The Beckoning Darkness

By Nathan Preedy

Two gods are battling each other. During their constant struggle, entire worlds are created, conquered and destroyed as each of them vies for dominance over the other. On one such world, Pyrennia, an epic battle between good and evil is about to begin that could decide the fate of not only the world, but the entire universe.

An elven city attacked and burned by mysterious forces with knowledge of ancient powers, a human city plagued by disappearances, a malevolent tide of evil arising in the north. An epic quest to seek answers and find the truth begins, but the truth is never what it seems.

In this first volume of the epic 'The War of the Gods' fantasy series, join Stephen Baroma, Guard Captain of Moshkar, as he begins to unravel the strands of a terrifying threat to the city that could have far reaching implications. Forced far from his comfort zone, he joins forces with a group of elves who are also investigating the beckoning darkness. Thrust into dangerous situations against a foe more powerful than any of them could imagine, they must work together and uncover the truth about their common enemy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nathan Preedy
• Release date: Oct 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301741878

Nathan Preedy

Nathan Preedy is an English author of epic fantasy, currently residing in central England. By day he works in the computing industry and writes during whatever spare time he can grab. His hobbies include travelling, computer gaming, reading and, of course, writing.His debut novel THE BECKONING DARKNESS is available now and is the first instalment in a planned series of books called THE WAR OF THE GODS.The second novel THE RISING TIDE was released in 2014 and is available exclusively on Kindle.

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The Beckoning Darkness

Book One of The War of the Gods

By Nathan Preedy

Published by Nathan Preedy at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 Nathan Preedy

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

Across the vast blackness they fought as they had fought since the beginning of time itself. One in black, one in white - equally matched, equally committed. Back and forth they went, constantly locked together in silent embrace, each seeking complete dominion over the other. Their violent passage would take them through the many solar systems of the cosmos and, on the worlds below, each would bring forth armies to conquer in their name. The one in black sought to control all the worlds of the universe and consume the soul of the brother in white who repelled him at every turn.

Entire civilisations rose and fell with their passage, their citizens battling each other on the surface of their worlds as their divine masters battled one another above. For each world that the black one gained, the white one repelled him from another. Their power was equal, neither had an advantage over the other. They no longer remembered why they fought - it had ever been so and they knew nothing else. A faint memory of a distant father from long ago was all they had left and sometimes they struggled even to recall that.

As their continual struggle brought them both to the edge of the current solar system, the one in white added his fire to a passing comet, causing it to explode violently into hundreds of smaller shards, each crashing into the homeworld of his black brother’s latest champions and leaving chaos in their wake. In the blink of an eye, a massively advanced civilisation had had its heart snuffed out and those who had opposed them, the champions of the one in white, raced forth from their own homeworld on the other side of the solar system and liberated the rest of the worlds, gaining control of the entire system.

The white one burned ever brighter as he jubilantly joined his champions in exultation, savouring the adulation and momentarily basking in the glory of the victory. This had happened before countless times, for him and for his brother in black - each had garnered an equal number of victories over the other and had felt momentarily strengthened by the success but, this time, something happened that had never happened before.

Seizing on his brother’s sudden moment of distraction from the battle, the one in black ignored his temporary weakness from the defeat and launched a furious assault upon his brother. It was repelled after an instant but it was an instant too many and, for the briefest of moments, the balance was broken, the scales shifted. The one in white had been pushed away from his brother, the embrace had been broken and the equality of power between the two of them had been severed.

For the first time since time itself began, the brother in white paused his attacks against his sibling as he pondered the consequences of this unknown occurrence. But his brother used that pause to unleash a massive blast of power between the two of them. The shockwaves sent them both spiralling out of control, each propelled forcefully away from the other and out of the solar system in opposite directions. The force of the blast consumed the entire system, extinguishing suns and worlds alike as the entire solar system imploded in on itself.

After the implosion came a massive explosion, an outpouring of power, and entire galaxies were formed from the celestial debris it created. The one in white was caught up in the explosion and dragged inexorably through the vast blackness until the ever widening outline of a virgin world began to loom before him. For the briefest of moments he felt his black brother’s presence, far off in the distance, but it was the fleetest of instances and brought soon to an end by the forcefulness of his passage. The newly formed world loomed right before him and, unable to resist, he was being propelled directly toward it. Impact was inevitable and, in that instant, he became fully self-aware, no longer governed by the rules of his brother’s embrace.

In that instant of impact, it seemed as if the universe was holding its breath and, only when the ripples caused by the blast had ebbed away, did it finally exhale.

Of the two brothers, there was no sign.

