The Protector Page 3

PART ONE OF:

  THE SHADOW TIDE TRILOGY

  PROLOGUE

  How much longer,” Prim asked eagerly as the sun began to fall though the trees of the Ghost Marsh. “He’s nothing more than worm food now.”

  “What’s wrong, afraid of the dark?” Commander Will Southerlin said cracking a glimpse of a smile across his wind burned lips. “It's just a dead man,” he added.

  Prim did not respond, he was a young man, not past thirty and cared nothing about any dead corpse. “He was nothing, a hermit, an old man which age has run down,” he said as he shuffled on chair trying to keep his gun belt from digging into his side.

  “And how do you know that, he had to have been of importance, if not why are we here?” Southerlin quickly said as he knelt over the decomposing body.

  “But I have the need for a cup of ale, and woman to relax with.”

  “Just keep in your trousers a bit longer, we are almost done.’ Southerlin sternly said spitting Rockford weed juice from his mouth. A fortnight ago they had been sent by the Lieutenant at the request of the King's steward. In his five years with the Crimson Guard and two years as Southerlin’s second he had never been sent to investigate a death or to retrieve the personal effects and the body. Damn old age is no longer a suitable form of death, Prim though. He was becoming more and more restless. They had rummaged through everything this man owned and had taken anything of value, or at least looked valuable. Their orders were clear from the King's steward, “Bring back all items of value and find his journal.” The steward had said. He suddenly was jealous of the two other Crimson Guard soldiers standing guard outside; at least they can take a nap. “It’s here,” he heard Southerlin shout from the only other room of the small clay and wood hut.

  He emerged from the room carrying a black leather bound book covered in dust. From Prim’s eyes it looked like any other book you would find in the ancient section of Darencross’ library.

  Prim wasn't impressed at all. He was more agitated than relived that they found the book. “Half a day for a book, a couple of trinkets and clothes,” he said getting to his feet. “What a waste! Now can we wrap this body and leave?” he asked reaching for a bundle of lines and canvas.

  Within an hour they had wrapped the body and covered it with generous amounts of perfumes and oils. With the body secured along with his small bag of belongings to a pack horse they left the hut, along with the two other soldiers that had been standing guard outside.

  The trek through dense forest and marshes in the shadow of the Whitecrown Mountains would be a daunting and slow. This land was widely untouched by human hands; it was a miracle this man lived here, secluded and alone.

  They would take a different route this time, instead of going by road they were traveling south out of the swamp to the city of Garatin. From there they would catch a ship and take The Central River back to Darencross, making the return journey in half the time.

  “They say this land is haunted by the ghost of the Shadow Races.” One of the other soldiers quietly stated.

  The entire journey had yielded no conversation from the two. They had eaten together, conversed quietly. They were lowly men at arms probably serving for a crime instead of rotting in prison.

  “So he is not a mute,” Southerlin said as he watched the eerie terrain in front of him. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Fullbright, and this is Warfield and Commander Sir, he is a mute.” The young solider said. “I am his aid.”

  “Ha,” Prim yelled. “An incestual bastard and a mute, what joy.” he was amused, I fought against you bastards a year ago and watched my brothers die, and now one of them is my brother.

  The Fulbright’s were a family who claimed to be noble on their own accord, but not recognized by the crown. Over the years they had upraised against the King wanting there accord of nobility accepted, each time they were defeated easily. They lived in the West of Agantia, in close small settlements, some only a few leagues to the north.

  Even though they claimed to be noble, they had no such blood or claim other than the population and control of land. They believed in pure full blood and did not believe in marriage or conception outside of the Fullbright Family.

  “Ages ago it was here that the Shadow Races engaged in a bloody battle,” Fullbright said. “Here they spilled their blood and their powers into the marsh…” he was cut off.

  “And now the dead raise and walk with snakes,” Prim said once again not amused, more less he was becoming annoyed. He had heard the stories but they were mere myth, scholars had searched the libraries for the evidence, there was none.

  “I know that in your culture it is not common to believe in a story six thousand years old,” Fullbright said “but hear this.

  “The man we carry is no mystery to me. When I was only a child my child minder told me of man who lived in marsh. This man had lived there for many years, and seemingly had not aged, I believe this to be the man of those stories.” A crash into a shallow puddle startled them.

  “A beaver,” Southerlin stated. “Enlighten us you bastard son of your sister,” he commanded Fullbright.

  “It is said that this man had no name, but had seen the terrors of the Night War. He was once a man, mortal of flesh and blood but in one fell move his fate was sealed and his life locked in an immortal dance that death could not touch.”

  Prim was skeptical. The Shadow War was all but lost in the annals of myth and legend the Night War, it had been twisted into the myth of “the last stand of magic” as his mother had once said.

  “Well looks like death found a way, our immortal friend has met his mortality,” Southerlin said as he broke a smile, then a laugh. It was a tall tale, one that belonged around the fire pit to frighten children into not venturing into the marsh. There was nothing here but rotting plants, bloodsucking insects and venomous snakes.

  “Quiet, stop the horses!” Southerlin whispered. He had pulled his steed to a stop and looked into the darkness; he had always been keen to lurking danger. Prim obeyed, softly and instinctively grabbing the basket hilt of his rapier.

  “I am Commander William Southerlin of the Crimson Guard, sworn protector of the realm, loyal to the House Tiernan and of its King Liam, first of his name,” he said into the darkness. The night had changed, their horses were becoming nervous, and a thick pungent odor filled the air, the smell of sulfur and a thick unyielding fog had covered the men.

  The King Of Agantia and Lord of all Lords. The words ran through Prim’s Head. They were words to answer Commander Southerlin’s challenge. He waited patiently for the response he hoped would come, but nothing but darkness and fog.

  “Show yourselves,” Southerlin’s command echoed through the marsh.

  “Take up arms, we are not alone,” Southerlin ordered.

  It was all too fast like the wind taking parchment and carrying it to another land. An arrow, which seemed to come from nowhere, had been driven through Southerlin’s neck killing him almost instantly.

  As his corpse fell from the horse Prim’s bucked, tossing him into the pungent marsh. His eyes had gone blurry and his breath was short but his hearing was keen. The sound of Warfield’s pathetic moans and heavy breathing filled the night. He saw the mute’s bloody and severed head land just inches from his own, mud and slop splattering in his eyes.

  Everything around him was like a cyclone of wind, fast and unforgiving. From nowhere a thin black blade missed him by only a hair as rolled and in one fluent motion came his feet. He reached to his right side and grabbed the hilt of his flintlock pistol.

  I hope the powder is still dry, he though and then...

  It burned more than anything, like a thousand hot embers going into his chest.

  As his eyes faded he watched Fulbright ride fast through the marsh, the pack horse in tow. “Ride fast you bastard,” he pathetically said as he tasted and felt blood come up into the back of his mouth.

  In his last sight and in his last bloody breath h
e saw the faceless mask looked into his eyes and spoke bone chilling words in an unfamiliar tongue. The Shadows’ eyes glowed orange as the sun; it twisted the blade in his chest. Blackness.