The Shadow of Theron

Book 1: Age of Shadows

by Kathryn Troy

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Sword & Sorcery

Synopsis

The powers of old are fading. A new Age is dawning.

Holy relics are all that remain of Theron's sacred legend.

Now those relics, the enchanted weapons forged by the Three-Faced Goddess to help Theron defeat the wicked Sorcerer Argoss, are disappearing.

Lysandro knows the village magistrate Marek is responsible, and he searches for proof disguised as the masked protector the Shadow of Theron.

But when Marek wounds him with an accursed sword that shouldn't exist, Lysandro must find a way to stop Marek from gaining any more artifacts created by the Goddess or her nemesis.

The arrival of the beautiful newcomer Seraphine, with secrets of her own, only escalates their rivalry.

As the feud between Lysandro and Marek throws Lighura into chaos, a pair of priestesses seeks to recover the relics and return them to safekeeping. But the stones warn that Argoss is returning, and they must race to retrieve Theron's most powerful weapon.

While they risk their lives for a legend, only one thing is certain. The three temples to the Goddess have been keeping secrets: not just from the faithful, but from each other.

 

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Release date: February 28, 2023

Print pages: 548

Sample

Chapter 1

It would have been a pleasant day, if not for the hanging.

The sun glistened off the newly constructed gallows—it was not often Lighura had a public execution—and people greeted each other in the square, staking out spots with a good view as they consumed their sweet buns and boiled eggs.

Lysandro was not hungry. He couldn’t see how good people could be content to stuff themselves before a man was set to die, before the stench of a man expiring in his own piss filled their nostrils. He could smell it already.

Kato brushed against his elbow.

“You’ll be able to see better from here, Don de Castel.”

“I can see all I care to from here, thank you.”

The innkeeper nodded. “As you say, Signor. But if you change your mind—”

Lysandro nodded and planted his feet on the ground, fists clenched at his side.

The crowd snapped to attention as the door to the magistrate’s office opened. Lysandro’s stomach soured at the sight of Marek. He exuded a sense of utter disinterest in the events of which he himself was the director. But Lysandro saw the glint of malice in Marek’s eyes that he was unable to hide. He relished the power over the life and death of the wretch behind him, his broad chest inflated with self-importance. In short, Lysandro loathed him.

His attention turned to the bound man following the magistrate. Two of Marek’s officers stood beside him and another behind, forming a diamond around the condemned. It was clear this man would not go easily to his death.

He writhed and twisted his body to get away from the men holding him, one at each elbow, kicking and flailing his legs out in a childlike tantrum. He was so focused on trying to escape their grip that only inchoate groans passed his lips. When they ascended the steps to the platform, the man’s struggling became more desperate, more violent. The crowd gasped when the man wrangled one arm free, and it looked like he might escape. But he fell to the ground as

two of Marek’s men fumbled after him, fighting to keep him in their grip. They forced him to his feet again.

Without saying a word, Marek turned to face his underlings. They redoubled their efforts, squeezing the prisoner tight between them until his feet barely touched the ground. The man’s struggling didn’t cease, but his range of motion was now severely restricted. The captive’s eyes went wide in fear, showing the whites of them like a man held in the throes of a hysterical fit.

Drop back, Lysandro thought. He couldn’t stop his mind from racing through all the ways the man might free himself. It he could just loosen their hold on him again, he could run. But he’d never make it. Not without help.

When Marek turned his face to the crowd, his eyes had narrowed to murderous slits, and his jaw was tightly clenched to preserve the façade of a smile that he wore there. He lifted his chin and addressed those who had gathered:

“People of Lighura—Jair Oreyo is guilty of killing Don Aldo Carras, who caught him stealing silver. His crime was discovered by his widow, Doña Sofia Carras, who tripped over her husband’s body when responding to his screams.”

