Exile: A Dance of Fire & Shadow, #5

By Jay Aspen

In the aftermath of a deadly invasion, Samaran is a land in turmoil.

Bandits prey on cities and farmsteads, corsairs prowl the high seas.

Ariel has earned her place with the elite Mage-warriors of the Eldrin, sworn to protect King and country––but power comes with a cost. The Elementals who can bestow dragonfire and ice-skills are wild and unpredictable, focused on their own long-term goals.

But now the sinister power behind the war is once more taking shape and form, the strength and skill of the Eldrin will be needed to lead the resistance.

For Ariel, life has become complicated. Visions of the distant threat haunt her dreams, her sister treads a precarious path as royal concubine and bodyguard, her Elemental ally seems to have gone rogue––and the love of her life has ended their relationship.

If only she can control the wild power inside her to defeat the raiders…

Then maybe she can protect her sister from the schemes of influential conspirators––and maybe even persuade Marin they can be reunited when the fighting is over…

Elf, dragon, wolf, and a mysterious Mage-warrior weave a dangerous path in this fantasy adventure-romance epic from Jay Aspen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sandfire Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215674345

Jay Aspen

Jay writes from experiences in wilderness travel and extreme sports; snow peaks in the Andes, big walls in Yosemite and Baffin Island, sailing the Irish sea to photograph puffins and dolphins. A science degree and training with Himalayan shamans led to an interest in bio-psychology. She lives in the wild Welsh Borders, sings jazz, rides horses.

Book preview

1

.

MASTER,

Your loyal fighters in the southern militia desperately need more supplies as well as reinforcements of experienced soldiers. Samaran may have defeated the Rapathian armies but the land has not yet recovered from this predatory invasion. Deserters from both sides have formed raiding parties that rob city guilds and farmers alike. Our patrols have little time to return to Caerlen village to rest, and our numbers are spread thin.

I await your advice and assistance.

M

ARIEL? WHERE ARE YOU going? Sasha’s pale face reveals her unease. The strain of waiting for the militia to return is wearing everyone down. The whole village of Caerlen feels brittle with tension.

I turn back. Sasha is standing in the open doorway. Her Sylvani dappled-green silk tunic and the matching camouflage-tattoos on her arms are poignant reminders that I was raised in this community. In that more innocent time I knew little of the world beyond the surrounding forest––and my main concern back then was that the village Elders were hoping to marry me off to the most eligible young man the matchmakers could find.

The way Sasha’s hands sometimes stray protectively to her belly is another reminder of the family-producing duties that would have been expected of me after an arranged marriage like that.

Almost in an instinctive response, I brush my own hand across the light, supple Eldrin chainmail that now marks me as very different, a powerful Mage-warrior, part of the elite fighting force sworn to protect our King and all his subjects in Samaran.

I know how much the people here are relying on the Eldrin warriors to protect them in these troubled times. I try to make my answer sound reassuring.

I’m just going to take a short walk across to the Shrine.

Sasha does not sound at all reassured.

I thought you no longer believed in the Old Religion. Where are you really going? And when will you be back?

These last few weeks the Sylvani have become increasingly fearful every time our militia patrols are forced to range long distances away from their main outpost here in the village. Even though every civilian survivor of the Rapathian invasion has been trained in basic fighting skills, they all know they are far better protected when they have our team of Power Mages close at hand.

But the southern militia is guarding a wide area of the kingdom, from our temporary garrison in Caerlen to Seasca on the coast, as well as all the land spread either side of the narrow track that connects the small port to this village––and then on to the capital further inland. That means having to ride for two days in any direction to cover the full extent of our responsibilities. The Samarian militia fighters may be well trained and strong but they need their Eldrin leaders to devise the best strategy of attack and to fight on the front line.

Don’t worry, Sasha, I’ll only be gone for a few minutes. You know I won’t leave my patients for long. Start the preparation of today’s herb infusions while you wait for me to return. I left the list in the kitchen.

Sasha has never learned to read more than a few words but she has watched me preparing herbs since the day our small team of Eldrin deployed in Caerlen when the war ended. Almost a year ago now. Each time I spend a few days back in the village between patrols, I make sure to leave her samples of the plants we’ll need for the next few days in the makeshift infirmary.

She nods agreement and goes back inside the cottage that had been my home until the Rapathian army destroyed our peaceful life and drove me to taking the kind of risks I had never previously considered realistic, never mind sane.

Risks that ended with the intense training regime of the Eldrin. Now the danger is even greater but I have gained the skill and strength to deal with it.

Or so I hope.

At least the villagers have one Mage-warrior remaining with them this time. But now the militia patrol is a day late returning after riding out to deal with the latest plea for help from the port at Seasca.

And I am worried to distraction about what might have happened to them.

