Where Shadows Lie

By Michael Kuik

Many are the shadows that tug at men's hearts.

In a world overrun by the dark tides of Orcs and other foul creatures, the heroes of Achaiah's Fist have succeeded in carving out a city of Men. Now, the city of New Elswick held securely, they begin to look outward in the hopes of finding other survivors. On one such mission, the young half-Elf Bearclaw finds himself in the city of A'tross. A strange place, ruled by a Council of Seven who are selected through a system of challenges and duels, A'tross has withstood the tests of time and Orcish hordes. In recent years, however, a shadow has fallen across the city. There are new faces on the Council, men of questionable intent, and who have risen to power by dark means. Terrible things are happening and the streets of the city are no longer safe. Bearclaw and his companions must confront their own inner demons and shortcomings if they are to help this city from falling completely into darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Kuik
• Release date: Jan 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301544554

Michael Kuik

Michael Kuik lives in Michigan with his wife and son. Writing has been a hobby for many years, but with the help of Smashwords and the emerging markets of online publishing, Michael hopes to someday make a career of writing. Already, there are two more novels in this series in the works, with many more ideas for other books. Feel free to email directly with thoughts, criticisms or questions at [e-mail]

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Where Shadows Lie

A novel of Achaiah's Fist

Michael T. Kuik

Copyright 2013 Michael T. Kuik

Smashword Edition, License Notes

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https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/MTKuik

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to all of those who helped along the way in the creation of this story. A special thanks to close friends and family, many of whom saw this book go through numerous edits and rewritings over the years, and without whose encouragement and critiques, it would never have been finished. May this be the beginning of much more to come.

Table of Contents

Prologue: Civil war.

Chapter 1: Looking outward.

Chapter 2: Journey.

Chapter 3: Fighting the tide.

Chapter 4: Vinbay and beyond.

Chapter 5: First impressions.

Chapter 6: The Council.

Chapter 7: The Sixth Seat.

Chapter 8: Twinblades.

Chapter 9: Garth.

Chapter 10: A knife in the shadows.

Chapter 11: Plans will change.

Chapter 12: Let the fighting begin.

Chapter 13: Laurana.

Chapter 14: Assassins.

Chapter 15: Coming together.

Chapter 16: To the death.

Chapter 17: Master of Ceremonies.

Chapter 18: Treachery.

Chapter 19: Recovery.

Chapter 20: Strewnhan.

Chapter 21: Eagleye.

Chapter 22: War within.

Epilogue

About the Author

Connect with me online

Bonus excerpt from The Lost Mines

Prologue

civil war.

A relentless sun beat down on the streets of A’tross from its high post in a cloudless sky. It was midday, and few people were about as a lone rider plodded slowly down a road of cobblestones that seemed to shimmer in the heat. Another man walked beside him in armor that must have been stifling in the unmoving air, a heavy mace at his hip swinging in time with his gait. Ten more, similarly armed and armored, followed behind. All of the men wore chains around their necks, bearing a medallion with the pattern of an oak tree on its front, the rider’s made of a silver material, the rest of bronze.

The man on the horse was richly dressed, clearly a man of some import. His clothes were of a fine silk, perfectly tailored to his gaunt frame. He wore a wide hat that provided some small relief and protection from the beating sun, but he was still sweating freely. His eyes had an almost fevered look, and he stroked the thick black hair on his chin in consternation.

I tell you, Trisnar, he said to the man walking beside him, It’s just not right. There’s more going on here than is obvious. When has the Council of Seven ever adjourned in the middle of the day? It’s like Mordroth is determined to pick a fight, whatever the topic, and delay any progress.

The man on foot nodded slowly. But to what end, Father?

The rider shook his head, and let out a long breath. I shudder to think. Mark me, Trisnar, no good can come from that man and his designs. The rider, Gendaerl, High Priest of A’tross, and Fourth Seat on the Council of Seven, fell silent as he retreated into his dark thoughts. This Mordroth troubled him greatly, and not only because he had slain a dear friend, the Lord Thorix. Mordroth had come to the Council like any other, challenging a current member of the Council to a duel. Such was the law of A’tross that any man or woman might challenge for a seat of power. Thorix had but two choices: accept the challenge, or leave the city a coward, never to return.

