Shadow: Shadows of the Soul, #3

By William Thrash

Dead again? Sentenced to death after dying! Six-armed Snake Demon!

Taren faces it all in the thrilling conclusion to the Shadows of the Soul trilogy.

Leaving home and a life he did not desire, Taren sets out to join the Provincial Army and fight in a civil war brought on by the Shadowmasters.

Comfortable now using shadow, Taren is swept up in a move that will hand him a death sentence. But isn't the goal to win the war? Taren is haunted by Cryptkeeper and the revelation of her identity. His association with the Crown of Presh has consequences reaching farther than any could have forseen. The final battle against darkness proves just how capable Taren is with shadow.

Krolassen Taren Morr gives his best as a soldier. In the end, he finds himself kneeling to face judgment while Cryptkeeper weeps.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Thrash
• Release date: Jun 7, 2015
• ISBN: 9781386528098

Book preview

Other Novels

by William Thrash

––––––––

MANSION – A Horror Novel

The Goblin Adventure – A Fantasy

Duke Kord Becker – A Fantasy

SOUL – A Fantasy

SWORD – A Fantasy

Novellas

Winning Hands – A Western

The Dwarven Legacy – A Fantasy

The Melaki Chronicle – A Fantasy

DRAGON, RAMPANT – A Novel

The Melaki Chronicle Volume II – A Fantasy

Tuesdays – A Modern Horror

Eliam Cross: Swords & Treachery – A Fantasy

Cover Photo by www.ShutterStcok.com

SHADOW is a work of fiction. Names, locations and incidents either are a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2015 - All Rights Reserved

CHAPTER 1

Krolassen Taren Morr died for the second time in his life in the Preshian cavalry charge. He took a lance clean through his chest.

The Eastern Empire's Fourth Army was caught crossing the only bridge south of Can Talero with the majority of its forces on the other side. The promise of the morning sun through patchy clouds offered no hope – nothing but the grim realization the forces on this side of the river were going to be destroyed.

The Shadow Band of the fourth army wielded shadow in a furious attempt to stop the charge of the Preshians on the western side of the river. Fire from the eastern forces flew at a distance. Preshians died, burning. When the inevitable clash came, shadow-enhanced axes flashed and a maul enhanced by shadow drove Preshians from their saddles in swipes as easy as swatting flies.

The majority of the Fourth Army was still on the eastern side of the river. The Preshian cavalry decimated the few Eastern forces on the western side.

Western Empire artillery that had formed up on the western side fired point blank, ballista bolts completely passing through the armored bodies of the Preshian cavalry. Horses whinnied in loss as their masters fell from their saddles, skewered by large bolts of wood and steel.

The massacre on both sides was great.

Taren Morr had been wielding shadow, attempting to form a shield, but unable to calculate his manipulation of the force that might have saved him. A normal lance had ended his effort.

Shouts were all around him - furious shouts of the enemy and desperate shouts from his own side. A horn sounded from the enemy. Other horns answered. His vision, accentuated by the lance-wound in his chest, was limited to what was directly in his sight. Directly above him appeared Cryptkeeper, the healer for the Shadow Band.

Liv, my friend...

The iron scent from the masked woman was heavy. Don't you dare die on me, Taren.

He felt the rushing of wind as the blackness closed over him. He separated from his body, in a completely new and unknown experience – different than the time he had died to the sacrificial knife.

He looked down, knowing he was down... there – somehow – and saw himself lying prone on the battlefield, the white-robed Cryptkeeper hunched over him while soldiers battled desperately against a swirling charge of cavalry against their lines.

Horns sounded again.

But even that vision began to dim. Blackness enveloped him in a comfort he was not sure he dreaded – nor wanted to avoid.

He was at peace. Neither hot nor cold, he felt comfort. He felt a great separation then, a distancing from what he had previously known. Blackness came readily, and fast.

But with the darkness came a pinpoint of light.

~ ~ ~

Taren opened his eyes to a brightness previously unknown. The light of the glare in his eyes obliterated everything around him.

Where am I?

