Prelude to the Shards: Shards of the Coven, #1

By Michael Timmns

From Michael Timmins, acclaimed author who breathed new life into the shifter genre with, The Lycan War Saga, comes the first book in an amazing new series set in the captivating new world of Ismia.

An epic tale of magical swords, treacherous races and forbidden magic.

 

Quint Linksill is on the run. Framed for murdering his love, he now seeks the help of the Witch of Time, whose power will prove his innocence. With his unique companion, Wren, he must avoid capture from a man who hunts him for his own dark purpose.

 

It's Sojin and Lyyra's time to partake in the Race, the traditional competition to determine who will become a Witchguard. It was supposed to be like all of the Races in the past, but when a mysterious stranger joins them, Sojin and Lyyra find that everything they thought they knew was a lie and now surviving the Race is the least of their worries.

 

Whisp, a young thief, in a dangerous town of thugs and gangs, where street life is the only life. But Whisp has a secret, she has Essence magic, a magic forbidden by the Witches of the Coven. Now, the Shen, the magic hunters have come for her, but they made a mistake, they came to Ghost and this is her town.

 

Prelude to the Shards sets the stage for the exciting, action packed Shards of the Coven series for classic fantasy lovers. Open the cover on a new world from the mind of Michael Timmins and get lost in the wonder of magical swords, dark magic and beautiful world building as only Mr. Timmins can do.

Buy Prelude to the Shards and start your epic adventure today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Timmins
• Release date: Jul 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201679316

Book preview

Special Thanks to:

My wife Claribel and my two amazing boys, Logan and Connor

You will always be at the heart of everything I do

Other Works by

Michael Timmins

The Lycan War Saga:

The Awakening: Part One

The Awakening: Part Two

The Gathering

The War

TBA

Shards of the Coven

Series:

Prelude to the Shards

Star Fall

Part One

Intellect

A close up of a map Description generated with high confidenceA close up of a map Description generated with high confidence

Chapter One

The fall should have killed him. By bending his knees, and tucking his body into a roll, he managed to keep himself from breaking his legs and quite possibly ending his life. Quint didn’t allow his surprise to slow him though. Getting his legs under him, he jumped up and ran for the stables behind the Best Run Inn. The inn sat on the West Trading Road, which ran the length of Dorvin, a modest town east of Kael deep on the borderlands of Born.

It was a few hours after the middle bell, and the town blended into the night except for patches of light from the streetlamps which created flying insect-ridden pools of illumination flanking the road. However, little of their glow reached the corner of the stables. With difficulty, Quint navigated to the rear of the inn.

The smell of horse dung nearly overwhelmed him; its pungent odor hitting him like a wall as he rounded the corner into the stable’s main door. As he had guessed, a lone guardsman from Captain Murl’s unit was keeping watch for him, but Quint was ready. Without slowing, he closed the distance to the guard. The man was turning his way when Quint clouted him with the hilt of his sword, dropping him where he stood.

You should have killed him.

I know, Quint told his companion, but I’m not a murderer.

Sheathing his sword, he mounted his horse. The stable boy had been told to leave his horse saddled. He learned long ago, to always be ready to run. Taking a moment, he took stock of himself. Tall and lean. He had carried more weight at one time, but the constant running had worn him down, and he was no longer the man he had once been. Still muscular, but much of the definition had faded from the lack of being able to properly take care of himself. Seldom was he able to eat well or sleep well. Seemingly, he had been running for years, though it was closer to nine months.

Brushing back his black, tangled hair hanging in front of his eyes, he checked to make sure his leather hauberk was properly cinched, and his sword belt was tight. A sound from the front of the inn caused him to glance up. His green eyes, which sat deep below a pronounced forehead, shone in the lamplight as he tried to make out any movement indicating they had realized he had eluded them − again.

Seconds passed, and the sound didn’t come again, so he dismissed it and went back to making sure he was ready to leave. As near as he could tell, since his possessions were few, he had everything.

He brought his horse around and exited the stables at a slow trot. Not wanting to draw attention to himself by making more noise than was necessary, he rode unhurriedly, but when the shouts went up from inside and out of the inn, he kicked his horse into a gallop, not bothering to peek back to see if there would be pursuit − there would be.

This would not be the first time he would escape Captain Murl, and he certainly hoped it wouldn’t be the last. He had become skilled at evading the man, but he knew eventually his luck would run out.

