The Shape of Darkness (Heavy Lies the Crown)

  THE SHAPE

  OF DARKNESS

  HEAVY LIES THE CROWN | BOOK ONE

  BY D. FISCHER

  The Shape of Darkness (Heavy Lies the Crown)

  Copyright © 2020 by D. Fischer & Acorn Publishing LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any printed or electronic form, without written consent from the author. This book is fictional. All names, characters, and incidents within are pure fiction, produced by the author’s vivid imagination.

  I dedicate this book to Amanda M.

  You are the very definition of a best friend.

  I do not deserve you, but you know too much and now you’re stuck with me.

  Everything in this book is fictional. It is not based on true events, persons, or creatures that go bump in the night, no matter how much we wish it were…

  CONTENTS

  DIVINUS KINGDOM MAP

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER ONE

  At the base of the Northern Kadoka Mountains lies Chickasaw, a quiet ice-mining village situated in the fork of the frozen Kadoka River. Snow swirls in every direction, great gusts that squeeze between houses and thick, towering tree trunks.

  The frigid temperature bites at any exposed flesh and makes Nefari Ashcroft’s fingers stiffen and painfully numb. She wiggles them to generate warmth while she glares at the situation stretched out before them.

  Together with all the other Chickasaw villagers lined up along the river’s edge, everyone’s wrists, including hers, are bound tightly with rope. Together, they wait, seated in the packed snow for further demands of the small Salix army unit.

  The army had invaded at first light. Their lion sigil is not a symbol Nefari would soon forget. But still, and as predicted, they took the village swiftly just as Nefari had hoped they would.

  Smoke from the hovels’ chimneys are carried away, and the mountains tower over Chickasaw like a god seated on his throne. The breeze carries the scent of the surrounding pine trees, and behind them, the ice speaks, creaking as the gentle current underneath pushes against the thick, frozen sheet.

  The prisoners shiver as an oncoming storm is crawling along the sky. Most of the snowstorms do not come from the mountains. No. They build and travel from the Frozen Fades, a place even the brave do not go.

  This particular storm, with dark gray and puffy clouds, stretches on the horizon like a large wraith’s outstretched hand.

  Some are superstitious enough to believe the crones who live in the Frozen Fades taint the Divine Realm’s atmosphere with their wicked ways. As if nature itself sucks up all crones’ evil, churns it in the clouds, and releases it across the land as punishment for buried and exposed sins.

  Nefari knows better. She knows the evil isn’t rooted in the Fades but eyes the storm with distaste just the same. Unlike her companions in the Kadoka Mountains, she’s seen more evil – more devastation – than most would in an ordinary lifetime. Probably more than these soldiers hovering over the abused and beaten villagers while the others finish raiding their homes.

  The soldiers guarding the villagers stand too close, bodies tense. And with good reason, she supposes.

  Before Nefari had been bound, she had put up a good fight. And though she was meant to get caught, she hadn’t been able to resist getting in a good punch or two. It was with pleasure that she had taken down three of theirs. The dead bodies still lay bleeding in the shadow of a hovel, and their blood creates rivers in the sloped snowy paths. The bodies had been dragged there, dropped, and left entirely forgotten.

  When they finally managed to obtain her, her many weapons had been taken along with her beloved sword. The weapons carried by the other villagers were also pilfered and stored inside the hovel near the line of captives.

  A terrible choice, in Nefari’s opinion. Weapons shouldn’t be placed so close to them, but Nefari is well aware that those of the Salix’s army who travel this far west are usually the least skilled.

  One crooked-nosed soldier stands out to her, though. Unlike the others, his posture is wide and confident – authoritative, one might surmise. He glares at her now, and Nefari glares right back.

  Patrix Eiling, a satyr and the only person she knows within the sobbing and frightened group, leans to discreetly whisper in her ear. “We better pray to the Divine that they come for us before we’re marched off to Caw’s Cove by these fools.” He juts his chin toward the mountains in emphasis.

  Caw’s Cove, the largest slave trade on the Divine Realm, is feared by anyone who has enough breath in their lungs to scream. Nefari fears many things – though she pretends otherwise. Caw’s Cove isn’t one of them.

  She looks to the mountains with him and nibbles on the inside of her cheek, knowing he’s right. She and Patrix could easily get out of captivity, but the other villagers . . .

  “Haven’t you heard? There’s no Divine left to pray to,” she mutters back, mindful of her expression. One wrong move – one misplaced twitch – and the soldier eye-balling her will draw his sword and relieve her of her head. He’s twitchy enough as it is because it wouldn’t be the first time an entire village tried to take on the army, but this soldier needn’t worry. Not one of those villages had been successful. They hadn’t stood a chance.

  Recently, it’s been noted that half of Salix’s armies are possessed with darkness. It angers Nefari that those who are possessed are often her own kind: Shadow People. It’s an entirely different form of slavery, forcing those possessed to do things they wouldn’t normally do. The realm calls these people – be it Shadow Person or human – harvestmen.

  Harvestmen, or harvestwomen, are people whose minds are controlled by dark divine magic. A single wraith carries this magic, and a single touch from them makes the individual a puppet for eternity.

