Heart of Shadows Read online

  Second Chronicle of the Shaman:

  Heart of Shadows

  Martin Ash

  Also by Martin Ash

  Moonblood (First Chronicle of the Shaman)

  Citadel (Third Chronicle of the Shaman)

  Enchantment’s Reach (Volumes I – VI)

  Copyright ©2016 by Martin Ash. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be replicated, redistributed, transferred, leased, licensed, reproduced or publicly performed or used in any way without the prior written consent of the author/publisher. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Copyright©2016 Outside Publishing & Martin Ash

  Second Chronicle of the Shaman:

  HEART OF SHADOWS

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  CAVEAT: THE BOOK OF THE BEGINNING

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  Many nations, Darch among them, elected long ago to deny the existence of the original Myth of the Earliest Days. So profound is the fear of its message that all references to the myth in any other than the approved, most recent version (which itself predates history) have been expunged. The Darch Old Texts, written more than four millennia past, affirm the approved version to be the original. Acknowledgement of any other version is forbidden by Darch law, upon pain of death.

  This law is not widely known, for good reason. The existence of the law in itself admits the existence of that which it denies. Nevertheless, the law must exist in order that civilization’s course may be maintained by those who rule, without deviation or upheaval.

  Traveller, be conscious, then: to read what follows, to gain knowledge of the Shadowed Heart and all that it imports, will place you outside the law where such knowledge is suppressed. To speak of what you have read will almost certainly commit you to a position of mortal danger.

  But to understand is to tear through the veil of the past and look upon the world anew.

  ‘…and so she cast him from her, believing that he must perish but knowing that for the remainder of his days he would be bound to search fruitlessly for what had been taken from him.

  And she took herself away in sorrow and anguish, for all she had struggled for had been in vain. She languished alone for a thousand long years and more, outcast and reviled by those she had loved, until at last death brought her release.

  But he did not die. He became like the demons, immortal and diabolic, a hollow creature given to depravity and grotesque mischiefs. He stalked the earth alone, seeking, always seeking, feeding upon others, taking pleasure in their forms, delighting in their suffering.

  And it is said that he is still upon the world, and there are folk steeped in iniquity and debasement who worship him and seek to help him find his fullness.

  But she, who gave him life, who loved him and brought forth their children, she who was forced to cast him from her… she is gone forever.’

  Extracted from the Forbidden Myth

  PART ONE

  I

  ‘Leave it!’

  Edric’s voice cut harshly through the stifling air. The others looked up in surprise. Edric’s expression was wild.

  ‘Edric, my friend, what’s the matter?’ Master Atturio stood firm and unflustered. In the torchlight he half-smiled. ‘Leave it? Surely, you’re not serious? But if that’s so, this is hardly an appropriate moment for humour.’

  Edric had backed away a step, his eyes wide. Edric, who in just hours would be dead, looked now as though he’d witnessed a premonition of his end. His face was pale and gleaming, his dark-hair stuck with sweat to his forehead. His eyes reflected the flames of the two torches which were all that lit the breathless chamber.

  ‘We should leave it,’ he repeated, his voice cracking. ‘We shouldn’t be here. It’s not our place. And this… thing! Can’t you feel it?’

  ‘I feel the anticipation of a healthy profit when Master Atturio divides up the proceeds of this venture,’ replied Gully, the former soldier, now Master Atturio’s lieutenant. ‘And now, with the addition of this beauty, I expect my pockets to be all the heavier.’

  They all stared at the object embedded in the rock behind the false wall. Gully hefted his pick. ‘C’mon, lads. The sooner we get it free the sooner we’ll be out of here.’

  ‘No!’ Edric shook his head frantically, taking another step back, his hands held in front of him as if warding off something unseen. ‘We must leave it! I feel it. It’s unnatural!’

  Master Atturio moved to place his hands on Edric’s shoulders. ‘Edric, if you feel so strongly about this, leave us. Join young Sildemund outside with the wagons. Wait for us there. You’ll receive your share, have no fear of that.’

  An edge of authority had crept into Master Atturio’s voice. ‘We’ll discuss it later. For now, if you won’t help us, leave us to the task of releasing this wonderful gem from its fetters and exploring the remainder of this place.’

  ‘It’s no gem!’ Edric protested, transfixed by the thing they’d partially uncovered. From what was so far visible it appeared roughly oval in form, a dark stone, smooth, though asymmetrical. It was perhaps the size of a sheep’s bladder, deep reddish in hue, lined with broken, irregular bands of a darker colour, and streaked with thin filaments of yellowish-white. To Edric’s eyes the colours seemed unfixed, pulsing just perceptibly as though with some unnatural energy or life force. It was enclosed in a strange, cage-like structure, composed of grimy, off-white bars of unidentifiable metal. There was something engraved on a plaque on the front of the cage, a twisting, serpentine emblem, badly cracked and eroded, impossible to properly make out.

  ‘It’s no gem!’ he repeated, and glared wretchedly into Master Atturio’s face. ‘We mustn’t disturb it. I can’t say how I know this, but I do. I’m telling you. We mustn’t disturb it. We must leave it here and go.’

