The Land of Shadows

By Seth Lowen

Strange creatures stalk the woods at night, and rumors spread of an ancient evil long thought to be dead.

Valdin has returned.

The darkness is waking...

In the kingdom of Anoria, peace has reigned for many years, but something is stirring within the Land of Shadows. Having grown up in the small town of B

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hidden Shelf Publishing House
• Release date: Oct 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781955893312

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The Land of Shadows

Hidden Shelf Publishing House

P.O. Box 4168, McCall, ID 83638 www.hiddenshelfpublishinghouse.com

Copyright @ 2023, Seth Lowen

Hidden Shelf Publishing House

All rights reserved

Artist: Rachel Wickstrom, Sword Artwork: Brian Goff, vecteezy

Editor: Robert D. Gaines

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

Names: Lowen, Seth, author.

Title: The land of shadows / Seth Lowen.

Description: McCall, ID: Hidden Shelf Publishing House, 2023.

| ISBN: 978-1-955893-30-5 (paperback) | 978-1-955893-31-2 (epub) | 978-1-955893-32-9 (Kindle)

Subjects: LCSH: Fantasy fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Epic | FICTION / Fantasy / Action & Adventure | FICTION / Fantasy / Historical | FICTION / Fantasy / Dark Fantasy

Classification: LCC PS3612 .O69 L36 2023 | DDC 813.6--dc23

Table of Contents

Map of Anoria

Prologue

Chapter 1

­­Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Epilogue

Characters and Pronunciation Guide

About the Author

To my beautiful bride.

If not for this story, we might never have

been. I thank God every day for the time we’ve spent together.

Map of Anoria

Map of Anoria

Prologue

An inexorable dread permeated the darkness, clouding the senses, fear assailing the soul. Far in the distance, the demonic howl of a wolf shattered the silence of the perilous night. A full moon had ascended but only a sliver of light pierced through the vapors and gloom. It was barely enough to illuminate Felzar’s path as he fled through the Forest of Nightfall.

Graulug was chasing him.

Thick undergrowth snagged at Felzar’s jerkin and threatened to prevent his escape, but his momentum broke the strangling twigs and snapped the rotted vines as he plummeted through the undergrowth.

He could hear the beast growling behind him; a deep and menacing snarl emanating from its fiendish maw. No prey had ever escaped Graulug, the watchdog for the Prince of Darkness. The noise struck terror into Felzar’s heart, almost stopping it mid-beat; but he shrugged off the webs of horror and plunged headfirst into the dark recesses of the infernal forest. The Oracle could not allow fear to rule his actions.

The trees, as if some unseen force had raised their knotted roots, thwarted Felzar’s progress. But his mind was sharp, and his body lithe. He dodged the trees and leaped over their grasping boughs. Every movement caused the shaft of his scythe, strapped to his back, to crack against his hardened, leather armor. Felzar glanced down at the fabled sword—Etherion—sheathed on his left hip. The faint moonlight glinted off the silver cross guard, and thick leather straps wound their way along the grip. A single blue gemstone rested on the pommel, metal talons curving around the gem’s edges like the gnarled claws of a dragon reaching for its prey. The gem shone through the unusual darkness with a light of its own.

So much hope rests with this blade, he thought, I cannot fail now.

For a moment, Felzar’s mind wandered back to the heist. It hadn’t been easy infiltrating Valdin’s domain; the Prince of Darkness was ever watchful, and his spies were everywhere. For three days Felzar remained hidden in the forest surrounding Tal-uthur, the infernal seat of the prince’s domain. He kept a wary eye on everything that transpired around its towering walls and when the opportunity finally struck, he ventured within. On the second day of his vigil, Felzar stumbled upon a decrepit and long-abandoned tunnel leading directly into the heart of the fortress.

Using Eylas, the power passed to humans at the dawn of creation, Felzar was able to travel undetected throughout the castle in search of the hidden blade. He was nearly discovered several times, but his scythe was swifter than their cries for help; the fiendish Wrog, wolf-like servants of Valdin, would receive no pity from him.

As he traversed the subterranean passages, a presence continued to guide his path. He could feel Etherion calling out to him, almost as if it desired to be rescued. Though he loathed to sneak around like a common beggar—with the shadows as his ally on this night—he found the blade and wrested it from its prison. As he fled into the night, a call went up and he knew his presence had been discovered.