Lysandro heard the gasps of those around him as Marek recounted the grisly details. Marek was either too stupid or too cruel to show more consideration  for Carras’s family. They stood huddled together in a tight circle, their faces pointed at the ground, while Marek expounded on the way Don Aldo’s brains had been bashed against the stairway of their own home and turned the entryway slippery with blood. The women and children who congregated in the square turned their heads away from the platform as if to shut out Marek’s words and shield themselves from the nightmares such lurid descriptions were bound to produce.

Lysandro could feel his face flushing hot. A good man’s guts were being strewn about with words. That he couldn’t stifle them turned him livid.

Seemingly sated by his talk of violence, Marek shifted to patting himself on the back for a job well done. He turned to his officers

and beckoned with a small gesture for the prisoner to be brought forward. His men accomplished it, but with great difficulty.

“Any last words?” he asked in a cool, collected tone.

Jair was foaming at the mouth. Lysandro could see the veins on his neck bulge as his face went purple with rage, and he lunged at Marek.

“Liar!”

Lysandro’s ears pricked up. Alarm bells rang in his head like the one in the temple tower—a full-throated clang that deepened his suspicion.

“Murderer!” Jair shouted. “You’re just as guilty as me!”

He pled with his captors, who rammed the noose around his neck. “Don’t listen to him, he’s a liar! Stop, or he’ll do the same thing to you!”

The knife tucked up Lysandro’s sleeve prodded him at the wrist. He calculated the distance and the force it would take to sever the rope swinging from the beam.

He could do it. Avoiding notice, though—that would be another matter entirely. But something else stopped him from sliding the hidden blade into his hand.

You’re just as guilty as me.

Jair was a murderer; he just wasn’t alone.

The corner of Lysandro’s mouth twitched as the officers tightened the noose around Jair’s throat, but his fingers remained loose at his side.

_____

 

The blood in Lothan Marek’s veins hissed in fury as his brothers dragged Jairo, kicking and screaming, toward the noose. He was being ridiculous. It was one thing to steal from the poor, and another to murder a pillar of the community and think no one would notice. Lothan had no choice but to act. And Jair had the gall to call him out in front of the whole village.

His behavior worked in Lothan’s favor. He was acting like a lunatic with his hair on fire, and Lothan expected people to discount his exclamations as the ravings of an almost dead man. Jair’s outrage was Lothan’s shield, so long as he kept the anger from his face.

Jair had been effective at his job; his taste for brutality had served him well on occasion. He was perhaps the strongest among them, excepting Lothan himself, and it was a bitter shame to kill him. Almost.

All those who shared his blood were a greedy, groveling, worthless waste of a power that should have been his alone. Today brought him one step closer to the magic scattered across their veins being made whole.

Lothan quashed his annoyance as Jair squealed and squirmed to the last minute, wriggling like a worm until the floor gave way beneath him and silence reigned over the square, heralded by a definitive, satisfying crack. Jair’s latent power shivered up Lothan’s spine. The surge of energy buzzed through him like a current, crackling at his fingertips and the ends of his hair. It was delicious. But not nearly enough.

____

 

Lysandro was grateful for the silence; it was infinitely better than a roar of cheers would have been. The Carras family remained clustered together as the knot of onlookers unfurled itself, and people returned to their routines to try to forget what they’d seen. Lysandro made his way toward them. Marek approached at the same time, holding a large wooden box in his hands.

“Doña Carras,” he said, presenting her with the recovered silverware.

He looked so pleased with himself.

Don Aldo’s widow stared at him, then took the box into her hands with a dumb expression on her face.

Lothan furrowed his brows. “This is your stolen silver, is it not? I imagined its return would bring you some comfort.” He had to fight to keep the bite out of his voice.

Lysandro could hold his tongue no longer.

“Perhaps she’d be more grateful if you’d preserved her husband’s dignity, rather than turn his final moments into a spectacle.”

Marek looked up at him, his eyes bright with challenge.

