The Coming Of Shadows (The Shadow Tide Book 1)

  Contents

  Copyright

  Map Of Berasaid

  Words of Power

  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

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chatper 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Coming Soon

  THE COMING OF SHADOWS

  STEVEN MOORER

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2013 - 2017 by Steven Moorer

  Published by Steven Moorer

  Originally Published as First Edition The Coming of Shadows, 2013

  Some story elements may be different from First Edition

  www.stevenmoorerbooks.wordpress.com

  Map Art Work by Steven Moorer

  All rights, including the right to reproduce this ebook, or portions thereof, in any form, are reserved by the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be resold or given to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  “Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power.”

  Abraham Lincoln

  PROLOGUE

  How much longer?” Prim asked eagerly as the sun began to fall through the trees of the Ghost Marsh. “He’s nothing more than worm food now.”

  “Why, afraid of the dark?” Commander Will Southerlin said, cracking a glimpse of a smile across his wind burned lips. “It's just a dead man,” he added.

  Prim did not respond. He was a young man, not past thirty, and cared nothing about any dead corpse. “He was nothing, a hermit, an old man which age has finally run down,” he said as he shuffled on the chair, trying to keep his gun belt from digging into his side.

  “And how do you know that? He had to have been of importance. If not, why are we here?” Southerlin quickly said as he knelt over the decomposing body. “What’s your hurry anyway?”

  “Corn Liquor, something other than stale bread and cheese, and yes a woman in my lap.” Prim said sarcastically.

  “Just keep it in your trousers a bit longer; we are almost done,” Southerlin sternly said spitting Rockford weed juice from his mouth.

  A fortnight before they had been sent by the Lieutenant at the request of the King's steward. In his five years with the Crimson Guard and two years as Southerlin’s second he had never been sent to investigate a death or to retrieve the personal effects and the body. Damn old age is no longer a suitable form of death, Prim thought. He was becoming more and more restless. They had rummaged through everything this man owned and had taken anything of value, or at least what looked valuable. Their orders were clear from the King's steward: “Bring back all items of value and find his journal,” the steward had said.

  He suddenly was jealous of the two other Crimson Guard soldiers standing guard outside; at least they could take a nap.

  “It’s here!” he heard Southerlin shout from the only other room of the small clay and wood hut.

  He emerged from the room carrying a black leather bound book covered in dust. To Prim’s eyes it looked like any other book you would find in the ancient section of Derancross’ library.

  Prim wasn't impressed at all. He was more agitated than relived that they found the book. “Half a day for a book, a couple of trinkets and clothes,” he said getting to his feet. “What a waste! Now can we wrap this body and leave?” he asked reaching for a bundle of lines and canvas.

  Within an hour they had wrapped the body and covered it with generous amounts of perfumes and oils. With the body secured along with his small bag of belongings to a pack horse, they left the hut along with the two other soldiers who had been standing guard outside.

  The trek through dense forest and marshes in the shadow of the Whitecrown Mountains would be daunting and slow. This land was widely untouched by human hands; it was a miracle this man lived here, secluded and alone.

  They would take a different route this time. Instead of going by road they were traveling south out of the swamp to the city of Garatin. From there they would catch a ship and take the Central River back to Derancross, making the return journey in half the time.

  “They say this land is haunted by the ghost of the Shadow Races,” one of the other soldiers quietly stated.

  The entire journey had yielded no conversation from the two. They had eaten together, conversing quietly. They were lowly men at arms probably serving for a crime instead of rotting in prison.

  “So he speaks,” Southerlin said as he watched the eerie terrain in front of him. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Fullbright, and this is Warfield, Commander Sir. He is a mute,” the young soldier said. “I met him months ago and swore to be his helper.”

  “Ha,” Prim yelled. “An incestual bastard and a mute, what joy.” He was amused. I fought against you bastards a year ago and watched my brothers die, and now one of you is my brother.

  The Fullbrights were a family who claimed to be noble on their own accord, but were not recognized by the crown. Over the years they had raised up against the King, wanting their accord of nobility accepted, and each time they had been defeated easily. They lived in the west of Agantia, in close small settlements, some only a few leagues to the north.

  Even though they claimed to be noble, they had no such blood or claim other than the population and control of land. They believed in pure full blood and did not believe in marriage or conception outside of the Fullbright family.

  “Ages ago, it was here that the Shadow Races engaged in a bloody battle,” Fullbright said. “Here they spilled their blood and their powers into the marsh-”

  “And now the dead rise and walk with snakes,” Prim said, cutting him off and once again not amused. He was becoming annoyed. He had heard the stories as everyone had, but the actual truths had been lost in history; his mother had called it “the last war of magic.”

