Shadows of the Past: The Waystone Saga: Book One

By H. Shane Alford

When Worlds Collide...
Narianna, the Bright World—shining threads woven by the Aesyr into the Tapestry of Creation...
Morthalin, the Dark World—spun from Narianna’s silhouette, shades of order cast upon the swirling chaos of the Etherstorm, where demons dwell...
War is coming—it always does. Soon the gates will open. Soon the shadows will fall. Destinies and fates will intertwine once more, and the future of both worlds will be written.
What shall become of beauty, of hope, of tomorrow... Who can know? Such mysteries are deeply veiled and beyond the sight of even the greatest of seers.
Now, as the drums echo across the land again, truths long forgotten must be remembered. Secrets hidden away must be found. Where can light abide as darkness reigns?

There is only one place to seek such answers. But is courage or faith or even love enough to discover what lies in the Shadows of the Past!

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. Shane Alford
• Release date: Mar 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989073042

H. Shane Alford

Born in 1967 in the quaint, southern town of Social Circle, Georgia, Shane Alford spent his childhood embarking on one imaginary adventure after another. A graduate of LaGrange College, he holds a Bachelor of Arts degree in Religion. Currently, Shane resides with his wife, Cheri, and their two children: Brendan and Kara, in Columbia, South Carolina. He has two daughters, Chelsea and Alexandra, from a previous marriage. https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18590712.H_Shane_Alford

Book preview

Table of Contents

Part One – Shadow Omens

Chapter 1: The Suresta

Chapter 2: Chasing Shadows

Chapter 3: Whispers

Chapter 4: Drums

Chapter 5: Shadow Play

Chapter 6: Winds of War

Chapter 7: Fire and Ice

Chapter 8: The Bond

Chapter 9: Needletop

Chapter 10: Memories

Part Two – The March of Shadows

Chapter 11: Departure

Chapter 12: The Letter

Chapter 13: Guardians

Chapter 14: Dark Horizons

Chapter 15: Garnet

Chapter 16: Lions

Chapter 17: Homecoming

Chapter 18: Wayfarer

Chapter 19: Eulogy

Chapter 20: Re’Galis

Part Three – Into Darkness

Chapter 21: Shifting Shadows

Chapter 22: Stalking Shadows

Chapter 23: Facets of Shadow

Chapter 24: A Gathering of Storms

Chapter 25: Lightning Crashes

Chapter 26: Thrones

Chapter 27: Resurrection

Chapter 28: Spirit-Fire

Chapter 29: Beyond Twilight

Chapter 30: Paths Out of Darkness

Chapter 31: When Worlds Collide

Epilogue

About the Author

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Chapter 1: The Suresta

Step…

Balance…

Eyes closed…

Waiting…

Breath slow…, paced…, calm…

Slowly, the arc begins.

Feel the weight; feel its strength. Cool steel…

The sand parts before the tip. The sword moves…tracing the line.

Hear the rhythm of each grain. Feel their motion as they slip passed its edge.

The arc continues. A line marks its creation.

The desert air is gentle, barely caresses to the flesh.

Soft silk whispers against skin.

Dark hair kisses neck and cheek.

Sweet jasmine is in the air.

The sword shimmers; the sword sings.

Each glittering grain speaks through it.

The arc is traced; the line, drawn.

A melody stirs from deep within.

Softly, the song of the sand joins with it.

Harmony…

Balance…

Waiting…

The grains settle around delicate toes; one heel alone awaits their touch.

Poised, the arc is done. The stance is perfect.

A gentle voice lifts the melody, the ancient song, almost unheard, into the desert breeze.

It moves through a spirit honed and focused.

The warrior, the dancer, the girl stands ready, humming its mysteries to herself.

Soon they will come. Soon they will cross her line. Soon the song will begin and with it, the dance.

* * *

There were four now. They encircled her.

One moved in sharp jerking motions. Stepping in…stopping…stepping back. Eight feet away, a spear was his weapon. His feints were reckless, bewildered and unnerved by her calm resolve. His weapon, though lethal, had no artistry in his hands. For blood, he was eager; but cowardice ruled him. He would not strike first. He would await vulnerability before seeking opportunity.

The second cast his impatience first to one then to the other metal shod boot. He rocked back and forth, his weight straining the sands beneath him, crushing the grains together. His armor groaned. Each shift was exaggerated. His boots slipped so slightly to each side. He carried a heavy weapon, its sway bearing his cadence beyond his center of balance. He would be slow when he attacked but, within the radius of his assault, devastating. Once committed, he would be overborne and without grace.

Hot desert air shrieked in shrill defiance around the blade of her third opponent as he paced. He was arrogant and venomous. He wanted her to hear his sword cleave the wind around him. Mercilessly, he whirled his weapon as he walked. Each step was impatient. There was no guard in his steps, no subtlety, no misdirection. It was linear and angry. His skill was hard-won, the conditioning of an animal forced to fight to survive. But it was not trained. Unrestrained, he would move to her with abandon, his blade swirling; a surge of viciousness and violence. His weapon would deliver his hatred even if his body was sacrificed. And yet he held his distance.

Her fourth adversary held his leash.

This one did not flourish a weapon. He did not disturb the sands idly. There was no creaking of strained leather or ring of grating steel betraying armor. About him no brazen fanfare carried his convictions or demeanor. He stood, unmoving and focused. He watched the girl before him with respectful insight. He gauged her. He marked the slender blade that extended from her right palm and studied its careful motion across the sand at her feet. He noted the perfection of the arc it drew. The blade’s twin waited behind her lithe form. It, too, was poised, the tip waiting only a few inches above the sand. She was centered. One graceful leg extended a half step forward, resting on the ball of her foot. Each half of the arc mirrored the symmetry of the other. There was neither fear nor zeal in her. She was balanced. Could she really be that good? he wondered.