“Or perhaps they’d have been grateful if you had arrested Jair weeks ago, after he’d already been accused of thievery by the blacksmith. Granted, his family’s possessions are humbler than this fine collection,” Lysandro continued, gesturing at the box of silver, “but had your justice been swifter—”

The widow sobbed, and Lysandro let his accusation hang in the air.

“The blacksmith’s account was not reliable. He was not as—”

“Worthy of your attention?” Lysandro offered. His mouth set into a hard line. “I shouldn’t need to remind you that the office of magistrate is bound to protect all of Lighura, not just its wealthier citizens.”

Lothan scowled.

“What did you lie about?” Lysandro asked.

“Excuse me?”

The abrupt turn took Marek by surprise. Lysandro lifted his gaze over Marek’s shoulder to the hanged man. “With his last breath, he called you a liar. What did you lie about?”

Marek huffed through his nose and shifted on his feet like a bull in a pen.

“He called me a murderer too. Do you also accuse me of that?”

Marek fixed him with a venomous stare. Doña Sofia’s hand flew to her mouth, and her younger children hid their faces in her voluminous black skirts.

Lysandro didn’t flinch.

He waited for an answer with feigned curiosity. Marek had walked into the trap himself. Lysandro wasn’t about to help him out of it.

Marek’s gaze slid to the widow. “I did my duty here today. No one can say I didn’t.” He turned his back on them both and left.

Doña Sofia let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

“Someone had to say something.”

She looked down again and brushed her fingers against the grain of the box Marek had given her as her children came out of hiding. Lysandro smiled at them and ruffled the younger boy’s hair before turning his gaze back to their mother.

“Is there anything you need?” he asked.

“We’ll be all right. Thank you again.”

Lysandro nodded and looked to her eldest son. “Take good care of them.”

The young don was a strapping teenager, who tried to act older than he was by appearing to be unmoved by the whole affair. He was managing it badly. The boy’s eyes darted from one end of the square to the other, not finding an answer to the question forming on his lips.

“There’s so much to go through. So many papers. I don’t even—”

“There’s nothing that can’t wait a few days’ time,” Lysandro interrupted. “I’ll come see you soon, help you get everything sorted. Let’s see if we can’t make any sense of it.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he replied. “Take care.”

Before departing from the square himself, Lysandro spared one last look at the hanged man, cast in silhouette by the sun’s rays as Marek’s officers worked to cut him down. Lysandro wondered at all he might have inquired of the dead man—all the questions he could never ask.

The cheerful weather was wasted on the somber mood that hung over the dusty little village until nightfall. Lysandro called on his father for a late supper, having finally found his appetite after a full day’s abstinence. He greeted the doorman genially.

“Good evening, Diego.”

“Good evening, Don Lysandro. You’ll find him in the dining hall this evening.”

“The dining hall?” Lysandro asked. “Does he have guests?”

“No, Signor. He simply said he longed for some formality.”

Lysandro raised an amused eyebrow. He thanked the man and headed through the familiar hallways of the house in which he had grown up and found his way to his father. Don de Castel the elder was already seated at the head of a long wooden table in an elegantly papered room of cream and burgundy. Cheeses, warm bread, and a stiff fortified wine lay fanned out before him.

“Standing on ceremony today, Father?” Lysandro asked, seating himself at his father’s right hand and pouring himself a drink.

“Indeed,” Elias answered, not looking up from his plate as he tore off a piece of bread from a larger loaf and soaked it in a spiced olive oil.

“In your dressing gown?” Lysandro asked.

Elias grunted in the affirmative. “It’s my best one.”

Lysandro smiled and took in the image of his father. His robe was one of fine fabric, luxurious and warm against the chill in the air coming off the sea. The wine-colored gown was elevated by an intricately embroidered scroll pattern, with golden threads woven into the cuffs and collar. His father’s face was thin, but sharp, and

marked by an imposing chin and a well-kept, respectable beard of silver to match the hair smoothed back on his head. Yes, Lysandro thought, his father looked every ounce a don.