Thorix had accepted, but had never stood a chance against the wizardry of this Mordroth. Mordroth had not been content to win the duel, but had played cruelly with the man. The outcome had never really been in question from the first minute of the duel, and yet Thorix’s pain had lasted for what seemed an eternity before Mordroth finally slew him. The duels had ever been a violent custom, certainly, but Gendaerl had never seen one like that, nor did he ever wish to see such a thing come to pass again.

As victor, the wizard Mordroth had taken Thorix’s place as Second Seat on the Council, and Captain of the City Guard. Since that time, many who had served on the Guard under Thorix had been let go, replaced by men of Mordroth’s choosing. Customs of the Guard had changed. Patrols through the streets were rare now, and crime had gone up as a result. Mordroth met any mention of these problems in the Council with a scoff, and a quick reminder that the Guard was his concern as Second Seat, not theirs, unless any cared to challenge him.

And Mordroth seemed intent on slowing any progress by the Council. Whatever the topic, it seemed he would come out against the majority, and speak at great length, admittedly quite eloquently arguing his case. The Council had gone through other changes recently, and the loyalties of some of the newer members were uncertain. Some seemed oblivious to Mordroth’s true purpose, and swayed by his honeyed words.

But what was his true purpose? Gendaerl feared the worst.

Something’s not right, Trisnar murmured, startling Gendaerl from his thoughts as they turned down another wide lane. His steps slowed for a moment, and he had to hurry for a moment to catch back up to Gendaerl’s horse.

That much is clear, Gendaerl nodded. But I’m not sure what the Council can do-

No, Trisnar interrupted. Not that. It’s too quiet today.

Gendaerl began really taking in his surroundings for the first time. Trisnar was right. It was abnormally quiet on the streets today, but it seemed even quieter here. It is uncommonly warm today, and the noon hour. Perhaps they are avoiding the heat and enjoying their midday meals.

Perhaps, Trisnar was clearly unconvinced. His hand had strayed to the hilt of his mace.

Gendaerl spied the first sign of life he had noted since turning down this street, a small boy at the window of a house to the left. The sun fell full on the boy’s face, illuminating his wondering expression, his head cocked to one side. Gendaerl first thought the boy was looking back at him, awed by a man of such importance going by with his retinue. Then Gendaerl realized the boy was not looking at him at all, but at something above and beyond him. Gendaerl turned to his right, trying to follow the boy’s gaze. He found himself gazing directly into the sun. He almost looked away, but then noticed the silhouette of something moving atop a two story butcher shop. Realizing the danger, he raised his hand and was about to give warning when something slammed into his chest with enough force to knock him off the horse. Vaguely, he felt Trisnar’s arms around him, easing him onto the ground, and heard Trisnar and others shouting.

He tried to ask what was happening, but found he did not have the breath to speak. His words would likely have been drown out anyway by the sounds of arrows whistling through the air around him, the sick thuds as the bolts hit their targets, and the cries of the wounded.

You’ve been shot, Trisnar whispered into his ear. Don’t move.

The man straightened, drawing his mace and raising it above his head as he stood protectively in front of his fallen leader. Gendaerl became aware of hooded and cloaked men emerging from alleys and doorways all around them, and the clash of arms was deafening as their scimitars met the maces of Gendaerl’s protectors.

Trisnar had to step out to meet one of the charging foes, his heavy mace easily brushing aside the man’s weapon on its way to smashing his skull. As Trisnar turned to face another attacker, one of his fellow guards stumbled into him, knocking Trisnar to one knee. Trisnar never hesitated, using the low position to his advantage, sweeping one leg out to knock the feet out from under his charging foe. As he fell, Trisnar put a quick end to him with a swing of his mace.

Leaping back to his feet, Trisnar grappled with another man who was on him too quickly for Trisnar to bring his mace to bear. Trisnar used the fingers of his free hand to jab the man in the eye, and when the man stumbled back, Trisnar brought his mace around in an upward swing that crushed the man’s chest and sent him spiraling backward. Trisnar then spun back to toward Gendaerl and, placing his free hand on the curved symbol at his chest, uttered a brief prayer and pointed at something just behind where Gendaerl lay. A tongue of flame leapt from his fingers, and Gendaerl heard a scream from somewhere behind him.

