcane.com

  Rise of the Shadowalker/CJ Perry -- 1st ed.

  Contents

  This Means War

  Dark Prince in White

  Conflicts of Interests

  The Merchant Army

  A Stranger in the Roaring Cove

  14th Child of the War

  Mother of Night

  Room at the Seasprites Inn

  Other Arrangements

  Supply and Succession

  The Broken Lands

  Heroes & Elders

  To the Labyrinth

  Behir Village

  Spirit Walk

  Magus’ Labyrinth

  Welcome, Brother

  Beneath the Waves

  The Age of Light

  Oasis

  The Age of Dragons

  The Butcher King

  Hall of Time

  Edge of the Sandsea

  Hindsight

  Light, Fire, & Blood

  Christane

  Rise of The Shadowalker

  Dedicated to my wife, Jessica, who believed in me even when I didn’t.

  “When you think the final nail is in, think again

  Don’t be surprised

  I will still rise.”

  ―Rise, Katy Perry

  Chapter one

  This Means War

  Ayla marched back to Hornstall along the cobblestone road, her fingers wrapped in the red locks of the Guardian’s severed head. Her hands and navy scale mail were streaked and spattered with blood, both from the Guardian and from healing the stump from Victor’s severed hand. She left the rest of the Guardian by the river for Victor’s half-Abyssal coywolves to feast upon.

  Victor followed behind in silence, his seven-foot frame casting a long shadow on the road even at just past the high-sun hour. Good. One ‘I told you so’ out of his mouth and she might turn and strike him dead.

  The twin sixty-foot crenelated towers that overlooked the southern hills rose up as she ascended the last hill. Victor walked up alongside her, gnarled staff clacking down on the cobblestones with each step. Ayla had healed Victor’s wound, but she could not restore his lost hand. He had tied it with a leather cord and hung it around his neck like a gruesome pendant.

  “We’re wasting time,” Victor said through gritted teeth. “We need to go after him.”

  Red Knights lined the entrance to the gatehouse, awaiting their Empress’ return. The closed streets beyond kept the traffic of carts and wagons crowding the street on the other side. The dull roar of impatient and gossiping masses carried over the hills.

  “We aren’t catching a magical horse,” Ayla said.

  “We’re just letting him go?”

  Ayla stopped just before the planks of the drawbridge, and in full view of the gatehouse. The stench of sewage and garbage wafted up from the moat on the light afternoon breeze. Victor asked the same questions she had been busy asking herself. She bit back a nasty retort.

  “He won’t make it far. I’ll send pigeons to the Dwarven lands.”

  She continued her walk back to the main gatehouse, her heeled boots ringing on the wood. Victor hesitated a moment behind her. More soldiers and Red Knights lined the walls and the two towers beset on either side of the open gatehouse. They shouted for the people to make way for the Empress. The Red Knights took a knee and lowered their heads as she entered.

  Her people went to their knees in a wave along the walk that stood beside the hedge maze in the Children’s Garden as she and Victor passed. His menacing seven-foot frame, blood-soaked clothes, tribal tattoos, and the severed head in Ayla’s hand cast a pall of fear over the normal peaceful reverence. He kept the stump of his wrist tucked under his blood-soaked leather jerkin, his hard, brown eyes distant.

  Ayla made her way through the sea of people, murmurs silencing at her approach and then spreading like wildfire behind her. The inner gatehouse had already been cleared. When they entered, Ayla stopped. Victor looked down at her. The tattoos of orcish skull ridges on his forehead remained smooth, and his eyes still held a faraway gaze.

  “Are you searching for him with ravens, right now?” She asked.

  Victor nodded.

  “Send one to the King-Chief. Tell him what’s happened.”

  Victor blinked, and the haze over his expression cleared. He looked back out of the gatehouse to the Children’s Garden and the citizens occupying every inch of the outer courtyard.

  “I need to get away from all these people. It’s distracting.”

  “I’ll send for you in the forest.” Ayla said, and they parted ways. From the inner gatehouse she still had another three-quarters of a mile through the throngs of people to the keep.

  Ayla walked alongside the carts and carriages that remained in place for the past hour. Horses nickered and tugged at reins, restless and perturbed by the throngs of citizens.

  Unlike most times she passed through the Day of Freedom celebration, no one called out for healing or a blessing. She read no joy in any of her people’s faces, just anger, impatience, and fear – always fear. This pleased her. Let no man speak out of turn today.

  She passed the chapel on her left. Its stained-glass windows depicted the image of her burning at the stake eighteen years ago, and Deetra, her wife, praying for the Goddess to save her. Deetra. In Ayla’s fury and heartbreak, she had almost forgotten that her wife waited back in Freedom Hall on her knees, praying for forgiveness for attacking Justin. Now Justin had justified Deetra’s actions, and proven her every word right since before he was even born.

  Another quarter mile brought her to the ward of the keep, and the first space uncrowded by the masses. Two Red Knights turned to the side and saluted, while a third pushed open the door to Freedom Hall. The looming dragon skull greeted her, its mouth open in a silent roar above the front entrance.

