Dawn of the Shadow Empire: Shadows of Despair : The Awakening

By C R Witts

Kenaraa and William, brought together then separated by a boundless war. Both have the power to save or destroy the world. Kenaraa, a refugee, awakens the power of magic placed in her by design. William, born of an ancient bloodline, accidentally weds and falls in love with a shape-changer, who resents him. A Power foretold in ancient prophecy is descending onto the world. It's up to a group of unlikely allies to put it on a path of salvation or send it into nothingness? This character driven, dark fantasy will immerse you in its rough and violent world.

90K Word Vol 1 In the Shadows of Despair: The Awakening series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Witts
• Release date: May 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386692423

Book preview

Prologue

48th Day of Harvest Sun

In the 1883rd year since the fall of Tal’Anath

Phineas Jaquewald spent his third straight day inside the guarded chamber in the lower levels of the library, under The Tower of Euphony. The wards surrounding the room radiated with the magic of the most talented Headmasters of the Seven Arcane Towers.

According to the records, no visitors had been permitted to enter these, the most secure rooms in all the kingdoms, in over a century. It had taken Phineas a few years to grease the right palms and gain the trust of the Headmaster Maestro Nodemio – but after many letters and endless debates with the current Headmasters of the Seven Towers, they had finally given him consent and allowed him passage into the inner sanctum.

And while the Headmasters had argued, societies had crumbled as the grip of war strangled all the lands. The undead hordes from the Deathshire were relentlessly pushing outward, while the Dragon’s Tail Giants in the frozen north were organizing and on the move. The Council of Seers once again retreated into meditation and began speaking forth warnings of approaching darkness.

Phineas sat in a wooden chair, hands on his knees, at a heavy oaken table littered with scrolls and books. The towering stacks of ancient knowledge loomed over the old sage as he leaned forwards and projected his thoughts onto a sheet of arcane paper.

Dark grey markings moved at his will, organizing themselves exactly as he wished. The paper was soon filled with calculations and dates, his thoughts alone creating and orchestrating the ink.

A large leather-bound tome sat next to him and flipped its pages back and forth as he asked it questions. Brass sconces lining the walls held magical flames that offered enough light to read by, while making the shadows appear to dance.

Deep in contemplation, Phineas kept his thoughts pouring onto the paper. He found using the Tome of Collective Thought difficult. The elder book would only show him passages as it wished and getting it to open to the ancient prophecies was almost impossible. Occasionally it would tease him with a glimmer of information on one of its pages before changing to a slightly less relevant entry.

No one knew where the massive tome had come from or even how the entries were inked. For years entries had mystically appeared at random, and all scholars could do was monitor the ancient, powerful tome.

Frustrated at the Tome's refusal to help him, Phineas seized a few of the books on the table – but he found that they were of no use, either. A great deal of information seemed to be missing –

And then the Tome flashed him an account of all the stolen entries. Someone had masterfully removed entire pages without leaving a trace of the deed.

The Tome's pages fluttered as Phineas frowned. Could a book laugh? He had no doubt that the Tome was alive. In fact, the entire library seemed to share the joke.

But the disappearance of key entries muddled his understanding of the prophecy. The letter Phineas had begun to scribe to the newly appointed heir of Karanthal’s provincial throne, Lord Jaryth, lay buried under a pile of discarded books.

Though he had never met the new lord, Phineas knew it would be proper to send something acknowledging his own servitude and loyalty. The young man would be distraught after the loss of his father, Lord Shedrick. Seneschal Sebastian had used the magical thought stones to inform Phineas of the murder of Lord Shedrick, and had insisted that Phineas send all further correspondence only to the Seneschal. 

In any case, the letter offered little in the ways of comfort to Lord Jaryth with its detail of upcoming events. Prophets were emerging throughout the land while Phineas sat in the dark old library trying to solve the riddle hidden inside the prophecies.

The Tome's pages whistled as they flipped wildly and then finally stopped. Phineas's mouth went dry as he looked at the page the Tome had offered him, and the reference book in his hands tumbled to the floor.

I’m a fool. How could I miss such an obvious detail?

It was right there on the Tome's page. The son and his murdered father. It had all come full circle. He needed to warn Lord Jaryth before it was too late. But with Sebastian holding the thought-stones, Phineas couldn’t dare send the message by way of a stone.

