The Book of Shane Read online

  For Amma, who always took the time to read comic books with me

  —N.E.

  Contents

  Conquerors Emblem

  Conquerors Letter

  Quote Page

  Title Page

  Map

  Dedication

  WHO IS SHANE?

  PART 1: VENOM

  PART 2: VENDETTA

  PART 3: VENGEANCE

  PART 4: VENTURE

  About the Author

  Online Game Code

  Sneak Peek

  Spirit Animals Game

  Copyright

  IT ISN’T VERY OFTEN THAT A GORILLA AND AN OCTOPUS HAVE a polite conversation.

  It’s trickier still when that gorilla is trapped in a cage made of ancient antlers on an enormous rock in the middle of a sunbaked desert, while the octopus lives in the depths of the unknowable ocean.

  But Kovo and Mulop are two of the Great Beasts of Erdas, after all, so set aside your questions and imagine the scene …

  The colossal gorilla hulked his shoulders, baring furious teeth at the prison around him. The sun beat down mercilessly, adding weight to his shaggy black fur until it felt as oppressive as the antlers themselves. Overhead an eagle screamed in the molten air, but Halawir’s pity was essentially useless to Kovo.

  And then he felt a touch, like a soft tentacle brushing against his brain.

  “Get out,” Kovo growled.

  “Hello, hello,” said a deep voice, like bubbles drifting slowly toward the surface. “It has been a long time, has it not? Yes. A long time for a dark soul to be imprisoned, making sinister plans. But it will not be long enough, I think. No, it will not be forever, although it should be.”

  Kovo snorted, almost chuckling. “Is that what you foresee, you bloviating blob? My escape from here? My glorious triumph over all of Erdas? Because that’s what I see in my dreams every night. I don’t need mystical foresight to promise you that’s what’s coming.”

  The octopus made a small humming sound. “Something along those lines. It is a strange and terrible time ahead, I do see that, and so do I, yes. But tell me about this boy king I see at the center of all these plans.”

  “Aha, yes,” Kovo snarled, grinning. “The boy king of Stetriol. A villain through and through. The perfect choice to destroy the world and hand it over to me.”

  “Hmm,” said Mulop again. “Is that so? Such a puzzle. A villain all the way through, you think? I did not know such humans existed. No, indeed, I thought there were measures of good and bad in each of them.”

  “Ha!” The gorilla turned in an awkward circle, scraping his hide against the points of the antlers. “I know this boy, Shane. He is a traitor and a liar. He burns with vengeance and a thirst for power. He is the perfect puppet for me and Gerathon, and no one will care when we finally crush him and toss him aside.”

  “I think some will care,” murmured Mulop. “He is a brother who loves and fears his sister. He is a friend to a brave Greencloak who cares about him.”

  “Because she’s a fool,” Kovo cut in. “She doesn’t know the real Shane.”

  “And you do?” The tentacles fluttered around the corners of Kovo’s mind again, light and slithering. “I see a young prince who mourns his family. I see a king who wants to save his people. I see a boy who will regret his mistakes … and who will miss his only true friend.”

  “I see the Devourer.” Kovo’s eyes glittered with ambition. “Striding to glory beside his fearsome giant crocodile, leading an army of Conquerors to destroy the world. A pawn who will get me everything I want, but who will always be a creature of the Bile. Someone we can control whenever we need to.”

  “How does someone become such a threat?” the octopus asked. “I have wondered and wondered such a thing. Here’s another thing to wonder around and through: When the war is over, what happens to the most hated person in Erdas?”

  “Who cares?” The gorilla’s laugh rolled across the barren landscape like thunder, sending geckos scrambling into their holes in terror. “When the war is over, I’ll be done with him.”

  “But what happens to villains when they fail?” Mulop’s voice seemed to be oozing into the cracks in Kovo’s brain. “You’re one example, I suppose. Imprisoned and furious for the rest of eternity.”

