Shadows Of Gold: Loth The Unworthy

By Charles Eugene Anderson

Mighty barbarian warrior Loth the Unworthy seeks redemption for past sins in the vile city of Mordale, a crossroads of thieves and sorcerers. But when a feud between warring magic wielders ensnares him, Loth must descend into shadowy dungeons and ancient ruins beneath the city on a dangerous quest.

Beset by demonic foes, lethal traps, and sinister betrayals, Loth forges uneasy alliances with grizzled mercenaries and stealthy assassins. But the lure of long-buried secrets and glittering treasure threatens to awaken pride and ambition better left forgotten.

To save Mordale and reclaim lost honor, Loth must withstand mortal and supernatural threats. His wits, sinews, and steel will be tested to their limits. Can the barbarian champion banish the evil that grips this accursed city, or will the shadows of his own dark past ultimately consume him?

Shadows of Gold captures the thrilling action, brooding tone, and mythic grandeur that have made Robert E. Howard's groundbreaking fantasy stories timeless classics. This exhilarating tale will immerse readers in a vivid world of larger-than-life heroes, devious sorcerers, ancient evils, and high adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mad Cow Press
• Release date: Oct 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223834212

Charles Eugene Anderson

Charles Eugene Anderson lives in Colorado. Chuck is a former teacher. He now spends his time writing, hanging out with his pup, Champ, and learning how to bake. More about Chuck at http://charleseugeneanderson.com

Book preview

Prologue

Beneath the cloak of a newborn evening, where stars themselves seemed to hold their breath, a vibrant throng gathered in the clearing, hearts ablaze with hunger for untold tales. The campfire stood defiant against the encroaching night, its leaping flames a bold beacon.

At the fire's edge loomed Talmak, stature carved from legend, weathered cloak whispering of far-flung realms. His ancient eyes held fervor of untamed lands. In gnarled grasp, a mug of ale sat like a loyal companion, foam akin to tempest seas, testifying to countless tales untold.

The crowd, fresh as grass-adorned dew, leaned forth - a field of souls ready to be sown with seeds of valor, treachery, and redemption's strife. Their gaze, fixed on Talmak, blazed with unspoken promise of journeying beyond mortal-trod lands into fierce battles of spirit.

With a gesture commanding the elements, Talmak drank deep of liquid fire, steeling himself. The onlookers stirred, eagerness crackling like electricity, a silent drumroll of myriad hearts.

By old gods and far realms, Talmak boomed, voice raw yet echoing ages, tonight a tale unsung you shall hear - of Loth, bound not by iron-forged chains, but by honor's shackles, a spirit cast to the winds!

His words seized their spirits as he wove Loth's fall from grace - damned by his own hand, not another's. He spoke of cities where darkness dwells in men's hearts, of forbidden sanctums where shadows whisper, of battles for redemption's embrace.

As mug emptied and the fire roared renewed, Loth the Unworthy became the bard of ages - his tale a legacy etched by flame and shadow into the hearts of those who would listen, dream, and remember.

But it was in the accursed city of Mordale where Loth's true test awaited, Talmak continued, his voice dropping lower. For beneath Mordale's grandeur festered dark forces that fed on the downtrodden, empowered by plundered mystical gold.

The crowd drew breath as one, enthralled by the depravity hinted at.

In glittering temples, vile rituals fueled by stolen coins and treasure echoed through lightless catacombs, the chants audible only to those forsaken souls chained in service, sentenced to endless midnight excavations in search of more gold to feed insatiable demons.

Talmak's eyes flashed in the firelight as he wove a gruesome tapestry of greed and occult bargains struck by Mordale's shadowed elite. The listeners felt a chill creep into their bones that had nothing to do with the night's encroaching air.

Loth's path promised horrors untold in Mordale's rotted veins underneath its gilded veneer. Foul magics awaited him, ready to ensnare his very soul. But honor's wounded cry can stir even the weariest heart. Loth would see righteousness blaze again in Mordale or be damned trying!

With those ominous words hanging in the air, Talmak took another long draught of ale, moistening his throat from conjuring such malevolence. But the crowd's wide eyes betrayed their eagerness to follow where the tale led into darkness. They knew redemption awaited on the other side, lit by Loth's valiant heart.

Chapter One

The city of Mordale rose from the bleak plains like a demon emerging from the smoke and fire of the underworld. Its twisted spires and jagged walls clawed at the shadowy sky. Mordale was a cesspool of villainy and sorcery, a crossroads for thieves, assassins, and practitioners of the dark arts. Narrow alleys wove through its bowels like a labyrinth, flanked by decrepit buildings with boarded-up windows. Beggars and lepers held out their rotted arms from muddy doorways, desperate for a few coins. The air was thick with the stench of decay, unwashed bodies, and the exotic aromas wafting from its seedy taverns. Mercenaries with cruel eyes lingered on street corners, hands drifting to the tips of their swords.

In Mordale, gold could buy a man's death as quickly as a flagon of ale. No righteous person dared set foot within its accursed walls. But evil and corruption ran freely through Mordale's twisted streets. Its shadowy temples hid unnamable rituals and beings not of this world. Dark magic seeped from its very stones. Mordale was a lawless, godless place, a monument to the depraved minds of men, steeped in ancient sins too hideous to speak aloud. This was a city of shadows, secrets, and infernal danger.

The Black Rat Tavern stood at the city's fringes, where even the most hardened men feared to tread. It was a decrepit old inn tucked away in a narrow alley at the end of a lightless cul-de-sac. The rotted wooden sign creaked in the foul wind, its faded image barely depicting the eponymous black rat. Dried blood stained the worn front steps. Inside, the air was choked with rancid smoke and the sour stench of unwashed bodies. Grim patrons hunched over their drinks, faces obscured by tattered cloaks. In the corner, a man with a missing eye quietly strummed a battered lute, singing a dirge-like tune.

The barkeep, a bald brute named Grol, obsessively polished a stained mug behind the bar. His meaty hands could just as easily crush a man's skull as clean a glass. A serving wench wound her way between tables, keeping her eyes downcast as drunken men groped at her skirts. Upstairs, muffled sounds drifted from behind closed doors as the inn's seedier patrons satisfied their baser needs. In The Black Rat, few questions were asked, and no laws were enforced. It was a place to drink, whore, or plot your following sinister deed cloaked in anonymity. For the right price, a man could buy almost anything within these walls, whether a temporary escape from the law or a permanent escape from this world. The Black Rat was just one of countless cesspools of corruption that thrived in the shadows of Mordale.

The creak of the door pierced the din of The Black Rat. All eyes turned to see a hulking figure duck beneath the low door frame and step into the murky inn. He was clad in fur and leather, with a savage longsword strapped across his back. Ropes of unkempt black hair framed his hardened face. This was Loth, a wanderer and warrior from the northlands. His eyes, one the color of ice and the other obsidian, scanned the room cautiously.

In one meaty fist, he clutched a small scroll bound in vellum. The parchment was marked with strange runes and sigils that seemed to shimmer in the firelight. Loth's intense gaze fell upon Grol behind the bar. Without a word, he strode towards the counter and slammed a few copper coins down. The barkeep silently slid a grimy mug of ale