He tossed more books off the table to uncover the letter and slid it in front of him. He reached for his quill and wrote frantically, trying to piece the remainder of his thoughts together in such a way that if the letter were to be intercepted, it would not be easily understood. Everything pivoted on Phineas’ memories of Jaryth’s keen insights as a child.

A chill breeze crawled across the back of his neck. His muscles tensed as the short hairs on his arms stood up. The old sage spun his head around to see shadows moving about the far wall. But his eyes burned from the nonstop delving into the old lore of the world, and he couldn’t be sure if something was actually there or if it was just the weariness of old eyes.

Hello? he asked, into the book-filled room.

No answer came. The shadows continued their rhythmic motions in mockery of his disturbance.

Another cool breeze moved across his arm. His nerves sent the tingle of a thousand bees gently pricking at his skin.

Fear sent convulsions through his body. The fatigue faded, replaced with a sense of dread.

Phineas grabbed up the letter and spilled the inkpot in his haste. The ink on the letter smeared in his grasp but that didn’t matter now. His life and work were in danger.

Guards, help! There is someone in here. His voice sounded faint and dry, the words distant.

The weight of the air tightened around him, making it hard to breathe. The echo of his heart thumped in his chest.

The shadows leaked down from the bookcase and flowed across the floor.

Phineas reached into his pocket and retrieved a small stone. He spoke into the yellowish rock and the air shimmered, but even with the lowered wards the stone’s magic wasn’t enough to fully coalesce.

A rip in the air pulsated like water dripping into a still pond. He heard the hiss of drawing steel in the darkness surrounding him.

The ripple in the air opened. Phineas could see a form standing on the other side.  A familiar, well-dressed man looked back through the magic portal. The tear in reality flickered as a dark shadow wrapped around the opening.

A man cloaked in shadows moved up next to him and effortlessly swung his heavy blade.

The world spun end over end as consciousness slipped into oblivion. Phineas took his last breath with the letter held close to his chest.

* * *

Creeping along in the shadows inside the mountainside palace that served as the home for the ruling house of Karanthal, dressed as a servant and carrying a bottle of wine, Marcus followed Sebastian at a distance through the cold stone halls until the royal advisor stopped at the library. Marcus waited just around the corner until he heard the soft clicks of the latch on the wooden door as it opened and then closed again. His mark was unaware of his presence. 

Marcus stepped lightly to the side of the door and listened. At first he heard muffled chanting, but it suddenly stopped and was replaced by a ripping sound and the thud of something falling inside the room. 

The thick door and massive stone walls made it difficult to eavesdrop. It is done, said a voice Marcus did not recognize, in an equally unfamiliar accent. Here is the sage’s head. Now I will have the rest of my fee.

Yes. The masters shall be pleased. Now that the true Lord has been born, we are no longer in need of this place or these men. Sebastian’s haughty voice was unmistakable.

We do not care why you fight, or what you fight for. I have completed my contract and that is all that concerns me, the assassin replied.

Almost. There is one more thing. Now that Phineas Jaquewald and his discovery are out of the way, we need to remove Jaryth.

I have not cleaned my blade of the sage’s blood, and already you ask me to kill another? Crossing one dead man’s blood with another's is most disrespectful – and it will cost you. Do you wish it to look accidental, or would you rather have me just murder him?

Marcus could hear the smile in Sebastian's voice. Brutal and bloody would be preferred. You see, I have evidence to plant that will start a war between Lady Angelique Donovar’s and Lord Bynum’s realm, and murder will only help things along.

It often does. And so I am rarely without work.

Sebastian ignored him. The old blind widow Lady Angelique that lives there is well loved, but became distrusted after she took to harbouring a Goblin as a child several years ago. It’s well known amongst the nobles that her nephew Lord Bynum has great disdain for Jaryth. They will readily believe that Lord Bynum would pay an assassin to remove the young lord. And when the fighting starts, the neighbouring provinces will move right in to seize the resource-rich land that the old widow still owns – thus starting another great war that will rip apart the remnants of the old empire.

The assassin shrugged. Your contract is accepted and sealed. I shall go and remove your young lord, he said. But I warn you – you speak too much. That can be dangerous.

Yes, it would be unfortunate if the wrong ears overheard anything important. Also, watch your blade against Jaryth. He is young but his father provided him access to some of the best swordsmen in the province. I would hate for all our plans to crumble due to a careless slip.