As the music within her surfaced, the four that surrounded her joined her in it. Their parts were enfolded into the melody. In the motion of sound and body, they were captured, forever more a part of her song. Forever more entwined in the dance that was about to begin. It was inevitable…

* * *

Black smoke rose in the east. Draven marked it – two, perhaps three miles from his position in the rocky terrain three days south of Stonehammer. There the land was called The Wallows. Twisting canyons wound through the land like the undulations of some monstrous serpent. The Wallows had been carved by eons of wind driven sand, but they were made of rock. Its terrain was better for cumbersome conveyances. The ground was flatter and suited the wheels of wagons and carts. The stone was swept clear as northerly winds flowed through the valleys. The breath of Lirr-Arden was expelled, harsh and cruel. It often howled through the canyons, draining life from the land. Like a hungry beast the winds sought to extend the desert’s reach into the Midlands, hunting for prey to consume. For a hundred miles, the desiccating air rained sand and sapped water. In the end, however, its menace abated and life returned. Grasslands emerged and, farther north still, great forests grew in abundance. But forever the desert advanced. So, too, did its minions.

For that reason, Stonehammer, Arnramadar, and its twin keep, Stonefist, Arngralkar, were built. Crowning mesas that flanked the broad Valley of Arrokyr, these two formidable outposts were all that remained of a dozen such fortifications built to stop the advance of marauders and dark armies from the desert lands. Three generations ago men from the north bound together with their stout brethren, the Dar-Thromnyr, the dwarves of Thrombardland, to construct these defenses. Into this frontier their combined armies had come, determined to stifle the flood of shadows that flowed from the desert. The campaign brought shining armies here, driving back the darkness. Knights serving lords and lands far to the north rode against creatures wrought in the flames of these fiery realms. The battles joined were bloody and innumerable. But in time their sacrifices secured territory and the keeps were hammered into the land to guard and watch over them. Still, just as sands wear away stones, the evil that claims Lirr-Arden rills these defenses. The balance of power shifts precariously. Only two stalwart castles remained. To one of these, Stonehammer, Draven was sworn.

The scout studied the smoke. He knew the spot from which it blew. It arose along a track trade caravans often kept to. The terrain was easier and flatter there and wagons often took advantage of it. Convenience, however, buys its own trouble. In his years of service he had seen that price paid many times. He wasn’t the only one in these lands that knew where the caravans marched. The smoke would likely mean that another had fallen prey to the desert bandits.

Draven was fifteen when he arrived at The Gauntlet. That was eight years ago. It might as well have been a lifetime. The call of duty was one all young men in the north answered. Whether born of Ylestan, Turanian, or even Aylnar blood, generations of warriors had marched south into the teeth of the Broken Lands, into Mith-Sharador, as the dwarven folk, the Dar-Thromnyr, called them. Service was not optional. For five years young men were charged to devote themselves to the defense of their homelands. The first was in martial preparation and training. The remaining four tested these skills. These tests were cruel and as many as one-third of the farm boys and craftsmen’s sons failed them…and died. The desert was always eager and hungry for more prey; it especially liked courageous but foolish young soldiers.

Their blood only stemmed the tide of evil. From the keeps, large forces could be seen and engaged. Smaller groups were able to trickle past. The Valley of Arrokyr was by no means the only course darkness could take, but the other paths were more broken and treacherous. The mountains to the east and west were high and difficult to traverse. The broad valley offered the most amenable route. For that reason it often ran with blood. Today would be no different.

Draven cinched his baldric strap tight. He meant to travel quickly. With practiced agility he moved through the boulders and twisting stone shelves. The leather soles of his high boots left scarcely a scuff on the sandstone as he descended from his perch. A rock adder eyed his passing from the shade of an outcrop. The Great Flame would be below the peaks of Beyornon in a couple of hours. The snake would go hunting then. It was still too hot for such exertion now.

Loose gravel and dust followed Draven’s steps despite his efforts to stay to barren stones. There weren’t many options given his pace. At least the winds would disperse the dust cloud fairly quickly. Were it not for his years treading through this land his speed would not have been possible. He had learned to be surefooted. Missteps were deadly here.

He could have returned to Alli-Turan, the land of his birth, almost four years ago when his initial tour of service ended. Many of those that had walked into the maw of Lirr-Arden alongside him had done just that. Well, those that had survived at least.

* * *

Instead, he had chosen to remain. Many of his fellows wondered at that choice. Draven, unlike most of them, wasn’t of common birth. He was the son of a noble. The surname he carried was a weight unto itself, however. His father was no simple lord or landmaster. He was Relgan Mord, Duke of the Fellenrev, the northernmost province of the realms of Alli-Turan. His very name evoked fear for it was drenched in blood. To return home would have been to assume his station at his father’s side as overseer of those frozen forests and tundra crossed lands. For many, such a prospect would have been eagerly awaited. However, for Draven, it was a curse.

Relgan Mord was not a man with a warm parental nature. He was a warlord crafted in steel. There was no tenderness in his heart. For his entire life, he had waged a crusade of terror against the scattered remnant clans of the Asgevar that remained hidden beyond the sharp pines of the Fallenrev. Like his father before him, Relgan carried inside him a blend of hatred and duty. For forty years, his Turanian knights had pushed the last of the Asgevar barbarians farther and farther into the cold reaches. By conquest, their ancestral lands were brought under his banner. War was hardly limited to hot, desert lands. Icy fields ran with blood just as easily.

The Arnghildrok, the Barbarian Wars, were the result of impudence, ignorance, greed, and fear. Long before peoples of the Inland Sea city-states crossed the Midland Sea, the Asgevar had called the lands their home. Rich were the soils and fertile were the harvests. So, like flies to honey, Aylnar settlers struck out from their great civilized realms in the West and found purchase along the shores of Einhervaldheim – the barbarian lands. At first their feet trod lightly and the Asgevar traded with them in peace. Their footfalls, however, soon grew louder. Their imprint became deep and the sound thunderous as more and more settlers cleft the land and enslaved it to their needs. Parleys and treaties were drafted and struck and peace was maintained for a time. But the hunger of the west was greater than such agreements could restrain. The Aylnar held their appetites above the concerns of stupid barbarians. The Asgevar voiced their objections loudly as the Aylnar violated sacred lands and disregarded oaths they had sworn. These objections were arrogantly dismissed out of hand. Soon, war horns were sounded. They were louder than cries of outrage.

