Attack on Shadowkeep: Tales of a Dragon, #3

By Geoffrey Angapa

The Dragon and I cried out, after being released from our bonds, and I waved my hands in the air where Rochelle had been standing, in some vain attempt to determine whether she was still there or whether she had vanished, but as may be expected, my hands passed through thin air. "Rochelle!" I looked round in desperation. "Rochelle! where are you? Where have they taken you! Rochelle!"

On a trip to the town of Scrywood, Geoffrey's foster-daughter is spirited away, the place she is taken to as obscure as the identity of her captors. Aided by the pirates of the Blushing Mermaid as well as the thieves' guild of Corunna, Geoffrey and his companions cross the Tainted Sea in a desperate quest to save the child. Is she still alive? And who is the mysterious figure behind her capture?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Geoffrey Angapa
• Release date: Dec 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386359630

Book preview

ATTACK ON SHADOWKEEP

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Attack on Shadowkeep

BY GEOFFREY ANGAPA

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© Geoffrey Angapa 2018. All rights reserved.

First Edition, published in October 2018

Cover designed with GIMP, using the painting Mount St Michael, Cornwall (1830) by Clarkson Stanfield, and the fonts EB Garamond by Georg Duffner and Cormorant Garamond by Christian Thalmann. Mount St Michael, Cornwall was reproduced with the kind permission of the National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne. My special thanks goes out to Sigourney Jacks, for her kindness and assisting me with that.

Version 1.1

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Contents

Pages of Memory Faded

Strange Happenings at Mrs. Rosewood’s

Strange Happenings: Continued

The Latter: Concluded

What the Dragon Thought

Scrywood

Master Lorca, Scholar Extraordinaire

Rochelle in Danger

Zaragoza

Arriving at Corunna

Cloaks and Shadows

In the Compound

At the Candid Compass

An Unexpected Encounter

Council at Green House

Sailing out of Corunna

Our Sea Voyage

The Tainted Sea

The Tainted Sea: Continued

Shadowkeep Looms in the Distance

More Learned

Journey to Shadowkeep

Entering the Keep

Valen

Valen: Continued

The Wood of Memory

The Shadow Gate

Plane of Shadow

Plane of Shadow: Continued

Of the Drear Stone

Return to Shadowkeep

Heading Back Home

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I

Pages of Memory Faded

AFTER our return from Mrs. Rosewood’s all was well for a time, but before long—I think after a few days—odd things began happening to Rochelle and me; or rather I should say something odd, instead of many odd things. It was our memory, which, at first quite all right, seemed to be getting worse. I was the first to be afflicted with this malady or whatever it was, finding bits and pieces of my memory simply gone. I felt the memories were present, but simply could not retrieve them, so to speak. There was also this peculiarity: more recent memories were affected, whereas older ones were quite intact. However, this loss of memory appeared to be seeping more and more into the older ones over time. Well, only I was affected at first, and I thought to myself, why, my memory is getting really bad. But soon Rochelle complained of much the same ailment as I, and hers operated in exactly the same fashion: the more recent memories going first and then the older ones. As one may expect, this was a great distress to us both; it was as if there were large gaps in our minds; things we once knew but now simply could not recollect, while sensing the memories were still there somehow. No one else in our family appeared to be affected by this odd species of illness, and indeed, if it was only myself, I should not have bothered too much about it and have ascribed it to age (even though I had yet to reach thirty winters). But Rochelle, who was a small child, displaying the same symptoms, we began to think there was more to it than met the eye. Could others in our town, Newstead, be showing the same illness? Upon inquiry, there was no trace of such a thing, except for: It comes with the age, lad. It comes with the age.

Could it be the season? Perhaps, but after much thought, Rochelle and I discredited that explanation, seeing how peculiar this mode of memory loss was. It was not long before this question struck us: might it not have something to do with Mrs. Rosewood and the uncanny adventure through time? Indeed, so convincing was this theory, that we decided this must be the true explanation and soon determined to travel to Tilbury in the hope that Mrs. Rosewood might know more about it (if indeed illness it was).

