Shadowless

By Randall McNally

An intricate and immersive epic fantasy story set in a world with dragons, magic and supernatural abilities.

Shadowless are the special offspring of the Gods who take human women at their will. The Shadowless assume some of their father’s power and cultivate it over time. The Shadowless are hunted by the Gods as they attempt to harvest their powers and by humans who fear the wrath of the Gods.

Brother Amrodan, a Shadowless leader, is forming a plan to strike back at the Gods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Randall McNally
• Release date: Dec 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781999882402

Book preview

Table of Contents

Contact The Author

Prologue

Chapter I The Dark Storm of Arpherius

Chapter II The Twelve Deaths of Lauterbur Hess

Chapter III The Cold Kiss of Kayan Faelström

Chapter IV The Last Stand of Tundra Evergreen

Chapter V The Ballad of Santhom Dar

Chapter VI The Final Assassination of Valan D’Arakis

Chapter VII The Deafening Silence of Willow Fairthrác

Chapter VIII The Violent Imprisonment of Kurt Dorn

Chapter IX The Botanical Misdemeanours of Dorrin Brethil

Chapter X The Ninth Deathstrike of Ermithdin Ulroch

Chapter XI The Treacherous Traits of Pandimonia Toŕl

Chapter XII The Prophetic Vision of Brother Amrodan

Chapter XIII The Fatal Exchange of Fürisyn Vandinmeíer

Chapter XIV The Ever-Changing Face of Trisidulous Glarr

Chapter XV The Liberation of Yana Dorn

Chapter XVI The Missing Piece of Lórkrond Nox

Chapter XVII The Malevolent Moods of Tabitha Treegle

Chapter XVIII The Infectious Charm of Clanitâr Novastus

Chapter XIX The Magnetic Personality of Keltarä Brandark

Chapter XX The Ascension of Kröm

Epilogue

Shadowless

Copyright © 2017 by Randall McNally All rights reserved.

First Edition: November 2017

Cover Art: Mon Macairap

Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

Print ISBN: 978-1-9998824-1-9

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-9998824-0-2

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Contact The Author

If you have any questions about the book or would simply like to offer your thoughts then feel free to contact me at my e-mail address. I make a point of answering everyone who contacts me but please understand that, although I will do my utmost to respond to you in a timely fashion, it may take a while depending on my workload, so please be patient.

Twitter: http://twitter.com/RandallMcNally9

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/Randall McNally

Email Address: [e-mail]

Prologue

The black-robed figure stood motionless at the edge of the pool, staring attentively into the faintly glowing dark-red liquid. What little light it emitted illuminated the granite walls of the chamber, casting an oppressive hue on to the pillars. Torches, fixed to the walls by wrought-iron holders, flickered briefly causing shadows to dance across the floor. Shadows that were cast from everything in the room, except the figure.

Slowly he moved his shoulders, stretching his neck muscles. His robes shifted and tightened across his back. The figure reached for his cowl, pulling it halfway down over his face, shielding his eyes from the light of the torches, but not from the light of the pool.

Crossing his arms, he settled his hands back into the opposite sleeves. He dropped his head and gazed intently into the vast circular basin. Concentrating on the magma-like liquid he watched as the deep red colour unexpectedly started to lighten. A patch of bright crimson formed in the middle of the pool. It widened and began enveloping the darker red.

A glowing pink sphere rose to the surface at the right edge of the pool. It sat glistening for a second before bursting, spilling forth its aqueous contents. The pink solution seeped steadily throughout the pool. As quickly as the pink colour had appeared, a fiery orange formed around the periphery. It fought its way through the other colours, pushing them back and lapping over the surface in a slow, viscous surge.

Squinting, and with brows furrowed, the figure stared as the colours battled for supremacy. He was being told something – but what? Was it a warning? He had been the pool’s keeper and guardian for over five centuries, feeding off its power and being guided by its arcane sorcery in the form of dreams. He had carried out the pool’s bidding and concealed its existence from those who would seek to destroy it, and yet, in all that time, he had never seen such activity as he was currently witnessing. He ran his eyes over the coalescing colours once more and felt his usually slow, steady heartbeat begin to rise.

The pool’s activity was increasing. Reds, purples, pinks and oranges were shifting from within its different sections in a sluggish, silent crescendo. Sections of its gloopy mass began to swell and slump, rise and fall, before once again being swallowed by the main body of the pool. Stalagmite extensions over two foot high rose up from the surface: bulbous polyps trying to escape capture.

The robed figure dropped his arms to his sides, before edging slightly backwards from the turmoil unfolding before him. Confusion and concern were quickly giving way to panic. In five centuries he had never seen the pool act like this.

And then it stopped.

All movement in the liquid ceased. The surface calmed and settled, and the bright colours coalesced and darkened back to deep red.

Bewildered, a wave of relief passed over him.

The figure rubbed his grey goatee beard and then wiped the sweat from his hairline with his thumb and forefinger. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, trying to make sense of the events that had just played out before him. As he delved into his thoughts, running through everything that had happened, he muttered a litany to calm his pounding heart. His concentration was broken by a dull thud from outside the temple.

The room filled with the sound of stone grinding on stone as the huge doors slowly opened inwards. Moonlight crept into the cavernous room, filling it with a pale glow.

The robed figure showed no visible reaction. Behind him he could hear the distant crashing of waves against the rocks of the cliffs below and could even taste the salty sea air carried in by the cool night breeze. But these were things that did not concern him. What did concern him, what he had waited for with eager anticipation for the last month, was the information about to be brought to him by the gigantic black dragon that had just opened the doors of the temple.

