The Orphan and the Shadow Walker Read online

  By Graeme Bourke

  The Huntsman Series

  The Orphan and the Shadow Walker

  The Awakening

  The Orphan and the Shadow Walker

  Pathway to the Truth

  Jaram

  The Final Journey

  THE ORPHAN AND THE SHADOW WALKER

  The Awakening

  By

  Graeme D Bourke

  * * *

  Published By

  Graeme Bourke on Smashwords

  THE ORPHAN AND THE SHADOW WALKER

  The Awakening

  Copyright 2014 Graeme Bourke

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  Note: This is the first book from the Huntsman Series. The second will be put up in a month’s time and the third a month after that. While the first book is free the second and third will have a fee.

  THE ORPHAN AND THE SHADOW WALKER

  The Awakening

  Book One

  Islabad

  The island continent of Islabad is longer than it is wide. Fertile valleys forged by the rivers of pristine water ring the mountain ranges on the east, south and west. Forests of pine and cypress cling to the hillsides. In the west, these forests reach right to the rugged shoreline where the westerly winds whip up ferocious seas.

  In the east the forest thins out in places and is dotted with fine grassland and good soil. The huge grassy plains in the north, known as Moorland, are under populated, but rich in cattle, horses and sheep, with a thriving fishing industry.

  In the south, Lothia, a fertile land with undulating hills and a patchwork of forests is the largest and the most densely populated of the seven provinces that make up Islabad. Here in the capital city of Haslam on the Tiber River, is where the king, Thomas Letcher, resides in his castle and surrounding city.

  Thomas Letcher came to the throne through rivers of blood, he cared nothing for the lives he wasted in his quest to be King of all Islabad, and nothing for the lives that he still took in maintaining his reign over the seven provinces.

  Thomas was basking in his own glory, reaping the benefits of his realm with gold, silver and riches beyond his imagination. But there was one thing the king had not accounted for. Previously the seven provinces were independent, had their own kings and queens, and their own bureaucracy. He had inadvertently, by his conquests, united the continent.

  In the past, the seven provinces had mostly ignored each other, or fought over trivial border complaints and personal matters. But now they all had a common enemy, something that had never happened before in Islabad. Thomas had sown the seeds for unification, for a united rebellion and all that was needed now was leaders; champions who could use that combined hatred against the king to forge a new land and a new beginning.

  * * *

  The Battle of Tursy

  “Edmond, I can’t see!” There was a moment of fear and panic in Armond’s voice.

  Edmond Harland held his father in his arms. His mud-spattered grey beard was streaked with blood that ran down his face from a gash that had peeled his scalp open.

  Edmond wiped the blood from his father’s eyes with his sleeve. “There, you can see now.”

  “What has happened?” he asked, gasping, knowing full well that he was dying.

  “We’ve lost the battle, Father,” said Edmond as his dust-laden eyes drifted across the carnage that lay before him, the carnage of war at its worst. Headless corpses, writhing bodies and the mournful incessant cries for help that rang through the grey mist as it began to swirl around them like a spectre. But there would be no help, only the slashing and stabbing of Lothian swords as they finished them off, one by one.

  “You must flee, Edmond, go into the mountains, they won’t find you there,” whispered his father as his voice began to falter.

  “This is not over. I will have my revenge.”

  Edmond felt the grasp of his father’s hand on his forearm. “It’s over Edmond. Find yourself a place to hide. Become a farmer, do anything, but don’t be a soldier.”

  “No, I won’t be a soldier anymore, Father, I promise you that.”

  His father’s grip relaxed on his arm and Edmond knew that he had passed from this world. He released his father and stood up gingerly, aware of the wounds to his legs and torso.

  Then, from beneath his dirt-encrusted armour he reached for the folded flag his mother had given him. ‘Use it only as a last resort,’ she had said. He found a broken lance, tied the flag to it and drove it into the ground next to his father.

  “This will protect you, Father, you and all your compatriots. This field will become hallowed ground for eternity.” With tears in his eyes he turned and limped away and was immediately swallowed up by the eerie billowing mist.

  Fifteen years later

  “And that was the last time that Edmond Harland, the heir to the throne of Steppland, was seen.”

  The captivated audience in the Horse and Hound Inn said nothing. All was still save the crackling of the huge log fire as the middle-aged grey-headed storyteller drained the last of his ale from his mug, burped rudely and slammed the mug back down on the rough wooden table stained with eons of ale and food. He knew they wanted more, wanted to know the rest, but they would not have it just yet.

  Elijah peered through the gloom of the flickering firelight at the ragged group of peasants congregated here in the small inn to hear him speak. The odour of burning tallow drifted through the room as the candles smoked, then wavered slightly as the door was opened allowing a wisp of cool night air to circulate into the humid warmth created by the mass of unwashed bodies.

