Chris Evans - The Light of Burning Shadows

“Then I need to learn more,” Alwyn said. There must be a way to use it. “The soldier that was burned did die, but his bond to the regiment was cut.”

“Yet he is still dead,” Nafeesah said, softening her voice. She started to weave her hands together above the scattered sand, reforming it into an orb. “Did you cremate his body?”

Alwyn hadn’t expected that. “No, we gave him a burial at sea.”

“How far away were you from here?”

“I don’t know, not that far. It was the last island before here. Why? What does it matter. He’s dead.”

Nafeesah muttered a curse. She quickly gathered up the last of the sand, and waving a hand over the box lid, put the sand back. “There are worse fates than death in this world.”

“I know,” Alwyn said.

“No, not everything you don’t. Rhal was said to be able to hold sway over creatures that could move between land and water. Great beasts gifted with his fire. Some say they were his children by a she-drake, but as four-legged creatures they were not suitable for his designs, so he sent them out to kill and bring him back the bodies.”

Alwyn remembered the shallow trench on the island. “Why? Why would he want bodies?”

Nafeesah shuddered. “Before he was wiped out by the storm, Kaman Rhal was building an army.”

“Why? Who was he going to war with?”

“All those from whom he had stolen knowledge.” Nafeesah sat up and turned to look at Alwyn. “Don’t you see, his library was so vast and his power so great because he took knowledge from wherever he could. It became an obsession. All that mattered was acquiring more.”

“Believe me, I understand that kind of thinking, but I still don’t understand the bodies.”

“Kaman Rhal couldn’t trust anyone. The more knowledge and power he acquired, the more he came to view it as his own. In the end, he trusted no one, save the she-drake, and their offspring, but they were not an army. So he collected bodies.”

“And did what with them?”

“He made an army he could trust, because he controlled them completely. Kaman Rhal created an army of the dead.”

T yul, now garbed in black, followed from a distance as the body of Kester Harkon was carried through the maze of back streets and alleyways of Nazalla. Several times the figures he pursued would pause and turn, looking back the way they had come. Each time they saw nothing out of the ordinary and continued. Had they looked up to the flat rooftops they still would have seen nothing, but they would have at least been looking in the right direction.

Tyul jumped lightly from roof to roof, his movements little more than a wisp of shadow. It was an odd sensation to be this high and not be surrounded by trees. Tears came to his eyes at the thought of the forest. In some part of his mind, he knew that following Chayii Red Owl had been the right thing to do, though that part receded deeper into the darkness with each passing day. As an elf in the Long Watch bonded with a Wolf Oak, he willingly took the solemn oath to protect the great forest from the Shadow Monarch. That the oath would take him so far from home had never occurred to him.

He leaped across an alley, then crouched low, as the figures below stopped and looked back again. Tyul remained motionless, waiting for the group to continue. Images of Black Spike came to his mind. To see the body of a Wolf Oak so desecrated pained him deeply. That Jurwan offered up his ryk faur to be used as a ship’s mast mystified Tyul, but then so much of the world made no sense to him. More tears welled up in his eyes. The pain enveloped him and it took all his concentration to block it out. The Wolf Oak was dead, yet something of it remained. Tyul felt it with every breath.

He knew, as all elves knew, that to have a Silver Wolf Oak as ryk faur was to risk your very sanity. Now, though, he saw it differently. His bonding with Rising Dawn had opened his mind to a plane of existence few elves would ever experience. He was closer to the natural order than most living things, and it was intoxicating and at times overwhelming. He knew, as few others ever would, that the spirit of the Wolf Oak really felt sorrow in its death as its limbs were slashed, its roots cut, its crown shorn, and its body desecrated with iron and made to serve on a sailing vessel, instead of being returned to the mukta ull, Mother Earth, to be reborn.

Tyul understood pain. He sensed it in Jurwan, too. They shared a bond, each affected by a Silver Wolf Oak, though Jurwan’s experience was very different. Tyul wondered again why they followed these men. He sensed nothing of the Shadow Monarch. But Jurwan had told him it was important, so for now he would track them as only he could, and when necessary, he would return them to the mukta ull.

The small group with the body moved on again, crossing an open space where several alleys met and disappearing around a corner. There were no buildings near enough to jump on. Jurwan chittered in his ear and Tyul leaped to the ground, landing softly on the hard-packed dirt. Instinctively he reached down to grab some earth, but came up with a handful of sand. It was cold and strange to the touch. There was power here, but different from the warm, vibrant energy of the great forest of the Hyntaland, different even from the force in Elfkyna. The grains of sand stung and he flung the handful away. He stood and ran silently across the open square and into a pitch-black alley, though with his elven eyes he was able to see enough to guide his way.

That saved both his and Jurwan’s life.

A dull, white sword swung out of the darkness aimed directly at his head. Tyul easily ducked the stroke and stepped forward, a wooden dagger, a bond weapon given to him by Rising Dawn, now gripped firmly in his left hand. The wood gleamed with energy, and a voice as if from a great distance filled the air as he plunged it into the heart of his attacker, the sound of wood scraping bone echoing off the walls around them.

The feeling of a thousand bee stings attacked Tyul’s hand. He let go of the dagger and withdrew his hand. As he did a rasping scream sprang from his assailant as the hood of its dark cloak fell back. Tyul looked with wonder into the eyes of the man he had just killed.

A grinning skull with black runes carved into it stared back at him. Each eye socket was aglow with a small, white flame.

Tyul stepped backward, clutching his hand to his chest. The skeletal man in front of him reached up with one hand and grabbed the hilt of Tyul’s dagger, still stuck in its chest. White fire burst to life and burned with an intensity that made Tyul shield his eyes. Soon the figure’s cloak was aflame and then burned away, revealing a skeleton in the shape of a man. But this had been no man.

The skeleton that stood before him was made of what appeared to be several different creatures. Tyul had seen enough animal carcasses to recognize several horse bones among others he did not. Most of the bones were cracked and ill-used. Many bore teeth marks. Where muscle and tissue had once held bones together, a wet, black tar now kept them in place.

A sane elf would have known to be afraid. Tyul was fascinated. What stood before him were elements of the natural order, but assembled and animated in a way that perverted that order. This close he felt the magic that kept the collection of bones together. Like the sand, it was old and bitter.

“I want to help you,” Tyul said, his voice soft with caring.

White flames still burned where his oath weapon remained stuck between two ribs of the skeleton. The spirit of Tyul’s ryk faurre, Rising Dawn, struggled against the flame. Jurwan peeked out from Tyul’s quiver and started pawing at the back of his neck. Tyul turned. Three more skeletons were closing in on him.