Read Rise of the Dead Prince Online
Authors: Brian A. Hurd
Rise of the Dead Prince
RISE OF THE
DEAD PRINCE
BRIAN A. HURD
Copyright © 2014 by Brian A. Hurd.
Library of Congress Control Number: | 2014915574 | |
ISBN: | Hardcover | 978-1-4990-6815-3 |
Softcover | 978-1-4990-6816-0 | |
eBook | 978-1-4990-6817-7 |
All rights reserved. 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 permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
Rev. date: 12/03/2014
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Contents
24 Magic, Black in Wing and Claw
26 The Second Battle for Targov
56 The Rise of the Dead Prince
D
eep in the darkening swamp of Arnovo, the three swiftly moving shadows came to a silent stop. The air had grown colder again. The murk of coming night crept in from all sides, closing like an ominous fist around them. Master Virag held up his gloved hand, causing his two subordinates to instantly freeze in place. All was still, as if the three had suddenly become lifeless statues. Despite the fact that they had been running at speed for over a mile, not even a hound’s ear would have heard a breath from any of
them.
Wrapped entirely in black robes with headdresses to match, the shadows of Gunar were no ordinary men. Trained from boyhood in the art of stealth, they were the eyes and ears of the king of Gunar. Their reputation was so great that it was said that no normal man could look upon one of them and hold the image in his mind after he had looked away. The truth was a darker thing, counted in the blood of innumerable innocent bystanders over the centuries. Slowly, Virag lowered his
arm.
“Do you see it, boy?” asked the aging master. There was a long pause. The youngest of the three peered into the darkness ahead with his hazel eyes, straining to perceive anything of interest. Like all young shadows, he had not earned a true name yet, but among the brothers, he was known as I
mrus.
“I see nothing, master,” the boy admitted at last. Virag nodded imperceptibly in the gloom then turned his head slightly to the other
side.
“And what of you, dark one?” he asked the other shadow, a man known among the brothers as Moric. He too was nameless after twenty years as a shadow and would likely remain so for another ten, if he lived that long. Of the three, he was the only one that was not copper complexioned. Rather, his skin was the color of tilled earth, like the people of the deserts in the far
West.
“Nothing, master,” replied Moric almost at once. There was a hint of irritation in his deep voice. It was a sign of his growing unrest. Virag had led the mission far beyond its original scope, and Moric knew it. His mind was exceptionally sharp, and it had been apparent to him for some time that they had no business this far into the swamp. Master Virag scoffed and cracked a humorless smile, causing the pristine mask of his stoic face to turn into something nearly human, if only for a mo
ment.
“Of course,” muttered Virag to his junior companions. “When I ask it like that, what else could you say?” A slightly warmer breeze blew in from the west, stirring the leaves on the damp earth and sending a ripple through the silken cloaks of the shadows. “Rather, let me ask, what do you
feel
ahead?” The two subordinates thought about it for a time, and then the boy s
poke.
“I feel the wind, and the unnatural cold deepening,” he said cautiously. Again, the master no
dded.
“And you, westerner?” he asked of M
oric.
“The same,” he muttered laconic
ally.
“Very well,” said Virag, “then let me tell you what these old eyes see and what these aching bones feel.” The master drew a pristine dagger from his sash and pointed forward with it. It was an ancient gesture that meant one thing only. Stealth had failed, and it was time for blood. On the hilt of the master’s blade was the shape of a silver rose. It glinted faintly in the low light. The keen weapon had been presented to him in the secret chamber of the king on the day of his naming and by the king himself. The name Virag meant “flower” in the ancient Gunar tongue, deemed appropriate at the time because of a mission of great import that had brought two traitors to justice based on a conversation held in the royal gardens. It was said that the master had heard every word, and without disturbing a single petal nor leaving a single footprint in the loam. He was a true elite among the shadows, perhaps the greatest of them, and now he had resorted to the blade; it was a measure that meant dishonor and often death. The master let the others take in his words and the action that had foll
owed.
“On the horizon, beyond sight of this glowing moon, there is nothingness. These eyes of mine see it, only because of what is not there. These bones of mine, which I have trusted for years beyond your measure of life, feel something unmistakable and damning. There are eyes upon us, eyes that give no sound and leave no t
race.”
The tension struck the younger shadows, and their bodies stiffened. With strained senses, they waited in the dark. When the breeze had passed, they moved toward each other, back to back, covering all angles with their s
ight.
Something stirred. Quick as a blink, Moric drew his dagger and hurled it with a whistle through the night air. It struck a tree and stood buried there. The others moved to face it, circling around to Moric’s sides. With two silent strides forward, they saw that which was dangling below the blade’s edge, leaking thick dark blood. It was a serpent, twitching and coiling, its muscles contracting and releasing from the point driven through its head. Another dishonor, for the blades of shadows were meant only for the hearts and throats of men. Moric scoffed in disgust, but the master did not make any sign of rebuke. Imrus stood wide-eyed with dagger in hand, relieved that it had not been his blade that now protruded from the thin bark of the cypress before
them.
“It is my shame,” muttered the dark-skinned man. Virag answered at
once.
“It will not be reported,” he said curtly. There was urgency in his voice, and his stare had returned to the original direction. His eyes narrowed, and he let out a deep sigh. “Ready your bird, boy, and give this message as I state it.” Imrus drew out a pigeon from his inner pocket and unraveled the strip of rare papyrus on its leg. With a fine-pointed quill in his other hand, he prepared to take down the master’s words and translate them into the coded language of the shadow o
rder.
