Sword: Shadows of the Soul, #2

By William Thrash

Book 2 of 3

Mystery Slop for Meals, Creepy-Chick Cryptkeeper, and a Daring Duel with a Dashing King! Taren's life takes turns that forces him to adapt in strange ways. "Why are my own guards shooting crossbows at me?"

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.

Finally entering the army, Taren is unprepared for the shock of change. Struggling to expand his grasp of shadow while training to be a soldier, he catches the attention of shadow users in the army. Having to hide Forven's book and the sword doesn't make things easier. Further, some of the shadow users appear quite hostile and threatening to him. Cryptkeeper and Soulcleaver have their eye on a very nervous Taren.

Krolassen Taren Morr must navigate treacherous threats to become a soldier. Once at the front, he must face the realization that the war is bigger than his naïve imagination. In the end, he is swept up in a daring move that will hand him a death sentence.

SWORD will be followed by the book SHADOW. SWORD ends in something close to a cliffhanger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Thrash
• Release date: May 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781386659983

Book preview

Other Novels

by William Thrash

––––––––

MANSION – A Horror Novel

The Goblin Adventure – A Fantasy

Duke Kord Becker – A Fantasy

SOUL – 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 Shutterstock.com

SWORD 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

Then Jesus said to them, But now, he that has a purse, let him take it, and likewise his money: and he that has no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one.

~ Luke 22:36

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CHAPTER 1

Taren Morr watched the door slam shut on the Provincial Army's vault. The heavy sound was condemnation to his soul.

Liv, I am so sorry. You were a friend when I had none.

The voice vibrated in him – the Sword of Wrath in the baldric on his back. *Indeed.*

The vault was a movable construction of heavy timbers - plated, banded, and reinforced with iron. Inside were the valuables of those in the warband, secured and recorded – the entire vault permanently mounted on a heavy wagon and pulled by a team of horses. It would move with the warband wherever the men went.

That vault contained the two chests he had acquired from Benvo the Thief a week earlier. I would return the coin if I knew the victim.

The voice vibrated, saying nothing.

His arm was touched, not roughly. A soldier pointed the way. The tunics of the Provincial army were cotton and came down to the tops of the thighs. Dyed a deep brown, every soldier wore one. The soldier wore a single red-colored ribbon sewn over his right breast. An award of some sort – Taren wasn't sure what kind – a thumbnail-sized square patch that caught the eye. Not everyone wore one.

Another soldier waved him down. New recruit?

Taren gave the man a nod.

A small grin on the soldier's face was of the kind that knew something Taren didn't. He paused, a small smirk on his mouth and then gave a barely imperceptible nod.

Like what? Did I not do something right?

*Military protocol.*

Hmm?

The voice vibrated.

The soldier checked a sheaf of papers. Dunbarmon's squad. This way.

When is the army moving out?

The soldier looked back. Already has. Already engaged on Bloom Gap.

Already gone?

The soldier led him to a semi-permanent tent of a large size. Three armies are already there. You're in Muttkicker's Warband of the Fourth Army.

Muttkicker? What kind of name is that?

A dry eyebrow regarded him. Consider yourself lucky. He's one of the brightest warleaders we have. You'll learn.

He went through the flap that made the door. The interior was roomy and could fit fifty men or more. Cots and bunks were arranged around a handful of tables. Eerily empty, except for a half-dozen men, the tent was without adornment. Very temporary quarters.

Taren looked at the six faces looking back at him.

The soldier who had escorted him said, Your ninth, Dunbarmon. Looks like you'll be moving today or tomorrow.

Already? Joining the army at the battle?

The voice vibrated.

You're not being any help.

*The soldier is correct. You will learn.*

One of the faces staring back at him came forward. Heavy of brow and pouty of lip, the soldier wore a single green ribbon on his right breast. Alright, I'll get him from here. He looked at Taren and motioned with his finger. Let's get you registered with the warband.

He followed the soldier to a table while the escort left.

Sit yourself, Dunbarmon said.

The other five soldiers went back to playing cards and talking.

The soldier pulled over a sheaf of papers and began writing. Pay is twenty-five crowns per week. Don't gripe about it; you're fed and housed. When the tenth recruit arrives, we'll move out to one of the training bases close by. You will be taught how to be a real soldier. Questions?

When do we join the battle?

When the Training Leader thinks you won't stab yourself in the ass with your own sword. But there's more to it than that. You'll be pushed to meet marching expectations. You'll be shown how to dig.

Dig?

A finger came down and pointed. Might be best to learn right now to never interrupt any of your leaders. I'm a squad leader – the leader of this squad. Above me is Group-Leader Rasco. When we talk, you shut up. Understood?

Taren nodded. Sure, whatever.

