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  Shadow Queen

  Shadows of Time Book Two

  By B.R. Nicholson

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2014 B.R. Nicholson

  Smashwords Edition

  Prologue

  I am slouched forward, staring at my trembling hands. The mass of sadness for the lost little girl and the tragic blue-eyed elf overwhelms me and flows freely from my eyes. “Why must you tell me this horrible story?”

  His face, full of fire and metal, leans in close to mine. I feel his warmth drying my tears. It melts into my skin like sunlight. “You must listen to it. And I must tell it. It is as hard for me as it is for you.”

  “But I don’t understand,” I say, my chest heaving underneath the weight of a stranger’s memories. “These poor people’s struggles have nothing to do with my own. How does this explain this prison? Or that atrocity outside? You have given me nothing but more questions. I feel as if they shall eat me alive.”

  He hangs his head, his face clenched and full of suffering. “Then I will tell you more. I will—damn, if only there was more time!” He jumps up, overturning his chair. He hides his face from my sight. Before I can speak, I see something strange, something remarkable. Red glistening feathers cascade down the stranger’s back. At first, I think they are part of a cloak, but I look closer. They are wings.

  “Please, don’t go. Tell me more,” I say, my voice pleading, “Tell me about you.”

  He turns, hesitant. I realize the fiery feathers extend up from his neck and onto his face. They smolder in the low lighting of the room.

  He reaches down and sits the chair upon its feet. He stares at it for only a moment before sliding onto its seat. He flexes his wings to mold themselves around the chair’s body. Beneath the metal and regret on his face I see something beautiful. Yet the longer I gaze, the more my heart swells with pity.

  “I have told you of the beginning. However, there is more I know of the middle. I know Luthen spent many years rekindling the link between heir and Anvalin. It resisted Anya’s touch at times. However, she proved the stronger and it was not long afterward that Luthen began to leave chaos in his trail. In those days, death reigned supreme.”

  Chapter One

  “Christophe! Up to the wall. I want a word with you.” Captain Dafoe’s voice sounded like the growl of an old hound. The creases around his eyes tensed as he grew impatient with the slow moving cadet.

  “Yes, Captain!” Christophe spilled up the steps. A gangly youth of fourteen, he was all angles and no common sense. Even though he was the youngest guard of the Ville de Nord, the last surviving human fortress on Lythia, his youth guaranteed the sharpest of sight out of all the grizzled men.

  As he waited for the boy to compose himself, Dafoe wiped a smear of soot from his face with a blackened cloth and tucked it back into his belt. Summer was dwindling and he greatly anticipated the returning cold of winter.

  “I need your eyes. Look into the distance for me,” Dafoe said, grabbing the youth by the boney shoulder and steering him toward the ledge. The Captain could hear the air escape in one sharp gasp from Christophe’s gaping mouth.

  Like a bruise on the horizon, a voluminous storm cloud seeped from between a ragged jaw of mountains. The sight reminded Dafoe of an etching he had seen of smoke seething from a dragon’s open mouth.

  Lightning dug into the ground, dragging the storm cloud along, like a giant spider set ablaze with a ghostly fire. The speed of the menacing cloud quickened as it spilled down into landscape, rolling closer to the small human city of Ville de Nord, and closer to the curious Captain Dafoe.

  “Well, what do you see, Christophe?”

  “I… I’m not sure. Is it really a storm? I’ve never seen, or even heard, of something so—”

  “—Vicious? Neither have I, not in all of my seasons in the Ville de Nord,” Dafoe said, shaking his head and rattling the chainmail hood that rested above his eyes.

  “You don’t think it’s a dragon, do you, Captain?” Christophe turned his head to face him, the young boy’s eyes large and glassy with fear.

  “No, it’s far too big to be that. And look at the shape! Besides, no dragon would have the need to conceal itself in a storm. It would wait until the cover of night.”

  “Then what is it if it isn’t a dragon?” Christophe turned back to the horizon, totally absorbed by the gathering chaos.

