Simulacrum

By Asher Rooney

In a world enslaved to a cruel and violent empire, an unlikely band of heroes wage war against the rising darkness. The descent into the abyss will test their resolve and expose the darkness within, threatening to tarnish the souls of even the most steadfast and pure among them. When the dust settles in their wake, who will be named hero? Who will be labeled monster?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Asher Rooney
• Release date: Oct 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310580338

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Simulacrum

Written by Asher Rooney

Cover illustration by Sarah Rooney

Copyright 2015 by Asher Rooney

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this novel are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead) is unintentional. The author humbly begs your pardon. This is fiction, people.

Prologue: The Ebon Tide

The first chill winds of winter whistled through the trees, tearing the last stubborn leaves free of their branches and scattering them wherever it willed. The raven knew what this meant, food, soon there would be food in abundance.

Tall masted ships crashed through the waves, their dark silhouettes cleaving the ocean with their prodigious size. It was like a dark tide sweeping across the horizon, inky blackness consuming the waters and racing towards the shores of his home.

The raven knew that before daybreak on the morrow, the dark skinned men lying in wait within these ships would make landfall. Many of the ships would sail past the shores of his home, instead landing on the beaches of other islands and the greater continent itself.

Unusual amongst its kind, the raven had stood vigil over the shallow grave in the woods for a week now, even as its fellows called for him to join them in their feasting in the human village, he remained at his post. Something had drawn him here, he wasn't sure, but it was familiar. The human dwelling nearby had been the home of his friend, a small human girl many seasons ago.

The raven had been attacked by a hawk, broken and bleeding, he had not expected to live past the next dawn. But the girl, she had tended his wounds and nursed him back to health in secret. The raven had not understood the words of the human girl, her constant stream of gibberish washing over him like a wave against the reef. Was this her resting place? The raven didn't know, his short memory struggling to recall the human girl's face if indeed this was where the girl had lived at all. Humans all looked so similar to the raven, it was likely that this was just his mind playing a trick on him. Deep down, he knew this was not true, he felt...a connection to this place.

The hours had passed by slowly, the raven could already hear the calls of his brethren from the village, warning of the approaching humans. Craw! The raven ruffled its feathers with a start. The mound of loose earth had moved. Against his better judgement, the raven flew down from its perch and approached on foot, a strange lilting gait that bobbed its head to either side.

The mound of earth moved again, a blackened hand scrambling free of the earth and clawing at the air. The hand was shortly followed by an arm, then the other, then a tangled mass of dirt matted hair broke free of the earth, pale lips drawn back in a snarl of fear or rage, the raven could not tell which. The creature drew itself free of the grave and staggered to its feet, it stood there for nearly an hour, seemingly unsure of what it should do with itself. It looked down at its hands, withered, cracked and blackened, its hand began to tremble beneath its gaze. The creature arched its back and howled GRAAAAAWR!!!

The sound alarmed the raven, but there was also the strange sensation of familiarity. The creature was about the right size to be the girl, or was it? The raven cocked its head to get a different perspective.

The raven’s sudden movement had drawn the attention of the creature. It considered the raven, black hungry eyes boring into the raven’s own. It’s fingers twitched menacingly, a deep low growl rumbling from between its cracked lips.

*Crunch*

The creature turned suddenly, its focus now entirely upon the dark skinned soldier who had stepped out from the woods. The soldier brandished his sword menacingly, no doubt trying to cow the creature into submission, it didn't work.

The creature was upon him in a matter of moments, the soldier barely managing a strangled cry of alarm before the creatures fingers were around his throat and throttling his head against a large stone.

*Crack, crack, crunch*

The soldier lay dead, the creature bent over him, fingers still firmly wrapped around his neck, squeezing tighter and tighter. An arrow whizzed past the creature and narrowly missed the raven. The creature hissed in anger, loping across the ground and out of view.

The raven took a few moments to compose himself before setting out after the creature. Accustomed to the carnage and carrion of battlefields, the raven was not taken aback by the scene unfolding before it. The creature had gone berserk, sprinting with unnatural speed and vigour, it closed the distance between itself and each new victim in a matter of seconds, dashing their heads against the walls of village buildings and the cobbled streets. The creature dispatched others with its teeth and claws, tearing out their throats and leaving them there to choke on their own blood.

