The shadow over Pranthas: The path of destiny

By Rayco Cruz

“My name is Árgoht Grandël and I come from Meledel. Do not call me a sorcerer. What I do has no name and should not be labeled. I do not accept vassalage, nor do I prostrate myself before any man or woman. I do my work quickly and honestly. When I fulfill my assignment, I collect my payment and you will not see me again. Ever. Once I am finished, I do not want thanks. With the payment we will be even, and no debts will remain between us. This is me and these are my conditions.”
A shadow has littered the quiet village of Pranthas with corpses. King Yurt decides to resort to the services of the controversial sorcerer Árgoht Grandël to discover and eradicate that which has left that part of his kingdom deserted. But what the magician is going to find in Pranthas is very different from what was expected and, without wishing it, he is involved in an adventure that will affect even his Destiny. Thanks to his abilities and helped by unexpected companions, he will have to unveil the cloak of shadows and lies that seems to surround the kingdom of Ereth.

First adventure of the sorcerer Árgoht Grandël, whose search for Destiny continues in "The curse of Hilena", "The black earth, The path of destiny, book 1" and "Paladin, The path of destiny, book 2".

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: May 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781547586608

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

By Carlos González Sosa

They say that magic has left our world, that the wind has erased any trace of those innate powers that many of the beings that inhabited the Earth had.

They say that time has stolen those skills from us, that spells and sorcerers have been forgotten under blankets of dust that nobody will ever find.

They say that when the magic dies, the world of dreams dies.

Maybe it is true that many wonders have been left behind. Maybe it is true that we have lost a lot.

Not magic though. I do not know if by chance or because he was destined for it, what I can assure you is that Rayco Cruz still manages it. His way of describing, his way of narrating is, simply, magical.

But let me start at the beginning.

On November 7, 2008, I met Rayco at a presentation.

He seemed to me to be an affable and very interesting person, and from that day on we began to see each other regularly in meetings where we had - and still have - long conversations about books, about writers, about ways of writing... And in each one of those talks I have realized how immeasurable the knowledge is that he has on these issues. There are few books that Rayco has not devoured, few authors he does not know. His head is an authentic library. Sometimes, and although I am ashamed to say it, I feel like an apprentice at his side.

And why do I tell all this? Well, because I firmly believe that to be a good writer, first one must be a good reader. Rayco has drunk from so many sources, that there is no way to identify his greatest influence. His style is depurated by a thousand pens, by a thousand masters, and I believe this to be an indisputable characterization in his manuscripts.

Obviously, he also has his flaws, such as writing epic fantasy, or being a Spanish author. These flaws will be hard obstacles, stumbling blocks that will try to keep him from ever being among the great ones. These are problems he will have to struggle with throughout his professional career if we, the readers, do not begin to see literature from another perspective, if we do not open our arms to the fantastic generations of writers in our country who are trying to earn a spot in our bookstores; and, of course, if we do not give an opportunity to this genre that has been undervalued for so long.

Epic fantasy is a difficult genre to master, especially if it is aimed at a specific audience, a specific social segment. If we make the mistake of overexploiting the resources that this gives us, we can obtain as a result text that is too childlike. I think that in order to handle this genre well, we must know how to dose the fantasy that is infused into the story and try to give credibility to it. I have always been an ardent fan of epic fantasy in the purest form: magic, sorcerers, fantastic creatures... Are these two ideas at odds? I think not. What fantasy is more credible -or let’s call it acceptable- than what we can find in Tolkien's writings? Because there we can find it: fantasy in the purest form... and credible.

And it is not that this work follows that line, since it has created a world closer to medieval reality than fantasy, despite all the fantastic elements it uses, but even so it has made me travel, escape from my world.

When I started reading The Shadow over Pranthas, I realized that it was not just another fantasy book, that the fantasy that was used in its texts was very well rationed. But besides all that, I also discovered an exquisite quality of writing. So much so, that there were many times when I reread a paragraph again and again for the simple fact of enjoying the beauty of the text. And that is not easy to find.

If this skill is used to create a magical world, full of extraordinary places, of exciting adventures, then one gets what Rayco Cruz has achieved with this book: capture me, thrill me.