  The others watched; one or two exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘You’re still not well, Edric. Your fever hasn’t gone yet.’ Master Atturio spoke with deliberate volume. His hands exerted pressure on Edric’s shoulders, propelling him gently but determinedly back. ‘Go now. Wait for us above. We’ll join you as soon as we’re done here.’

  Edric retreated. He hesitated at the foot of the crumbling stone stair that led up to the entrance of the grotto, and turned back with a tormented expression, as if on the verge of one last appeal. But Master Atturio had ordered his men back to work and none now glanced Edric’s way.

  ~

  They’d come upon this place an hour or so earlier. It was by chance, as they perceived it, and as it provided adequate cover and a view of the surrounding land Master Atturio had declared it suitable for the night’s camp.

  Two days before, en route for the border crossing that would take them out of Tulmua back into their homeland of Darch, they’d stopped for the night at a wayside inn. There they learned of increased activity by both Tulmu and Darch guards at the border crossing. Travellers wanting to pass into either of the two countries were obliged to undergo far more rigorous searches than was usual.

  Speculation in the inn’s common room was of a link with the siege of Garsh, a remote Tulmu hill-town, the enclave and virtual prison of a community of religious cultists. Tulmu troops had the town surrounded, denying entry or exit to all. Rumours told of a massacre, though there was nothing substantive.

  A second line of conjecture – which might also have been linked with Garsh – claimed that the border guards were searching for an escaped murderer. Tales were of a couple of particularly grisly deaths and the theft
of a considerable sum of money. But no one really knew, and the guards themselves were tight-lipped. Plainly, though, they were looking for someone or something of high importance.

  This was a blow for Master Atturio.

  He was a trader, Atturio Frano, from the port city of Volm, situated at the mouth of the river Tigrant on Darch’s southern coast. He regularly travelled this road, transporting merchandise between Darch, Tulmua and Thonce, and on occasion travelling further afield into Barulia, Hunvut and even Sirroma. He dealt mostly in silks, spices and sundry exotica brought from the far southern lands across the blue Yphasian Ocean, which were borne to Darch on wallowing merchantmen with billowing sails of yellow, blue or red. The ships were crewed by nimble, ebony-skinned seamen, short of stature, who spoke in an incomprehensible tongue and were prepared to barter and haggle and release their cargoes at favourable prices.

  Over the years Master Atturio had built up a profitable business. He had gained a reputation for reliability and honest dealings among his many clients. The fact that certain of the goods he sometimes chose to carry were deemed over-exotic in the eyes of the authorities was no deterrent. There was a ready – if not open – market for such merchandise, and prices paid could be handsome indeed.

  Well-concealed compartments in his wagons ensured that contraband would be revealed only under the most assiduous of searches. Border guards were easily persuaded to look the other way in return for a modest donation of liquor, narcotics or trinkets of one kind or another for their wives or lovers. Master Atturio was not alone in practising his trade to its fullest reach, and though he had on occasion been obliged to hand over somewhat larger gifts than intended, he had never encountered serious difficulties.

  But the situation now appeared grave. More than one of the inn’s clients reported arrests of merchants on both sides of the crossing. Goods were impounded and the offenders held in chains or, in the case of those arrested in Darch, escorted under guard back to Dharsoul, the Darch capital.

  Such measures were almost unheard of. Two, perhaps three, times a year, by clandestine accommodation between customs and Merchant’s Guild, a merchant, chosen by lot and in full collusion, would be ‘uncovered’ while passing through border control. All illegal goods would be impounded and the ‘criminal’ handed a significant fine. This would of course be paid secretly out of Guild funds, and he would then be released within two or three days at most.

  By this means everyone was kept happy: the merchants because international trade could continue unhindered; the guards, because the bulk of the confiscated goods would be circulated among them at tantalisingly low prices; and not least the authorities, who were able to demonstrate the application of justice in accordance with the laws of the lands, while simultaneously reaping reward from the unofficial sale of the goods.

  So whatever was afoot at the border now was obviously of no little import. The last time any such similar restrictions had been in place was more than a decade ago, at the time of the Darch rebellion. Scandal and corruption in high places had been rife then, and brought about a violent uprising that challenged the Crown. For a time the country had seemed close to civil war, though it was impossible to know exactly what was going on. Understandably, the borders had been virtually sealed until the rebellion was quashed. But this… this was something different.

  Master Atturio had given free vent to a string of choice expletives, then set himself to pondering his options. They seemed bleak. He did not dare risk arrest. The goods he carried were of substantial value. Discovered, they would earn him heavy tolls at least, and likely an uncomfortable spell behind bars, not to mention loss of revenue. But short of taking a long detour, adding as much as two weeks to his journey time, there was no alternative route back to Volm.

  It was Gully who had come up with the solution. A former battalion scout with the Darch army, he knew of a way through the hills that would avoid the crossing. It was circuitous, but not impassable for the wagons. He was confident he could lead Master Atturio’s party safely over the frontier, to rejoin the main Volm road inside Darch with a time loss of no more than four days or so.