The Training Leader will be teaching you and the others how to be real soldiers. He eyed Taren's swords. You might want to visit the formation's vault and secure your swords.

I already did. I'm trained to use these.

Dunbarmon sat back. His grin was simple, but had that knowing edge that informed Taren of nothing. Well, we'll see, won't we?

~ ~ ~

Taren sat at one of the tables and watched the card game. No money was evident, so it was just a game to pass the time.

A burly man looked at him and said, Draminos. Then he thrust his chin in question at Taren.

Taren Morr.

An eyeroll and a breath out his lips preceded his answer. Oh, very well, Draminos Sorlinvens. Formerly a lumberjack out of Torm's Ford.

It was a town far northeast of Varbenburg. Taren nodded. Varbenburg, here. Trying not to be a merchant. He wasn't going to tell them dung merchant.

What's wrong with being a merchant? Good calling.

He sighed. I wanted to do something else.

One of the other soldiers, a weasel-faced man, said, Hey, want to play a little gambling game?

Taren lowered his eyelids. Not really.

You can wager those swords. I'm sure you'll win.

Uh huh.

Come on. Weasel had a shine in his eyes.

I think not.

Can I see one?

Taren's hand gripped one of the hilts and squeezed. Much the same had come from Benvo and he didn't like the direction of this conversation. He leaned over and whispered to Weasel, The only way you'll see one is if I'm about to gut you with it. Are we clear?

The man sat back, hands raised. Alright, alright. No need to be testy about it. I'm Ard, by the way.

He didn't answer; he just scowled at the man. I've had enough of playing friends to people who want to steal. He rose from the table and distanced himself. He chose a cot with nothing on it and set down the baldric. Sitting beside it, he opened his carry satchel and withdrew Forven's book. Casting a quick glare around, he saw that everyone had gone back to their own thing. The card game, some reading, and one man lying on a cot, staring idly above him at nothing.

Taren opened to the section he had been reading. He skimmed past Forven's weak mention of detecting shadow and continued into the section on detecting people who don't use shadow. He was especially intrigued with this as his first forays into shadow were trying to find Benvo. He thought he had done well. He reminded himself to translate all of Forven's liquid references to air.

He had puzzled over the shadowmaster's reference to feeling heartbeat pressure on his skin, as if carried by water. Not having much time to ponder it on his trip south out of Morrey, he applied himself now. Pressure on the skin? He knew he had to develop his own method the way he viewed shadow or he would fail trying to duplicate Forven's ways. If the dead shadowmaster felt pressure as if from liquid, how would that translate to air? Vibration?

His eyes lit up. Hearing? That would be even better. He entered shadow to test it. Dipping into the warmth of shadow, he manipulated shadow with sound, much like spreading a blanket of hearing. He glanced over at the table with the card players. Moving it there, he focused on detecting...

There was a distant shout. A dull but very loud vibration of sound filled his ears and he shifted shadow – almost as if he were twisting the blanket in his mind. Pounding feet from outside the tent competed with a drumbeat of thumps. He tilted his head in confusion. Did I cast too large a blanket? What's that outside?

Four figures came rushing into the tent. Three had crossbows. The fourth stabbed a finger at Taren.

What? Me? He dropped shadow and motioned to himself in confusion. What's going on here?

The man pointing was dressed in a belted robe of black – not like the soldiers. His features were wild with determination – his eyes blazing with focus.

Taren heard the rushing of wind, then. A shadow-user? Here in the army? Suddenly, he realized he felt isolated and not alone in his silence. Alarmed, he tried to enter light and shadow. He could not.

The robed figure pointed. You there! The other three soldiers advanced.

Taren put the book down, his eyes wide and stunned.

The figure in black turned suddenly. And another! Guards! He moved a hand and Taren heard the change of rushing wind.

One of the card players had half-risen, then sat heavily back into his chair. He toppled over, stunned.

More soldiers came rushing into the tent.

Take them both. Black Robe was looking back and forth.

Dunbarmon was blinking, mouth open and trying to find words. Soulcleaver? What? Why...?

The black-robed man gave a glance to Squad Leader Dunbarmon. I detected power being used.

Here, sir?

Soulcleaver gave a look to Taren and the other man. From these two. None in a month and now two. He motioned to the crossbowmen. Take them.

Taren was at a loss. Using the shadow is illegal?

Soulcleaver's eyes blazed brighter. Silence.

Hands grabbed him and the other man. Another guard collecting their belongings.

Taren tried to focus, but could not. Wrath and Forven's book were being carried by a guard. He was ushered out and into the waning light of day. Moved along the pathways of the camp, he found himself being thrust into a very fortified structure that held some cells.

Reminiscent of the warband vault slamming shut not even an hour before, Taren watched and heard and felt the prison door slamming shut on his life.