  Patrix chuckles darkly. The sound is raspy from years of sucking on his pipe. Nefari switches her attention to him and visually traces his goat-like features. His ears are large and pointed, but their tips stretch far past the top of his head. His nose is nearly flat against his face, a long bridge and slits for nostrils. Black paint circles his slitted eyes, and his scruffy beard is rugged and lengthier than the last time she’d seen him.

  The satyr’s calloused fingers grip his ropes while his hooved feet sprawl out before them.

  Out of all of his features, Patrix’s hooves are her favorite. They’re delicate compared to his muscular frame and scruffy and furred legs.

  She and Patrix often find themselves in enemy arms. On purpose, of course. They’re usually sent out together because they work well as a pair – one trained to protect and the other skilled in strategy.

  Satyrs, by nature, are supposed to be neutral beings. Serene, even. Anyone born and
raised in Loess is immediately trusted, for the country itself has refused to pick sides in the battlefield that has become the Divine Realm.

  Patrix is so trusted that he can waltz into any kingdom without being questioned. He’s a confidant to kings and queens if it suits him and often returns to the mountains carrying the secrets they share with him. If it wasn’t for him and a few other spies peppered across the countries, the Kadoka centaurs wouldn’t know about Salix’s attempts to stretch its influence this far west. If it wasn’t for him – if he hadn’t received word from a friend in Urbana – this entire village would be marching to Caw’s Cove, sailed across Widow’s Bay, and given an ax to work in one of Salix’s gold mines or a pitchfork to harvest their fields.

  Nefari is determined to not see that happen even if they do get paid for protecting the villages around Kadoka Mountain’s – the Rebel Legion’s – territory.

  “I suppose one could say we could pray to you, then,” Patrix teases.

  “Don’t you dare.” Nefari lifts her bound hands and uses the rough ropes to scratch an itch on the tip of her nose. The soldier jolts at the movement and grips the pommel of his sword, shrewd lips sneering. The human woman next to her flinches at the soldier’s wordless threat, but Nefari pays him no mind.

  Nefari hushes her voice until it sounds more like a threat. “I am the last person you – or anyone – should pray to.”

  His burly shoulder bumps into hers, and the leather of his meager armor pokes at her skin through her black cloak. Without the usual clank of their weapons being jostled, the gesture feels empty. “You’re the closest thing we’ve got, little shadow, whether you own that you’re Fate-blessed or not.”

  “That would be a ‘not’.” Nefari’s nose wrinkles, and this time, she narrows her eyes at Patrix. She hates it when he calls her ‘little shadow.’ She much prefers the other nickname he had dubbed her when they met ten years ago at the entrance of Kadoka City. Fari is what he had nicknamed her, and it’s what nearly everyone else in the mountains has adapted since then. She likes it much better, for she sounds more fearsome than she feels on the inside.

  Indeed, Nefari is Fate-blessed, a fact she promptly ignores and a fact others have begun to push on her. Fate was a fool for giving his magic to her and destroying himself in the process. She is only one girl – one woman, barely eighteen. Nothing is going to save this realm, especially not her. That sort of thinking is what got her parents killed and their kingdom destroyed.

  His hooves click together. “Ah. There’s a bit of that temper I remember. For a moment, I feared you had turned into a stiff like the rest of the Kadoka centaurs.”

  “I’ll show you temper,” Nefari growls.

  A villager behind them makes a shushing sound. “Are you trying to get us killed?” the man asks.

  They ignore him.

  Patrix dips his head, and the tip of his messy beard touches his exposed and hairy collarbone. His lips barely move as he sternly says, “No magic. Remember what Bastian said.”

  A small, sly grin spreads across Nefari’s lips. Bastian had warned against it, but defying the centaur leader – the Rebel Legion’s leader – is her favorite pastime.

  “Fate is inside you, Nefari,” Bastian had said when they left Kadoka City yesterday. “Your magic is the only thing that can kill a wraith. As you are our most valuable weapon, you are also our most dangerous. If she were to find you . . .”

  Nefari shakes Bastian’s warning from her mind. “Bastian says a lot of things these days. That doesn’t mean I have to listen to them. I’m an adult and, therefore, no longer someone he needs to hover over and protect. Besides, I’m already using magic to hide my features. What’s a little more?”

  And Nefari is glad for it. If these men were to realize who and what she is . . .

  Nefari’s magic is a gift from the stars – a sort of magic that hasn’t been seen for centuries, according to Swen Copsteel, the old and wise records keeper of Kadoka City. It’s bright and hot, and if she wields it correctly, she can cast shadows and shape them to her will, including across her own features. It isn’t enough to make her look entirely like a new person, but it’s enough to shade her tell-tale shadow people features – white hair and ice-blue eyes – until she appears like any other ordinary human.

  If she were to someday forget she had this magic shrouding her face, her enemies would know more than her race. They’d know the secret she keeps, for she is the Shadow Princess long thought dead. The very Shadow Princess the Queen of Salix sought to destroy the day she invaded her people’s kingdom.

