Warriors of Shadow

By Kenneth McDonald

In this second installment of the “Forgotten Lore” series, the four adventurers from Crosspath have finally arrived in the northern city of Adelar, ready to join the war against the monstrous horde of the warlord Kavel Murgoth. But instead of being sent to join the Arreshian army on the front lines, Bredan, Glori, Quellan, and Kosk are sent to a distant backwater, the isolated Silverpeak Valley. Expecting to sit out the war in relative quiet, the companions find the Silverpeak full of its own dangers, including a threat that could hold the fate of the entire kingdom in the balance. And several of the adventurers are about to find that secrets from their past are waiting for them in the wild north, secrets that could change everything they thought they knew about themselves and their shared destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: May 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781370945832

Kenneth McDonald

I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A breeze picked up as Kurok made his way down into the valley, but it did little to ease the heat of the day. It did kick up a fair share of dust, especially as the gusts reached the cleared area where the bulk of the legion camp had been assembled.

The camp had long since spread beyond its original boundaries, and tents dotted the steep slopes that surrounded the valley floor. But most of the activity was down below, a dense knot of figures that bustled about in apparent confusion. But Kurok could see the order within the chaos, and the purpose that drove every figure from the most battle-hardened veteran to the lowest slave.

The sentries on the outer edge of the camp saluted as he approached, but made no move to hinder him. Kurok ignored them as he had ignored the heat and the dust. He moved without hesitation into the hubbub of the camp, a small bubble of space moving with him as those he encountered made way for him to pass.

The noise within the camp was ferocious. A constant hammering issued from the half-dozen forges arranged in a neat line behind the massive supply dumps covered by straining tarps. That din competed with the shouts of rankleaders and war captains as they issued commands to their warriors, and the crack of whips as slaves and drudges were chivvied just as aggressively to their tasks.

At one point he had to pause for a moment as an ogre trudged past, dragging a bundle of tree trunks behind it in the dirt. The hulking creature was having difficulty with the load, but on seeing Kurok it lowered its head and redoubled its efforts, dragging the trailing burden clear of his path within moments. A pair of horse-drawn carts loaded with supplies was following in the ogre’s wake, but their drivers yanked their animals to a halt until he had passed. Kurok could hear them lashing their mounts back into motion as if eager to make up the few seconds they had lost.

His cloak swirled around his feet as he crossed the camp with long strides. His destination was visible ahead, at the crest of a bony ridge that jutted from the side of the valley like a giant’s shoulder. The tent was several times the size of the ones the warriors used, and it was visible from everywhere in the camp. A single banner fluttered in the breeze above it. It was the only banner, badge, or sigil anywhere in the camp. Kurok knew that there were representatives of nearly a dozen tribes, clans, and warbands here in the camp, members of not only the assorted goblinoid races, but also those allies they had brought to their cause, like the ogre he’d seen earlier. But their old allegiances had been sundered. Now they were all members of the Black Arrow, the last of the legions assembled to join the army of the High Warlord, Kavel Murgoth. It was that symbol that danced upon that banner, the symbol that would lead them as they marched down from the mountains to join the forces already engaged in the fight against the humans who lived in the lands below.

Lands that would soon be theirs.

With his attention distracted, he only belatedly realized that he’d almost walked into a dense knot of marching warriors. Cursing his lack of attention, Kurok came to a sudden stop, facing the approaching ranks of armored hobgoblins. Their rankleader quickly changed their route to avoid a collision, and an officer hurried forward to meet him. Kurok’s lips twisted—more in exasperation at the delay than offense—but he froze as he recognized the officer.

Apologies, Blooded, the hobgoblin said. He was a big man, his faced marked with the ritual notches of a veteran of many engagements. He stood straight and smacked his fist against his armored chest in salute, his thumb tucked inside his fingers in a gesture of submission. His eyes didn’t quite meet Kurok’s, and he held the salute as if prepared to stand there all day.

It took Kurok a moment to control the flood of memories that rushed over him. Does he know who I am? he thought. Who I was? Does he remember?

He made a small gesture of acknowledgement, also conveying dismissal, but to his surprise the officer lingered. I have heard of your success against the orcs, my lord, he said. I hope that soon we will march to join the war against the humans.