Before Trisnar could turn back, another of the cloaked men was upon him, and drove his scimitar with enough force to pierce Trisnar’s mail shirt and deep into his back. Trisnar slid slowly off the blade, fell to the ground, and did not move. Gendaerl realized vaguely that he did not hear any more fighting elsewhere in the street. The same man who had killed Trisnar started toward where Gendaerl lay. Gendaerl struggled to move, to get up, to reach his weapon, but found that his arms and legs were strangely numb and would not respond to his commands. He turned his head, seeking a way out or an ally still standing, but saw none. His gaze fell on the boy in the window, staring with mouth open and eyes wide with fear back at him. The boy turned suddenly, looking at something inside the house, and the curved blade of a scimitar snaked into view, cutting the boy down.

Then Gendaerl felt a cold blade slide into his own heart, and everything went dark.

* * * * *

The City Guard brought a report the Council in the morning of the next day. Heralds roamed the streets, spreading the news of the unfortunate loss of the High Priest, and proclaiming that the Fourth Seat of the Council of Seven was now vacated, and duels would commence in three days to determine a new High Priest.

Death, however sudden and violent, was nothing new to A’tross. There was a war taking place, and the enemy was not an army camped outside the city. The enemy was within, and there was fighting in the streets. Trust and kindness were ghosts from another time, forgotten in a battle for power and prominence, as the Council members who had ruled A’tross for many years and made the city powerful were dying, one by one. A city slowly bled, and slipped into shadow.

Chapter 1

Looking outward.

Keyel waited in silence for some time, before the creatures he had been expecting emergde from a stand of trees and onto the grassy fields. The creatures were large, standing slightly taller than Men, and thickly muscled. Their faces were like the faces of Men, as well, but twisted and scarred. Their mouths sported small tusks, and their small, dark eyes were filled with a burning hatred and dim intellect.

Keyel carefully counted the number of Orcs who continued to appear out of the trees. With slow, deliberate movements, he pulled the hood of his cloak farther forward to keep the light rain from getting in his eyes.

…five, six, seven…

The Elf’s grey eyes narrowed as still more Orcs emerged. From where he hid, huddled in the thick grasses that were so common in the hills surrounding New Elswick, Keyel counted nine, with still more coming into view. How, he wondered, had this party come so close to New Elswick? Were they not from the area, or just particularly foolish?

The trudging procession came to an end with a particularly large Orc bringing up the rear. This one appeared to be in charge, roughly shoving his fellows aside without a care, and barking at one to fetch him some water. As the creature came closer to sit on a fallen tree, he came fully into Keyel’s view, and Keyel realized this was no Orc, after all. Despite himself, Keyel grunted in surprise. There was some Orc blood in its veins, certainly, but it was too large, too tall, and the bulbous nose dominating the creature’s face named it. An Ogre. Keyel grimaced. That could make things more difficult.

Mixed breeds were an unusual sight. Keyel’s closest friend Bearclaw was himself of mixed Elvish and Human blood, but a mix of Orc and Ogre? Strange times indeed. The combination seemed a potentially dangerous one. The size and strength of an Ogre, mixed with the relative cunning of an Orc was a most unfortunate union, but it could not alter Keyel’s plans.

The Orcs were seating themselves in groups of two or three around the clearing, and pulling out what appeared to be some sort of raw meat, from the thick, red juices that dripped down their chins as they tore into the large strips. Keyel tried not to think what sort of meat they might be enjoying. Deciding the time for action had come, Keyel slowly raised his bow and took aim.

The only warning was the snap of the bowstring, and the whine of the arrow. Their surprise was complete when one of their number grunted and fell face down in the mud. Even as he fell, a second arrow came whistling in, and then a third. With startled cries, the Orcs rose to their feet, their hands going to their weapons and their eyes searching for the source of the attack.

You’ve come the wrong way, pigs that walk like men, Keyel taunted in their own grunting language. I am Keyel Windwhisper, Orc Bane, and Ogre Slayer. Crawl back into the dark hole from which you came, or die by my hand.

The Orcs, enraged by the attack and his taunts, and seeing but one lone Elf, wasted no time in crying out their fury and charging forward. Keyel sent one more arrow into the heart of the screaming mob, then turned to flee. Moving with a grace only Elvinkind could manage, he glided quickly through the tall grasses, easily pacing his pursuers as he led them along the planned route.

