Prophecy of Shadows: Book I of the Elder Earth Saga

By Ian M. Clark

Barely beyond his teenage years, the warrior known as K'het travels Elder Earth as an outcast. Wrongly exiled from his home, K'het walks a lonely path in search of his destiny. When his journey brings him to the deserted town of Solomon, K'het encounters an evil as old as time itself. The vampire lord Caraloan is building an army of the undead, a mob of soulless hunters that stalk the night. Manipulating the vampire from the shadows is an ancient necromancer, aided by a deadly swordsman who kills without words or remorse. K'het and the wizard are bound together by prophecy, their destinies linked now and forever by bloodshed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 23, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469780436

Ian M. Clark

Ian M. Clark was born in Waterville, Maine in 1973 and grew up in nearby Smithfield. A 1997 graduate of Tennessee Technological University, Ian works as a sports writer. He and his wife Amy live in southern New Hampshire.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Ian M. Clark

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse, Inc.

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Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

This is a work of fiction. All events, locations, institutions, themes, persons, characters and plot are completely fictional. Any resemblance to places or persons, living or deceased, are of the invention of the author. No elves were harmed in the making of this book.

ISBN: 0-595-19983-6

ISBN: 978-1-4697-8043-6 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Epilogue

Afterword

Dedication

Thanks to my wife Amy, for all of her love, support and encouragement. Thanks to all my parents, the LaFountaines, Clarks and Dickinsons. Thanks to my adopted families through the years, the McLeods, Puccios and Pieds. Thanks to my early draft readers, Sarah, Carmen, Jason, and Chris. Special thanks to my editor Jess. Without her tireless effort, this would still be a mess of a manuscript. Any mistakes left over are mine. And one more thanks, to you, the reader.

Prologue

The little girl is terrified. She shrinks back against the trunk of a gnarled and ancient tree, trying to make herself smaller. Her breath comes in short, sharp hitches, a woof of air escapes with each and threatens to give her position away. She curls her arms about her knees, begging the ground to swallow her and secret her away from this terrifying place and time.

And then she hears the scratching.

It begins low and faint, barely audible above the wind. Her eyes frantically scramble about the dark skies and ground around her. She begins to roll an old prayer through her head, the mantra blurring together as her terrified mind struggles to keep her from screaming and running.

Oh Keeper of the great flame, give me strength and wisdom so that I may go on, Oh Keeper of the great flame, give me strength and wisdom so that I may go on.

The prayer roars endlessly in her head like a strong stream swelled fat after spring thaw. The scratching grows louder. She begins to whip her head about quickly, scanning the trees around her hiding place. The moon flirts in and out from behind Fall Harvest clouds, throwing wild shards of light around her and enticing the shadows into a dance of ebb and flow.

OhKeeperofthegreatflame…

The wooded area is just a quarter mile from her family’s farm, yet the girl has never felt so far from home in all of her ten years. She had hoped to get home before dark, knew she would catch the devil from her ma if she did not return with a fresh loaf of bread from the baker in time for supper. Her da had warned her not to dally or the wood h’ants would eat her up. He had laughed and sent her off with a wink, his bright green eyes set low below a brow worn by many harvests. Now she could not imagine anything funny in his warning as her ears played tricks on her and the prayer continued its nonsense ramble through her brain.

OhKeeperofthegreatflamegivemestrength…

The wind picked up again and the trees began to sigh and speak their own warnings to her. A leaf fluttered down around her shoulders and she let out a small squeak. The scratching continued, unseen nails dragging across ground in a dreadful way that made her begin to sob. As her first tear tracked its way down her cheek, she thought she heard a small titter of laughter from behind. Her eyes blazed wide-white at the sound. A sob caught in her throat. She did not breathe. She did not move. She did not stop her prayer.

OhKeeperofthegreatflame…

And suddenly it was in front of her. A black shape, not a human silhouette at first, the gasps of light seeming to change the form before her eyes…a wolf…a rat…a bat…and then it was man. She shrieked and found the will to stand and run, flinging her body forward into the depths of the woods.

