Canyon Shadows

  Canyon Shadows

  Book One

  Dark Tyrant Series

  by C.R. Langille

  Canyon Shadows is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Griffin Publishers, LLC.

  Griffin Publishers and the Griffin colophon are registered trademarks of Griffin Publishers, LLC.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016957260 | ISBN 978-0-9971970-3-7 (paperback) | ISBN 978-0-9971970-4-4 (ebook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  www.griffinpublishers.com

  Dedication

  Writing things is hard

  Dedications are harder

  This is for you all

  Acknowledgements

  While this wasn’t the first novel I wrote that was published, this was the first novel-length piece of work I completed. I think this story has seen many variations throughout its creation until arriving in the form you’re holding in your hands now (or claws if you happen to be something other than human).

  First, I need to thank my wife for giving me the time needed to write this, re-write it, and edit it about a billion times. I didn’t write this for school, or for a project, so the time it took was personal time away from family for no other reason than it was a passion of mine to write. So thank you, my love. Without your support and understanding, this wouldn’t have happened.

  Second, I need to thank my writing group. Without your support and direction, this book would be a steaming pile of excrement. If steaming piles of excrement are your thing, I apologize.

  Third, I need to thank my mom. She scours through my manuscripts like a grammar shark looking for blood in the water. I think she read through this piece about three times and sent it back bleeding each time. Thank you for being real and honest with me.

  Finally, I need to thank my beta readers for taking this project on a short notice and an even shorter deadline. Jackie, Josh, and Dixie, your feedback was amazing.

  Prologue

  Outside of Jerusalem, 1180

  The old woman’s blood seeped into the sandy earth, causing it to congeal in the hot desert about her quivering body. She gasped for breath, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to form words before the last sliver of her life escaped, disappearing into the twisting winds. Confusion muddled the pained expression on her face as she looked at the source of her agony. A false sense of hope entered her thoughts telling her if she could simply remove the sword from her chest, she would live. She clutched at the weapon in a futile attempt to wrench the steel blade free; however, with most of her lifeblood already soaking the ground, she lacked the strength to pull it out. The old woman shuddered once and then lay still.

  The weather-beaten knight pulled his sword from the body. Without a word, he cleaned the blade on the dead woman’s cloak and then sheathed the weapon in a practiced move. He stared into the woman’s eyes for a moment, lost in a dull reflection of the moon, before kneeling down to close them with his fingertips.

  The woman’s belongings lay beside her body in a tattered knapsack. The man dumped the contents out, sifting through them without care until he found a book. It was a large leather-bound book with no title. Only a simple symbol depicting a mountain adorned the cover. The writing inside was in a strange tongue, one he’d never seen before. Master Stephen, the Master of the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, would want to see the tome.

  The body twitched, causing the knight to fall back into a defensive stance, his sword once again free from its scabbard. Watching the corpse intently, he waited to see if it would stir. After several breaths, he moved forward to get a better look, choosing his steps with caution. The old crone sat up, and her eyes snapped open. No longer did the moon reflect from those dead orbs, for they turned dark as a raven with hints of burning embers. Her body unnaturally jerked when she turned to look at the wide-eyed knight.

  “Poor Knight of Christ… He watches you all,” croaked the dead woman.

  “What blasphemy is this? How dare you speak of God whilst using your black magic!” the knight replied as he circled the creature.

  “I speak not of your petty God; I speak of one more powerful! He watches you all; He waits for you all.”

  “What demon do you speak of, witch?”

  He circled behind her, but the witch’s head followed his movement. Her neck cracked and popped, twisting in such a way that no living person would have been able to endure.

  “He is older than time, and He is waiting for you. He will devour your very essence!”

  The dead woman’s laugh floated on the wind, her body shaking and contorting with each cackle. The knight stepped forward, swinging his sword in an attempt to finish her off. Before he could, the woman’s body twisted so that her torso faced the wrong direction, and she scurried at him on all fours. He backed away trying to gain an advantageous position.

  The crone’s laughter reverberated in the night air as she scuttled about like a demented crab. Her head snapped toward the knight, focused on the kill, and she charged. The knight’s training took over. He shifted out of the way, bringing his sword down in a fluid movement, taking her head off.

  He waited for several heartbeats, just in case she decided to move again. Convinced that she was truly dead, he leaned over and snatched the book.

  “May God have mercy on your soul,” he whispered.

  ***

  Southern Utah, 1986

  “Hey, can we even be in here? Isn’t this place off limits?” asked Kent.

  Kent’s friend, Jared, smiled at the question and shined his flashlight at the wall.

  “Don’t worry about it. I am the lead assistant to the Professor. If anyone asks, we can say that we’re here doing some late research.”

  Kent didn’t care for the place or the smile.

  “Jared, what is this place anyway? I don’t see much that would interest an archeologist.”

  Jared pointed up. “Look there.”