“Marek hung Carass’s murderer today,” Lysandro said.

“Mm.”

“How he got to be magistrate I’ll never know.”

“That’s easy. You didn’t try for it.”

Lysandro sipped at his wine. “Surely there are other able men in this village.”

“There’s so much influence you could wield, if only you would. There’s no one sitting on the Andran Council now for Lighura.”

“I doubt the Council would take kindly to my views.”

“You still think you should give up all your land, and have it owned by the peasants who live there?” Elias asked.

“I clearly can’t manage it on my own. Why shouldn’t they own the fruit of their labors?”

“Without their rents you would be impoverished.”

“I’ve known many men poorer than I who lead much happier lives.”

Elias reclined in his high-backed seat and studied his son’s reserved expression. “The social season starts in a few days. Will you attend the opening ball?”

Lysandro’s heart constricted at the mention of it. He tried to dodge the question by digging into the slice of pork loin on his plate, but his father’s expectant stare was unwavering.

“Why?” Lysandro asked, swallowing. “So I can mix with ladies almost ten years my junior and talk about the latest fashions?” Women saw his wealth and his title, and little else.

“That problem will get worse the older you get without choosing a bride. You’re almost thirty.”

“I seem to have exhausted my prospects.”

“You only need to choose one.”

If only there was one, Lysandro thought. Just one.

“You ask too much,” Elias said.

“I just want what you had with Mother. Is that too much?”

Elias’s eyes softened. “No. Maybe some travel would be in order. You’ve always longed to see Mirêne for yourself.”

“Perhaps.” Though Mirêne was more attuned to the Goddess’s loving and more artful face, and better reflected Lysandro’s own inclinations, he couldn’t leave Lighura now—not after what had happened. There was a tension in the air, a sense of trouble brewing into something darker. More sinister.

He returned home and descended into the cavernous rooms carved out from underneath his estate. The space was sparsely furnished, with only a small dresser and a low bed covered in soft, dark furs. Wax puddled at the bases of the wrought-iron candelabras that flanked the corners of the room and lent it their dim light.

Lysandro considered what his father had said. He might find more in common with the people of Mirêne, but his heart belonged to Lighura too. Lysandro couldn’t leave the fate of its people in the hands of Marek. Lysandro’s belief that he was a thief and a murderer was stronger than ever. But he needed proof to remove him. Proof that might finally be within reach.

The trading ship that had quit the port yesterday had left heading north, rather than back the way they’d come. It would be easy for them to round to the other side of the coast unseen, rather than out to sea.

He stripped down to his skin and donned much simpler attire, dyed black to blend with the coming night. The worn fabric often felt more familiar and reassuring to him than the fine clothes he wore in the daytime. Too fancy an outfit would give him away and would more than likely get in his way. He didn’t wear any metal or ornamentation that might glint in the moonlight; he had to be able to weave in and out of the darkness unseen. He completed his ensemble with a broad hat, leather gloves, and a sword honed to a fine point. He wrapped a strip of black cloth tightly around his face, revealing only his eyes, and tucked his long hair, kept in an older, more distinctive style, tucked inside his shirt.

Lysandro abhorred violence. In the full light of day, it went against the example of kindness he worked so hard to set. But the edge of a sword carried a certain sense of rightness. So he sought justice from the shadows.

_____

 

Lighura’s coast was too small to be a true harbor. It could only manage two ships at once, three in an emergency. Tonight, as most nights, the port was empty, leaving the water to creep slowly up the narrow beach without disruption. The only sounds for miles were the breaking of the surf and the call of gulls. But Lighura had pride of place in Andras. Aside from its beautiful coast, it was reputed to be the birthplace of the hero Theron, though exactly where he had lived had been lost to the passage of time.