After rearing up on its hind legs to put its weight against the heavy stone doors, the dragon returned to all fours. It folded its huge leathery wings, carefully tucking the membrane tight against its axillaries, and moved forward. Its claws scattered the loose dirt that covered the steps at the temple’s entrance, sending it spiralling into the wind.

Keeping its head level and pushing its neck forward, it squeezed its frame through the double doors of the temple. As it walked slowly between the columns, its movement was more cat-like than reptilian. Its shoulders oscillated up and down with every step, its tail swayed slowly like a pendulum, only flicking at the end and never touching the ground.

Its eyes were fixed on one thing; the robed figure in front of the pool.

The figure stood motionless as the dragon approached. The beast stopped behind him and lowered its head, level with the man’s. The robed figure could see the dragon’s black scales in his peripheral vision and could feel its hot breath. Its green glassy eyes shone brightly, its convex pupils narrowing as they reacted to the light in the room.

Both gazed into the pool until the dragon broke the silence.

‘The visions were correct, the child has been born in the South,’ said the dragon in a low, rasping voice.

As it spoke, it revealed an array of razor-sharp teeth, some as long as broadswords.

‘Does it bear the curse?’ the robed figure queried in a whisper. Still unnerved by the earlier events, his voice caught in his throat, making his question barely audible.

‘It casts no shadow.’

‘And its mother?’

‘Dead. Perished in the act of birthing it,’ the dragon growled.

The dark-robed figure walked slowly to the edge of the pool. Taking one last look into it, he turned to face the dragon with a wry smile.

‘This is the child we have been waiting for, the child foretold by the prophecy. Finally, the Shadowmancer is born.’

Chapter I

The Dark Storm of Arpherius

Arpherius lay on his back, looking up at the sky. It was mid-summer and he could feel the warm sea breeze pushing the loose sand from the beach gently against his feet, abrading his bare skin. Cupping a handful he lifted it and cast it over his legs and body before putting the remainder on his chest. He had been running, and the sheen of sweat glued the sand to him like a second skin. He often pondered what it would be like to have a hard outer skin made completely of sand or wood or rock or dragon scales.

I wonder what it would be like to be a dragon, he thought.

Arpherius folded his hands underneath his head and daydreamed about dragons, knights and far-away lands; such were the dreams of young boys. After a while, he sat up, just in time to see the setting sun touch the horizon. As the waves rippled against the shore they broke up the long orange shaft of the sun’s reflection that made it look like the sea was reaching up to touch it.

Lying back down on the soft sand, Arpherius watched as the first star appeared to the north against the dark blue sky and listened contentedly to the calls of the hunting falcons returning to their nests high on the cliff face.

It will be getting dark soon, he thought. I had better get back.

He sighed and sat upright. Brushing the sand from his neck and hair he turned and glanced to his right; his uncle Barranos’s tower stood like a needle against the skyline.

High on the ridge, the tower, which had once served as a signal to ships that strayed too close to the rocks, overlooked the sea and could be seen from all around. Not that there was anyone to see it. No travellers had ever come their way; no ships had ever passed by. He had never seen another person, save for his uncle. The only contact he had with the outside world was from his books, and most of them were old, musty and worn. Arpherius had often wondered, but never dared ask, why it was that he and his uncle lived miles from anywhere.

He put on his tunic and slipped his feet into his sandals, buckling them before slowly getting to his feet.

‘Time to go, Mistbeam.’

Mistbeam, which he took everywhere he went when he was out of the tower, was a roughly carved ‘sword’ made from a piece of driftwood that had washed up on the shore long ago. He had wrapped a strand of red, sun-bleached leather around the bottom end as a makeshift hilt and whittled the sides to semi-straight parallel edges using razor shells. A rusted tin cup from his uncle’s cellar, bent and flattened at the bottom using rocks, proved a more than capable cross-guard.

To the untrained eye it was no more than a pile of junk, but to Arpherius it was the finest weapon ever to be crafted by the greatest smiths in the realm of Narquiss.

Off he went, up the well-worn path that led from the beach to his uncle’s tower, stopping now and then to use Mistbeam to cut the heads off the wild flowers and plants that he may have missed on his way down the path earlier. He envisaged them as evil spirits and monsters attacking him, and swung at them wildly, spinning on the spot and parrying imagined counter-attacks before cleaving them in half.

He reached a large sand dune that lay near to the front of the tower he called home. Lifting his sword above his head with both hands, he braced himself and sprinted through the sand, wincing as the sharp tips of the marram grass stung him all over. At the top of the dune he crept clockwise around the rim until he found a small hole tunnelled into the sand by some long-dead creature.

Carefully edging his way down, he dug his feet into the compact sand walls for support and slipped his sword into the hole, taking great care to cover the entrance with loose sand. Taking five bone-white cockle shells from his belt pouch he pushed them, one at a time, into the sand around the entrance to mark the now-covered hole.

‘Night-night, Mistbeam, see you tomorrow,’ he whispered, and scuttled up and over the dune.

His uncle did not approve of weapons, even crudely made wooden ones. Braving the stinging marram grass once again, he ran down the outside of the sand dune and made his way up the path to the tower.

As he approached the large iron-bound oak door to the tower he could smell the freshly caught fish cooking inside. The door creaked as he turned the handle and put his shoulder to it, swinging it open. Hopping inside he slammed it shut behind him and slid the metal bolt into its catch. He ran across the tiled floor and bounded up the stone steps to the first floor just in time to see his uncle carrying a bowl of sea bass and mussel broth to the table. The steam curling up from it told him it was still piping hot.

‘How was your day, young man?’ Barranos asked, as he put the bowl on the rough-hewn table beside a spoon and a clay mug full of water.

