Cold Fire: the Banished Isle Quartet, #1

By Sharayah Kells

"The stone for his life. It's your choice."

 

When the king of Iverastra is taken for ransom at the hands of the great wizard Melorvine, self-proclaimed ruler of all Khandren, his subjects are forced to give up the very artifact he has fought to protect: the Togan Eye stone. Daerem is a man of few friends, fewer words, and many secrets. But he is also the sworn protector of His Majesty and fiercely loyal. With his lord's life suddenly hanging in the balance, he sets off in pursuit of the two men sent out to make the ransom exchange. But there's more going on than the acquisition of a dusty old relic.

 

The wizard strikes again, swift and deadly. Chaos erupts. New orders are given. Daerem must work with his two unwanted companions to uncover the truth behind the wizard's actions and quickly. But trust is stretched to the breaking point. Daerem is not the only one in his party with a shadowed past. 

 

Can they really hope to upset the wizard's schemes, a plan that has been simmering longer than anyone realized? Or will their own secrets destroy each other first?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peasantry Press
• Release date: Apr 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781988276366

Book preview

Chapter 1

In the blackness of night there is a sound

In a dark place Fear is born

Growing in size, it feeds off the dark

Until out of the dark it steps, a new being

Terror

In the utter black of night, Terror stalks its prey

Beware the dark

~Anonymous

––––––––

There was a chill in the air tonight. The messenger hunched over the neck of his piebald, trying to gain some comfort from the heat rising from the steaming horse as it plodded down the King’s Eastern Road. There was no luxury of him finding an inn this night, and he dared not stop in any case. He could not fail to deliver the letter he carried concealed next to his heart. It was a message that could mean life or death and one that could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. And that was the problem. The wrong hands were following him.

The gravel crunched beneath his horse’s hooves. It was in fact the only sound to be heard on this black moonless night. It echoed eerily along the stone walls rising over fifty feet above him on either side. The messenger strained his tired eyes for any sign of the crossroad, the narrow opening in the rock that would signal the end of twisting ravines and treacherous terrain. Then the short dash along the King’s Road across a wide open plain, skirting around the edge of the Jyhishron. Only then would his goal come into view.

A sound made him start in his saddle: the crunch of a foot on loose rock. He checked behind him to find a shadowy shape lurking not more than a hundred paces back. Cursing, the messenger urged his weary horse to a gallop. A snarl erupted at his flight, joined by another... and another.

They had found him.

The messenger’s eyes searched frantically for the crossroad as he clung to his piebald’s mane, its hair whipping his face with sharp stinging blows. Suddenly he saw it: a cleft in the rock wall splitting into two paths. He urged his mount to even greater speed and fled up the inclined path, heading inland. Within moments the cliffs receded and wide grassy plains stretched out before him. The blazing stars turned the distant fields into a silver lake.

He reined in his mount and scanned the horizon, the horse tossing its head with a bray of terror. There, just at the furthest reaches of sight, lay a strip of black against the stars. The Jyhishron Forest. If he could reach the tree line, he might stand a chance of losing his pursuers.

All at once a wolf’s howl pealed out behind him, its wail rising ever higher until it reached an unnatural pitch. The messenger shivered and felt a finger of ice spear down his spine. His eyes shifted to the canyon pass behind him. At least a dozen feral snarls added their voices to the wolf’s cry, keening together in a sinister chorus. A shadow darted along the cliff walls.

Immediately he kicked his terrified mount to a gallop and thundered hard across the exposed plain, urging his steed to greater speed. He rode for a good quarter hour, and still, the black smudge of forest grew no nearer. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder, and his heart sank. Not more than fifty paces back loped a wolf, a huge black beast. And matching its pace behind it a dozen sleek four-legged beasts were ever gaining.

Within the next quarter hour the messenger saw that the trees had indeed crept closer, but so had his pursuers. They had gained thirty paces and now he could clearly see the beasts running with the great wolf. They were foxes, as large as any man, and wore great broadswords strapped over the cloaks on their backs. There was the glint of evil pleasure in their eyes, as though they knew he would never reach the trees. Grimly he eased his sword out of its sheath and held it close to his side, waiting.

