Free the Darkness (King's Dark Tidings Book 1) Read online

  King’s Dark Tidings

  Book One

  Free the Darkness

  By Kel Kade

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events in this novel are fictitious. Opinions and beliefs expressed by the characters do not reflect the author’s opinions and beliefs.

  This book is intended for adult readers. It contains graphic violence, creative language, and sexual innuendo. This book does not contain explicit sexual content.

  First digital e-book edition © 2015 Kel Kade

  Revised digital e-book edition © 2016 Kel Kade

  Also available in audiobook, 2016 Podium Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, by current or future technology.

  Written by Kel Kade

  Edited by Leslie Watts

  Interior illustrations by Kel Kade

  Cover art by Chris McGrath

  Acknowledgement

  Thank you to my family and my most patient and understanding daughter who have encouraged and supported me throughout this writing process.

  www.kelkade.com

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Characters

  Definitions

  Languages

  About the Author

  Note from the Author

  Reign of Madness

  Chapter 1

  Map of Eastern Ashai

  Regional Map of the Souelian Sea

  Prologue

  “Good men want only the power to make things right. Great men seek to make things right and gather the power to do so. Great leaders find those who are worthy of wielding power and set them to the task of making things right.”

  - Coroleus, J.E. 1,067

  Relief washed over the weary rider as his destination finally emerged from the gloomy, moonlit darkness. He had not at all been certain of the success of this mission, and if he had failed, he would not have lived to regret it.

  Tree branches creaked at the night’s gentle exhale. It was soft and passive, so unlike the aggressive sucking pops and sloughs of the mud pulling at his mount’s hooves. He shivered beneath his damp cloak and shifted the bundle that was carefully tied about his torso as he repositioned the various weapons worn both openly and secreted beneath his padded leather armor. He reminded himself that if these people had a mind to end him, his weapons and all his years of training and experience would be worthless.

  The brief respite he felt only moments ago for having reached his goal was short-lived as the persistent doubts that had plagued him from the mission’s onset resurfaced. A flash of heat surged through his blood as an overwhelming anxiety breached his carefully constructed defenses. Loyalty and honor could only take a man so far. His gut churned like a twisting rope winding back upon itself. A noose. But no, these people would not bother with a noose. He would not even see it coming. One moment he would be alive and breathing and thinking, and then he would cease to exist. The rider did not even consider that he might meet the Maker. There was no glory of an afterlife—not for men like him. Any oath-bound who caught the attention of his liege could not hope for his soul’s redemption. After all, loyalty and honor could take a man only so far.

  As his horse plodded closer to the foreboding fortress, his future’s fortunes once again flashed across his mind. How might he be received? Would his success simply go unremarked as a natural expectation of having fulfilled his duty, despite the trials and transgressions he had suffered? Could he dare hope to be congratulated for his courage and unwavering dedication to his liege? He released a soft grunt. About as likely as me ever meeting the Maker, he thought sourly. If they did not kill him here, it was just as likely he would die upon his return to his liege, having fulfilled his duty.

  Had his liege finally drawn him into his greatest confidence in assigning him this mission, or was he a loose end, destined to perish in an unfortunate accident? Never did he consider not returning—at least not for more than a breath. If he ran, he would be hunted, and it would not be long before one of them would snuff out his life. The brief days—hours?—of freedom would be filled with terror and dread as he waited for the bleak blackness of the void to consume him. No, running was never an option. Even had there been the slightest chance of success, he could not consider it. He had loyalty and honor, after all.

  The lone rider took a deep, shuddering breath, steadying his nerves as he covered the final few paces before the solid iron gate. He pulled his mount to a stop and waited. There was no need to pound or call out his presence. They would have known he was here long before he set eyes on the dark citadel. A clank and groan reverberated through the metal goliath that posed as a door, and then it swung open in eerie silence except for the soft swoosh of air being drawn through the passage as it curled around the monstrous structure.

  Nudging his horse with his heels, he passed through what he was certain was the darkest, blackest shadow he had ever encountered and could not help the shiver that rocked him as he considered the implication of crossing such a veil. A moonlit figure emerged from a shadowed recess before him. Others might call the recess the door to the main hall. To him, it was perhaps a portal to H’khajnak, the demon realm.

  The restless warrior took a steadying breath and forced his hands to release their tension on the reins. He was not successful in dispelling the tightness in his shoulders or the rest of his body, for that matter. The battle charger snorted and stomped, no doubt picking up on his rider’s anxiety. All the dread and struggles against the dangers he suffered to get here had finally pooled together and were threatening to overcome him. This was not the way an experienced veteran behaved. Perhaps he had finally cracked.

  Despite the gloom, the moonlight was bright, and the rider could make out most of the features of the approaching figure. He was a middle-aged, stern-faced man whose only two facial expressions appeared to be blank stoicism and scowl. The moonlight reflected off his slightly balding crown but was absorbed into the coarse, dark material of his robe that fell to mid-thigh. The robe draped over a plain tunic and pants of dark color and fastened with a leather belt. If the belt had a buckle, he could not see it, for nothing the man wore reflected any light. With his head covered, he could probably disappear altogether, which was most likely the point. Although no weapons were visible, in this place, it was certain the man was well armed. The man stopped within a few paces but did not invite the rider to dismount.