‘Not bad. I read my books till around noon and then went down to the beach,’ Arpherius replied.

‘I hope you didn’t—’

‘Go near the water?’ Arpherius interrupted, looking his uncle in the eye.

Barranos smiled and gave him a nod while expelling a puff of air through his nose. He patted the boy on the head and then went to the pot over the fire to get his own supper. Even with his back turned he suspected that Arpherius somehow knew he was smiling.

The two ate their meal in silence, as they usually did. Barranos was a simple fisherman who rarely showed his emotions and prized a full larder and calm seas above all else. He set sail with his weights and nets before dawn most mornings while Arpherius was still asleep, and did not return until the day was nearly at an end. He taught the boy what he could, but there was only so much about fishing he could teach when he would not let him near the sea.

He read to Arpherius at night, books about masonry and animal handling, but when he looked up, Arpherius would invariably be scratching something into a thin piece of slate; usually a sword or a knight. Barranos had known for a long time that the boy was not destined to be a fisherman.

‘Uncle Barranos?’ Arpherius said. ‘When will I be allowed to come out in the boat with you and help you fish?’

Barranos knew what was on the child’s mind; his real question was ‘Why am I not allowed to go near the sea?’ It was one he had asked many times before, each time in a different way. It was a question Barranos did not want to answer, not yet.

‘The sea is no place for a boy. Monsters live in it and if they sense you coming, they’ll swim after you, catch you and drag you to a watery grave,’ he replied, hoping the fear factor would bring an abrupt end to the present line of questioning. No such luck.

‘But you spend most of your days at sea, fishing, and yet you tell me not to go near it, not even to dip my toe in the water or play in the rock pools. Why do the monsters never come after you?’ Arpherius demanded.

Barranos slurped his broth and looked the boy in the eye.

‘What are the rules, Arpherius?’

Barranos hoped that the sharpness of his tone would convey the fact that the mood of the conversation had changed and things had become more serious.

‘I never, ever go near the water. If I see people, I run and hide. Weapons are dangerous,’ Arpherius said sheepishly, avoiding eye contact with his uncle.

Barranos had made the boy recite the rules until they were ingrained in him. Arpherius had to repeat them every time he asked why they never had visitors, every time he asked about swords or spears or shields or armour. And now every time he asked about the sea. It was always about the rules.

‘Good. Now, let’s not hear any more talk about the sea, eh?’ said Barranos, the sternness in his voice unmistakeable.

Arpherius knew that it was not a request. Barranos was not much of a talker, but when he did speak it was generally with purpose. Conversations revolved around fishing or the weather or sometimes even stretched to the repairs that were needed to his boat, but rarely anything else. They ate the rest of their meagre dinner in silence.

With the food eaten and the table cleared, Barranos and Arpherius washed up before the boy trudged off to bed. As he climbed the steps, his candle illuminated the dark grey walls of the staircase that ran anti-clockwise upwards through the inside of the tower.

Stopping at a landing halfway up he peered out through a narrow rectangular window to see the last glow of sunlight disappearing from the sky. He yawned as he walked into his small room. After getting undressed, he climbed under the thin, threadbare quilt that lay on his single bed. A few minutes later he heard his uncle coming up the stone stairs.

Arpherius wondered what book Barranos would read to him tonight; Horticulture: The Farming Compendium, or perhaps Soil Irrigation, the Do’s and Don’ts.

Barranos came into the room with a brown leather-bound book in his hand. He bent down and picked up the stool that had been used to keep the door open. Walking over to Arpherius, he set it beside the bed and sat down.

‘What is tonight’s story about?’ Arpherius asked.

Barranos opened the book, held the title page up to the boy and smiled.

The Essential Guide to Saddle Repair

Arpherius sank back into his pillow and stared out the window. He could hear the high-pitched squeaking of bats setting out for their nightly flight as his eyes glazed over during his uncle’s commentary on ‘re-sowing billet straps’ and ‘damaged cantles’.

Not for the first time that day his thoughts drifted off to dragons, knights and exotic lands far away before he eventually succumbed to sleep.

The sun shining in through the window woke Arpherius. Its strong rays fell on him as he opened his eyes, causing him to blink rapidly and squirm in his bed. He pulled the quilt over his head and cursed the sunlight for wrecking his dreams. Unable to doze, he sat upright facing the window with his eyes shut tight and felt the heat from the sun warming his face. He tried opening one of his eyes slightly and was instantly dazzled.

‘That damn sun is blinding me,’ he muttered, not completely sure why he had used the profanity or even if it had been used in the correct context.

One day, not so long ago, he had overheard his uncle use the word when, as he was repairing his boat, he missed the head of a nail and smashed the tip of his thumb with the hammer. Since then he was fascinated by the word. It seemed like an appropriate time for its use.

Arpherius stretched, yawned and then rubbed his eyes, making sure to pick out the little flakes that gathered in the corners. He got out of bed, put on his tunic and sandals, grabbed his belt and headed downstairs.

The tower was empty, but on the kitchen table there was a wooden plate with some dried apple, nuts and berries that his uncle had left out for him. Arpherius ate his morning meal thinking about what adventures today might hold.

He hoped his shells were still there and had not fallen off or been covered with sand by the wind, as sometimes happened in the winter months. Trying to locate his sword and then digging it out was a bad start to any day.

He skipped down the stairs, unlocked the door and stepped outside. The sun sat overhead in the bright blue sky, blazing down on the tower and everything around it. Arpherius could hear sea birds calling to each other from high above the waves as he made his way around the tower to the rain barrel and cupped his hands in the fresh water before splashing it over his head. He pulled his hair from out of his eyes, patted it down and then washed himself quickly with a few more handfuls; and with that he was ready for the day ahead.

