Page 44 of Heart of the Shadow King

I was born underground. I’ve lived my life in caverns illuminated only by crystal glow and pale fire, my own shadow my nearest companion. I’ve ventured into regions unsullied by light, the true pitch dark of the deeps. I’ve learned to love it. Never have I feared it. It is impossible for a trolde to be afraid of something so much a part of their very nature.

But this.

It’s like even the memory of light has been stripped from my mind.

I struggle to suck in a breath, but there is no air to breathe. Only darkness, which flows up my nostrils and fills my lungs. I try to yank the reins, to wheel Knar about and ride him out of here. But my morleth is gone. So are Parh, Lur, Wrag, the Miphato. My entire company. They’re gone. Like they never were.

I am alone in this darkness. I’ve always been alone in this darkness. There has never been anything but—

“Oehrea leawae! Aed aewaemem!”

The words burn through my head like flaming arrows, leaving scorch marks in their wake. I cry out but open my eyes. And I’m astride Knar again at the front of my host. The strange pillar lights frame us on either side, glowing so bright it hurts the eyes. I put up a hand, shielding my gaze as I peer between them, trying to glimpse the moonlit landscape of Cruor.

It’s gone.

That darkness, which had held me momentarily in its grip, now claims the land beyond these pillars. I can see no moon, no stars, no sky, no sweeping plain, no distant hills. There’s nothing but absolute black. Absolute nothing.

“Artoris!” I twist in my saddle, searching for the mage. He is coming back from the pillars. Their glow casts eerie shadows across his strained face. He grips the little vial, now nearly empty, in one hand. “What is this?” I demand.

The Miphato gives no answer. Instead, he goes to the first of the pillars, rests his hand against it, and murmurs strange words in the ancient tongue of spells. A pulse of brilliance surges up the pillar, and I realize how dull it had become. He goes on to the next one, performing the spell of rejuvenation again, all without once glancing my way.

I turn to Parh. She looks haunted. I’ve never seen my ferocious war minister like this. She hunches in her saddle, clinging to a handful of coarse morleth mane. It wouldn’t take much to make her bolt. But where to? There’s nowhere to go beyond the pillar light.

“Morar-juk!”Wrag’s voice growls close by. “What is that?”

Between the two nearest pillars, the darkness swells like a bubble on the verge of popping. Something moves inside it, something I cannot see but feel with a horrific, crawling sensation in my gut. Suddenly that darkness doesn’t look like shadow so much as membrane. Thick, glossy, viscous.

Fear rises in my gut like bile.

A shout down the line. A cry, a shriek. Then another and another.

“Ortolarok!”I bellow. “Stand firm!”

The Miphato staggers to the pillar nearest that swell, mutters his words of power again, sends another surge of magic up the pillars. The darkness retreats from the pulse of light but remains close on the other side.

“Your Majesty!”

I turn in my saddle. A young warrior urges her morleth between Wrag and Lur’s mounts. She gazes at me, her eyes so wide, they might dart from her face. “Your Majesty, Commander Ursh has been taken!”

“Taken by what?” I demand.

The words have scarcely left my mouth when Wrag screams. He falls from his morleth as though yanked off and skids across the ground like a man being dragged to hell. I’m in motion before my thoughts have time to catch up. I leap from my saddle, fall to my knees, gripping his outstretched hand, and hold on with all my strength. His feet are close to the barrier light, inching backwards, though I cannot see what pulls him.

“Big King!” he cries desperately, kicking against the grasp of empty air. “Don’t let me go!”

My body lurches forward as another tug drags him further between the pillars. “Help me!” I cry through gritted teeth. Parh, Lur, and the messenger appear on either side of me, gripping his other arm, his armor, his belt, anything they can get their hands on. It makes no difference. He is dragged relentlessly further and further, his great body digging a furrow in the dirt. Now he is between the two pillars. Now I am, and Wrag’s legs vanish beyond the range of light. He screams and twists, his body, his face contorting unnaturally. I fight to maintain my hold on him. “Wrag!” I shout. “Hold on!”

The weight of his bulk suddenly lessens. It’s so abrupt, Parh, Lur, the messenger, and I all tumble backwards. I’m still holding Wrag’s arm, and when I bolt upright and stare down into his face, his eyes meet mine, shot through with horror.

The lower half of his body is gone.

Parh and Lur drop their hold. The messenger screams and covers her face. I grip him a moment longer, gazing into the face of this man who was my friend, realizing he’s already dead. Then, with another sharp yank, he slips my hold and disappears between the pillars, out beyond the light. Into that darkness. Into that empty nothing.

“No!” I shout and stretch an arm out, trying to catch him, determined not to let him go. The tip of one finger extends beyond the light.

Time is . . . absent.

I don’t know where I am. Who I am.

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