  “You brought it?” spoke a quiet, harsh voice.

  “Yes—” the rider croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yes, I brought him to you.”

  The man grunted. “It matters little what you call it—him, if you prefer. It is no longer relevant.”

  A sliver of the warrior’s terror receded, replaced with indignation. “Regardless of your intentions, you would do well not to forget who he is. You will regret it otherwise.”

  The
robed man nearly chuckled—nearly. “I was unaware you had a gift for prophecy. You had best remember that this,”—he pointed a gnarled finger at the wrapped lump resting against the warrior’s chest—“is not a person. It is a weapon, newly forged and as yet without an edge. Any who meet him will not live to remember it.”

  “Does that include you?” snarled the rider. His concern for his own welfare was quickly dissipating as the reality of the situation dawned on him. Perhaps he should have run. They certainly would have found him, but surely he could have hidden one small babe somewhere, perhaps with a loving family, before he died. After securing the child’s future, he could have fallen on his own sword to prevent them from torturing him for information. He lightly squeezed the small bundle, eliciting a slight gurgling coo.

  A cruel smile played across the man’s face as he replied, “I will live to serve my purpose, same as you. Neither of us can expect much more than that. Now, hand him over. He is no longer your concern.”

  Chapter 1

  Bone snapped and flesh parted as hot blood spewed from a jagged wound. A gut-clenching wail echoed off the stone walls and startled the ever-present black sentries into flight. As the alert subsided into moaning sobs, the sleek, black ravens resettled on their perches, the grey twigs of the sorry excuse for a tree that occupied the courtyard.

  “Silence!” The command was followed by the crack of a whip and a slight, strangled cry. “You cannot afford to be heard even when you are injured—especially when you are injured. Silence! Always. Be. Silent.”

  The deep sobs were slowly replaced by tiny, sniffling whimpers as young Rezkin pulled himself together. At six years old he knew full well he should not have shouted. He was stupid, so stupid. He had to think quickly. Any moment now, Master Jaiardun would begin to ask questions, and he needed answers, or he would suffer even greater punishment. How could he have fallen? He should have been more careful. If he had set his weight properly as he streamed across the battlements, he would not have slipped on the loose stone. Always, he was supposed to be prepared to compensate for uneven or treacherous footing. He had become careless in his mad dash to make up for time lost getting tangled in the rope. It was not the fall that doomed him, although that would have led to severe enough punishment as it was. No, it was the shout that sealed his fate.

  Finally managing to draw a complete breath, his vision started to clear. For several moments the sheer intensity of the pain had robbed him of sight as his mind flooded with heat and light. The spinning in his head had threatened to rob him of consciousness … or his breakfast, but he managed to hold on to that much at least and thereby escaped those dire consequences. That would have been much worse than what he was facing already. To shout was to draw attention to one’s presence, but at least one could still defend oneself or commit suicide to prevent capture. To lose consciousness meant to face discovery and be taken alive. That must never happen, Rule 117. Rezkin knew these truths already. Still, he had not been able to control the involuntary noise that emanated from his small lungs.

  A shadow fell over him as Master Jaiardun towered above. His face was red, and his eyes were blazing with fury beneath an intense scowl. “You failed! Explain.”

  Rezkin swallowed the lump in his throat and took several shuddering breaths through his nose before containing his nausea enough to speak. “Master, I failed to set my weight and slipped on the loose stone. I fell.”

  “I can see that you fell,” snapped Master Jaiardun. “You are still too weak. You could not contain your pain. You will work diligently to master it. You can be sure of this. Now, set that,” Master Jaiardun said as he waved his hand in the direction of the injury.

  The injury in question throbbed with a pain so overwhelming that Rezkin still was not sure he would remain conscious. As soon as his eyes fell on the bloody off-white edges of bone peeking from flesh and wool, his head swam, and he lost his breakfast after all. When he finished retching, he sobbed, “Master, I cannot.”

  Master Jaiardun scoffed, “Then, you die. Do you think someone will always be there to help you? No! You must be one. Alone. No one will help you. No one will care. If they find you, they are more likely to kill you immediately or torture you for information and then kill you.”

  Rezkin sniffed and whimpered as he reached tentatively toward his leg. The break was halfway down his left shin. It could have been much worse. A twenty-foot fall could easily kill a man. He was aware that he had most likely sustained other injuries as well, but the pain stabbing his leg overshadowed anything else. He tugged on his pant leg to expose the injury, and the sickening dizziness filled him once again. “I-I cannot do it, Master,” he sobbed.

  “Men must care for their own injuries,” Master Jaiardun stated as though it were that simple.

  “But, I am only a small-man,” replied Rezkin. “I do not know how.”