He ran down the hill and got to the sand dune in no time. As he peered over the edge, freshly stung from the marram grass, he saw the markers he had left the night before. With a grin and a chortle he quickly retrieved Mistbeam and, with the shells back in his belt-pouch, it was off to the beach.

Down the well-trodden path he went, pausing only briefly to decapitate dandelions and the wild bluebells, until he reached the long stretch of beach, at which point he broke into a sprint. For as long as he could he ran along the golden sand, heart pumping and the sound of his breathing ragged in his ears, until his muscles cried out in pain. Eventually he began to tire and slowed to a jog before stopping over a mile along the beach.

Plunging his sword into the loose dry sand beside him, he collapsed onto the beach panting for breath. He lay in the hot sun, recovering, and thought about how great it was to be outdoors on a warm summer’s day without a cloud in the sky.

‘That damn sun is still blinding me though,’ he muttered and moved his hand up to shield his squinting eyes from the strong rays.

Arpherius closed his eyes, safe in the understanding that the sun was not irritating him any longer. He lay for a few seconds basking. Then it happened; a tiny, nagging feeling formed in the back of his mind. A thought no bigger than a grain of the sand he was lying on was beginning to develop and, once formed, it rolled around his head. Before long, it had become an avalanche. The sun was still dazzling him. Something was not right.

Slowly opening his eyes, he locked his vision on to the palm of his outstretched hand. After a few seconds he moved it, letting the direct light reach his face. He moved it back to block the sun from his eye line. He moved it away. Back. Away. Back. Away.

Arpherius sat upright. He leapt to his feet and stared down at the ground. His gaze turned to his sword. Walking to the side that was facing away from the sun, he crouched and carefully inspected Mistbeam, from the makeshift hilt, past the crushed-cup cross-guard, down the chipped and splintered edge, on to the point where the blade met the sand.

Then on to its shadow.

He moved the sand back and forth with his fingers. The sword’s shadow remained undisturbed. Jumping up he stood next to it. Only Mistbeam’s shadow was cast in the sand.

Arpherius moved around the sword several times in a circular fashion, coming in between it and the sun, checking each time if the shadow cast by the sword changed. It did not. He moved his hand over the sword and then grabbed the hilt. Mistbeam’s shadow disappeared. Retracting it slowly from the sand and then putting it back in, he observed how its shadow returned as soon as he released it.

Arpherius fell to the ground and sat with his legs crossed, staring at the shadow on the beach cast by the sword. For over an hour he remained there, trying to make sense of it, slowly moving his hand back and forth periodically, as though trying to grab the shadow of his sword.

There were so many questions rushing through his head that it made him dizzy. Finally, he picked himself up and walked back along the beach, still dazed and confused by the recent revelation. Such was his distraction that the flowers and weeds on either side of the path were spared. After hiding his sword in the sand dune, he made his way to the tower.

Sitting on his bed, he wondered what had happened to his shadow. Had he never had one? Was he born that way? Was it something that had happened to him recently? Arpherius spent the rest of the day rehearsing what he wanted to ask. His questions needed answering and there was, quite literally, only one person he could ask.

Arpherius was lighting the candles in the upper stairwell of the tower when he heard the front door open. He rushed downstairs in time to see his uncle offload his daily catch, pitiful even by Barranos’s standards, onto the kitchen floor.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ his uncle said, as he put his nets in a pile beside the door.

Arpherius walked slowly across the room to the table. He sat down in silence, looking at his uncle, unsure which question to ask first. If he asked the wrong one to begin with, then Barranos would clam up and tell him nothing.

‘What’s wrong boy, cat got your tongue?’ Barranos picked up the fish.

‘Shadow,’ Arpherius muttered, a tremble in his voice.

So much for rehearsing it, he thought. He was pretty sure his opening line had gone a lot smoother in his head.

He cleared his throat and tried again.

‘I have no shadow.’

He was not sure what reaction that would provoke. Although he had never given Arpherius any cause to be afraid of him, Barranos had a steely manner and when he was clean shaven his neck was seen to boast several scars, a suggestion, perhaps, of a violent past. A sharp tone and severe stare often let the boy know exactly where the line was and that it was not to be crossed.

Barranos stood with his back to Arpherius. His hands were flat on the work-bench that he used to gut the fish and shell the molluscs. Untying his fishing apron, he rolled it into a ball before putting it on the bench.

‘I thought I might have had more time,’ Barranos said.

‘More time for what?’

Barranos inhaled and exhaled heavily.

‘This day. The day when you came and asked me who you really were.’

‘Who am I?’ asked Arpherius. ‘Who was my mother? Where did I come from? Why do I not have a shadow? Why do we never get any visitors?’

The questions were coming out hard and fast. The rehearsing was starting to pay off, he was back on track. When he turned back round Arpherius looked his uncle in the eye with a determination that let him know that no half-baked fairy tale or reference to some rudimentary set of rules was going to satisfy his curiosity this time.

Barranos rubbed his face, hoping this was all just a bad dream. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, he saw a scrawny boy looking up at him, his legs dangling from the stool barely able to touch the floor, dressed in one of his own old tunics that was cut in half and still too big for him. He looked like a stiff breeze would knock him off his feet.

‘How am I going to tell you the truth?’ Barranos muttered.

He briefly leaned against the bench then walked to a shelf and took two clay mugs from it. He filled them with water from the pump before setting them down on the table. He pushed one towards Arpherius and took a large gulp of his own.

‘Take a drink of water, Arpherius. You’re going to need it,’ Barranos commanded.

Arpherius nervously sipped from the mug, the gravity of the situation beginning to dawn on him.