“The southern border is quiet. The Valahians are ignorant. We who drink the deep will drink deeper. There is something in Arnovo.” Imrus was pressed to make the message fit but managed the last words carefully in a smaller script. Once finished, the master nodded, and the boy released the bird to the
sky.
“Our path lies ahead. Fear not to let your blade fly. We deal with shadows as deadly as ourselves,” said the older man. With that, the master launched forward to a run, and the others foll
owed.
For perhaps another half mile, they sped on until at last Virag raised his hand again. This time, they all saw what the master shadow had. Ahead there was a wall of black, unlike anything known to any man of Gunar. Nothing could be perceived beyon
d it.
“Magic,” muttered Moric in his deep voice. He gripped his blade tightly. Virag gave the signal, and the three men crept stealthily forward until they came to the border of the nothingness. Standing at the edge, the master put his arm forward blade first. It vanished into the pitch. Drawing it back at once, the old man stifled a cry of pain. He dropped the blade into the mud, and the others came forward to see what had happened. With wide eyes, they saw what had become of the master’s arm. It was like that of a man grown decrepit by eighty years or more, bony and venous, the spindly fingers trembling with infir
mity.
Suddenly, coldness seeped into all of them. The ground began to freeze over, the pungent puddles and mud hardening with frost and newly formed ice. A quiet thrumming filled the air above them, coupled with a slight crackling. The shadows looked in all directions frantically. The master stooped and took up his dagger with his left hand, the ruined one dangling at his side li
mply.
“Name yourself, demon,” intoned Virag around his agony. What followed was a rasping laughter that came from all around, passing through the shadow men and turning their insides into quivering w
ater.
“Dogs of Gunar,”
came a voice like death itself.
“Prepare yourselves and despair. Your deaths will not be gentle.”
With that, a strand of pure pitch lashed out from the darkness and snared the elder shadow around the throat. He fell to the frosted earth, grasping with his good arm and letting out a stifled scream. His subordinates watched on in horror, for no torture known to them could cause a master shadow to succumb to
pain.
“Can you taste the dark?”
rasped the icy voice. Suddenly, more strands, a dozen or more, enveloped the old master completely like tendrils. Virag managed a whisper, even as his clothing and flesh were being stripped
away.
“Moric
…
Your bird,” coughed the master, forcing the words even as the blood streamed from his mouth. Fighting the tremors in his hands, the dark man fumbled into his inner pocket. The ends of the umbral bindings sharpened to points and then plunged into Virag, groping and curling around in his body like probing needles. Again the old man cried out hoarsely. He was tasting the
dark.
Taken by the heat of the moment, Imrus flew into action, charging to the master and slashing wildly at the strands. The blade passed into the darkness as if it were water, making only the slightest ripple as it did so. The icy laughter filled the air again, and the tendrils tightened. Meanwhile, Moric struggled to keep his hands steady as he hastily scrawled on the strip of papyrus. With every shudder and writhing twitch of the master, the two remaining shadows felt the cold taking them ever deeper into
fear.
“We go to the fire,”
wrote Moric,
“Send no more. A master of death lurks in Arnovo.”
As the dark-skinned man finished his message and hastily attached it, the darkness enveloped him as well, causing him to grip the bird tightly and pouring pure pain through his body. He fell to the ground screaming, leaving Imrus to watch on in ho
rror.
“Do it!” Moric managed to shriek to the boy, and at once, Imrus understood. Reaching into another pocket, he withdrew the final resort. It was a large cylinder sealed tightly with a cap, and he ripped it open. The young shadow looked at it only for the briefest moment and then began to cast the liquid inside around them, dousing the master and Moric as he did so. With the final contents, he poured the liquid on his head and then jumped forward toward the master, dagger in hand. Virag had gone limp in the embrace of the strands, but the occasional twitches told that he was still a
live.
All the while, the laughter of the ethereal voice continued, completely indifferent to the boy’s actions. Imrus took one more look at the master and then plunged his dagger into the old man’s chest, ending his torture. He moved to do the same for Moric, who was being dragged from side to side like a doll as he writhed on the frigid ground. Imrus went to cut the man’s throat, but a sudden strand from the pitch snared his hand at the wrist and snapped it like a twig. The boy did not cry out, but then the strand pulled tighter and snapped his arm as well, causing him to gasp. With a desperate lunge toward Moric, Imrus saw the bird in his hand. Hoping against hope that it had not been crushed, the boy pried the bird from Moric’s hand and threw it into the air. To his surprise, it began to flutter and take fl
ight.
There was only one thing left to do. Fighting the agony in his fettered arm, the boy drew a flintstone from his robe, and seeing the dagger where it lay, he struck it as hard as he could manage. It only took one spark, and then the ground exploded into an instant blaze. The bodies of the shadows were suddenly engulfed in blue flame, eating away their clothing in mere seconds. Honor demanded that their corpses should never be identifi
able.
“Such resolve
…
,”
said the cold voice,
“should not be without re
ward.”
A thousand needles of darkness shot out at once through the flames, and the boy was pierced by them all. The flames were as nothing compared with the anguish he felt in that moment, and it was a moment that lingered on for a time beyond the measure of mere cruelty. As Moric’s body went still, thoroughly mangled, the boy saw one last image with his dying
eyes.
It was of a pigeon, falling to the ground, dead as a s
tone.