At first my mother was not convinced, but we soon persuaded her to give us leave, and so one fine morning, after packing a great deal of food, and brushing our hair, and complaining of the chill, despite the sun’s being out, Rochelle and I set off from Newstead, heading north-east for Tilbury. (Some sun this is, observed Rochelle, while we were on the road; can’t give us one bit of warmth.) It was autumn and so the weather was a little colder than ordinary; but still, we had dressed up warmly enough and left on a day which was (or grew) quite hot. We went on, through the rich green fields and round the hills, the land obscured a little with early fog, past ruins and small villages. One town of note we passed was Arden, quite a big town but much smaller than Tilbury. We passed Chipping Eaton, Chillingworth, and La Rochelle (which amused the young maiden at my side). There was also Sunnyvale (quite in shade, despite its summer-like name) and Salford Priors. At any rate, in process of time, and after much walking, Rochelle and I reached Tilbury and breathed a sigh of relief.

Tilbury, being the chief and central town of the region, not to mention the one where His Majesty dwelt, besides Princess Constance and her husband, the Earl of Gloucester, was busy as it always was. Making our way through the gate and town square, which was drenched in an atmosphere of the loudest sound, but which Rochelle and I found quite pleasant, besides all the people and all the sights, we went on and at length got to Scholar’s Lane and drew up before Mrs. Rosewood’s bookshop, Books from Olden Times down to the Present, which looked just as we had left it a few days ago. But, after entering the shop, we soon discovered that our quest was not yet at an end.

Greetings, said a young man, whom we had not seen before, but who appeared quite glad to see us enter the shop. "How d’you do? Welcome, welcome to Mrs. Rosewood’s Books from Olden Times, the best books in all o’ Tilbury, or your money back. May I be of service to you? Not many folk frequent this shop. Nowadays folk seem to be taken up with the new crop of up-to-date books—now that everyone’s a writer—that have sprung up like weeds across the realm. Up-to-date indeed. Everyone’s a scribbler these days, casting together their miserable stories, with much aid from how-to guides, but I tell you, friends, they don’t even know the difference between a comma and a semicolon, character and sentiment, and they’ve got a deplorable idiom to boot. Our old books have fallen into neglect, but I see I’ve been rambling on and on. How can I help you?"

Well met, sir, said I.

Hullo, said Rochelle.

Sir, said I, walking up to the counter, may we speak with Mrs. Rosewood? My name’s Geoffrey and I’m from Newstead; and she knows us, Mrs. Rosewood does.

Unfortunately, said he, Mr. and Mrs. Rosewood are out of town. They’re off to Chillingworth and won’t be back for a while. I’m one of her relatives—her nephew, actually—and while they’re gone, we’re looking after the bookshop. I see you are dismayed. Was it important?

Yes, sir, said I, it was quite important. We had hoped to speak with Mrs. Rosewood but—you said she’s gone for some time. Do you know when exactly she’ll be back in Tilbury?

I stand to be corrected, but I believe she and her husband will be back just before spring, so that’s a long way off, I suppose.

This is a disaster! said Rochelle, putting up her hands.

Disaster? You’re quite right, Rochelle; we’ll have no memories left by the time spring gets here. Oh, what are we going to do?

I’m sorry, said the man; I could have written to her, but I haven’t got the address of her residence at Chillingworth. I do feel bad. Is there something I could do to be of aid to you? You both seem pretty distressed.

We thank you for your kindness, sir, said I; but we’ve got to speak with Mrs. Rosewood herself. At any rate, thank you, sir. We’ll try to think of something; or I suppose we’ll just have to wait till spring. I suppose that’s best.

Yes, come back in the spring, and Mrs. Rosewood ought to be back by then.

Yes; thanks, sir, and have a good day.

Thanks, sir, said Rochelle.

And so we left the bookshop and, going to the town square, sat down on an empty bench. We were quiet for some time, merely watching the crowds round us, going to and fro and about their everyday business. At length, looking at each other, we fell into discussion, concerning Mrs. Rosewood as one may expect, and what we were to do.

Do we wait for spring? asked Rochelle, somewhat doubtful of that course of action. It’s only autumn right now. How are we going to wait that long?

You’re right, my girl, said I, not sure what was to be done myself. I doubt whether we’ll be able to wait till spring. All our memories could be gone by then.