  Deetra knelt in the aisle between the rows of tables in full Red Knight plate mail. Her helm rested on one of the tables next to her, and she kept her tattooed head bowed as Ayla entered, praying with her hands cupped beneath her chin. Her single strip of mink-brown hair lay over her face. Ayla had left her in that same position over an hour ago. Purple and red ligature marks marred Deetra’s neck, and guilt wormed its way into Ayla’s heart.

  “You can stop,” Ayla said, and signaled for Deetra to stand. Her wife obeyed, struggling with the stiffness from kneeling. The chandelier above reflected on Deetra’s ruby pauldrons, reminding Ayla of her wife’s glory and deeds in the wars past. She deserved better than what Ayla had done to her.

  Deetra’s eyes went to the head at Ayla’s side, but her expression remained cautiously neutral. Ayla lifted it, and held it out between them.

  “Your son’s murderer,” she said.

  Deetra shifted her gaze to over Ayla’s shoulder. “And Justin? Where is he?”

  With Deetra’s hands lowered, the scratches and deep bruises were on full display. A lump swelled in Ayla’s throat. Deetra had not even fought back, j
ust laid there and let Ayla strangle her.

  “I’m sorry,” Ayla said and crossed the floor of Freedom Hall to her wife. She put the guardian’s head down on a table and wrapped her arms around Deetra’s armored body. The tightness in her throat made it hard to talk. “You were right. I’m sorry.”

  Deetra kissed above her temple. “I'm fine. Is Justin alright?”

  Ayla hugged Deetra harder, the reality of what had happened in the span of just a few hours setting in. Telling Deetra would make it real. Ayla had heard Justin offer his soul to the God of Light, and watched in stunned horror as the crimson of his Red Wizard robes washed away to white. She had sawed off the Guardian’s head in a daze after he rode away.

  “He betrayed us.”

  Deetra set her jaw, saying more with a simple tightening of her mouth than her words could.

  Ayla could not help herself, and said, “You told me. I just couldn’t believe it.”

  “His corruption made you forget who you are,” Deetra said, and then held Ayla tighter. “You are Empress, High Priestess, and Ayla of Hillside – the woman who marched out into the arena and faced certain death to save me. You gave your life to the Goddess, and burned at the stake as a sacrifice for your people. You gave me the courage – gave all of us the courage – to revolt. And we did. Because of you.”

  Deetra broke the embrace and held Ayla by the shoulders at arm’s length, her light brown eyes eager for action. “Then, you had a cursed child, who wore away your faith. Maybe not in the Goddess, but in yourself – your judgement.” Deetra’s brown eyes searched Ayla’s blue. “Now, tell me you’ve come back to us. Tell me what you plan to do about this.”

  Deetra had meant for her words to inspire, but her hatred and distrust of Justin ruined her cause. Deetra had seen this day coming in some form or another, but her hate had made it a self-fulfilling prophecy. The familiar boil of anger roiled in Ayla’s belly.

  Ayla had been unable to decide what to do with James since he died. Deetra would want to burn his body in the orc tradition, but Ayla wanted to attend his funeral without having to relive the traumas of her past. Ayla let her distaste for Deetra’s reference to Justin as a cursed child reveal itself in her tone.

  “First, we will put James in the crypt with the other children of the War of Freedom.”

  Deetra sucked in a breath, then ran a hand over her strip of hair, holding back a retort. Ayla eyed her wife, daring her to object. Deetra wanted James’ ashes for new tattoos in his memory. But she would have to find some other memento. Ayla had raised James too.

  “Just say it,” Ayla said.

  Deetra’s lips curled. “He was my son.”

  Ayla stared at her, but Deetra kept her eyes pointed straight ahead. Ayla waited in silence for the proper respect – for her wife to look at her after saying that. After a long moment, Deetra faced her. Ayla let her tone match her icy glare.

  “We raised these boys together. Justin was as much your son as mine, and James –”

  “Justin was never my son. You both made sure of that,” Deetra said.

  Ayla balled her fists. Justin and Ayla had a different sort of bond, one that only a child born from a woman’s womb could ever share. But the spirit of Ayla and Deetra’s union had its place, and it bestowed a responsibility on both mothers to love all their sons.

  “You’re the one who pushed Justin away,” Ayla said, taking a step back, and pointed at her. “You never wanted me to have him in the first place, and you hated him from the day he was born.”

  Deetra’s eyes went wide. “He was gonna be born a minotaur that ripped you in half. That’s why I wanted you to get rid of it.”

  “It?”

  “Yes, it. Once we broke the curse, the it, became a him. I was fine with you keeping it after that.”

  “You said it again. It. And you called him a curse in your little speech. You never stopped thinking of him that way.”

  “James is dead. The whole city is unsettled. He ripped this Empire apart in a matter of days. So, if I never stopped thinking of him as a curse, was I wrong?”

  No, Deetra was not wrong, not about anything she had said. But to have it spoken aloud did not change the fact that Justin was their son. How could he not betray when one of his own mothers hated him for something which he had no control over?