  Kent gazed up the cliff wall. About 150 feet up, small stone structures sat carved into an enclave in the face of the cliff. From where he stood, the night shadows were too dark to make out much detail.

  “What are those?” he asked, awed by the spectacle before him.

  “Those are ancient Anasazi ruins. It’s a cliff dwelling, built hundreds of years ago,” Jared replied.

  “Don’t they have some in Mesa Verde?”

  “Exactly like those, except I found something pretty cool in this one. Follow me.”

  Jared walked to a ladder and started climbing. Kent waited a moment then followed Jared. With each step he took up the ladder, an unnatural sense of dread grew in Kent’s body. Once he reached the top, his instincts screamed at him to leave as quickly as possible. It took every nerve he had to remain calm. Still, sweat poured down his face, and his palms felt clammy and cold.

  “Are you sure it is safe up here?” Kent asked.

  “Yeah, nothing to worry about. Now come look at this.”

  Jared led his nervous friend through some of the structures until they came to a larger building that extended partway into the mountain. A dank smell assaulted their senses. The flashlight they had with them did little to attack the dark interior.

  “What am I supposed to see?” Kent asked.

  “This.”

  Jared pointed the flashligh
t. The beam displayed what seemed to be a common boulder set against the wall. Petroglyphs danced upon its rough canvas.

  “You brought me up here to look at old doodles on the cliff?”

  Kent’s voice carried the weight of agitation and rebounded off the old stone, coming at him from all angles. He asked again, quieter. The apprehension of the situation ate his nerves raw, and his patience sat on the menu as the next course.

  “No, I brought you up here to show you this.”

  Jared put the flashlight down and moved over to the rock. Putting his shoulder on one side, he pushed. As Jared pushed against the rock, Kent caught a glimpse of an unusual scar on Jared’s forearm, a scar he never noticed before. His attention pulled away from the scar as the boulder moved along the wall, revealing a set of stairs leading further down into the mountain.

  “How can you move that thing? It must weigh over 500 pounds.”

  “I think it has been hollowed out somehow; it’s still heavy but movable.”

  Kent moved closer to the opening. He peered into the darkness trying to see what was down there. Something whispered unintelligibly, seeming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Anyway, did you see what was down there?”

  Kent picked up the flashlight and tried to penetrate the foreboding darkness at the bottom of the stairs. Roughly carved stairs led deep into the mountain’s depths, but he couldn’t see too far.

  “I can’t see anything. What’s down there?”

  When Jared didn’t reply, Kent turned to his friend. Jared stood right beside him, too close for comfort.

  Jared’s body jerked unnaturally as he said, “He is down there. He is waiting for you.”

  Jared grabbed onto Kent’s arm. It felt like a vise clamped down on his forearm, and he tried to pull away. Jared continued to smile and walked him closer to the stairs. The whispers picked up in volume, but Kent couldn’t understand what they said. He lifted the flashlight and tried to bash Jared in the face in a final attempt to get away, but Jared caught his wrist in mid-strike. The man’s smile threatened to leap off his face when Jared crushed Kent’s wrist like a tin can. Pain blazed a trail from his wrist to his brain faster than he could think.

  “Wh—?” Kent tried to ask.

  “Because, He wants you,” Jared replied.

  Jared shifted his hips and threw Kent down the stairs and into the darkness. As he fell, the flashlight lit up his friend’s smiling face. Jared’s eyes were darker than the night and did not reflect the beam of the flashlight yet burned with a fire all their own.

  Kent tumbled down into the oblivion below. All he could hear was his friend’s maniacal laughter and the boulder being moved back into place. Stars flashed before his eyes as he crashed into the hard rock. He tried to move, but pain shot through his body with every attempt. The flashlight died, and the darkness consumed him. The whisper slithered into his ears again. It was the whisper that scared him more than anything.

  Chapter One

  April 14, 1180

  Shortly after Master Stephen agreed to our venture, I, along with four other knights, left the Outremer. We departed with all due haste, for the need to find and destroy this evil held the utmost importance. I fear many will suffer should we not succeed in our quest.

  After procuring a ship from the fleet, we set sail upon the great sea. I know that Lord God and Christ our Savior are with us and that we will reach our destination. Although what awaits us, I do not know.

  The book has turned even more mysterious with its words. What once made sense now befuddles. I am not sure if it is the exhaustion of travel, but at times I can almost see the words move as I read from the text. Nevertheless, I continue to scour the tome for answers within. Any hint to what awaits us deep in the mountain may aid in destroying the foul creature.

  -Sir Geoffrey Sames, Poor Knight of Christ

  ***

  Monterey, California, present day.

  Garrett Porter woke up covered in sweat. His heart beat against his chest like a captured ape against its cage. It took him several long, ragged breaths to realize that he was in his bedroom. He was safe from his nightmares but not from reality.