In answer, to secure their interests in the bounty of the territory, the Cities of the Sea sent aid to their colonies. Wealthy and powerful, the Cities provided thousands of men and military might. A great crusade began to stop the rampaging onslaught of the barbarian hordes and to protect the towns and villages about the coastal lands. Warlords, generals of these forces, established protectorates and divided the territory amongst themselves. Each was declared a duchy; each warlord, a duke. Under their pennants and heraldic blazons, the dukes brought unprecedented military power to bear against the Asgevar. The war was lost and with it, their homeland. Courage alone could not withstand ranks of warriors in hardened steel. So it was that Einhervaldheim was reforged by the fires of war and became Alli-Turan, the Land of the Knights. The Aylnar, in their arrogant pride, came to refer to themselves as Turanian, people of the knights. They began to see themselves as a culture set apart from their kinsmen of the Inland Sea. Distance bred autonomy into their rugged identity.

Into the House of Mord, Draven had been born. His mother poured out her life to give him his. She died before her arms ever held him. As he grew, he learned the way of steel and fire and watched both used to devastating effect. His father’s eyes wielded both. Draven remembered his stare well enough. The scars on his body and soul recorded their displeasure.

When his fifteenth year was upon him, Draven answered the call to duty. The change was insignificant in most ways. His entire life had been set to the beat of a military drum. From his earliest memories he recalled the strictures of regiment and the cadence of being a soldier. He knew every nuance, every formation, and every knightly code. His hand had held a sword his entire life, it seemed. The heavy steel armor he donned was thin compared to the thick calluses his heart wore.

In one way, the change was drastic. Marching off to war carried him out of his father’s shadow. For the first time in his life, he was beyond his father’s burning gaze and fiery fists. Their flame had tempered the metal within the young man. Desert winds, even if they burned with hellfire, scarcely singed him.

At first, he was to be an officer. His father had made those arrangements. And, for a time, Draven assumed that role. His training and education equipped him well-enough for the task. But knightly codes and the stratagems of warfare are nothing more than academic matters. The reality of battle has its own lessons. A lucky few live long enough to relearn what they have been taught. Draven got lucky. The twisted scar just above his heart reminded him of that fact. He was the only survivor of his first command.

The Morok ambush had come suddenly upon him and his knights. They were escorting a supply convoy from the barter-town of Skava to Stonehammer when the first of the black orc marauders appeared in pursuit. Astride the scaled backs of their dragon-horses, the Morok swept into the valley behind the caravan and raced towards the trailing pack animals.

Draven knew that the adroit orc archers would bring swift death to the caravan if not intercepted. The Morok’s prowess with their powerful bows was greatly feared and with ample good cause. To answer the assault, he brought most of his knights into a rear guard position to give cover to the ambling druaga. The large saurian beasts were both a liability and an asset. They managed the desert conditions well but were ponderous. Stout and resilient despite the loads they hauled, the creatures could carry great quantities of goods for long distances, but they could never outrun the Morok.

From the clouds of dust that erupted behind them, Draven expected a vast wave of attackers. He urged his own dragon-horse, a sleek blue-grey steed, forward at the vanguard of his men. They followed, spreading out to his right and left flanks like the unfurled wings of a great dragon. The cavalry line charged forward, shining steel swords held poised and ready.

The dust was thick in the wake of the Morok raiders as his knights approached. It obscured everything. The sun was just reaching the crown of the distant mountains to the west. It cast long shadows through the broken landscape and added to the confusing blur.

The first of the black orcs veered aside as Draven’s knights met their charge. Some darted left while others darted right, agilely guiding their mounts away from the shining steel of the caravan’s defenders. It was only then that Draven glimpsed the trailing brambles the first riders dragged behind them. The branches of some twisted brush tumbled along in tow as each raider split off from his charge. A thick cloud of ripped earth and dust swept up at their passing and filled the air. The dust was a feint! It showed the overeager knights what they expected to see, a large attacking force of bloodthirsty Morok set upon their trail. Experience was hard-won that day.

Draven snarled at the deception. The sandscarf over his face barely protected his eyes and mouth. But it didn’t matter. They were engulfed in the cloud, trapped by the blinding particles. The desert was the ally of his enemies. He called out to his men to rally them, but his choked orders were barely discernable. The screams of the druaga in the distance drowned them out.

Wheeling his mount, Draven turned towards the sound and yelled for the knights to return to the caravan. It took only a few seconds for his force to reemerge from the blinding dust. But it was too long. As they raced back towards the convoy, he could see that the cliffs above the pass ahead were dotted with Morok archers. The orcs were raining volley after volley down upon the defenseless caravan. Draven spurred his mount forward.

In the distance, toward the front of the line, another cloud of dust roared into view. It engulfed the caravan like a great serpent consuming its prey. Draven could see more Morok riders swiftly moving through the injured ranks of his infantry as well as the druaga. The Morok plan had worked perfectly. While he and his warriors charged at a shadow, his foe outmaneuvered him with veteran proficiency. Now beset from within the line of plodding beasts, his cavalry could not effectively charge. His enemies were already woven into the midst of the caravan. He and his knights would have to engage the Morok on their terms, the chaos of melee.

Between him and his knights and the caravan was a rain of death. The Morok archers turned their assault from the druaga once their fellows were engaged. The orcs focused their bows upon the charging knights. The sharp shower of arrows fell upon Draven, his men, and their mounts with lethal efficiency. All suffered for it.

Through the swirl of dust and screams of death, Draven rode until he fell. He did not feel the arrow that pierced his cuirass and unseated him. The world simply went from a cacophony of sounds and images to a blur of red before blackness quieted everything.

When a patrol from Stonehammer discovered the shattered caravan two days later, all was carnage. Draven was found upon the battlefield, his dragon-horse lay near his broken body. The beast had collapsed with no fewer than five arrows piercing its scaly body. One was lodged cleanly in the creature’s brain. Only the young commander – left for dead – survived that day.

The lesson was a painful one. Tactics were only as good as the battlefield for which they were crafted. Change the battlefield and the tactics become obsolete. The enemies that crept through the blazing haze of Lirr-Arden were not Asgevar barbarians or Turanians. Draven would have to adapt to survive. When his wounds had healed he returned to duty. However, he took no new command. Instead, he entered the ranks of the scouts. This availed him the opportunity to venture beyond the keep and learn from the rangers – the most seasoned warriors found in these inhospitable lands. Draven knew all there was to know about the workings of a fortress. Such were the only homes he had ever known. His enemies, however, were not soldiers. He needed to learn new ways to fight.