  Captain Dafoe said nothing and stared deep into the clouds. It was true his vision was not as good as the boys, but his instincts were more refined. And his instincts told him this was no ordinary storm. This was something to be feared.

  “Captain! I think I saw something—or maybe it was nothing at all—”

  “—Make up your mind, boy! What did you see?” Dafoe rapped Christophe on his helmeted head with his armored knuckles.

  “I don’t know, it’s foolish!” He thought he heard the boy choke on his words. “I must be going mad, that’s what it must be!”

  “Out with it boy, before I toss you over into the mote,” said Dafoe, his voice a rocky growl. The boy was wearing his patience thin.

  “I may have seen a city, up there in the clouds. There were towers and bridges, everything. It was just sitting there as if the clouds were only fog.”

  “You have gone mad,” said Dafoe. He couldn’t help but laugh at the skittish young boy. He wondered if he had ever been so foolish at that age. “Dismissed!”

  “I’m sorry, Captain, I’ll return to my post then…” /Christophe’s face was flushed and sweaty as he stumbled into a quick bow and scrambled down the stairs.

  Captain Dafoe turned back to the sky. The storm had already drawn itself halfway into the valley. It would be on the city within the hour. He would soon send for the order to lock away the women and children inside the castle keep.

  Let them have one final moment’s peace.

  ***

  The group of boys stood strong against the salty wind, their bronze backs slick with sweat. The sun beat down unmercifully upon their heads as the waves beat themselves into froth at their feet. Though they had been out in the heat for hours, a single hint of fatigue or thirst would be shameful in the eyes of their master, Warrior Vintas.

  Astrid crouched in the shadow of the cliffs, picking the day’s lesson apart in her mind. Today had been one of the final lessons for a few. They would be put up to challenge for the mantle of warrior within a matter of days. Astrid burned for such a chance.

  She waited for Ethen with fists clenched. Though he was years away from his rite of passage, he was invaluable as a sparring partner. Long after the class had left and when the sun sank into the frothing sea, they would fight and teach each other what the other could not grasp.

  Astrid and her saida-feru—sand brother—had been inseparable since coming together under Healer Ilsie’s roof. Though both their families had been taken by the sands of the Great Desert, the sands had also bound them together in a saida-felidia—sand family.

  Astrid huffed as she watched Warrior Vintas praise the class’s prowess. She watched as he nodded his head, his long red beard billowing in the wind. Though she burned with jealously, her heart sang with glee. She had finally devised a way to prove herself worthy of the mantle of Warrior.

  Now if only I can convince Ethen…

  She saw Warrior Vintas dismiss the class with a wave of his massive hand. The young warriors scattered and broke off into smaller groups. Some headed back to the village while others headed to the desert to hunt for their suppers.

  Ethen meandered around the rocky cliffs, trying not to attract attention from his peers. Astrid crouched low behind a boulder as she waited for him to get close. She could see him narrow his sea-green eyes, trying to adjust his vision to the shadows.

&
nbsp; Astrid sprang from her hiding place in one swift attack, planting Ethen’s face in the gritty sand. She snickered as she pulled him to his feet.

  “You should really be more careful sneaking around in the shadows,” she said, raking the dust from his leather vest.

  He batted her hands away, a sour grimace tugging at his mouth. “And you really shouldn’t be sneaking up on defenseless people.”

  “Ah,” said Astrid as she folded her arms at her chest, “you’re really no fun, are you? Some Warrior you’re turning out to be.”

  “First of all, I did not ask to be a Warrior,” Ethen said, kicking Astrid’s feet out from underneath of her. “And secondly, you’re just as badly suited as a Healer.”

  Astrid rolled her eyes as she flipped herself onto her feet. “Did you really have to bring that up? It’s not my fault everyone’s so damned determined to make my life miserable.”