It didn’t take long for him to come within sight of the small sapling that was his guide, barely peeking above the waist-high grasses. Keyel made directly for it, veering just to the right of it as he passed. He didn’t need to look back to know the Orcs were following. He could hear their shouted threats and the pounding of their footsteps was loud to his sharp, Elven ears.

Seven left, he said, as he passed the sapling. ’Ware the half-Ogre.

He ran another twenty paces before turning and loosing another arrow. Moments later, as the Orcs were passing the sapling, the grasses to their left seemed to explode outward, as Keyel’s companion Bearclaw emerged in their midst. Wielding two swords, the man used surprise to his advantage, blades whirling as he cut down three of the Orcs before they were ever aware of their danger.

With an almost deafening roar, the half-Ogre charged Bearclaw, smashing downward with its large, spiked club. Bearclaw danced aside from the blow, and stepped forward in its wake to return the attack with his own. He scored a slice along the Ogre’s arm, causing it to roar again, this time in pain. Enraged, the half-Ogre brought its club around for another swing, this time using both hands. Bearclaw attempted to jump back, but stumbled over a fallen Orc. He managed to alter the course of the club with a parry of one of his swords, but not enough to evade the blow. Spikes ripped into his shoulder as Bearclaw spun backward. The half-Ogre was too slow to realize, however, that the spin was not due to the force of his blow, but the beginning of a counterattack. Bearclaw came fully around, using the momentum to add more force to his attacks, blows raining in quick succession at the half-Ogre. The creature parried them as best it could, but could not keep up with the assault. The half-Ogre soon had several gashes on its arms and torso, and found itself being forced back a step. The half-Ogre took another step back in an attempt to gain some separation, and brought the club around in a crushing blow it hoped would end the fight quickly. Bearclaw continued to press in, rather than jumping back to evade the blow. At the last moment, he crossed his swords, catching the downward-swinging club between them. He grunted with the effort of slowing the blow, and fell to one knee as he barely managed to turn the club aside. The club came around a second time before Bearclaw could regain his balance, and this time he was not able to parry. The club’s crude barbs ripped into his arm and chest. Bearclaw fell to his back, swords crossed before him in defense. The half-Ogre loomed over him, grinning fiercely and raising its club for the final blow. Bearclaw kicked out desperately, and connected with the creature’s knee. The creature howled in pain, but was not distracted. The club continued to race down toward him.

But the blow never landed, and Bearclaw watched in confusion as the club dropped from the creature’s hand. The creature’s howl ended strangely, in a throaty gasp, as Keyel’s thin Elven blade sprouted from the creature’s chest like a grotesque flower. Bearclaw barely managed to scramble out of the way as the creature fell to the ground.

Grimacing and clutching his wounded arm, Bearclaw sat up and surveyed the field, finding the rest of the Orcs hade fallen, sprouting arrows like feathers. He and Keyel were the only ones still standing. Your timing is remarkable, he muttered, wincing as he tried to move his arm.

One fled, Keyel said, returning Bearclaw’s swords to their sheaths. Keyel took hold of Bearclaw’s arm and examined it. Bearclaw winced as Keyel probed near the shoulder. Not broken. You were lucky this time. Careless move, that, but nothing the healers can’t mend. Still, we’d best waste no time in getting to them. You really need to learn, no matter your skill, you still need to respect the strength of a larger opponent. He looked skyward at the dark clouds that continued to roll by. We’ll have to wrap this quickly. This could be a bad storm, and I’d rather not be caught out in it.

Agreed, Bearclaw nodded. We’ve done what we can here. One lone Orc won’t cause too much trouble. Besides, Achaiah wanted us back in time for his announcement to the people.

I have to wonder at all the fanfare, Keyel muttered, as he began poking through the pockets of the dead for anything of interest.

It has to be something big, for all of Achaiah’s Fist to be returning at once. Do you think everyone will really show? I mean, even if the messengers find everyone, they’ve got their own concerns now.

No markings on these. They’re tribeless, wanderers. Keyel grunted with the effort of turning the half-Ogre on his side. Yeah, they’ll come. They’ll come for him. Achaiah’s done too much for all of them for anyone to ignore his summons.