Giving his horse the reins, he let him run at full speed down West Trading Road heading east. It was the direction he had been heading when he arrived, and he hoped with this knowledge, Captain Murl would continue his pursuit the same way. Quint’s true destination was the city of Stormland, where he hoped to gain passage to the Isle of Sleet on the Sea of Vint. Once there he would seek an audience with the Witch of Time. It was said the Witch of Time could follow your life’s timeline and read your past, as well as possible futures. He wasn’t sure if he believed the latter, but it didn’t matter anyway. What he was concerned with, was his past. If she could see his past, she could prove he was innocent, and he could stop running.

The Witches of Covenhome were the only ones allowed to use magic. Though, it hadn’t always been the case. There used to be other magics besides Witch’s magic or Aspect magic as it was truly called. There was Essence magic, and Blood magic. Those had long since been eradicated. Sure, there were rumors of those who still carried the forbidden magics, but they were either charlatans or if they did, it wouldn’t be long before they were hunted down by the Shen — the magic hunters. Essence magic and Blood magic were considered dangerous, and so those who did have the talent were also considered dangerous and were treated as such.

The one thing he did know, Covenhome was the place where he would find the Witch of Time. As one of the Coven, she would either be there or would be arriving there eventually. As the arbiters and ultimate law of the eastern cantons of Rowens, their seat of power resided in Covenhome, though they traveled throughout the cantons to address various issues.

The Coven had come to power over three hundred years ago and was the most commanding force in the realm. With the eradication of other forms of magic, few could stand up to them. There was little reason to do so, however. The Witches were benign in their rulership, allowing the local lords– be it king, queen, minister or congress− to rule their respective cantons.

The Coven legion, the only standing army allowed, owed their allegiance to the Witches, and were stationed throughout the cantons. They assisted the leaders of each canton to maintain peace, both within their own lands, and between the others. As such, it had led to the longest peace the realm had seen in a thousand years.

The Witches themselves rarely concerned themselves with the day to day of ruling; instead they addressed matters concerning their sphere of influence of magic. What it entailed he didn’t know, all of it was beyond Quint’s knowledge or concern.

His main concern was getting to Covenhome, and to do so, he needed to avoid being arrested. With that in mind, Quint turned his horse down a side street before he reached the edge of town and brought his horse into the yard of a small two-story home resting on the corner of the West Trading Road and this unnamed side street he found himself on. The owner of the home was also the proprietor of a general store near the center of town.

*

When Quint first arrived in town, he crossed to the East gate to find what he was looking for – a house just off the main road, near the eastern gate. After several enquires, he learned the owner of the home’s name and where he could be located. The fact he was a businessman would unfortunately make what he needed cost more than he would have liked, but that couldn’t be helped. Luckily, he didn’t hurt for coin due to his family’s inheritance.

Entering the man’s shop, he wandered aimlessly around, stopping occasionally in front of this or that display, his eyes never focusing on any of the merchandise. Instead he casually watched the clientele, waiting for a moment when the shop was nearly empty.

When, at last, there was only one or two customers in the store, Quint decided to approach the owner, whom, he had somewhere along the way, lost sight of. As he glanced around to locate him, he was shocked to find him standing just to his right.

The shopkeeper was a robust man of middling height. His rather bulbous nose, like a red ball stuck to his face, was marred by deep blue veins crawling all over its surface. Big bushy red eyebrows covered quite a lot of his forehead, like Bornian caterpillars, and were the only indication of his hair color, since his pate was bald. The color of his eyebrows and his bright blue eyes marked him as a northerner. Quint wondered why he was here, since northerners were seldom seen this far south, let alone owning a business. There was little doubt he was the owner. His money belt hung low under his expansive belly, along with a short wooden cudgel, a wicked looking stick with a bulbous knot at the top. A mace he used to deal with the occasional lifters. Running a finger down its handle, he eyed Quint.

Can I be helping you, sir? The man spoke in the northerner dialect.

Taking a moment to scan the room, Quint made sure there was no one in earshot.

I am hoping. You are Selsen? The owner of this establishment?

That be me, the man responded reservedly, unsure of where this was going.

Are you also the owner of the home near the end of the West Trading Road as it leaves the east side of town?

That would be me, as well. Again, reservedly, less sure of the conversation.

Looking around again, Quint was relieved it was still clear.

