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  Shiver the Moon

  The Chain of Living Fire: Book 1

  Phillip M. Locey

  Elisahd Books

  DURHAM, NORTH CAROLINA

  Copyright © 2018 by Phillip M. Locey

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Phillip M. Locey/Elisahd Books

  5 Waterview Ct

  Durham, North Carolina 27703

  www.elisahdbooks.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover Art by Soheil Toosi

  Interior Map by Cornelia Yoder (www.corneliayoder.com)

  Shiver the Moon / Phillip M. Locey. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-1-947579-08-8

  This book is dedicated to the members of Durham Voices

  who helped make this book a reality:

  JQ Abbey, Jeremy Cribb, Rachel Hamm, Hannah Phoenix,

  Jenn Robinson, and Ken Wetherington.

  Thanks to the multitudes who gave support along the way.

  “The gods of our past will come haunting soon;

  Let tremble the earth and shiver the moon.”

  ―SEer of Crioc

  Contents

  Escape from Blackthorn

  The Lure of Battle

  A Motley Crew

  Assassinating the Crown

  Expanding the Empire

  Reality in Dreams

  Not Alone

  Shared Enemies

  After a Long Climb

  Finding the Lessons

  Caught on the Road

  Giving In

  Redirection

  The Birth of Fire

  Talon Barge

  Only as Good as the Armor

  Hope’s End

  Calling Up the Storm

  Assault on Blackthorn

  Spoils of Victory

  Touch of the Moon

  The Miracle at Windhollow Rock

  Growing the Banner

  Gods and Men

  Decisions of the Heart

  Nothing Can Last

  Matters of Trust

  Haunt of the Bone Man

  Call to Arms

  The Defense of Windhollow

  A Deeper Darkness

  The Battle of Naresgreen

  Forging a New Order

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Escape from Blackthorn

  R ogan was nearly close enough to taste his freedom, but that wasn’t making the climb any easier. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging as it fell from his chin to the wound on his left bicep. Progress up the shaft was labored and too slow for his liking. He only hoped he could reach the top before his body yielded to exhaustion or the guards tracked him down. He doubted they would let him merely remain a prisoner after what he had done.

  One painstaking move at a time, he tucked his legs as far back as he could, feet pressed flat against the dark, unforgiving stone. His arms were buttressed against opposite sides of the shaft, their strength the only thing preventing him from slipping back to where he started. There was nothing to hold on to. With only four body lengths to go, he wondered whether his struggle would all be for nothing. His arms were on fire, his sweat making the surface ever more slick. Rogan briefly wondered if he could use the length of rope he’d coiled around his body to help his predicament, but quickly realized the tight quarters would not allow him to even get it off his shoulder. No, he would just have to press on.

  He slid upward another body length and felt a sharp pain as an uneven piece of masonry cut through his shirt and into the flesh of his back. Suddenly, raised voices echoed up the chute; they must have discovered the guard’s body. He was sure they would track him down any moment. With new vigor, born from panic, Rogan tucked his legs again and pushed. The pain in his arm and back stung anew with the effort, but it did not match his resolve. He would get out of this prison alive. He would complete his bargain with the cloaked man, exact vengeance, and be truly free once more.

  Rogan had been presented with this opportunity only an hour ago, after languishing in Blackthorn prison for three years. His sentence for treason came down without even the pretense of a trial, though he didn’t expect otherwise from this regime. He prepared for execution – that had been the price of treason in times past. Then he learned what was more important than the death of traitors, and what was worse. The King-priest needed more labor to mine the precious uril-chent ore from beneath Blackthorn. Only recently discovered alongside known deposits of copper and gold, the veins of this unique mineral radiated dangerous energies. Hundreds of miners afflicted by a strange sickness had died before the threat was discovered. The worked uril-chent alloy it yielded was extraordinary, however the King-priest hoarded it, judging it worth the cost in lives.

  Although Rogan had been a well-respected baron under the previous ruler, he was targeted for it by the other prisoners. His background prepared him all the same, for he mastered the politics of the prison with the quickness of necessity, only his own hands and wits fending off its brutality. Despite his adeptness, he never once felt safe during the past three years. There were simply too many unpredictable elements down in the pits.

  Working the mines was exhausting labor – swinging pick-axes and hammers, loading sacks and carts of ore – and exposure to the uril-chent often left him nauseated and debilitated by headaches. During his time at Blackthorn, Rogan assumed the outside world had forgotten him, and was glad for it. He did not need reminders of what he had lost, and he never received visitors, sympathetic or otherwise, until this afternoon.

  The day began as usual – a meager breakfast before being led into the mines beneath the bowels of the prison-fortress. He hauled carts of ore for a few hours before being summoned above. Suspicious, but not unhappy for the reprieve, he was escorted to the surface levels, then down a hallway to a plain, stone-walled room with a thick, iron door. Once the pair of guards unbound his wrists, they took positions flanking it.