As Lothan made his way down the sloping path to the shore, past the grass-covered dunes and toward the thin strip of sand, he spied the merchant vessel he sought approaching from a distance. They were still too far away for Lothan to tell if they carried any genuine relics aboard. If they truly possessed what they claimed, he would know—just as the work of Argoss sang in his veins, the lingering sense of the goddess sent his skin crawling. The only thing he felt in that moment was the blade pulsing against his abdomen. Under his coat blossomed the scent of fresh blood—a river’s worth of it.

The drums of the broken metal shard’s magic beat furiously between his ears. It was perhaps the only proof in the whole world that the goddess had failed—Argoss may have lost his life, but his sorcery was beyond her ability to destroy. A hot determination overcame Lothan as he brushed his fingers against the makeshift handle at his belt, drenching them in gore. What the goddess’s whores insisted did not exist was his birthright, to bend and shape to his will. It had eluded him until now, with no clean or clever way to adhere the bleeding metal to the handle of his cheap knife, no symmetrical point or edge to pull them neatly together. But Jair’s energy had come to roost in him, and he willed the broken fragment to cling to the grip. This time, it had obeyed.

The flow of blood racing along its jagged edge made him sticky, lapping at his skin like a wonton lover. It turned his blood feverish, and made his mouth run dry. He licked his lips as a distraction.

The sense of triumph he had first experienced when the shard had come into his possession had waned. What good did it do him if he couldn’t find a way to salvage what remained of the once-might

Blood Sword? It was so small. And he was not a blacksmith or a sorcerer. At least, not in the true sense of the word. He’d managed to find its locations, and had it transported from the farthest edges of Andras without raising suspicion, but that had been accomplished through instinct and sheer luck. The “why” of it eluded him. It was a constant source of frustration. When Lothan jabbed it through the air for the first time to test it, blood didn’t fly off the edge in a venomous spray, which was a bit of a disappointment. But this was only one piece—Lothan consoled himself with the prospect of finding more, and one day wielding the full blade without squandering its power as Argoss had.

He had half a mind to slay his brothers right where they stood and take back from them what was his. But he was tied to his post, and much of what he craved lay beyond his grasp. He needed them. Although at this particular moment, the furtive glow of the lanterns on the beach was infuriatingly stationary. Lothan quickened his steps, and almost barreled into Jenner.

“What are you doing just standing there like an idiot? Spread out! Who do you have on the cliff?”

“That was Jair’s job, Lord Lothan.”

Lothan stared at him, and the man’s legs nearly buckled as he spun on his heel and hurried to do the job himself.

They scattered at his command, taking up their positions as the ship made land.

Lothan was incensed by the illicit goods as they received the smugglers. They had only trinkets to offer— illustrated pages and “blessed” bits of junk, useless things that allowed deluded fanatics to feel nearer to the goddess and their hero—but nothing that bore the mark of Argoss. They had promised him more. They had promised him the Cerulean Key. Lothan did not take kindly to being lied to.

He turned to the man standing at his left and whispered in his ear.

“Get Gorin down here.”

His brother retreated up the cliff face to recall the lookout. The more of them Lothan had nearby, the quicker he could dispatch the two-faced captain and his crew.

Lothan was still waiting for the pair of them to come back down when Jenner handed the captain his money. The captain in turn handed it to his second, who scurried up onto the boat. Lothan shot a piercing look to the cliffs, but neither man was anywhere in sight. He’d just about lost his patience when a single head popped into view.

“He’s gone!”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Like he’s just vanished into thin air.”

Lothan’s skin prickled. Then he heard a scream, and a splash. That’s when he knew they were not alone.

The sailors aboard the ship drew their swords, but it was useless against an invisible enemy. One man came flying in their direction and landed face-first in the mud. Another two, from Lothan’s vantage point, seemed to disappear entirely, as if the floor had opened up from under them. Pandemonium erupted on the small v

essel, but no one could discern the cause.

“It’s him!”

“It’s the Shadow of Theron!”

