Call of the Shadow Rift: Book of the Doomshroud 1 (paperback)

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Chapter 1

“This is unacceptable, Tarif! I will not be summoned like a common servant. Who do they think they are?” Kaeri Venador’s boots rapped sharply against the intricate marble floors of the ahara’s castle fortress, her pace rising with her temper.
“It was more of a request than a …” Tarif’s voice trailed off at the look she shot him. Her cousin sweated as he hurried to keep up with her, eyebrows drawn in an expression of frustration he always seemed to wear around her these days.
Despite the late hour, the central halls were well lit, flame light from regularly-placed lamps dancing off the gold fittings and rich tapestries lining the walls. Pairs of straight-backed sazari soldiers stood at every corridor junction. Crisp buttoned tunics and breeches in plain charcoal highlighted the bright House colour accents stitched into their collars, hems, and cuffs. The flash of orange as she passed one pair of sazari had her grinding her teeth. “Was it Lord Daranin who sent the request?”
“Yes,” Tarif said, then hurried on before she could turn her annoyance on him again. “It’s an opportunity, Your Grace. We need House Daranin to work with us. There have been isolated riots in the north and west. If we don’t do something to put them down, they’ll spread. House Daranin controls the northwest.”
Kaeri bit down a flare of impatience at having information she already knew repeated to her. Never let them see how you truly feel. It was a mantra that allowed her to survive the viper pit of ruling Montagn. Anger could be a tool, but only when used sparingly. And while condescending to her was one of Tarif’s annoying habits—a habit all her advisers shared—if she lost her temper every time they did it, she wouldn’t have any advisers left. So she responded without ire. “They’re rioting because they’re starving. If House Daranin stopped refusing to pay workers to farm their lands, we wouldn’t have a problem.”
“They say they can’t afford to. So does House Sarador. And the Avarai region is a shambles since House Terador fell, even though it’s the most fertile part of Montagn.” Frustration leaked into his tone. “Bleeding dice, Kaeri, if you would just agree to the lords’ request to re-implement conditional slavery so they could make a smoother transition—”
“Enough!” Sick to death of this same, months-old argument, she lifted a hand to cut him off. “I won’t do it, Tarif, and that’s the end of the conversation.”
The heads of the six Montagni Houses that made up her ruling council—the Gadariz—had been a constant thorn in her side ever since she’d won the throne two years earlier. Every single one of them hated that she’d unilaterally abolished slavery in her rise to power, rightly blaming that decision for the economic crisis into which their country immediately plunged. And the financial support Montagn received from her allies—the Twin Thrones, Firthland, and Mithranar—wouldn’t continue indefinitely.
Doubt and fear both niggled in her stomach. The worse their economic situation became, the less time Kaeri had to figure out ways to keep the support of her lords. She couldn’t rule without the backing of the Gadariz.
In her darker moments, she suspected that some of the lords were deliberately refusing to implement solutions until things got so bad that they could force her out. But surely they wouldn’t be willing to tolerate so many of their people going hungry purely for their own political ends? Maybe they saw it as a gamble with a high upside. Montagni loved nothing more than a good bet, after all.
Tarif spoke, interrupting her ruminating. “You know I’m just looking out for your best interests. And House Venador’s.”
Kaeri suppressed an irritated sigh. She didn’t want to be angry with Tarif. Her cousin was her closest and most loyal supporter. He’d stuck by her no matter what the other Houses—or members of their family—had thrown at her since ascending the throne, and for that she would be forever grateful. So she tried to inject warmth into her voice when she replied, “And I appreciate it, truly.”
His bearded mouth quirked in a smile, a sight that summoned memories of their childhood growing up together on the Venador mountain holdings, when they’d gotten into trouble and he’d grinned at her just like that. A big part of her wished she could go back to those days, when she’d had a family, when life had been good. Before—
Kaeri instantly shut down that line of thinking, and, after years of practice, it died without a flicker. “Was Mithanis summoned to this meeting too?”
They turned a corner; the walk from the ahara’s private office to the Gadariz chamber wasn’t a short one. The double doors of the chamber lay at the end of the hall. Here the sazari guards wore the emerald accents of House Sarador on their uniforms.
“I don’t know. He’s a problem, too, Your Grace,” Tarif said, his smile fading, replaced by that look of frustration. And just as quickly her irritation returned. “He’s made House Manunin loyal to him, and turned them into a formidable weapon. But it’s not clear that he’s loyal to you. You’re playing a dead hand with him.”