With his thoughts on the sword, he didn’t notice the hidden root before him, catching his foot, and throwing him into the rotting soil. Tossing moss and earth, Felzar scurried to his feet, ignoring the pain pulsing throughout his body. With a final push, he burst through a wall of brush and into an open glade within the wood. He was constrained no longer, and with renewed vigor he burst ahead at full speed, trying with all his might to reach the other side of the clearing. For a moment it seemed as if Felzar would outrun his pursuer and find asylum at the other edge of the glade. But freedom was snatched from his grasp as a ghastly and perilous flame arose, surrounding the glade in its terrifying embrace.

Felzar recognized the work of Valdin as he stumbled to a halt before the ghostly flame. Turning around, he sought another way of escape, but the dreadful fire had circled him, its dancing tongues lighting the night and casting eerie shadows about the clearing.

"Mor Eradorn," Felzar shouted as he stretched out his hand. His resounding voice caused the air around him to vibrate, and a surge of power coursed through his veins. An orb of ice formed at the tips of his fingers and raced towards the wall of flame. Fire and ice collided in a horrifying embrace, each fighting for dominance. Felzar’s frozen sphere seemed to prevail at first, but the flames refused to extinguish, finally engulfing and crushing the orb.

What foul magic is this? Felzar spat out.

One that will be your undoing, a menacing voice said from behind him.

Felzar turned to behold a massive beast stepping through the flames. With a ghastly grin on its elongated face, the creature was wolf-like in appearance, but much larger and ferocious. It walked upright on its hind legs and stood nearly ten feet tall. Far more disturbing than the beast’s stature, however, were its dark, soulless eyes. Graulug strode towards Felzar with a sneer of hatred upon its visage.

My master does not take kindly to thieves, little one, Graulug growled.

Your master has no claim over this blade, Felzar said defiantly. He lost the right to wield it long ago. It is now time for Etherion to choose a new bearer. Do not stop me, or I will cut you down.

The beast let out a deep and guttural laugh. Your threats hold no significance in the Prince of Shadow’s domain. Here you are worthless filth, and you will die as such. Soon the blade will be back at my master’s side.

Another dreadful and throaty laugh ensued from the beast as he reached behind his back and removed a sword taller than Felzar with a blade as black as its wielder’s eyes.

So be it, Graulug. If death is your wish, then venture forward. My blade has never tasted defeat.

Felzar removed Brailar, a brilliant white scythe that glimmered in the firelight. He whispered a few imperceptible words, and a shimmering aura surrounded his body, a shield to repel his foe’s blade. 

As Graulug lowered himself to a crouching position, Felzar charged with fierce determination. Clad in lightweight armor, he was fast, but Graulug was more so. Close enough to smell the beast’s breath, Felzar swung his scythe only to slice through murky blackness.

Show yourself, Felzar shouted. Or do you prefer to hide in the shadows like the coward you are?

With a flash of tangible darkness that curled around the beast like a heavy fog, Graulug appeared from behind. Felzar turned, but the beast was already upon him. Bringing up his scythe, Felzar redirected a brutal blow, swiftly leaping backwards.

"Elarion," he shouted, causing a beam of light to erupt from his fingertips. The light blinded the brute for a moment and allowed Felzar to retreat a safe distance.

You are a tricky one, Felzar spat. The secrets of Shadow Passage were lost long ago. How you ever learned them is beyond me.

My master has taught me many secrets about Eylas, the beast laughed as ominous clouds began to churn in the sky. You had my master worried for a moment that you might escape with Etherion, but you underestimate his power … no one can stop him.

Quiet, beast; your time is now.

Brandishing his scythe, Felzar let out a battle roar and raced forward to meet Graulug head-on, charging through the waves of rain now pummeling down upon them. As their weapons met, a bolt of lightning shot out from the churning clouds and struck the ground between the two opponents, throwing both combatants into the air. Felzar was nimble, and he landed on his feet. Graulug however, careened through the air and slammed into the ground with a tremendous crash.

Felzar lunged, but the beast stumbled backward and brought his blade up to stop the oncoming barrage. The clang of metal rang out as the creature blocked the blow. Felzar attacked again, his scythe far quicker than Graulug’s blade, and struck the creature in its stomach. But his coat was far too thick to be pierced by a single blow, and with a roar of pain, the beast charged with fangs bared. Felzar leaped to the side, but the creature’s outstretched claw raked across his ribs.

The Aura protected Felzar from the worst of the blow, but the beast’s claws still pierced the Oracle. Felzar staggered, severe pain erupting from within as blood seeped from the wound. He tried to pull back, but Graulug was upon him again. As the creature howled, another bolt of lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating the burn of its soulless eyes.