She ran with abandon, fear alone pumping her legs along the uneven path. The bread was long gone, cast away to the benefit of any wandering animal. She ran through the woods, every tree seeming to reach for her and grab on and hold her in a terrible embrace. She stumbled. Got up. Fell again. Her dress, sunny yellow when she had left her home just one hour before, was now being painted to a dull earthy tone as she found herself on the ground and up, falling and up, stumbling and up. And always toward the thought that she must reach her own yard, that the outer fence of her farm would protect her, that da would be there to put an end to this horrible chase. The hope that her ma would be there to coo and sing the song of the water fairies she loved even as she grew

beyond the age of bedtime lullabies and goodnight hugs.

But it was far too late.

The whip-whip-whip of leathery wings seemed to surround her, and she could suddenly hear a voice in her head, fighting past her prayer and into her very soul.

OhKeeperofthe—shhhh—it’s okay, you can stop running now—greatflame,givemestrength…

And then he was there. She ran full force into the black form before she even saw it. The collision left her dazed and lying on her back, gazing up through the canopy of tree cover and into the staring face of a fat full moon. A shadow drifted lazily across the white sphere. No, that was not quite right. The moon was not covered by a floating feather of cloud, but by the shape standing before her. A hand extended from the darkness. She could hear the voice in her head clearly now, the prayer stilled.

Get up, my child, the form said, extending a hand.

She watched with horror as her hand reached to meet this stranger’s. She could not control it, her own arm responding to the melodic trill of that voice rather than her own fear.

That’s it. All is well.

The hand enveloped her own, a cold thing that felt a million years old. She was on her feet suddenly, yet could not recall the effort of standing. She could see details in the shape better now, but a shape was all it remained. The moon continued its game of hide and seek and she caught a fleeting glimpse of crimson eyes within the shape.

I…I’m so scared, she said, her voice a ghost amid the howl of the wind.

The shape shook its head from left to right slowly, with deliberate grace.

Shhhhh. You could be no safer than with me, the shape said. She did not so much hear the voice as feel it in her thoughts.

I want my momma, she whispered.

We can go see her together if you like. I’ll take you there myself, the darkness said to her.

The girl looked into the shaded face and nodded. She walked forward and the shape shimmered, its blackness rippling, reaching out.

The dark form swallowed the girl without a sound and melted back into the shadows.

The night grew blacker somehow. Darkness had come.

Chapter 1

The Soul of Solomon

K’het stirred and clutched his furs closer about his body. His mind was swimming back toward the surface of waking, the dream world falling behind. He was losing sight of the little girl running through the woods, her tale destined to remain forever hidden from him. His eyes opened slowly, letting in the faint light of the promise of a fresh day. K’het shook sleep from his mind and looked around. He pulled his sleep coverings around his large frame and stood.

Light was beginning to seep into the cracks in night’s armor. It would be daybreak soon, and he saw no reason to delay this day’s journey. If the townspeople in Prosperity had been accurate, the next town of Solomon would be a short walk from his current position.

The name Prosperity had amused him, with its simple town center consisting of a baker, a blacksmith and one inn that doubled as a whorehouse. He had spent the night in the brothel, but had opted for the single piece of silver for a bed and not two pieces for an occupied bed. That room the night before last had been less comfortable than his most recent accommodations under the stars with its crisp bite of impending Winter Dormant. He had been a bit cold out of doors, but his furs had been adequate.

I’ll need to pick up another covering in this town of Solomon, he thought. Winter Dormant will be cold in this mountainous part of Elder Earth.

But Winter Dormant would come soon enough with its cold breath and icy embrace. The twelve cycles of the moon that made up one year had nearly passed again. Winter Dormant would give way to Spring Planting, the sun warming the grounds again. Summer Tending would be hot and bright. Then, like a great hand from above, Fall Harvest would come and strip the trees of their coverings in preparation for the coming of Winter Dormant once more. The dance of the seasons went on, time unheeded.

He shuddered, a last glimpse of his dream of the small girl escaping his mind and fleeing into the woods he had slept in.