Marcus had heard enough. He moved away from the door before either of the two men inside could open it. He hung his head low and carried the wine bottle openly, as any servant might do; but he walked away at a very brisk pace.

Sebastian’s words rang in his head. We need to remove Jaryth . . . brutal and bloody would be preferred. Marcus had failed to uncover the plot in time to prevent Lord Shedrick’s demise, but now his own reputation and pride demanded that he not fail to protect Shedrick’s son, Jaryth.

His mind raced on all the countermeasure techniques he had acquired as he covered the short distance from the library to Jaryth’s room.

Stopping just outside, Marcus placed his ear on the tightly shut, bronze-banded mahogany door. He could hear faint breathing and the scratching of a quill. Slowly and silently he eased the door open, slipping out a dagger from under his tunic.

The room was empty except for Jaryth, who sat at his desk facing the open window. Marcus closed the door and placed the bottle of wine against it. Moving on his toes around the outskirts of the light from the window, he slipped behind the thick curtains on the opposite side of the room.

From his vantage point, he watched Jaryth lean back and stretch.

Marcus balanced the dagger's blade in the palm of his hand and squatted down to better balance himself for the spring forward. He closed his eyes and allowed his ears to listen for the slightest disturbance.

The wine bottle tipped over as his target entered the room.

Marcus leapt out from the drapes, dagger in hand. From the corner of his eye he saw Jaryth jump out of his seat at the sudden movement.

A man covered in shadows rushed forwards wielding a large falcata. The curved blade reflected no light.

Marcus dropped his arm midway through his throw, releasing the dagger into an upward path so that it flipped past the arcing blade. The assassin let the flying blade land in his dipped shoulder to prevent it from connecting with his neck.

"Naz shaul astain, Jaryth," the assassin cursed, as he ripped the dagger free and rolled backwards.

Marcus freed two daggers from his ankle sheaths. He feinted, spinning the daggers in his hands and never letting them rest in either a throwing or a lunging position. The technique worked as the intruder hesitated, trying to read Marcus’ next move.

Marcus flipped the dagger in his left hand and flung it hard, quickly diving forwards with the dagger in his right. The other assassin moved his sword to deflect the thrown object and slid away from the melee strike.

You are good, said the strangely accented voice. But I am the master of The Shadow. Tentacles of inky blackness erupted from the assassin’s aura and lashed out towards Marcus’ eyes.

Marcus raised one arm to protect himself and with the other reached under his tunic to free another dagger. He let it fly, gritting his teeth as he heard the dagger connect with nothing but the solid stone wall. The assassin had moved out of the way under the cover of the blackness.

Suddenly there was a presence behind him. Marcus rolled forwards even as he twisted around to re-engage his opponent. The falcata blade, still coated in Phineas’ blood, sliced through the air a hair’s width from his neck.

The attacker stood up in front of him but Marcus planted his foot on the man's knee, stopping him in mid stride. The downward stroke of the assassin was stopped as Jaryth’s blade intervened. The ringing of steel on steel echoed through the halls like an alarm, breaking the silence that one would expect in a battle of master assassins.

The assailant took a step back to weigh his options. Marcus, too, paused for an instant to catch a breath and see what the assassin would try next –

And then another form leaped in front of the intruder, swinging a broadsword with the discipline of repeated and powerful slashes. Jaryth's attacks broke through the assassin’s defenses and overwhelmed the other man, for the young lord's expertise far out-classed the crude melee training of his assailant.

Dark blood flowed down the tunic of the interloper. The man fell in a heap at Jaryth’s feet.

Marcus quickly prepared two more daggers. Jaryth stood over the slumped man, who struggled to rise, and held the point of his blade to the back of the shadowed man’s neck.

Who sent you? Jaryth demanded. Who is paying you?

The assassin made a quick feint and Marcus hurled the daggers, but the man was too fast and had already moved out of the way. Marcus shouldered into Jaryth and tried to move him as the assassin pulled a hidden blade and lunged upwards. The blade struck Jaryth’s hip, forcing him forced back against Marcus.

Slowly the assassin stood up. I am Nakaya, and I have had enough of this game. I will sever your shadows.

All through the room, the shadows of furniture, objects, and men slithered back from the things that had cast them. The shadows writhed through the room and began to move towards Marcus and Jaryth.