I have a proposition for you. I may have need of a stable and a room tonight.

I be suggesting you find yourself an Inn, Selsen replied, undoubtedly aware this suggestion wasn’t going to go far.

Quint smiled wanly.

I already did, but for reasons I would rather not go into, it may become impossible for me to continue to stay there tonight, and I may need a less public place to stay. It so happens your home is ideally located for what I find myself needing.

Selsen eyed him, narrowing his eyes, the caterpillars climbing down farther to take a closer look. But Quint could tell the idea of making some money here was fast eroding the man’s caution.

Well, it be sounding a little bit like something that might bring me trouble.

It wasn’t a question.

I may not have to make use of the room, but I am prepared to pay you in advance regardless of whether I stay or not. Quint cocked his head to one side and lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. Though, I hope with that in mind, you won’t charge me too much. I am, as I said, already paying for a room at an inn.

The man’s lips drooped in a frown. It didn’t appear authentic.

It be five gold.

Quint’s mouth dropped. He had suspected this would cost him, just not this dearly. For five gold, he could almost certainly buy a quarter of the products in the man’s store. He could even rent a room at the best Inn in town for two weeks. Evidently, this man understood Quint’s need and planned to exploit it as best as he could.

The need to tread carefully here meant he couldn’t outright refuse the cost. Affording the price was one thing. His money was not endless, and he would care not to waste it uselessly. Five gold was a lot, but he didn’t want to risk insulting the man. Push the man in the wrong direction, and he could quickly become someone who would make themselves available to Captain Murl.

Three gold, for the use of your home and stable, and for that price... Quint leaned in close to Selsen. The complete loss of your memory for anything involving me, he whispered.

Selsen nodded swiftly at the price, which made Quint flinch inwardly, knowing now he could have offered much less. Quint shrugged, knowing what was done, was done.

I be leaving the back door unlatched for you, and there be the old cook’s room at the last door on the left of the hallway that be just inside the door, Selsen told him quietly.

Slipping the man the gold, Quint left and made his way to the Best Run Inn.

You overpaid.

And you always have a knack for pointing out the obvious, he replied to his companion. Even though he knew he didn’t need to, he said the words aloud. Thinking the words would have sufficed, but it was difficult for him to remember to do so. This, of course, had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. People either think you are talking to yourself like a crazy person or talking to them... like a crazy person.

Just trying to helpful, his companion responded.

No, you were trying to be a pain. Being helpful would have been telling me before I offered the three gold. It’s not as though you didn’t know what I was going to offer, Quint retorted.

Quint walked on in silence. His companion was unusually quiet.

*

The inn on the east side of town was a modest three-story building. When he had entered, the common room was full of diverse people from all over Born, and a few from other locales. There were a couple of northerners, their red hair stood in contrast to most of the black-haired folk from the central lands. There was even a pale blonde man from the far west.

It was difficult to make it to the bar, and Quint found himself jostled, receiving many a sour look as he pushed his way through the throng of people. The atmosphere within the inn was stale and heavy. A fog of smoke from tabac and the hearth made everything seem faint and obscured. Eventually he found a stool which had been vacated. After several attempts to gain the barkeep’s attention, he finally got some indication the man saw him, though it was another few minutes before he made his way down to Quint.

The man nodded at him as he approached, leaning slightly in to be able to hear anything Quint might say.

What can I get you? the man behind the bar asked. He cleaned out a wooden mug with a dirty rag, placing it at the bar in front of him. Quint eyed the man. The barkeep was the tallest man he had ever seen, well over seven feet tall and easily 300 pounds. Noticeably, the man had Havin blood, the giant folk from the plains far to the south. His rusty brown eyes confirmed it, along with the feather fetishes braided in the man’s greasy black hair. Not a true blood though, since they were closer to nine feet.

Ale, and a room please.

The man took his turn eyeing Quint over, as if deciding whether to tell him about the room.

Ale I’ve got, the room is another thing. I’ve only got one left, and it’s on the third floor facing the back alley.

Quint sighed. He did not want a room up so high. The special mention of the back alley by the barkeep was understandable. The back alley was where most of the refuse got tossed, not to mention other questionable things, which meant for an aromatic night stay. But it was already getting late, and the gods knew he had stayed in worse places.

I’ll take it. Quint motioned for the man to fill his cup.