Kurok’s eyes flicked from side to side to see if anyone else was paying attention to the exchange. The marching soldiers were already a good distance off, and while there were dozens of goblins, hobgoblins, and bugbears within a stone’s throw, they were all hurrying about their own errands and tasks, leaving an empty circle around the two of them. The officer still hadn’t moved; he’d released his salute but he continued to hold himself in a rigid stance of deference.

Soon enough, War Captain Gurag, Kurok said. He was watching the other carefully as he spoke, but did not see any overt reaction to his use of the officer’s name. Gurag saluted again, then turned and continued after the soldiers, moving at the casual pace his rank permitted. Kurok stood there for a long moment, watching him until the bustle of the camp swallowed him up.

The unexpected encounter lingered with Kurok as he exited the camp and started up the steep trail that led to the tent atop the crest. There were guards there too, if somewhat more subtly placed than the earlier sentries, but they recognized what he was and let him pass.

The breeze was stronger atop the ridge, but it barely shifted the heavy canvas walls of the huge tent. The banner continued to dance as if trying to escape. From up close the black arrow was the size of an ogre’s spear, the jagged hooks embedded in the tip clearly visible. To Kurok it seemed to be pointing south, to where the legion would be going once all preparations were complete.

The interior of the tent was cloaked in murkiness that was in sharp contrast to the brightness outside. But Kurok had long ago mastered the darkness. He let the heavy outer fold of the entry fall shut behind him.

The tent was divided into two parts by an interior drape that hung from the central supports. The front part contained a folding desk, several chairs, and a few other small pieces of furniture. From the craftsmanship they all looked to be human-made. His people knew how to make armor, weapons, and fortifications, but they lacked the skill and patience to put art into everyday objects.

Perhaps, when they had conquered the rich lands to the south, they would be able to learn those skills. Or have human slaves to do it for them, which amounted to the same thing, in the end.

Come, a soft voice from the back of the tent called to him.

The darkness was even thicker in the back, augmented by a censer that provided only the barest spark of light but dense twisting weaves of fragrant smoke. Kurok recognized the narcotic but made no effort to avoid the vapors.

The room’s sole occupant was seated in a chair near the back of the tent. He wore the darkness like a cloak, and even though the air in the tent was hot and stale he was draped in heavy folds of black cloth that covered him from head to toe. Even Kurok’s exceptional vision could not penetrate the depths of that cowl, though he could feel the weight of the other’s stare upon him.

Kurok, he said. I had wondered if perhaps you would not return before our departure.

My lord Zorek, Kurok said. I have completed the task you set me to.

Ah. The reason for your delay?

The orcs outnumbered us two to one, my lord. But they could not withstand the power of the Veiled One.

They are destroyed, then?

The tribes have been sundered, their holds cleansed, their supplies taken. A remnant fled to the south, but they are no longer a threat to us. Casualties were light. I have prepared a full report. He dug into his belt, producing a small fold of leather, but the robed figure casually waved it aside. I had little doubt of your success, Zorek said. You have risen quickly even among the standards of the Blooded. Your name has been mentioned more than once among the war councils, and even Murgoth himself knows who you are.

Kurok felt a brief flutter of emotion, but he quickly tamped it down. He knew Zorek well enough to know when praise was a prelude to something more. He waited in silence for that addendum.

Zorek watched him for a moment, as if he could read Kurok’s thoughts. We have another task for you.

I exist to serve, Kurok said.

Yes, Zorek said. Yes, you do. The Black Arrow departs in two days. The army of the human king has departed Adelar and marches to engage the High Warlord.

With the power of the Veiled One, we will defeat them, Kurok said.

Perhaps, Zorek said, almost causing Kurok to betray a reaction. The way it was spoken, that one word could have implied that Zorek did not care about the outcome, or that it did not matter. But that made no sense, given that the Blooded had been working for decades now toward this moment, toward the clash that was building in the soft human lands to the south.

Zorek paused for a long moment, as if savoring his reaction. Finally, he continued, You will not be heading south with the army.

Kurok rallied enough not to respond, at least outwardly. Showing doubts or asking questions would only weaken his position, it would not change the outcome of this conversation. With more confidence, he waited for more.

Zorek nodded to himself, perhaps satisfied with Kurok’s recovery. There is a place, a place far from the war, but a place of importance in our broader campaign. The minions of the human king are there, but not in strength. There is an important task that you must do there. Our agents are already preparing the way, but it will fall upon you, as one of the Blooded, to accomplish this task.