The trees were so close now. But the gap between rider and pursuers was closing swiftly as the messenger’s horse slowed. It could run no longer. A fox leaped. Its claws sank into the piebald’s foam-flecked rump and the horse screamed in pain. The messenger twisted in the saddle and his blade found its mark, flaying the attacker’s neck wide open. The gangly creature tumbled to the ground where its slack body tangled in the legs of several of its mates. For a brief moment the gap between horse and foxes widened. The wolf, however, bounded easily over the fallen beast and continued the chase, not more than ten paces behind.

Within moments another pair of foxes caught up to the messenger, one on either side. They lunged. One found purchase on the piebald’s right thigh and dodged the messenger’s wild swing. The other sank its claws into the screaming mount’s neck and tore its throat open with its powerful teeth. In desperation, the messenger gathered himself and leaped off his dying mount as it crashed to the ground.

He rolled to his feet, wincing at the impact of his landing, but could not afford to remain still. He bolted for the cover of the trees, his bloody sword clenched tightly in a white-knuckled fist. He could hear the wolf behind him, gaining on him, and pushed his legs to run faster.

Suddenly trees were all around him, the thickly intertwined branches overhead immediately plunging him into darkness. He ducked and dodged blindly through the forest in an attempt to shake his pursuers, but they dogged his every step. His legs felt like burning lead. His chest heaved with every breath. His lungs set to burst. He couldn’t run much longer.

There was a snarl behind him, uttered so close he could feel the beast’s rank breath brush his ear. Immediately he dodged right, ducking into a roll as he flung himself away from his unseen attacker. He felt something in his shoulder twinge painfully as he ricocheted off a tree he couldn’t see. Turning, he caught sight of a faint streak of white in the darkness, speeding toward him on his left. Reacting by instinct, he lunged at the fox, closing the distance between them much more quickly than the attacking fox had anticipated, and cleaved its head in two just as it was gathering itself to leap.

Panting, the messenger realized he was surrounded. In the near blackness, he could barely make them out. Nearly a dozen foxes stood in a loose ring around him, standing on their hind legs as though they were human. Each had drawn a broadsword from the sheath on their backs, holding their weapons in elongated paws that were almost hands. A glimmer of starlight filtering through the trees cast an inhuman glow over the creatures’ pure white pelts, giving them an unearthly aura that made them appear as demons escaped from the netherrealms. A cold knot settled in the pit of his stomach at the sight. There was no escape.

The great black wolf materialized out of the dark between two foxes, padding toward the trembling messenger. It seemed smug, victorious, if such an expression could be had on a beast’s face. It stopped a few paces away, and a low rumbling growl emanated from its throat. And then it spoke.

You have nowhere to run, messenger. Give me the missive, the wolf said, the human words thickly accented with wolfish growls.

Cold sweat trickled down the messenger’s neck at the words and his hand went reflexively to the letter concealed in his tunic. There was no way he could win against so many. He swallowed hard, shifting his trembling grip more firmly on his sword hilt. I would rather die than betray His Majesty, King Othrel! he declared, readying himself for the charge.

The wolf threw back its head and howled as though laughing. The ring of foxes added their snarling yipping cries to the wolf’s, their laughter sending shivers down the messenger’s spine.

The wolf abruptly leveled its gaze on its prey, its eyes taking on a blue glow. Then you will die.

***

Black on solemn black. King Shaynek Reullech strode stiffly behind the silk-draped carriage as it was drawn from its resting place in the Great Hall and through the open oak doors by four ash-gray mares. Even numb with grief as he was, he could not fully ignore the whisperings of the courtiers following behind him at a respectful distance.

It really is too bad, isn’t it?

To think she might have borne him an heir...

A chill breeze nipped at his cheeks, plucking playfully at his thick chestnut hair and the finely embroidered black cloak of mourning slung around his broad shoulders. The wind seemed cruelly cheerful this morning and he couldn’t help noticing how it brought a false life to the still form laid on its bed of crushed roses in the moving carriage ahead. The simple white gown rustled faintly, a movement around the tiny swell of expectant belly creating the illusion of breath, as though she merely slept. The wind ran its invisible fingers through her copper hair, snagging on the delicate silver circlet adorning her brow.