CHAPTER ONE

It was the middle of the night and Suldanei was burning. The walkways and bridges of the great elven treetop city were ablaze, the searing stench of charred wood and acrid smoke covering the area like a blanket of death. The flames were licking at the base of some of the buildings and had taken firm hold of others. The Armoury and Silkstone had already succumbed to the heat, breaking apart in a roar of flames and collapsing into the glade below, scorched planks and charred branches the only remaining sign of their presence. The air was filled with the constant wail of fleeing women and children and the shouts of the remaining defenders as battle continued to be waged.

Elaria Ilostia, First Guardian of Suldanei, had little time to survey the carnage as she raced across the smouldering walkways, two of her fellow Guardians keeping pace beside her. She had been abed when the alarms rang out and had woken to the sight of hooded, black figures pouring out of the Sanctuary of Melisanda. Like locusts they had swarmed across the bridges, burning everything in their wake, cutting through startled Guardians and Protectors alike. It had been chaos – a third of the city had been overrun before anyone had chance to mount a defence.

Over to her left, across the glade, half of the market plaza suddenly collapsed in the flames, sending merchant stalls and storage barrels smashing down to the forest floor below. A few unfortunate elves that had been fleeing across the plaza at the time were swept away as well, their cries of terror clearly audible to the three sprinting Guardians.

Elaria could spare them no more than half a glance, there would be time enough for mourning later but right now she had to reach the Citadel – the Regent and his Consort were her absolute priority. The physical structures of Suldanei may burn away but, as long as those two lived, the spirit of the city would never be broken – they were its rulers, its guides, its mentors and, more important than any of that, they were her parents.

She could see the three great oaks off in the distance and, peeking between their branches, the huge curved beams of the Citadel roof. Praise the Mother! she thought with relief, for it looked as if the flames hadn’t yet reached the circle of oaks. Between here and there, however, was a different story. It was the middle of the night but it seemed as bright as day, flames raged ahead of her everywhere she looked. Fully half the buildings were ablaze now and many of the bridges had collapsed – the heat was stifling and Elaria’s eyes were running like a river in the intensity of it.

Leaping over a wall of flame that lay at the end of the bridge Elaria and her two Guardians landed on a walkway outside a cluster of homes, all arranged in a circular shape around the trunk of a tree. The flames hadn’t yet taken hold of the buildings although one of them was beginning to smoulder, faint wisps of smoke rising from the wooden walls, the planks showing signs of warping.

Her breath suddenly caught in her throat as one of the hooded invaders emerged from the door of one of the houses, dragging a crying woman along the floor behind it. With all of the smoke that was in the air, it hadn’t yet spotted her. Without hesitation, she reached for the shortbow and quiver strapped to her back and notched an arrow in a single, fluid motion. To her left and right her two companions wordlessly followed suit and, with a rush of air, three arrows embedded themselves in the figure’s side. Before they had even hit, Elaria was already reaching behind her for another arrow and, within the space of a second, there were six arrows sticking out of the attacker, instead of three.

It staggered sideways a couple of paces, letting go of the woman it had been dragging. Two red pinpricks of rage stared hatefully at them from within the folds of it’s hood and Elaria felt a sudden wave of terror wash over her. As it lumbered towards them, limping slightly from the six arrows in its side, she regained her composure and began notching another arrow to her bow. Her two Guardians were a heartbeat behind her and, before the attacker had gone more than four paces, three arrows struck it right in the chest.

It fell to the walkway in obvious pain, grasping feebly at its chest, but no sound emerged from the darkness of that hood. Nine arrows it had in it now but still it tried to reach them, dragging itself towards them across the walkway, plank by plank. When it got to within ten paces of them and Elaria was readying another arrow it suddenly stopped crawling and rolled over onto its back. A convulsion momentarily shook its body and then it was still.

Elaria went to retrieve her arrows from the corpse but flames suddenly took hold of the walkway where the attacker lay and she had to turn back, shielding her eyes from the glare of the fire. As the flames grew in intensity and the wood planking began to crack loudly in the heat, there was a violent cracking sound and the floor before her suddenly gave way in the heat. Jumping backwards onto stable footing, she had only the briefest of glimpses of the hooded figure tumbling to the forest floor far below, burning planks and bits of splintered wood falling with it.

After a quick glance to make sure her two companions were still with her, she dashed over to the woman the attacker had been dragging off who was sitting dis-oriented on the floor, tears running down her cheeks. Elaria recognised her – one of the silk merchants who plied her trade in the nearby plaza – although she couldn’t recall her name.

