Ian M Rountree and Leila Evans

General(16+)

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69

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Twenty years ago, Maredran was split by a war of unforeseen proportion. Now, the children of that war must uncover why it was fought and find the truth behind the Ascension. The Dowager Shadow is a free online novel written by Ian M Rountree and Leila Evans.

Grevault felt like his left eye had been scooped out with a hot spoon the moment he opened it, but vision was there, if a little strange. He could see the waves of cloud above clearly with his right, but on the left, all was shards of blue heat. Memory returned faster than movement. He had been running. There was a cliff. Having fallen most of the eighty feet from escarpment to beach, Grevault drew out an updraft to arrest his drop just before landing, feet and hands slapping down against the hard-packed sand in a short, sharp staccato. The golden shard of amber he had drawn the winds from shattered in his hand as he struck. He rolled out of his landing and vaulted immediately into a stiff sprint southward on the white sand, the heat of the day still remaining to punctuate each footfall as he ran. Counting his breaths as he went, Grevault estimated there were maybe five hundred paces between him and his objective, the shimmering barrier marking clearly the beginning of enemy territory. From there it would be a short wait until the great luminary fell and he could move in toward the enemy camp in true darkness. On the sandy plain to the west, between the running mage and the ocean, battle roared. The harsh cries of steel against steel marking each engagement of the regular troops, bright flashes splintering the falling darkness as pins of light fell to the sand and erupted, sending swaths of beach and often dozens of bodies, friend and foe alike, flying into the heavens. Grevault pulled to a stop quickly as one of those burning pins hit the sand not twenty paces to his right, ripping the terrain to shreds. Too close, he thought sourly. They knew my route, damned Weavers are getting sloppy. Taking the opportunity to catch his breath, the mage began his run again, this time carrying one of the many stones he kept hidden in his scrip, the air about him glistening with the warped light of a personal barrier. It would make him more easily visible to the enemy camp, but he would have to take the chance and blame the Field Mage when he returned to base in the morning. They had known the plan, and someone deviated. Bad for business. Worse still, Grevault worked without the benefit of armour. While four dozen feet to the west, men and women wearing as much as fifty pounds of metal and wood let their heavy clubs and bladed weapons to their work for them against the light and agile warriors of the southern army from Dorna Major, Grevault was clothed more like the enemy than like his allies. Layers of white and tan linen, a khaki burnoose covering his shock of black hair and most of his face, leaving only sharp, icy green eyes peaking out – he could almost pass for Dornan, except that he stood easily two hands above their tallest warrior, and carried a pair of crystal knives in lacquered scabbards at his belt. No Dornan would be caught dead with such weapons, lest they be branded a heretic. Heresy. It was the core of this war, and it made Grevault sick. The Gods had created Maredran together, yet somehow their children, the many races of men, had decided to favour one god or another and decreed, almost unanimously, that the god they favoured outweighed all others in merit, dogma and, most of all, stricture. Scripture could be rewritten to suit the times, but tradition and heresy remained, and were the hardest of all beliefs to change. The concept of “other” – whatever that might be – would always hold sway. So there would always be men like Grevault, who had tried and failed to choose no sides in the eyes of religion, but were dragged into conflict by their mere posture of arbitration. Few would fail at that as spectacularly as Grevault had, however, finding themselves playing not the arbiter, but the judge. Not regulator but killer, assassin. As he closed in on the barrier wall, Grevault tucked himself against the deep shadows of the escarpment and slowed. He tried not to think of the task ahead. It was anathema. When he reached five feet from the barrier, the heat from its trade-winds causing him to halt and gather himself, Grevault looked back the way he had come. In the distance, he could see sparks of light licking toward the sky, arcing for the great green luminary – magic, the mists of creation, released by his camp’s own barriers, returning home to the green god, father Jag Har’Oah. Above the ocean, the lower edge of its rings slicing into the waters the god was setting, slowly. The immense sphere dominated the skyline, its light warping depth perception in the cool night. Magic was strong this night. Much as the scholars of Maredran may deny it, the tug of Jag on Maredran’s tides affected more complex things than water. It would be several hours until the luminary set fully; almost half the night. He reached out with his left hand. It brushed against something like invisible snake’s scales, tiny shards of blue-white light following his fingers and disappearing skyward.