Ebon Blade

By Rebecca Shelley

The blade will claim your soul

Brian, a ragged street boy, snatches a cursed blade that thrusts him into a bloody war of succession. The blade carries a dark magic that makes Brian a dangerous fighter, but in the process it takes control of his mind and spirit. He finds he must choose between his own freedom and the power to save his friends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebecca Shelley
• Release date: May 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386793731

Rebecca Shelley

Rebecca Shelley writes a wide variety of books—everything from picture books to spy thrillers.She especially likes to write about fantasy creatures such as dragons and fairies.Her children’s books are written under the Rebecca Shelley name.Her thrillers and other books for adults are written under the R. L. Tyler pen name.She also has two books out under the R. D. Henham pen name—Red Dragon Codex and Brass Dragon Codex.

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Ebon Blade

Rebecca Shelley

Copyright © 2011 Rebecca Shelley

Published by Wonder Realms Books

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission. All characters, places, and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover photography © Valery Sibrikov | Dreamstime.com

Interior art © Irina Shishkina | Dreamstime.com

Chapter One

Shivering, Brian crouched near a potato farmer's stall with his back up against the soot-covered stone building in search of what warmth it could lend him. Acrid smoke from burning peat settled from chimneys above Paddy's Market, filling the narrow street and swirling around the wooden stalls laden with an odd assortment of vegetables, fabric, and pottery.

It stung Brian's lungs, and he pressed cold fingers to his lips to stifle a cough. He'd coughed too much lately. Couldn't help it.

The potato farmer didn't seem to mind the smoke or the cold. He kept a close eye on the fat potatoes he'd set out on the rickety wooden stand. Potatoes. Brian reached toward the strange brown vegetables that had so newly come to Grey Hollow. Not the ones on the table. He'd positioned himself as close as he could to the sacks of potatoes behind the farmer's stand.

 Pots, a tinker cried. Brian jerked his hand back at the sound of the shrill voice. The ancient tinker hunched so low he could almost be a donkey. His shaggy hair swung back and forth in front of his face as he pulled his cart. Buy. Freshly mended pots. The cart clacked and squealed over the cobblestones, kicking up a spray of dung onto the potato farmer's wool trousers.

The farmer glared at the tinker. Brian stifled a laugh and wrinkled his nose. It did nothing to relieve the smell that had become a part of every moment of his life since his mother died. The farmer shook the dung from his trousers and lifted a new bag of potatoes onto his stand. 

The farmer's muscles bulged as round as the potatoes. Brian rubbed his hands along his own skinny arms and thought about growing potatoes. He promised himself he'd have a potato tree someday all green and tall, and he'd climb to the highest branch, look up at the sun, and pluck the ripe potatoes from the branches to eat all by himself.

He reached again for one of the potatoes in the open sack just to feel its brown skin. He'd never held one before.

Hey you, get away from there! the farmer shouted.

Brian snatched his hand back and ran. He doubted the farmer would believe he wasn't trying to steal the potato. He just wanted to hold it, look at it, and imagine what it might be like to be a farmer.

With the farmer still shouting at him, Brian dodged into the crowd of people. He slipped between a pair of old ladies, almost knocking the baskets from their arms.

Sorry, he cried as he twisted away, dodging through a fistful of men. One of them clouted him on the ear as he went by. He ducked and slid under the rug maker's table, hiding between the thick soot-covered rugs that hung over its edges.

He huddled there for a long time, glad for the warmth of the carpets that shielded him from the freezing air. The rough voices of merchants and shoppers gradually dwindled, and his stomach continued its usual complaint for food.

The rug behind him lifted, and he spun around. Fergus, the rug-maker, peered down at him. Fergus's grey hair stood out in tufts on both sides of his head just above his ears. Soot covered the bald top of his head and made his fat nose look even bigger than usual.

You can come out now, Brian, Fergus said. That farmer is gone, and I need to pack up for the night.

Brian slid out from under the table and helped Fergus fold the thick rugs while the last glimmer of what passed for daylight faded from the sky. That potato farmer is new to the market. I've never seen him before, Brian said. Wonder where he's from. How do you suppose he grew potatoes in this cold weather?

Farmers don't plant potatoes in the fall, Brian. They plant their crops in the spring and harvest them in the fall. They keep them stored in a root cellar until they bring them to market.

Brian tried to picture a whole cellar full of potatoes . . . and turnips . . . and onions.

That farmer called out the constable, Fergus said as he packed the rugs into a large wicker basket and hefted it onto his back. You better be careful for a while.