Lirr-Arden, the Land of the Fire-Winds, was a realm of extremes. Unfortunately, they were all deadly. Within such a place life was a rarity and death was commonplace. It is no surprise to Draven, then, that those peoples that survive there were hardened and resilient. Learning their secrets became his goal. The tribes of desert nomads had many.

Their legends told that Lirr-Arden had once been a primordial land of ancient forests, rivers, and lakes. Long ago, it was a vast, beautiful place filled with great abundance and a wide variety of life. According to their lore, that shining vision had been consumed by fire, devoured by the rage of a great dragon – Dyerbazog. In the wake of the monster’s fury and madness all that remained was scorched earth, endless black sands, and blistered rock.

In the east, the jagged mountains of Ardra rose up like the teeth of the beast. Beyond them, the heart of the dragon was said to still beat. The volcanic peaks spewed the monster’s fiery breath defiantly into the heavens even unto this day. Within the mountains’ shadows abided all manner of wicked creatures. The greatest of these were the Morarmadin, the priests of the god of darkness, Mithcran.

In its southern reaches the deserts of Lirr-Arden merged with the mountains of Ardor. To the west, its black sands stretched towards the Great Western Ocean, the Eidros Maerishar. The north was bordered by the Mith-Sharador, the Broken Lands, with the mountains of Beyornon rising like an impenetrable wall behind them. Throughout its heart, all was endless black sand towering in dunes hundreds of feet high in the deepest depths of the wasteland.

With the birth of each day, the light of the Great Flame struggled through the black, ashy smokes that rose from Ardra until it climbed above their reach. Then, the sun’s blinding radiance seared the land. Deadly vapors that had risen during the chill of night from beneath the sands awaited its touch. As the sun’s voyage across the sky approached the midday, the sands bent its power and focus it. It was then that one of Lirr-Arden’s most deadly secrets was revealed. Each day the light of Xorconum’s Throne ignited the ghostly clouds that had settled in the low places. The noxious mists exploded into raging fires that sweeps across the black sands, purging all within their path. Lirr-Arden was the land of the fire winds.

In such a lethal world one might expect only desolation. But life somehow remained.

Draven crested the last low rise and crouched in the shadow of a boulder. His vantage point gave him a clear view of the draw below. Smoke and fire sprouted from three carts. Six pack animals, dromedaries, were scattered in two small groups away from the shattered caravan. The animals huddled together instinctively. There were perhaps twenty bodies strewn about the scene, smoldering on the rocky flat. Their attackers had apparently already claimed their prizes and departed.

Scanning The Wallows, Draven spied their telltale dust trail. They had not gone far. He set out after them.

Winding through the rocky terrain, his course brought him along the edge of the stone channel. He was above the bandits. Five dragon horses hissed and growled below him. The animals were charged with energy. The smell of blood filled their nostrils and the promise of fresh meat excited them. A grizzled Dyrveshi warrior held their reins and struggled to control the beasts. The nomad brigand was oblivious to the scout as he crept across the cliff above him.

The horse tender accounted for one steed. Four riders remained to be discovered. Draven scaled the edge of the canyon in order to see beyond the next bend. A wide flat basin of sand spread out there. Reaching the overlook, he knelt as his quarry came into view. Four bandits, all Dyrveshi, encircled a fifth form, a wisp of a girl.

Draven’s eyes narrowed. Silently, his sword slipped from the scabbard across his back.

* * *

The bladesman stalked behind her. His master stood before her. He was waiting for the cue to strike. To her right, the spear was ready; to her left, the maul. Beneath her, the sand flowed; above her, the infinite sky. Patiently, she waited. An ancient song soothed her mind and readied her body. The whisper of her teacher’s voice spoke to her. In the stillness, she let her senses flow across the sands. She let the wind tell her secrets. The hearts of the men around her drummed. Their breathing was deep, hurried, and anxious. Only their master commanded the tempo of his body. She listened for the sound. The leash fell.

Perhaps, it was a nod. She didn’t need to know.

With the signal, the bladesman’s lungs sucked in a hissing breath. His fury was unleashed. The anticipation that had built within him could not be contained.

She heard the hiss. It was distinct, even within the whirling shrill song of his sword.

The bladesman sprang forward. The sword in his clenched fists slashed down, eager to cleave the impudent girl before him in twain. As with his pacing, his attack was linear, direct and without compromise. It was a powerful stroke, like lightning seeking the earth.

The girl spun. The slim blade in her right hand left the sand arc as she pivoted, pushing off from her cat stance and slipping to the right of the bladesman’s downward blow as she turned. The curve of her sword caught the heavier blade and led its power to the side with a glancing kiss of steel.

The spearman thrust forward as she twisted nearer his position. His response was more in reaction to her startling speed than as a compliment to the bladesman’s attack.

The girl continued her spin, moving just beyond the line of the spear. Her sword slipped from its glancing parry and drove into the shaft of the piercing weapon, driving it downward. The spear tip touched the sand.

The blade in her left hand followed her momentum. It rose like a wing on the wind and found a line towards the bladesman. Before he could recover from the vulgarity of his stroke, her sword flew over the terrain of his outstretched arm and heaving chest before cleanly tracing a red line across his larynx. His eyes flashed in amazement. Death froze the expression as he collapsed, silencing his sword’s screams. Her spin was complete. She again faced the dead man’s dark master.

The heavy warrior with the maul roared, finally bringing himself into the fight.

The girl’s clear blue eyes locked on those of the spearman. The coward froze for a moment in shock as his blade wielding comrade showered the sand with his own blood. Before he could recover and withdraw his weapon for another thrust, the sword dancer had completed her pirouette. She stepped nimbly onto the shaft of his spear, driving the tip further into the sand. Terrified by his vulnerability, he jerked the weapon back defensively to place the spear between him and the girl.

The girl did not resist the maneuver. In fact, she pushed off from the weapon with surprising force, using it as a springboard to launch herself towards the charging giant with the maul. The spearman lurched backwards with the combined energy of his fear and her push. The sand slipped beneath his sandals as he fought to steady himself. Seconds were lost to him.

The maul careened before its growling wielder as he stomped forward. The last thing he expected from the tiny figure he stalked was a frontal attack.