She stopped outside the double doors, her shoulders tensing at more of his damned condescension, not to mention his reference to the blasted Montagni obsession with gambling. “I know all this already, Tarif.”
His mouth tightened at her icy tone, but he didn’t back down. “I’d just like to be reassured that you have a plan to deal with him.”
“Of course I do.” She didn’t. But she would never admit that. Tarif was right; her husband was a double-edged weapon that could be used against her as much as on her behalf. If only she could be sure which side he was on at any given time. In two years, she’d been able to come up with no better solution to managing the prince of night than keeping him at arm’s length, careful not to antagonise him, but equally unable to bring him into her inner circle. Not that she had much of an inner circle.
She pushed open the Gadariz doors before Tarif could make any more pointed comments, walking inside with a deliberately confident stride, shoulders back, wearing her cool expression, the one she privately called her ahara’s mask. It was something she rarely took off these days.
The room was empty.
Kaeri came to a confused halt, the doors swinging closed behind them with a soft click. An ornate circular table filled the middle of the cavernous chamber, its polished surface shining in the lamplight. All the padded chairs sat neatly pushed in, and the gallery overlooking the room—where the Gadariz clerks observed and recorded meetings— was dark and empty. “I thought you said the Gadariz wanted to speak with me tonight.” Anger simmered beneath her mask at the reality that they could summon her, even though she was their ahara. They would never have dared to summon her father when he held the crown. Or Azrilan.
“They did.” Tarif frowned, holding out the parchment that he’d brought to her office. “To discuss your upcoming trip to Mithranar for the summit.”
“It couldn’t wait until the meeting we have scheduled tomorrow?” Were the lords deliberately goading her now? Her gaze swept the room impatiently, so the first she knew that something was wrong was the gargling sound Tarif made at her side. She spun, horror momentarily freezing her at the sight of blood pouring from his torn throat.
The hesitation almost killed her.
The masked figure behind him was already turning away from her cousin to come at her, knife glinting in the dim light. She lunged desperately backward to avoid the bloodied blade, overbalancing and falling to the floor. The knife flashed through the space her neck had occupied a heartbeat earlier. Her assailant recovered quickly, shifting his stance to stab downward toward her chest.
Familiar cold purpose sparked in Kaeri, her survival instinct rising to swamp any fear she might have felt. Her adversary wielded the knife like he knew how to use it, so she assumed he was a trained warrior, faster and more agile than her. If the fight stayed on his terms, she’d die.
So Kaeri did the last thing the assassin would expect; she threw herself upwards and right at him just as he lunged downward. Her shoulder hit his chest, his knife went flying, and they crashed back to the floor together. She brought her knee up into his groin, slammed her elbow down into his face, and he flopped, unconscious.
For a moment her loud, panting breath was all that filled the eerily silent chamber. Her heartbeat thudded, adrenaline flooding her system—that wired alertness noticing the click of an opening door and rustle of soft-shoed feet. Kaeri lunged for the fallen assassin’s knife, fingers closing around it as she scrambled back to her feet, heartrate skyrocketing again.
Ignoring the throbbing in her elbow, she faced the unobtrusive side entrance out of the warrens—the maze-like system of narrow corridors and stairwells used by servants moving through the castle—where several masked figures emerged. Kaeri tightened her grip on the bloodied knife, then whirled and ran for the main doors. She yanked hard on the handle with her free hand, but it was locked.
Shit.
“Guards!” she bellowed, yanking uselessly on the handle, and then banging her palm against the wood. “Guards!”
But nobody came.
Spinning back to face the room, stolen knife clenched in her right hand, she spared a glance for Tarif. He lay still, lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling, blood pooling under his head. She bit her lip, grief momentarily threatening to overtake her, but she ruthlessly forced it away. Tarif was dead and no help to her. If she was going to survive the next quarter-turn, she would have to do it by herself.
Not that that survival seemed likely.
She counted twelve armed figures, tall and broad-shouldered enough she guessed they were men, all wearing plain dark clothing, and armed with knives, daggers, or short swords. Nothing about them gave any clues as to their identity or origin. Judging from the fact she’d been able to take the first attacker by surprise, she doubted she was facing Shadows or Callanan, even though Tarif’s attacker must have been hiding in the shadows along the edges of the room. No doubt they’d hoped a single man would be enough to take out both of them.