Woods like she wanted escape from.

But the dream was gone now, and he was humming an old lullaby about water fairies as he stuffed his furs into his pack and kicked loose dirt onto his fire pit. The dream was drifting away, a story created by his mind, no more than that. She had been running through early Fall Harvest leaves and here it was nearly Winter Dormant. Wherever she had been, whoever she was, her tale had already been told.

K’het tied his platinum hair back with a thin shank of leather and began to walk, his pack set loose on his rugged shoulders. His boots coughed dirt and twigs as he strode easily through the wooded tangle of roots and brush, his short sword in its scabbard swaying against his left hip with a light and familiar thumping. He absently stroked the silver rings at his throat as he hiked, a length of rawhide securing the identical circles of metal tight at his windpipe.

Five minutes into his walk, K’het stopped suddenly. His eyes had locked on a track in a soft patch of mud, and he now bent to study this find. K’het squatted on his haunches, one hand on the scrabble of beard that had taken root on his chin, the other tracing the track lightly. The walker was human, a foot going free of shoes. Someone had been through recently, walking not far from where K’het had slept, and barefoot at that. To keep his presence quiet, K’het never burned a fire after dark. He soaked the flames with his own urine until only embers glowed. The trick left warmth without light, allowing his position to remain secret. Only someone or some animal stumbling directly onto him would locate him. The practice had been taught to him by the Elves of Tanglewood, and it was a tactic he employed every night, regardless of where he found himself in the world.

Last night, it may have saved his life. He gazed at the print a second longer and then was off again, following a trickle of a stream that the innkeeper in Prosperity had told him would lead to a wide river and beyond that, Solomon.

*          *          *

It was near dusk and the town of Solomon was deserted. K’het walked through its heart in a daze. His thoughts whirled and ideas sparked; yet he could not rationalize what he was seeing. The streets were empty, and this was a curious matter. The town should have been alive with activity, but the dust on these streets had been settled for many days. There were no animals in the livery stable, no clang and clang and clang from the blacksmith, no children running about and playing at games of chance.

At first angered upon finding the town limits after such a long day’s travel (that innkeeper had lied or been stupid, K’het debated which to himself over the duration of the walk), K’het’s mood had swung. There was nothing here, and his curiosity turned to a small pang of something he had not had the opportunity to feel in some time. For the man who had been sent from his own home, a man who had taken lives and lived his own in questionable ways, this was something he was not used to. A feeling he had been introduced to, but only rarely or in a fleeting manner and then onward into his own arrogance. K’het recognized the feeling just the same.

It was a splinter of fear.

The sun was dropping rapidly behind the mountains and K’het had not seen a single living creature in hours. He checked the butcher’s dwelling, pushing the doorway open and releasing a stream of flies into the dying sun. Inside the meat market, rotted flesh hung from hooks. Several animals were dressed for carving, yet they had been left hanging out in the dry air for no apparent reason. They had not been cured or cared for after being skinned, they had simply been forgotten. He moved on to the baker’s shed and found a similar situation. Mold, green and furry, grew on the baked goods. A loaf of bread had been chewed out by a single mouse, which had grown fat on his discovered feast and fallen asleep inside the hollowed husk. Whole barrels of wheat had been turned over; others left open for roaming creatures to gorge themselves on. K’het then found the stables empty of horses, bales of hay left in their stalls uneaten and a full trough of water brimming with dusty and stagnant liquid.

He searched the entire center of town and found only mysteries. He saw the cooling-shed built into the bank of the river. The storage facility might still hold consumable food and wines, and would need to be investigated. But the hollow village was first on his mind, even as hunger poked at his stomach with insistent jabs. It was as though the entire town had left, dropping work and play and leaving with no trace. It was a strange thing, this empty town. K’het was unnerved by it.

The day was ending and K’het had decided he would have to spend the night here. If what he had seen (or not seen) held true, he should have no trouble finding a place to sleep. The ramshackle houses, like the shops, stood empty. With the strange absence of life in Solomon, he felt finding a secure dwelling would be best. If the people of this town had fallen under some attack, he himself might be open to another assault.

