Shadow Prince, page 1
part #2 of Demon Hunter Series
Demon Hunter Book Two
Tim Niederriter
Shadow Prince
Copyright © 2020 Tim Niederriter
http://timniederriter.com/
https://dwellerofthedeep.wordpress.com/
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written consent of the author. Unauthorized duplication in any media is a violation of international copyright laws and will be prosecuted.
Published by Mental Cellar Publications
This is a work of fiction People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to actual people, places, and events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Shadow Prince (Demon Hunter, #2)
LOCATIONS
Also by Tim Niederriter
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THANKS TO ALL THOSE who assisted with the process behind this novel.
Specifically, I'd like to thank my proofreader, Barrie. Special thanks to Reinhardt for his work formatting the book.
And of course, a fair bit of appreciation to the podcasters and authors I chat with regularly (And not so regularly) as I worked on the book. Some support can be as simple as a good conversation.
Finally, my brother, Joe, needs a mention because I might have given up without his enthusiasm for this story and world it's set in.
Thank you all.
Tim Niederriter, September 2020
TORCHES LIT THE PATH to the palace south of Alliance City. Colorful dresses and the faces of young nobility from every family of note danced beneath arched rooftops. It was the night of Prince Saviron’s final ball of the summer, and Catricha Maltos lacked any desire to dance.
The palatial manse of House Halth resounded with music and the steps of moving feet. Catricha gazed upon the dance floor from the balcony that overlooked the ballroom. Beside her, the famed cynic poet, Porfiria Amburen, shook her head in a cascade of black tresses.
“Pathetic, aren’t they, Cat?”
Catricha leaned with both hands against the railing of cool metal. She trusted the balcony with her weight as much as she relied on Porfiria maintaining her public image, and her friend never let her down. As a trained mage, Porfiria was here to protect the entire party. Their friendship made Catricha grateful for the older woman’s presence for entirely different reasons.
She turned to Porfiria, a smirk turning the corners of her mouth.
“You know what I think of them,” Catricha said. “Funny. The more they dress up, the more gruesome they look.”
Porfiria laughed, stifling the sound with one pale hand covered in a black lace glove patterned with thorns.
“I take it he irritates you more than ever, now that you two are wed?” She gestured with her eyes toward the center of the dance floor where Prince Saviron’s best friend and steward, Adias Halth, danced closely with some girl from a lower family.
Adias wore a pale gray doublet and maroon jacket. His hands glittered with the twin rings of his family status and a collection of lesser jewelry. His intense eyes, some called them smoldering though Catricha scoffed at such words, locked on the face of the golden-haired girl twisting before him.
As Catricha and Porfiria watched from above, Adias’ hand touched the girl’s waist, then moved along her navel. He led her from the dance floor, moving toward the chambers he nominally shared with Catricha.
“Of all the men I could be forced to marry,” muttered Catricha, face growing hot with embarrassment. “I had to be joined to him for life.” Her nose wrinkled, remembering the corrupt stench of Adias’ lust from a previous dalliance she’d interrupted.
Porfiria’s gaze traced Adias and his paramour’s path across the ballroom. Catricha’s friend lacked any way to soften the impact of the scene playing out below them. For that, Catricha didn’t blame Porfiria. A woman must carry some burdens alone.
“I suppose I ought to interfere.” Catricha feigned a yawn, covering her mouth with her palm. “After all, it’d be vastly improper to simply let him run amok so soon after our wedding.”
“Perhaps,” said Porfiria. “Will you let me accompany you?”
“If you would,” said Catricha, grateful to accept the offer.
Porfiria smiled slightly. “Of course, my dear. I’ll help when I can.”
The two of them left the balcony and descended the spiraling tower staircase to the dance floor. Many young nobles of lower status capered in the middle of the room. The guests included members of every household, with only those families dwelling on the furthest periphery of the city's northern territory having no members in attendance.