The tide of soldiers seemed endless, the creatures vitality still more so, yet slowly but surely the creature began to slow, the small injuries inflicted upon it by the soldiers wearing it down and slowing it still farther. It was then that the soldiers ensnared the creature in heavy iron chains, bearing it to the ground under the sheer weight of its restraints.

GRAAAAAAAWR!!! the creature howled wordlessly in its fury, thrashing against the chains that bound it, gnashing its teeth at any soldier who drew too close.

The dark skinned soldiers conferred with one another in their strange tongue, some of them even joking and laughing with one another, seemingly ambivalent over the deaths of their comrades. Slowly, the soldiers began dragging the creature down towards the beach, using the chains as handholds rather than drawing any closer to the creature than they needed too.

If the village had been a battlefield, the beach was a war zone, hundreds of bodies broken and mangled upon the sand, blood blackening in the midday sun. The raven could see the sharks feasting upon the countless bodies awash in the surf, the survivors of three broken ships making futile efforts to keep them away from their makeshift rafts.

If the soldiers were shocked by the grizzly scene around them, they didn't show it, still joking and calling out to one another over the carnage, those in front kicking and shoving the bodies aside as those behind dragged the creature..

After a couple of minutes, the soldiers had the creature stowed away on one of their large black ships. The raven could hear the creature howling from below decks, and against its better judgement, the raven landed on the deck and cautiously began making its way below, fluttering down the stairs towards the rear, remarkably not drawing the attention of the crew, who seemed to pay him no mind. There in the middle of the hold, the raven could see the creature struggling against its chains, gnashing its teeth and howling like a wounded animal. Then it saw him and grew quiet, its black eyes boring into him like invisible knives. The raven tried to cry out, but the pain was so intense he could not make a sound. The pain lasted only a moment, but it had felt much longer.

The raven fluttered back up the stairs, its wings trembling with the memory of the pain. He had to leave now, the raven knew this, there was something the creature needed from the village, before the ships departed, the raven needed to return before the ships departed, or he would die.

Wings flapping as hard as he dared, the raven speed towards the village, a hereto unknown sense of self preservation urging him onwards. Scattering his brethren in his haste, the raven had no time to explain, snapping at them with his beak and warning them away with a baleful glare. He checked the bodies strewn about the village centre, yet he could not find what the creature sought. The raven could feel its time growing short, invisible threads growing tight around his fast beating heart.

About to consign itself to death, the raven almost hadn't seen it, the faintest glint of metal from beneath a charred log. Wings disturbing the ashes as he snatched it up with his beak, the raven did his best to swing about and began flying back to the ship, only, something struck him hard from behind. The raven fell, hard, and as he had opened his mouth to cry out, the sliver of metal had fallen down his throat.

A dark skinned soldier stood over the raven, teeth bared in an all too wide smile.

The raven tried to cry out, but the metal was stuck in his throat, its edges catching and digging painfully into his flesh.

The soldier kicked the raven, snapping the raven’s left wing and breaking its ribs.

Again the raven tried to cry out, but only a muffled Craw- left his beak as the soldiers boot swung in again, pain exploding through the ravens right side as he flew through the air and struck a brick wall. The metal slipped free of the raven's throat and slid into his gullet, feebly, he tried to rise and fly away, but his wing would not support him, fresh waves of pain radiating from it with every wing beat.

The soldier drew closer, a cruel club raised to strike, only he did not, eyes suddenly growing wide in surprise.

The raven could see them now, his nest mates rallying to his defence, they were watching the soldier from the rooftops. Countless eyes boring into the soldier's soul, daring him to strike, to make even the slightest movement.

This was the last the raven had seen, his vision having grown cloudy and unfocused. He was out of time, the raven could see the creatures eyes in his mind, feel the intensity of its gaze, a white hot searing pain...and then nothing...

