The Shattered Prophecy

THE SHATTERED PROPHECY

by David Standeven

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 © David Standeven

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Smashwords License Statement

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To Michael, who patiently endured listening to my endless incomprehensible ideas.

To Marie and Matthew, my first fans.

To Kathleen, who made this readable.

To Jennifer, who helped ensure this would see the light of day.

To those good friends who offered their support and interest. Especially to a certain person (you know who you are), that you may finally make your superior story idea a reality someday.

Contents

The Riders of Dagoth

Night of the Fated

Battle of the Pass

Pater et Filius

The Swordmaster

Burden of Prophecy

Garden of the Faeries

Departure

The Orphans

The Frigid Desert

Adagio

Bitter Sanctuary

The Horns of Hell

Shadow of the Wyrm

Fire and Ice

The Funeral Pyre

The Final Hour

The End of the Beginning

Soldiers in the Shadows

The Beast Caged

The White Tiger

Olympus Crumbles

Knightfall

Epilogue

About the Author

The Riders of Dagoth

The beauty of the autumn forest concealed the murderous shadows within.

Four riders guided their horses through the dense woods, weaving their mounts around the trees at as brisk a pace as they were able. The piercing rays of the morning sun peeked through the crimson and yellow trees around them; the frost that covered the autumn earth shone like crystals in the light’s gleam before it was trod underfoot by the burdened horses. The luminous morning was nothing to the horsemen as they continued toward their destination.

At the head of the pack rode the sage Blackbear. Despite his years he was still a giant of a man, his stature amplified by the heavy bearskin draped over his shoulders, with a shaved scalp and stone-cold black eyes set deep in his calloused face. From the beginning of his forehead to the end of his chin his dark skin was stained with a single streak of red, the line tattoo of an elemental shaman.

Two young braves brought up the rear, their right hands hovering nervously near the rifles holstered in their saddles. They kept their gazes darting ceaselessly over the dense shadows of the forest, wary as elks. In the center, Joseph Nightwolf held his reins tightly, his arms on both sides of his nine year old sister Lily, who was wrapped in an enormous blanket against the morning chill.

At fourteen, Joseph had been riding out with the older warriors for two years now, but Lily should still have been too young. Her presence in their group had alarmed Joseph even more than their haste, more than the nervous twitching of the other braves who should have known better. Joseph knew she would much rather have been warm in bed, or anywhere else but riding through the forest in the cold morning, but that did little to make her whining any less aggravating to his ears. Through the early part of the ride, she had done nothing but complain, oblivious to the undercurrent of fear in the group. She had since ceased and drifted into a half-sleep, still holding the blanket tightly around her thin body, her vivid green eyes drooping closed under a sweep of rare auburn hair.

Thomas Stonewolf had ordered them to begin their journey to the Arrow tribe in the dark hours before dawn. Once there Joseph would complete his warrior training under the chieftain Nathan Greyarrow, an old friend of Joseph’s father and the closest ally of the Wolves. Joseph knew it would take several days to reach them and could not help but wonder about Blackbear’s urgency. Were the whispers of some dark spirit troubling the old element master? Was the reason for the trip connected with the ever growing concern among the tribes over the ongoing war?

The two braves behind Joseph, both a few years older than him, began to chatter together to hide their nervousness. They did not seem to care that the chieftain’s son could hear their every word. As he had already forgotten both their names, Joseph only noted them by their position relative to him.

The one on Joseph’s left spoke first. You have any idea why we’re heading to the Arrows?

I don’t think the Stonewolf even told that to his son, his companion retorted.

You’re correct on that point. Joseph almost said that aloud, but did not care to intervene in the conversation. He continued to follow Blackbear through the forest while listening to the restless warriors behind him.

The left brave inquired again, You don’t think it has to do with the latest reports from the scouts, do you?

That the Necromancers of the Black Serpent are preparing another attack on the Vale of Fristad? Possibly, but I don’t see why.

Why not?

Because the snakes and the metal men have been at this for two hundred years or more. The Vale is impregnable while the armies of the Serpent have the advantage of numbers, which has prevented a clear victor. Their fighting has never bothered us before. All the tribes have avoided the fight as long as it has raged. I don’t see how any of that would change now.

He did have a point. Joseph held his own opinion on the matter, but the brave to his right had made a good case to be unconcerned.

There is a rumor that some of the Overlords have been spotted traversing Wolf and Eagle hunting grounds, the voice on the left said. It’s been enough to get the older warriors talking when they think we aren’t listening.

This gave Joseph a moment’s pause. The necromancers had always kept their distance from anyone other than the Knights of the Vale, though it was never clear whether this was due to fear, respect, or lack of regard. That had changed fifteen years ago when six swordsmen—the Overlords—emerged seemingly from nowhere to lead the sorcerers. The settlers in the plains and on the edges of the waste had been easily subdued after a short and futile resistance, their firearms almost useless against the mystic power of the sorcerer blades. The tribes remained untouched but the chieftains, united for the first time, kept careful watch on the conflict.

Apparently this concerned the right brave as well. Which Overlords?

Mordecai and Lobo.

The two most skilled and ruthless, supposedly. That is slightly troubling.

Yes, that could be problematic, the right brave pondered. Maybe the Stonewolf and Greyarrow are preparing for the worst possibility.

Joseph finally glanced over his shoulder at them, interjecting, If it comes to war, better the metal men than the snakes. We know what happened to the settlers.