The anxiety brings a savage ripple of dragonfire surging through me, an unfulfilled urge to action I control with difficulty. Power must be reined in, focused where and when it is needed. I hurry through the small front garden and into the cobbled village square, almost deserted at this early hour, the worn stones glistening with dew. The square feels strangely quiet at any hour these days, since the Rapathians marched through here and kidnapped all the able-bodied adults to exploit as slaves. Anyone over the age of sixty or under the age of ten they simply killed, leaving the bodies to lie where they fell.

Sasha’s child will be the first to bring the renewal of young life to our home. Everyone in this shattered village is risking their fragile hopes that this will be the start of a new future.

But only if the militia can prevent these roaming bandit gangs from becoming too strong.

Winding paths lead past the repaired thatched cottages with their trailing pergolas and vines set among gardens filled with hastily planted food crops. There will be hard times to get through until we can replace all the supplies stolen or lost to the war.

The tang of wood smoke rising from the chimneys mixes with the heady perfume of wild honeysuckle and mint springing up as if defying the devastation wrought on homes and livelihoods. I breathe it all in, willing the familiar scents to bring back memories of happier times when all I had to fear was the daily routine that balanced on the edge of boredom...

I make a brief detour to visit the grave of my parents, their plain carved headstone set at the heart of the small cemetery. My mother, killed while trying to defend her home from the Rapathian invaders. And my father, slaughtered by bandits seven years before, a long-distance trader riding guard on one of Samaran’s merchant caravans in the Northlands.

The passing of time makes it a little harder to remember their faces with each visit here. Now my younger sister is the only blood-family I have left––and I don’t know when I will be deployed back to the capital so I can see her again.

I take out the tiny portrait of her that I always carry with me and run my fingers wistfully across her face. We are so alike with our long curling chestnut hair and deep violet eyes. In the past we have managed to pass as each other––but only when cloaked and hooded and in uncertain light. At seventeen, Alina has the kind of dazzling beauty that turns men’s heads and beguiles their thoughts. I am two years older, a little taller and a deal stronger than my sister... and I was contented enough with my own more modest beauty until Marin...

No. Don’t get distracted. It was duty, not looks that persuaded him to...

No. Focus on what you have to do at the Shrine.

The obsidian stone table lies beyond the last few cottages, at the base of the giant yew standing sentinel at the village boundary. I kneel and lay my hand on the smooth polished surface with its thin quartz lines etched into a five-pointed star gleaming against the black rock.

Tradition dictates that the customary elemental offerings of earth, water, fire, air and space should be carefully placed at each of the five points to worship the Five Warriors who gave their lives so many generations ago in the founding of Samaran. Legend tells that the Warriors wrested control of our country from the powerful Elementals who had always dominated the land––and it is now the duty of loyal Samarians to revere their sacrifice. A sacrifice that granted us a home.

The Mage Valara led her followers to victory, driving the Elementals out of their place of power in Maratic. Then she taught them to use that power to enhance their strength and fighting skills until they became the elite Mage-warriors of Samaran. From this legacy the Order of the Knights of Eldaran was born, later to be known simply as the Eldrin.

Sasha was right to notice that I no longer regard the Shrine with the same blind faith I had before––but that doesn’t mean I have abandoned my respect for it. I now see it in a different way, as a memorial to an ancient conquest.

But there is more. This place still holds a power of its own that I still don’t fully understand. Whether there is some residual alchemy woven into the stone by the forgotten masons who carved it––or whether the power has simply grown into it from the devotions of thousands of supplicants down the generations, I will probably never know.

But I still remember the shiver of unease I felt, kneeling right here, only an hour before Caerlen was attacked by the Rapathian invaders on their march to sack the capital. Now I have returned here in the hope of seeing more deeply into the power of the stone, a faint, desperate hope that it might tell me why the militia is delayed, or where my friends might be.

I brush my hand slowly across the gleaming black surface of the stone table, waiting and hoping for a response, an answer to my silent question. For a few moments there is nothing, before a creeping sense of fear and dread runs through my body, chilling and threatening in equal measure. I want to turn away, to dismiss this shiver of prescience or whatever it is I have touched, but I force my hand to remain where it is.

If there is knowledge here, I must discover...

A fleeting glimpse of a tall dark tower, black infused with red as if drenched in ancient blood... and then it is gone.

I remain motionless, kneeling on the summer grass, my eyes closed in concentration while trying to work out why this feels like an answer and yet I know it carries a deeper warning.

Because just like the previous time I felt something strange and prescient here, it is a compelling answer to a question.

But it is a question I did not ask.

2

ASHKAR THE DARKLORD, Slayer of Legions, Scourge of Kings, Despoiler of Empires, stood in the lofty observation hall of the fortified tower, surveying the distant southern plains under his dominion. For almost an hour he had been gazing through the shifting grey-red swirls encircling the wall-mirror, watching his slaves toiling to bring him grain, oilseed, gold, timber and all the other riches he demanded from his overseers...