Maybe, returned Rochelle, "or maybe not. It is long, but I think we should wait. Patience is always the best thing, you know."

"Wait a minute! No, I don’t mean wait a minute. I mean, well, I mean. Ah, I give up. What I was going to say was: What if we were to go to the Dragon and see what our large friend has to say? Surely the Dragon will know more about this malady which has fastened upon us?"

I’m sure the Dragon will, and I should like to see our dear friend. It’s been months since we’ve seen both the Dragon and Rasselas. Still, continued Rochelle after a pause, we can’t just go off to visit the Dragon. Grandmamma knows we’re off to Tilbury. We can’t leave without telling her.

That’s true, Rochelle. But, you know, Wealdhall is actually closer to Tilbury than Newstead; and to go all the way back, only to get leave, and then set off for Wealdhall from Newstead again, is quite a roundabout way, if you ask me. I fancy only half the distance remains if we head straight for Wealdhall from here. From Tilbury, I think it lies to the north-west.

I’m not sure about this, said Rochelle, quite doubtful, going off without telling anyone. Grandmamma is going to be very angry.

Rochelle had, as she often did, a pretty good point. So we debated and debated for some time about what was to be done, but at length, not that we came to any certain conclusion, we shrugged our shoulders and decided to travel to the Dragon, and Wealdhall. (I must observe that Rochelle, being doubtful, had been right, and little did we realise what disaster would ensue owing to this quest.) Then, having some water and something to eat, we got up from our bench and directed our steps out of Tilbury and out of its gates, and slowly the cheerful noise from it began to die down.

We went on and the weather was sunny and pleasant for the next two days. Thankfully, Rochelle and I had packed a good deal of food, and so had no trouble concerning that. On the third day of our setting off from Tilbury, it began to rain, and quite strongly I might add, so much so that we got a little soaked, the rain starting all of a sudden, without much sign of darkening skies, or the report of thunder. We took shelter, and after a few hours, it ceased and the sun and birds came out again as if nothing had happened. To our fortune, it did not rain again, but our shoes had got pretty soaked and walking became rather uncomfortable. At any rate they dried over time, and the following day, we reached Wealdhall, which seemed never to have sustained any rain but was kept in a perpetual spring or summer (or so it seemed to me at least).

To Rochelle, who had never beheld this place before, it was like walking into some enchanted land, not fashioned for mortal eyes to behold, lest they be struck down with its otherworldly loveliness and purity. The somewhat colder weather of autumn we had experienced during our travels thither, vanished as if cold had never existed on Earth. The characteristic haze I often remembered pervaded the air, lending everything a dream-like appearance. The birds were mildly singing. The fresh smell of spring filled the air. Fluffy clouds sailed over the blue skies above. Here was Nature made manifest. We wandered further, and at length saw the Tree, or rather the Tree, the Tree of the Golden Apple. We spotted something large sitting next to it, and the closer we got, the better we saw our large friend the Dragon. Spotting us, the Dragon got up and seemed quite surprised and delighted, especially seeing Rochelle with me, and it was not long before we drew up before him and smiled at one another.

Oh, Dragon! cried Rochelle, being the first to speak, her arms thrown out as she spun round once or twice, "what an amazing place you’ve got over here! I knew it was nice, Dragon, but never, never did I imagine it would be this pretty and, well, nice! But, Dragon, it’s so good to see you again! How do you do, Dragon?" She curtseyed.

What a lovely girl you are! said the Dragon. "I am glad, quite glad, to see you both again. Much thanks, my dear girl. I’m fine. And how do you do yourself?"

I couldn’t be better, Dragon, especially since we’ve been looking forward to going back to El Sahra for the Prince and Princess’s wedding. Oh, I miss our adventure, but I love home too, and I’ve grown quite fond of Newstead.

That is good to hear, sweet girl. Yes, I wonder sometimes what is going on in El Sahra myself; but I expect we’ll know soon enough. Lad, I take it you’re doing all right?

I’m all right, Dragon, and it’s good to see you again. Still, all is not well with Rochelle and me, Dragon. All is not well.

Why, what’s wrong?