The left brave glanced far ahead at Blackbear before he addressed Joseph, I wouldn’t talk like that around a Bear shaman. You’ll get an earful about how the Vale-people exiled us in an ancient time.

Then let him.

Joseph had always believed in the inevitability that the tribes would eventually come to blows with the Overlords and their dark necromancers rather than the knights of Fristad. When the options were a reclusive army that worshipped a seemingly benign Creator and hid behind the safety of their mountains, and an unstoppable conquering force known to sacrifice innocents to their wicked gods, there was no real choice. Those who lived in the prairie and the edges of the waste had once believed otherwise, only to be ultimately subjugated by the sorcerers and subsequently to serve as unwilling meat to be ground beneath the sharpened blades of the Fristad knights. The waste-dwellers’ extensive arsenal of firearms had proven ineffective against the mystic power of the Vale and the Serpent swords, which were rumored to bestow on their owners the great power of the ancient spirits.

This, above all else, was most troubling. While the shamans insisted that the tribes’ tomahawks held a similar power to the blades, there was precious little evidence of it. The hatchets had never proved able to ward their wielders from a bullet. Consequently, most braves kept the tomahawk only as a melee weapon. The rifle and the pistol had long replaced it as the primary weapon of all the warriors whether Wolf, Eagle, Coyote, Puma, or Arrow. Why waste time with the foolish and ineffectual beliefs of old priests when they could defend themselves with the simple squeeze of a trigger?

Joseph knew better. Ever since he had been saved while hunting, he had realized there was probably some truth to the legends of the shamans. That feeling within him that had warned him of the approaching mountain lion was unheard of among the braves, but not the shamans. He learned from them the purported existence of a Warrior’s Sense, which gave certain people the ability to discern that which ordinary human senses could not. It was said to have been lost long ago, but deep inside Joseph believed that he had somehow been gifted it.

He since had found time to talk with the shamans as often as he could, learning from them whatever he thought might be useful and some things which seemed far less so. From them he had first heard the legend of how myriad evil spirits had once emerged from the abyss and enslaved all mankind under their reign, and had only been defeated when seven bright stars fell from the sky to free the earth from bondage. The story fascinated him, because he found the spirits of the tale to bear many frightening parallels to the dragon and serpent gods of the necromancers, Ejderha and Dagoth. The similarities were far too striking for Joseph to ignore.

Faster!

Blackbear’s sudden shout snapped Joseph from his absent-minded pondering. A second later, Joseph understood the necessity. Through the dense forest came the thunder of horses’ hooves, their pace unnaturally swift. Simultaneously, the stench of smoke assaulted his nostrils, thick with the reek of death. The braves drew their rifles from their saddle and Joseph kicked his stallion’s sides in anxiety, unable to urge his horse any faster.

Shadows behind the trees flanked them on both sides. Blackbear drew a hatchet from his belt as a horseman in black armor erupted from the forest ahead of them. On his chest was a red circle blazoned with two curled black snakes facing outwards. His helm, shaped like a serpent’s head with wide gaping jaws, revealed a face pale as death and eyes clear and colorless as ice. Joseph reeled away in horror.

A necromancer!

Blackbear roared a challenge and charged the horseman. As he swung the tomahawk in his right hand, the horseman drew his sword to block the blow. The shaman drew his second tomahawk with his left hand and buried it in the side of his enemy’s neck just as two mounted sorcerers rushed their party from behind.

No guns! Blackbear shouted, but too late.

The crack of gunfire sounded as the braves who fired upon the two flanking sorcerers paid for it with swords in their throat and chest. Joseph drew his hatchets from his belt, but the shaman darted past him and charged the horsemen.

"Go, now!"

Joseph did not have to be told twice; he shoved the tomahawks back into his belt and spurred his horse onward. As the stallion darted under branches and leapt over fallen trees, the aura of the dark horsemen remained. They were still pursuing him. A few miles later, they burst from the trees into a clearing so perfectly circular that it could only have been created by the hands of men. His horse reared suddenly, throwing his riders to the ground, and Lily tumbled from Joseph’s arms. Steel clashed against stone, and as his ears rang with it, he saw his horse stop, stumble, and then go rigid, its eyes rolling white with terror.

Joseph turned and faced a grey-robed figure standing silent in the clearing, a long katana in its hand and a hood over its face. Two pursuing sorcerers rushed into the clearing and, ignoring the two children, charged directly at the mysterious figure from opposite sides. Joseph rushed to Lily, shielding her with his body. The hooded figure appeared to merely step to the side to avoid the sorcerer’s horse and swing; the horseman crashed to the ground. Spinning deliberately, the figure guided its sword into the path of the second enemy. Its horse collapsed and released a shrill whinny as its legs were sliced beneath it.

Joseph’s horse remained still through the bloodshed, even as the figure sheathed its sword and approached. Joseph jumped to his feet and threw Lily on his stallion’s back. As he swung up behind her, the figure lifted its head. Joseph found himself staring into the weathered face of a middle aged woman, her dark eyes intense as a raging fire. For a moment she focused on Lily’s face before the thunder of approaching hooves drew her attention away.

Joseph heard her strike the flat of her blade on his horse’s rump and glanced back briefly to see the woman readying her sword. He spurred his stallion through the woods until the aura of the serpent horsemen had faded. Seeking a better view, he rode to a nearby hill and guided his