Catricha and Porfiria marched as swiftly as their long-skirted summer gowns would allow them while remaining decent. They followed Adias and his latest object of affection through the palace.
The girl’s laughter echoed along an opalescent hallway. Catricha took the lead, hitching up her skirt to allow her faster movement, now that they were out of sight of others. She didn’t want to be seen as desperate to catch her husband in his adultery. Still, that would make an annulment possible, potentially. The glow of torchlight cast Catricha’s shadow ahead of her as if the dark thoughts outpaced her body.
Catricha and Porfiria followed the echoes of the blond girl’s laughter. Yet, their path took them not toward the estate’s lordly bed-chambers, but to a balcony overlooking the River Duenn where the waters flowed north toward Alliance.
The last winds of summer blew with an evening chill, rustling curtains in the doorways, and carrying autumnal cold into the halls of the estate. Catricha shivered. Her shoulders and arms were exposed by her low-cut gown, leaving her little protection against the gathering night.
The west wind carried the unmistakable stink of unseen blood from the woodlands surrounding the Halth’s family holdings. Catricha wrinkled her nose, only able to imagine one smell worse. She did not relish her time living in Adias’ house in the future.
Catricha’s marriage to the young lord of House Halth couldn’t keep her prisoner indefinitely. Thank Mother Mercy. She could have their union annulled, as symbolized by the gift of a dagger to him as a final step. Until then, the estate was her home as much as his.
Annulment, Catricha thought, will be difficult, given his close ties to Prince Saviron. Even the obvious infidelity Adias pursued at every opportunity, and his refusal to touch Catricha, might not be enough to win her freedom. Seemingly, she was the only woman in the city her husband did not lust after, though she’d hardly prefer the alternative.
She and Porfiria entered a hallway where Catricha estimated the last gale of the girl’s laughter had originated. A single torch burned low in the wall bracket, leaving most of the corridor in shadow. Drawn curtains concealed the balcony where the hall ended. Heavy breathing came erratically from behind the dark, satin drapes.
Catricha glanced at Porfiria. “Damn him to the pits of the world,” she said softly.
Porfiria touched her shoulder with a gentle hand. “I’m here. Remain aloof. You knew what he was after.”
Catricha closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then released the air from her lungs, expelling some of her anger. She marched to the curtain, then gripped the dark cloth in calm fingers. She pulled back the shroud that hid her husband’s indecency, walking alongside the moving curtain to avoid any contact with the amorous pair.
But Adias was alone. He lay on his back, his body convulsing violently. Blood ran from a deep crimson wound in his chest and from the edges of his eyelids where he squeezed them shut.
The sight of her husband’s ruined body in the dim torchlight made Catricha’s eyes widen in shock. She gasped for breath as the spreading pool of gore from beneath Adias touched her sleek, black dancing shoe.
“What—What happened?” she managed to say, tears streaming unbidden from her eyes.
Porfiria reached Catricha’s side, then recoiled as she saw Adias. A single glowing moat of magic, a mystical essence called a sprite, floated from Porfiria’s hand and then circled Adias’ bloody chest.
“That wound is mortal,” she said in a hushed voice. “His heart is gone.”
Adias coughed, spraying droplets of blood down his red-stained front, coloring the once-gray doublet a darker shade than his jacket.
Catricha swayed on her feet, dizziness threatening her from the sight of so much blood. “The girl,” she managed to say through stammering lips. “What happened to the girl?”
Adias shook his head, unable to speak. He shuddered once more, then his convulsions stilled. Catricha’s heartbeat echoed in her ears. For once, Adias didn’t get the last word.
Catricha stared at the limp form of her long-time tormentor and recent husband. He’s dead. What should we do? What should I do? She failed to put her thoughts into speech, shaking in silent horror.
Screams rang out behind them in the estate, echoing to where Catricha and Porfiria stood by the bloody balcony. Porfiria glanced the way they had come, brow furrowing.