It’s our memory, replied Rochelle: our memories are going away.

Going away? What do you mean?

Dragon, said I, "our memories have been disappearing, if I may call it that. It’s been happening for some time now, and we haven’t got an inkling about what to do."

More and more of our memories are simply vanishing, Dragon, added Rochelle.

All right, said the Dragon; sit down, and do explain to me exactly what is happening to the two of you. A weakening memory is not unheard of and happens quite frequently, but go on and tell me what is the matter.

So we all sat down, and after having some water, Rochelle and I debated who was going to tell the story. In practice, we both told the tale, myself spinning out the main story, and Rochelle filling in many important details. The Dragon sat rapt in silence, listening carefully to everything we said, and only now and then stopping us and asking us to go over some obscure point again.

I began: Tilbury, Rochelle asked, is that the town’s name? How—

No, no, interrupted Rochelle, "I didn’t say that; I said Tilbury, so that’s the town’s name? How much longer is it going to take before we get there?"

"All right, all right, you win, Rochelle. I give it up. Here. Let me start again. Tilbury, Rochelle remarked, so that’s the town’s name?—Wait, wait! cried the Dragon, interrupting me too, a puzzled look on his face. Please do start again. I’m a little confused, actually." And so, nodding our heads in unison, we began once again, telling the Dragon our story from the start.

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II

Strange Happenings at Mrs. Rosewood’s

SALFORD PRIORS, asked Rochelle, turning her gaze to me, so that’s the name of the town? How much longer is it going to take before we get there?—Salford Priors? Actually it’s Tilbury, Rochelle. But truth be told, the names in this region are awfully muddled, for there’s another Salford Priors right next to Tilbury. I’ve never been there though. And I expect there are half a dozen Tilburys elsewhere. At any rate, Tilbury is still some way off, and it’ll take us some time before we get there. But cheer up, Rochelle, for we’ll get there eventually.—"Eventually? How much longer is eventually going to take? Could take hours, or it could take months."

Rochelle and I were journeying towards Tilbury, chief town of Thousand Hills, on an errand for my mother. Tilbury, being the dwelling place of the King, was no ordinary town or village out in the middle of nowhere. When other towns and villages had changed their names and locations on the map, Tilbury was certain to be where it always was. Well, three months had passed since we got back from our long travels concerning the Enchanted Shield, the account of which I have already set down in an earlier book. Summer was shifting into autumn, but the days were warm and pleasant still. Today, Rochelle and I were taking a book back to Mrs. Rosewood, a bookseller in Tilbury, my mother having borrowed it from the good lady a while ago. Also, while we were there, we would buy some foodstuffs as well, for the markets of Tilbury were quite big, unrivalled, and not half as limited as those of Newstead, which was tiny in comparison. Today the sun was in the sky and, across the land, the birds could be heard tuning their unpractised, unmeditated notes. It was round about midday, and we were making our way down Old Dutch Road, east of Much Hadham and Tunbridge Wells, and, having travelled since morning, had broken a sweat.

I expect we’re almost there, Rochelle. I know it’s an awful distance, but I think we’re half an hour away from Tilbury now. Cheer up, my girl. We’re almost there. I know you’re tired of all this walking.

"Tired? Tired is an understatement. It is dreadfully tiring—but you know what? This doesn’t come anywhere close to how much we all walked when we were searching for that shield of yours. Miles, continued Rochelle, motioning vaguely with her hand, miles and miles. Hundreds of miles. How did we ever cross such a distance? Seems impossible we ever did."

Ay, Rochelle, we travelled over half the world, or so it seems to me now—and to think, the Shield was right under my nose all along. But if we hadn’t come all that way, dear daughter, we’d never have found you. So I am glad of it. What an adventure! I do miss it at times.

"It was a grand adventure, wasn’t it?"

Certainly was. By the way, did you know I carried the Shield with me? Yes, I’ve got it in my pack.

Oh, I never knew that! Let’s hope there is no need for it! Well, continued Rochelle after a while, I wonder what Tilbury’s like. You’ve spoken so much about it, and from the sound of it, it seems Newstead is like a small fishing village next to it, where they catch shad, pilchards, and sardines. Still, if I had to pick the best town, I’d choose Northwood any day; it’s the greatest town ever built, you know.