‘You’re frightening me. You never call me by my name unless I’m in trouble. It’s always boy or young man.’

‘Arpherius,’ Barranos started. ‘What you’re about to hear will change your entire life. No longer will you live a carefree existence, walking around in blissful ignorance. The story I have to tell is worse than any nightmare you can ever imagine. Are you sure you still want to hear it?’

Barranos could see from his expression that Arpherius was petrified; he had never spoken to the boy in this way or with such sincerity.

Arpherius took another sip of his water and nodded.

Barranos put both elbows on the table and brought his hands together, interlocking his fingers.

‘I’ll tell you exactly why it is that you don’t have a shadow,’ he began. ‘Twenty-four years ago your mother and I lived on a farm a few miles from Helystus, the capital city of Narquiss. She tended to the grapes in our vineyard and the apples in our orchard,and I was a captain in the king’s guards. We lived in a house of cob bricks and limestone. It wasn’t much, but it was home, and we were happy.’

He stopped talking and leaned across the table.

‘Arpherius, I need you to understand this when I say it. I was your mother’s husband, yet you are not my son.’

‘Then whose son am I?’ asked Arpherius, the pitch of his question rising towards the end.

Barranos looked at his twiddling thumbs as though searching for an answer from them.

‘Up until now I have told you very little of the gods, Arpherius. I have destroyed the books that mention them, and all for one reason. That reason is you. You are the son of a god.’

Arpherius sat dumbfounded.

‘A god? Really? Is that a good thing?’

‘No, Arpherius. The gods are evil beings. Their wickedness and hatred is matched only by their maliciousness and cruelty,’ Barranos said with a grimace. ‘Long ago, further back than anyone dares to remember, they went to war amongst themselves; a war that claimed many of the gods and left every last goddess slaughtered. Driven mad by rage and lust they now descend from the heavens to the realm of mortal men, taking women when they please.’

He looked at Arpherius solemnly. The boy’s face was white and he looked nauseous.

‘Perhaps that’s enough for now.’ Barranos went to rise from the table.

‘No,’ snapped Arpherius. ‘I want to know everything.’

Barranos had never doubted the boy’s bravery; it was a trait his mother had had in abundance. Sitting down he took another gulp of water and reluctantly continued.

‘Twenty-four years ago, one winter’s night, Helystus was rocked by a storm. It was a storm like no other. A storm, not created by nature, but by the gods. Dark rain bombarded the city and rivers of water as black as coal ran through the streets. The priests said it was the end of the world and that we were paying for the sins of our forefathers. People were in panic, we told them to stay indoors, but still there was a mass exodus from the city. I disbanded the troops under my control and told them to go home to their families. I did likewise. I rode from the city on the fastest horse I could find with my shield above my head.

‘The grass and the crops in the fields were starting to wither and die where the dark rain fell. It was even burning the very paint from the surface of my shield. My horse fell just a few hundred yards from our farm, its flesh blistered and burnt from the rain. I started off on foot and the closer to home I got, the more I could hear what sounded like screaming.

‘I ran as fast as I could, but by the time I got to our farm it was all over. I kicked open the door and rushed inside. The inside of the house was destroyed. The floor was covered in sea water. Barnacles and limpets covered the walls and ceiling, seaweed and kelp were strewn everywhere. I found your mother cowering in a corner in the bedroom. The window had been broken and this thing had already escaped.

‘We got ready to leave immediately. Then the storm ended. The skies cleared and the rain stopped. He had arrived, forced himself upon your mother and then escaped under the cover of this dark storm.’

Arpherius sat trembling, the mug of water shaking in his hand. Barranos knew by the boy’s facial expressions that he was struggling to comprehend everything that he was being told.

‘Who did this?’ he finally said, in a broken voice.

‘Kröm, the God of the Sea,’ Barranos said with the bitter-sweet satisfaction of a man who had just got a terrible burden off his mind.

‘But why?’ quizzed Arpherius, sounding like he did not fully understand the chain of events that took place on that fateful night.

‘Because they can,’ continued Barranos, through gritted teeth. ‘Because they can do whatever they want to us. Arpherius, we’re nothing to them. At best we’re toys to be played with and then cast aside when they’ve tired of us. What they did to Arianne, your mother, they’ve done to countless women for thousands of years. They take what they want from us: when they want.’

Arpherius sat stunned, the expression on his face conveying to Barranos that he understood at least some of what he had been told.

‘Is that why I don’t have a shadow?’ he asked.

‘The missing shadow. That’s where the tale gets a little darker,’ Barranos replied.

Barranos stood up from the table and went to the locker under the stairs. He was going to need something stronger to drink than water for the next part. He took the rusty iron key from the thin chain that hung round his neck and inserted it into the clasp of the locker. After a stern clockwise twist, the clasp sprang open.

He lifted the lid and rummaged around in the locker, pulling out an earthenware container with a wide cork wedged in the neck. He held it to his ear and shook it gently. Returning to the table he finished his water and pulled the cork from the flask with his teeth. He poured some of its contents into the mug and replaced the cork.

Swirling it around in his hand he put the mug to his lips and in one swift motion, swallowed it. He pursed his lips as the liquid moved down his throat. A few seconds later, he poured himself another.

‘When attacks like this take place, Arpherius, children are born as a direct outcome. These children are born without shadows. They are part-man, part-god, and as a result they gain some of the power of the god that fathered them,’ Barranos explained, trying to be as direct as possible with the boy without getting into a full-blown conversation about procreation.

Arpherius sat thinking for a moment.

‘So, if I’m part-god, do I have powers like a god has?’