What could empty an entire town of its people? K’het thought as he stood amid Solomon’s lonely center. Was the innkeeper in Prosperity a liar? But why would there be signs of life here from no more than a few days before? No, this place is newly deserted.

K’het shivered lightly and set to work.

He began scouring the wooden houses and animal pelt-tents that dotted the outskirts of the town square. K’het’s eyes scanned each structure for strength and security. He found little of either, finally settling on a single-room dwelling with a lone jagged door framed by a collection of mismatched boards. A sun-bleached animal pelt hung over the portal to keep insects out, the fur rotting and ragged.

K’het ducked his head to enter the house, his eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness inside. The shack smelled of damp soil, the odor assaulting at first but diminishing with time spent in its grasp. The home was simple, a large table in one corner cluttered with cooking tools and bowls. In the far corner opposite the table, a sleeping mat stuffed with hay and grass lay on the dirt floor, a deer pelt crumpled upon it. A shelf sat on the far wall, flour and wheat bags spilling out from within to form a pile on the floor. Tiny tracks of the white and brown grains led away from the horde of treasure that some lucky rodent had discovered. This was clearly a poor man’s home, likely one of the shopkeepers who could not afford a better dwelling further from the town center. It was no high castle, but K’het welcomed a roof over his head, even one made of tree branches and packed mud from the nearby river.

As the sun continued its plummet below the mountain range, K’het set to work securing the shack. He overturned the table and placed it next to the hole that served as the doorway. The large table would cover the opening, but some leverage would be needed to hold it in place. For some reason K’het could not pinpoint, he felt the need to hurry and finish his errands quickly.

After moving the table away from the door, K’het jogged back to the blacksmith and lifted an anvil over one shoulder. The weight was considerable and K’het’s muscles protested with each step, but he was determined to have this weighty block as a security measure. He dropped the metal monster inside the hut and sprinted back to the blacksmith for a second of the heavy blocks. When the second of the anvils had been dropped inside the shack, K’het sagged to one knee and sucked air into his lungs. His shoulders now ached, but the job was done.

The dark was now winning in the battle for control of the town, and K’het felt a strange tint of dread creep into his heart. He had hoped to scout for food, but now decided he would make do with the dried rations and fruit he carried in his pack.

K’het stood and flipped the table in front of the door once more and set the first anvil behind it. A lift and grunt and the second anvil rode horseback on the first, rising two-thirds of the way up the table and sealing K’het inside with near-total darkness.

Only slivers of light crept in through the roof and gaps in the walls. Outside, the darkness was nearly complete. Inside, K’het settled onto the bed and pulled his ruck open with a jerk of the rawhide strings. He fumbled inside until his fingers found the dried rabbit shanks. As his teeth worked their way into the toughened meat, K’het drew his short sword and waited. For what, he was unsure.

*          *          *

The wait was brief.

The top half of the table exploded inward with a shower of splinters and K’het was on his feet, sword extended straight out toward the threat. His eyes fought to lock onto any hint of his attacker. The moon was not yet in the sky, leaving only vague shapes in the shattered doorway. K’het stood stiff, sword out forty-five degrees to darkness. He could hear voices now; catching portions of dialogue as those outside fought to push past his barricade.

What do you want with me? K’het yelled into the blackness. If this is your home, I meant no trespass. I was simply seeking shelter and will gladly move on.

Outside, a small ripple of laughter rolled around the night. K’het’s head swiveled with the sound, trying to gauge the numbers. His guess was enough to make him realize he might be in for a fight. The table blocking the doorway was giving up its post, pieces of timber flying in all directions as hands battered against it. A splinter struck K’het above the lip and he flinched, a trickle of blood slipping into his mouth. He turned his head and spit, readying himself once more.

I say again, I am only seeking shelter, K’het yelled.

The table was beginning to rock inward, the top anvil grinding across its mate. K’het’s eyes could now make out the shape of hands and heads in the hole as several assailants clawed at the blockade. He knew he must act quickly or be trapped inside the tiny shack with little hope of escape.