  A rough, wooden table and two chairs were the only furniture; he was ordered to sit. Another man sat across the table wearing a dark, crimson cloak bearing the new royal insignia – a charred skull, bleeding from the eye sockets, wearing a wreath of thorns. It was also the emblem of Gholdur the Tyrant, the god from which Ebon Khorel, the new King-priest, supposedly drew power.

  The man at the table did not give his name, only identifying himself as the Royal Inquisitor. Another figure loomed in the corner of the room – a silent, still form, draped in a black, hooded cloak, with shadow hanging heavily upon him.

  The Inquisitor interrogated Rogan for almost an hour, remaining vague while probing for information about a plot against the King-priest’s agents. The man seemed sure that Rogan, being a traitor himself, had illicit contacts in the outside realm threatening the interests of the king. Most of the people Rogan once associated with had already been arrested, but he intentionally prolonged the questioning, hoping the Inquisitor would slip into telling him some shred of useful information. In the end the whole exchange proved fruitless, as neither party revealed anything insightful. Finally, with a glance over his shoulder, the Royal Inquisitor and guards left the room, shutting the door behind them.

  Rogan was confused, though his heart beat rapidly. He was alone in a room, hands unbound, with a frail-looking man; though for all he knew this was Death himself, visi
ting. Rogan waited, watching the figure as violent scenarios ran through his mind. The hooded form watched him as well, perhaps sizing him up, perhaps staring into his soul. After several silent moments he stepped forward and sat in the chair vacated by the Inquisitor. With a sinister, almost hissing voice, he simply stated, “I have a proposition for you.” Rogan was too unnerved to speak, allowing the figure to continue. “I know you hate thisss place, and I know you don’t belong here.”

  Rogan glanced from side to side, eyes narrowed with distrust, looking to see if anyone might be listening. “What do you know of me?” he spat through gritted teeth.

  “Do not be upssset, Baron Rogan. I am here to offer you a chance to not only leave thisss place, but to get what it isss you want most of all.”

  “No one can give me that.” His voice trailed off as he conjured thoughts of his wife and child.

  The cloaked figure seemed to ponder his statement for a moment before continuing with a more sympathetic tone. “Perhaps that is ssso. I can give you the opportunity to escape, and a chance for you to do something that sserves usss both… killing the King.” He paused to let the request sink in. “Are you interesssted?”

  Surely this was a trick. Rogan still roasted with thoughts of vengeance, his time in prison acting like coals added to the fire of his fury. But surely… “It cannot be done, Ebon Khorel is too mighty. He has already weeded out the strongest who would oppose him, and his god grants him powers greater than the Shapers of old.”

  “Too mighty for a coup, perhapsss. But thiss will be an assssassination. And you will lead it.”

  The eagerness in the figure’s voice sounded genuine to Rogan, but what did this stranger have to gain from the King-priest’s death, and what association with the Inquisitor allowed him access to Blackthorn prisoners in the first place? Though it sounded like an impossible task, what did Rogan have to lose? He was already a convicted traitor who could be executed on a whim, so he could fathom no reason for this to be a trick. And there were a thousand possible reasons to want Ebon Khorel’s reign ended. He was a tyrant, after all, and many had suffered since his ascendancy. Rogan’s life in this place was a waste, and when it came down to it, he did not need to know his prospective patron’s motives – his own vengeance would do.

  “So, how do I get out of here?” he gestured to the stone walls around him.

  “Firsst, sswear to do this thing; then I will tell you.”

  Even though it seemed a goal destined to fail, Rogan knew he couldn’t pass up any good chance to get out of Blackthorn, even if he died in the attempt. “If you help me get out of this place, I swear to do what I can to kill the King.”

  “That iss enough,” the figure nodded. “I know you are a man of your word. Lissten carefully. It has been arranged for one of the furnaces to run cold for an hour. Thisss time, unfortunately, has already begun. Down thiss hall to the east, there is a chimney chute with a sssmall door for wassste. It won’t be eassy, but you can use it to climb to the roof. The hallway should be unguarded for now, but there are, of coursse, patrols. The last door on the left isss unlocked. There iss rope and a knife for you, along with a map. Oncce outside the prison, follow the map to a cave. There will be more ssuppliess, along with others to help you ssucceed.”

  “Others? Other prisoners?” Rogan didn’t like the thought of trusting people he didn’t know, especially if they had spent time in Blackthorn.

  “Yesss. They have their chance to escape, even as you have yourss. Each has ssomething to offer the cause, and you may need them all for their skillss, I think.” The cloaked figure stood and made his way to the door. “Time iss short, Baron Rogan. Give me a few momentss before you go. I will assure no guardss linger about. I will be watching your progresss with interesst. May your godss be with you.”

  With a slight nod of his head the figure turned and, with obvious effort, opened the heavy door. Rogan never did see his face, and the wisp of black cloth was soon gone, leaving him wondering if it was all a dream. The rush he felt suggested otherwise. He forced himself to calm down, breathe deeply, and count to a hundred.