One must keep something important in mind: The Shadow over Pranthas is not a mere adventure, a simple story. No, The Shadow over Pranthas is the letter of introduction of a character that surely will be part of the great icons of fantasy literature, a character that will go far, inside and outside of text. I speak to you of Árgoht Grandël, a sorcerer as charismatic as he is mysterious, a human who will lead us on an unexpected journey, a trip that will be hard to forget.

And it is that the book -if we remove the introduction- already begins with a few words pronounced by the sorcerer himself and they say everything about him (or almost everything): My name is Árgoht Grandël and I come from Meledel. I do not accept vassalage, nor do I prostrate myself before any man or woman. I do my work quickly and honestly. When I fulfill my assignment, I collect my payment and you will not see me again. Ever. Once I finished, I do not want thanks. With the payment we will be even, and no debts will remain between us. This is me and these are my conditions. And with those words, his great adventure begins.

That is why when I was asked to write this prologue, I felt privileged, and I accepted right away, despite the challenge that this entailed. I sat down, I started to write, and the words sprang up as if they had been waiting there for decades to be captured on paper.

I invite you to meet Árgoht, to follow him, to take a walk with him through the Kingdom of Ereth. Maybe... maybe you will not want to come back.

Carlos González Sosa

Carlos González Sosa is a writer, author of the fantastic trilogy Las Tierras de Meed, composed of the volumes La conquista de Oxyt, Ýlioran and Cenizas. With his trilogy finally closed, he is working on several literary projects, also in the fantasy genre which he is so passionate about.

FOREWORD

Shernan Kröll had spent twenty years in the army, in infantry. Always at the forefront of combat, surviving the multiple military campaigns that his king had promoted. He was a strong and robust man, both in body and character. A man of solid principles and an unbreakable morality.

That is why his guts stirred when he heard the orders he was receiving from his immediate superior. It had been a butchery, a chicken hunt. Three bodies, lying at their feet in the middle of the road which was covered with leaves, their bodies covered with their own travel coats, asked for explanations. That's why he barely heard what was said to him.

Take them faraway and burn them. I don’t want to know where. Do it well and fast. Then come back and you will be decorated as you deserve. Things have changed, we cannot keep ourselves anchored to the past.

His captain's words were intended to convince him that what he had done was fine, but nothing could get rid of that feeling of disgust, which was beginning to make his stomach turn.

A few moments later, he watched as two soldiers loaded the bodies in a car and rigged the horse. Kröll saw the scene as if it were far away, in an alien world in which those things were not happening.

The soldiers handed him the reins and he took them. He climbed onto the carriage’s dicky box and started off. All the training he had received as far back as he could remember impelled him to obey even though the orders were strange and inexplicable. That's why he kept going even when every fiber of his being asked him to stop and run. To get away from all the madness. Behind him he thought he felt the inert bodies move, and he would not have been surprised if a cold dead hand grabbed him by the neck and ripped his head from his body. Besides, he would have deserved it, he would not have opposed it. Only his temperance managed to chase away these thoughts and prevented him from looking back, although it was a great effort.

But none of that happened. There was only him, the horse and silence. Where could he bury those cursed bodies? Because he was not planning to burn them.  They did not deserve that end. He would disobey the orders he had been given and would face the consequences.

He roamed for a long time, crossing the plains towards the hills. Then he came up with the perfect place. There would be no other place where they would rest more in peace than there, in their own home. He steered his horse in that direction, sure that he was doing at least one good thing amid all that madness.

It was the hardest task he had ever done. He had fought against all kinds of men and creatures throughout the kingdom. He had received and survived injuries that would even have killed stronger men. But this was an almost impossible task. On several occasions he was on the verge of surrendering, of leaving everything as it was and getting out of there never to return. Only his deep belief in the chain of command and his need to carry out orders, deeply rooted in his veins, made him continue.

He had expected to find guards at the house, but as he got closer, he ascertained that the area was deserted. Such a thing was something out of the ordinary, and without knowing why, a strange sensation ran down his spine and made his hairs stand on end.

