Shadow of the Demon - book 3 of the Prophecy of the Kings

The Prophecy of the Kings

 Book 3

 Shadow of the Demon

 By David Burrows

 Chapter 1

 An Unexpected Encounter

 Kaplyn wearily shifted his weight as he kept watch over the small camp. It was dark. Not the complete blackness he had become accustomed to during the recent battles - that had been unbearable. Now faint moonlight bathed the land, enabling him to see the silhouettes of the surrounding hills and thick gorse that grew in profusion in this part of Thrace.

 Even though he could see, he still glanced down at his unsheathed sword. The onyx metal remained dull, reassuring him there were no krell or demons in the vicinity. If there had been, then it would have glowed blue in warning. The wild was a dangerous place, made more so after the recent battles. Roving bands of defeated enemy had fled to the surrounding lands, seeking to escape to their homelands. Kaplyn and his companions were far beyond the range of any help, and, to make matters worse, their journey was taking them north, deeper into enemy territory.

 Absently he fingered the scar on his chest, the cold, crystalline surface felt alien. He shuddered as he recalled the final days of the battle at CarCamel and being spurned by those closest to him. His thoughts turned to Catriona, the newly crowned Thracian Queen, and her memory tugged painfully at his heart.

 He tried to dispel his gloomy thoughts, contemplating instead the men who had chosen to accompany him: Lars, Lomar and especially Tumarl, who was such an enigma. He had sworn vengeance against the krell for the death of his family, a tortured soul who could find no peace. And yet strangely, of the three men, Kaplyn felt he understood Tumarl the most. The loss of Kaplyn’s family and friends was a difficult burden, and he felt guilty that he could have prevented their deaths. It would be too easy to become like Tumarl, to live only for the moment, seeking war against his enemies and losing himself in that single goal.

Kaplyn tried to focus on the task at hand and his eyes searched the surrounding night. Suddenly, a nagging feeling that he was not alone swept over him. His blade remained dull but, even still, his discomfort grew. He laid down his sword, taking up his bow and reaching for an arrow. 

“Hold,” a voice commanded from somewhere alarmingly close. Kaplyn’s heart was racing and, although his bow was strung, he did not have an arrow to hand.

 “Put your weapon down and back away,” the voice said.

Kaplyn hesitated and considered calling to his friends. “A bolt is aimed at your heart,” the voice growled.

 Kaplyn stood, backing away from his weapons, inwardly cursing himself for daydreaming. A shape detached itself from the gorse closest to Kaplyn. The silhouette was shorter than Kaplyn but much broader across the shoulders. Other shapes peeled away from the shadows.

Behind him he heard firstly Lomar’s and then Lars’ voices as they were woken. Tumarl’s angry shouts filled the air, and there followed sounds of a scuffle before silence abruptly descended.

A fire was lit and Kaplyn was forced to sit close to the flames. Lars was jostled to sit opposite him and two of their captors appeared dragging Tumarl’s unconscious body between them. Then Lomar joined them, his pale complexion standing out in stark contrast to the dark of the night.

In the light of the flames, it was the first chance Kaplyn had to see their captors and the realisation sent a shock through his soul.

Dwarves.