  “This eternity is going to be shorter than anyone expects,” Kovo snarled.

  “What becomes of a king who has lost his army and his country? What becomes of a boy who has betrayed his only friend — and knows it? These are among the few things I do not know, although I think and think upon them.”

  “You don’t need to know.” Kovo’s meaty hands slammed into the walls of his cage, cutting sharp lines of blood across his palms. “We’re not going to fail. Shane will either continue to be our puppet, or if he is too much trouble, we’ll kill him.”

  “We’ll see, and so shall we,” said Mulop, in his vague, irritating way. “It will be a fascinating story. Can the Devourer ever be forgiven? Is there still a soul in there with any hope of redemption?”

  “No,” growled Kovo. “Villains are what they are.”

  “Nobody is the villain of their own story,” Mulop said reprovingly. “One thing I know is that even you don’t see yourself that way.”

  “True.” The gorilla chuckled again, low and sinister. “I have my reasons for the choices I make. But I am the future ruler of all Erdas. This boy king is nobody.”

  “I am quite certain,” said Mulop, “that he would disagree.”

  “I am quite certain,” said Kovo, “that I don’t care.”

  “Someone might care,” said Mulop. “If someone were listening with an open mind, and someone could see how complicated Shane’s story is, perhaps they would see much more of this Shane than anyone has before.”

  “Perhaps,” said the enormous gorilla with a snort. “If anybody cared enough to tell the story of the boy king of Stetriol. It won’t be me.” He burrowed his head back on his neck, pulling his shoulders forward as if trying to block out the persistent, blooping voice of the giant octopus.

  “Someone must care to tell it,” said Mulop thoughtfully, perfectly happy to have this conversation with himself instead. “And someone must care to hear it. Perhaps then, if they know everything he was and will be, they can decide for themselves who Shane really is.

  “Traitor, liar, Devourer?

  “Failure, puppet, defeated fool?

  “Or a boy who thought he was the hero of his own story — who makes terrible mistakes, and has to find a way to move forward when everything goes wrong for him?

  “I think the stories will be told, and I think the readers will decide.

  “In the end, who is Shane, after all?”

  Abeke looked to Shane again. “How awful! Your bonding …”

  “Occurred without any Nectar,” Shane said. “I was one of the lucky ones. Other friends and family weren’t.”

  — Spirit Animals: Book 1: Wild Born

  SHANE’S LIFE CHANGED FOREVER THE DAY HE WOKE TO the sound of screaming.

  It was a scream right out of a nightmare — a sound of terror, and mourning, and fury all tangled together. It was barely human.

  He’d never heard anything like it before, yet he knew at once that it was coming from his sister.

  Shane leaped from bed and bolted from his room. At some point he stubbed his bare toe on stone, but the pain wouldn’t register until much later. At the moment there was only Drina, and the distance that kept him from her. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause at her threshold to wonder what terror awaited him, what monstrous sight could tear such a howl from his sister’s throat.

  But he paused when he entered the room and its unnatural twilight. His own bedroom had been bright wi
th morning’s light, and the hallway too. Something in Drina’s room was blocking the light. A frayed and tattered tapestry? Thick strands of cotton? Shane couldn’t quite make sense of it.

  Drina had stopped screaming, but she lay convulsing in bed. Something was terribly wrong.

  He went to her and gripped her by the shoulders, willing her to be still, but her body jumped and jerked beneath his fingers. She looked up at him with eyes that didn’t see him. They registered only horror.

  He realized he was saying her name, over and over again. “Drina. Drina.”

  Then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

  He didn’t turn all at once. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his ears prickled. He knew somehow that making any sudden moves would be a terrible mistake. So he kept his hands on his sister’s shoulders, and turned his head slowly, very slowly, until he was looking into the far corner of the room.

  Squatting there in the shadows was the largest spider Shane had ever seen.

  It saw him too. It stared back at him with eight eyes, alien and unreadable. Other than the bands of yellow along its abdomen, it was entirely black. Venom dripped from its fangs to the floor.

