The Eye of Everfell
The Eye of Everfell
Book One of the Shadow Battles
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Eye of EVerfell (Shadow Battles, #1)
Map of Erseta
Prelude: Masiki
Chapter 1: Alaric
Chapter 2: Nyori
Chapter 3: Marcellus
Chapter 4: Nyori
Chapter 5: Alaric
Chapter 6: Marcellus
Chapter 7: Nyori
Chapter 8: Marcellus
Chapter 9: Nyori
Chapter 10: Valdemar
Chapter 11: Nyori
Chapter 12: Marcellus
Chapter 13: Valdemar
Chapter 14: Marcellus
Chapter 15: Nyori
Chapter 16: Valdemar
Chapter 17: Alaric
Chapter 18: Nyori
Interlude: Stormbrow
Interlude: Cully
Interlude: Worran
Chapter 19: Anon
Chapter 20: Marcellus
Chapter 21: Nyori
Chapter 22: Marcellus
Chapter 23: Nyori
Chapter 24: Marcellus
Chapter 25: Nyori
Chapter 26: Alaric
Chapter 27: Darvade
Postlude: Masiki
Shadow Battles Continues
Glossary
About the Author
By Bard Constantine
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
Published by BWB Publishing
Copyright 2018 Bard Constantine
Cover illustration by Shen Fei
Cover font designs by Ivan Zanchetta
All rights reserved.
This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
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Map of Erseta
"...WHILE THE SKY RUMBLES louder, and
the storm meets the sea in
a clash of elemental fury, the
sun softly kisses the faded
scars on your skin.
Your eyes speak of pain and joy and
sorrow and triumph, the
ghosts of dead dreams sparkle in
the scorn of your gaze, and
if I could change I would
change for your smile; and
if I could die I would
die to your laughter."
~Immortal Musings
Prelude: Masiki
The Man with Mirrored Eyes floated in a cocoon of music. The sight could be described no other way. He hovered horizontally in the middle of an unfurnished white room: no gilding, no carpeting, not a single stick of furniture. His black robes starkly contrasted to the room's brilliance, illumination that came seemingly from nowhere. Long, inky hair haloed his head as though he were underwater; his eyes were closed, his arms outstretched, his fingers directing the waves of sound that pulsed across the chamber.
Glyphs span around him in interlocking circles, characters of Apokrypy that shimmered in shades of vibrant color with every radiant note. Masiki stared, unashamed of her openmouthed astonishment. She was considered proficient in Apokrypy to the point of mastery, but what she witnessed was impossible to duplicate, or even fully comprehend for that matter. Controlling so many characters at once was much like gazing at the stars and interpreting an entire language from their arrangements. That kind of power could be used to topple kingdoms, alter the natural landscape of one's surroundings, even toy with the very fabric of reality.
He used it to create music.
The characters trickled across the air in rapid succession, each sequence indicating a different wave of instrumental sounds. Masiki had no idea how much time had been devoted to building such an intricate composition or even what form of music it was, only it was complex beyond imagining. She heard the strings, drums, horns, woodwinds, and sounds she could not even identify, all in perfect concert as The Man with Mirrored Eyes weaved his Craft in the musical form of molten gold to her ears. The notes soared, fireflies of melodic characters danced around him until he was nearly lost in the cloud of flickering Glyphs. The sound washed over and carried Masiki in its current until she was not aware of anything but the haunting melody...
Memories sprang from her mind unsummoned. Before the armies and fire, before streams of blood muddied the fields. She recalled flying along the seashore, the laughter in her voice as she frolicked with her brothers and sisters. The waves washed in azure shades, the taste of salty mist danced on her tongue...
She wasn't aware she wept on her knees until the music finally faded like a dying storm.
She heard his footsteps approach, but couldn't stop sobbing. There was a hole inside where the music had lived, a gaping wound it carved as it passed along its way. The melodies didn't just conjure up old memories as much as reanimate them, resurrecting details long forgotten in a manner so potent it felt more genuine than the reality. Every time she tasted the melodies he crafted, notes she could only describe as celestial, the result was the same. Sorrow and joy, loss and triumph twined together in one soul-shuddering package.
He gently touched her shoulder. The pain slowly lessened, the cavity of emptiness filled with his power, his irresistible presence. She clutched the hand that touched her and looked up into the transparent eyes of her Master.
Masiki had never seen anyone with irises like his. They were devoid of color, only distinguished from the whites because they were highly reflective, like polished mirrors. The pupils were eclipsed moons, black pits haloed by silvery brilliance.
"I did not know you had returned." Even his voice was filled with music. It was mellifluous, almost hypnotic in tone. "I would not have subjected you to my composition unprepared."
Masiki hastily wiped her face. "I did not wish to disturb you, Master. In truth, I wanted to listen. I...cannot express how beautiful it is. I always wish it would never end."
His smile caused her heart to quicken until it hurt. "I am grateful for your company, Masiki. It is ever lonely in this place without the presence of other intelligent beings."