"Oh, Rochelle, you and your Northwood—but you’re right: Newstead is like a small village, compared with Tilbury, but it’s marvellous, Newstead is. (Still, fishing village? Where did you get that from?) And I wouldn’t change it for the world."

That’s the right spirit, said Rochelle; but still, these rural towns of yours don’t come anywhere close to Northwood, and that’s a fact.

Rural? said I, a look of utter disbelief on my face. "What do you mean rural? But never mind that. Look! continued I, pointing ahead, I see Tilbury at last. Yonder."

Yes, I can see it too!

"Well, my dear girl, come on. Let’s go. It’s a rural town, but it’s the town of the King. Another quarter of an hour and we’ll be there."

So saying, we went on, and, after some walking, drew up before the gates of Tilbury. The walls stretched on and on to either side: grey, of stone, and full of moss. All sorts of people were making their way into the town, leaving it, or going to and fro. In a word, confusion describes best what we saw. We had not seen such commotion, such a lot of busy people, and had not heard such a sustained racket in quite a long time. There were carts and wagons, merchants and blacksmiths, hawkers and farmers, jesters and poets, the latter recounting their stilted verses at various places here and there, hoping to win some coin for their pains. The noise of carts rattling over stone, the murmur and shouts of people, the great metropolis rose in tattered splendour before our eyes. People rushed past us, blocked the way, or got into arguments. Street urchins, whose faces were smeared with soot, and whose tattered rags touched one’s heart, but whose quick fingers set many a vegetable at peril, ran hither and thither. Town criers, whose powdered countenances drew forth many a laugh and many a remark, read out their proclamations and the news of the day. Lords and ladies, faces plastered to comic perfection, were wary of peasants touching them, whereas the peasants themselves wandered about without a care in the world, throwing away their painfully-earned money on trifles that were on display. In short, it was certainly not a quiet place and as busy as one would expect of the principal town of the region, and the one where the King himself (mostly) dwelt. Seeing how easy it would be for Rochelle to get lost and separated from me, I gripped her hand tightly, after which we went on.

Goodness gracious me! cried Rochelle, casting her gaze round while we walked. This place is so busy; it’s as busy as Northwood on a Monday.

Or as busy as the towns of El Sahra.

Busier.

We passed through the open gates—at either end of which merchants were disputing with the guards over taxes—and found ourselves walking through a wide thoroughfare which, about half a mile in length, ran through Tilbury, connecting the city gates with the castle, which rose hazily at a distance. Like most towns in Thousand Hills, Tilbury was a jumbled heap of everything, and a characteristic specimen to boot: a confused mess of roads, town squares, streets, buildings, houses, and markets all jumbled together haphazardly, with little notion of design, symmetry, or even common sense; for the town had grown over the course of many centuries, leading to its present (and somewhat disorganised) state. Still, to its credit, the buildings and houses had a pleasant appearance and were built soundly of stone, brick, and wood. And what they lacked in design, they made up for in character. Then the cathedrals were masterpieces of architecture, and the same remark could be extended to the castle. Most of the roads were paved with stone, though as many sand roads were to be found cutting across the main thoroughfare. Behind all, at a small distance, rose the castle itself, where His Majesty the King dwelt (as well as Princess Constance and her husband the Earl of Gloucester).

Gazing round, we were astonished at how busy Tilbury was that day, and what is more, it was just an ordinary day, though to us, coming from a much smaller town (or a rural village, as Lady Rochelle put it), it filled us with no small wonder and delight. When we got to the markets, we saw that they were full of hawkers, besides folk going to and fro; and as we walked, not a few of them entreated us to buy something; but we did not buy anything as yet, for my mother had furnished me with a list; and besides, we were supposed to get first to Mrs. Rosewood’s shop, which was some way off from the entrance. First to Mrs. Rosewood’s, Rochelle reminded me. We made our way through the town—even coming across a play being acted in one of the bigger town squares, but which Rochelle and I did not really stop to take a look at—and at length, going down Scholar’s Lane, as it was known, we reached the door of Mrs. Rosewood’s shop: which was called