Monsters Lurk in the Shadows
Fleeing the ruins of his broken life, Caleb Rusk arrives in the sleepy village of Timberford. But when a series of brutal attacks stirs the community into a terrified frenzy, Caleb and his companions must join with his bond-brother, Carvesh Tarne, a Cinderborn healer, and a reclusive trapper to defend the village from a swarm of shadowbeasts that shouldn’t exist.
In the city of Taralius, a high-ranking abbot is butchered in the heart of his own cathedral. With evidence pointing to the notorious assassins known as the White Glove, Second Corporal Avendor Tarcoth is forced to confront the ghosts of a past he thought he’d left behind. Meanwhile, the sage Tiberius Alaran follows a dangerous lead that might explain why the Hearthborn are suddenly burning out—all while guarding secrets of his own.
But unbeknownst to either of them, a new player has entered the game—and hers is a kiss of death.
A Dark Night
Carvesh Tarne awoke to the song of death, a bloody scream that trumpeted through the night. It was a rattling, inhuman cry, rich with notes of pain and anguish. He leaped from his bed, fumbling through the tangle of blankets. Within moments, he was stumbling half blind through the darkness, trying to clear the last vestiges of slumber from his eyes as he pulled on an old, stained tunic. Next, he slipped on a vest of boiled leather, reinforced with iron rivets that were designed to turn away a predator’s tearing jaws.
“What’s happening?” Anya sat up, squinting against the sudden awakening, pushing her hair out of her face.
“Cursed wolves,” he muttered, strapping on his belt and grabbing the spear from the wall. “After the cattle again. I swear, if Rimey left the gate open, I really will dock his pay this time.” It was an idle threat. With their first baby on the way, the ranch hand would need every copper wren that Carvesh paid him. “Well, I’ll think about it, anyhow.”
He hurried down the stairs and out onto the lawn. Trent, the herdmaster, was already waiting for him. Reliable old Trent. Carvesh had hired the reedy man several years earlier; he’d never had reason to regret it. Trent was a hard worker with a keen eye, a thorough knowledge of agriculture and enough respect not to give voice to whatever misgivings he might have about an inexperienced man coming to purchase a ranch in the heart of Jadenwood.
The herdmaster wore a leather vest similar to Carvesh’s own. He carried a gleaming sabre in one hand and a long hunting knife at his side. He nodded a simple greeting.
“Herd’s gotten loose,” Trent explained.
“Rimey?”
“Wasn’t his fault. I was with him when he closed up. The gate was latched. I made certain of it myself.”
“Then what happened?”
“Only one way to find out.”
They made their way from the homestead down toward the corral. The fence was tall and tightly slatted to protect the herd against the packs of strong, silvery wolves and mangy coyotes that ranged through the forests of Jadenwood. Normally, it was enough.
What’s changed? Carvesh wondered.
The question was answered the moment they saw the gate. It lay in splintered ruin. One door still hung from a lonely bronze hinge, creaking quietly as it swayed in the breeze. He’d need to have Hendrick Rasmas look at fixing it. The heavy wood slats had been ripped apart, strewn about like branches in a storm. Splinters and shards of pine lay scattered over the ground, splattered with something dark and red.
“Is that blood?” asked Carvesh.
“Looks that way.” Trent bent close to the ground, lifting one stained splinter to his nose. “Smells like it, too. What a mess.” Another scream pierced the night. “That doesn’t sound good. Looks like there’s a trail. Shall we follow it?”
Carvesh nodded, gripping his spear tightly. Seeds of doubt and dread germinated in his mind. It’s just wolves, he told himself. We’ll scare them off, get the cattle back in the corral, and that’ll be that.
The trail led them toward the edges of the open pasture, where the forest formed a wall of pine, cedar and spruce. Shadows hung like a heavy curtain of velvet draped across the branches. Carvesh could almost imagine lupine eyes watching him. He clenched his jaw, hefted his spear, and found himself wishing for a well-balanced sword.
I’m not supposed to know how to use a blade.
“Easy,” said Trent, as though sensing his tension. “Don’t go getting jumpy on me. Look there.” He pointed at an irregularly sized mound, some hundred yards away. It was little more than a murky shadow against the darkness. “What do you suppose that is?”
“I can’t tell.”
“Let’s have a closer look, then.”
As they drew nearer, it became clear that the mound was one of the bulls from the herd. Its thick, muscular body lay in bloody, shredded ribbons. Gore was splattered across the grass and several nearby trees, already drawing flies and other small scavengers. Carvesh knew all too well what a pack of wolves could do to a stray cow or calf, but he’d never seen them take down a full-grown bull—and certainly not with such brutal violence.
“This is cruel work,” said Trent. He bent down next to the carcass, using one hand to cover his nose against the stench while running the other along the curved, black horn. “Looks like Ropper.”
“Bloody hells.” Ropper had been Carvesh’s prize bull, young and strong and destined to sire a long line of calves. With his sharp horns and an aggressive nature, the big animal would have given any predator reason to seek different prey. “What did this?”
“No wolf, that’s for damned sure. A big bear might have enough in him to gut a bull, but that seems bloody unlikely. Most would rather forage in the forest, or pull salmon from the river.”
“A rockcat?”
“Could be. They’re big enough, but the only reason a rockcat would fight to take down a bull would be to get itself a meal, and it doesn’t look like any of the meat was eaten.” Trent lifted one of the bull’s horns and sniffed at the air. “That’s strange.”
“What?”
“Smells like the it’s already starting to spoil.”
“But the carcass can’t be more than a couple of hours old.”