She could only imagine. With only speechless creatures outside for company, she did not see how he had not been driven to madness ages ago.
"I have done as you commanded, Master. The fires started long ago have spread as you predicted. Soon they will rage beyond control."
His lips quirked. "Of course they will. Humankind is ever driven by storm and flame. They rage and blow about, heave and crash, burn and destroy. They will take what transpires as chaotic happenstance. By the time they discover it is manipulated, it will be too late."
Masiki did not question him. His plans were as complex as the threads of music he composed, perhaps even more so. She was content to remain on her knees and watch as a table suddenly materialized before him. There was no sensation, no way to discern the Crafts he wielded. Nature, reality–nothing was a bar to the feats he performed seemingly with the greatest ease. He could do anything, she realized. Nothing was impossible for him.
Except to escape the prison he was trapped in.
On the table was a turanga board with intricately carved figures, arranged as though he played against an unseen oppone
nt. He picked up one of the pieces, an armored knight with an upraised sword.
The Warrior.
"How ironic," The Man with Mirrored Eyes said. "The very one who delivered you to me will set into motion the events that will lead to my freedom. What would he think if he knew the consequence of his actions? If he knew whom it was he negotiated with when he brought you to me?"
He returned the piece, and slowly picked up another, carved into a woman with a staff. "But before the Warrior can come into play, the Maiden must precede him. It has been the condition of man since the dawn of their time. No matter how they imagine otherwise, it is the female who leads. This one is close. It is time to activate the Eye of Everfell."
He placed the figure back on the board. The wall behind him shimmered and became transparent, revealing the view beyond. Masiki wanted to close her eyes, but would not shame herself before her Master. She forced herself to rise and stand beside him.
The Man with Mirrored Eyes looked beyond the view as though seeing the promise of emancipation to come. "So long. So long since I have been kissed by a cool breeze, or enjoyed the taste of rain. You are my deliverance, Masiki. After tilling and planting for ages, my seeds finally bear fruit. Soon my bonds will wither like dry grass, and I will feel the wind on my face again. The day comes swiftly, Masiki. I will touch the world once more, and bring the storm against those who betrayed me."
His eyes glazed as his mind drifted to the realm of bygone memory. Masiki was left free to shudder at the sight she never became accustomed to. No matter how many times she returned, the view of the landscape outside always gripped her heart like squeezing fingers. Always struck her cold with fear.
The world was on fire.
Jagged, broken fingers of ebony stone jutted haphazardly in chaotic formations. Black-armored figures were barely distinguishable against the rocky backdrop as they toiled at their tasks, while creatures on leathery wings sailed across the flaming horizon. Flaring scars of pitch crisscrossed the blackened rock, and smoke roiled upward endlessly toward a sky as red as the rivers, a sky that roared with shifting masses of eternal flame.
Masiki left The Man with Mirrored Eyes to his reflections, grateful to depart from that world of fire, the only prison that could contain his indomitable power. Though she could enter and leave the realm at will, her Master was imprisoned by bonds shackled to the very fabric of his being. But soon she would unravel the cords that bound him. Soon she would earn his gratitude and be regarded as an equal, worthy of standing by his side.
She exited his chamber and strode down the sinuously winding hallway, pausing at a grand mirror that reflected just as her Master's eyes did. The surface revealed a tall, willowy woman with an alluring face, dark eyes and even darker hair that hung in luxurious waves to her shoulders. It was not her true form, but it suited her purposes. It was what she needed to accomplish her Master's will. She smiled at her reflected self. The time was coming.
Soon.
Chapter 1: Alaric
Alaric Aelfvalder cursed the rain. It fell incessantly, a waterfall from a gaping sky that pounded the earth with liquid fists. It was another enemy, reducing visibility and causing every step to be suspect. Alaric's footing was slippery one moment, sucking in thick mud the next.
Yet normality was not a word that applied in Everfell. It shifted, altered, and reshaped itself at the whims of whoever controlled its aether-like nature. Alaric had entered the expanse in pursuit of Leilavin, and she had fashioned her apportioned realm in her own erratic image. Everything–the elements, the structures—all of it was bound to her. Binding properties in that way was more risk than it was worth, but her fear had made her irrational. Everfell was her haven, but at the same time her prison, trapping her in a cell of her own paranoia.
Alaric smiled, despite himself. Leilavin had not feared him at first. She learned quickly, however.
Lightning flickered, transforming each drop of rain into an individually glittering lunestone for one spectacular second. Alaric blinked from the afterglow, trying to adjust his vision. The surrounding courtyard was a twisted maze of haphazard pillars, monuments, and statues in various stages of decay. There was no sign of the specters that hunted him, but he knew they were close. In ordinary rain against ordinary foes, obscured vision wouldn't have mattered. But those he battled were far from ordinary. They were the Reavers. They sought him out, on his trail as surely as hounds that had caught the scent of their quarry.