Springing from the shaft of the spear, the girl flew above the fallen bladesman’s body towards his brutish ally. The murderous maul whipped with furious speed to meet her, intent upon shattering her small form. There was cruel hunger in the man’s eyes as he directed his weapon to crush her.

The weapon’s inertia led it towards her. Her own was better controlled.

The power of the large man and might of his weapon combined into a thunderous force. Force without control, however, serves no master save itself.

A wicked smile crept to the man’s snarled lip as his weapon reached for the girl. Anticipation fired through him. It went unfulfilled.

Even as the maul closed to meet her, the girl commanded her body to turn. In an instant, the plane of her trajectory changed. Twisting mid-flight, her corkscrew maneuver brought her beneath the orbit of his weapon. The heavy maul could not follow despite the frantic attempt of its wielder. She slipped inside the radius of his attack, sliding across the sand beneath the whirling maul on her back.

The giant looked down in shock. Two slivers of steel extended from the base of his fat belly. The tips of swords met at his heart deep within his ribcage. Thick blood and bile oozed over the shining blades. Dead before he fell, his maul dragged him off to his left where he sprawled in the gritty dust before his master’s gaze.

The girl recovered quickly, rolling back to a defensive posture onto one knee. Her right blade pointed at the dark Dyrveshi lord. The left traced an arc in the sand at her side.

The spearman had also regained control but dared not attack. He, too, looked towards the only remaining figure not committed to the fight.

The girl noted a dusty form navigating down the edge of the canyon behind her remaining foes. She marked the sword in his hand and his desert cloak. The gear and harness he carried were simple and designed for the utility of survival. He was not burdened by heavy armor. Such would take life as surely as the weapons it would have been designed to protect against in these hot lands. He moved like a desert cat.

Rising, sand slipped from the girl’s silken pantaloons and blouse. A few stubborn grains glistened upon her bare midriff. Her eyes fixed upon the veiled form before her. His eyes, blackened by heavy kohl mascara against the sun’s glare, peered through the slit in his face covering. They were cold, despite the desert heat. She knew he was unaware of the approaching warrior; but, it was not clear to whose aid the desert cat’s sword would come. The Dyrveshi lord casually drew back the fold of his outer robe. A splendid scimitar hilt gleamed in its black scabbard.

A reassured smile crossed the spearman’s face.

The girl swept both her blades into a butterfly arc up and over her head, crossing them before smoothly ending their course at her sides. The tip of each pointed to the sand at a perfect angle extending the line of her arms to the dry ground. With the flick of her wrists, the bloody ichors that besmirched their faces were cast to the hungry earth. Once again, the heel of her right foot lifted from the sand as she readied her stance. She studied the men before her.

The black robed Dyrveshi watched her. He measured the distance between them.

She saw the subtle but purposeful changes in his body as his right hand crossed to his weapon. He could move left or right or spring forward. She waited. She was balanced and ready.

The desert lord lowered his gaze for a moment; his ears discerned the approach of the newcomer. He hazarded a glance over his left shoulder. The spearman caught the look and followed it. The whip of the spear towards the man’s approach answered the girl’s question. The desert cat was not their pet. She moved.

The Dyrveshi snapped his attention back to her wraithlike figure as she darted towards him. Her twin blades trailed behind her like thin steel wings. His own weapon flashed from its scabbard and slit the air in front of him. He shifted to his left barely intercepting the strike of her lower blow. Bending and spinning counter to her double bladed attack, he managed to duck the upper blow, the edge of her weapon whistling past his nose.

He recovered in an instant and set his feet squarely as he readied to follow her. A few feet beyond him, she too stopped her charge. Her blades, the right extended out in a straight line at the height of her shoulder towards him, the left arched over her head, prepared to rejoin the assault. Her opponent stepped to meet her, his scimitar fanning out before him like a wall of steel. She met each wave of his sword with the ringing parry of her own. The two joined in a swirling dance of death, probing for vulnerability.

Draven sprinted from the base of the canyon wall towards the combatants. A Dyrveshi spearman raced to meet him. He could see the girl and the bandit lord clash. His eyes darted about the field of battle searching for the remaining two warriors. He had not seen them fall as he focused on the hasty climb down the cliff. The still form of two corpses surprised him.

The spearman closed to him, forcing Draven to ready his defense. His opponent halted just beyond the range of his spear. He jabbed at the scout, careful not to lunge too far.

Draven was forced to bat the sharp implement away. He circled left and right, seeking to take advantage of a dropped guard. The spear wielder struck repeatedly like an angry snake. For the moment, spear and sword were at a stalemate.

The dance continued beyond them. The Dyrveshi lord spun and swirled his blade against the girl’s assault. His desert cloak and robes fanned out about him as he sought to enwrap her blades and trap her. Each rippled stroke of cloth also concealed his attack and served as a feint. She was obliged to meet every blow.

As she chased the shadowy phantom that spun before her, she watched the steps of his dance. For all the sweeping chaos his clothes created, his feet were precise. Each maneuver was heralded by a change in his stance. She studied the patterns even as she varied her own. She read his intent in the story his boots wrote upon the sands. She waited for her opening.

The trill cry of the fifth bandit joined the chorus already echoing through the canyon. The old bandit rounded the bend and galloped towards the fight. The dragon-horse he rode slathered in excitement, a slimy froth sloshing from around its bridle. The beast’s four companions followed, their claws kicking up the loose gravel and grit.

Their approach emboldened the spearman further. Draven had no more time to devote to their cat and mouse game. With a quick swat to the weapon with his sword, he feigned an advance forcing the spearman to withdraw to keep his weapon between himself and the warrior. Draven instead bounded a step away from the spear tip, widening the distance. This was exactly opposite what the spearman expected. The move gave Draven the split second he needed. Spears render death at range. That is both their strength and weakness. In formation, supported by shields, they are extremely effective. As solitary weapons, a fighter must always guard against an attacker bypassing the weapon’s deadly asset, the spear tip. Draven’s foe was keenly aware of this vulnerability and overreacted to the scout’s attack.

Draven seized the advantage and exploited another limitation of spears. As he drew a step beyond the spearman’s reach, he snapped a slender dagger from its sheath upon his right bracer. The weapon zipped across the short distance between him and his adversary. The spearman had neither shield nor means to parry. His backpedal had left him off balance. The dagger pierced the man’s chest. The spear dropped to the sand. The dead man followed.