He tried to raise his head. It was as easy as a normal day rising from his bunk. But at the same time, it was more difficult than he had ever experienced. There was a weight to what he did, deeper than he had ever known. He felt as if just raising his head was an accomplishment he might never duplicate.

But he laid there, in the brightness, and raised his head.

Two figures stood in the light, creating dark smudges against a blinding background. Something tickled deep inside him – at his soul.

Krolassen Taren Morr. The voice from one of the figures in the light seemed familiar, but nothing Taren had ever heard.

Taren waited, expecting something more, but nothing came. The nagging itch within him grew. What—

The same shadow figure in the blinding light spoke: You are not done. The voice was melodious, and without emotion.

Taren felt confusion. Not done dying? Not done comprehending? Not done... what?

The same figure looked to its side at the other. Then it looked back. Your destiny has just begun.

The other figure had flowing black hair that almost formed a short cape around his shoulders.

Taren felt the desire to laugh. It was a small desire, overshadowed by the immediacy of his mortality and his experience with losing it. But, I'm dead.

The nagging itch grew more persistent.

There was silence for a time. How long, Taren was not sure.

Then the figure spoke again, Your time is not yet.

Taren twisted in his own mind, trying to look for a cause. What? What does that mean?

The other figure, the one with the long hair, spoke in a similar melodious tone. We have work to do.

Taren blinked, stunned. The voice, so familiar and at once known. Wrath?

I am Justoriel, here; Wrath is but an instrument.

Why am I here?

You have died, again. But your time is not yet.

He felt as if his entire being was itching, demanding a scratch inside his soul. It was distracting. I... I don't know if I want to go back...

Justoriel said, Wrath must be dealt.

He felt as if he was losing control. How do I lose control when I'm dead? But—

The other figure spoke. Go and fulfill your functions. Return to the life you had. Expand your use of the shadow in the light.

A longing filled Taren to remain, hampered by the aggravating itch inside. Are you... the Creator?

The figure stiffened. I am not.

Justoriel took a step forward, gazing down at him but saying nothing. He watched Taren intently as the itch grew within.

He felt something began to tug and slip. What's happening to me? He looked one way in the brightness and then the other.

The first figure said, You return to your body.

Justoriel added in tones that vibrated with song, Your friend reaches to her own death to save you.

Liv?

Neither answered.

Taren felt a tugging that pulled him, stretching him impossibly and causing immense pain. Then he felt himself falling, faster and faster. Impossibly fast.

Muted sounds surrounded him became clearer. Occasional shouts, the panting and clanking of soldiers, and Taren's own groan turning into a howling scream.

He sat upright, clutching his chest and the bloody clothing there. Pain wracked his body and a deep crushing numbness where the lance had taken him.

Cryptkeeper fell over next to him.

Liv?

Then he noticed the relative silence.

All around, soldiers were facing the enemy – but at a distance. The Preshians had backed off a few paces, no more. But there was no fighting.

Muttkicker was shouting orders for those on the bridge to move faster to reinforce.

Taren half collapsed over his friend. Liv?

Her breath rattled in a gasp and her eyelids fluttered. Her breathing began to return to normal.

He cradled her and her hood slipped back as he held her. He could see the sides of her head and her neck – horribly scarred with burn tissue. He felt horrified. How had she survived?

The silence around him deepened.

All because of me. I'm so sorry, Liv, that you suffered so much because of me.

Cryptkeeper's rattle increased. Let me up, Taren.

Are you sure? They said you were going to die—

Who? Leave me alone. She pushed away from him. Try not to take wounds like that in the future. She got to her feet, if unsteady, and suddenly grabbed for her hood to reposition it.

Taren slowly climbed to his feet, still feeling an excruciating and paralyzing numbness deep in his chest.

Wounded soldiers were being dragged back for healing.

On the enemy's side, there was a commotion a couple of ranks into the horses. Riders moved aside. Fist raised to hold his forces, the Crown of Presh approached.

War machines pivoted to follow his progress the few paces to their lines.

King Sotoskire looked unconcerned as he