A surge of absolute darkness filled Marcus’s senses. Cold dank shadows oozed into his lungs and threatened to smother him.

While he still could, he dragged Jaryth to the open window. Your survival is in your hands now, Marcus gasped. I can't save you any other way. With the last of his strength he forced the young lord up to the wide stone sill and slung him out of the room.

There was a distant cry of terror and rage as Jaryth tumbled from the second floor of the fort, falling down and down to the ground . . . and then over the edge of the mountain.

Chapter 1

The 45th day of High Sun 45

In the 1893 year since the fall of Tal’Anath

The sun stood at its peak in the cloudless sky, baking the ground with its summer heat. The clay cracked along the only road leading into the small village of Ember Rock. Even the mountain range that skirted the village gave no shade during this time of the day.

Children ran about the village playing while their mothers watched and gossiped. The men of the village went about their daily tasks: carrying timber, patching thatch, and moving trade wares to the trade tent. The villagers shared responsibilities and everyone was expected to contribute to the welfare of the whole.

Kenaraa sat on the edge of the stone well and took a drink from the community ladle. The water felt cool and refreshing on her tongue. After finishing the last swallow, she placed the wooden utensil next to the old squeaky crank and picked up her two filled buckets. The extra weight made her pace much slower as she walked towards her thatch-roofed cottage.

She was small compared to the rest of the young women who lived in the village, her heritage a stark contrast. The sun highlighted a reddish sheen among the soft waves of black hair that hung down her back. Her petite frame was covered with pasty skin did not darken, not even under the fierce sun of Ember Rock. 

As she walked, Kenaraa looked into the tree line and saw the two ravens sitting on their high branch peering down at her. They were a familiar sight, for they had been following her for years – for such a long time that she could not be sure just when they had appeared.

"How long have you been following me? she said to the ravens. Was it before the first time I saw you along the road to Sumertain, with old Master Padlain’s caravan? I suppose I should be grateful you were there that day. Had you not swooped down and flushed that man out of the brush, we would have headed straight into that ambush."

The ravens preened and ruffled their feathers as she spoke.

Oh, how I miss old Master Padlain and his assortment of odd stories. He was the grandfather I never had. Though she'd only traveled a few weeks with the caravan along the West Road, she had grown quite fond of the old master. He –

Her reverie shattered as Mrs. Bardawin’s youngest twins ran past her. She stumbled and dropped to a knee to keep from spilling the two buckets.

Sorry, Miss Kenaraa, they said in unison, before running off again to continue their game of tag

She dismissed their apology, and merely stood up and brushed the dirt off her knee before glancing back at the tree line.

The ravens were gone.

She was about to reach for the buckets again when her eye caught something in the distance, out past the shimmer of heat that rose from the ground. The black blot grew into a wavy blur. Its gait was loping and rhythmic. It took her a moment to realize that the approaching figure rode atop a horse.

There have been no visitors here since you stumbled across our village three seasons ago.

Kenaraa jumped a little at Cameron's voice. He had walked up behind her and she had not even noticed.

She glanced in his direction, though looking at him was hard. His face was covered in pock marks and his blinded left eye was covered with a rag tied around his head. Yes, but as remote as everyone says this village is, I was able to find it.

You did. You and the hunters that live on the outskirts to the south. Cameron pointed towards the clay road that exited to the south and went out a few hundred paces before disappearing into the overgrowth. Even they stay away from the deep forest and all the hostile creatures that live there. And don’t forget that the hunters aren’t permitted to pass the trees painted with blood. That marks the territory for the village. No one dares to challenge the Solesci-Siri.

I know of no direct contact between Ember Rock and the Solesci-Siri shape-changers, Kenaraa said. The villagers were beginning to gather around, also watching the approaching rider. She used her hand to shield her eyes from the glaring sun as the rider came into full view.

A red tabard coated in dirt was draped over his dull grey armour. He was a solder, and despair clutched Kenaraa's heart at the sight of him.

The memory of her mother’s death her filled her head. Soldiers had poured into their home during that night of horror and forced her on a path of flight that had spanned the last five years. And now one of them was here.

This soldier rode by. No marks of battle showed on the leather barding of the brown mottled mare. His gaze swept across the crowd that had gathered to see him.

Why are you here? Kenaraa cried, her voice trembling.

The soldier pulled up on the reins, halting his mare. He turned back to see who had spoken and his cold stare rested on her.