At last the mansion he was looking for appeared before him. He knew the way because he had been there once before, a few years ago, but few other people in the world knew of its existence. And those who found the road by chance, were discreetly diverted by the guards stationed in the area which Shernan noticed were missing. It was a beautiful and isolated place, surrounded by silence. Only the sound of the wind and the birds nested in the little grove that surrounded the house disturbed that aged peace.

He stopped for a moment to observe the house. It was immense, and its entire perimeter was protected by a tall, stout, bone-colored rock wall. That same stone had been used for the rest of the structure, giving it an immaculate appearance. The upper part of the wall was strewn with sharp metal points capable of intimidating anyone who considered jumping over it. A huge fence of the same metal gave access to a large garden, somewhat neglected but majestic.

It took him some time to force the lock on the gate, but finally he was able to gain access. Before him stretched a small carpet of grass, now almost covered with dry leaves. Beyond, the mansion stood before him, almost a small fortress. It was beautiful, with a staircase that gave access to a gallery supported by huge round columns. A huge wooden door, richly carved, gave access to the interior, with its three floors of small boarded-up windows.

But he had no intention of entering, nor of staying there any longer than was strictly necessary.

Taking a small detour, he easily found a shed from which he took an old shovel, and with it he dug three deep holes in the damp earth. The walls of the mansion seemed to be looking at him, reproaching him for his actions.

The afternoon had crept up on him and it would soon get dark. A nervous restlessness began to take hold of him, as the sun left the sky.

Eager to finish such bitter a task, he carefully deposited the first two bodies in their holes and muttered a prayer for their souls. The night had already closed in on him by the time he was ready to finish.

After depositing the third body in its ditch, a noise startled him. He looked in the direction of the sound and saw that it was only a window shutter. The pieces of wood used to wall it off had come loose. The same thing that had broken it must also have spoiled the locking mechanism of the shutter and it now hit the frame with force, moved by the wind. The distraction caused him to misstep and trip over a stone. He fell flat onto the ground and hit his head against the steps of the entrance to the house. He lost consciousness and a small trickle of blood stained the white stone.

When he awoke, darkness surrounded him completely. Only the full moon allowed him to glimpse his surroundings. He had a throbbing pain in his head, where he had hit himself and a stain of dried blood matted his hair. He touched the wound and felt a twinge that tensed the muscles in his neck.

It had been a stupid blow and Kröll was ashamed. He shook his head and stood up, determined to finish his ill-fated job. He looked around, where shadows lurked, and a new urge to finish came over him.

He picked up the tool and loaded a shovelful of dirt to put into the third hole. Suddenly, a chill ran down his back as he looked inside the hole and exclaimed: the corpse had disappeared. The hole was empty. Kröll lost his breath. He searched around his heart beating rapidly. He perfectly remembered having left the body inside, so it had to be there. How was it possible? A chill ran all over his body, making the hair on his neck stand on end.

He soon realized that he would not find it around there. Agitated, he began to fill in the other two holes, whose contents were, to his relief, where they should be. When he had finished with the first two and met again with the one that was empty, he considered leaving it as it was and departing as soon as possible, leaving that damned task behind. However, now his military nerves were more tempered, and he decided to do the job well, since there was no turning back. Taking a breath, he picked up a fresh shovelful of dirt and prepared to throw it into the hole. At that moment, he realized there was something in at the bottom, mixed with the loose dirt. The shadows of the night prevented him from distinguishing its shape, but he was sure that for a second, he had seen a flash, the reflection of moonlight on something metallic.

The shovel was left suspended halfway down its route. His curiosity overcoming his apprehension, he tossed the tool aside and jumped into the hole. The earth crumbled off the walls of the hole. On the bottom, his feet touched something hard and, when he bent down and pushed away the cold earth that covered the object, his fingers touched leather and metal. With extreme care he lifted it and exposed it to the dim moonlight.