Draven grabbed the spear from the ground and wheeled towards the charging rider. With all his strength, he hurled the missile. The old bandit’s eyesight failed him and he spotted the weapon too late. His comrade’s spear caught him squarely in his gut, lifting him from his saddle and casting him backwards to the dust. The blow startled the lead dragon-horse as its rider was unseated. The beast veered away from the swordsman. Its fellows marked the fallen bandits and trumpeted in delight. They were very hungry.

The ringing of steel brought Draven’s focus back to the girl and her nemesis.

The Dyrveshi’s blows were powerful and precise. Her parries spent his energy and redirected it harmlessly. Each time he pressed, she bent but did not break. Each time she pressed, his skill and speed were pushed to their limits.

The girl watched his feet. She learned his dance. In moments, though he exceeded her in reach, size and strength, her blade touched him. He stepped and her swords were there. The Dyrveshi lord recoiled from the sting in his ribs. Like a terrible and beautiful whirlwind, she spun away from his rebuke. The desert scout had felled his last man and was joining the girl.

He watched as the girl stopped half a dozen paces from him. Hot blood dripped from the hem of his tunic. She readied again. He watched her stance unfold, one blade in front, one blade behind, her small foot perched, heel raised.

This fight was not his. She was that good. He gave her a respectful nod.

Giving a shrill whistle, the Dyrveshi sprinted towards an onrushing dragon-horse and spun onto the steed’s back with a well-practiced move. Reining the beast to his will, the drac reared before relenting to its master’s command. The nomad flashed the girl a last parting look before whipping his animal haunches and galloping from the battlefield. The remaining creatures sniffed the air nervously and pawed at the bodies of the bandit lord’s comrades.

Draven stopped, keeping his distance from the girl. Her stance was unchanged. Did she mean to fight him now?

The girl cast a look across her left shoulder towards the desert scout as he watched her. They were a contrast of forms. One was clad for desert survival; the other in thin silk.

Are you hurt?

Draven was taken aback by her question, her words tinged by her accent. He was here to save her, or so he had thought. Reflexively, he glanced down his jerkin looking for a wound. The girl smirked.

Her own garments were splattered with crimson droplets, none her own. She released her martial stance and turned to face him. She was perhaps seventeen.

His response was an echo. Are you?

She shook her head. Draven followed her gaze to the black smoke rising from the canyon to the north.

I am unharmed. The simple statement belied the pain hidden within her eyes, but her voice did not waver.

I will take you somewhere where you will be safe, Draven offered. I am a scout from Arnramadar.

The girl walked towards him. He noted the twin blades she still carried. He sheathed his own.

Are there any places truly safe? she asked as she walked past him towards the smoke.

Draven considered the question. Not so far, he decided. The scene before him gave ample testament.

The Dyrveshi were nomads. They typically travelled in small groups, living off of whatever spoils the desert offered up. There were perhaps dozens of such tribes scattered throughout Mith-Sharador. Most were herdsmen or traders but a fair number, like these dead men, were bandits. Resources were not plentiful and those that had them were wise to take precautions to keep them.

Draven inspected each fallen Dyrveshi, gathering from their personages anything of value. He retrieved his dagger from the spearman’s body, leaving the man’s blood wiped across his jerkin. The girl watched a short distance away. It was a harsh reality here. All were scavengers.

Setting aside the few accoutrements he had taken off the bandits, he freed his hands and approached the dragon-horses with care. The animals, though used as steeds, were nevertheless quite dangerous. Sharp teeth and claws were coupled with bad attitudes and powerful, long legs and neck. The scout had seen the damage these creatures could do when provoked. They watched him cautiously. They were hungry and not eager to leave a meal and would happily eat their former masters. The dracs shied as he drew within a few yards.

The scout frowned. Four dragon-horses would be useful at the keep, if he could gather them. From his gear, Draven produced a leather bladder and uncorked the spigot. The nearest animal’s nostrils tested the air. Keeping his eyes on the beast, he sprayed a small stream of water into his mouth. The dragon-horse watched him and caught the scent. It pawed eagerly. The other three sidled up next to the stallion. The iridescence in his scales marked him as such. The others were mares.

Draven dropped a few precious ounces of water onto the sand at his feet and stepped back. The nictitating membranes over the animal’s eyes were yellowed. These beasts had not had drink in several days, he guessed. Without fluids to flush their systems, these tissues were the first visible sign. Unlike ordinary horses that would perish quickly in this arid terrain, the dracs could survive for a week or more. But even they had to find water.

The stallion walked cautiously over to the damp spot in the sand and speared the area with its tongue. Specialized to the task, the member gathered what moisture was to be had like a sponge. The gritty sand sloughed off as the tongue withdrew into the beast’s toothy maw.

The animal raised its sleek saurian head and eyed the human and his water skin. Hissing, the stallion’s head bobbed as its nostrils flared. A test of wills was being played out. For the scout, it could be a dangerous game. Both players watched each other carefully. Draven did not want to be added to the menu today.

As the drac nuzzled forward searching for more drink, Draven led its nose with the bladder with his left hand while edging to the beast’s flank and reins with his right. A few more drops of water tumbled to the sand and the beast’s head followed.

Quickly, Draven mounted. The stallion shuddered but did not bolt. Satisfied, he re-corked his water skin and patted the muscled neck of the animal. A low hissing rumble voiced the animal’s tolerance of its new rider but not its pleasure.

The girl stood near the bend in the canyon. Draven marveled at her. Barefoot and thinly clothed, she should be tortured by the desert heat. The sands were blistering and hot even through his thickly soled boots. And yet she seemed unaffected by their searing touch. Who or what was she?

Guiding the stallion, Draven quickly gathered the reins of the remaining dragon-horses and joined her.

They won’t eat you. He offered her the reins of a mare. At least not yet, he added.

The animal was tall for her but the girl mounted without effort. Dyrveshi saddles lacked the benefits of stirrups.

I’m Draven.

Ahlandra Maurel.

He nodded and spurred the drac towards the smoke once more.

