Shadowland
Authors: C M Gray
| Shadowland |
| C M Gray |
| Lulu (2012) |
We grow up with the Legend of King Arthur ... But where did he come from? Who was Merlin? What part did the Druids play in bringing Arthur to his round table? This is the story that came before, when Britain was just a Shadowland.
Shadowland is a story of historical fantasy set in Dark Ages Britain.
`I have lived more years than I can remember, probably more than the sum of all your years combined. Kings have called me friend and brigands have sworn to burn the flesh from my bones even if they have to search all seven halls of the shadowland to find me.'
On the night of midwinter's eve, a storyteller takes his listeners back to the Dark ages and a tale from his youth.
Deserted by its Roman masters, Britain has been invaded by the Saxons at the invitation of Vortigern, traitorous leader of the Britons. Now, as the tribes unite to reclaim their land, one man must rise to lead them and become their true and only king.
Shadowland: Reviewed 4 stars by Vered E for Readers Favorite.
These are dark times. The Romans are leaving the island of Briton, and the Saxons are taking their place, invading the land of the tribes. A false king sits on the throne, demanding allegiance. And all of that seems very far away to Cal and Usher, two boys living in a remote village. All that changes one dark night, when everything they knew and loved is destroyed. Forced to run, Cal and Usher cross a land that is in turmoil, unaware that each of them has a vital destiny to fulfill. Close behind is an implacable enemy determined to destroy a future king and willing to kill anyone who comes in the way. Assisted by a mysterious archer and a prophesy from the Druids, Cal and Usher must grow up fast, for they are about to be thrown into the midst of a battle that will determine not only their future, but that of all of Briton.
"Shadowland" is a tensely written story about the dark days before the rise of King Arthur. Flawlessly weaving history, legend and imagination, C.M. Gray spins a thrilling tale that brings to mind classic epics of days gone by. The mystery of who Cal, Usher and their archer friend are is intriguing and satisfying. Anyone interested in historical fiction around the time of the Saxon invasion, or in stories about King Arthur and his predecessors, will enjoy this great romp through a small but significant time in the turbulent history of Briton.
Shadowland
By
C.M.Gray
This book is
sold subject to the condition that it will not, by way of trade or otherwise,
be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author's consent
in any format, including, but not limited to, electronic, print or broadcast.
The author has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction. The moral rights of
C.M.Gray
have been asserted.
Shadowland
C.M.Gray
Copyright 2012 by
C.M.Gray
Kindle Edition
Visit
C.M.Gray's
blog here;
http://www.flightofthegriffin.blogspot.com
Twitter: @cgray129
Please note
that I use British spelling throughout. You will see doubled letters (e.g.
focussed),
ou’s
(e.g. colour)
and
‘re’
(centre) as well as a few other differences from American spelling.
It's also typical for British writers to use single quotes for speech rather
than the double quotes familiar to American writers. I hope this will not spoil
this story for any American readers.
****
For My Children
Dylan & Yasmin
That one day my light may shine
through their eyes.
****
Table of Contents
Chapter One
– The end of the day
Chapter
Three – The shadows of the night
Chapter
Four – The sound of falling leaves
Chapter Six
– That's the trouble with druids
Chapter
Seven – The southern road
Chapter
Eleven – Nightmares dreams and reality
Chapter
Thirteen – Cry of a wolf
Chapter
Seventeen – The cold light of dawn
Chapter
Eighteen – Death of a Saxon
Prologue – The storyteller
‘My
name is Usher Vance, and mine has been a long and interesting life, or so I’ve
been told before in company such as this.’ Brushing back a long strand of
silver-grey hair, the old man gazed about at the small audience of expectant
faces and settled himself more comfortably into the familiar leather chair.
Over the years, he had come to regard the chair as his own and, like an old
friend, was all too aware of its weaknesses and strengths. It creaked and
sagged and he responded in a similar fashion, rearranging his somewhat
considerable bulk as he fumbled for pipe and tobacco. His fingers began
charging the clay bowl with motion requiring little thought and he smiled,
relishing the delight of spinning yet another tale.
‘I have lived more years
than I can remember.’ He leaned forward to better study a few of his nearest
listeners. ‘Probably more than the sum of all your years combined. Kings have
called me friend and heathen warriors have sworn to burn the flesh from my
bones, vowing to search all seven halls of Hell to find me.’
Several of the younger villagers in the room
fidgeted and cast about for the reassuring sight of a parent or friend, but
most simply stared at the old man with eager expressions, impatient for the
tale, any tale, to begin.
As the summer had turned to autumn and, more
recently, as the first cold days settled a wintry grip upon the land, the
villagers had gossiped and speculated upon the subject of Usher’s story for
this year.