  “Fari,” Patrix chastises. “Cut your nonsense. If I so much as see light dancing at your fingertips, I will dump you in the river, soldiers with pointy sticks be damned.” He glances at the oncoming storm. “That much magic will bring the wraiths. It is what Bastian warned you of, and you know it.”

  Grumbling under her breath, Nefari straightens her spine and sags her shoulders. “Fine,” she relents. She searches the surrounding trees and then studies each soldier dragging more and more villagers to the collective captives. At least, the villagers have kept quiet about who and why she and Patrix were there.

  One woman, in particular, holds Nefari’s attention. She grinds her teeth as she watches this woman being dragged along the path by her brown hair. The person dragging her is one of Nefari’s own kind – a shadow person turned harvestman. And in this shadow person’s eyes is the vacant look Nefari always sees in all who were unfortunate enough to be touched by a wraith. They see nothing. They’re playthings to a greater mastermind, to the Queen of Salix and her continued push to rule the entire realm.

  All shadow people have two forms. One is humanoid, and the other is shadow form. For a decade, she hasn’t seen a single shadow person shift to their shadow form. Not since the Shadow Kingdom fell. No one dares because it’s magic, and magic is detected by the wraiths. These wraiths prowl the skies until they feel the magic pulse in the atmosphere, and then they’re drawn to it. It takes seconds for them to harvest the magic wielder and anyone unfortunate enough to stand beside them. It is their sole purpose to ensure all the power is sitting on Salix’s throne and nowhere else. Magic is Salix’s bane, and any shadow person left unharvested is a threat.

  The shadow form is a beautiful form, though. Nefari misses the black skin that sparkles like a galaxy. She still sees it in her dreams, but those harvested never wear it, for reason’s Nefari isn’t privy to. She remembers it all though; the shadow jumping, the great tales of shadow royal magic, and the messages she would sometimes get from her parents, sent through the shadows. She tries to not think about it.

  The woman being dragged along screams and kicks. She’s making such a ruckus that every soldier turns or glances briefly to watch the scene unfold. The soldier who had been glaring at Nefari chuffs and marches over to her and the harvestman. He raises his hand and strikes the woman across the face. The force of the hit causes the harvestman to release his burden, and the woman drops to the ground, clutching her face.

  The harvestman doesn’t flinch. His expressionless eyes look down on the woman, and his long white hair sways in the snowy gale.

  Nefari’s blood boils, and she feels her magic rising to the surface.

  “Fari,” Patrix warns as Nefari’s fingers clench into fists in her lap. “Wait for the others to arrive. Do nothing. Sit still and –”

  The crooked-nosed soldier strikes the woman again. His face is twisted in amusement, and a blaze of white-hot anger travels through Nefari’s bones. “I can’t,” she growls.

  A sliver of her starlight magic seeps out of the skin of her hands. The falling snow obscures its brightness, but it’s only enough to burn away the rope binding her wrists. The rope disintegrates to ash, and Nefari leaps from her seat on the ground. She dashes to the soldier and tackles him in the midst of kicking the woman’s ribs.

  With a thud, Nefari lands on top of the man and quickly scrambles to straddle him. His sword’s pommel digs painfully i
nto her inner thigh, but she squeezes her legs as tight as she can to keep him still.

  “Run!” she tells the woman still lying, gaping, on the snow. Then, she draws the short knife from the soldier’s hip and presses it to his throat. Nefari leans close to the man’s face and snarls, “Move, and this blade will touch your spine.”

  The woman struggles to stand, and in those precious seconds, the harvestman recaptures her.

  Still with the captives on the sidelines, Patrix Eiling battles his binds as he watches Nefari threaten the soldier. By the Divine, this woman is going to get him and everyone else killed! The older she gets, the more unpredictable she becomes. He should have known better than to request her for this mission. The last time they were involved with liberating a village of invading soldiers, she had been reckless, too. At the time, he had thought it was a youthful outburst, but now he knows that isn’t true.

  She’s near incapable of following orders, and that in itself could be as deadly as a sword in the heart.

  The rest of the soldiers draw their blades, but they hesitate to approach. Patrix blinks as his mind works for a solution. He hadn’t planned on Nefari’s rogue actions.

  But the soldiers aren’t attacking, and when Patrix studies for the reasoning, he realizes the only reason they haven’t is because that man – the man under the Princess of the Shadow People – is important to them. They need him alive. They’ve been ordered to keep him alive. Why?

  It dawns on Patrix, and he bites back a curse. Of course! Of course, Fari would attack the lieutenant of this small raiding unit. A lieutenant! Foolish, foolish woman!

  Knife still tight against his throat, Nefari Ashcroft feels her heart skip a beat at the Lieutenant’s order. “Kill her!” the lieutenant orders the others. His face is a shade of pure white, but his cheeks are bright with anger. “Kill her now!”

  A bowstring snaps, and an arrow whizzes through the air. Nefari’s sharp senses pick up the sound a fraction of a second before the arrow can find its mark. She tilts her body an inch and catches Patrix’s wince when it knicks her shoulder. The arrow embeds in the frozen dirt ten feet past the lieutenant’s head.