Oh my lady sobbed the woman, throwing herself around Elaria’s legs. Thank you my lady, thank you.

Gently extricating herself from the woman’s grip, Elaria knelt down and raised the woman’s chin to look her right in the eyes.

You’re safe for now but you won’t be for much longer if you stay here she said, gently but firmly. You need to make for the Stairway and leave the city – head down to the glade and seek refuge amongst the roots of the trees.

Yes, my lady. I will, my lady. Thank you, thank you The woman got to her feet and, with a quick bow, dashed off the way that Elaria had just come from.

Elaria could spend no more time to worry about her; she had to get to the Citadel and her parents. With a jerk of her head, her two Guardians joined her and the three of them sprinted across the next bridge which, mercifully, was still passable.

They were entering the heart of the city now and the sounds of fighting were ringing out ahead. Through the billowing smoke, Elaria could see figures engaged in battle. Groups of her Guardians with swords and shortbows, clad in their familiar yellow and blue leather, were battling more of the black figures. Ahead of them three Protectors, clad head to toe in their rough brown linens were battling a group of the invaders, their summoned wolves fighting alongside them as they fought off the attackers with their staffs.

Bows were useless now, the smoke made it hard to get a clear aim and there were too many friendly combatants. Drawing the shortsword from its sheath at her waist, she gestured to her two companions and the three of them charged onwards to enter the fray.

The summoned wolves of the Protectors were tearing apart one of the attackers as Elaria and her companions arrived, a vicious frenzy of teeth, muzzles and howls bringing the hooded figure down to its knees as it tried vainly to ward off the attacks. Elaria threw herself at one of the other attackers, slashing out with her sword, ducking backwards, lunging forwards again, rolling to the side – a constant pattern of attacks and movements to try and overwhelm her opponent.

Her companion Guardians joined the attack, timing their movements so when one of them was feinting to the side, another was lunging for the chest and the third would roll in from behind, slicing with his blade and then leaping back. A single Guardian was a formidable enough opponent but, when working together as a team, Elaria knew of no finer fighting force. It was their discipline and teamwork that kept the elven forests safe from the wildmen in the western hills and the queer lizardmen from across the Silver Sea that would occasionally land raiding parties on the elven coast. In ancient times, it had been the Guardians who had ensured the strength of the vast empire of the elves, back in the days when Barowhin the Great, mightiest of the Spellweavers, had led his people out across the world to bring the teachings of the Mother to the other races of Pyrennia.

As a third attacker fell to their blades, two of the Protectors were fighting the last, their wooden staffs a whirl of motion as they lashed out at the hooded figure, again and again. As its piercing red eyes glared out from the hood at them the summoned wolves joined the fray, howling with hunger as they tore at the robes, hood and legs. Wordlessly, it fell to its knees and collapsed on the walkway, torn shreds of black fabric falling through the air around it.

One of the Protectors whistled his wolf to his side and leaned heavily on his staff, his elderly face flushed red with exertion.

Thank you my lady. A well fought battle indeed.

Who are these attackers? asked Elaria, nodding briefly as she acknowledged his thanks. They bear no obvious weapons and are garbed only in fabric, yet it takes a barrage of arrows and a wall of swords to bring them down.

She moved over to one of the corpses and slid the hood aside with the blade of her sword. Dead blood red eyes stared up at her from a skeletal face. The skin was stretched tight across the skull, stretched so thin that in some places it had torn apart to expose bone beneath. It was dead skin, blackened with rot and disease. The mouth seemed far too big for the face and the wicked curved fangs looked like the tusks of a boar. It was the most hideous looking creature Elaria had ever seen but it wasn’t the face that caught her attention – it was the ears. Despite the abhorrent grotesqueness of the creature’s face, the ears either side were flawless, graceful, beautiful and pointed.

It’s an elf! she gasped, her hand going sub-consciously to one of her own ears, graceful and pointed just like the ones on the corpse before her.

That is no elf my lady said one of the Protectors, looking down at the corpse. No elf would attack his own people so, and just look at that face. Something unnatural is at play here, some great evil is afoot

It is an elf said one of the other Protectors after sending his wolf to sniff the corpse. Or at least it was. What it may be now I know not, but I tell you true – that creature was born an elf.

Elaria felt sick – the intense heat, the exertion of the battle and the horror of what was before her almost overwhelmed her but her iron Guardian discipline soon re-asserted its dominance.

Come she said, turning briskly about. We must get to the Citadel and I would appreciate your aid.

Of course my lady said one of the Protectors and the three of them and their wolves fell into step behind her and her two Guardians.