Marek’s men watched but made no move to help, their eyes round in the lantern light. They grew skittish, wavering in place like horses ready to bolt.

He screamed at his men —better they fear him than some impostor who styled himself after a ridiculous excuse for a god. But his raging was drowned out by another voice that echoed across the sea.

“Ho, there! Looking for this?”

The Shadow of Theron appeared out of the darkness. He stood balanced on the thin outcropping of the ship’s prow, with the sack of coins Jenner had just given over to the captain dangling from his hand.

The realization that he’d snuck past the lot of them without so much as a ripple out of place seized Lothan with a fit of rage. For too long, the Shadow had plagued him. Whenever he had come close to achieving even the smallest of his aims, Theron’s Impostor had been there; he always knew the precise moment to strike, and always came away laughing—leaving Lothan chasing after him like an empty-headed fool. He reached for the bleeding dagger at his belt.

Not this night.

“Get him!” the captain shouted.

Jenner lunged for the chest, but the captain kicked the lid shut with his boot and caught him by the hand.

“No money, no trade!” The captain scooped up the ill-gotten treasure and sped back to the ship. The sailors seemed to have the Shadow cornered, stuck as he was on the thin bowsprit poking out over the water, but he batted their swords away with ease, their seething violence no more than a child’s game to him. He pretended to lose his balance and flung the coins far out to sea.

A blood vessel in Lothan’s neck threatened to burst; the smugglers howled in indignation. But when they charged him, he cut one of the lines connected to the foremast and used it to sail c

lear across the water to the stern. He bounded off the ship and landed on the beachhead with the grace of a jungle cat. He turned his back on Lothan, not showing a care in the world, and waved the ship off.

“Safe journey! Be careful of those rocks, they’re trickier than they look!” Then he returned his gaze to the men on the beach, and grinned.

All Lothan needed was to get close enough to deliver one small slice. But the Shadow was untouchable. He dodged Marek and his men with nimble steps at every turn, cutting through their number as he stayed always just a hair’s breadth out of reach.

In a matter of minutes, Lothan’s lieutenants lay sprawled flat in the sand, bloodied and unconscious. Lothan slowly worked to close the circle tighter and tighter as the Shadow danced around him. He was close enough now that the Shadow could see what it was that Lothan held; the broken blade shimmered brilliantly in the moonlight. The Shadow grew more careful, pushing Lothan to the brink of his endurance.

Lothan shot him a grim smile and tried to knock him off his balance.

“Was Theron himself such a coward in the face of great magic, or is that just you?”

But the Shadow was relentless, and deftly avoided his blows.

Lothan was rewarded for his patience. He thrust straight ahead, causing the Shadow to twist away to the side. But instead of righting himself, Lothan stepped into the dodge, leaving himself exposed, and retracted his arm back at rapid speed.

It was a shallow cut on the upper arm, nothing more. But Lothan felt the edge of the blade bite through the Shadow’s sleeve, and the soft release as it rent open his flesh. The tang of blood filled the air as the tiny droplets joined the flood along the enchanted metal. The Shadow staggered backward, his chest heaving.

Lothan shivered in triumph. But he didn’t stop. He struck again, aiming high for the head. The Shadow of Theron deflected the blow with more force than Lothan thought possible. But the power that pulsed at his fingertips didn’t lie. Lothan stood grinning in the moonlight as the Shadow turned and ran for his life, although he was somewhat perturbed by the Shadow’s speed. He shouldn’t have been able to run at all.

The others were rising from the ground as his enemy shrank back into the shadows.

“Where did he go?”

“Should we go after him?”

“Let him be,” Lothan said, a devilish grin on his face. Lothan was giddy, drunk with victory. “I cut him. With this.” He held out the vermillion remnant of the Blood Sword of Argoss. His brothers gaped and dropped again to their knees, pressing their heads back into the sand.

“It may not be what it was. But if it has even a fraction of its old force…he won’t live through the night.”