Rounding the last bend in the wallow, Draven led the way to the caravan’s wreckage. The camels had wandered off; there wouldn’t be time to track them. Undoubtedly, he would not be only one drawn to the smoke. There were worse things than Dyrveshi in Mith-Sharador.

Draven recounted the dead. There were twenty. Curiously, most had been killed by fire. The rocky ground was scorched. What the carts bore was no longer discernable.

The peculiar scene unfolded as they rode into the blasted area. Draven looked back to the girl, Ahlandra. She was unblemished by fire. Not even her clothes were singed. Silk wasn’t known for its retardant qualities.

Dismounting, the scout studied the men. They were Fharlani. Their dark skin was marked by the decorative scars adult males traced around their cheeks, foreheads and chins. Hoops and spikes of copper and brass adorned many of their eyebrows, earlobes and bottom lips. Dense braids of black hair looped about their heads, drawn tight from front to back. Colorful but ruddy robes draped those figures not burned beyond recognition. Many carried short, broad sabers while others toted spear and shield. The latter were of banded wicker and stained red, black and yellow. The tribal markings were unfamiliar to Draven. The Fharlani were from the distant south, beyond Ardra, in fact. They were renowned as traders and merchants of exotic wares.

Again he looked at the girl. Her skin was evenly tanned but not the umbra hue of these men. Her features, too, were not theirs. She was delicately formed and her eyes were bright blue. These dead men had stern faces, long but strong with deep dark eyes. They would tower over her. Most were tall and lean, well over six feet. She was perhaps five.

Who was she? What happened here?

The tracks scratched into the stony ground showed the chaos of the attack. However, several important things were missing. There were no dragon-horse tracks. And, looking at these men, only a handful near the middle cart had wounds from a weapon. They had died closing on that vehicle by the slashing strokes of a sword.

Draven inspected the shattered cart. The shell of the wagon was ripped by an explosive force from within. Iron ribs, curled by heat, wrapped its burned out husk. Bits and pieces of wood and metal showered the sandstone forming a radius of shrapnel and scorched earth. Whatever had been within it had blown it apart. The Dar-Thromnyr used a powder that carried that power – firedust they called it.

They were slavers, Ahlandra said.

Draven looked back to the girl. Her statement was ironically cold.

Who are you? His question was to the point even as his mind raced through some unsettling possibilities. He knew her name, nothing more.

The last of my people, came her sad reply. I am Suresta.

Suresta? Draven’s brow folded. He had heard that word before while sitting about the cook fires in Stonehammer. Many tales are spun to past the time among warriors. A Jinn-born!

Draven turned from the ripped carcass of the cart.

Are you a woman or a demon, then? His thoughts returned to the fighting less than half an hour ago. The swirl of blades he saw gave evidence to the latter.

The girl met his eyes. He looked away, embarrassed for his harshness. That was his father’s voice.

Not a demon, she replied.

Indeed, he glanced about and gestured to the scene of destruction in disbelief.

Ahlandra dismounted but left her swords tucked into the saddle. Draven watched her carefully as she walked to the burning cart. She stopped near the husk and looked into its shattered heart. Her eyes lingered on the fire.

She was too weak, her wounds too deep. She spoke softly, reflectively.

Who? Draven glanced into the flames searching for a body and the meaning of her words.

My Sii, my efreet," came her odd response.

She turned from the fire to face the man. There was pain in her eyes once more. This time it was not hidden as precious water tinged them.

I am Suresta. I am born of two worlds: one of flesh, one of spirit.

Draven struggled with the explanation.

Now, she continued, only one world remains.

And the other? Draven pressed.

She died. Ahlandra released his eyes, her mind drifting in surreal sorrow. Our spirits are not meant for cages or bonds.

Who died? What happened here? His questions in part had already been answered. A lot of people died. There were Fharlani scattered everywhere. How can a spirit die?

Life is more than flesh, she continued. She lived within me, she grew, she sang… and she cried. Ahlandra fought to give words to emotions. Her presence gave me strength, comfort and joy. She was my sister, my friend, my…Sii.

Ahlandra’s shining blue eyes restrained her tears.

When these men found me, a Morvandi had already ripped into our bond. His evil magic burned between us. He destroyed our people, our family, and our home.

Draven stiffened and his demeanor grew darker.

Morvandi? It wasn’t that the term was unknown to him. In fact, it was precisely because it was known that he was struck by it. Few would even dare speak the word. She conjured the name of the darkest shadows that walked these lands.

Just as the court of Xorconum, Lord of the Heavens, shines in glory, the pits of Morthalin, the Dark World, seethe in the blackness of their master, Mithcran. Those that serve him, the Morarmadin, dwell in the shadows of Ardra but their reach spans the world. The Morvandi are their servants, their assassins. No beings in all the lands of Narianna were as feared or hated.

We had no defense against his powers. My people have long treaded the wastelands. Our songs have echoed across them for ages. Now, they soon will be no more. The thought pained her further. I lay there, she continued, amidst the ruins of our camp, awaiting the release of death. My Sii was crippled, torn by the dark magic the Morvandi had unleashed against us. I could feel our bond straining against his sorcery. It was like a garrote around her throat. Her pain was so terrible. The Fharlani found me – left for dead – and chained me there. She pointed to the burning cart.

I begged them to loose my shackles and free me. My speech was not theirs and my pleas went unheeded. I could feel the efreet within me as she was wracked in the throes of death. I could have saved her.

What could you have done? Draven could see the burden she bore, the remorse.

Before a Suresta baby is born, Ahlandra continued, "a guardian spirit, a Sii, bonds with the child. Our ancestors were blessed by the spirits of the desert, by lords of fire. They were called T’Ethranir. When the gods made the world, their first children were not of flesh and blood, but of the elements. It is the blending of these that created all life that has followed since. The air you breathe, the water that flows through you, the dust to which you return, the fire that fuels your spirit, you are a creature of that making as am I. For Suresta, that blend is more primal, more aligned. My spirit is bathed in fire. My life is shared with the Sii. Morvandi sorcery tore that bond apart. It was that magic that shattered my people. We were betrayed.

When my Sii died, all that remained of her power was freed. Her bonds, my bonds – the metal cage, were destroyed and these men with them.

Draven listened and began to understand some of what she said.