The bridge leading deeper into the city was burning fiercely and the centre of it had collapsed in the heat. Elaria leaped across the gap, landing lightly on the other side, the other Guardians close behind her. Looking back she saw the Protectors still on the other side, struggling to calm their wolves which were leaping around madly, growling at the fire. The three Protectors conferred amongst themselves and then two of them turned and vaulted across the gap to join Elaria, the wind whipping their linens violently around them.

The elder Protector shouted across I cannot make the jump my lady and the wolves are too scared of the fire. I’ll head down to the glade with them and head up from the other side. He turned off and headed off the way they had come, the wolves following at his heels.

Elaria and her party headed onwards. They came across several more of the mysterious attackers and cut them all down, her and her Guardians with their blades, the two Protectors with their staffs. Yet, other than that merchant she had saved outside the houses and the ones who had been on the plaza when it collapsed, Elaria saw none of the regular people of Suldanei. She could hear them from time to time, the crying of a child, the screaming of a woman yet the bridges and walkways were devoid of anyone except Guardians, Protectors and hooded attackers. Perhaps they have all fled she thought, headed for the glade like I told that merchant to. It was a comforting thought but she did not entirely believe it.

The circle of oaks that enclosed the Citadel was closer now and Elaria’s heart almost missed a beat as she saw a group of the strange attackers disappearing off under the branches. There was still no sign the flames had reached the area but, if invaders had breached the outer walkways then only the Royal Guard stood between them and her parents.

Elaria! the shout rang out, deep and booming over the noise of burning wood and roaring flames. She jerked her head in the direction it had come from and saw a flash of motion right in front of her. Pain shot through her as one of the figures lashed out at her, slicing deep into her flesh with its razor sharp claws. She screamed and collapsed to the walkway, one hand pressed against her right cheek as blood poured down between her fingers.

Stupid girl! she thought. She had let herself get distracted by other thoughts and had lost track of her surroundings.

There were nine of them she saw, their eerie red eyes seeming to suck in all the light from the flames and several of their hoods had fallen free to reveal the monstrous elven-demon visages beneath. Lying on her back, she had to roll quickly to the side as two of them leapt for her. She had dropped her sword when she had fallen and she saw it lying just off to her right, tantalisingly out of reach. As she stretched out a hand to reach for it, trying her hardest to ignore the searing agony that washed over her face, she saw her two Guardians leaping over her and throwing themselves upon the figures. Their blades were a blur as they fought side by side, desperately trying to keep their First Guardian from harm.

The two Protectors entered the fray, whirling their staffs savagely in the air, striking, hitting, lashing at the attackers but, without their wolves, they were outmatched.

As Elaria got unsteadily to her feet, sword in hand, she saw one of the Protectors take a vicious hit to the chest, the attacker’s claws tearing straight through the brown linen into the flesh beneath.

No! she cried and rushed to his aid, all thought of her pain forgotten as she aimed a sweeping lowercut at the figure’s arm. Her blade bit deep and black blood spattered the area. Before she could follow-up with another attack another one of the invaders was lunging at her from her right. She spun on her feet and deflected the grasping claws, then ducked to avoid the first creature’s swipe, its claws raking the air inches above her head. Spinning on the balls of her feet, she brought her blade around in a wide arc before her, cutting through the two figures’ legs and causing them to stagger backwards a couple of paces.

Rising back to her feet, she chanced a quick glance at the injured Protector. He was lying on his back on the walkway in a pool of blood, his eyes closed, his staff lying smashed across his legs. The other Protector was still afoot and in combat but he was tiring she saw, the motions of his staff no longer as fast as they were. Her two Guardians were still side by side, forced into a slow backwards retreat against the onslaught of five of the attackers. Blood soaked through the leather leggings of one of them and the other was flagging with his sword work.

We cannot win she thought. They were out-numbered and injured and their opponents had had the element of surprise.

As she launched a furious flurry of strikes at the two figures before her a chorus of musical chants rang out from the far side of the group. A rush of water swept across the walkway and, with a cacophony of hisses, the fires raging nearby were suddenly extinguished, clouds of steam rising to take their place.

Spellweavers! she thought and offered a silent prayer to the Mother. The Needle was just across the bridge from the Sanctuary, where the invaders had appeared from, and she was sure that the few remaining Spellweavers would have been taken by surprise, maybe murdered in their sleep. Never had she been so glad to be wrong.

There was more chanting from ahead of her and an intense chill entered the air. The water swirling around her feet began to freeze over and her lips shook with the cold. The attackers began to slip in the ice and broke off their attacks, desperately trying to keep their footing. Where Elaria and her companions stood the ice was solid and unmoving but, beneath the feet of the attackers, it was breaking up into chunks and sliding across the walkway.