Kurok knew he had not been told anything significant as of yet, but he felt that something was expected when Zorek paused again. I will not fail, he said.

No, you shall not, Zorek said. Now listen carefully, and heed my words. You have a long journey ahead of you, and by the time the legion marches you must already be far from here. You will travel alone, but there is an army you will gather along the way, and the Veiled One may see fit to grant you added power to accomplish your task.

Kurok listened as Zorek continued his instructions, and did his best to conceal his surprise as he learned more about his assignment.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Gurag slept uneasily, tossing under the thin blanket atop his cot. The hobgoblin war captain had a private tent, befitting his rank, though one could have crossed from the front flap to the back wall in just four steps. Other than the cot, the only furnishing was a folding wooden armor stand that kept his heavy suit of leather and metal out of the mud. His sword was closer, hanging from the central post within easy reach of the cot.

The temperature in the tent suddenly dropped, and a plume of white mist rose from the captain’s lips.

Gurag shot up suddenly, reaching for his sword even as he swung his legs around to the floor. But even as his fingertips brushed the hilt, he felt his muscles freeze. He was barely able to grab hold of the cot to keep himself from falling on his face, but beyond that he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.

A figure came into the tent, shrouded in darkness. Through a supreme effort Gurag was able to twist his head just enough to see the intruder, though even his darkvision was not enough to pierce the gloom under the deep cowl the other wore.

He tried to speak, but the only sound he could manage was a strangled gasp.

Come now, the other said. "You cannot tell me that this visit is a surprise, old friend."

Gaaaaaargk...

I knew you recognized me, earlier, Kurok said, coming fully into the tent and letting the canvas flap swing shut behind him. That left the interior of the tent almost pitch black, but Gurag could still feel the physical presence of the other hobgoblin. The captain tensed, trying to push his outstretched hand toward where he knew his sword to be. It was as if his entire body had been wrapped in invisible shackles; he could not move. He let out another vague sound.

If Kurok noticed his efforts, or was disconcerted by them, he gave no sign. Yes, that was a long time ago, he said conversationally, as if responding to something Gurag had said. We were younglings. But I have not forgotten, none of it. The torment that you and your friends inflicted on me. Back when I was small, weak.

Gurrrk…

"I know, it is our way. But you took such pleasure in it. Do you recall that one time that you stripped me naked, tied me up, and left me dangling over the cliffs that overlooked the village? Everyone saw, and laughed. My mother, she beat me, did you know that? Said that I was weak for letting anyone do that to me. Not that I could have done anything. I was weak, then."

Gurag strained. He thought he could feel the force holding him bend slightly against his efforts. Digging deep, he concentrated the full force of his will on moving his hand. His fingers trembled with the effort, but after a moment he felt the familiar solidity of his sword’s hilt brush the tips.

I suppose I should thank you, Kurok said. You weren’t there when it finally happened, you had just left to begin your training with the warrior cadre. But others took your place. It was one of them that I struck down with the power. Not enough to kill him—I was not yet then what I would become. But I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to.

Gurag pressed forward, slowly. His fingers slowly began to clench shut around the hilt.

After that, it all changed, Kurok said. I had proven that I was one of the Blooded. Such an honor. Everyone in the village came to watch when they came to take me. Of course, I did not know then that what they would put me through would make the torments you inflicted seem insignificant by contrast.

Gurag could feel the power holding him start to ease. Trying not to betray his effort to his adversary, he tried to shift his feet.

Suddenly Kurok made a gesture with his hand, and the paralysis holding Gurag vanished. The hobgoblin immediately rose up, drawing the sword even as he pivoted into a powerful thrust.

Kurok made now move to evade the attack. As he lunged, Gurag could see what looked like ice crystals clinging to his cloak.

He stabbed true. The sword failed to penetrate the warlock’s body, but clearly Kurok felt it, and he drew back a step, grunting in what might have been pain. But Gurag staggered as a jolt of icy cold that made the earlier paralysis feel pleasant by comparison shot through his body. That wedge of chill penetrated to his bones, and it was all he could do to keep his grip on his sword. As he drew back, he could see that ice crusted the length of the blade.

Gurag looked up at Kurok, who still hadn’t moved. What… what do you want from me? he gasped.

I want you to know what it felt like, atop the cliff, Kurok said.