“I’d have to agree. Damned, bloody strange. And where’s the rest of the herd? Something’s not right here.”
“Let’s fetch the horses,” suggested Carvesh, “and see what we can round up. Hopefully, we’ll find the herd and drive them back to the corral by sunrise. Then we can hit the feathers and leave Rimey and the others to clean up—” He stopped. For a moment, he thought he’d caught a movement from the corner of his eye, a mass of inky darkness darting from one shadow to the next. “Did you see that?”
“No,” Trent responded in a low hush. “But I heard it. Just for a moment. There’s something foul in the air tonight.”
Carvesh couldn’t argue with that. Whatever he’d seen was big. Big enough to tangle with a grown bull? It was fast, too. He’d caught only a glimpse of it as it flitted through the night, but the shadows had enveloped it like a covering of dense fog. There was a fresh chill in the air, too, as though the frigid winds of the mountainous Stonewall had suddenly found their way down to the ranch, cutting like a frosty knife through the late spring heat. Carvesh found himself shivering against the cold—and against something else, too.
Something far more terrible.
“Devilry,” hissed Trent.
“Never believed in devils,” said Carvesh. He wasn’t sure if he was responding to Trent or merely trying to convince himself.
“That doesn’t mean they don’t believe in you,” replied the herdmaster.
He flashed a crooked grin before hefting his sabre, motioning for Carvesh to do the same with his spear. The night had turned uncomfortably quiet. Straining his eyes and ears against the stillness of the forest, Carvesh could hear little beyond his quickening breath. He could see even less.
In the blink of an eye, the night shattered.
Shards of darkness flew in every direction, like insubstantial daggers, revealing a creature unlike anything Carvesh had ever seen. Larger than a man, the beast charged like an ape, crashing toward them on two massively muscled arms. Broad-plated scales darker than pitch covered its hulking body, gathering into a mane of glassy spines that framed its overgrown head. The face was like a twisted pastiche of predatory features. It had the broadness of a lion but the elongated snout of a wolf. Its ears were broad and almost leaf shaped, and its close-set eyes were small and round, like orbs of black glass blown in the fires of the Four Hells.
The thing fell on Trent. For a moment, the herdsman seemed to dim, as though Carvesh’s mind refused to bear witness to what he was seeing. Then the creature’s powerful jaws closed around the herdmaster’s arm, dragging him onto his back. His screams tore through the night, higher in pitch than those that had roused Carvesh from his bed, but no less horrible. Trent managed to lash out with his sabre, but the steel edge sparked once and bounced off the black scales.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Carvesh knew he should have been horrified. Terror should have overtaken him, turning his bowels to water and his legs to lead. Instead, he found himself reacting, falling back on the years of drilled swordcraft that had been pounded into him in another life, with another name. He had no blade, but the shaft of his spear still rested in his hand. Turning it over, he drove it forward with a single, focused thrust.
Somehow, it struck true.
The barbed tip lanced into the creature’s eye like a knife through a grape. There was a quiet snap as the spearhead cut deep into its skull. The demon convulsed. Its jaw slackened, and its body went limp. It tumbled to one side, dragging Trent with it. Then it started to shrink, as though it were somehow deflating. When it had reached half of its original size, the shrivelling form imploded. One moment it was there and the next it was gone, leaving only a dissipating shadow and a residue of black dust.
“Trent!” Carvesh screamed and dropped to the herdsman’s side.
“I’m alive,” he groaned. “By the Nine, what was that thing?”
“I don’t know,” replied Carvesh, ripping one sleeve off his shirt and tearing it into long, makeshift bandages. He needed to slow the bleeding enough to get Trent back to the homestead and fetch the physicker. “I’ll send Rimey to get Quelana. She’ll get you fixed up. We’ll look to answering questions later.”
“The herd…”
“Don’t worry about that. The monster’s dead. We’ll start rounding up what’s left of the herd once we know you’re taken care of.”
Trent made no response. He’d already fallen into a senseless slumber. Carvesh bent to check his pulse and breathing. Both were strong enough. He’s losing too much blood, though. I need to move fast. He cradled Trent in his arms, being sure to support the wounded arm. The man felt impossibly light, as though he were no burden at all.
Carvesh closed the distance to the homestead as quickly as he thought was safe. When he was within shouting distance, he started screaming for Rimey.
To his credit, the younger man emerged from his small cabin quickly, running his hand through his tight, black hair.
His wife, Libby, was only a step behind him. Somehow, she looked even more pregnant than she had earlier that day. She cried out when she saw Trent. “Blessed Guardian!”
“What happened?” asked Rimey.
“Something attacked us. Ripped apart his arm.”
“Something?”
“A monster. A demon. I don’t know! But he’s bleeding bad. Take a horse and rouse Quelana.”
“But—”
“Now!”
Rimey bolted for the stables.
Carvesh turned to Libby. “Can you gather clean bandages and a basin of water?”
“I’m pregnant, not crippled.”
So young. She seems barely more than a child. He nodded. “Then let’s get it done. And pray to the Lord, the Healer and all the rest of the Nine that Trent survives.”
A unique story, fun characters, and Deck also accomplishes one of the hardest things in fantasy - writing believable combat. Your only complaint will be that you'll wish the book was longer!
— Ben Holland Beth Ben Books and Booze Podcast
Readers who enjoy fast-paced, action-packed, magic-fueled adventures will find a great deal to love in Deck Matthews’ Dust of the Darkness.
— Calvin Park Fantasy Book Review
If you liked The First of Shadow, you should read Dust of the Darkness.
— Jacob Rasmussen
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