Almost as one, all nine of the attackers lost their footing and fell heavily to the floor, their arms flailing desperately about. The movement of the ice carried them to the edge of the walkway and beyond and Elaria watched with smug satisfaction as they fell silently to the forest floor.

The chill in the air lifted and the ice melted away, rivulets of water running across the wooden planks of the walkway. Directly in front of her stood three figures wearing green robes. Each was clutching a wooden staff but, unlike the polished, chiselled battle staffs of the Protectors, these were rough-hewn, jagged and twisted and covered with obscure carvings.

Morowhin Elmosima, First Spellweaver of Suldanei, strode briskly over to Elaria, concern etched clearly on his deep blue eyes. He grasped her jaw firmly and moved it from side to side inspecting her face, whilst his two companions went to check on the others in Elaria’s party.

These cuts are deep he murmured. If only I had more time to properly knit the flesh – for now all I can do is staunch the bleeding. Now hold still child, this may sting a little. Elaria hated it when he called her ‘child’ – at 87 Morowhin was the youngest First Spellweaver in living memory and only 12 years older than her but the status of his position sometimes led him to regard all those younger than him as children.

As he gently caressed her face, her blood running down his fingers, a sharp blast of pulsing heat shot through her head and she winced in pain. How are my companions? she asked.

Three of them are fine said one of the Spellweavers behind Morowhin. He turned to look down at the comatose Protector on the walkway and sighed. This one I’m afraid is too far gone, there is nothing we can do for him First Guardian.

Elaria went to speak but Morowhin silenced her with a wave of his hand. There will be time enough to mourn later Elaria. This brave Protector was not the first to die here tonight and I fear he will not be the last. When this is over, all the defenders of Suldanei will be remembered and returned to Melisanda the Mother as the heroes that they are.

A final pulse of heat shot through her and then he lifted his hand away. The blood was no longer flowing openly from the cuts on her face and the pain had greatly lessened from what it was.

A temporary measure, but it will do for now. As Elaria went over to check on her companions, he continued speaking. I noticed you looking at the Citadel when I called you earlier. If you were heading for your parents then you should be aware that they were in the Sanctuary when the attack happened, greeting your brother.

Celarian has returned from the hills? she asked in shock.

Just a few hours ago confirmed Morowhin. You had just retired to your lodgings when his party returned and your father wanted to let you sleep, so you could greet your brother refreshed in the morning.

Elaria unsheathed her sword and nodded to her fellow Guardians. Then we head to the Sanctuary, now she said firmly, turning briskly about and leaping over a pocket of flame as she headed for the bridges.

Elaria, wait! cried Morowhin as he rushed after her, his two Spellweavers and the Protector following behind her. The Sanctuary is where they came from.

Elaria stopped, remembering the horde of attackers she had seen pouring out of the Sanctuary when she awoke. What are they Morowhin? she turned and asked. They have our ears. And how did they get into the Sanctuary of Melisanda?

I fear I cannot answer your first question my child sighed Morowhin, leaning heavily on his staff, suddenly looking far older than his years. Not until after a great deal of study. As to your second question, well.. he paused, as if the words were hard to say. The invaders came through the Shard.

The Shard? Elaria was astonished. But the Shard is just a wooden obelisk, the magic in it expired millennia ago. How could they have come through that?

I don’t know my child sighed Morowhin. Nevertheless, the enemy that now assaults this city arrived through a portal created by the Shard. How they managed to renew the ancient magic that once coursed within it I do not know and I fear the repercussions of this are greater than just Suldanei alone.

Elaria could only stare at him aghast before her Guardian discipline once more re-asserted itself over her. Putting all thoughts of extinct magic from her mind, she turned wordlessly and ran headlong across the next bridge, the others dashing along behind her.

They encountered more resistance as they crossed the flame-swept city yet Elaria had the distinct impression that those invaders that remained were some sort of rear guard, covering the flanks of the main host as it began to depart. She fought as if in a trance, laying into each hooded figure they met with a veritable flurry of blows, her blade a continual whir of motion as she relentlessly pressed her attack.

From time to time, she was aware of Spellweavers chanting behind her and some of her opponents would be thrown to the side of the walkway and tumble off the edge, as if blown by a giant gust of wind. The three spires of the Sanctuary beckoned her ever onwards and the voices of her mother, father and brother cried out to her in her mind, their cries of desperation a searing beacon of hope amidst the terror around her.