  “I know that in your culture it is not common to believe in a story thousands of years old,” Fullbright said, “but hear this one. The man we carry is no mystery to me. When I was only a child, my child minder told me of a man who lived in the marsh. This man had lived there for many years, and seemingly had not aged. I believe this to be the man of
those stories.”

  A crash into a shallow puddle startled them.

  “A beaver,” Southerlin stated. “Enlighten us, you bastard son of your sister,” he insultingly commanded the Fullbright boy.

  “It is said that this man had no name but had seen the terrors of the Shadow War. He was once a man, mortal of flesh and blood, but in one fell swoop his fate was sealed and his life locked in an immortal dance that death could not touch. In history they were called the Guiden.”

  Prim was skeptical. He knew the story of the Guiden; they were seers not of the shadow races and they supposedly had magical powers. History had them recorded as a small renegade group that fought in the Shadow War, but the truth of their magic was myth.

  “The Guiden were all killed in the war, their beliefs and following lost, so how could one be here?” Prim asked looking back at Fullbright.

  The boy didn’t answer he just looked into the dark marsh in front of him.

  “Whoever he may be; our immortal friend has met his mortality,” Southerlin said as he broke a smile, then a laugh. It was a tall tale, one that belonged around the fire pit to frighten children into not venturing into the marsh. There was nothing there but rotting plants, bloodsucking insects and venomous snakes.

  “Quiet, stop the horses!” Southerlin whispered. He had pulled his steed to a stop and looked into the darkness; he had always been keen to lurking danger.

  Prim obeyed, softly and instinctively grabbing the basket hilt of his rapier.

  “I am Commander William Southerlin of the Crimson Guard, sworn protector of the realm, loyal to the House Tiernan and its King Liam, first of his name,” he said into the darkness. The night had changed. Their horses were becoming nervous, and a thick, pungent odor filled the air. The smell of sulfur and a thick, unyielding fog had covered the men.

  The King of Agantia and Lord of all Lords. The words ran through Prim’s head. They were words to answer Commander Southerlin’s challenge. He waited patiently for the response he hoped would come, but there was nothing but darkness and fog.

  “Show yourselves!” Southerlin’s command echoed through the marsh.

  “Take up arms; we are not alone,” Southerlin ordered.

  It was all too fast, like the wind taking parchment and carrying it to another land. An arrow, which seemed to come from nowhere, drove itself through Southerlin’s neck, killing him almost instantly.

  As his corpse fell from the horse, Prim’s horse bucked, tossing him into the pungent marsh. His eyes had gone blurry and his breath was short but his hearing was keen. The sound of Warfield’s pathetic moans and heavy breathing filled the night, he saw the mute’s bloody and severed head land just inches from his own, mud and slop splattering in his eyes.

  Everything around him was like a cyclone of wind, fast and unforgiving. From nowhere a thin black blade missed him by only a hair as he rolled and in one fluent motion came to his feet. He reached to his right side and grabbed the hilt of his flintlock pistol.

  I hope the powder is still dry, he thought and then...

  It burned more than anything, like a thousand hot embers going into his chest.

  As his eyes faded he watched Fulbright ride fast through the marsh, the pack horse in tow. “Ride fast, you bastard,” he said pathetically as he felt blood come up into the back of his mouth and he saw the eyes of their attackers. Everything that his mother and others had told him, the stories of the Shadow War, the magic, the Shadow races, was it all true? If it was, it was more than a story; it was a nightmare, one he was living now.

  His last sight was his attacker’s grey pale skin, twisted black hair and its voice, speaking bone chilling words in an unfamiliar tongue. The Shadow’s eyes glowed orange as the sun; it twisted the blade in his chest. Blackness.

  I

  She was just as beautiful as Dominic remembered. It seemed like just yesterday when he had looked back for the last time to see her shrinking in the distance, and now she was there, doing laundry in the cold mountain streams that flowed down through the sparse woods that surrounded Denoi.

  They were three days late. A massive storm had halted their journey for three nights until the worst had passed. The journey had been a long and difficult one. Over a month earlier, Dominic Carlye had received a letter speaking of the passing of his father, William the Fourth of the House Carlye. His lungs had been infected with a sickness during the cold spring mornings, and he never had the strength to recover.