Hisraeya, he thought, feeling a familiar lump catch in his throat at the name. You weren’t supposed to get caught up in this. I swore I wouldn’t let any harm come to you. Forgive me, Beloved. I did not think he could reach this far.

So inconsiderate of her to have been thrown from her horse. If she were going to get herself killed, she should have at least waited until the babe was born. Though pitched low to affect a respectful murmur, the contemptuous voice of Lady Jiirlan could clearly be heard by the grieving king. With an inward groan, he waited for the other voice that would surely rise to the woman’s comment.

Quiet, the stern voice of Lord Peklas cut in, right on cue. "You do not want him to hear such talk, do you? It will ruin your chances to comfort him later on. You did say you would make a much better match than her, didn’t you?"

What would you know of it? And what is it to you if I did? You’re only attending for the sending feast anyway.

How rude. I must pay my respects to His Highness. It is a most grievous thing to lose one’s beloved...

I can hardly imagine you knowing anything about such things! You never could keep your hands off the ladies.

You insult me! With the many choices I have, I do not advance upon expectant mothers.

Enough, all of you! growled faithful Lord Gaethen. You think he can’t hear you? Show some respect.

A giggle of childish laughter floated across the hateful wind, turning the king’s attention away from his bickering court and to his child that would never be born. His anger rose. Curse you, Melorvine. Haven’t you taken enough from me already?

Your Majesty?

He blinked. The carriage had rolled to a stop on a rise overlooking the city. His city. It sprawled away from the castle in all directions, the castle its epicenter. At this vantage point he could just make out the great stone wall that encircled the city. It stood at an impressive one hundred feet and could allow for a dozen soldiers to walk abreast.

Your Majesty, the voice repeated, and he swung his head to face the speaker. The young man with watery blue eyes and short sandy hair standing there couldn’t have been more than twenty winters. He stood a good eight inches shorter than the king’s six-foot four frame but his thinness made him seem taller. A gold crown encircling a white feather was embroidered on the collar of his black tunic, identifying the man as the king’s personal servant.

Coader, the king acknowledged mechanically. His hazel eyes took in the wooden cup the manservant was offering him. Then four men, each face shadowed by the hood of his black cloak, walked past him to lift the funeral litter from the carriage. His gaze followed them as they placed the rose-strewn litter upon a low wooden pyre that had been built on the rise overlooking the city, the same place where countless kings and queens before had been sent through the burial flame. A four-foot wall of white marble encompassed the plot of earth, a square thirty paces wide and thirty paces long. The ground within was completely covered in gray soot, nearly a foot deep. The Garden of Ash.

The king knelt and gathered a handful of ash, pouring it into the proffered cup. Then, taking the cup from Coader’s hands, he mounted the wooden platform and placed the vessel in the stiff hands of his dead wife. His hand lingered on hers for a moment and he leaned down until his forehead touched her own.

Farewell, my beloved... he whispered. Then he stepped down, eyes fixed on the white clad form. A torch was handed him. Without hesitation he thrust the burning brand into the heart of the pyre and stepped back as the flames crackled to life along the wooden structure. The chasyr-soaked logs quickly took up the flame and were soon engulfed in dancing orange fire.

Your Majesty?

There was an unusual nervousness in Coader’s voice that made the king take his eyes from the scene. The young man’s worried face was bowed and he was fidgeting with something in trembling hands.

What is it? the king finally asked when the manservant showed no sign of continuing.

Coader didn’t look at him. I...I didn’t know when might be the right time to...to tell you...

Tell me what? he demanded, unnerved by his manservant’s unusual behavior.

Coader thrust what he was holding into the king’s hands. Th...this was found with your...uh...with Lady Hisraeya by one of the ladies-in-waiting who was pr...preparing the body...

The king unfolded the white handkerchief to find a tiny sliver of bloodied metal and a blood-stained scrap of paper. He picked up the metal shard and held it up to the flickering firelight.

It was f...found in...it had been pushed into her wrist. I called in the physician, but he couldn’t identify it. But he does figure it was what really k...killed her in the end.

Carefully he placed the metal sliver back in the handkerchief. With a hand that shook faintly, he picked up the crumpled piece of paper and smoothed it out.

One by one they fall.