But the sight brought him no pleasure.

All he could feel was a stab of discontent, colder than the keening wind hissing in through the empty windows, stinging his face and tugging at his heavy red-black robes. The forced activity the mirror-vision revealed was small and petty. A pathetic echo of the overwhelming magnificence he was determined his future would one day hold. Amassing vast material wealth was merely the start of the real conquest, his ultimate goal––

Power.

He needed to regain the power and ruthless control that had once, briefly, been within his grasp––until he had been forced to watch everything he had built crumble and diminish, his very existence banished to obscurity. But now, at last, centuries of dark thoughts and evil deeds were once more forming the webs of alchemy he needed to build a new Empire.

But the preparation is taking far too long.

Even a brief, fleeting thought of this long delay was enough to bring a stab of pain to the bloody stumps of his ruined wings. Not for the first time, he considered releasing the poison-spell that prevented them from healing––

The reedy voice interrupted from behind him, echoing back and forth from the mirrored walls.

My Lord, the Viceroy has arrived from his distant mission in the western kingdoms and...

The sorcerer’s words faltered as Ashkar turned to face him with a furious scowl."

You disturb me for this? Tell him to wait.

I will of course, but I felt you should know that the signs are already visible... the wards within him are failing. I have done my best to restore them but it might help if you could add your own, excellent and powerful... The sorcerer took a step back as Ashkar’s bloody wing-stumps twitched again. My Lord, I mentioned yesterday that I could help you release the poison-spell––

No! Ashkar knew only too well that once fully healed, his wings could never re-grow. Never unfurl to their former glory and strength. There had to be a way to get them back, somehow. The agony of their ruin was nothing compared to the thought of their permanent loss––nothing compared to his lust for vengeance against those who had ripped them from his body.

Pain would help him stay focused on his strategy.

First, I need to know what news this useless Viceroy has brought from the western lands. The wretched man’s late arrival usually means he brings nothing but a list of failures.

Ashkar elbowed the sorcerer out of his path and took the ten long paces to the top of the staircase, his dark robes rippling like liquid steel as he moved. The long, spiral descent to reach the Great Hall at the foot of the tower might calm his temper just enough to wring the information he needed from this failing deputy.

He entered the hall from the door behind the throne to see the Viceroy already waiting at the foot of the dais. A servant whose fervent promises of success were proving hollow and useless. There was little satisfaction to be had in noticing how nervous the visitor appeared. He was nothing but a trembling, corpulent pretender draped in a brocaded blood-red uniform with an insignia he no longer deserved.

The Viceroy bowed low. My humble greetings, your Eminence.

So? Cut the obsequious nonsense and get to the facts, before I have the truth dragged out of you by stronger means than my voice.

Another nervous twitch distorted the Viceroy’s pudgy features. The Darklord fixed his subordinate with the penetrating stare of cold, pale eyes. The sorcerer had been right. Dark blotches and unsightly lumps pushing through the skin showed that the inner wards were indeed starting to fail.

Aided by too much fine living instead of hard work. We’ll see about that.

Ashkar knew precisely how terrifying his gaze could be and he always made sure to use it to best advantage.

The Viceroy licked dry lips and pushed back his carefully styled blond hair.

Your Eminence... The military conflicts you so brilliantly planned and manipulated. They progressed extremely well. In the steaming swamplands of Rapathia, the Emperor Purmut and the Rapathian Elemental were both suitably corrupted by their close association. Their greed to acquire the rich wheatfields of western Annubia drove them to start a terrible war to claim those riches by force. A Rapathian victory would have brought ruin to Annubia, since the rest of the country is a scorching sand desert. The Viceroy hesitated and hurriedly moved on to the next part of his account. The invasion of the fertile pasturelands of Samaran to the north was an instant success... Another hesitation. All three countries are now weakened by fighting each other and are ripe for our conquest. He glanced nervously around the Great Hall.

The Darklord watched him, keenly assessing his victim’s mental journey at each point where those nervous eyes rested. The smooth stone walls of the Great Hall were artfully warded to absorb form and light at the snap of a finger. An alchemical formula that allowed Ashkar to vanish at will, concealed by the dark red-black clothing that not only deflected blade and arrow but could also weave deceptive visuals when viewed against those walls. There was almost no need for the twenty heavily armed guards standing alert and ready between the tall pillars encircling the dais. All were focused on one aim. To protect their Overlord.

On pain of death.

Slowly, inevitably, the Viceroy’s anxious gaze turned back to focus on the Slayer of Legions. Tall, powerful, sharp-featured and threatening, the Darklord knew how intimidating his presence could be. He carefully activated his body-wards to enhance the fear he could project so effectively. The subtle shift of power meant enduring another stab of sickly pain lancing through the shattered stumps of his wings.