Cameron dragged his foot behind him as he moved between the soldier and Kenaraa.

She watched open-mouthed as the soldier yanked on the reins, turning the mare away and sending the muscled beast lurching forward. The crowd quickly dispersed as the soldier dismounted in front of the village’s only tavern, The Golden Anvil.

Four granite pillars rose in a line outside the stone carved entrance. The face of the tavern had been shaped out of the same granite vein that ran across the base of the mountain. 

Cameron turned to speak to Kenaraa, but stopped open-mouthed when he looked at her face.

The sight of the soldier had brought an awful tightness to her throat. Kenaraa took in a deep breath to slow her racing heart, but she was unable to fight back a flood of tears that streaked down through the dust on her face. She turned and fled back to her hut, leaving behind the buckets of water and a worried Cameron.

She slammed the door shut behind her as she fell to her knees and sobbed into the sheepskin blanket that covered her bed. The heaves of her weeping started a burn in her stomach. Her breaths came in gasps as she tried to fight her emotions.

Kenaraa knew she must keep her emotions under control, or the pain would rage through her like a wildfire. The burning grew and spread to her lungs. She took in another deep breath as she tried to focus on emptiness, on nothing.

But anxiety brought forth the old familiar assault. The pain shot through her like a serrated blade deep into her belly, and she doubled over. Her body hit the floor as she curled into a ball and her chest tightened with agony and fear.

The pain arced through her body as hot lead coursed through her veins. Every pump of her heart sent lightning through her chest. Moments stretched for what felt like hours, until at last she regained her composure and managed to suppress the terror and the pain.

Chapter 2

Kenaraa crawled out from under her soft, warm blanket and massaged the sore muscles in her side. One of her ravens was perched on the window sill and staring out towards the forest.

I need to be more careful, Kenaraa said. I don’t think I can handle another episode. That had to be the most painful yet. The raven looked back at her. I know I really need to go see Medic Helen, but I worry she’ll discover how cursed I am.

Kenaraa wiped away the sweat from her brow and changed into a dry set of clothes. I suppose the brown dress will work until I get the chance to do the wash. She tossed her sweat-drenched clothes into a pile next to the door. The raven continued to stare at her with its black eyes.

She started to leave her small cabin, but hesitated in the doorway. A group of the older women were gathered in the square and a heated discussion seemed to be brewing between them.

Kenaraa took a deep breath and approached the gathering.  Good morning, she said to them, stopping just a pace or two away.

We were promised solitude, as well as – Missus Panella, who was Master Beirt Landson’s wife, stopped mid-sentence and frowned at Kenaraa. Ladies, we should take this discussion inside. The whole group of them gave Kenaraa no more than forced smiles before retreating into Panella’s cottage. 

That was rude, Kenaraa thought with a sigh. What promise of solitude were they talking about? Did they make a truce with the Solesci-Siri?

She shifted her gaze to several young men meandering outside the stone tavern. Its massive doors were shut tight, but Kenaraa did not ever remember seeing those doors closed – not even at night. Walking to the tavern's kitchen entrance, she found that the solid oak door opened easily on its double hinge and quickly slipped inside.

Kenaraa smiled when she found William in the kitchen. He hadn’t changed much in the three years since he'd found her hiding in a thorny bramble out in the forest.

Even at seventeen years old, his frame was larger than that of Norm the Blacksmith. William’s shoulders were a head higher than everyone else in the village, save his father. And Kenaraa could not place where in the broken kingdom he and his father might have originated. William's skin would not grow any darker than bronze, regardless of how long he spent in the sun.

Is the oven ready? Kenaraa asked.

She waited for a reply as he lifted a large iron cauldron and affixed it to the iron support rod over the fire.

William?

He turned to look at her. Sorry. Didn’t hear you come in, William responded. The fire should be ready for you. I got the chimney cleaned out last night and the coals started early this morning.

Have you been up all night? You should get some rest.

William shrugged. I’m good. I managed to cut enough wood to last several days, after I got back from Mister Derrick’s place. I went there to help them with the boulder that fell the other day.

Kenaraa got the knives she would use to make the evening’s stew and placed them on the table. You find any reason to go to Mister Derrick's place. Was his daughter Emily there?

Her comment made William stumble just a bit on his way over to the meat rack. His face turned the colour of one of the pale tomatoes. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

I’m sure you don’t.

"And no. She was