She charged blindly through a blanket of flames before her, unmindful of the pain, and found herself in a scene from a nightmare. The vast plaza before her was full of bodies – Protectors, Guardians, Royal Guard, she even spotted the unmoving body of a Spellweaver. They lay scattered across the area, some with legs and arms sticking out at impossible angles, some with bodies contorted so strangely that they resembled nothing more than a child’s doll. The stench of charred flesh hung heavy in the area and the screams of the dying and wounded echoed across the plaza.

On the other side of the plaza was the three spired temple of the Sanctuary of Melisanda, the oldest building in the city and a place of refuge and reflection for all the elves of Suldanei. Yet they would find no refuge there now – the building was fiercely ablaze, flames billowing out of every window, thick black smoke choking the area.

She watched with horror as a procession of elves – men, women and children alike, shuffled in single file into the burning maw of the building. Their hands were bound with rope, their cheeks wet with blood and tears. Hooded figures in black strolled up and down the column but these were different to the ones Elaria had fought in the city. They were at least twice the size of the others and seemed to be wreathed by flame, their very bodies ringed with thin, shimmering lines of fire. They wielded huge whips, each one headed by three vicious barbs and lashed them down mercilessly on the backs of any of the elves who stumbled.

The column was nearing its end, Elaria saw – there were only around a dozen elves left to enter. She remembered her earlier thought about how empty the city had been and a sense of dread swept through her. Have they taken the entire city?

A hand grasped her ankle and she gasped in shock. A Protector lay on the walkway before her, his body missing everything from the waist down, his face a grotesque horror of ripped and burned flesh. Blood, entrails and limbs lay scattered across the floor behind him.

My lady he wheezed, his voice rasping. Help us.

Elaria recoiled with disgust and broke into a sprint, jumping over the dead and dying alike as she dashed towards the burning Sanctuary. Hands touched at her legs, pleading cries came from around her but she ignored them all. The faces of her family shimmered in the air before her – her father, Regent of Suldanei, his kindly face smiling down at her, his black beard streaked with grey; her mother, his Consort, beautiful and regal, love shining in her deep blue eyes as she stared down adoringly at her daughter; her brother, Prince Celarian of Suldanei, a boyish smile covering his youthful, handsome face. She reached out to touch them and saw their faces melting in the flames, the skin cracking and peeling, the eyes running, the hair burning.

No! she screamed as she took the steps two at a time and passed through the entrance. The last of the elves were shuffling off to a strange, shimmering portal on a platform at the back of the room, a circle of ripping energy that distorted the very air around it and her eyes were drawn to the massive vertical beam of carved wood behind it, the runes on its surface glowing with their own inner light.

The last of her people entered the portal, the whip-bearing monstrosities behind them stooping low to fit through and the ripples in the air faded away until they had gone entirely. The runes on the side of the wooden obelisk stopped glowing and the Shard returned to the state it had been in for thousands of years.

The heat of the room was intense, massive chunks of burning wood breaking off the ceiling and smashing to the floor all around her. Elaria knew she couldn’t stay in here much longer, the heat would soon overpower her, but she had to find her family.

She heard a groan from a corner of the room and headed blindly towards it, practically crawling from the intensity of the flames. A cry escaped her lips as she saw the figure of her father lying on the floor before her. His torso was covered with blood, his arms shredded with lacerations, his left arm bent backwards. He tried feebly to raise his hand when he saw her but cried out in pain instead, his body racked with convulsions.

Father sobbed Elaria, kneeling beside him and cradling him in her arms. Don’t leave me. Tears rose unbidden to her eyes and ran freely down her cheeks. In that moment she was no longer First Guardian of Suldanei, she was a father’s daughter and her father lay dying before her. Memories swept through her - the childhood archery lessons he had given her, the fierce pride he had when she skewered her first boar, the gentle smile as he watched her playing in the Glade, the tears of joy he had wept the day she became First Guardian.

My sweet daughter he murmured, blood running freely from his mouth. I love you so much.

Don’t father she wept, stroking his burning cheek. You’re going to be alright, you’re going to get through this, I need you Father

His body was racked with coughs as he struggled to speak again. They have taken them he told her, his words beginning to slur together. Your mother and brother. Our people. Taken through the Shard.

He coughed up blood again and his eyes began to close. His bloodied lips moved and she could barely hear his final words.

Find them Elaria. Save them. Avenge our people.

A spasm shook him, his eyes closed and then he was still.

Elaria knelt sobbing, staring down at the lifeless body of her father until the emotion and the heat became too much for her and she collapsed on top of him, flames raging around her.

The sky began to brighten in the east; pale glimmers of light peeling back the darkness. Dawn was coming.