If I had died, her spirit would have been freed, Ahlandra concluded. But I did not. She sacrificed herself to free me.

You were not harmed, he stated matter-of-factly. Are you shielded from the fire?

No, she explained, not shielded. It is my legacy. Fire and I are as one.

Ahlandra stretched out her hand towards the crackling flames. A thin ribbon of flame reached back to her and coiled around her small hand. The wisps of fire danced across her fingers and palm like a living thing for a moment. She closed her hand and the fire evaporated. Her flesh was unharmed.

Such magic was beyond the scout’s understanding. Narianna was a world born of magic but its mysteries eluded him. He was neither priest nor sorcerer. What he could discern, however, was that it was no holy rite or arcane spell she employed with the flames. Her affinity with the fire was natural, born of her blood. It was an ability no more removed from her than flight from a bird.

If such power you have now, Draven reasoned, with her, with your Sii to aid you…? Draven finished the question with his eyes fixed on her and a slow shake of his head. He marveled at what that power might mean.

Together we shared two worlds, Ahlandra’s words were heavy as the grief swelled within here bosom, one here, one now…and one quite different. The description was lacking, she knew. But she could not find words to describe what he could scarcely imagine. The Sii are spirits of the world. Through them, my people have shared in its beauty and wonder in ways I cannot explain.

Why did the Morvandi attack your people?

Ahlandra paused, considering her words and the secret he sought. She looked at him carefully, studying his eyes. The question was expected and innocent. Could she trust him? She was alone now. She would need help.

He wanted something, she began. He wanted something my people have protected for generations.

Draven waited to see if she would tell him.

Chapter 2: Chasing Shadows

Black wings cut through a black and orange sky. Ash fell, hot and choking. The red glow of swirling pools of molten rock crisscrossed the tortured land below. It cried out as its flesh was ripped and broken. Deep groans and thundering roars escaped the throats of its mountains as they spewed forth their rage. Burning, sulfurous air tainted the winds and wrenched out what little moisture was there, sending it to the earth below – toxic and acidic.

The wyvern screeched. It hateful voice pierced the gloom. The rider upon its scaly back spurred the beast deeper in its serpentine neck, the sharp talons on his boots emphasizing his mastery over the dragon-like creature.

Steering the reins of the monster with thick, gauntleted fists, the rider forced it to descend. His destination came into view as the smoke parted.

Towers of obsidian stone, like the fangs of some enormous horror, appeared through the black air. Lava flowed around the ring they formed creating a hellish moat. Between the towers stood thick curtain walls topped with parapets and machicolations that spilled steady streams of liquid fire. Flaming cauldrons were set about the battlements giving illumination and sending shadows dancing across the cruel architecture.

Beyond the outer wall, the bailey was broad and rimmed with buildings. These hugged the wall and protruded from its stone embrace, sitting nestled beneath the shadows of the battlements. Most would house resources the castle’s defenders would call upon should an attack come. Others served as barracks or workshops where smiths plied their trade, adding to the cache of war implements. The ring of their hammers echoed from the stone walls and across the rocky terrain.

A second, higher wall lay within the circumference of the first. A third, even taller, rose beyond it. Each climbed higher along the slopes of the flaming mountain upon which it rested.

At the heart of the rings there stood a keep. Six looming towers pinned its girth to the stone. Crimson and black pennants crowned each. The rising winds battered them. Heat inversions warped the air and gave everything an ethereal quality.

Upon the walls, large, armor-clad warriors, their flesh the same sooty black as the land, kept watch. Course beards of black or copper hung close to their throats. Brass and gold knotted their gathered lengths. Their eyes, red and angry with irises of blackest night, held vigil over the valley approach to the citadel. They were the giants of Argres Baradar, the Argrym, the Argrenor as they called themselves.

The rider flew towards the keep. His audience with their king was at hand. Deftly he guided the wyvern in a tight circle above the pennants before directing the beast to the innermost courtyard. A pair of huge iron doors greeted him. Great, leathery wings unfurled, slowing the dragonkin as it lit. Its sharp claws raked the blistered flagstone then took hold. Argrenor soldiers peered down from the battlements stoically. This dark guest was expected.

On cue the massive doors sounded a dull, deep growl as the mechanisms concealed within the stone walls that held them were turned. Unseen winches strained against their weight. Slowly they opened. Hot air exhaled from within rustling the ash that settled across the courtyard. An orange glow flicker from within. Shifting shadows moved along the walls of the chamber beyond as the heavy march of armored warriors filled the bailey.

The rider watched as thirty fire-giants filed out and split their number evenly to either side of the doors. Each was outfitted with heavy armor. Bronze lamella overlapped to form protective breastplates. Tassets of similar design extended over their legs while greaves and vambraces adorned their extremities. Terrifying great helms framed their faces giving the Argrenor even more demonic visages. The warriors held wicked pole-arms with serrated blades and sported broad swords in adorned scabbards on their hips. Thick metal shields bearing an image of a black keep before a flaming gauntlet-clad fist completed their frightening martial ensemble.

An imposing giant lord draped in a thick, black, scaled cloak emerged from the keep as the last warrior moved to stand at attention flanking the doors. His bald scalp bore a red tattoo in the stylized image of a dragon’s horned head. The fearsome design marked him as a priest. His charcoal skin contrasted sharply with the draconic sigil. Across his breast and shoulders a copper plated mantle rested. Its surface was edged in harsh, angular runes hammered into the metal face and studded in dark precious stones. The leather tabard he wore was wrapped by a heavy, metal-braced girdle of some reptilian hide at his waist and extended to the studded cuffs of his knee-high black boots. The same dragon emblazonment coiled across the face of the knightly coat but included the monster’s full form, its wings unfurled. A copper emblem similar to his mantle was affixed to the war girdle. A ring of garnet stones encircled the dragon symbol at their center.

The wyvern rider released the restraining straps binding his belt to the creature’s saddle and slid from his mount. The beast obediently lowered its neck as its master climbed down. Like a pool of night the rider’s cloak fell around him, the hood concealing his features. Beneath its cover, he regarded the gathered force with disinterest.

The dragon priest waited within the doorway.

Hail, Skyran! The priest bellowed, invoking the parlance by which wyvern riders were known. The term heralded from deep within Ardra, from Skyr, the great volcanic