You sacrificed them for the Stone.

I think it’s time we met face to face.

And in the bottom corner of the blood-scrawled note was the image of a blue and gold serpent twisted in on itself in an impossible knot.

His blood ran cold. No. It can’t be...

Coader looked miserable. It seems that the Wizard-Lord Melorvine has finally given you a personal invitation.

A tense silence descended on the pair, and the king turned back to the burning pyre. The blaze no longer held any warmth as an icy numbness sank into his bones. So, the Wizard-Lord has tired of my refusals. Black moon’s light, somebody save us all!

He stared at the dancing flames without seeing. He didn’t even notice that the blaze had gotten hotter until his manservant took him by the elbow and drew him back to a safe distance. He had no idea how long he stood there. The only indication that time had passed was the growing restlessness of the waiting nobles behind him.

There was a shuffle of feet, but the king didn’t turn to see who it was. He had sunk to his knees and his listless gaze was fixed on the still-burning pyre.

Your Majesty? Coader cleared his throat tentatively. The Lords Gaethen Senter and Noryth Tanbar would like to offer their condolences.

The king didn’t respond. He didn’t need to see them to imagine how Lord Gaethen, a burly man with silver-flecked black hair, would unconsciously smooth his beard with a heavily be-ringed hand before dropping into a one-knee bow. He felt a hand on his shoulder. No one regrets more than I do that I was not there to stop this dreadful tragedy.

The hand was removed. There was a nervous shuffling and Lord Noryth spoke up. Her graceful presence will be missed. The words came out awkward and forced.

The king bit back a bitter reply and instead directed his voice to his manservant. Coader.

Yes, Your Highness? Coader asked, stepping closer.

Make them go away.

Highness?

The king turned, unable to mask the pain in his eyes. Get rid of them for me. Please? Send all of them away. I can’t stand their presence any longer, he said in a hoarse whisper, tears stinging his red-rimmed eyes. He reached up, placed an affectionate hand on the young man’s head, and tousled his hair like he used to when the lad had still been a boy.

Coader’s face softened at the old familiar gesture. He bowed at the waist. I shall see to it, Your Highness. The manservant turned to the expectant courtiers. It is the wish of His Majesty King Shaynek Reullech for solitude at this time. He begs your indulgence to wait for his presence in the Great Hall.

Shaynek heard the mutterings as the courtiers were herded back towards the castle by an apologetic Coader. Turning his head slightly, he could see them casting him offended glances as they made their way back along the gravel path. Let them grumble. Most would hardly remember the slight by the time they reached the end of the garden path.

One figure remained behind. The king’s first impulse was to summon a guard to escort this dawdler away but the way the figure carried himself arrested his attention. He was not dressed like the rest of the courtiers, with their stylishly cut tunics and careful grooming. Instead he wore plain traveler’s garb: tattered green tunic over stained charcoal breeches and knee-high boots. A well-worn black cloak was fastened at the throat with a dull silver clasp and a small oilskin knapsack was slung over one broad shoulder. He bore the marks of a battle-hardened warrior, and a leather-sheathed sword with a stained black cloth wrapped around the silver hilt hung unobtrusively at his side. Chestnut locks fell loosely to his shoulders, brushing against a strong jaw. Piercing green eyes stared out of a weathered face that bore no discernible expression.

The king stared for a long moment at the familiar mask-like face, and then turned away with a broken sigh. It seems my curse to be visited by ghosts this day, he murmured, returning his gaze to the crackling blaze. He could almost sense the figure drawing closer, though he made no sound, and he groaned, putting a trembling hand over his eyes. Must you haunt me now too, Aithen?

There was silence, but through a crack in his fingers, Shaynek could see the cloaked figure standing a few paces back from his right shoulder...just as he always used to do.

Why now? he wondered at the sight. You stand there as though you never left. Three years, Aithen! How dare you die on me without ever telling me your real name? He stopped after the short outburst, pausing to let a distant memory distract himself from the painful present.

Do you remember, Aithen? he asked the apparition quietly. "When I was forced to call you Rosgor because you wouldn’t even speak to me? Names hold meaning and Stubborn Mule seemed such a fitting one for you. But then I met our friend Mikotlik Taf who had given you the name Aithen, A Worker of Strength.