Graulug raised his blade.

"Dirion," Felzar shouted, causing a torrent of wind to lift the beast off his clawed feet and throw him to the edge of the glen. Rising from the ground, Graulug reached for his sword.

"Frum al Thoral," the beast growled as he plunged his blade into the fire that still encircled the glen. The unnatural flame climbed his blade as if it hungered to consume all within its grasp. Graulug withdrew his weapon from the flames.

"Erad ein Thored," Felzar whispered, and a stream of ice shot out of his hand to cover the blade. Swinging his weapon in a semicircle arc, Felzar blocked the beast’s first strike and brought his scythe down upon his foe.

Graulug ignored the scythe and swung his great blade at Felzar’s head, but it passed through nothing. Ducking behind the beast, Felzar maddeningly swung his scythe to bring down his colossal opponent, the ice from his blade coating the beast’s hide. Graulug roared and brought his sword around to crush Felzar, but Felzar was again too quick. The ice was beginning to cover Graulug, causing his movements to become strained.

Felzar dove around the monster as its enormous blade sliced the air above his head. With a mighty thrust, Felzar embedded his scythe into the small of the creature’s back where it dug deep into his hide. Graulug howled in pain, but fiercely swung his knotted hand into Felzar’s blood-drenched side, knocking him to the ground.

"Ril Morad al Frum," the beast bellowed as it tore the scythe from its hide, a stream of molten fire shooting out from its palm.

"Eladiath Skuld," Felzar yelled. A dazzling shield of light, bright as the sun, repelled the fire. Yet the flames still pounded upon the barrier, a sound mimicked by the hammering of Felzar’s own heart. He poured all his will and strength into the shield, but it was not strong enough. Slowly, the light began to crack, and the fingers of flame seeped through, clawing at the air.

The shield burst into hundreds of shards, the molten fire causing Felzar’s protective aura to fade. The liquid flame surged onto his chest, knocking him to the ground. Felzar desperately tried to crawl away, but the fire began to solidify as it covered his body … no escape from the intense heat and pain. Felzar’s vision blurred, his senses dulled, and his body collapsed.

Goodnight, little one, the beast mockingly laughed.

As the fire entombed his head, a solitary thought flashed in his mind.

All is lost.

Chapter 1

Letter From A Friend

Maran breathed deeply of the crisp morning air; his hands gripped tightly around the handle of his training sword. A young man of seventeen summers, he had curly blonde hair, dark blue eyes, a small nose, and high cheekbones. He was of average height, though far slimmer. But as he reached the cusp of manhood, muscle was beginning to develop on his wiry frame. His abnormally hairless chin, which was often the object of many jests and jibes from his friends, was sharp and prominent.

Remember, the old man barked from behind Maran, keep your knees and elbows bent, and your back straight.

Yes, Kelbourne, Maran replied.

The old man’s brow was furrowed as he gazed intently to find any flaws with his student’s fighting stance. Even though Kelbourne was ancient and mysterious, Maran obeyed his every instruction, though not without resistance on occasion. Obedience never came easy for Maran, and his temper often flared whenever he was ordered around, but Kelbourne had, for the most part, put to rest this flaw. A walking stick to the hindquarters can be a great motivator.

Kelbourne was the oldest man in Brandir, carrying almost a century’s worth of wisdom and knowledge. He was short, his years weighing heavily upon him, and he required a staff to stand properly. His deeply wrinkled face was hidden by bushy eyebrows, a mustache, and beard. His bright white eyes blended perfectly with the rest of his snowy facial hair.

Once a great hero, Kelbourne helped fight off numerous foul beasts that stalked the lands of Anoria. As one of the most influential people in Brandir, he would occasionally choose a youth to train. He only accepted a single pupil at a time, preferring quality over quantity. Those who underwent his tutelage often made great names for themselves.

Kelbourne had begun training Maran in the art of sword fighting when the boy was only thirteen. Maran could still remember the day he was chosen. He was accompanying his father on a trip to Brandir. Elihakel, a skilled carpenter who occasionally carved toys or baubles, often sold his wares in the marketplace. The old man had visited Elihakel’s stall to buy a new chair, and noticed the young boy sitting in the corner whittling away at a small stick. Maran looked up to see Kelbourne staring at him. He remembered how the ancient man’s brilliant white eyes focused deep into Maran’s as if searching for something. It was unnerving.