Gurag shifted slightly, glanced past the warlock at the entry. With his sword he could possibly cut another way out, but the tough canvas would likely require more than one stroke to tear an opening, and that would leave him vulnerable. On the other hand, there were hundreds of warriors within this part of the camp who would hear a shout of alarm even through the thick walls of the tent.

Go ahead and cry out, Kurok said, as if he’d read his mind. I have arranged for us not to be disturbed.

Gurag lunged forward again, but it was only a feint. As Kurok started to turn toward his attack he kicked his cot toward to the warlock. Camp furniture was too fragile to do much damage, but it distracted his adversary for just a moment. But as Gurag dove toward the exit a thick arm shot out from the black cloak and snagged him around the throat.

The hobgoblin captain was surprised as he was yanked back into the tent; the warlock was unexpectedly strong. Gurag still had his sword, and as they struggled, he reversed the weapon and drove it back in a thrust that would impale his adversary. This time he got a hiss of pain, telling him he’d struck true, but once more he paid for it as the icy cold of the warlock’s magic poured into him.

He’d thought he was prepared for it, but this time the terrible chill seemed to scour him, stealing away his strength like a siphon. The sword fell from his grasp as his entire arm went numb. He tried to shift his weight the other way, to twist free of his attacker’s grip, but Kurok merely shifted with him, adding his own weight and bearing the dazed captain to the ground.

The power of the Veiled One protects me, the warlock hissed in his ear. Gurag tried to struggle, but his own body was failing him, his muscles refusing his commands. The entire right side of his body felt dead. He fumbled with his left hand, trying to find his sword. He got a knee under him and tried to buck off his enemy, but their respective positions had him at a decisive disadvantage.

Mercy, he gasped out.

He felt Kurok’s start of surprise. But a moment later the warlock leaned in again and hissed in his ear. Mercy is not our way, he said.

Gurag tensed for another last-ditch effort, but before he could move Kurok shifted his free hand. A puff of something erupted into Gurag’s face. It seared as it burned his eyes, kept burning as whatever it was traveled into his lungs. After feeling nearly frozen through a moment ago, now it felt like he was on fire. His struggles weakened as his legs kicked uselessly at the muddy floor of the tent.

Kurok waited until it was finished before he rose. His side stung where Gurag’s second thrust had pierced through the protection of his warding. But the spell had served its purpose, and he’d learned to ignore far worse pains. He had a long night ahead of him and long days after that.

There was much to be done before he reached the Silverpeak Valley.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

Stayer’s Holding wasn’t much more than a village, even though it boasted three inns and half a dozen taverns. But after more than a week of tiny hamlets and isolated settlements—when they weren’t sleeping under the open sky of the wilderness—the place seemed crowded and busy to Xeeta’s eyes.

Part of it was that the village—town, whatever—was busy. Stayer’s Holding was less than a day’s travel from Adelar. The latter place was a true city, the largest in the north, with more than ten thousand inhabitants.

Xeeta had been in larger cities, but at the moment the thought of Adelar filled her with apprehension. But that was where her new friends were going, to join the armies that King Dangren was gathering to fight back against the goblinoid hordes that had swept down from the mountains into the northernmost territories of the Kingdom of Arresh.

Xeeta had no interest in joining the armies of Arresh. It wasn’t just that she was from far away from here. Her heritage marked her as an outsider, and there were many, if not most, who would see her as little better than the creatures that the army was preparing to fight. That was why she kept the cowl of her cloak up despite the heat of the afternoon, but that was an imperfect disguise, not quite able to conceal the bulk of the curved horns that jutted from her temples, or the ruddy tint of her skin, redder than even the fiercest sunburn. She rarely smiled, for that revealed that her teeth bore subtle points. She had seen brave men recoil from that smile.

A faint clacking of wood striking wood penetrated her thoughts and confirmed she was nearing her destination. Stayer’s Holding was just large enough to get lost in, but she’d completed her errand, and now it was time to make the decision she’d been dreading since she and her companions had left the troubled village of Northpine behind them.

The inn was called The King’s Bounty, and while it boasted three stories and two spreading wings, it wasn’t even the largest in Stayer’s Holding. But like the others it was crowded with travelers, many of whom looked as though they carried everything they owned on their backs. Xeeta and her companions were in that category, but at least they had full purses, and had each other to keep an eye on their backs. It had been a while since she had felt that way. For much of the time since she’d left Li Syval, she’d felt more like the refugees seeking shelter from the war.