I could have used that strength. Perhaps you could have saved her. I should have been there to save her. But I couldn’t...I couldn’t... he broke off, the words catching in his throat. Hisraeya... His shoulders shook and scattered tears dropped as tiny wet craters in the dusty ground.

Forgive me, Shayn.

For an instant he thought he felt the pressure of a hand gripping his shoulder. Then it vanished. Feeling more alone than ever, the king broke down and wept until he had nothing left.

Your M...Majesty? came a strangled voice.

Dully Shaynek looked up. Coader had returned. The manservant was standing frozen at the Ash Garden’s entrance, white-faced, and his eyes bulged in terror as though he saw a ghost. Dragging his sleeve across his face to clear the blurring tears, he followed the manservant’s stricken gaze. Standing no more than a half-dozen paces behind and to his right stood the man in traveler’s garb. The king blinked.

Coader shouldn’t be able to see my ghost, he thought, brows furrowed in growing puzzlement. He looked at his manservant. He seemed to be seeing the apparition quite clearly. It shows itself to only one person. One visitation...

Coader can see him too...

No ghost is seen by two people at once!

Aithen!! Shaynek was on his feet in an instant and pulled the silent man into a fierce hug. The cloak he gripped in both hands was coarse to the touch, the body it draped muscular and solid. Not a ghost!

The man returned the gesture, strong arms nearly crushing the king’s ribs.

I thought you were dead, my friend! Shaynek choked out, still holding on tight as though afraid his friend might turn to mist and disappear if he let go.

So did I, Aithen whispered.

The king held him at arm’s length, frowning. But what happened? He followed the man’s silent gaze and saw Coader staring at him with growing recognition. Seeing that no answer would come with unwanted ears around, he strode over to his manservant.

Leave us, Coader, he said quietly. And take the guards with you. They won’t be needed anymore.

The young man hesitated. But my Lord Shaynek, I am in charge of Your Majesty’s safety. What if... he trailed off.

Trust me, Coader. The king smiled and tousled the young man’s hair. I have never been safer.

With a nervous nod Coader bowed and, calling to the two guards standing unobtrusively at the edge of the gardens, retreated down the gravel path to the castle, leaving the king alone with his unexpected visitor.

As soon as they were out of hearing range the king rounded on his silent companion. Tell me.

Aithen wouldn’t meet his eye.

It’s been three years. Tell me what happened that night, Aithen, he insisted. You left and never came back. I sent fifty of my best men with you. You were going on about a broken seal or some such. I’d never seen you so agitated!

A muscle twitched. Aithen seemed torn between speech and walking away. The latter appeared to be winning.

Shaynek grabbed his wrist. Tell me before I order it out of you! He was surprised to find the arm he gripped was trembling.

I killed them all, Aithen snarled. There was a quaver in his voice. He swallowed hard, and continued quietly. Every last one, Shayn. They never stood a chance.

Shaynek let go in surprise. He couldn’t believe his ears. Aithen. You... He tried again. Tell me.

Taking a steadying breath, Aithen slowly pulled back his right tunic sleeve, revealing an ugly red scar along his forearm. Do you remember when I got this? he asked softly.

The king stared at the puckered flesh. How could he not? That was the knife that was meant for me.

That was no ordinary blade. Melorvine cast a curse on it to enslave the mind of whoever’s blood it tasted. Aithen rolled down his sleeve to hide the mark from the king’s staring eyes. Shayn...he put thoughts in my head I couldn’t ignore. Said he was going to break the seal to Rhilighan’s cave without the Togan Eye stones. Dared me to come and face him in the Vanishing Marshes. Bring an army if I wished but wouldn’t make a difference if I did...

I remember you saying that. Shaynek frowned. You wouldn’t get off the topic.

It was all lies. And yet I couldn’t stop the hateful words leaving my mouth. And your men bought it. Every single word. Their courage was admirable. They were going to bring down the great Wizard-Lord once and for all. The fools. There was bitterness in his voice.

And then? the king prodded gently, reaching out a hand.

What do you want me to say? he snarled, pulling away. I slaughtered your men without hesitation and then took my own life!