After a few moments, although it seemed much longer, a smile drew across Kelbourne’s face. With the help of his staff, he stood up as straight as his arched back would allow and approached Maran’s father. Although Elihakel was at first hesitant to allow his eldest son to train under Kelbourne, the old man persisted.

Maran’s training began the next day and soon Elihakel used his woodworking skill to fashion a practice sword for his son. Every morning, Maran would meet Kelbourne for intense sessions of combat training. To Maran, that day at the market four years ago was the day his life began.

Maran had always dreamed of becoming a great knight in service of the King; the stories his father told about heroes who won glory and honor in pursuit of defending Anoria instilled in him a longing for adventure. Every chance he got, he would sneak away from his mother and the never ending river of chores, climb the tallest oak tree he could find, and gaze out over the land … lost in fantasy.

He would imagine himself amid a great battle, or searching for a lost artifact, or on occasion rescuing a beautiful maiden. Kelbourne offered a chance to make Maran’s dreams a reality.

Keep your focus, Maran, Kelbourne shouted as he hobbled towards his student. Your sword point keeps falling. If that was to happen in combat your opponent would have their blade at your throat before you could blink.

Maran nodded and adjusted his sword.

Good, now spread your feet a little wider; your stance is still too narrow.

Maran obeyed, though Kelbourne’s constant correction could be irritating. He shouldn’t be expected to be perfect all the time.

Keep your back straight and your eyes level; never take your eyes off your opponent. Maran strained to arch his back. Good, now proceed to the seventh form.

Maran had practiced this transition so often that it came naturally. He lowered the handle of his sword to his right side, brought his left foot forward, and crouched down so that his left elbow was lightly resting upon his thigh.

Perfect! Now show me the fourth attack sequence, and don’t forget to flick your wrist during the downswing.

With three sharp and rapid breaths, Maran lunged forward, his sword raised high above his head to deflect an imaginary blow. Rapidly, and with as much force as he could muster, Maran brought his sword down upon his opponent and followed it up with a slash from the right. He crouched as he spun away, kicking his left leg back to sweep his enemy’s feet out from beneath him before landing the killing blow.

Very good, though you still need more power with your last strike. Don’t be afraid to use the momentum from the spin in your swing.

Yes, Kelbourne, Maran said, breathing heavily.

You can relax, boy. That is all for today.

Why have we finished so soon?

Sit down with me, Kelbourne said after a brief pause. I wish to talk with you.

Is something wrong?

Quite the opposite. You are progressing far faster than I can teach you. If I were younger, I would spar with you, as many things can only be learned in the heat of battle. But those days are far behind me. I’m afraid at this point in your training there is little I can do to help you grow as a swordsman. If I continue to keep you here, I will only be holding you back. One of my dear friends once said, ‘If you only see from one point of view, what is the reason for sight at all?’ Do you understand what this means?

I’m not sure, Kelbourne.

If you only learn from me, your field of knowledge will be limited. The only way you can continue your training properly is under a different master.

But I like learning from you. You’ve taught me so much.

Boy, even though I can still attempt to teach you more, it doesn’t mean I should.

Who will train me then? There are none in Brandir with your knowledge of the blade or your experience in battle.

Perhaps not, but that is why I requested your admittance into Shadowbane Academy. I sent a letter to the head of the academy two weeks ago. His name is Roland, and he is a good friend of mine. I expect his reply before the month’s end. Knowing my influence with the academy, and the numerous students of mine who have been accepted in the past, I fully expect you to attend Shadowbane next fall.

Maran couldn’t believe his ears. Ever since Kelbourne had first mentioned the academy, he had longed to join.

Shadowbane was the most prestigious warfare academy in all Anoria. Kelbourne himself had trained there many years ago. Although Maran had begged to learn more about the academy, Kelbourne—who could be as stoic as a rock—would only say Shadowbane’s ways were best kept a secret from those not attending. The only thing Maran knew of the academy was that the mysterious art of Eylas was taught there, a power the great heroes of Anoria drew upon to achieve miraculous feats.

Kelbourne, whose sight was robbed at birth, learned to use Eylas to perceive the world around him. Maran yearned to study this mystical art.

You must be patient, Kelbourne would say. You must be ready.

Maran hated to hear this response but nodded with understanding.

I … I can’t believe this, Maran stammered. I don’t know how to thank you.

There’s no need to thank me. Someone of your talent shouldn’t be hidden away in Brandir. You are destined for greatness. Even someone with my damaged eyes can see that.