  The thought of returning home was a daunting one. Seven years before, he had informed his father that he wished to give up his birthright as the Earl (and one-day Duke of Denoi) to join the King's personal and most loyal soldiers, the Crimson Guard.

  It was a decision that was hard for him to make, considering his birthright and what he would one day inherit. He had always wanted to be something more than just be another Duke, he wanted a life of adventure and meaning.

  His father had approved the decision. “To give up one’s right to serve the realm under the King's banner is nobler than sitting on a throne to rule,” his father had told him only a few days before his departure.

  However, many in the town, including his own brother, six years younger, believed that he betrayed his place in Denoi. This would be a troubling return. The last time he’d been here was when he left, seven years ago, looking at the same girl, now a woman.

  Her name was Mariella and she was the daughter of Jacob Southerlin, his father's and possibly now his brother’s Master of Arms and Military Commander. The Southerlin’s were not of noble birth but had always served House Carlye in official matters. Most of them held the highest positions of any commoners; they were his house's most loyal family.

  Jacob's brother, William, had served along with him in Crimson Guard. They had worked many of the same shifts around Derancross. Four moons before, he, along with a small contingent, had set off west on a mission for the King. Since they left, no word of their whereabouts had been heard. Rumors filled the ranks of the Crimson Guard that their journey should have only taken one moon. His Captain had asked him before his journey to inform his family of Commander Southerlin's disappearance and reassure them that they would be found.

  This journey is not the homecoming I wished for, he thought as he watched Mariella. She had not yet noticed him, along with his two soldier escorts. They were soldiers of the Crimson Army, the army of the King but not as prestigious as the Crimson Guard. Many miles earlier, when they crossed onto Carlye land, Dominic had ordered them to remove and store their lightweight thin breast plates and eight foot pikes. He had allowed them to retain their rapiers and leave their pistols holstered on the saddle. They had also changed into their black tabards trimmed in crimson with the royal seal, a silver crown, embroidered on the chest.

  He feared that riding into town in armor with carbine muskets would cause a panic, the lost son returning to take his birthright. Even though it was not the case, some would see it that way, and he feared that he would find himself locked away in the dungeons.

  He was still caught up in Mariella, watching her take the laundry one piece at a time and wash it with lye soap. It had been too many years since he last saw her, then a girl now a grown woman. Will she even remember me? He asked himself as he heard the distant sounds of hooves coming from the north.

  He watched as the four figures rode in fast. The first he could tell was their commander, the other three a flag-bearer and two men at arms, each carrying eight foot pikes with muskets strapped to their horses.

  He could see the black flag with the deep green spruce tree, the seal of House Carlye embroidered on it, flying above the four men’s heads. As they came closer, it was apparent they had come ready for a confrontation, all but one, in armor.

  “Sir, shall we...?” His first aid asked him.

  “No, raise the banner,” he commanded. The soldier did as he was asked and raised the deep crimson banner bearing the same silver crown as on their tunics high above his head.

 
; As the men approached and saw it, he could tell that something changed about them. It was subtle but worthy of noting as their posture changed to more relaxed.

  They were not men that Dominic recognized; he might not recognize anyone here anymore. They were all young, about his age of twenty-four, and well presented. Their uniforms were some of the finest Dominic has seen of any House military. Three of the men wore black cavalier shirts, black breeches, black folded leather boots, a silver short helm and a cuirass with the deep green spruce tree embossed on it.

  Their leader, a man in whom Dominic saw a faint hint of resemblance, wore more elaborate clothing – a white shirt with a black and green tabard and a cape with the same spruce tree on the chest. He wore no metal armor; his pants were as black as the other soldiers and his hat resembled Dominic's, but it was black with a large brim and a deep dyed green feather.

  He saw the man was lightly armed compared to others. He carried only a fine rapier and a pistol. “His Grace, Aiden the Second of the House Carlye, the Duke of Denoi requests the honor of his Majesty's Liam men and emissaries,” the lead man said as he approached Dominic.

  “The Lord of all Lords, King of Agantia,” Dominic replied as he bowed from his horse. “I am Dominic Carlye, sworn protector of this realm and all those who live in it, Lieutenant of the Crimson Guard,” he replied.

  A look of shock came across the young soldier’s face as he studied Dominic. Something in his eyes was strange as he looked at him. “Dom, by all the gods you have come back,” he said with a slight smile.

  Dominic was taken back. He had not gone by Dom since he had left, and only then had just a few people called him by that.

  “It's me, Allan.” They had been the best of friends, born within days of each other. Allan was the oldest of Sir Jacob's children, Mariella the youngest by three years.