The thought had her pausing again, but finally she let out a sigh and continued past the front porch of the inn to the stableyard. It was crowded as well, with carts and wagons laden heavily with piled belongings. But there was another yard in the back of the inn that was more or less empty, save for the clacking that grew louder as she made her way in that direction.

As she came around the side of the inn, she could see the source of the sound. Two people were sparring with practice swords made of wooden slats bound around a rod of metal to add weight and strength. From the looks of them, they’d been at it for a while.

They were the pair she had come to see, but she drew back into the shadows to watch them as they battled.

From a first glance it didn’t seem like much of a contest at all. The man was young, a human of maybe twenty years, and the loose shirt he wore failed to hide the muscle that corded his arms and torso. He had been a blacksmith, Xeeta knew, and he had only gotten tougher in his brief career as an adventurer. The wooden sword he was using was only a fraction of the size of his actual blade, which was propped up against a pile of crates next to the back door of the inn.

His opponent was a lithe young woman. Even if one couldn’t see the subtle hints in her features, the slight points of her ears or the tilt of her eyes, her part-elven heritage was clear in the fluid grace with which she moved. She too had a real sword waiting for her, a slender weapon in a black leather scabbard. But far more notable was the silver lyre standing next to it, carefully laid atop a leather scrip to keep it out of the dirt of the yard. The lyre was impressive, but it was just a tool, a focus for the half-elf woman’s bardic magic.

The woman was moving well, but to Xeeta the outcome of the fight looked inevitable. And even as the thought formed the smith swung his blade around in a powerful arc. The half-elf shifted into a parry, but too late realized she couldn’t absorb the force of that swing. She let out a high-pitched sound and darted back, flinching as the collision of the swords launched hers across the yard almost to the back fence.

Damn it, she said, shaking her arm to loosen the sting of the impact. I really thought I was getting the hang of this.

The young man straightened and offered a salute before he lowered his weapon. Don’t be too hard on yourself, Glori. You’ve come along quite swiftly. You’ve picked it up faster than I did when I started. Much faster.

Glori grinned and rubbed her arm. You’re a good teacher, Bredan.

With your speed, I think you’ll be a decent swordswoman before you know it.

It’s strange, she said. When we’re sparring, it’s almost like music. As if the sound of the blades clashing are the notes of a song. It seems to come easier if I don’t think about it, just let it wash over me.

Whatever works, Bredan said with a grin. Hey, I got you something.

Glori had started to head over to recover her weapon, but at his words spun around with an eager look on her face. A present? Give it over.

His grin matched hers as they made their way over to the crates. Xeeta remained under cover, watching them.

Moving in an exaggerated manner that made it clear he had planned this, Bredan moved one of the crates and picked up a package he’d left under it. It was a small bundle, wrapped in heavy linen and secured with leather cords. She quickly got it open and let out a surprised sound. Xeeta couldn’t see what it was, and almost stepped forward before she caught herself.

A moment later Glori held up her present. It was a shirt of fine chainmail, the links gleaming in the bright afternoon light. This is… you didn’t have to buy this for me out of your share of the loot.

Xeeta’s hand reflexively dropped to the full purse tucked into an inner pocket of her coat. It was more silver than gold, but still a lot of coins. Their explorations and clashes with humanoid tribes around Northpine had resulted in considerable treasure, and that was not even counting the writ of credit that Glori carried, to be cashed in when they got to Adelar.

It’s worth it, to keep you safe, Bredan said.

Glori hugged him, then carefully folded the shirt and tucked it back into the wrap. What about your armor?

I can keep it up, he said. Maybe I can rent some time in a forge when we get to Adelar.

We may not have time, Glori said.

Bredan nodded, though he looked uncertain. Xeeta knew that he was nervous about joining the King’s army. Not that he should doubt his own skill, she thought, but his father had been a soldier, and the young man had set him up on a high pedestal in his mind.

It’s Quellan who needs new armor, Glori went on.

I plan on helping him pick out a new breastplate when we arrive, Bredan went on. If we can find one that fits him.

Xeeta smiled at the mention of the half-orc. It was the cleric of Hosrenu, god of knowledge, who she thought understood her the most out of her new companions. He certainly had faced more than his share of intolerance, yet somehow managed not to let it get to him. That was a skill that she had not yet mastered.

Come on, let’s get washed up, Glori said. As they started up the short flight of steps that led to the back door of the inn, Xeeta realized that her chance to do what she had