  So they had set out from the inn at daybreak, travelled for several hours, and in lonely countryside safe from prying eyes Gully had directed them from the road into Tulmua’s parched wildlands.

  Now they were past the frontier, had advanced without mishap, and were making their way down through the hills towards the Volm road. A landslip in a canyon through which they would have passed forced them to make another detour, but fortunately Gully had been forewarned of this by a customer with whom he had spoken briefly at the inn. Gully thus took the party via a route suggested by the fellow, which skirted the canyon some distance before they reached it, and added only a few more hours to the journey.

  It was here that they had come upon the ruin – if ruin it was. To begin with, they were not aware that anything had ever stood there. Time, perhaps aided by the hands of men, had erased almost all traces of anything other than the work of nature. Gully had simply identified the low, flat-crested knoll from a distance – a basalt extrusion from some forgotten volcanic shift, now overgrown. Master Atturio sent him forward to investigate. Gully returned and reported a gentle slope on the knoll’s lee-side, and a suitable plateau at the crest, well covered with dense pines and massive boulders.

  It was after they had established camp that Picadus, one of Master Atturio’s party, had remarked casually on the form of the clearing in which they rested. Moments later, after half-hearted investigations, he had pointed to what he perceived as regular impressions and rises in the ground.

  ‘A construction of some sort once occupied this area,’ he declared. ‘Look. Here is the line of a wall. And here, a break for an entrance, and the ground level rises. I’d say there were steps where this slope is.’

  The outlines Picadus indicated were so vague as to be almost indiscernible, and the others showed little interest. But then Dervad, gathering wood for a fire at the edge of the clearing, startled a stout buck rabbit from its rest. The animal bolted into a scrub of myrtle and took refuge in a hollow under a boulder. The men gave chase, anticipating a good rabbit stew as the evening drew in.

  The bolthole proved larger than was initially perceived. No amount of probing with sticks and poles could reveal its limit, nor persuade the quarry to exit. So the men took picks and spades, determined to flush the rabbit from its hiding-place.

  A minute of furious work enlarged the opening to the hollow enough to make it plain that they were standing at the entrance to some kind of concealed grotto. And Picadus, peering into its black depths, pointed out the narrow stone steps rudely hacked out of the pitted rock and ancient soil, which led into the earth.

  Master Atturio, who until now had taken no part in the operation, became intrigued and ordered a further widening of the entrance. It was quickly discovered that the natural rock around the entrance would permit entry only in single file. Master Atturio had torches brought and, leaving his son, Sildemund, to tend the camp, he led the way into the gloomy orifice.

  Their initial search uncovered nothing except a musty cavern, naturally formed, which was apparently untouched in long ages. It was of no great size. They thought at first that it was unoccupied. Then something came suddenly from concealment, hurtling at them low and swift, glimpsed only as a brownish blur in the dark.

  The men yelled, and leapt willy-nilly in terror of their lives, their cries resounding in the enclosed space. Dervad badly grazed an elbow on the cavern wall. Then the foe was identified: the big buck rabbit, forgotten in the excitement of the cave’s discovery. Their alarm gave way to sheepish laughter, cries of relief, and curses as the rabbit fled up the steps to freedom.

  The laughter relieved the tension that had built up as they had descended into the cavern. At Master Atturio’s bidding they explored the grotto’s furthest corners.

  A word from Picadus brought the others rushing to his side. His torchflame had revealed a ga
ping crevice lined with glittering walls. Diamonds! Gems! They crowded forward eagerly, but their hopes were dashed as Master Atturio pronounced the find to be worthless, nothing more than a sizeable igneous geode lined with common pyrite crystals.

  Disappointed, they searched on until presently Master Atturio shook his head. ‘There’s nothing here, lads. It’s simply a natural cave. But no matter. Let’s go back up and eat.’

  ‘These steps aren’t natural,’ Picadus said. ‘They were hewn long ago by someone unknown, to give access to this secret place. It had a purpose, a use of some kind. There has to be something here.’

  ‘A hermit’s dwelling, perhaps.’

  ‘Maybe. But I tell you, a building stood outside. And if that was so, why make steps into a cave outside if not for some determined purpose?’

  Master Atturio raised an eyebrow. ‘Is this not a case of putting the cart before the horse? I would imagine our hermit, or whoever lived here, made this his dwelling first, then built a more comfortable home outside in which he subsequently took up residence.’

  ‘We’d be foolish to leave until we’re absolutely certain that there’s nothing to be found,’ Picadus insisted. He grabbed a spade and began to dig at a mound of rubble in one corner. The others watched for a minute or so until he ceased, streaked with sweat, glaring angrily at the hole he had made.

  Beneath the rubble was solid rock, nothing more.

  On a whim, or out of frustration, Gully hefted his pickaxe and struck hard at the cavern wall. Surprisingly, instead of merely chipping the hard rock, the head sank deep. Gully frowned, and wrenched the pick free. As it came out of the wall it brought with it flakes of mortar or stucco and a shower of small stones.