The Light of Burning Shadows

Autorentext

Chris Evans is also the author of the Iron Elves saga: A Darkness Forged in Fire, The Light of Burning Shadows, and Ashes of a Black Frost, as well as Of Bond and Thunder, and the nonfiction book Bloody Jungle: The War in Vietnam. He is a military historian and former editor for Random House and Stackpole Books. Born in Canada, he lives in New York City.

Klappentext

In the bestselling and legendary traditions of J.R.R. Tolkien, Bernard Cornwell, and Terry Brooks, the second novel in the acclaimed epic fantasy series following A Darkness Forged in Fire—where musket and cannon, bow and arrow, and magic and diplomacy all vie for supremacy in an empire teetering on the brink of war.

Disgraced elf officer Konowa Swift Dragon of the Calahrian Imperial Army has been forcibly returned from exile to resurrect the regiment he once led, the Iron Elves. These elves, born bearing the mark of an elf witch known as the Shadow Monarch, are shunned by their own people. In hopes of proving the mark false, the elves volunteer to fight for the Calaharian Empire in its quest to rid the world of dark magic. The regiment became legendary for its fighting ability, but all was lost in an instant when their commanding officer, Konowa, murdered the Calaharian Viceroy of Elfkyna, casting the loyalty of the elves into question. The regiment was banished to the desert, while Konowa was court-martialed and disappeared. Now, having found the mythical Star that was rumored to have fallen from the sky in a remote land, things couldn’t be worse for Konowa and the Iron Elves regiment as they trek through the blazing desert on their quest to defeat the Shadow Monarch once and for all....

Packed with wit, high adventure, and political intrigue, The Light of Burning Shadows will have readers hooked on this bold and exciting fantasy series.

Leseprobe
The Light of Burning Shadows

ONE

There were two of him now, and neither one knew which was sane.

He stood atop the ridgeline running the length of the island and waited for the sun to drown. The ocean darkened. Shadows bled up the windward slope toward him. Bodies pierced by the trunks of obsidian trees became shrouded in the gloom. The smell of putrefying flesh fled as the heat of the day leached from the air. It was as if nothing had happened here. No horrors to relive, no nightmares to endure.

He might have believed that if not for the screams in his head. They echoed in the space between what he was, and what he was becoming.

Here, now, he stood in a world where the sun was setting and a cool ocean breeze was worrying the saw grass behind the dunes of the beach. Only the unhurried slide of waves over sand and the distant shouts and forced laughter of men from the shore party filled the air.

But he also stood here, now, where the screams of the dead still rasped from blood-red throats. Only yesterday the trees of the Shadow Monarch had flourished in this place, feeding on all they found as Her forest continued to expand across the known world.

Frost fire burned to life in his hands. He did nothing as it arced to the steel and wood of his musket, setting it afire in cold, black flame. He brought a hand close to his face, mesmerized. This was power and curse. The union of the Iron Elves’ blood oath with Her magic.

The flames climbed higher and he staggered. There was a price for this. The gulf between his polar selves widened each time he called upon this newfound power. In his mind the outstretched limbs of the Shadow Monarch’s forest inched a little closer. He knew it had to stop.

The last rays of the sun vanished into the sea. Dark forms rose from the lengthening shadows, surrounding him.

Dead hands reached out. He recognized the fallen and they did not frighten him:

One-eyed Meri, killed by dog spiders.

Alik and Buuko, struck down by rakkes and the Shadow Monarch’s dark elves.

Regimental Sergeant Major Lorian, sitting tall on the horse Zwindarra, both felled in the battle at Luuguth Jor.

And so many others…

“Join us.”

He eased the hammer back on his musket. A charge and ball already rested inside. He turned the musket so that the muzzle rested firmly over his heart.

Frost fire danced along the metal in anticipation.

It would take but one squeeze of the trigger, but what would he end, and what would begin?

“Join us.”

He wanted to believe that all the pain, the fear, the terrifying rage, the nightmares that stalked his sleep…all would sink into a cold abyss. The shades of those that had gone before beckoned him, but their voices trembled with a pain he could only guess at. Could it be worse than what he lived with now?

One final act on his part and he would find out.

His finger tightened on the trigger.

“There you are!” Sergeant Yimt Arkhorn said, trudging up the slope. The dwarf’s voice boomed like a cannon in the cooling night air. “I wouldn’t a thought it possible to lose someone on this wee pebble of an island, but you just about managed it. You don’t want to be hanging around this sad lot,” he said, casting a hand toward the blackened husks of trees and the dead. If the dwarf saw the shadows, he said nothing.

Private Alwyn Renwar lowered his musket as the frost surged briefly before guttering out. He slowly turned to face the dwarf.

“Five islands in a row,” Yimt said, huffing to a stop beside him on top of the ridge. He hoisted his shatterbow up to his shoulder, hooking one of the curved arms over it so that the double-barreled weapon hung down across his broad back. He reached to his side and grabbed his wooden canteen, first offering it to Alwyn, who shook his head.

“Suit yourself, but it helps your eyeballs,” he said, referring to Alwyn’s need for spectacles. Yimt upended the canteen and gulped several mouthfuls of a liquid most certainly not water as the pungent vapors drifted into the night air. Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, Yimt deftly stuffed a wad of crute, the rock spice the dwarf was forever chewing, between his cheek and metal-colored teeth.

“Five islands of nothing but black misery. I understand the need to weed these foul trees before they really take root, but why’s it always us? I’ll tell you this, Ally, if his arseness the Prince orders us to one more dust speck in the middle of the ocean, I might just risk the noose and kick the bugger right where his top and bottom halves meet. And with a running start.”

A smile, Alwyn thought. I know I should smile.

Alwyn took a deep breath and let it out, forcing his shoulders to relax and doing his best to reassure. “I can see you’re wasting no time in trying to lose those sergeant’s stripes,” he said.

Yimt patted his arm and traced a finger around the recently sewn-on stripes on his uniform. “These aren’t what make a dwarf, Ally, though I got to admit I’m feeling a bit more protective of them this time round. Someone’s got to keep their head.”

“You’re saying Major Swift Dragon isn’t?”

Yimt rolled his eyes. “The major’s spittin’ musket balls. The Prince is a hairsbreadth from his last breath if he keeps sending us to these cursed islands instead of straight on to the desert wastes of the Hasshugeb Expanse. Now just between you and me, I’m starting to wonder a bit about the major. He’s gettin’ a bit frantic to find the first Iron Elves. ’Course, I can see his point. Be nice to have some reinforcements with all this going on,” he said, again waving a hand around them. “I swear by the dew of a freshly laundered nun the major&#82…