The night of midwinter’s eve was a special night in
the village and the event was celebrated with feasting, dancing, and one of
Usher Vance’s stories for as many years as anyone could remember. For most of
the year, the old man kept to himself and was reluctant to part with any of his
tales. Tales that when finally offered, were told as episodes of his life,
although this was rarely held to be true amongst the villagers. Each year,
after clearing the remains of the meal from the long communal table, they would
drift towards the huge fireplace, each finding his own place on the assortment
of mismatched chairs and benches, but leaving the old stuffed leather chair
ready for the storyteller.
The clay pipe glowed as the storyteller drew heavily
upon it, building the heat as he slowly built the atmosphere within the
room.
At last, content that the pipe was
good and lit, he blew out a long blue cloud of smoke, threw the taper into the
fire, and pointed the stem towards several of the closest faces.
‘I see some of our younger friends gathered here
tonight, and as long as they care not for troubled sleep in the weeks to come,
then a story I shall tell…but what part of this life shall I lay before you?’
He sat back and sighed, bushy white eyebrows coming together in a thoughtful
frown. ‘A tale of treasure and treachery, or love and war, what shall it be? So
many years I have lived and so many things I have seen. Yet we only have these
hours of darkness this midwinter’s eve, only enough time to fill the night with
one true tale.’ He pulled on his pipe once more, and then reached over to lift
a leather tankard to his lips. The villagers watched silently as the old man
drank, heedless of the ale that escaped to run through his beard onto his
stained waistcoat. Wiping his mouth upon his sleeve, he gazed about and judged
it was almost time to begin; he was almost ready to cast the spell of a master
storyteller.
The innkeeper stepped forward and set another log
upon the fire, the flames crackled and spat, drawing everyone’s attention for a
moment. A curl of smoke wafted out, escaping the confines of the chimney and
filled the air with a sweet rich scent as the fire continued to crackle
angrily. To minds freshly laid open, ready for a tale, it was as if a wild
animal had been thrown a hunk of meat and was devouring it hungrily before
them.
‘I think I now have something in mind,’ broke in the
storyteller, reclaiming his audience. ‘A tale I have that has been some time
coming.
Tis
a tale of battle and of love, of rescue…and
betrayal. So please, make yourselves comfortable and we can begin.’
‘Once, when I was considerably younger than I am
now, I met a king upon a hill. I knew him at once to be a king by the finery of
his clothes and by his horse that was as white as the purest snow and as
spirited as…’ A sound broke the concentration of the room and the storyteller
stopped and stared back towards the door. The latch was rattling as someone
tried unsuccessfully to gain entrance; a murmur filled the room as the
villagers bemoaned the untimely interruption. The sound continued and the
grumbling quickly became calls for someone to aid the intruder so the
storyteller could continue.
Muttering incoherently, the innkeeper tugged back
the heavy curtain that covered the door, keeping at bay all but the most
insistent of drafts, and the audience turned once more to Usher Vance who had
taken the opportunity to drain his leather mug. He passed it over, and then
smiled in thanks as a serving girl exchanged it for a fresh one. After taking a
sip, he readied himself to continue.
The sound of the door opening and someone being
invited in was accompanied by a gust of frigid air that chased about the room;
however, it was all but lost on the audience as they settled once more, eager
for the tale to go on. The door slammed and the heavy wooden bolts were drawn
back into place, hopefully as a barrier to any further disturbance.
Usher Vance cleared his throat and continued. ‘It
was a fine day as I recall, with a sky of the deepest blue and a mere dusting
of high cloud to offer some contrast to its perfection. The sun shone down upon
us, as if it were a light cast from the heavens above, purely to illuminate the
splendour of this king and his noble mount. The rest of the king’s party were
some distance away. He must have ridden to the top of the hill alone to take in
the view and was clearly as startled to see me, as I was to see him.
I remember bowing low while the king
attempted with little success to control his dancing horse, its nostrils
flaring in agitation at finding me enjoying the beauty of the day, clearly both
king and horse had thought, until I had disturbed them, that they were alone.
‘Good day to you, sire,’ I said, gazing up into a
pair of icy blue eyes. ‘My name is Usher Vance and I apologise for the fright I
brought upon your horse.’
Before he could continue, a soft dry voice broke the
spell of the tale, cutting into the concentration of the audience and causing
Usher to falter.
‘Still spouting stories of utter rubbish then, are
you, Usher?’
The storyteller cast about the shadows, trying to
see who had disturbed him. As he did, several in his audience spoke up,
encouraging him to ignore the interruption and continue, while others hissed
into the gloom in search of the unwelcome speaker. Somewhat unsettled, but seeing
his audience still keen, Usher Vance drew upon his pipe and readied himself to
go on, but the voice returned at the moment he opened his mouth.