Stand back and we may discuss the situation, K’het offered.

And this time he was answered. A low voice seemed to slide through the air to his ears, the tone deep and almost feral.

We smell your blood, outsider.

The five words decided K’het’s course of action, and he rushed ahead with his sword held high above. He brought it around in a right to left arc, feeling it bite into flesh at several points along the trajectory. Screams filled the air and K’het heard something hit the dirt in front of his feet. He tried once more to stop the conflict before it went further.

I say stand aside and we can end this, he yelled.

Amid the screams, he heard the voice again.

You will not leave this place, outsider. Your fate is now sealed.

K’het thrust his short sword into the gaping doorway, driving steel into the head of the nearest form. Another scream came, but the person did not fall. The moon had begun to light the outside world, and K’het caught a flash of his own blade as it twisted forward and back from his target. He had no time to dwell on what he saw, but his mind did register the fact just the same.

There was no blood on the sword.

The crowd beyond the shack swelled and a surged forward like a great wave of unknown numbers to bring the anvils toppling down. K’het retreated to the far wall of the shack and turned his back to the door. He kicked his right foot straight out and drove two boards free, their nails groaning protest. His head swung around to survey the attackers, and he spied several forms clambering over the table and anvils toward him. K’het lowered his right shoulder and drove his body forward into the area around the hole he had created. Several boards cracked and faltered and he was through to the outdoors, falling in a heap on the damp ground. His left leg was still inside the hut, and he quickly jerked it free just as a cold hand found purchase on his bare ankle.

K’het scrambled to his feet and swung around, sword extended forward once again. There were no attackers behind the shack, but they would be on him soon enough. The light outside was better, but still the darkness held sway. A head poked from the hole in the wall and K’het swung his sword in a downward motion, separating it from its torso. In the faint light K’het caught site of the shocked look of surprise on the face of the man he had just beheaded. He had been young, no more than a boy, really. His face barely touched by the scrub of a beard. K’het felt a pang of regret, but it quickly fell away as the owner of the lost head stepped through the cabin and into his sight.

By the Keeper, was all K’het managed before the headless abomination shambled its way towards him, arms flailing in the air like ribbons in the wind.

K’het’s sword blazed again and the left arm of the man joined his head on the ground.

K’het began to run.

He spun his sword so that the flat of the blade lay against the inside of his forearm, pumping his arms and legs forward into the night. K’het ran behind several other homes and then turned between two to reach the main street. Around the corner and into the heart of Solomon once

more, K’het was stalled in his tracks.

The street was filled with the undead.

It hammered in his mind with an audible shudder, like tumblers clicking down on a lock. They had smelled his blood. He had not been able to fell the first man through the door, despite separating head and arm from body.

They had smelled his blood and been hungry for it.

They were legion. They were the undead.

They were vampyres.

I believed them to be fairy tale. K’het thought as he scanned the town for another hiding place. They had not spotted him. Yet. His eyes fixed on a barn at the far end of the street. If he could get there, he may be able to ascend to the loft and bar the drop-door. This was assuming that the barn was built like holding lofts he was accustomed to. And,he thought, assuming I’m not eaten before I reach it.

He began to run.

He nearly made it to the door of the barn untouched. The creatures spied him as soon as he broke into his gait, giving chase with a unified cry that chilled K’het’s blood. A handful of those nearest the barn realized his destination and blocked the doorway. Three vampyres stood before the wooden portal, their forms pale against the deep brown wood of the double doors. K’het’s mind added up his odds for survival as he neared the guards. The barn was among the best built structures in the town. He had not chosen it for his night’s sleep because it was likely full of grains or vegetables and therefore would hold an overpowering smell that would irritate the nostrils. But now, as the barn loomed and the undead closed in from behind, K’het prayed he would survive long enough to test his nose inside the structure.

The three before the door were people who had, until recently, looked as any others K’het had met in his twenty-three years. One man stood straight and tall, arms crossed at his chest, a sick smile touching his