CHAPTER 2

Taren paced back and forth in the cell, if not with determination, then with intent to focus his mind. He seemed to lose focus as soon as he tried.

The other man from his squad peered through the connecting bars. Rashidomar?

He stopped pacing. He hadn't caught what the man had called him. Huh?

You did not come from... The man's voice trailed off and a stony look came over his face.

I don't know what you're talking about. Why do they have us? Why are you here? You use shadow, too?

The man's eyes drew down into a glare. He maintained the set of his mouth.

The door to the inner cells opened and a guard stepped in. He pointed to scowling man. You. Come. He unlocked the man's door and without waiting for him to step out on his own, grabbed him and pulled.

Taren watched the guard pull the man out of the cells as if he were shaking a filthy towel. A grimace of teeth showed in the man's face but he went quietly.

What's all this about?

*Shadow is being used on me. I should be amused.*

Huh?

*Your captors are trying to figure out what I am.*

Would that be a bad thing?

*You released me. You will wield me.*

What about my grandfather's swords?

*They are here. All is here.*

What are they going to do?

Silence.

Taren sat on the cot and leaned back. I come all this way to join the army and the first day I'm in prison. Can it get any worse? He tried to enter light and shadow, but the state failed to occur as it did normally. Instead he sat in the silence he had learned so many years before. I need to get my mind off of worry and doubt.

*Good.*

He rose and imagined his swords in his hands. Descending further into silence – at the threshold of that silent vibration of self and the point just before the light – he assumed a guard stance. Sweeping slowly through some blocks and counters, he spun slowly in the cell. It was not a practice; he needed none. The movements were instinctual by now – a product of years of use. Much like walking had become.

He heard the cell door open sometime later. His limbs felt limber and warm.

The guard had started to say something, then stood for a couple of seconds watching.

Taren sighed and came to a stop in a guard position, then dropped his arms. Am I to be executed? He did not feel the impact of worry in the words. He was serene enough that it was delivered as offhand as a question about the weather.

That snapped the guard out of his watching. He moved towards the door to Taren's cell. Executed? Most likely. You will come and answer questions.

Why answer questions if you're going to kill me? Some anger flared in Taren.

A hand gripped his cloak at the shoulder and he was pulled. We can beat it out of you or you can talk. Up to you, though Soulcleaver has other ways.

That doesn't sound good.

He was half-pulled out of the cells and along a hall to a connecting building. Guards were here and there, in the outer room and at the door to the next building, watching along the way.

His captor nodded to one and the door was opened for them. He was escorted into a larger building that bustled with activity. But all of that activity was further along a hallway in another area of the building. He was shoved through a nearby doorway and pushed down into a chair that showed fresh spatters of blood.

He grimaced. My cloak is getting dirty.

Soulcleaver sat on a stool, his fierce countenance and blazing eyes regarding him. A desk against the wall held papers and his belongings.

His captor grabbed a bloody club and leaned against the wall.

Soulcleaver's voice was filled with accusation and hate. You use darkness.

What? I do not—

You use darkness and are here to infiltrate the Provincial Army—

Why is this happening? I just want to be a soldier. What are you talking about? I'm not infiltrating anything.

Why are you here then? If not to subvert and destroy? His eyes were like those of a crazed and intelligent beast.

Taren rose out of his chair. I came to join the army and fight against the West. You're going to execute me for that?

Soulcleaver had not moved, except his eyes to follow Taren's rise from his seat.

Neither had the guard moved.

Finally, the robed figure grunted and sat back a little. Sit. He turned and took up Forven's book. Where did you come by this?

Why should I tell you? Kill me and be done with it.

The man did not look up from the book. We're not going to kill you. But I would like a few answers.

Surprise flooded Taren. You're not going to kill me?

No. You spoke the truth. Now sit.

He did. How do you know... Oh. Did you use darkness on me? To block me? To find out—

Soulcleaver looked up. The eyes still burned with ferocity, but not as before. I root out the darkness. Blocking darkness also blocks light and shadow.

I didn't know using shadow was illegal—

Illegal? No, it's not. I investigate all uses of power. The Western Empire has been sending agents of darkness to infiltrate our army. Probably in some grand scheme to unleash chaos at just the right moment. He pushed his stool back to lean against the wall. He leaned his head back against it as well. Where are you from?

Varbenburg.

Soulcleaver picked up the sheaf of paper and read for a second. Correct. Very good. I think you can go, Serramo.

The guard grunted and left the room.

What's this about?

Just making sure the truth is known.

I'm no agent for the—

He held up a hand. I know. The shadow has shown me the truth in your words. Tell me, did Garsamon say anything to you?

Garsamon? Who?

A look of annoyance crossed Soulcleaver's features. The man taken with you.

"Oh, I didn't know his