  “Ha! Miserable?” Ethen shot a puff of sand from his nose. “All you have to do is mix up a bunch of herbs, burn some sage, and call it a day. You’re not expected to actually kill anything or be expected to sail out to sea, of all things…”

  Astrid nodded, knowing how much Ethen dreaded his approaching rite of passage for the mantle of Warrior. Each candidate would be assigned a monstrous desert beast and are then expected to deliver the dead creature back to the Grand Sage herself. The Great Desert had no short supply of savage creatures.

  “You’ll be fine,” she said, twisting his arm around his back, placing him in a firm headlock. “You’re really not as bad as you think.”

  “I’m not the one losing to a girl,” he said, strangled on his words.

  Astrid laughed and slammed him onto his back in a single swing of her arm. “Enough whining! I have something important to tell you.”

  Ethen signed as he stumbled to his feet. “Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this?” He winced as he rubbed the new bruises on his backside.

  Astrid glared at him before continuing. “I finally have a plan to get the Council’s attention.”

  “Oh, I’m definitely not liking this,” he said, a scowl forming on his tanned face. “The Grand Sage will exile you this time for sure.”

  Astrid swung her fist at him, narrowly missing. “This time will be different. I’ll make her see that I’m worthy of being a Warrior.”

  Ethen shook his head as he brushed the red sand from his blond, unruly hair. “Well, it sounds idiotic so far. But I have a feeling that I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  “Of course not,” she said, flinging her thick, red-dyed braids out of her face. “Just wait until you hear the plan.”

  ***

  Lightening rattled the city walls, shaking chips of stone and abandoned bird nests from the parapets. Captain Dafoe had rallied the soldiers to their places on the wall, barking orders to be ready to fire their cannons and arrows on his word. He gripped his sword as he watched the sky. Sweat beaded on his brow. He could hear the scampering footsteps of Christophe as he ran back and forth from the armory, gathering bundles of steel arrows in his arms and distributing it to the eager soldiers.

  The monstrous city loomed over the Ville de Nord, low enough to scrape the tiles from the tallest towers. On the underbelly of the giant rock that held the city was an inverted atrium of glowing blue glass. The outside of the atrium shimmered with hissing sparks.

  “Set your sights to that, soldiers!” Captain Dafoe screamed over the crashes of thunder, pointing his long sword toward the atrium.

  Suddenly the glass sides slid open, allowing thick, oily smoke to pour out and sink down into the city.

  “Fire!” Dafoe ducked down into an archway, not knowing what to expect from the demonic city. The whizzes of arrows and rumbles of cannons clouded the air. Bright plumes of orange erupted around the atrium. The younger soldiers cheered, some just from excitement of seeing their first real battle, while the grizzled ones waited anxiously for the smoke to clear.

  The haze cleared quickly from the storm’s fierce wind. The atrium remained untouched, black smoke still drifting from its core.

  Captain Dafoe’s mouth was agape. He could see the atrium from where he crouched, its wicked black metal gleaming with a scratch. Dafoe quickly pulled himself to his feet. His chest burned with fear. “To the gatehouse!” He growled the order again, brandishing his sword above his head, swinging it like a banner. The soldiers dropped their weapons and clamored over one another, spilling through the gatehouse’s narrow entry. The black cloud was creeping along just above their heads and was almost within reach.

  Dafoe flung himself from the stairway and tumbled onto the ground. He shook the dizziness from his head with one great shake and stumbled over to the gatehouse doorway. Soldiers scrambled over each other, punching and kicking their way to the door. At least twenty remained fighting for entry out in the courtyard.

  The captain rammed his hulking armored body into the mass of soldiers, shoving them through the entrance. A few men popped through for each shove he gave. Most of the soldiers were panicked and resisted. Black smoke coiled around their faces. One soldier froze, a man named Jacque, letting the smoke snake its way down his throat. His face blanched and his eyes bulged. Black oil bubbled from his mouth as he fell over in a heap of unmoving flesh.

  Christophe pressed up against the wall, his mouth hung open in an empty scream. Another man vomited while another started to climb over the flailing group of soldiers stuck in the doorway.

  Captain Dafoe kept pushing, harder this time, jabbing with the heavy metal hilt of his sword. Armor scrapped against the creaking door frame as soldier after soldier was forced through.