When he realized what he had in his hands, he almost dropped it. It was a sword stuck in its sheath, and Shernan knew right away what weapon it was and whom it belonged to. At least, who it had belonged to. Unable to avoid it, he looked around, looking for a sign, a movement, a sound that betrayed the presence of its owner, the one whose body should have been in the hole at that moment, but was not, for some reason that Shernan was unable to understand. Except... was it possible that he was still alive? The soldier began to get very nervous. That was the only possible explanation. I had been about to bury a man alive! He tried to calm down and succeeded, with several deep breaths.

The owner of that sword could not be far away. He had been unconscious for a long time, but even so the sword’s owner could not have too much of an advantage on him. On top of that he was on foot, while he had his horse. He started to run towards the gate at the entrance in search of his horse but stopped just short of it. He could not leave it this way; he had to complete what he had started, although it would delay him a bit.

He filled the hole, as he did (had done) with the others and packed the earth on them. However, he could not stop looking around, at the shadows that seemed to shake with every breath of air.

After having finished, he stayed in the dark watching his work for a few seconds. There was something missing. It could not end like this. His conscience had subsided a little, but something was amiss. Burying them like that or burning them was practically the same. He must leave something to record this atrocity.

So, he looked around for some flat stones. When he had found them, he went back to the shed to look for a hammer and a chisel and applied himself to the task. It was the first time he did something like that and in the dark, his hands were not very precise so the result was not entirely satisfactory. Even so, it felt good. He did not put names on them to respect their resting souls, but he knew any person who, someday, would find this place, would soon recognize the sign he had engraved on the improvised tombstones. Even at the third grave, which had been left without a body, he placed one of the stones. It seemed to him, for some reason, as the right thing to do, although if his suspicions were correct, it did not make much sense. In any case, he left it that way.

He recited one last prayer and left.

But his place was no longer what had been home to him till now He knew that he could never look his superiors in the face again, and he could not lie when asked if he had complied with the order to burn the bodies. His destiny had been marked when he made the decision to disobey and now, he would bear the consequences. Besides, he had to return that sword. It was essential he find him.

It would be a long time before he would be known of again in Ereth.

1

My name is Árgoht Grandël and I come from Meledel. Do not call me a sorcerer. What I do has no name and should not be labeled. I do not accept vassalage, nor do I prostrate myself before any man or woman. I do my work quickly and honestly. When I fulfill my assignment, I collect my payment and you will not see me again. Ever. Once I am finished, I do not want thanks. With the payment we will be even, and no debts will remain between us. This is me and these are my conditions.

A deathly silence followed these words and Árgoht felt the eyes of those present pierce him, penetrating his dark skin. He looked between them and discovered a myriad of feelings in those looks. Apprehension, mockery, respect, fear... His words had served their purpose. Nobody was indifferent to them.

In the enormous throne room there was no breeze to move a single hair. Everyone was waiting for the response of the man sitting in front of the foreigner. He was a lofty and proud-looking man, though his scarred face gave clues to a past more related to the army than to nobility. He wore rich clothes, as might be expected of the person who occupied the throne of Ereth, and a small crown encircled his brown hair. 

Finally, Árgoht looked up at the person seated before him, on a platform, a few steps above.

I see that the stories that are told of you are true said King Yurt of the house of Amnhol, ruler of the kingdom of Ereth, in a mellifluous and pompous voice. I hope that your arts are as effective as your tongue.

The king was a tall man with a well-formed body, a clear example of his recent military past. His skin had softened and his hair, well-groomed, did not match that of a soldier, proof that it was very easy to get used to the good life of the palace. He wore an elegant ochre-colored tunic with gold trim, which gleamed under the sunlight. On top of the tunic he wore a metal breastplate as ornamental armor. At breast height the emblem of the Amnhol house was engraved: a sword embedded in the silhouette of a stone tower. The outfit was completed with a long cape of a very luxurious brown color.

The voice of the king resounded in the high vaults of the hall, as if emitted by thousands of throats. His own words had not had that effect. No doubt the elevated position of the regent had been carefully studied to make the most of the acoustics of such a superb place. Also, the sun's rays, filtered by huge and tall windows, fell on him, giving him the appearance of an apparition. Even the hour of the interview had been calculated with great precision.