‘Almost certainly, Arpherius, but many of these children don’t become aware of their powers until they reach adulthood or until their lives are in danger. Having this power isn’t a good thing; when a child is spawned by one of these gods,’ his disdain at saying the very word was palpable, ‘any power that is gained by the child is, in turn, lost by the god.

‘Take this flask; if I fill it and leave the mug empty, then all the power is in the flask. Now if I pour some into the mug, the liquid in it has left the bottle and entered the mug, leaving the flask not as full. It’s the same with Kröm and you. Except no one knows how much of this god’s power has been transferred into you.’

‘Can I fly?’ said Arpherius, half-nervous, half-excited.

Barranos put his head into his hands. Looking up at the boy while shaking his head he poured himself another drink. He emptied it into his mouth and swallowed it in one gulp. It was obvious the boy just did not get it.

‘This is not some game, Arpherius,’ he snapped in a low voice. ‘Do you think the gods just give their power away to whomever they choose to sire? Giving you this power has left it in a slightly weakened state. This happens every time they father a child and the only way this power gets transferred back is if the child dies.’

Arpherius sat upright on his stool. His clear blue eyes were wide open and he was staring straight at Barranos with a look of utter panic. The penny had seemingly dropped.

His uncle began to speak again, this time it was slowly and in a hushed tone.

‘Arpherius, this god spawned you so that its power will grow as you mature. One day it may come looking to get its power back and it will kill you. The way it has come for and killed hundreds of its offspring down through the years. This is how the gods get stronger. That’s why we live alone. That’s why we get no visitors. That is why you cannot go near the sea, for if you go in the water, the sea god might sense you. This thing does not care who you are, its only concern is getting its power back, and to do that you must die. You cannot plead with this thing; you cannot negotiate with it. If you see it, then you run and you keep running and you hope that it loses your trail, otherwise it will slay you. Do you understand?’

Barranos could not have made himself any clearer.

Arpherius looked terrified, his face ashen.

‘Yes,’ the boy stuttered, staring into space. His eyes had glazed over and his mouth had dried up. It appeared as if it was taking all his concentration and will not to burst into tears.

Barranos moved his stool so he could sit beside him.

‘Look, as long as we’re careful and don’t do anything stupid, we’ll be fine. We’ve managed this far without being found, have we not?’

The boy nodded his head, his hands trembling.

‘Arpherius, you really need to listen to me. The rules that I set out for you are for your survival. When I tell you not to go near the sea, when I tell you to run from strangers, I do so for a reason. One day, people will come looking for you. They will want to execute you because of the threat you pose to them.’

‘Threat?’ Arpherius looked his uncle in the eye. ‘I’m just a boy, what threat could I be to anyone?’

Barranos sat up straight, stretching his back and shifting on the stool before continuing.

‘Helystus wasn’t always the capital city of Narquiss. For centuries, it used to be a coastal city called Artoria that stood on the edge of the Verboten Sea. Its people were strong and proud, and when they found out that one of their fellow citizens was born without a shadow, they refused to give her up.

‘They rallied together within the confines of their walled city and defied the will of the gods. Kröm became enraged and used all his might to bring a terrible wrath and destruction upon the city. He sent tidal waves hundreds of feet high against the people of Artoria. For five days and five nights he pounded their city with mountains of water, wave after wave, surge after surge, until its defences crumbled.

‘He ripped the walls from their foundations and tore the buildings to the ground. It is said that he killed the girl on the second day, but kept up his attack to punish the inhabitants of Artoria for their defiance. Since the day the capital fell, Arpherius, every realm and kingdom has decreed that those children born without shadows must be hunted down and killed, lest they incur the fury of the gods.’

Arpherius sat on the stool in silence, and Barranos wondered if the boy was starting to regret asking about his shadow.

‘What happened to my mother?’ he said.

‘She died moments after you were born. She held you in her arms, smiled and then passed away.’ Barranos’s voice broke.

It was the first time Arpherius had ever seen him give way to emotion.

‘Afterwards I went to my family’s farm in the West, and when you were old enough we came here, to my father’s old tower. Far away from the gods and far away from prying eyes.’

‘You said the dark storm hit Helystus twenty-four years ago,’ Arpherius said.

A wry smile formed on Barranos’s face and he nodded.

‘I can see that nothing escapes you, Arpherius. Yes, you’re right. The storm did hit Helystus twenty-four years ago,’ he paused, and then put his hand on the boy’s shoulder to comfort him. ‘Arpherius, you have been alive for twenty-three summers. You couldn’t walk until you had seen six, it was ten before you uttered your first word. At the rate you’re aging, it could be another thirty or forty before you become a man.’

‘But how can this be?’ inquired the boy. As if everything he had heard up until now had not been enough of a shock.

‘Children spawned by the gods live for centuries. The gods are immortal, perhaps you are too.’

Arpherius stood up and walked to the pump with his mug. He stopped halfway there and turned around.

‘Are there others like me?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Barranos answered immediately. ‘But remember, every time a god fathers a child it weakens them. Just like the water being poured from the flask into the mug. And if the god fathers more than one child then that’s two mugs’ worth of water he’s lost.

‘The power that the god invested grows as his offspring matures, which may take hundreds of years. They get that power back no matter who kills their offspring or how they die. And so they are always on the lookout for their children, which means if there are others they’ll most likely be in hiding, too. Hiding from the priests who act as the eyes and ears of the gods, hiding from city guards, and hiding from bounty hunters and assassins.

‘They’ll be like us, Arpherius, living in far-flung, remote corners of the Northern Realms, uninhabited areas where they can exist without fear of persecution and, more than likely, living as hermits.’

Arpherius yanked the iron force-rod until water spurted from the nozzle of the pump. He filled his mug and returned to the table, a nagging feeling in his mind. He did not quite know what it was, but he felt like there was one question he had not yet asked.