CHAPTER TWO

Stephen Baroma, Guard Captain of Moshkar, frowned as he surveyed the small bedchamber before him. It was a poky little room, barely large enough for the small featherbed and chest of drawers that took up most of the floor space. A narrow window, just about wide enough for an average sized person to squeeze through, was placed in the wall above the bed. The midday sun outside barely penetrated the layers of grime, leaving the room in almost perpetual darkness.

He turned to the stooped, elderly man standing in the corridor behind him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

I know this is hard for you master Coldshaw but could we just run through the sequence of events one more time?

The man sniffed and nodded, wiping at his eyes with a trembling hand.

As you wish my lord he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. It was three nights ago and I saw little Jessica to bed that night as I always do. We normally read a story together once she’s tucked in, she’s ever so good with her letters my Jessica is, everybody always says so – I reckon in a year or two she’ll probably be better than me

His voice trailed off and he wiped at his wet, red eyes again, staring forlornly down at the floor.

Stephen waited patiently for a few moments before quietly coughing. The old man jerked his head back up. I’m sorry my lord he croaked.

It’s alright, take your time said Stephen sympathetically. So, that night, you and Jessica didn’t read a story like you normally do.

No my lord sniffed the old man. It was such a beautiful night that night, you may remember, the sky was clear and the stars were shining bright. I opened the window and she sat up in bed to look out. We stared up at the stars together for some time, her hand in mine the whole time. ‘They’re so pretty grandfather’ I remember her saying. ‘One day I’m going to learn all their names and we can sit out by the river at night while I point them all out to you’. It was a child’s fanciful dream my lord but it was such a touching moment I confess to having a small tear in my eye. We were there looking up at the stars for a few minutes more and then I tucked her back up in bed, kissed her on the cheek like I always do and walked out the room, closing the door behind me.

What time was it when you left her? enquired Stephen.

Exactly an hour after dusk my lord replied the old man, straight away. I know that for sure as the bells in the tower had just started ringing.

That would be the tower at the temple of Fayria thought Stephen. The temple’s tower was visible out the window, across the rooftops, and its bells could always be heard clearly in this part of the city.

Did you close the window before you left? he asked.

The old man nodded vigorously. I did my lord, I remember that clearly. It was quite a cool night, if you recall, and I didn’t want my Jessica catching a chill so I closed the window just before I left.

Stephen had inspected the window when he first arrived and had come to the conclusion that it would be extremely difficult, virtually impossible in fact, to open the window from the outside. Despite its neglected appearance, the frame still sealed tightly against the window itself, leaving little opportunity for leverage.

So, you saw your grand-daughter to bed an hour after dusk he summarised. What time did you turn in yourself?

I spent a few hours doing my woodcarving my lord and then entered my own bedchamber just before midnight.

Did you hear any unusual sounds in the hours before you went to bed? Any odd noises or sounds of movement?

No my lord replied the old man, but it can be hard to hear things sometimes, over the chipping of my knife on the wood.

I see said Stephen, supressing his sudden frustration. You told me earlier you slept soundly all night, oblivious to all the world?

Aye my lord. It is unusual for me to sleep so deeply I admit but, that particular night, I woke up just after dawn and went straight to check on Jessica, as is my wont. She does love her sleep, Isarus bless her, and I liked to look down on her as she lay dozing in her bed, such a pretty sight.

Stephen found it odd that an old, peaceful woodcarver would invoke the name of the god of war but he decided not to press the subject. And when you entered her room you found her gone?

A cry of grief escaped from the old man’s lips and his body became racked with sobs. Stephen reached out to console him. It’s alright master Coldshaw. If you don’t wish to talk about this, I understand.

I must be strong sobbed the old man, his muffled words barely understandable. I must be strong for Jessica.

He took a step back and wiped at his face with a sleeve of his robe, composing himself.

I entered her room my lord and she was gone, just like that. Her bed was made as if she had never slept in it, just as you see it now and her shoes and cloak were still in the drawers, untouched.

You saw no sign of disturbance?

None my lord, the room was as it is now with no sign that she had ever been there. I fear for her my lord, such a sweet young girl and clad only in her bed linens, the poor thing.

He began to sob again and Stephen could take no more.

I have no more questions for you master Coldshaw and I thank you for your time. I know this is a difficult time for you but I promise you this – if your grand-daughter is still alive I will find her and bring her safely back to you.

The old man gazed endearingly up at Stephen. Truly my lord? You swear it?

I swear it replied Stephen and left the room, leaving the old man to his grief.