The room was impressive. Circular in shape, it was built with the most exquisite materials. Marble of various colors, stone and varied mosaics made it clear that Ereth was a rich and ostentatious kingdom. Above their heads, a gallery ran along the wall one floor above. Some courtiers observed from that height the events that took place in the room.

For a few seconds, no voice broke the silence with which he was being examined. The king was trying to decide and Árgoht knew it. Something like this always happened. It was hard for them to decide to accept his services, either because of his price or because of his impact on the town. In addition, his mere appearance already caused some confusion, since he wore leather pants with a camisole, on which slightly stood out a leather breastplate. A dark traveling cloak completed his attire. A magician is something that is seldom seen, and around them a much distorted legend has grown. The idea of ​​old men, with long gray beards and white robes, supported by canes which held in them terrible powers, was the most widespread. Therefore, finding one who claimed to be a sorcerer and was mature looking, but not an elder, and who could pose as one of them, caused something of an unbelieving stupor. However, someone who knew even a little about the arcane arts, would have realized his condition, just by looking at his eyes and trying to decipher his unfathomable gaze.

Once the decision was made for his services, it was not possible to back down.

So be it. said the king firmly.

The silence broke in a hubbub of murmurs and rubbing of fabrics. As fast as it began, it stopped when the king got up. His expensive clothes, of exquisite design, contrasted with a face tanned in the open air.

Árgoht was not used to being received in court, in the presence of so many courtiers. Most commonly he would be received in a private audience, so that his presence went as unnoticed as possible. Árgoht lowered his head in greeting, and with it the pact between both men was closed. However, the gesture was symbolic, for he still did not know what his task would be, and from that knowledge some disagreement could arise.

We will leave the specific details for later, said the king. Now, we dine.

Without another word, an army of servants came out of nowhere. In minutes, the audience room had become a dining room full of tables and impregnated with the exquisite smell of pork. Stewed, boiled, fried... Although Árgoht showed no signs of it, his stomach was growling. He had not eaten anything worth mentioning for weeks and had to use all his self-control, trained for years, not to pounce on juicy dishes filled with meats. Only his eyes strayed, imperceptibly, when one of the servants passed by him with a large tray carrying potatoes, stuffed with evidently delicious meat.

Once the king had taken his place at the head of the largest of the tables, located at the foot of the throne, the rest of the audience sat down, with a momentary hubbub of wood against marble. Responding to a gesture from the regent and accompanied by a servant, Árgoht went to occupy the place assigned to him, at his right and two chairs away. Among them sat a beautiful lady of elegant and proud carriage, and a huge northerner who looked both dangerous and good-natured. It did not take him long to discover that the lady was the king's wife, Lady Yuley, and the other Branton Oldsten, general of the king’s armies.

On his way to Ereth he had happened upon a small caravan of merchants, who were heading north and were thinking of stopping for a few days in the capital to do business. They offered the magician the opportunity to join the party, claiming that he never knew where bandits might be hidden and that there was strength in numbers, although they never knew what he was nor the extent of his knowledge. It was only for the fact that his presence, which made the group larger, suited them. He let himself be convinced and joined them.

The trip until that moment had been slow and exhausting, but then it was able to advance at a good pace and from time to time they allowed him to rest in the winch of one of the wagons. Although he did not mix too much with the merchants, being new in that region, he tried to listen to everything his traveling companions said, but he never participated in the conversations. That is why he remembered hearing, among many others, a story about the big man who now sat next to him. In it, they said that during a battle he had opened his abdomen with his own dagger, to remove a poisoned arrow with three points. No one had been able to confirm or deny this fact, which only fueled the effervescent minds of the bards and lent more vigor to the legend. His booming laughter was heard loudly during the banquet, with each easy joke or witty comment. On the other hand, the presence of Árgoht was not a great incentive for Oldsten, since his taciturn mood and his penchant for being more given to observation than participation, made him a poor companion when talking.

Despite this, the northerner strove to cross words with the guest and was very interested in his profession and his arts, asking him endless questions that Árgoht tried, politely, not to answer. The traditional refusal of sorcerers to reveal details of themselves or their abilities was well known. Besides, this meeting was not to his liking. After a long journey, all he wanted was to be able to rest for a while alone and in silence.