I find that hard to believe. The only thing I’ve ever fought are a few bushes and trees, and I think I walked away with more scrapes and bruises than they ever did. Forget killing Wrog and Wild Men, I’m not even good at killing deer.

Sometimes it’s not about being a champion. Greatness isn’t about war and slaughter, but about what you do with what you are given. I saw something extraordinary in you that day at the marketplace. I know you think my words to simply be the ravings of a man who had long ago passed his prime … many in the village do. Kelbourne began to trail off, and Maran could see a faraway look in his eyes. Anyway, I believe that you’ve had enough practice for today. Go home to your family; I’m sure your father will need your help. If not, you could always go over the sequence we just covered with Jerathim. I’m sure the both of you could use the practice.

Maran’s heart skipped a beat, and his breath froze in his lungs. For a few years now, he had been teaching his younger brother without Kelbourne’s knowledge, or so he thought. Maran didn’t know if Kelbourne would approve of this, and he hadn’t been eager to find out; he had no desire to feel the end of that staff once again.

Kelbourne’s face cracked into a smile and a deep laugh rang out. There is no harm done.

You mean I’m not in trouble?

Why would you be? I believe if someone is eager to train then they should be free to do so. I just wish you had told me when this first started, maybe Jerathim could have trained with you. No matter though. Bring him with you tomorrow and I can correct all the mistakes you have most definitely taught him.

Maran exhaled a deep sigh of relief. I was afraid you would punish me if you found out.

There are many reasons for punishment; teaching another is not one. Besides, I need someone to replace you after you leave for Shadowbane.

You mean Jerathim will train under you as well?

If he is as skilled as you. Who knows, one day he may join you at Shadowbane.

I’m not training at Shadowbane yet. I might not at all.

True, but I believe that will change very soon. Anyway, off with you.

Thank you again, Kelbourne. You have shown more kindness to me than I ever could have wished for. Maran retrieved his satchel from a nearby fallen tree. And thank you for showing me that path in the woods. I’m planning on taking Jerathim there today to train.

Farewell for now, Maran, and be careful; travelers bring strange tidings to my ears these days.

As he walked away, Maran waved to Kelbourne. It’s nearly midmorning, Maran thought to himself. Mother will be at the marketplace by now. Perhaps she will have some sweet rolls.

With his stomach now rumbling, Maran rushed towards Brandir.

Chapter 2

Brandir

It was a sunny spring morning in Ferendell forest. The brilliant azure sky could be seen through the oak branches that stirred in the easterly blowing wind; the welcoming smell of moss and earth drifting faintly upon the air. Though it had only been a few weeks since the snowfall had receded, already the forest and its inhabitants were abounding with life, birdsong igniting the tranquil morning with a myriad of sounds.

Maran couldn’t help but admire the beauty of the woods. But the pangs of hunger in his stomach grew too great to ignore. After nearly a mile of walking east through Ferendell, he left the forest and crested the hill to the west of his hometown, where the din of the townsfolk below rose to his ears.

Brandir was the furthest west settlement in the province of Pelthor, near the Land of Shadows. Long ago, beasts would cross over the border to ravage the forest and terrorize the townspeople, but that was now lost in time; the people here lived in peace. Maran breathed a sigh of happiness. Far from the worries and politics of the capital, Brandir was calm. And while Maran enjoyed the serenity, he was far from content. He longed for heroic adventure, death-defying battles, and, above all, glory. Brandir was not the place for any of that.

It was a small town of only a few thousand residents, many of those living on the outskirts. Most of its inhabitants had never even lifted a weapon. The only protection that Brandir had from attackers was the town militia, a small group of three hundred volunteers; Maran could defeat the best of them with ease. The militia, however, was more of a formality than anything. The beasts that once roamed Ferendell Forest had been all but eradicated; the worst thing the inhabitants had to worry about was the occasional pickpocket.

On the eastern edge of Brandir lay the market. It was quaint compared to others in Anoria, so Maran had been told, but it was the main source of income for many of the citizens. In the center of the town stood the city hall, the largest building at three stories tall, not including the bell tower, and nearly as wide as the River Brand, which ran swiftly along the eastern edge of town on its way north to the sea.

The marketplace was bustling. Many of the nomadic tribesman from the southern land of Kra-Lorin rode the river north to trade their wares; some even ventured as far as Orming in the province of Borvon before traveling along the King’s Highway back to their native lands. Occasionally, merchants from the other provinces in Anoria would visit Brandir, away from the competition of the larger markets.