Shaynek took a step back, feigning an attitude of distrust. If you took your own life then what stands before me? Surely you aren’t a ghost?

"I should have died, after all I’ve done. And with what I did to myself I was as good as dead. It’s the only reason why he lifted the spell in the end. Where’s the point in wasting magic on a corpse?"

"But you didn’t die, Shaynek insisted, letting a shred of doubt still edge his voice. Aithen gave him a sidelong look but said nothing. How? How did you survive if you nearly killed yourself?"

The alecren people may not be our allies, but they have as little love for the Wizard-Lord as anyone. They took me in solely to cheat him and his right-hand out of their prey, Aithen said shortly and fell silent again.

Shaynek accepted the explanation and stared once more at the flickering fire, noting how far down his wife’s funeral pyre had burned already. It’s a miracle you have come back to me, he said.

Aithen eyed him warily and the king handed him the crumpled note. He scanned the paper, and his face darkened. I won’t let him take you.

The king couldn’t suppress a shudder even as he tried to smile. You know that I trust you with my life. But, he plunged on, "if even you can’t break free of the wizard’s command, how can I possibly escape his invitation?"

I won’t let him take you, Aithen repeated. I’ll find a way.

And should he take me anyway?

I will bring you back.

Shaynek heard the iron resolution in his friend’s tone. Would you really?

Aithen sank to one knee and placed a hand over his heart. As long as I still draw breath, I will not rest until I have brought you out of that viper’s nest alive and well, he said.

Do you swear it, Aithen?

"Not by Aithen, the man shook his head, his eyes suddenly going hard. I will not make this promise on a false name. This time I swear it by the name I was given at birth..."

Chapter 2

I once asked a peddler to tell me the first place that came to mind when asked where he thought the heart of evil lay. Without hesitation the peddler answered,

"In my own experience, I’d say man’s own selfish desires.

But if you’re looking for an actual place, try the Jyhishron Forest."

A Scribe’s Musings

~penned by Melvik the Wandering Minstrel

––––––––

Dusk. The sun grudgingly gave up its last rays of light before sinking below a blood-red horizon. An owl hooted somewhere in the growing blackness, signaling that night had fallen. Two sentries stood guard at the city gates, whispering to each other as they watched the shadows deepen around them. Though it was late spring, the nights were brisk and their breaths clouded in the still air.

What do you think, Girphad? Looks like Imoret’s having a festival bonfire tonight, one commented, nodding.

Girphad squinted at the growing cloud of smoke barely visible in the distance and shrugged. Might be. Rather overkill of a fire, if you ask me. He slouched against the wall, hunching a bit to shield himself from the biting wind. Though I’d trade anything for its heat right about now.

The cold wrapped itself around the city like a blanket, enveloping it in breathless silence. There had been no traffic through the gates since sundown and most of the working-class citizens had long since gone home. Girphad stifled a yawn.

Well, soldiers? Any netherspawn shown their ugly mugs tonight?

The two sentries leaped to attention at the voice. General Gorgedt, sir!

The general, easily identified by the crimson surcoat of rank belted over a chain mail shirt that barely fit over his thick bulldog-muscled figure, waved a sword-calloused hand. At ease. Ravlock, report.

Silent as the grave, sir.

General Gorgedt strode past the two sentries to scan the darkness. Hazel eyes traveled the length of the King’s Road, a wide paved road that connected the city to its distant neighbor Barynth far to the north. There was enough starlight to see the road all the way to the borders of the Jyhishron Forest, a half-day’s journey in the same direction, and the general’s sharp eyes picked out a slowly moving shape on the road.

The general scratched his stubbled cheek meditatively. Wait to see if that peddler will cause any trouble. Then close the gates. He turned and mounted the black stallion waiting for him. And if anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be in the King’s Barracks.

Very good, sir.

Silence returned. The two sentries watched in idle curiosity as the shadowy shape moved sluggishly along the King’s Road toward them. It had a peculiar gait. The peddler, if that’s what it was, would shuffle a few paces before sprawling headlong on the cobbles. A few moments later he, or possibly she, would get up and stumble forward another half a dozen paces before falling over again.

Girphad snorted at the sight. Think he’s drunk, Ravlock? Or simply a clumsy fool?

Ravlock grabbed