Once, the general began, King Yurt, when he was still only Captain Yurt Amnhol, and I, led a small army against a group of yours. There were only three, while we were eighty strong and young men. Precisely our youth was the one that led us to fight a battle that, now I know, we could never have won.  At this point, he looked around and lowered his voice and got closer to the sorcerer's ear.

They bewitched us all before we could even unsheathe our swords. I felt a strange tingling that ran down my spine, bristling the hair on my arms and the nape of my neck. It was like a jolt. In the blink of an eye, we saw ourselves fighting each other. My arms went up and down by themselves, and there was nothing I could do anything to prevent it. I saw them move like a prisoner observes the world around him without being able to intervene in it. After a few minutes, I regained control of my body and it was as if I awoke from a long sleep. I dropped my weapons and knelt on the damp earth, exhausted. The tingling had disappeared. I was myself again, but everyone around me still had their weapons raised.

I could see then that none of my men’s blows were hitting their opponents. There was no blood. They seemed to be in the courtyard of the castle practicing movements, like a choreography. I was perplexed when I saw that the sorcerers, instead of trying to make us cut each other’s guts out, laughed hysterically and made funny comments among themselves. They were having fun with us and we could not help it. I, even freed from the most powerful part of their influence, could do nothing to oppose them, as if a fog obfuscated my mind. This effect lasted until long after the sorcerers had gone away.

The general fell silent for a few seconds to bring a huge piece of meat to his mouth. Árgoht took advantage of this pause to mentally list several things. The first was that this man seemed to have exceptional resistance to spells. The second was the disapproving look that for a fraction of a second, he could observe in the king when he heard what his general was telling him. For him, it had to be a humiliating and unpleasant defeat to remember.

But perhaps more important still was the fact that Oldsten stumbled upon a group of three sorcerers. Three! Those who devoted their lives to the magical arts were rare in the world, so finding three together was something truly exceptional, almost unheard of. He had not yet found any like him, although he had heard old stories of occasional encounters, the result of some extraordinary chance. These meetings were usually brief and were limited to solving the problem in question and separating again, without showing the slightest interest in the activities of others. A sorcerer makes himself, he learns only from his experience and from The Mother. Each one is different, each one follows his own path. There are no schools, there are no teachers. Each magician finds his tools according to his own nature and there are not two with identical abilities. They are unique and incomparable beings, without equal in the world.

And Oldsten had seen three together, what would they have been doing? What reason could have brought them together?

It was also possible that the general was exaggerating. Most likely, it was a single sorcerer who had humiliated his group, but he used the confused memories of the event as an excuse, to fatten up the number so that the defeat would be less scandalous. What was more credible was the behavior of the magicians, because rarely one decided to kill if it was not strictly necessary.

The general continued, his mouth full:

Even today, the memories that I have of that morning are blurred and cloudy, as if a thin cloth enveloped them. Perhaps, it is a consequence of the magic that affected us all...

The general's gaze was lost in the back of the room, as he took another drink from his glass. Immediately a young man with a huge jar hurried to fill it once again. Árgoht had already lost count of the times he had done it, unlike his own, which waited on the table without the sorcerer even touching it.

Encased in images of the past, Branton Oldsten's face darkened for a moment. His beard, blond and very tangled, was already completely covered with sauce and leftovers. His rich garments, all delicate wool and leather, looked like those of an employee of the stables.

After a few moments, during which Árgoht continued to eat in silence, the general looked down at his plate, took another piece of meat and with it held high, turned to Árgoht with a huge smile. The effects of the wine began to show in his tone of voice.

But that's the past, a dark age. A time of rationing and deprivation. Our old king was a great man and a great warrior, but he lived in very hard times and spent more money on wars and weapons than on feeding and caring for his people.

Árgoht, for a moment, felt disconcerted by the change

Reviews for The shadow over Pranthas

[Milton Yarzagaray · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The story is not the same old lather, rinse and repeat of most fantasy stories. No clear good or bad guys but instead you have shades, shadows and lines which make one think harder and really ponder about what makes an action good or evil. The story is entertaining and has a unique spin on wizards.