‘You must be hungry,’ his uncle said, and with that he got up and went to the bench to start preparing the fish he had caught earlier.

‘I guess so,’ Arpherius muttered, still confused.

He watched his uncle cook the fish and lay the table as he put his chin in his palms and tried to process the information he had been told as best he could.

Over dinner Barranos talked to the boy about things a little less severe, he told him about his mother and the farm they had owned. He described the vineyard and the orchard and how he and Arianne used to spend long summers’ evenings talking before watching the sun set; he told a story of how his wife had loved to watch swallows return home to their mud nests high in the eaves of their barn. He told Arpherius of what it was like for him growing up on his own family’s farm and how he used to ride horses and herd cattle.

They sat long into the night. Only when Arpherius’s eyes started to close did his uncle insist that he turn in, and so up the winding stairs he went to bed. He could hear his uncle’s heavy footsteps behind him. Arpherius crawled into his bed, under his thin quilt, and propped himself up on his pillow. His uncle tucked him in and then turned to leave.

I’m so glad there’s no story, thought Arpherius. I’ve heard enough for one night.

Then something twigged in his mind, the one question he had forgotten to ask.

‘How come you know so much about the gods?’ he asked, as Barranos was walking out of the room.

His tone made it sound like an accusation. He had not meant to say it like that.

Barranos stopped walking and turned around. He stood in the doorway, his hands against the frame, staring at the boy. His brows were furrowed and his nostrils were flaring. The seconds passed, awkwardness gave way to tension and his uncle slowly walked back towards the bed.

Arpherius shifted quickly away from him, any tiredness dissipating in a flash as his anxiety levels rose. There was a look on his uncle’s face that he had rarely seen before. It looked like anger.

As he reached the bed the boy could see that his uncle’s fists were clenched and his knuckles were white.

Barranos sat on the edge of the bed and spoke in a low voice.

‘Listen here, boy, I’ve answered as many of your questions as I’m going to. I risk my life every day that you draw breath and all because of a promise I made to your dying mother,’ he said as he leaned closer to Arpherius. ‘You’re not my flesh and blood and if it were up to me, I would have thrown you to the sea twenty-three years ago.’

With that, he got to his feet and stormed towards the doorway. Kicking the stool that kept the door open, to the side, he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

Arpherius was in shock, not quite sure what had just happened or how his uncle’s aggression had escalated so quickly.

Why did Barranos react that way? he thought. Is there something he’s not telling me?

Arpherius could feel his eyes welling up and then one solitary tear rolled down his cheek. It was the first tear he had ever shed and he swore it would be the last. He dried his eye on the back of his hand and pulled the quilt up to his neck.

Lying thinking about what had just happened, Arpherius’s head hurt from everything his uncle had told him. The range of emotions he had experienced had left him shaken and scared.

Life had become a lot more serious.

As his eyes started to close and sleep crept up on him, he nodded off never having felt as helpless or as lonely as he did that night.

Chapter II

The Twelve Deaths of Lauterbur Hess

The inside of the prison wagon was cold and damp. It had straw on the floor and several chains, which were anchored to the centre by a heavy iron bolt. Light came in between the bars across a small window in the wagon door. Lauterbur sat hunched against the side of the cell, his hands chained to his feet with cold, heavy manacles. He blew his fair hair away from his face and tried to peer through the cracks in the wood panels to see what was going on around him. Not that it was easy trying to see out of heavily swollen eyelids.

Hearing gruff voices and the clatter of armoured men outside the wagon, he wondered how it had ever come to this. He spat a mouthful of blood on to the straw through bruised lips that were swelling with every passing minute. Wriggling as close to the side as his chains allowed, he pressed his ear against a crack in the wall of the wagon and listened.

‘Move the wood down to the river and be quick about it.’ A clip-clopping sound accompanying the voice suggested its owner was on horseback.

The ensuing grumbling and moaning of the guards, along with what sounded like weapons and equipment being moved or readied, and the squelching sound of heavily burdened men struggling to walk through wet mud, told Lauterbur the camp was preparing to move out. The wagon unexpectedly jolted, sending him reeling towards the back. The chain fixed to the iron band around his neck snapped tight, opening up a wound in his throat that had only just started to close.

Falling on his back and gasping for breath, Lauterbur tried to bring his hands to his neck to alleviate the tension, but the short chains only allowed him to get them as far as his chest. Coughing, he manoeuvred himself onto his side and struggled to push his way to the front of his mobile cell, trying to take in a lungful of air when the tension on his neck restraint became anything other than extreme.

The wagon bounced on the hill path, making Lauterbur career into the wall each time one of the wheels hit a rock. His already bruised and battered body slammed into the sides and floor, causing him to wince in pain no matter how much he tried to brace himself.

How hard is it to avoid the rocks, you idiots? he thought, wondering if the cart was being steered over them on purpose.

For a second, the sun’s deep orange light poured in through the barred window and he could see his blood-stained shirt. He was not sure which wound the blood was from, not that it mattered.

In a lull in the erratic drive he crawled into the corner and managed to wedge himself there.

How the hell did I get caught? I’m usually so careful. It has to have been a trap, the Shadow Watchers showed up far too quickly, he surmised, inspecting the gouges that the manacles had made on his wrists.

The prison wagon seemed to crest a hill; Lauterbur felt it level out and then tilt forward. He no longer had to brace himself in the corner and the tension in his chains became slack. The path had also become a lot less rocky, judging by the easier nature of the passage.

Sitting against the back wall, he looked out of the window and saw trees go by, as the prison wagon made its way down the hill before coming to halt.