"All of us, Bearclaw corrected. Where would the two of us be, if not for him? Anyway, it will be interesting to see everyone again. Achaiah's Fist haven’t all been in one place since…"

Since we took New Elswick, Keyel finished for him. Or very shortly after. Few of us are the sort to stay in one place for long. Keyel rose to his feet again and moved to help Bearclaw. Come. Let the birds take this lot. Back to our horses. We need to get you somewhere warm and dry, and get those wounds patched up quickly.

* * * * *

When the appointed day came, representatives of every class of citizen were gathered in the great hall of Lord Achaiah’s castle, in the heart of the fledgling city of New Elswick. Men and women chosen to speak for the nobles, merchants, and commoners alike sat around one long, rectangular table, filling every seat but one, at the head of the table, where Lord Achaiah himself would sit. The classes mixed freely, and spoke freely, as Achaiah would have it. The nobles had fought this at first, but had eventually seen the wisdom of allowing all the people a voice in the proceedings. Or perhaps, more to the truth, they had realized there wasn’t really a choice in the matter. Achaiah was a reasonable man, open to advice in most matters, but in this he was most unrelenting. And Achaiah, who was himself born of a noble family, was the beloved and unquestioned leader of this city.

The fact that a city of men rose above the plains was in itself no small feat, and a testament to this man’s dedication. Since the advent of the Troubled Years, few cities of men had withstood the onslaught of Orcish hordes anywhere in the land of Savaria. There were rumors of a city that still stood west of here, and some far to the North, but New Elswick was the only settlement known for certain.

Old Elswick had lasted far into the Troubled Years, until the hordes of an Orcish king swept the city away. The people who survived had fled, to live in hiding in the hills and the forests until Lord Achaiah had gathered the greatest warriors and spellcasters of the land in an attempt to forge something out of the chaos. Elswick was in ruins, but there was a mighty castle still standing, in the heart of the Orcish lands, inhabited by the Orc King Klovinaar and his minions. It was this very castle which had been Klovinaar’s seat of power, and in an ultimate declaration of defiance, Achaiah had turned it into the cornerstone of a new city of Men. Naming it after his lost home, he called it New Elswick.

Ten of Achaiah’s most trusted followers had distinguished themselves in the battle to claim New Elswick. In Old Elswick, ten would be called a fist of soldiers, and so these ten became known as Achaiah’s Fist. Bearclaw and Keyel were two of that number. They were seldom in the city for more than a week or two at a time, preferring to spend the majority of their time out in the hills and plains around the city. Orcs still roamed the wilds in great numbers, and their help in scouting and cataloging the Orcs’ activities were instrumental in providing defense for the city. Achaiah’s primary advisor, the wizard Nevazin, was another of his Fist. A man past his prime, but still very much a source of strength, the white-haired mage was always near at hand, in his crimson robes made from a rich, velvety cloth, subtly embroidered with strange thread-of-gold runes.

Elisha, who was Bearclaw’s wife, was another of the Fist who stayed within the castle. An adequate swordswoman, but famed for her skills in archery, she helped to train the soldiers of Achaiah’s guard. Stern but lovely, she commanded respect even from men who would usually have baulked at following a woman.

Parmethios, the wizened little Gnomish priest, had not wandered far. He kept mostly to his temple within the city, providing guidance and healing to any and all who needed it. He rarely came to the castle, preferring the peace and quiet of his temple, and trusting the governing of the people to Achaiah.

Lenok, an older man with an unassuming air, split his time between Parmethios’s temple and Achaiah’s castle. The man was an odd mix, seemingly meek and mild, but legendary for his skills in unarmed combat. Bearclaw was glad for him, for the mild-mannered man was a good friend to Elisha in his frequent absences.

The rest of the Fist had rarely been seen in New Elswick since its founding. Thanatos, a huntsman and tracker of mixed Human and Elvish blood, spent the bulk of his time on the road, appearing rarely in the city, and then usually only to replenish supplies before disappearing again. Dhellarym, a druid, kept to the forests south of the city, and had not set foot outside of them in years. Carthon, a Dwarven warrior of no little skill and valor, spent weeks at a time searching in the hills and mountains north of the city for his lost people. He returned only when his despair and need for strong drink drove him to take a short respite from his self-imposed quest.

And lastly, there was Nimbol Timfoot, a halfling, whose curiosity led him to wander far and wide, and