  Soon, those that remained were the few that sat frozen in fear. Dafoe grabbed each by the scruff of the neck and tossed them inside the shadowy gatehouse. His hand rested on Christophe but the lad’s grip on the castle stone was unmovable. Dafoe hadn’t realized how close the smoke had come to Christophe’s face. Their gaze met for a brief moment. The young boy’s eyes were glassy and wide with fear. Black oil trickled down his chin as his body convulsed, twisting out of the captain’s grip.

  Captain Dafoe barreled into the gatehouse, slamming the door tight behind him.

  Chapter Two

  Astrid flexed her hands in her worn leather gloves, testing their familiar grip. Ethen hovered over her shoulder, impatient as ever.

  “We need to get going. We’re missing the trials!” He tugged at her robe, pleading like a beggar in the streets. His tattered hood was drawn so low over his face she could barely see his nose.

  “I swear,” she said, batting him aside, “you’re worse than a bride on her wedding night.”

  His expression soured as she pushed him aside.

  The wide alleyway was filled to the brim with the nastiest and meanest of folk, coming from all corners of the coast to fight. The faces of hunched over goblins, hardy mountain dwarves and a few of their sea dwarve cousins, a troll or two, and a hoard of human peasants that had come to watch the brawling all flitted past Astrid as she picked her way to the Pit.

  The Pit was an arena dug into the earth at the stubby end of the alley. It had a depth of twenty paces, enough to give you a hell of a time climbing out once the rope ladder was pulled back up. The ground was a square of fifty by fifty paces, plenty of room for a good fight but not ample space to escape without a scar worth bragging about, that is, if you escaped at all.

  Opponents who made it past the trials fought to the death in the Pit, unless the crowd insisted that the two dueling warriors were at a tie. Due to the bloodlust of the human peasants, this almost never happened.

  The trials were a way to make sure only experienced warriors faced such battle. The two individuals weren’t required to fight to the death, but were highly encouraged to beat the living hell out of each other as much as possible. The occasional death did occur, but the entertainment starved peasants saw this as a necessary evil.

  In charge of all this mayhem was Fryx, a flamboyant se
a dwarve who had made his fortune from the thrill of spilt blood. He sat on a throne of deep purple silk, high on a creaking wood podium, twirling a thin strand of blond hair in his chubby fingers. Fryx always had the final word in each battle.

  Astrid approached the gate. A blunt nosed High Goblin stood scrutinizing each entry coming before him with large, black eyes, and a scroll of thick parchment rolled out at his fingertips. She remembered someone calling his name earlier. Lyell, was it? His pale blue skin shone with sweat from the suffocating desert heat and his inky black hair was pulled in tight braids against his scalp.

  A fiery haired dwarve youth stood in line ahead of Astrid and Ethen, trying his best to keep his chest puffed out without fainting. He looked no older than Ethen, his wispy beard barely escaping his chin.

  The dwarve stepped up to the Lyell’s desk, exhibiting as much swagger and spunk as possible without toppling over from the weight of his axe. The High Goblin peered over his sharply turned up nose, squinting with disapproval.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Go back to your mother’s teat,” he said, exciting bellows of laughter from the burly giants crowded around him. The dwarve was splattered with bits of rotten vegetables from the tiers of peasants high up above. “NEXT!”

  Astrid readjusted her leather sand mask to prevent Lyell from getting a good look at her face. Beauty of any kind, even in the slightest of forms, was often seen as a sign of weakness. Being both an Elf and a woman were already two strikes against her.

  The High Goblin looked her up and down. Astrid held her breath. Breasts were a hard thing to hide.

  Ethen hovered behind her like a gnat. She was beginning to wish she had come alone, but she knew he’d have none of it.

  “So, let me guess,” Lyell’s voice was thin and raspy, like sharpening a dull knife on a rough rock. “You’ve come here to prove yourself, have you?” Sharp yellow teeth peeked out behind his purple lips, making his leering grin even more menacing.