Chapter One: The Arena

Deep within the Kalishte empire, a darkness as old as life itself, beckons. The physical form of this darkness is Dhar’Vuru, the black soul of the Kalishte empire. Dhar’vuru, the largest arena in the known world. Gorging upon thousands of hapless slaves and beasts with each passing day. The spires of Dhar’Vuru claw upwards towards the sky, like the broken ribcage of a tortured animal. Countless pikes adorn these spires, the bodies impaled upon them, a testament to the carnage below and tribute to the darkness that lies beneath. The dark crimson marble of its walls shimmer in the afternoon sun, like the heaving sides of a flayed beast. Despite the countless lives consumed, Dhar’Vuru ever hungers for more. The cries of the Kalishte within are but an echo of Dhar’Vuru's own blood lust. It is never satisfied, always thirsting, always hungering, for more. Slave galleons scour the globe in an attempt to curb its insatiable appetite. The Kalishte god-emperor wages his eternal war against the free nations across the sea. However, it is not their land that he desires, nor their gold. It is their people. Their kings, their nobles, their serfs. Mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, grandfathers and grandmothers, Dhar’Vuru's hunger does not discriminate and neither does its god-emperor. The rules of combat upon the cavernous arena floor, are brutal but simple. The last ten gladiators left standing, would live to fight another day, providing they survive their injuries. Any number from a hundred to a thousand gladiators could be forced to fight in a single match on any given day. Exotic beasts are often imported, much like the gladiator slaves themselves. These beasts would carve bloody carnage through the terrified masses of slaves before being brought down, if they indeed managed to bring any down at all. The dungeons beneath Dhar’Vuru, dwarf the arena above. Capable of holding over a million slaves, the labyrinthine dungeons are a kingdom unto themselves. Examples of all the peoples in the known world languishing within the confines of these dungeons, and inevitably, each will die upon the arena floor.

Narcissa knew this, she knew all of this and more. She had been raised upon tales of the savage Kalishte and their abominable Dhar’vuru. It had been a story to scare children, an impossible evil to keep the lower classes in check, while the rulers of the free world fought the endless war against the Kalishte and their so called god-emperor. Only, it was not a story any longer. She held the trembling form of her half sister Pen close, Pen’s small body trembling against her own. In a few moments, the arena door would open, and they would die. Narcissa tried to blink back the tears from her eyes, but they would not be denied. All they had been through, all of it, for nothing. Anger welled within her, rising in tumultuous waves. It burned inside her, a deep hatred, for this place, its people, and its perverse willingness and desire to sacrifice innocent children. Narcissa was twenty two summers old and had been engaged to a young count named Ferdinante. Pen was different, only eleven summers old, she was still only a child. Narcissa’s heart sank, what monsters would sentence a child to this place? Who could watch this barbaric display and not be outraged?! She hated them, every, last, one of them.

Narcissa would do her best to protect Pen as long as she could, but she knew deep in her heart that they would not survive. How could they? When the world itself seemed determined to see them both dead. Narcissa had never fought using anything but ornate duelling irons and even then, she had only done so against opponents who would not strike back, only evade and parry. No man of noble bearing would dare risk harming a woman of noble blood, or worse, scar their porcelain skin.

There was no telling what weapons the Kalishte would leave them on the other side of the gate, if any at all.

Stay close to me Pen Narcissa hugged her half sister tightly I'll protect you. Narcissa hated herself for the lie, but what else could she say? Sorry Pen, but the moment that gate opens, we are as good as dead?. No, she wouldn't give up, not while there was the even slightest chance she could keep Pen alive. Each breath Pen drew would be one of defiance against the machinations of fate, each second she lived, a blessing from the divines.

Stick close to the wall Someone whispered nearby.

The voice caught Narcissa by surprise. She spun her head about, looking for the one who had spoken, but no one appeared to be paying any attention to her, their own eyes cast upon the ground, the pervasive air of despair surrounding them, Stay close to the gate the same voice whispered again, this time it more urgent and insistent. Narcissa turned her head slowly, to try and catch the whisperer off guard, but like before, no one was looking towards her or Pen. The only people close enough, were a trio of dishevelled Faelings, an elderly dwarf who looked like he was on the wrong side of his fifth century. Lastly there was a filthy monster of a man, even stooped inside the corridor, he stood head and shoulders above her, she wouldn't be surprised if he was seven or eight feet tall, which would make him by far the tallest man she had ever seen. The pale man's mess of greasy hair, slowly turned towards her. Narcissa hurriedly looked away, unwilling to meet the man's gaze or draw his attention still further.

Stick to the wall. Stay close to the gate The voice whispered again.

As Narcissa was deciding whether to try and find the owner of the whispering voice for the third time. Loud horns blared discordantly from the other side of the gate. The portcullis slowly descended into the ground, while the gates beyond opened revealing the arena floor. Narcissa could hardly believe her eyes, It seemed to stretch outwards for miles in every direction. The horns blared again, this time with more urgency. The cries and roars of the crowd soon drowned them out in a discordant song of their own.