Constable Marsh knows I don't steal, Brian said, but his heart fluttered. They'd chop off his hand for sure if the farmer insisted. I didn't take no potatoes.

Fergus nodded. You and I both know that, but— The shrill sound of pipes and clatter of drums interrupted Fergus's scolding.

A line of soldiers marched into the market, their kilts swishing in time with the drum beats. The first sight of those kilts struck Brian like a quarterstaff across the stomach. The soldiers wore red and black tartans—Lord Somorled's colors not Duke MacCailein Mor's blue, green, and black. Fergus swore under his breath and pressed against the building, as far from the rival clansmen as possible. Brian pressed up beside him, not daring to breathe.

The advancing men stopped, and a drumroll echoed along the street followed by an uncomfortable silence.

A man in a black velvet coat stepped away from the soldiers, adjusted his silver cufflinks and then spoke. His deep voice rolled through Paddy's Market. Ailpin, King of Dalriada is dead, killed in battle against the Angli along with Duke MacCailein Mor.

No! Brian stifled a scream of outrage. His own father had died fighting the Angli under MacCailein Mor years before. The Duke had personally arranged work for Brian's widowed mother as a laundress in Grey Hollow after that.

The man in deathly black continued his speech. Prince Domnall, acting heir to the throne of Dalriada, has returned the Grey Hollow charter to Somorled, Lord of the Isles, to whom it rightfully belongs.

Angry cries shattered the stunned silence. As one, the Somorled soldiers drew their swords.

Paddy's Market is now closed, the man shouted above the noisy crowd. Any man wishing to do business in Grey Hollow will need to apply for a permit at the chamberlain's office and must show proof of premises. For the cleanliness and safety of the city, Lord Somorled has declared there shall be no open markets. All commerce must take place in properly licensed buildings.

Turmoil erupted in the street. The people at Paddy's Market had no weapons, but some grabbed sticks and broken cobblestones. They gathered to stand against the soldiers while others fled.

Here. Fergus shoved a ragged cloth with the remains of his lunch at Brian. It felt a bit heavier than usual.

Brian pulled yesterday's cloth from his pocket and handed it to Fergus. Thank you. It didn't seem like enough to say to the man who had kept him from starving since his mother's death.

Run, hide. Fergus squeezed his shoulders and then hurried away, pressing through the crowd.

Brian hesitated only a moment then darted across the street to the alley between two vacant and crumbling buildings. He had to turn sideways to squeeze into the thin space between them. A grown man like Fergus or Constable Marsh would never fit. That big farmer would have to cut himself in quarters to try.

Brian heard the sound of stones whizzing through the air and swords chopping into flesh behind him. No looking back, he told himself. No thinking about nothing except the food in his hand. Brian sucked in his breath and kept sliding along until he reached a spot where a portion of one wall had collapsed inward, creating an alcove just big enough for him to settle down onto a pile of torn rugs, which Fergus had given him. He opened his small packet of food.

Fergus never had much, and it didn't do his health any good to share with Brian, but he'd always shared anyway. Brian shoved the crumbling oatcake into his mouth and chewed slowly, pretending it was the first course of an endless banquet set on MacCailein Mor's table. The banquet soured on his tongue.

The Duke and the King, both dead. Somorled in charge of Grey Hollow.

The feud between the two clans had been long and bitter. With MacCailein Mor’s fighting men away to the south, engaged against the Angli, the people of Grey Hollow would have no help against Somorled’s brutality.

Brian shuddered. The stories of heroes and warriors his father had told him tumbled about in his head. All the great men were dead now. MacCailein Mor dead. And the King. And Brian’s father. And before them all, the unmatched hero, Tearlach of the King’s Guard. But with Prince Domnall favoring Lord Somorled, perhaps even Tearlach, if he were still alive, would not be able save Grey Hollow.

Brian reached back down to the cloth for a bite of cheese he hoped Fergus had left him. His hand rubbed against something large and rough. Not cheese. He picked it up and squinted to see it in the darkness. It filled the palm of his hand. Brown and lumpy with wrinkled skin. It took him a moment before he realized what it was.

A potato. A whole potato just for him.

He brushed off a bit of dirt that still clung to it and took a bite, savoring the bitter skin and crunchy inside. His mouth watered for more, but he stopped himself. He couldn't eat his prize potato all at once. Instead, he licked the last crumbs of oats and cheese from the cloth and wrapped the potato back up. Then he curled into a ball, pulled a rug up over him and set about his nightly battle to survive the bitter cold.