No matter. Inducing fear served his purpose well.

Except when fear forces these miserable worms to withhold facts they know I will dislike.

So. Now tell me the rest of it. The events you have tried to conceal.

Well... Of course there are a few... ah, adaptations that still have to be made. But there is time for that, while your armies slaughter the defenders of Isandor who are blocking our military advance––

The Viceroy blanched and took two steps back.

The Darklord could manifest powerful waves of anger that were more painful than any spear or arrow. He chose to use them now. The stubborn defenders of the lands on his western border were indeed blocking his way, putting up a determined fight to save their lives and their homes. Three of Ashkar’s military commanders had made the mistake of mentioning too many details about that hideous delay.

Those commanders had been replaced.

As this useless Viceroy will be. Soon.

Tell me about these... necessary adaptations.

The Viceroy took another step back.

There were unforeseen complications. It appears that the Annubian dragon may have intervened to defeat the Rapathians and halt the invasion. They were savagely routed. And burned.

What?

The Darklord could feel the fury building inside him, gnawing at his entrails, urging him to act. You assured me that the Elemental Shailan Zandaraz has had no interest in the affairs of men for many centuries! Without a Dragonrider to persuade him, the great creature never leaves his place of power. When he loses access to the Vision Fire of Rahimar, his far-seeing ability fails, rendering him blind to anything beyond his immediate line of sight.

I know, your Eminence. That is how it has been with the dragon for many centuries. Your own personal scholar consulted the historical scrolls and confirmed it. Of course, I am working to discover what caused the change.

Ashkar could see from the man’s face that there was more bad news to come. Slowly, purposefully, he descended the steps of the dais and glared at the guards surrounding him before moving his furious gaze to the Viceroy.

Is that all you have to tell me?

Something strange also happened in the kingdom of Samaran. The Rapathian army navigated the sea crossing easily and marched swiftly inland to sack the capital from where they could loot gold and grain. But... it seems that the Samarian Elemental appeared, fighting alongside a powerful Mage-warrior... The Viceroy hesitated again. The stories from the survivors were fearful and confused, whispering about ice and steel. Of course there will be more details very soon. I have spent the intervening months setting spies in suitable places, equipped with your brilliant sorcerous devices. When I return to the western lands I will––

The Viceroy’s speech cut off abruptly as the Darklord’s steel-gauntleted hand gripped his throat, pinning him to one of the stone pillars. Then the deadly grip released, letting the gasping victim drop to his knees on the polished floor.

Ashkar listened to the torrent of hoarse words pouring from the Viceroy’s mouth. It was not difficult to sift through the panic-driven lists and facts for any details that might still be of real use.

But, no.

Nothing there that could inform the next stage of this campaign.

"I have wasted too much time already waiting for your sluggish information sources to deliver what I need. As I warned you before, duplicates of the... thing I have made you into... do not work. I have experimented with creating more than one such creature at a time and they do not function well when both are present in the same realm."

So there is only one way to accomplish a change of deputy, wasteful though it is.

The Darklord removed his gauntlets, revealing claw-like fingers tipped with razor-sharp nails. One hand slowly gripped the Viceroy’s shoulder and hauled him upright, the nails piercing through the crimson robes to dye them a shade darker with fresh blood.

A long pause, to take bitter satisfaction from the man’s helpless paralysis and fear-spiked silence. A silence that spoke so eloquently of knowing exactly what was about to happen.

Then the other claw ripped away the left side of the Viceroy’s once-grand garment, cutting through the fat and ribs of his chest, gripping his heart and tearing it out. There was a fleeting moment when something that might almost have been relief passed across the dying man’s face as his body collapsed in a limp heap on the floor and a pool of blood spread slowly outward.

The Darklord gripped the still-beating heart tighter, tighter, until it sundered and split apart. The guards flinched and covered their ears as the shifting walls echoed to a long, piercing scream that chilled a man’s very soul.

And the demon that had commanded the Viceroy was finally forced from its devastated nest.

It fled, shrieking and howling in rage and agony, back to the pit from whence it had come.

3

M,

I have known you since the day you were accepted into the elite ranks of the Eldrin. You are the most skilled and steadfast of all the Mage-warriors I have ever trained. I feel confident that you can give encouragement and reassurance to the militia fighters under your command, even though I am forced to tell you that no help is coming. Better to prepare as best you can than to delay from false hope.

The other militia patrols in Samaran’s northern and eastern provinces are plagued with the same difficulties you are facing. Ruined homes and devastated crops have turned too many to a life of violence and crime. But your outpost has the most essential role of all. The last three emergency grain ships from Annubia are due to be unloaded at Seasca port.