Lauterbur felt a rocking sensation as if someone had dismounted, and heard the chatter of a group of people. He could also make out the noise of rushing water from a fast-flowing river and a hammering sound. His stomach started to churn and he got a feeling that whatever was going to happen would be soon.

Through the cracks between the wood panels, he saw someone approaching the wagon. A loud creak came from the outer step. Two rough, dirty hands grabbed the bars and a chubby face appeared at the window.

‘Master Hess, are you all right?’ The voice sounded excited.

Lauterbur smiled, wondering how this looked when his teeth felt as if they were coated in a mixture of saliva and blood.

‘Am I glad to see you,’ he declared.

‘How are you?’

‘Why, I am just great, Bralvadier,’ Lauterbur snapped back sarcastically. ‘I mean, apart from the bruises and cuts and these,’ he lifted up his hands so Bralvadier could see his shackles, ‘I can honestly say I’ve never been better.’

Bralvadier stared into the prison wagon. His freckled, cherub-like face bore a look of confusion that betrayed the fact that he was not sure if Lauterbur was serious. A lad in his late teens, Bralvadier had spent most of his short, sheltered life herding his father’s sheep.

‘I’m joking,’ Lauterbur admitted, as loudly as he thought was possible without arousing suspicion. He looked up and shook his head in desperation, not quite believing that his life was in the hands of this simpleton.

‘You’re not the brightest star in the sky, are you?’ he muttered.

The swelling in his mouth made his words slur. He was usually well spoken, but was now only able to speak clumsily, over-pronouncing his words. He sighed and then spoke again, before Bralvadier could ask any more foolish questions.

‘Look, just tell me that you have the key.’

‘I couldn’t find it, Master Hess, must be on the captain’s belt.’ The boy spoke in a hushed voice.

Lauterbur slumped back in the corner of the wagon. He brought his knees up to his chest and in an act of resignation, put his head in his hands. Any fragment of hope he had been carrying, no matter how small, had been extinguished. Dread descended upon him.

It looks like number eleven will be happening sooner than I had hoped, he thought.

‘I asked you to do one thing, Bralvadier. One thing. You couldn’t even do that.’

‘It’s all right, Master Hess, you’ll be back. I’ll wait for you tomorrow,’ the boy said, his curly auburn hair bouncing as he nodded his head.

‘How is it going to happen this time?’ asked Lauterbur.

‘I think they’re gonna burn you, Master Hess,’ Bralvadier said. ‘You’ve never been burnt to death before, have you?’

There was an unmistakable excitement in his voice.

‘Fuck off, Bralvadier,’ Lauterbur snarled, straining at the chains.

If he could have throttled the life from the boy, he would happily have done so.

‘I’ll wring your ginger fucking neck if I ever get out of here, you demented little bastard.’

‘Aw, don’t be like that, Master Hess. I’m only havin’ a laugh, you know I don’t mean it. Just as well you won’t remember too much of this, eh? If I’d a gold piece for every—’

Bralvadier’s words were cut short. Lauterbur felt the wagon rock as his friend jumped off the back. He must have started running as he heard several men shouting after Bralvadier, followed by the sound of a key in a metal lock and the creak of the tumbler mechanism.

This is it, he thought, taking a deep breath.

The wagon door swung open, leaving Lauterbur temporarily blinded as light from the setting sun filled his cell. Three guards wearing light-blue cloaks ran into the wagon and seized him. The largest of them drove his mailed fist into Lauterbur’s nose. There was a sickening crunch and blood spewed forth. The guards laughed as Lauterbur lay on the floor, struggling to breathe.

The guard that had struck him knelt down at his head.

‘It’s that time, I’m afraid.’

Swapping his chains for ropes, they bound him and dragged him to the door of the wagon then pushed him down the step on to the short grass of the track.

The cold evening air stung Lauterbur’s face. His shoulder-length fair hair was matted with congealing blood from his scalp wound. He glanced at his once-white shirt, now torn and stained red. Closing his mouth, he inadvertently exhaled through his nose and a bubble of blood started to expand where the air was escaping. The pain caused him to open his mouth and spit on to the grass.

The guards turned him and began marching him down the hill to a clearing beside a river. His vision became blurred as warm, sticky blood flowed down his neck from the wound there. His hands, which were tied tightly behind his back, started to go numb.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.

‘Why?’ one of the guards repeated. ‘Why?’

He grabbed Lauterbur’s hair and yanked him in the opposite direction to the way they had been walking, away from the sun. Caught off balance, Lauterbur stumbled, falling to his knees.

‘How many of us are there? How many shadows do you see?’ the same man shouted, pushing his prisoner’s head closer to the ground.

Lauterbur knelt there limply, gazing at the shadows of the three guards on the grass. His was missing. Blood dripped from his face, falling onto the grass. He wondered how much more punishment his body could take before it gave up.

If I can provoke one of these idiots into attacking me with their sword, maybe he can give me a quick death, he thought. A quick death is better than being burnt alive.

The guard pulled Lauterbur up by the hair. The shock and blood loss had caused his body to weaken, but his mind was still razor sharp.

‘You’re a shadowless abomination,’ the guard said, ‘a freak of nature that never should have existed. It’s our job to send you back to hell.’

Barely able to stand, his head hanging to one side, Lauterbur looked at the guards. Then, he gave the biggest, fakest laugh he could muster: a huge, bellow that seemed to last for an age.

The guards looked at each other in disbelief, which quickly turned to anger. The biggest of them, the one who had punched him, moved slowly towards Lauterbur, his hand on his sword.

Lauterbur smiled; it had worked. He filled his lungs with air, then tensed his aching muscles and braced himself for the inevitable.

‘Stop.’