Around him shouts and screams echoed as others fought a losing battle against Lord Somorled’s men.

When Brian woke in the morning, he unwrapped his potato and examined it in the light. It was wrinkled and old and not nearly as big as the potatoes the farmer had spread out on his table. Brian didn't care. Fergus shouldn't have spent the money on it for Brian anyway. He had his own wife and three daughters to feed. Brian hoped the farmer had let Fergus have the potato for a good price.

Better to think about Fergus and potatoes than blood running in the streets and Somorled in charge of Grey Hollow.

Brian took another bite. He figured if he had just one bite each morning and night, the potato would last him a whole week. He smiled at his treasure and twisted it in his hand. Something tickled his fingers. Looking closer, he saw that a green stem had sprouted from a tiny round indent in the potato.

Brian blinked. Green. Growing. Plant. It couldn't be. Not here in Grey Hollow. But it was. Somehow the potato had started to grow. Shaking with excitement, Brian wrapped the potato back up in the cloth and tucked it under his rug to keep warm.

Plants need dirt, he thought. Plants need water. He could grow his own potato tree if he could keep the potato warm and give it what it needed.

Dirt and water, he murmured, squeezing his way to the end of the alley. Soot he could find everywhere; on the buildings, on the road, on the people. Horse dung, no problem, it filled the streets. But dirt, real dirt like the farmer had out on his farm, would be hard to come by.

Brian glanced out at the market street. Still and empty, it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. If people had died, the bodies were gone. The cobbles were damp here and there with puddles of blood, but the smell of the peat smoke and dung covered any lingering scent.

Brian gritted his teeth and slid out of the alley. He choked on the sooty air and coughed until his throat ached. After he'd finished coughing, he hurried to the spot where the farmer had unloaded his potatoes the day before. There had been dirt on Brian's potato. He hoped to find more. Sure enough, scattered about on the ground was a thin sprinkling of dirt. Brian swept it up into a mound. He couldn't help but get soot and dung in his pile as well. He hoped it wouldn't hurt. He held out the lower edge his ragged shirt and scooped the dirt onto it, as much as he could gather, a whole shirt full.

Getting back down the alley proved difficult, and some of the dirt spilled. But he made it to his alcove. At the edge of his space, he fashioned a square box from the fallen stones and put the dirt he'd collected in the bottom.

Oh so carefully, he dug a hole and put his wrinkled potato into it with the little green shoot facing up. He covered the potato and sat back to admire his garden. He could barely see one tip of green in the dirt. Nice.

He put his rug overtop the box to keep it warm and hurried down the streets to the public well that stood in front of the laundry house.

The laundry house loomed over him in spectral silence. From inside should have come the shouts of the foreman and the pounding of clothes on the washboards. But today it stood empty, a testament to Somorled's cruelty. No one dared walk the streets this morning. Not even to gather the laundry.

The laundry house had been Brian's home until his mother grew sick and died. He'd worked there alongside her, carrying water to fill the big wash tubs. He'd been strong then, with food and the exercise of carrying water all day. But they'd chased him away after his mother died.

At the well, Brian pumped water up into a big basin. Usually a line of women and boys stood ready to fill their buckets and hurry back inside. That morning the well stood deserted.

Brian’s heart hardened into icy fear.

He realized with despair, he didn't have a bucket to carry water in. He didn't even own a tin cup. Each day he'd visited the well to drink straight from the basin. He'd been happy at first to no longer have to carry the heavy water buckets. Soon though, he’d wished they had let him stay and work at the laundry house.

Glancing over his shoulder at the silent laundry house and trying not to think what could have happened there during the night, Brian took off his shirt and dipped it in the basin.

Two soldiers in Somorled’s tartan came around the corner and saw him. Hey! they shouted, drawing their swords and rushing toward him.

Brian pulled his shirt out and ran, cupping it and the dripping water in his hands. He knew the streets. Knew the alleys. Fear drove him. He outdistanced his pursuers and slid back into his hiding place.

The cold water made him shiver, but he squeezed it out of his shirt onto his little garden, as much as he could get from the thin fabric. All the while gasping silently, asking himself why Somorled’s men would come after him just for using the well.

He hung his shirt up to dry and curled up in the rugs to get warm.

He stayed in the alley with the rugs until his shirt dried. First it froze, then Brian broke the ice off and hung it up again. Every few minutes he peeked in at his baby potato tree. Nothing changed. The town’s unusual silence pressed around him. He thought about what Fergus said about the farmer only planting crops in spring. Brian would wait until spring to see it grow if he had to. He couldn’t do much else now Grey Hollow had become a tomb.

