In the Shadow of Swords
Read In the Shadow of Swords Online
Authors: Val Gunn
Tags: #Thrillers, #Fantasy, #Fiction, #General
An Errant Press Release
IN THE SHADOW OF SWORDS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author and publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Copyright (c) 2010 by Val Gunn
Book Design by
Joshua Vizzacco
Cartography by
Chris Gonzlez
Cover Illustration by
Samir Malik
This book has been typeset in Gentium, a relative newcomer to the game and was chosen despite the fact that it is available free of charge. The serif typeface was designed by Victor Gaultney for a dual purpose—both to fulfill academic requirements and to meet a global need. The design is intended to be highly readable, reasonably compact, and visually attractive. Think of it as ‘lotion for the eyes’.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
The name “Errant Press” and the stylized “e” with design are registered trademarks belonging to Errant Press LLC.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.
ISBN - 13: 978-0-615-23269-0
ISBN - 10: 0-615-23269-8
PRINTED IN ICELAND
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Errant Press hardcover / First Edition / February 2011
Introduction
IN THE SHADOW OF SWORDS is the first book in the tales of Ciris Sarn. This is not the Lord of the Rings. Growing up, our house was filled with many books from authors my dad liked to read; Eric Ambler, Graham Greene and Robert Ludlum—to name just a few. Of course I found my way into the realms of fantasy and fell in love with J.R.R. Tolkien’s epic prose. But I was also enamored with the sword and sorcery of Robert Howard and the English translations of One Thousand and One Nights. This book blends elements of fictional espionage, dark fantasy and historical thriller together and pours them into an exotic locale full of intrigue and danger. Mir’aj is a place steeped in the Arabian Nights tradition; a wonderfully fresh setting for me. I am just dipping my toes into the water of this world—hopefully much more of it is still left to come. I’m not an expert on the historical cultures this story takes creative license with, and the responsibility for any error is my own.
Acknowldgements
AT LAST. It has been a seemingly endless journey, and I hope your enduring patience will be rewarded. This book could not have been finished without the incredible support of my family and friends. My appreciation goes to all of you who looked at the manuscript at some point along the way and offered suggestions. I still have a long way to go, but hopefully I can get better at this craft. I am ever grateful to Sasha Miller for first mentoring me and never accepting less than my best. Also to James Car-mack for his insight and wonderful workshops—your guidance allowed me to take the story in another direction and make it something much more original. I would like to give credit to Jesus F.Gonzalez for his work in helping me to make the plot flow at a breakneck pace and literally jump off the pages; Don Peters–for stepping into the game late and providing a big assist; Eric Uhland who is a master wordsmith. Further, I am indebted to Alan K.Lipton, Josepha Sherman, and Judith Tarr for each of their contributions. I would be remiss in not mentioning Samir Malik for the wonderful cover art; Chris Gonzalez in creating an amazing map of the world; and Joshua Vizzacco who designed the book for Errant Press. A job well done. To my beta readers—Bob Nagga, Phil Telford, and Laura Haglund—your feedback was much appreciated. Thanks to my peers at Absolute Write and SFF World who read parts of my book and shared their knowledge and expertise. In addition, to everyone else who crossed my path and offered to help me in some way—I am beholden to your kind hearts. This dream would not have become a reality without the support of my wife. I save the last of my profound thanks for her, who has been with me through all the ups and downs.
Sorry this one took so long
.
for my Dad
PROLOGUE
THERE WILL BE BLOOD
24.3.791 SC
1
HE WAS
almost
there.
Hiril Altaïr’s heart pounded furiously as he raced across the square. A drum hammered in his head, until he felt as if it would explode from the pressure. Every breath shot agonizing pain down his sides.
Not now
.
Not yet
.
Sweat trickled into his eyes, blurring his vision. Still he ran. Each step thundered against the great expanse of stone, echoing, waking foreboding in his mind. Altaïr scanned the buildings for a familiar sign. Light flickered and caught his attention.
At last
.
He spied a long standard of burgundy with gilded edges, swaying seductively in the wind. Blazoned in the center was a
Qurnaj
calligram of the word
Eliës
, rendered in the shape of a falcon.
Sanctuary
.
But would they harbor him? Could anyone be trusted with the knowledge he held?
Nearing exhaustion, he stumbled and nearly fell just three paces short of the entrance to the Eliës embassy. The twin doors that faced the square were closed. Altaïr paused, panting, and dashed sweat from his eyes. This deadly game was finally at its end. Just three steps. Once he was across the threshold, he would be safe.
For how long, though?
The Eliësans would give him sanctuary. They were fiercely independent from the Sultanate of Qatana and the Rassan Majalis of Miranes’. Altaïr carried with him the proof—and could show them even more. He would make them believers, and they would have to protect him.
Altaïr was still half stunned by the revelations he had uncovered. Everything he’d been taught to believe was a lie. It had cost his friend’s life and the lives of four others.
How many others had already been killed?
He staggered up the remaining three steps. Just as he reached for the door handle, a faint whisper behind him broke the silence. Before he could react, something grabbed his shoulder with hideous strength and spun him around. Lifting him into the air as though he were a child’s toy, the unseen attacker slammed Altaïr into one of the embassy’s stone pillars, shattering bones, and then tossed him effortlessly back down the stairs. For a moment, Altaïr faced a wall of darkness as he landed on the ground, screaming in agony. The darkness receded briefly as he fought to stay conscious. Altaïr’s blurred vision found his attacker—a tall, menacing figure cloaked entirely in black, stretching a hand out toward him.
Ciris Sarn.
Kingslayer
.
A wave of dark scarabs flowed from Sarn’s fingertips, sweeping down on their prey. They flew to embrace Altaïr, shrouding him in a pulsing, inky mass. The creatures tightened around him and punctured his flesh, plunging Altaïr into unbearable pain.
The doors to the embassy promised sanctuary, but for Altaïr it was too late. He gave one last great strain against the merciless onslaught, to no avail. The spellbound creatures stripped away his skin, ripping apart muscle and sinew as he flailed helplessly—and hopelessly—to escape.
Altaïr looked up into the cold black eyes of the assassin. The hooded form of Sarn gazed back at him with no trace of mercy or remorse, his face lined in angles, sharp and unforgiving.
The pain swelled as time slowed, seemingly endless, and Altaïr knew that the sight of the assassin would be his last.
It ended with the sharp, swift movement of a thin blade whispering through the air. Cruel steel pierced Altaïr’s eye and drove deep into his skull. H
IS
head wrenched back in a silent scream as a crimson curtain fell, then faded into eternal darkness.
His last thought was of his wife.
Marin
.
2
THERE WAS only one thing left to do.
The scarabs had done their work. Now that Hiril Altaïr lay dead before him, Sarn reached into the folds of his clothing and removed four thin, leather-bound books and laid them next to the body. Dassai wanted these books, but Sarn was not concerned with his avarice.
For now, he had his own matters to attend to.