The man nodded and poured him an ale into the wooden goblet he had placed down earlier.

With little bartering, they agreed upon a price for the ale and the room. Quint also decided upon a meal, which he ate quietly at the bar.

Finishing his meal, he made his way up to his room. Two hours later he was jumping out of his room’s window and running for his life.

Chapter Two

Captain Murl Johns stood staring out of the third story window, his quarry had once again eluded him. Standing stiff-backed, with his leather riding gloves in one hand, draped over the other, he listened to his sergeant’s report; Quint Linksill had once again escaped.

In the almost nine months he had been trying to capture Quint, he had aged considerably. The toll of the constant chase had worn him down. Once he had been slightly heavyset, with a face full and cherub like. He had been, what many would qualify as ‘fleshy’.

That all changed after he volunteered for the task of chasing this man. Now, he had shed the extra pounds, his face had lost its fullness and appeared slack, like dripped wax on the side of a candle. He was a tall man, with short cut blond hair, dark brown, almost black eyes, hiding under folds of skin from a once full forehead.

He was not a good-looking man− not now, at least. In the past, he was thought of as pleasant looking by the ladies of the court, though never by the lady he wished the most. They would all look away from him now, if they saw him− the shallow trolls.

He wouldn’t be returning to court yet though, it appeared. The chase to catch Quint would continue. Though, if the Minister of Lorowill knew why he volunteered for this task, he would not have only refused the request, but would have hung him as well.

Even more reason he needed to take care of Quint once and for all. And yet, the man continued to elude him. But things had changed now. Now, he believed, he had deduced where the man was heading. Even though Quint appeared to be running away haphazardly, his path always took him farther east.

Johns had believed the man must be heading to Covenhome, to plead his case before the Witches. He hadn’t been sure. At least, not until found the Blood Mage in the last village they had passed. A quiet shiver coursed through his body at the memory. It had been an evil thing, a necessary evil though, for the information he gained was invaluable.

*

The night was dark, one even the moon had decided to avoid making a show. Dark clouds obscured it so completely, not even the slightest sliver illuminated the night. After missing Quint by several hours, it had been pointless to continue the chase through the night and the company decided to shelter in this unnamed village for the night.

A rumor of a Blood Mage living just outside the village caught his ear− as he surmised it was meant to.

The village was frightened of the mage. They must have assumed, by putting Johns on the scent of the law breaker, the captain would eliminate the mage. By making it appear like a rumor, it avoided the risk of any reprisal by the mage if Johns didn’t succeed.

But Johns had a different idea. He needed to confirm what he thought about Quint’s destination. He needed information, information only this mage could hopefully provide.

Deciding to go alone, he left instructions on what to do in case he didn’t return. There was no reason to risk his entire company to this man, and if he died doing this, there would be no reason to continue to chase Quint. They would understand soon enough after he was gone.

The dirt path, if it could be called one, wound its way deeper into the forest which surrounded the village. Stretched before him like a dark brown snake, he tentatively traveled the path. It was clear to him, by the guttering light of the torch he carried, this path was seldom used. It looked little more than a wide game trail.

Perhaps it was Johns’ unease, but he couldn’t help imagining the forest closing in around him as he moved farther along, flanking him like an army of tall sentinels bent on his annihilation. The dark of the night was oppressive in its nature, made darker by the thick canopy above him.

Several minutes had passed as he made his way from the village, when he caught a glimpse of a ruddy light up ahead. It wasn’t long before he cleared the forest and stepped into a small clearing. A small hillock which was the source of the red glow sat near the back of the clearing. Two orb-like holes dug into the side of the mound were to either side of a door shaped opening.

The door was covered by some sort of skin which had been slashed vertically in several places, allowing the reddish glow to seep out. The glow poured out of the orb-like openings, giving the impression of a demonic face staring at him. A sober foreshadowing of what he was most likely to face. Regardless, he moved to the skin-covered opening; its color, entirely too human looking for his comfort.

Standing outside of the hovel, he was unsure of how to proceed. He was here uninvited, and it was near the middle of the night. Clearly the person he wished to speak to was awake and home, but he had no way to communicate to him he was here.

After a moment, he was about to turn away, when a raspy voice inside called out to him.

You may enter, Captain.