  “That is no excuse! You are still a man. You will never be a big-man if you do not learn this Skill,” Master Jaiardun rebuffed.

  “Jaiardun, enough.” The soft but firm voice came from somewhere behind Rezkin.

  He jerked his head around in surprise only to feel a sharp pain shoot through his body from his leg. He should have heard Master Peider approach. He should have known exactly where the old man was. Rezkin began to worry about his mind. How could he be failing so much?

  Master Peider scrutinized Rezkin with a critical eye. Seeing the apparent panic on little Rezkin’s face he stated, “It is the pain, Rezkin. It addles the mind. It makes a man unable to think clearly, and he can easily lose track of his surroundings, sometimes even forgetting who he is or his purpose. The injury is damaging. The pain can be deadly.”

  Master Peider turned to Master Jaiardun with calm surety. “I will take him. Without proper treatment by a skilled healer that injury could negate all of our teaching. He would be a cripple, useless.”

  Unsatisfied, Master Jaiardun countered. “He must learn to treat such an injury. If he never fails so miserably in the future, this will be the only injury of the sort, and he needs the experience. Plus, it will teach him not to be so careless.”

  Master Peider frowned. “I am sure he is already regretting his carelessness. I will not sedate him during treatment. He will watch how it is done so that he knows what to do in the future. Still, I will have to use a bit of power to stimulate and speed the healing unless you want him unable to train for the next six months. Obviously, that is something he will not be able to do for himself.”

  “Fine,” Master Jaiardun huffed. “Just make sure he learns from this. It would be a waste for him to sleep through the treatment and gain nothing.” He turned his brooding glare back on Rezkin. “You will face me again when you are healed. You will not enjoy it.”

  Enjoy? What did that mean? Rezkin frowned as his eyebrows pulled together on his tiny face. He was not sure what this enjoy was, but perhaps it was a big-man thing. He would have to ask Master Peider about it later. He knew he had much to learn of big-man things. The masters had explained to him how men came into this world very small and knowing nothing. In order to become a big-man, he had to learn the Rules and Skills. Ignorance, (that meant not knowing the Rules and Skills), was no excuse for failing. Small-men were always punished for infractions (that meant breaking the Rules or failing the Skills), and as the men grew bigger, they were punished less because they learned the Rules and Skills.

  Rezkin wanted to become a big man fast, so he worked very hard to learn all of the Rules and Skills. Unfortunately, he had just failed in his Skills miserably. He had also broken Rule 6—Do not get injured and Rule 12—Do not make sound. As Master Peider bent to pick him up, Rezkin sucked in a breath and spied the blood and vomit on the cobblestones. He was about to break Rule 10—Do not leave evidence as well. Just as Master Peider lifted him from the ground, a searing pain ripped through him, and all went black.

  Rezkin reached for the swaying branch, just barely managing to grip the rough bark with the tips of his fingers. As soon as
he caught hold, he used the considerable strength of his wiry frame to pull himself up. He perched in the bough as he surveyed his surroundings once again. He was still honing his observational skills. Master Jaiardun assured him that once he was a full-grown big-man he would no longer need to concentrate so hard on his environment. The Skill would be so infused in his mind that he would do it automatically without thinking. Until then, he had to concentrate. Striker Farson and Striker Adona were both here somewhere, and they were looking for him. This was by far the most difficult task he had been assigned yet. Not only did he have to enter the fortress by stealth, but he had to do it during the day with the “inhabitants” having been forewarned of his coming.

  There was no movement in the courtyard or on the balcony across from him. He took a moment to peer into a shadow to one side. He saw nothing to indicate anyone was hiding there. Averting his gaze, he reexamined the area with his peripheral vision. One could often see things in the periphery that one could not see directly. Still, nothing appeared.

  He took a deep breath and then stood, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet. Normally, he would turn his feet to the side to walk about a swaying tree, but what he was about to do required speed and power. Without a moment’s hesitation he darted forward, his feet barely touching the sturdy limb, and then launched himself into the open space beyond. Just as he began to think he had misjudged the distance, he closed in on the balcony’s railing. Strong hands gripped the carved stone, and he swung his legs forward so that his feet impacted the wall below. His legs coiled with his momentum, and like a viper, he sprung back from the wall while pushing slightly downward with his toes. He shot upward and over the railing to land softly in the shadow of the stone wall.

  Soft boots settled lightly on the stones making neither sound nor mark. The balcony doors would surely be locked, but that would be no problem—not anymore. He had achieved his Lock Mastery Skill last year. Now, at twelve years old he was focusing on a number of other Skills, the present most important one being Daylight Stealth Invasion. His task was to enter the fortress and retrieve an item from a predetermined location and then return said item to the master waiting in the stables. Not only was he required to succeed without getting caught, but also without anyone knowing the item was missing before he finished the task. Five strikers were assigned as regular guards at stationary posts, four were on roaming patrols, and two, Farson and Adona, were actively seeking him. The strikers were permitted to check on the artifact only once in twenty minutes, so he had to time the acquisition just right.