  The wooden door creaked on leather hinges as a silhouetted figure entered, closed the door and latched it firmly as if to bar anyone else entrance.

  At first glance Elijah thought it was a boy. But as the figure moved into the light there was no mistaking the fine facial features. He drew in his breath as the young woman came closer. She stared at him with deep ebony eyes. During his fifty years he had seen much that the world had to offer but nothing matched the aura, the beauty and the self-confidence that emanated from this young woman.

  She seemed to glide toward him on delicate sandaled feet, moving into the glare of the yellow firelight. No one spoke, no one moved, as all eyes followed the young girl. It was as if she commanded some sort of respect, some sort of obedience.

  He could now see her more clearly and guessed her age to be around twenty or twenty one. She was dressed in a grey coarse blouse that hung down over black baggy trousers. She was above average height and looked a little on the thin side. Even so, she had wide shoulders, a slender waist and well-shaped hips. Her short dark hair was cut in a page-boy style. Her expression of youth and innocence was instantly disarming. Elijah noticed that her skin was golden brown, almost olive, and not the pasty white of the local inhabitants. She was an outsider, different from these people gathered around him.

  Finding a gap at the front of the crowd she sat down on the padded dirt floor, crossed her legs and peered up at him with those dark piercing eyes. The quiet was shattered as the fat, balding inn-keeper spoke up.

  “Here good, sir, have some more ale and a bite to eat,” he said as he pushed the apple pie closer and filled Elijah’s mug from the pitcher, ending the tranc
e like moment.

  The art of story telling was serious business and only a talented few ever really succeeded in earning a living from it. Elijah had refined his technique over many years and knew when to start and stop his tale. Always leave them hanging and never tell them everything was his motto.

  He tried to target the smaller villages, the out-of-way places, as the people were friendlier and more prone to supply him with what he needed. Cragmoor was just such a place, nestled at the head of the valley with only one stony track in and out; an easy place to defend if the inhabitants had a mind to.

  There were no warriors here though, only simple folk who tilled the land, herded their goats and cattle and generally lived their lives apart from the tyranny that had been unfolding in the lowlands these past fifteen years.

  The people here very rarely travelled out of their secluded valley in the north of Steppland. The three hundred souls that lived in Cragmoor were starved of information, so they craved the news and the goings-on in the vast stretches of the empire. In return for his news, his stories and entertainment, the humble villagers gave him board and lodging, ale and fresh food.

  Elijah grasped a piece of pie in his thin bony hands and took a bite, it tasted of cinnamon and stewed apple, deliciously fresh. He washed the pie down with some ale and took another piece.

  “The flag, what was on the flag?” asked an agitated voice from among the crowd.

  “Let him finish eating,” replied the inn-keeper as the second slice of pie disappeared.

  “You might well ask what was on the flag, sir,” said Elijah wiping the crumbs from around his mouth with his sleeve. He took another sip of his ale and knew then he had their undivided attention. This was the art of story telling that he loved, the drawing out of the tale, the audience hanging on his every word.

  “Thomas Letcher, now king of all the lands,” a murmur rippled through the crowd, “was once a mere sergeant in the Lothian army, but he craved ambition, he craved the power that a leader could have with a well trained and formidable army. His greed and avarice knew no bounds as he worked his way up the chain of command. Those that stood in his way would suddenly fall ill, suffer an accident or were murdered by unknown assailants.

  “To further his cause he instigated disturbances across the Lothian borders and then ruthlessly put them down claiming that forces from other provinces had attacked. This in turn created a chain reaction of reprisals from neighboring provinces declaring that they were simply protecting their citizens from Lothian attacks.

  “Then, civil war erupted in Lothia. This was exactly what Thomas wanted, giving him the opportunity to cleanse the country, to slay all those who opposed him and shape its people toward his own evil plans and ambitions.

  “Thousands died in the war that followed, and Thomas pronounced himself King of Lothia. Then he turned his attention to his neighboring provinces. One by one they fell to his ever increasing army until there was only one left to oppose him, Steppland.”

  “Yes, yes, we know all this,” said one of the men closest him. “What about the flag, what was on the flag?”

  “I’m coming to that, just be patient.” Elijah took another piece of pie and as he scoffed it down the inn-keeper topped up his mug.

  “Steppland had one of the most modern and well equipped armies of all the provinces. They were well trained and disciplined, led by a warrior king, Armond Harland, not a man to be trifled with. He had a fierce temper and knew battlefield techniques better that anyone. But Thomas of Lothia had no intention of playing by the rules. He would use treachery to defeat Armond.

  “He began to recruit spies, mostly thieves, vagabonds and general lay-a-bouts looking to make some easy money and hoping to eventually share in the looting of the Steppland cities. Thomas challenged Armond to a deciding battle on the wide fields of Tursy, a place where neither army would have an advantage; a place where the leaders would play out their moves in sight of each other. The best strategist would win the battle.