  Then, after a silent oath to do whatever it took, he cracked the door and peered to either side of the hallway. It seemed deserted. Soft steps, like those he took to sneak around the castle as a child, spying on banquets and balls while he was supposed to be asleep, led him silently down the hall. He could see the chimney chute at its end, where another hallway cut across his. Rogan’s head swiveled, making sure no one was alert to his presence. He reached the door and found it unlocked just as the figure promised. Rogan shut it behind him before taking stock of his new surroundings.

  It was a small, dark room, lit by a single candle. Upon a wooden table were the objects he expected: fifty feet of coiled rope, a piece of rolled parchment – which he quickly unrolled to reveal the crucial map – and a sheathed dagger.

  As he drew the dagger to inspect it, the room grew dimmer. The candle was still burning, but it was as if the blade was absorbing its light. Black and sharp, it gave way to a handle of cold, dark stone. The weapon was quite unusual. A thought suddenly struck him – perhaps it was made of the same uril-chent he had been mining the past three years. The handle looked like it, and the metal of the blade could have been an uril-chent alloy.

  Sure enough, when he sheathed the blade the light returned to normal. Rogan wondered what other properties the alloy might have, but had to shelve such thoughts for later. He loosened his belt and attached the sheath to it, tucked the map underneath, and slung the rope over his head and across his torso. He blew out the candle before sneaking back into the hall.

  Another twenty paces brought him to the chimney. Once he forced open the small, iron door he realized how awkward it would be to maneuver inside the chute. As he ducked his head in to look both up and down, the prospects seemed grim. There was nothing to help gain purchase – no ledges, no handholds. It became painfully apparent the length of rope would be no help here. Twisting his body to the correct orientation alone would be a feat. It was a long fifty feet up to the small patch of grey sky beckoning from above. Better get to work, he thought.

  “You there, don’t move!”

  Rogan had just enough time to get his head out of the shaft before a guard was thrusting a fist to his gut, knocking the wind from his lungs and bringing him to his knees. It hurt like hell and Rogan gasped for breath, but fortunately the guard’s attack left him off-balance. With a quick spin, Rogan used his leg to sweep the guard’s feet, toppling him. A light chink sounded as the metal studs on his leather armor met the cold, stone floor. Rogan crawled away to gain space and forced himself to stand.

  “Now you’ve done it, maggot! You’ve earned yourself a proper lashing.” Rogan heard true disgust in the man’s voice, though he had never met him. The guard also managed to stand, pulling a wooden rod with a small iron head from his belt. He showed no intention of taking Rogan gently.

  But Rogan did not intend to be taken at all, not with a real chance to escape this damned place. He crouched in a defensive posture, arms bent, ready to deflect any blows he could not evade. In his youth, Rogan always enjoyed combat lessons, and as an adult, continued honing the skills his noble upbringing had bought him. He had practiced against the sons of other nobles: swords, knives, archery, unarmed fighting, and even mounted combat. The aristocracy could always be called into military service at the behest of the king, and his father wanted him well prepared. Working in the mines had kept his muscles active, and he hoped his old lessons would be enough to overcome this prison guard, whose features had taken an astonishing turn toward savagery.

  The guard lunged forward, wailing away with his club, unconcerned that his blows might shatter the escaping prisoner’s skull. But his rage destabilized him. Rogan grasped the guard’s wrist with his left hand, and slammed his right elbow violently against his attacker’s chin. With a cracking sound, a few of the guard’s teeth fell to the floor. The hand wielding the club went limp and dropped t
he weapon as the guard staggered back against the wall.

  Rogan steadied himself and stared at his opponent, preparing for another rush. He wasn’t disappointed. This time, though, as the guard started to swing his fist in a right hook, he quickly raised it inside and grasped Rogan’s throat. Rogan grabbed the man’s wrist with both hands and twisted his own body around, forcing the guard’s release.

  A sharp pain erupted in Rogan’s left side. From somewhere unnoticed, the guard had drawn a knife and plunged it into his lower back. Something deeper than flesh had been punctured, and as the knife withdrew, he felt his lifeblood following.

  Panic shot through after the pain, and then a strange calm took over as he realized and accepted this was a fatal wound. Yet as quickly as this acceptance came, it vanished in a new wash of anger. Rogan slumped forward, but refused to give in to this man, who suddenly represented the three years lost in this prison – and the evil behind his family being taken from him.

  His back still to his attacker, Rogan drew his own dagger, blade down, and spun as he raised his arm. The weapon was sharp and struck true. The blade sliced easily through the guard’s throat; a surprised look barely had time to register across his pale face, made paler as blood spilled from the wound.

  Rogan was stunned too, as a surge of warmth passed from the weapon through his arm and across his entire body. His side prickled uncomfortably, and when he reached for the hole in his shirt his hand came away red with blood, but could find no wound. It was as if the puncture had instantly closed itself, leaving him free of pain. Remembering where he was, he quickly wiped the blood off his hand onto the guard’s sleeve. Intending to clean his weapon next, he found no trace of blood on it. Perhaps it absorbed more than just light. Sheathing his dagger, Rogan returned to the small shaft door and put his energy toward squeezing his lithe frame into the cramped space.