  Garrett looked at the clock. The digits showered his nightstand in a pale green glow, and it took his tired eyes a moment to adjust to its shine. It was just past six in the morning. Sleep had become a favored commodity which was harder and harder to come by.

  For the past few months, monstrous nightmares plagued his sleep and always ripped him from his slumber. Strangely, though, as terrifying as they were when he slept, he could never remember anything from the dreams upon awakening. Garrett had his ideas on what they were about, which did little to comfort him.

  He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, unhappy with what he saw. Since the death of his wife and child nearly a year ago, Garrett had let himself go. Everything became half-hearted with him. Where chiseled muscles once sat, saggy flab and a paunch greeted him. A lackadaisically trimmed beard sat on puffy cheeks, neighbor to a set of bloodshot eyes and a mop of shaggy brown hair.

  The baying of sea lions playing in the nearby ocean pulled him from the depths of his self-pity. He took a deep breath to center himself and went to work. Garrett quickly brushed his teeth and turned on the shower. The hot water coupled with scented soap that was supposed to smell like a waterfall in Ireland washed away the remnants of the night terrors; however, other events stained his thoughts. The memory of that fateful night could never be scrubbed away—the night his wife and daughter died in a car accident.

  Shortly after the horrific event, Garrett moved out of the house and into an apartment. The hurt of living in the empty dwelling was too akin to the vacant shell his life had become. At first, he had tried to stay in the house. Trisha and Madeline played at the corner of his eyesight, hiding in the shadows and playing with his emotions. Their smell greeted him whenever he came home from work. They dominated his every thought, driving him to the bottle. Alcohol served only as a reprieve; his family was always there, haunting him whenever the booze wore off. The move was necessary.

  After his shower, he felt somewhat reinvigorated. Garrett got dressed, as always, in something simple. Cargo pants and a beat-up T-shirt were his armor of choice.

  He opened the cabinet and pulled a bottle out. He poured some of the amber liquid into a glass and shot it down. The smell of the alcohol hit his nose like a one-two punch combo, clearing his sinuses. The rum burned going down his throat, but it was a good burn. He bought the bottle of Cacique Rum when he was in the Caribbean last month examining some artifacts recovered from a sunken galleon. A friend of his introduced him to the brand, and he instantly fell in love with it. While he perused the shops in downtown Curaçao, he came across a little bar and found them selling bottles of 100-year-old vintage. Even though they cost over two hundred dollars, he bought all five of the bottles. Less than two weeks later, only half a bottle remained.

  He was about to make a bowl of cereal for breakfast when the phone rang. Letting out a deep sigh, he put the cereal box down and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Porter?” asked a rough voice.

  “Yes, this is Garrett Porter, how can I help you?”

  “Mr. Porter, this might sound odd, but I work for an antique shop located in Canyon Shadows.”

  “Mmmhmm. And where the in the world is Canyon Shadows?”

  The interruption annoyed him, but he tried to make the best of it. Cradling the phone between his cheek and shoulder, he continued preparing his breakfast.

  “It’s in Utah. To get to the point, I’ve come across an interesting item. I’ve done some research on the internet, and I came across your site. I think it’s right up your alley. I was wondering if you would like to take a look at the item I have, perhaps
even purchase it from me?”

  Garrett sighed and put the bowl of cereal down on the counter.

  “I’m sorry, but who are you?” Garrett asked, his annoyance seeping into his voice like a poison.

  “Oh! How rude of me, I apologize. My name is Randall Childers.”

  “Mr. Childers, there is a section on the website detailing how to send inquiries regarding artifacts and the sort. I usually don’t take calls. Speaking of which, how did you get this number?”

  “It’s amazing what $10.99 will buy on the internet. I apologize for the intrusion, but what I have is unique.”

  Instead of arguing the point regarding the benefits of email inquiries and pending breakfasts, Garrett decided it would be quicker to let him proceed. “What is it that you have Mr. Childers?”

  “I have a sword, Mr. Porter. I think that it is authentic and from the Thirteenth Century.”

  You’ve got to be kidding me. Come on! He walked to the fridge and pulled an almost empty carton of milk out.

  “Mr. Childers, I have plenty of rusty swords. I don’t think I am interested in another one. Thanks for the call, but I’m going to pass.”

  Garrett was about to hang up, but Childers cut in.

  “Wait! There is something different about this sword Mr. Porter. I noticed on your website that you have a deep fascination in the Knights Templar. I think this might be one of their swords. Not only that, but it is in excellent condition; there isn’t a hint of rust on it. There are also some interesting symbols on the blade.”

  The man was desperate. He’d heard it before with people trying to verify what they had was real and not some Chinese knock off. Trying to validate their assumptions. Garrett remembered when he used to sound like that, when he first started in the business. He poured the milk into the bowl. Oh, what the hell? Take a look.

  “It’s probably a fake, but I tell you what—if you send me a photograph to the email listed on my site, I will take a look at it and get back to you when I can.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Porter; I think you will be pleased.”