Move hissed the voice Anyone still within these tunnels when the gate closes will die. Narcissa felt herself moving before she had time to think and looking to either side, she saw the Faelings and dwarf doing the same.

Now clear of the corridor and moving onto the open grounds of the arena, Narcissa felt an overwhelming sense of awe and terror. The large pale man lumbered past her, seemingly immune to the spell that gripped the rest of them. His greyish skin looked even more sickly in the sunlight, almost ghoulish. He hefted a large halberd from one of the many nearby weapon racks and then began donning segments of armoured plates with practised ease. He had clearly done this before, perhaps even survived this very arena, but no, that was impossible, no one could survive in such a hellish place.

The horns sounded again, this time accompanied by the deep booming drums and strange instruments she didn’t recognise. Gripping Pen’s arm tightly, Narcissa quickly moved to the arming racks along the arena wall. Desperately scanning the jumbled piles of weapons and armour, she spied a long thin blade. Sorely tempted to immediately retrieve the blade, she forced herself to instead concentrate on finding protection for Pen. All she could find nearby was a boiled leather breastplate that was too big for even Narcissa herself, clearly designed for the broad shouldered and muscular build of a soldier. All the same, Narcissa strapped the breastplate over Pen’s trembling body and handed her a light wooden shield with a small knife sheathed behind it.

Just stay close to me alright? Narcissa told her, as she retrieved and strapped the thinblade’s scabbard to her own hip. Gods, without armour of her own, how long would she be able to protect Pen? The elderly dwarf was rummaging amongst the weapon and armour racks nearby, as if he were taking inventory like one of the castles quartermasters back home. The Faeling trio stood not too far off, like Narcissa the Faelings had taken small and light thin-blades of their own, but unlike her, they seemed to wield them with an alarming level of familiarity and practised ease. One of them saw her looking their way, and frowned. It probably thought she meant to attack them the moment their backs were turned but why was she looking at them anyway? A wave of shame washed over Narcissa, as she realised that it was exactly what she had been thinking. The thin and frail looking Faelings should be an easy target, and so would the elderly dwarf.

A deep booming roar crashed through the arena. After overcoming a mind shattering moment of panic and surprise, Narcissa realised, it had begun.

The arena was now awash in the screams of the desperate and dying. Narcissa had already taken her first life, she had recognised the woman from the frantic moments before, originating from the same gate as Pen herself. She had stumbled too close for Narcissa to leave her alone, too close to Pen. Unwilling to take the risk, Narcissa had run her steel thinblade through the woman's throat without hesitating, trying and failing to avoid looking into the woman's eyes as she gurgled something Narcissa couldn’t understand.

Be cold, You just need to keep Pen alive Narcissa whispered, as tears rolled down her cheeks No matter what it takes, Pen is all that matters.

The Elderly dwarf still stood by the weapon racks, he hadn’t moved more than a few feet from where he had first begun sorting through their contents. He had however arranged a number of weapons into organised piles, and was throwing them with surprising strength and accuracy into the midsection of anyone who drew too close.

More than once, Narcissa and the old dwarf’s eyes had met, their brief exchanges passing with terrifying slowness, as Narcissa wondered whether the dwarf would throw one of his weapons at her and if she would be able to avoid fatal injury if he did. Each time, the moment would pass, and they would return their collective gaze out to the arena floor and the bloody maelstrom of violence taking place before their eyes.

One of the Faelings lay dead, an arrow protruding from its neck. A small mound of bodies lay around the remaining pair, who appeared largely unharmed. Their eyes bore a malicious intensity that forced Narcissa to look away. She had only caught glimpses of the tall pale man, spattered in blood, his halberd sweeping in reckless arcs around him as he pressed through the bloody melee. Something about him made her skin crawl. Unlike the other gladiators in the thick of the fighting, he did not curse or shout as he fought. Neither did he cry out in pain when struck. He just silently cut men and women down, the halberd rising and falling, sweeping side to side, carving bloody arcs of inescapable death.

Someone cried out nearby, looking to her left, Narcissa saw the dwarf clutching at the shaft of an arrow embedded in his right arm. Her first instinct had been to run to the dwarfs aid but as she was about to move, cynicism stayed her.