Again, icy purpose killed everything inside Kaeri apart from a razor-sharp focus on what it would take to survive. More screaming wouldn’t help; the chamber was soundproof to protect the privacy of Gadariz sessions. But the sazari outside would have heard her banging, so she just needed to hold out until they forced their way through. Too late to rue the fact she’d never kept up the warrior training from her youth.
If they were going to take her down, she’d make them pay in blood.
Facing so many, combined with her lack of skill, her best tactic was to avoid being cornered or facing more than one opponent at once. Kaeri ran at the closest man, barely ducked under his sword thrust, and slashed at his chest. He dodged away from her attack easily, reversing his thrust to swing at her head. She lurched backwards to avoid it, then shifted and hooked her foot behind his ankle, yanking hard. He stumbled, and she pushed him hard against the edge of the table. She’d just lifted her knife to drive it into his back when a blur in her peripheral vision warned her of another blade swinging at her head.
Scrambling away to avoid the blow gave the man pinned against the table time to straighten and grab his fallen weapon. Now two of them pressed her. The others closed in behind. They were slowly but surely pushing her back into the room’s corner.
A glance beyond showed more assailants entering the room on silent feet.
She was going to die here.
Fury surged. Where were the damned sazari posted outside? She had so much to accomplish, her rule to stabilise, her country to fix. The thought that her life was about to be snuffed out before she could achieve any of it was utterly infuriating. Hefting the knife, she prepared to lunge. If she wanted any hope at all, she needed to break out of the corner.
An oddly silent tableau followed. The violent attack took on a dreamlike quality, where Kaeri almost felt as if she were in a nightmare rather than reality. Their faces hidden behind masks, the men trying to kill her were anonymous, emotionless, making no sound apart from the occasional grunt of effort.
The silence shattered with the twang of a bowstring, immediately followed by the hiss of an arrow whispering through the room. With a surprised coughing sound, the assailant closest to Kaeri slumped to the ground, an arrow embedded in his back.
She looked up at the empty gallery. An archer crouched on the gallery railing, balancing easily, already loosing more arrows with a speed that seemed impossible. The archer wore all black, a hood drawn down to conceal their features. Movement blurred in the shadows behind, and then three more dark-clad figures appeared. They swung gracefully over the railing to drop the considerable distance to the floor. One drew a sword, another two knives, and the third twin daggers with blades that glimmered green in the lamplight.
Kaeri didn’t spare them any more attention.
Still in dire danger, she dove sharply to her right, breaking past the nearest assailant and sprinting back towards the main doors. They came after her, of course, but her anonymous helpers intercepted them. The silence shattered into clashing blades and cries of pain. Kaeri began pounding on the doors again. A shout of warning sounded clear across the room, and Kaeri ducked just as a blade buried itself in the door where her head had been. Staying low, she whirled and tackled the assassins’ legs, taking them both down, his sword clattering as it hit the ground. He kicked hard, and his knee rammed into the middle of her chest.
She flew off him, landing hard and banging her head on the marble floor. Ignoring the fiery pain in her chest and the stars in her vision, she reached for his fallen sword, then got to her knees and drove it through his chest as he tried to rise.
Her mouth curled in a snarl of satisfaction, and she staggered back to her feet. Panting, her muscles trembling from unaccustomed effort and chest on fire, Kaeri surveyed the situation.
Two of her unexpected allies fought back to back against the largest group of attackers, moving so beautifully in sync that they seemed to be of one mind. The third wielded knives like extensions of her arm, the archer above covering the knife-wielder’s back with well-placed shots. The clang of steel mixed with grunts of effort and pain, and the sharp tang of blood filled the air. One of the assailants occasionally broke away to come at Kaeri, but the archer took them down before they got near her.
And then it was over.
A loud pounding on the main doors broke the silence as the fighting ceased—the sazari guards finally trying to get through. At least, she hoped it was them.
Her helpers kept moving, two yanking arrows from fallen bodies, the other picking up a bloodied sword and putting it in Tarif’s lifeless hand. The archer dropped from the railing into the gallery and disappeared from sight. The others ran towards the gallery and leaped upwards to grip the railing and swing themselves over. The one carrying the twin daggers glanced down and gave Kaeri a little nod before vanishing after the others, leaving Kaeri standing alone with at least twenty dead bodies and a dead cousin, his blood covering her hands.
She took a deep, steadying breath, put on the cool, confident mask of the ahara, and waited for the sazari to break the door down.
Behind her mask, fear and grief raged.
Montagn had just come within heartbeats of the initiation of a spill. Whoever had sent those assassins was serious about killing her.
Which meant they would try again.