  It stayed absolutely still, and Shane tried to stay still too. But he couldn’t suppress a shudder of fear and revulsion.

  He had to do something. Others would arrive soon — others must have heard Drina’s scream. And the next person through that door would step right beneath those dripping fangs.

  He took a heavy brass lantern from Drina’s bedside.

  He turned away from her slowly, so that he faced the spider. Shane would have to put all his strength behind his throw. He might only have one chance at this.

  Those alien eyes stared back, unblinking.

  Shane shifted his weight and gritted his teeth. He reared back with the lantern, ready to let it fly when —

  Suddenly Drina screamed again. This time, she produced a word: “No!”

  She lurched from her bed, shoving into him with all her might. Shane went flying; his head smacked against stone. The world reeled, and he hit stone again, and the lantern shattered all around him, covering him with broken glass.

  “He’s mine,” his sister said. Through a haze of red he watched her take an unsteady step toward the creature on the wall, her arm outstretched, palm up. “He’s mine.”

  It was only then that the true horror of the situation finally dawned on Shane. Despite his fervent hopes, his sister had summoned a spirit animal.

  Unconsciousness came for him, and he did not fight it. He didn’t want to see what happened next.

  Shane never woke slowly. In the two years since Drina had summoned her spirit animal, he jolted awake each morning, usually in a cold sweat, always with a sense of dread. This morning was no different. He immediately scanned the ceiling, then checked the four corners of his bedroom for any sign of an animal. He kept the stone walls bare and the room clear of any clutter: the better to be sure nothing could hide from him. Finally, before daring to place his feet upon the floor, he leaned over the side of his bed, peering into the shadows beneath it like a young child checking for monsters.

  It was only after he was satisfied that he had not summoned a spirit animal in his sleep that he remembered to breathe.

  Shane knew the odds of being Marked were slim. He reminded himself of that fact every day. Yet despite the odds, every member of his immediate family had summoned an animal. People said they were cursed, and there were times Shane himself believed it.

  He was nearly thirteen years old now. If he was going to get a spirit animal — and the bonding sickness that usually came with it — it would happen soon.

  Shane slipped from bed and pulled his damp nightclothes over his head. He took a fresh tunic and trousers from his wardrobe — a wooden antique from which he’d removed the doors. That way it was one less hiding place for him to fear. And besides, Shane’s uncle had use for any wood he could get his hands on.

  As he dressed, Shane remembered a time in his childhood when a servant would wake him, bathe him, dress him. But nearly all the servants were gone now. And it was just as well — there was no money with which to pay them, little food with which to feed them.

  Shane knew very little about the lands outside of Stetriol, but he suspected he was the poorest prince in the world.

  He walked the long hallway that led to the dining hall, trailing his finger along the stone wall and tapestries, leaving a line in the dust. The tapestries showed legendary scenes of Stetriol’s ancient past. On one, torrents of water flowed from the mouth of a frog, creating all the lakes and rivers. Another showed two lizards painting patterns on each other, one with a fine brush and an eye for detail, the other without care.

  Shane knew of other tapestries — forgotten tapestries that still hung from the rafters in a dark and disused corner of the castle. Those artworks celebrated other animals entirely: formidable birds of prey, and huge, vicious cats, and an octopus with startlingly intelligent eyes. But the Great Beasts had cursed Stetriol. They were better forgotten.

  Lost in thought, Shane jolted with surprise when he rounded a corner and saw a cloaked figure standing before him. He hoped she hadn’t seen him flinch, but it was hard to sneak anything past his tutor.

  “Yumaris,” he said, nodding his head in greeting.

  “My prince,” she said, lowering her own head in a sort of bow. Shane imagined if she attempted to lower herself any more than that, she might never manage to get up again. She clutched her staff as if without it her heavy robes might drag her to the floor.