He stopped briefly on his way out to inspect the ground around the entrance to the house. It had been three days and other guardsmen had come and gone, not to mention friends of the old man. Their footprints were all mixed together in the dust and, if Jessica or her kidnapper had passed this way, he saw no sign of it. He sighed heavily and walked briskly out onto the cobbled street.

Guard Corporal Jenkins saluted when he saw his captain and strolled over from the other side of the street, where Stephen had stationed him, his longsword rattling against his iron greaves.

Any leads Sir?

None replied Stephen, the bitterness evident in his voice. Just like all the others, vanished in the middle of the night, no sign of forced entry or exit, no known witnesses.

Isarus’s blade! cursed Jenkins. I was sure we’d have turned up something by now. This is, what, the eleventh in a fortnight?

The twelfth replied Stephen, not liking to be reminded of that. And I’d caution you to be careful where you say that Jenkins – idle chatter in the wrong place can easily incite panic.

Yes Sir! replied Jenkins, looking suitably chastised. So where to now Captain?

As much as Stephen liked the young corporal, he had a tendency not to know when to shut up and Stephen needed some time to think. Why don’t you go to Temple Square and join Bravo Company Corporal? I’m sure they’d appreciate the extra head.

Jenkins drew himself up to attention and gave a brisk salute. Yes Captain he said, turning about and marching off up the street, the heels of his boots clattering loudly against the cobblestones.

Stephen started walking in the other direction. His next visit was to a butcher’s in Foul Street but it was a fair walk from here, giving him some time to reflect on recent events.

The first one had been fifteen nights ago, a blacksmith’s apprentice who wasn’t in his bed roll in the stable when morning came. The smith had other apprentices and Stephen had suspected one of them was the culprit – there was always demand for a good smith and competition between apprentices was fierce. He’d had them all questioned in detail but they all checked out, every one of them able to produce witnesses who swore they were elsewhere that night. The smith himself, who also had an alibi, wasn’t too bothered by the loss of one apprentice and Stephen had dropped the case, convinced that the lad would turn up dead in a ditch somewhere.

Although his guardsmen did a good job keeping Moshkar safe, kidnappings and murders weren’t uncommon, as with any large city. Most of them were easily explained – a jilted lover, an upset competitor, a broker collecting on a debt that was owed, but the blacksmith’s apprentice had been none of them.

When, two nights later, a seamstress had disappeared under very similar circumstances Stephen knew something may be amiss. Over the next few nights, more reports came flooding in - a young street urchin, an elderly beggar, a mercenary, a whore’s daughter and several more. All of them had vanished from their beds in the dead of night, no witnesses, no signs of struggle and no obvious motive. There was no connection between them either, all of them different ages, professions and genders.

Stephen had fought hard to keep word of these disappearances becoming common knowledge – instructing his guardsmen never to speak of them in public and always keeping his case notes locked up in a chest beneath his desk. Jenkins had been careless earlier with his big mouth and Stephen resolved to have a quiet word with the young corporal when he was back in the barracks.

Turning a corner, he arrived in one of the city squares and a hubbub of voices invaded his mental solitude. The harvest season was well under way and the square was packed to bursting with merchant stalls of every conceivable type. From all over Stanned they had come, flocking in droves to the capital to hawk their wares. There were even a few elven merchants, come to sell the silk and dyes that their people were famed for.

Through it all a sea of people moved across the square, pushing and jostling each other as they browsed the wares on offer. Some of Stephen’s guardsmen walked amongst the throng, keeping the peace and breaking up the occasional fights that happened when haggling got out of hand. They saluted when they saw Stephen and he crisply returned each one.

He moved slowly around the edge of the square as he headed for the other side, trying to stay away from the main crowds. He couldn’t help but hear all the chatter though – the city squares, full of people from all parts of the country and even further, were full of gossip and talk of what was happening elsewhere in Stanned and Pyrennia.

By the time he had finished navigating his way around the square and reached the street he wanted he had heard all about Lady Donatella’s fertility problems, the unusually plentiful crops the farmers were reporting, how the dwarves of the Stormrise Mountains had closed their halls to visitors and how some of the southern villages had reported seeing smoke rising from the elven forest some weeks back. Nothing about the disappearances though. Stephen was quietly thankful – if word of them got out the whole city would be in an uproar before long.

He was heading away from the square and the clamour of voices was beginning to fade behind him. Ahead of him, he could see the spires and towers of the royal palace rising up above the rooftops, the pennants and flags fluttering gently in the cool afternoon breeze.

Moshkar was built around a Y shaped intersection where two mighty rivers joined – the Wilden and the Yoris. Right