“They’re talking about the prince,” she said.
Catricha turned toward her friend with frost clawing at her heart as her gaze left Adias’ fallen form. “Tell me what they’re saying, please.” Tears ran unbidden down her cheeks.
Porfiria’s eyes widened, looking at Catricha, large and dark. The Prince has been attacked! Prince Saviron...”
New ice formed a hand around Catricha’s heart. Adias and Prince Saviron, both murdered in a single hour. She blinked back her tears, then leaned against Porfiria.
“That can’t be...” Catricha murmured. “Porfiria, do you know what this could mean?”
Her friend touched her hand. “Please, Cat, we don’t know enough—”
“We need to do something.” Catricha brushed off Porfiria’s touch. She took off running through the house toward the ballroom. Her legs pumped, skirts hitched up and flying about. Porfiria’s sprite-quickened stride caught up with her, and together they returned to the ballroom at speed.
Catricha stumbled to a stop before a moment of frozen horror on full display to all the noble scions. Everyone stared at the place where Prince Saviron Davaltz lay behind the high table. His sword servant and bodyguards surrounded him.
The eyes of the gaunt chief bodyguard, Layne Kasol, moved around the room, frantic, wild. His hand rested on the hilt of a short sword. Catricha’s eyes narrowed. None of the guards held naked steel, only sheathed weapons.
Only the prince’s sword servant carried a bare blade.
Terrell Varder, dark of complexion and eye, held the prince’s bane sword in both hands. The infused weapon’s pale glow gave his face a tinge like old parchment. Terrell had been the sword servant of Saviron’s father as well, and now both father and son lay slain. Varder spoke no words but glared this way and that, steely eyes searching for an enemy. Despite his quest, no threat presented itself in the frozen scene.
“No...” Catricha said, masking her disbelief under her breath. “No.”
Porfiria sent sprites flying from her hands with a sound like the chime of bells and flickers of streaming light. Her sprites circled the open space left by the staring nobles on the dance floor, outlining the scene of the fallen prince of Alliance.
Catricha stared at the broken form of Prince Saviron. His once tall, lean figure now lay torn and shredded on the floor by the high table.
His cloak, always dark and lined with purple, was now stained with blood. The crimson pool around him spread from multiple wounds in his chest and side.
Who could have attacked him here? And how?
The scene before Catricha overflowed with fear, running red like the blood on the floor.
“Where were you?” Terrell Varder shouted at Porfiria, “What's happened when you took your magic wards down?”
“My essences still line this room,” said Porfiria. “I only left momentarily with Lady Maltos.”
“And where were you?” bellowed Varder.
“We were following my husband,” said Catricha, her own voice sounding distant. Her hands, though they shook with the chill in the room, felt numb. “My husband is dead.”
Varder’s eyes widened, shot with bloody streaks, and the bane sword trembled in his grip. “What did you do?”
Catricha gritted her teeth and stepped forward. “We only followed him and his latest lover,” she said. “He was dying, and she was gone before we caught up.”
“No. Impossible...” said another nobleman as he broke from the crowd, and advanced toward the bodyguards.
Catricha recognized the man by his hulking frame and graceful movements, as Vual Kuldettan, heir of the most powerful family in the city. Even House Maltos was second to their influence. Vual always carried his own sword, and its sheath glimmered at his side.
Vual had been friends with Adias and Prince Saviron for as long as the three had been alive. He stared, trembling, large hands clenched together. “I don’t believe what you’re saying. Adias cannot be dead. You must be mistaken.”
“I’m sure as this room reeks of murder.” Catricha clasped her hands together before her heart. “Mercy rest him and his promiscuity.” She hung her head, hair swinging to cover her face, hiding the fact that she was crying.
Vual took a step in her direction. “How dare you! My friends lie murdered, and you continue your games?”
Varder lowered the bane sword, then motioned to Vual. “Please, my lord. Choose calm.” His eyes flashed, and he turned to Catricha. “We saw no attacker. Did you?”