  He wasn’t sure exactly how old she was, but during her history lessons it was easy to imagine that she spoke from personal experience. The oddest thing about her, though, was that she sometimes spoke of the future as if it were history too.

  Shane watched curiously as the woman produced a sheathed sword from the folds of her robes. It was the saber he had been training with lately, at his uncle’s insistence. “You will be glad to have this blade,” she said, holding it out to him.

  He wasn’t so sure, but he took the sword and affixed it to his belt. “You’re my tutor, Yumaris. Aren’t you supposed to favor the pen?”

  “A prince must have many tools in his arsenal,” Yumaris answered, a faraway look in her eyes. “For words and learning do little to impress a jackal.”

  Shane tightened his belt and gave his tutor a questioning look. “There are no jackals in Stetriol.”

  Yumaris shrugged. “A figure of speech, my prince. Now, I fear you have more pressing business this morning than breakfast.”

  Shane sighed. “What is Gar up to this time?”

  The throne room was brightly lit, with flaming sconces running along its length. Gar was at the far end, standing on the dais so that he towered over the others assembled around him. He knew better than to actually sit upon the throne, but Shane noticed he stood close enough that he could reach out and touch it.

  Gar was Shane’s uncle and the king’s younger brother. He had no true claim to the throne. But as Shane’s nearest living relative who was not confined to bed, Gar had been named regent. In theory, that meant Gar was responsible for advising Shane and teaching him the ways of statecraft. In practice, it meant Gar was more or less in charge until the day Shane was crowned king.

  Gar might not have had bonding sickness, but Shane didn’t consider him fit to rule. He was hotheaded and cruel. Whereas other members of their family were physically unwell, Gar seemed to have a sickness of the spirit.

  “Uncle!” he called out as he crossed the room. “Forgive me for being late. I wasn’t aware we were entertaining guests so early.”

  Gar smiled, but it looked like a grimace. “I see Yumaris found you in time, nephew. Now that you’re here, we can begin.”

  As Shane closed the distance, he took in the scene. There at the foot of the stairs, two guards stood at attention. Between them, a man crouched low, bowing before Gar. The sight made Shane furious.
>
  “And who is this?” he asked, stepping past the guards and ascending the stairs. He only came to a stop once he was a hairbreadth from the throne, closer to it than his uncle was. He loved that throne. It was an ancient masterpiece of iron adorned with a dozen mismatched animal features — wings and scales and antlers — and entirely gray except for the colorful snakes running along its sides. They were red and orange, green and yellow, and rumor had it that King Feliandor himself had added them during his reign, sometime after he had taken to calling himself the Reptile King.

  Gar took an awkward sideways step to make room for Shane, and had to turn to address him. “Dear nephew,” he began, “this man is a criminal. He stands accused of flouting Royal Edict Thirteen, the rule against —”

  “The rule that states all wood in Stetriol belongs to the royal family, for the purpose of rebuilding Stetriol’s fleet,” Shane finished coldly. “I’m well aware of the edict.”

  The edict, in fact, was Gar’s pet project. He pursued it like a rabid dog. Shane didn’t particularly care what the commoners did with their wood, and he knew for a fact that his father didn’t care either.

  But wood in Stetriol had always been scarce, owing to the mostly arid climate. That was only made worse after the great war and the Greencloak invasion, when the island nation’s shores were overrun. After King Feliandor was assassinated and his Conquerors were defeated, the invaders hadn’t been content simply to sink Stetriol’s entire armada. They set fire to her coastal forests, as well. To this day, wood was exceedingly hard to come by.

  People made do. They crafted their homes from stone and clay and iron, all of which were abundant.

  But you couldn’t rebuild a fleet of ships with stone and metal. And lately Gar seemed very keen to build ships.

  “This man,” Gar continued, “took an ax to a tree in broad daylight. Given the king’s passionate and absolute belief in the necessity of Royal Edict Thirteen, and the boldness of the crime, it is clear he must be swiftly punished.”

  “You want to make an example of him,” Shane clarified.