Whispers of Prophecy (Shadow over Shandahar Book 3)
The world quivers with the march of this army. Rotting flesh hangs from their bones, and they moan as though in pain. They do not move as normal people would, but stagger along to the cadence of the one who controls them. There are hundreds and thousands of them, and where they walk, there is only death and destruction.” The threat of the dread necromancer Aasarak continues to loom over Shandahar, imperiling the future of all who live there. As the inevitable confrontation approaches, a divided Wildrunners struggle to accomplish the tasks set before them, and miserable defeat shadows their every step. Meanwhile, the young sorceress Adrianna has been taken as an apprentice by the powerful dimensionalist, Tallachienan Chroalthone. It is everyone’s hope that her newfound skill and matured talent will help turn the tide in their favor. But Adrianna is encountering her own share of danger behind the mysterious walls of Tallachienan’s gloomy citadel. The Master is more than what he seems, and she is beleaguered by strange dreams and visions that cause her to doubt her sanity. Her presence there has set something in motion, a trap from which she may not find a way to break free. Yet, there is hope. Adrianna is also more than what she seems. The friendships she will forge are strong, and the immunities inherent in her ancestral bloodline will help her persevere over seemingly insurmountable odds. But will these things ultimately aid in bringing her back to those companions foretold in the prophecy? And most importantly, the sworn Protector?
The Historian walked across the landscape, death seeping through the soles of his boots. It was a desolate place, the deafening silence broken only by the rush of icy cold winds that made the yellowed grasses bend beneath the onslaught. The Ballad of Shinshinasa was born there, told in the voice of faelin troubadour, Relaegen Songwoven, about a human girl who had stopped the greatest war ever fought. It was a beautiful piece, and if sung by the right bard, exquisite. Even three centuries since the battle, the ballad remained, spread far and wide across Ansalar. Portions of the ballad were lost over the scores, and depending on the region, the first few stanzas were always different. Sometimes one or two were added on to the end, but the fourteen in the middle were always the same.
Analiza was a strong young woman, and the battle a brutal one. He knew because he'd seen it in person. It was one of the darkest times in the history of Shandahar, punctuated by a moment of such greatness, it was almost blinding.
The armies march over the endless savannah
Humans treading with great numbers,
Oroc mercenaries lured with promises of gold.
Fateful footfall as they lumber.
Faelin with unequaled wisdom,
Outstanding weapons and brilliant skill,
Silver lloryk and golden larian carrying riders
Wielding sword, and bow to the mornings chill.
The trumpet of bugle and the moan of oberon
Hails as armies collide upon the vast plain,
Thundering of hooves and clang of steel
Cries of men dying in the name of truth and in vain.
And the vultures that circle see no difference
Not realizing that blood spilled is colored the same
The armies lay upon the desolate battlefield
The scent of death prevails, and it needs no name.
The whisper of summer winds sweep over the plain
That the buzz of flies cannot curtail
Sightless orbs stare into a realm the living cannot see
Stiff hands grip sword, mace, and flail.
The company from Shinshinasa walks
Among comrades never met before,
Among men who fought for illusions of pride and nobility
Seeking to settle feeble slights and even scores.
They paid the heavy penalty for stark reality
And then, the enemy emerges from the East
They steel themselves for battle and wait
With the bridles of their valiant steeds.
Analiza stands before the approaching foe
With fear singing through her veins,
Foreboding twisting about her heart
Her dread holding her in chains.
When the faelin warriors are before them
Astride their huge canine beasts, eyes full of malice
She shouts in the deepest of her deep voices
Looking to break through their hearts so callous.
"Stop! Please, my brothers, and ask yourselves
Who are we fighting for? It cannot be for our children's sake,
Who will starve without their fathers to feed them,
Cold without their fathers to clothe and house them and not forsake.
Who are we fighting for? It cannot be our wives,
Who will feel loneliness without their men to warm them in their beds at night,
Desolate without a partner to share the responsibilities
Of raising a family and doing it right.
Who are we fighting for? It cannot be for our parents
Who will suffer the agony of losing their sons,
Vulnerable without him to care in their old age,
For time is marching on with nowhere to run.
Let us look at ourselves now! What do we see?
Only men who have the same things to lose if we perish this eve.
Is it really the answer and all we can do?
Because I find that so hard to believe.
Right now, here, at this time, are those things worth dying for?
Why are we fighting? Is it for power or glory or wealth?
What about the things that are worth living for?
Like your families, your faith, and your health."
The Historian stumbled beneath the weight of sudden emotion, nearly falling to a ground, a ground stained with the blood of countless humans, faelin, halfen and oroc. But Analiza had stood above them all, a simple girl from a small village in Central Ansalar. Even now, many years after her death she was heralded as a hero...
The scene abruptly shifted. The Historian was flying high above the 'scape, the air buffeting his massive wings. Below him were the steep crags of the Northern Sartingels, and nestled among them, a massive fortress. Spiraled spires rose from the rocks, reaching to the clouds, and he smiled at the breathtaking scene. Memories of his old friend flooded his mind. For so long it had been called the Citadel that he weas afraid he had forgotten it's true name, but the the complex series of letters and numbers shone in his mind like it had been branded there.
He flew closer, dipping and spinning in the gusty wind currents. Here there wasn't the scent of death and destruction, at least not yet. But it wouldn't be too terribly long before Aasarak's undead armies came to this place too. After that, it wouldn't be long before the Cycle turned.
The setting changed again. The Historian was standing in a glade in the middle of a forest. Not far away was a burbling stream. The scene shifted and wavered, as though it had a problem staying as it was. He frowned, not recalling this place in all of the many events he had documented over the centuries of Cycling. Patiently he waited. Many times it took a few moments for the event to unfold, and if nothing else he was patient.
A wind swept through carrying the scent of lirylacs, and it rustled the leaves in the tall trees surrounding the small clearing. Songbirds chirped in the nearby shrubbery, and the air was crisp and clear. His frown returned as he glanced about the place. It felt so different than the other places he'd recently visited, all showing him Shandahar at the end of another Cycle. This one was unusual, almost ethereal somehow.
As though it had not happened yet...
Then he saw it. The splendid beast was glorious in all his beauty, stepping slowly into the glen. He was completely white, all the way from the tip of his spiraled horn to the end of his tufted tail. The unicorn was a rare animal, hardly ever seen but in the most extreme of circumstances. It was a being of powerful magic, with the ability to keep a man from the brink of death with naught but the touch of the horn atop it's forehead.
The Historian watched in awe as the beast walked around the glade. The unicorn turned his head this way and that, almost as though he searched for something or someone, his eyes delving into the shadows cast by the trees at the periphery. He stopped at the stream, looked up and down the length, searching... searching. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he lowered his magnificent head and walked away back in the direction whence hed had come.
The Historian just stood there for several moments, pondering what he'd just seen. It was something different, something he'd never witnessed before in all hisa ramblings. And he wondered if it was real...
The scene shifted once more. The Historian found himself standing in the middle of a city street. Silence stretched before him, the buildings on either side yawning with emptiness. Not a single sound could be heard, not even the scurry of a scrat. This was a familiar scene, one he had visited Cycle after Cycle. Barren winds swept down the main thoroughfare, howling between the buildings, making the signs creak on their chains. He stopped before the first one he came to: Inn of the Hapless Cenloryan.
He was in the city of Sangrilak, where it had all begun...