“We saw no one,” Catricha managed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
A high-pitched laugh rang through the room, followed by the sound of parchment ripping and falling apart as if someone had touched a mummified corpse and the remains collapsed in on themselves.
Varder spun, looking in every direction. The prince’s sword glowed, illuminating a shadow creeping across the wall, the outline of a man but gaseous, outlined by light rather than vanquished by it.
The shadow fell across the high table, then bent down over the prince’s body, reaching for the quill pen the prince kept with him. The quill danced off the floor, and a shadowy hand dipped the point into the prince’s blood.
The shadow flew to the wall. Everyone stood, transfixed, their eyes staring at the words that formed in the wake of the pen. The stone behind the high table bore a message in blood.
Catricha read the words in a whisper. “Whosoever shall hold the throne of Alliance shall suffer the fate of those arrogant enough to call themselves royal over others.”
Porfiria stepped forward, hands thrusting forward to direct her essences toward the shadowy form. Before her sprites could catch the shape, it faded into nothing. Darkness scattered like motes of smoke. The prince’s bloody quill chimed against the floor, the tiny sound echoing in stunned silence.
Catricha put her hands on her knees and sank to the floor.
Vual stared at the words written on the wall, teeth gritted.
Terrel Varder lowered the bane sword, and the blade’s light dimmed. His eyes furrowed, tears dripping from them. “The Prince,” he said, “and his steward, Lord Halth are dead.”
Catricha shook her head, unable to bear the finality of the proclamation.
Porfiria knelt beside her, brushing the hair from Catricha’s forehead. “Come,” her friend whispered. “We have to tell them where we found Adias.”
“Lord Halth is on the balcony,” said Catricha, raising her voice. “Please, someone go find him there.”
The sound of footsteps drew close. She looked up, hair falling away from her eyes like parting curtains. The handsome, almost delicate jawline and even Palavian features of Sion Arver, the sword servant of House Halth, appeared before her as he bent to speak to her close.
“My lady, I will go find your husband and do what I can for him.”
“Your lord is dead,” Catricha murmured. “Do what you must, and see for yourself.”
Sion’s lips trembled, and his facade of calm crumbled as tears began to flow. He worked to straighten himself, but remained uneven, then stalked past Catricha and Porfiria, followed by a pair of house guards. Catricha choked back the curse forming in her mind. She chose not to utter the profane words, for once. For a brief moment, she kept her hatred to herself.
He deserved this, she thought. Damn him, but none of us deserve what will happen if we can’t replace the prince.
Porfiria put her arms around Catricha, keeping her eyes averted from where the prince’s ruined form lay below the message on the wall. “Breathe, Cat. Just breathe.”
Catricha’s world spun. Despite the scene before her, she fixated on the image of Adias’ bloody eyes and gaping chest wound. She steadied herself on Porfiria, her breathing ragged. How could this evil happen at such a frivolous party?
“Mercy.” Catricha gasped out a harsher curse. “To the pits with decorum. Worse is coming.”
Porfiria brought her face close to Catricha’s. “Jadiketz falls.” She spoke the curse in a soft tone. “But, I hope you’re wrong, Cat.”
Catricha pressed her forehead to Porfiria’s. “I’d hope so too. Except I’m not.”
They leaned on each other for stability. Saviron lay motionless except for the spreading pool of blood. What can hold the four families of Alliance together without a ruler?
Creeping dread stopped to rest in Catricha’s chilled heart, fueled by the fear of what would happen next.
RAIN WAS SPRINKLING when the funeral procession arrived at the complex of tombs in the center of Alliance. Catricha climbed from the carriage alongside her father, just within the gates of the necropolis. Her mother followed, along with Catricha’s younger siblings. The six of them stood before the grand mausoleums of the princes and the four families, Alliance’s rulers for the past thousand years.