  “I never should have forced him to convert,” Ayla said, shaking her head. “He would have come into the fold on his own, out of love. But all he got from you was hate. You should have given him a chance.”

  “I gave him a chance, and so did you. And you were right to force him. Not everyone comes to the Dark Queen out of love. You really need to open your eyes, High-Priestess.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ayla said.

  “You know I never loved the Dark Queen. Still don’t.”

  Ayla’s breath caught in her throat. She had always known, on some level, but to hear Deetra say it aloud shook Ayla to her core. The blasphemy alone made her cringe.

  “What?” Ayla asked.

  “It was an oath, like any other,” Deetra said, and lifted her chin. “And I honor it, because that’s what you do when you make an oath. Not everyone gets to have a choice.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t out of love for the Goddess, but you had a choice. You chose her, so you could save me.”

  “No. You were burned at the stake. It was choose her or let you die. That’s not a choice at all.”

  “Yes, it is. It’s just not an easy one,” Ayla argued.

  “Fine,” Deetra said, and threw her arms in the air and let them drop. “Then it’s the same one you gave Justin. Convert and save the girl, or don't and let her die. In the end, he chose to let her die.” Deetra pointed at her, venom in her face and voice. “That’s who your son is.”

  Ayla stared at her wife, unable to decide on a reaction. Stomach turning in knots, and nails digging into her palms, she took a step toward Deetra and stopped.

  “He was trying to save her without compromising his beliefs. That’s who my son is. Then, you tried to kill him for it, and that’s why he betrayed us,” she hissed. “You did this.”

  Deetra glared at her, her whole body trembling with rage. She ran a hand over her head, sweeping her hair from one side of her head to the other.

  “Just say it!” Ayla blasted.

  “He let that bitch kill my son! I saw it! And then that rape-bastard came at me with the sword. So, you’re damn right!”

  Ayla took a step back.

  Realization dawned in Deetra’s eyes and she covered her mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Ayla.”

  Ayla’s jaw tightened. Deetra was right about one thing, Ayla had forgotten herself. She had played arbiter between an ungrateful son and a wife who hated him. For the past year, she had begged and cajoled the two of them to find common ground and learn to respect one another. She had no more time for this. She swept her disheveled hair from her eyes with a blood-caked hand.

  “Enough,” she said, and retrieved the Guardian’s head from the table. “Have pigeons sent to every dwarven border village and to Ri Tharin, himself.”

  “We could just send word to the Orc Hills. It wouldn't take more than a hunting party or two –”

  “Justin is on a magic …” Ayla shrugged. “Spirit horse, I guess I’d call it. By the time the orcs get a hunting party out into the hills, he might be halfway to Radoin.”

  Deetra’s eyebrows raised. “I didn’t know he could do something like that.”

  “That’s because you’ve always underestimated him,” Ayla said, and headed for the door to the back of Freedom Hall, her gruesome trophy in hand.

  She threw the steel-banded door open, startling a pair of acolytes lingering at the bottom of the tower – gossiping, no doubt. They dropped to one knee fast enough that Ayla almost laughed. Instead, she paused a moment to glare at the top of their heads, then continued to the base of the spiral stairs.

  She marched up, exited the door at the top of the cand
le-lit stairs, and stepped out into the bright afternoon. The ward of the keep, crowded with merchant carts and awnings, remained devoid of people but for the Red Knights guarding the wrought iron gate at the entrance. Beyond the low wall topped with barbed iron spikes, the people of Hornstall crowded every narrow street between the buildings.

  Chins lifted to the keep as word spread of Ayla’s appearance atop the tower. The wind played in loose strands of her hair, and she realized for the first time how she must look with her hair half-undone from its braid, armor and face splashed with blood, and a human head in one hand. It reflected her soul, battered but unbroken.

  As she stood in silence, the crowds shifted and migrated closer to the keep. Ayla beckoned them to gather, and the Red Knights opened the gates to the ward. The people filtered into the temporary market. She waited until she had their attention, and then lifted the guardian’s head, its red curls blowing in the breeze.

  “When I was a child, I dreamed of escaping to the south. To the ‘Freelands.’ What I never knew was that our cousins in Aflua approved of our chains. In fact, they created an order of knights dedicated to keeping us in them: The Guardians of the Light. And now, they have gone from guardians to assassins.”

  Murmurs spread through the crowd, and Ayla waited for them to die down before continuing.

  “The Night Goddess once told me, ‘The Light needs but a crack in the stone to corrupt darkness. To burn away its safety and peace. Our Empire was attacked by a Guardian of the Light. She had come to kill me, and many of our brave knights died stopping her. We threw her into the dungeon, and my son – your Prince – interrogated her. There, in him, the God of Light found the crack in the stone of our Empire. Our Prince betrayed us.”

  The crowd became unsettled, and indistinct shouts and boos rose up in a choir from below. Ayla held up a hand, and the noise died down. Again, she waited.

  “I took the Guardian’s head, but my son escaped. And as I watched him ride south, I realized something. We’ve been free for almost twenty years, and I have yet to make the south pay for what they did to our people.”