James Islington - The Shadow Of What Was Lost

For Sonja.

Without your enthusiasm, love and support,

this would never have been possible.

A big thank-you, firstly, is owed to all my alpha and beta readers - Ross, Nicki, Chiara, Aiden, Brett, Jeremy, Dean, David, Rex, Callum, Tim, Stuart and (of course) Sonja. It’s no small commitment to test-read a book of this size, and their feedback proved invaluable in honing The Shadow Of What Was Lost.

Thanks also go to Pat, who read what was a very rough first draft and still managed to spot the promise in amongst its many flaws. To this day it amazes me that despite how much more work the story needed, he somehow delivered his critique with enough encouragement and tact that I ended up being inspired rather than deflated.

Finally, I’d like to thank my family for all their encouragement over the past couple of years - and in particular my wife, Sonja, whose love, constant optimism, and ability to soothe my fragile ego kept me sane as I worked through each draft. This book is dedicated to her, as it could not possibly have existed if it were not for her enduring support.

Lightning.

For a moment the waters of Eryth Mmorg were lit, roiling and churning as though a great knife had plunged deep into the pool’s murky heart. A dark wave shattered against a barely discernible outcrop of black rocks, hissing, spitting spray a hundred feet into the air before subsiding. The world flickered back into darkness, but the waves, if anything, increased their intensity. Another roared, hissed, sighed, even louder than the peals of thunder that followed. Another.

Tal watched impassively from his rocky perch, high above even the spray. Only his cloak moved as it flowed out behind him, billowing and snapping in the gusting wind. Old eyes set against youthful features stared unblinking into the night, fixed upon the point where he knew the gaping maw of Eryth Mmorg lay. Another flash illuminated the oval of jagged rocks; the waves licked at them hungrily, waiting to devour any who ventured close.

Behind him lay the flat, barren rock that was Taag’s Peak. No life grew there, not even the hard, poisonous foliage that survived elsewhere in the wilderness. The obsidian surface was worn smooth by the constant buffeting wind; twenty paces from Tal it ended in another precipice, almost as sheer as the one he currently overlooked. Few men could gain Taag’s Peak, and fewer still desired to.

To the north, on the horizon beyond the pool, the darkness was suddenly broken by a dull red glow rising from Tawwas, last of the Broken Cities. Tal’s eyes cleared after a moment, flicked towards the light. The beacon seemed about to fade before blossoming into a ball of brilliant orange flame, searing light across the wastelands and burning into Tal’s head. He gasped, shutting his eyes for a moment, steadying.

How long had he gazed into the depths of Eryth Mmorg? Too long; the alarm was raised and his flight discovered. A cold, sharp pain clawed at his chest, something he had not felt in some time. Fear.

“Hold,” he murmured to himself, fixing his gaze once again upon the angry waters. “Hold.” It was very nearly done, despite his lapse in concentration.

“You are running, Tal’kamar. I warned you against running.” The sound rumbled around the peak, a presence rather than a voice.

Tal’s stomach twisted and he turned, searching for his pursuer.

“I know the truth,” he said quietly. He could see it now, at the far end of the peak but crawling towards him. A shadow, darker than the rest. A being not quite there. His master.

The creature chuckled, a sickening sound. “You do not know what truth is anymore. He was one man, Tal’kamar. He lied; you said it yourself. You slew him for his falsehood. You took his head and set it on a pike. You placed it at the Door of Iladriel as a reminder, for all to see! Do you not remember?” The shadow stopped, watching Tal. Waiting.

Tal hesitated, staring for a long moment into the gloom.

“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. His master’s presence was almost overpowering; for a moment Tal wanted only to grovel before his lord, beg that all be forgiven.

Then the moment passed, and he sensed a feeling of anticipation from the shadow – and something more, barely discernible. Something he had never felt before from his master.

Nervousness.

He continued, growing more confident with each word. “Yes,” he repeated slowly, “but I was mistaken. I followed the path he set me upon. I found proof.” He paused, his voice stronger now. “I went to Res Kartha. I asked the Lyth.” Stronger again. “I went to the Wells of Mor Aruil and spoke with the Keeper. I found Nethgalla at the Crossroads and tortured her until she told me all she knew.” Now he shouted, the rage of so many years finally released, a mighty roar that seemed to echo across all of Talan Gol and beyond. “I went deep beneath the mountains, beneath Ilin Tora itself. I found the Mirrors. I gazed into them and found one thing!” He stopped, panting, face twisted in grim triumph. “One truth above all others.”

The shadow crept closer, menacing now, the silver gone from its voice. “What did you find, Tal’kamar?” it hissed mockingly.

Tal drew a deep breath. “You are false.” He said it calmly, staring defiantly at the dark mass. “Completely, utterly false.”

He turned, gesturing downward towards the waters. A bright blue circle began to glow just above the waves, spinning ever-faster. When he turned back the shadow was at his face, filling his vision, its breath a foul stench on the air. It laughed, a filthy sound that contained only contempt.

“You cannot escape this place,” it snarled. “You cannot escape me.”

For the first time in years, Tal smiled.

“You are wrong. This time I go where Aarkein Devaed cannot follow,” he said softly.

He stepped backward, over the edge. Fell.

The shadow slithered forward, watching as Tal passed through the Gate and beyond reach. The whirling ring of blue fire flickered white for but a moment; then it was gone, with no trace of it ever having existed.

The creature stared at where it had been. The waves below were quieter now, as if appeased.

Suddenly it understood.

“The Waters of Renewal,” it hissed.

Its screams seemed to fill the world.

The blade traced a slow line of fire down his face.

He desperately tried to cry out, to jerk away, but the hand over his mouth prevented both. Steel filled his vision, grey and dirty. Warm blood trickled down the left side of his face, onto his neck, under his shirt.

There were only fragments after that.

Laughter. The hot stink of wine on his attacker’s breath.

A lessening of the pain, and screams - not his own.

Voices, high-pitched with fear, begging.

Then silence. Darkness.

Davian’s eyes snapped open.

The young man sat there for some time, heart pounding, breathing deeply to calm himself. Eventually he stirred from where he’d dozed off at his desk and rubbed at his face, absently tracing the raised scar that ran from the corner of his left eye down to his chin. It was pinkish-white now, had healed years ago. It still ached whenever the old memories threatened to surface, though.

He stood, stretching muscles stiff from disuse and grimacing as he looked outside. His small room high in the North Tower overlooked most of the school, and the windows below had all fallen dark. The courtyard torches flared and sputtered in their sockets, too, only barely clinging to life.