Just before sunset, he heard footsteps and whispered voices in the street. He took his shirt down and put it back on. Cold, Cold, Cold.

He squirmed his way to the front of the alley and peeked out. Fergus and two other men stood in a knot across the street, talking in low voices. After a moment the other two hurried away, and Fergus leaned against the building. A wind ruffled his tufts of hair. He looked straight ahead, his eyes glassy and unblinking. No wicker basket. No rugs.

Brian stepped out of the alley and walked over to him. Fergus?

Fergus jumped and blinked his eyes.

Thanks for the potato, Brian said, not knowing what else he could say. Where will you go? What will you do? came to mind, but Fergus looked too lost to answer.

The farmer traded me some potatoes for one of my rugs, Fergus said. His ragged voice drifted off across the silent street, and he stared at the ground without looking at Brian. He was new to the market, like you said. Probably a spy for Lord Somorled. Anyway it was a small potato, too rotten and old for Priscilla to cook.

Here. It's the last I can give you. He handed Brian his usual meal cloth. Brian gave him back yesterday's cloth, dumped the new oatcake and crumbs of cheese into his hand, and gave back that cloth as well.

You won't be back tomorrow. Brian knew it in his heart, but needed to say it out loud to be sure.

Fergus shook his head. New laws. No selling in the streets. Brian, you must be careful. Stay out of sight.

Maybe you and some of the others could work together to fix up one of these old buildings for a shop. Brian pointed to the building whose broken wall made up his hidden nest.

Fergus blinked and scratched the tuft of hair above his right ear. Maybe. He said the word slow and drawn out. Then he shuddered and clenched his fist.

Brian stuffed his last meal into his mouth. Fergus walked away without saying another word. Icy fear gripped Brian's heart. Shaking, he crept back into the alley.

Chapter Two

Brian stayed in the alley the next day and night, too cold and scared to go out, thinking he should get more water for the potato, but the ominous silence over Grey Hollow kept him in hiding.

Another day slipped away from him. Then another. His tongue swelled in his dry mouth. He grew so hungry he considered digging up his potato to eat it. No. There had to be another way to survive without Fergus's food. The potato must have a chance to grow.

Sick and weak, coughing, unable to stop, he inched to the opening of the alley. The market lay empty except for the street cleaner with horse and cart. Brian watched him rake the horse droppings and other refuse into a pile and then shovel them into the back of the cart. Then he swept the cobblestones with a broom, sending up a billowing cloud of sooty smoke.

Brian covered his nose and mouth with his shirt and moved away, stricken by the silent street and Lord Somorled's attempts to impose cleanliness on Grey Hollow. Brian's stomach ached, and his legs refused to hold him up on their own, forcing him to lean against the buildings to get about.

He left the empty street and dragged himself to the well. The cold water hurt his tongue and felt like a knife sliding down his throat. He could not bear more than a few swallows. He moved on to other parts of Grey Hollow, searching for scraps on some street that hadn't yet been cleaned. He had to get food. He needed to grow strong again so he could work. He was a year older now. Maybe someone might—

Ahead he saw three skinny street boys like himself huddled against a building for warmth. A carriage rattled down the road and stopped in front of them. The boys scattered as a man in a leather vest and Somorled's tartan stepped out of the carriage. He wore his long brown hair tied against his neck and carried a black riding crop in his hand. He had a cruel dagger called a dirk at his side.

Brian tried to run too, but stumbled and fell. The coughing took him, and he couldn't move.

Two heavy hands grabbed his shoulders and hauled him to his feet.

Brian tried to stifle his coughing with a hand over his mouth and kept his head bowed, knowing better than to look the man in the face as an equal would.

How old are you, boy? the man asked in a firm voice that reminded Brian of his father.

Fourteen, Brian wheezed, knowing his size made him look much younger.

Worthless. The man dropped him.

Brian tried to crawl away, but the man stepped around to block him. Brian bumped into his heavy brown boots. With nowhere to go, Brian curled into a ball and covered his face with his hands, expecting a beating or the bite of steel in his flesh.

Pathetic, the man said. But his Lordship's orders are to tell everyone. He paused for a moment, and Brian shuddered. His Lordship has opened a poorman's kitchen over on Broad Street. Those who have no home or food can go there at his Lordship's expense. The man huffed as if glad to have his duty complete