Alaric had slain three of the six, but he already felt extraordinarily drained from the effort. His triumph and his exhaustion were both credited to the glittering sword in his fist. He had endured much to possess the shimmering weapon, suffered the terrible cost of venturing into Ersetla Tari, the underworld of lies and shifting shadows. Alaric had fought his way past bestial foes and survived games of madness before entering a hidden Threshold and facing something entirely worse.
The Man with Mirrored Eyes smiled, his inky hair flailing across his face from the torrid winds. Behind him was a nightmarish display of haphazard stone and dying comets, almost lost against a backdrop of roiling flame. Yet he was not unsettled by the boiling temperature nor the twisted creatures soaring above. He was in his element, a prince of darkness in the heart of his domain.
His eyes flashed crimson, reflecting the flames. "You wish for the power to defeat Leilavin? I can deliver it if you are worthy, Alaric Aelfvalder, lord of the Co'nane. But is your will strong enough? Can you swallow truths bitter enough to poison the strongest soul?"
"I can face anything," Alaric said. The blistering heat devoured the sweat that poured from his face. The landscape rippled and waned, blurring his vision. He shielded his eyes, trying to focus on the figure in black. "Anything to save my people from Leilavin and her cursed Reavers. What is it that you require?"
"One thing." The Man stretched his slender fingers toward Alaric's head.
Alaric's shudder had nothing to do with the pouring rain. The things he had seen, the truths he had learned...no, he would not think of it. The important thing was he survived, emerging with one of the rarest fusorbs as his reward. A weapon powerful enough to destroy the Reavers and deliver his people. Mothros, it was called. In the True Verse, the name meant Devourer of Souls.
Alaric took the battle to the Reavers, meeting them in the passes of the Dragonspine where he cut their numbers in half. But the sword had its price. Every time he wielded the glowing blade he felt drained, as though the blade fed off his own vitality.
He should have known. Legend said Brandon the Paladin had forsaken the fusorb. The corrupted vessel became parasitic shortly after. Once bonded with, it was not easily cast aside. The skin of Alaric's hands was nearly translucent; blue veins pulsed clearly beneath. He had pushed himself too far, too soon.
He fell back to try to regain his strength, but it never fully returned. The sword that had once been light as a feather soon became heavy as lead. Every step he took seemed to require more effort. He knew he most likely went to his death when he decided to press on into Everfell. But he would not fail his people, even if it meant returning to the horrors he had seen, the unspeakable betrayal that awaited all his kind when mortality reached out to snatch them from their world.
Mothros hummed excitedly in Alaric's hands. He ducked as a black blade whistled by where his head had been only a moment before. The heavy stone pillar he had been leaning against was clove neatly in two. He rolled away as it crashed down, breaking apart against the wet flagstones. Leaping to his feet, he raised Mothros against the rushing attack of the Reaver.
Alaric was tall, but the Reaver topped him by head and shoulders and was twice as wide. Its dull black armor plate was engraved with Glyphs of Sentience, allowing Leilavin to control it by mental command. The intricate runes were scarlet, as though branded into the armor by liquid fire. Spikes studded the heavy plate like thistles, and a great horned helm completely covered its head. Only the narrow slits in the visor were exposed, revealing flaring crimson e
mbers. The black blade it carried was as long as Alaric was tall.
Steam wafted from the ebon metal; the rain that spattered against it sizzled.
The death-blade met Mothros in a shower of sparks, shoving Alaric back. The other two Reavers approached behind the first, drawn to the power of Mothros like vultures to the stench of death. Together they would be too powerful for him, especially in his weakened state.
Alaric rushed forward, heedless of his opponent's blade. It hummed as it missed Alaric by inches. His counterattack caught the Reaver off guard. Mothros hissed as it sheared the black armor, nearly cutting the Reaver in two.
It crumpled without a sound, cracking the paved stones with the impact of its heavy body. The ember eyes flickered out like snuffed candles; smoke billowed from the cracks and cavities in the armor. Alaric knew if he probed, it would only be an empty shell.
The other two froze for a moment, arms outstretched, and a gasping sigh escaped them. Alaric had learned from bitter experience that the Reavers were linked somehow, so the remaining gained in power every time a member of their party fell. The last two came at him eagerly, any sign of weariness extinguished, their pace hastened.
Alaric held Mothros aloft. The blade was brighter than the lightning that flashed around them. "Which of you is next, then?" He beckoned with his free hand as his long, silver-white hair flailed across his face. Once the strands had glimmered like threads of gold, but that was before he picked up Mothros.
The blade drank of his soul but grew more powerful, shining as though he held pure starlight in his fist. With a roar he brought the blade against the first Reaver, shearing through its obsidian sword and continuing into the heavy armor. The resulting flash was blinding as the Reaver simply exploded, the shrapnel of smoking black armor skidding across the stony walkway. Alaric tottered and fell to one knee, chest heaving as he leaned on Mothros to keep from collapsing.
It was then the last Reaver attacked.