  “Armond suspected that this was a trap, so he kept a third of his army in reserve as he approached Tursy. At the same time he sent out scouts to his left, to his right and to the Lothian camp itself. The scouts reported nothing untoward; there was nothing to arouse their suspicions.

  “One thing had him puzzled though, they had seen no peasants, no farmers in the fields and no travellers on the roads. It was as if the whole civilian population had deserted the area where the battle was to be held. While the vast majority of populations nearly always avoided, or fled from, moving armies, there were always a few hardy souls who stayed. He sent out more scouts with specific orders to find some of the local people.

  “In the meantime, Thomas, who had at least twice as many men as Armond, sent a quarter of his army, twenty five thousand horsemen, on the long route through Treeland and around the marshes to attack the Steppland capital of Darfor, which he knew from his scouts was only being held by a skeleton force.

  “Now to get to the Tursy fields, one has to pass through the mountains of the White Glade, a place of narrow winding roads and steep valleys. Thomas sent most his archers to dig in and hide on the hillsides covering the narrow pass that Armond would have to travel. He then had his troops erect more tents and light more fires during the night. He had men moving about over a wide area of the camp to give the impression that his whole army was there.

  When Armond came through the pass Thomas’s archers sent down a fusillade of arrows that darkened the sky like the clouds of a thunderstorm that immediately began to decimate Armond’s ranks. He had no alternative but to charge through the wall of whistling death. There was no time to form a plan, to discuss tactics with his commanders and his son. They had been forced to initiate a full-on charge at the enemy’s forces on the open fields of Tursy.

  “At first the battle was even and neither army could make headway. Armond tried to send a message back to his reserves, but none of the messengers made it through as the Lothian army had sealed off the valley behind them. Soon the toll became too great and Armond’s army was gradually reduced to small groups fighting a hopeless fight. Then Armond fell, mortally wounded, his son, Edmond, by his side.

  “Through the swirling mist that crept down off the mountains the Lothian solders had surged forward slaying the wounded and those who had yielded in hope for some mercy. But there was none. Then, a group of Lothian soldiers saw the flag, which fluttered even though there was no wind, as if caught up in its own current of air.

  “They stopped in their tracks, instant fear etched on their faces as they looked to each other and then into the encroaching haze. Had it thickened? Was it suddenly alive and reaching out to them? They turned and fled the field shouting wildly to their comrades as they went.

  “It wasn’t the white silk flag that had terrified the soldiers, but the black skull that rippled on its surface in that unfelt breeze.”

  Elijah saw the older folk immediately cross their chests with their hands and mutter the ancient words, the ancient rites that had been passed down to them from their parents and their parents before them, words to supposedly ward off demons. Their eyes widened and reflected the inner fear they felt.

  An old hag with wrinkled, leathery skin and wearing a ragged, grey cloak spoke up; the sound of her croaking voice easily heard above the agitated and restless crowd.

  “It’s the sign of a Shadow Walker.”

  They all cast their eyes to the old woman and voices became raised. Fear and anguish reflected on their faces as the old stories, the legends that had been passed down to them through the ages, suddenly came to life.

  “A Shadow Walker, on the fields of Tursy, impossible,” uttered the inn-keeper. There have been no Shadow Walkers for a century or more.”

  “I can only tell you what happened on the fields of Tursy.”

  “They say pilgrims visit the site on the anniversary of the battle and have done so for the past fourteen years,” said a short stubby man seated near the fire.

>   “Yes, it’s now a sacred site, held in trust by the priests of Amah. It was they who cleansed the field that day; who rescued the survivors, tended to the wounded and buried the dead. No one else would dare enter the field while the flag flew. But of a Shadow Walker, they saw nothing. The flag was taken by the priests and locked in a chest in a secret place in the church at Tursy.”

  “What is a Shadow Walker?”

  The question had come from the young girl dressed like a boy, still seated on the floor. Her voice was soft and sincerely inquisitive; her upturned innocent face reflected the same. Elijah cast his eyes around the crowd; it was suddenly quiet again. How was it, he wondered, that one among them didn’t know anything about Shadow Walkers? Every child grew up with the stories; parents used them like the bogyman to intimidate children when they were mischievous. There were tales of their magic, of their coming in the night and the gruesome deaths that usually followed in their wake.

  “Time ladies and gentleman, you have heard enough for the night,” said the inn-keeper as he stood up. “We all have our work to do tomorrow.”

  The crowd grumbled as they wanted more. But what the inn-keeper had said was true; each of them had to turn to their trade the next morning to keep the wheels of the village turning.

  To Elijah the village seemed prosperous, the people happy, with plenty to eat and drink. It appeared that they were self-sufficient, although they did trade with one of the other villages on the main road some eight hours travel by horse and cart. Here they were able to buy or trade for goods they could not produce, but mostly they kept to themselves.