Johns almost fled. There was little he feared in life, but magic was one of those things. As children, they were told stories of the time when magic wrought havoc across the land by the bloody works of the Blood Mages, and the sheer power of the Essence Mages. It was enough to instill a fear of those who practiced magic into anybody, Johns included. Steel against steel was one thing. But steel against magic— well there was nothing he could do to fight that.

The fact this mage knew who he was, unsettled him greatly. Remembering the cost of failure, he steeled himself before pushing the skin aside and entered.

What he ventured into would haunt him till the ends of his days. Dug into the hill was an open room, its dirt walls were rough, perforated with roots. Some hung a few inches from the ceiling, like desiccated chicken feet. Others exited in one spot on a wall– entering somewhere else a short distance away, like tunneling worms, frozen in time. Several places in the walls, little niches were cut to hold various items. Pieces of skeletons, rotting flesh, and spiritual emblems dotted these alcoves.

Bottles of liquids filled other nooks and were placed sporadically around the dirt floor. Their various colors from dark red to almost black left no doubt in John’s mind what was in them.

The glow came from a bed of rocks emanating with an unnatural reddish radiance. It was apparent they gave off some level of heat, for the room was far warmer than the outside. There were two things inside the room he found hard to avoid staring at. His vision darted between them, his mind having difficulty knowing which was worse to focus on.

Beside the magical hearth was the body of a child, laid open. The child could have been no more than six years old by its size, which was the only way to guess its age. It was difficult for him to guess the sex, though he was pretty sure it was a boy. The skin had been sliced down the center −from neck to groin, the cut split at the loins and continued down to each foot.

The sex organ had been either removed or had been obliterated by the fact the skin had been peeled back from the cuts to reveal the muscle, organs and bones underneath. The smell of burnt skin assaulted the captain’s nose, the acrid smell caused Johns to sway, feeling a growing wave of nausea.

The source, he realized, was the edge of the flaps of the pulled back skin. They had been seared to prevent blood loss, the flesh blackened and cracked, like a pig roasted over a spit. The madness of the reason reached Johns ears when he heard soft moaning coming from the lips of what he had thought was a corpse.

Now, realizing the thing was still alive, he noticed other signs of life– the shallow rise and fall of its chest cavity, the redness of its arteries still carrying its life blood to areas of the body.

The face of the body was badly mutilated. The eyes had been removed. Dried blood caked around the sunken eyelids, which were sewn shut. The ears were cut off; the area of attachment seared as well. The child’s hair was burned, or shaved off entirely, including the eyebrows.

The shear level of brutality before Johns left him stunned. As captain of the guard he had seen his share of death. He had seen all manner of corpses, from the young and the old. Body parts hacked off, entrails spilled out like some grey, twisted, headless snakes trying to nest inside someone’s stomach. He had seen blood... so much blood. But this was different. Killing was usually so full of emotion, from the wife stabbing her husband a hundred times after finding him with a mistress, to the thief slitting the throat of his intended victim. They all share some level of emotion, but not this. It was mechanical, as if the child wasn’t human.

The level of detachment was apparent in the fact the child was still alive, kept alive, for some twisted, evil purpose. It was a tool to this mage, nothing more— nothing less, and like all tools, it needed to be kept working; its gears needed to be moving to make use of it. The ability to remove yourself from humanity enough to do what had been done to this child was beyond comprehension. Despite how horrid the body was, the cause for its state was equally unsettling.

The man sitting cross-legged behind the glowing rocks was a sight out of nightmares. Slick, black hair hung in tangled dreads; some clung to each other like the moss hanging from swamp willows. Their interconnection was caused by dried, caked and blackened blood, though not all of it was old; droplets of the red liquid made occasional drips upon the shoulders and arms of the mage. The mage was bare-chested and was covered in varying stages of coagulated blood. Scars and freshly cut skin crisscrossed his flesh. It was hard to know where one had healed, and the other had been cut.

His strong, muscular arms were equally scarred, but the scarring took on a more precise appearance. Cuts ran the length of his arms, from shoulder to wrist. It was difficult to tell, but it appeared as if strips of his arms had been sliced away, and then sewn back on.

If there had been any scarring on the man’s legs it was impossible to tell since they were covered by a leather jerkin− at least, Johns prayed it was leather.

The body of the man appeared more sinister looking by the eerie red glow emanating from the rocks in front of him, bathing everything in its blood red luminance. The aspect capturing most of his attention though, was the eyes. His eyes were blood red. Not just the iris, but the