Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Rise of the Unmaker Past: Dawn of the Nightbringer
    Rise of the Unmaker Past: Dawn of the Nightbringer
    Rise of the Unmaker Past: Dawn of the Nightbringer
    Ebook596 pages8 hours

    Rise of the Unmaker Past: Dawn of the Nightbringer

    By Ethan Somerville

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    During the Dark Times, the Eridon Li Kari people are still recovering from the malign influence of the Masters; a formidable reptilian race who had enslaved them from for thousands of years before mysteriously vanishing. The Li Kari live in misery and superstition, shunning their natural abilities and fearing that one day the Old Ones will return.

    Two boys – Kamrys and Ansharedan – are only four years apart in age, but as different as night and day. Kamrys has an affinity for animals and can’t even bring himself to throw stones at pilloried warlocks, while Ansharedan wants only to become a soldier and fight for the Great Serbidorn Empire.

    After Invaders from the Serbidorn Empire force Kamrys to flee his native village of Tyrian Servar, he is rescued by a crippled Seer named Janerian. The boy learns that he will one day help all Eridon Li Kari people realise their true powers and unite. But before he can do this he will have to fight the chosen of Necronis the Unmaker – the Nightbringer.

    While exploring local mountain caves with his friends, Ansharedan had fallen down a shaft into a hidden cave, where he accidentally opened a portal to the Dark God’s realm. Necronis dominated the boy's body and soul and began training him to rule. As soon as Ansharedan was strong enough, he travelled to Sebora, capital of the Serbidorn Empire.

    On his way to confront Ansharedan, Kamrys meets the love of his life; the warrior-princess Keriana. She teaches him to use a sword while he trains her in the psionic arts. They are stronger together, united by passion, but will they be powerful enough to defeat Ansharedan? Necronis’ Nightbringer has since become Archprelate of the Seboran Church, beloved by the empire, with an entire army of trained priests and soldiers at his command.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStorm Publishing
    Release dateMar 29, 2017
    ISBN9781370414857
    Rise of the Unmaker Past: Dawn of the Nightbringer
    Author

    Ethan Somerville

    Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

    Read more from Ethan Somerville

    Related authors

    Related to Rise of the Unmaker Past

    Titles in the series (11)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    Fantasy For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • Article

      FALSE IMPRESSIONS Part 3

      Apr 1, 2020

      FALSE IMPRESSIONS Part 3
      10 min read

    • Article

      Myths And Monsters

      Dec 22, 2020

      Myths And Monsters
      4 min read

    • Article

      Magnets: Carried through time, lovers seek their purpose.

      Feb 6, 2014

      Moon Colony B, 2213 Former Ponzi-schemer Mary Pillar digs through a trashcan. It smells like rotten eggs and milk. She is elderly and homeless, living in an alley between two eco-efficient skyscrapers. Dust particles dance around her. She has lost ev

      11 min read

    • Article

      Hook, Line And Sinker

      Oct 18, 2018

      Hook, Line And Sinker
      4 min read

    • Article

      Ferrets Up To Scratch

      Mar 24, 2021

      Ferrets Up To Scratch
      4 min read

    • Article

      Touched By The Future

      Nov 1, 2018

      Touched By The Future
      3 min read

    • Article

      A Dragon’s Perspective

      Jun 10, 2022

      There once lived a dragon named Deathwing. Well, at least that’s what they called him. Deathwing was growing old, far too old for his liking. The joints of his claws ached and groaned under his ever-growing weight and his scales were beginning to los

      18 min read

    • Article

      Perfect Prose II

      May 15, 2020

      Perfect Prose II
      4 min read

    • Article

      Classic Read

      Jun 22, 2020

      First published in 1990 by William Heinemann Ltd R215 at takealot.com (eBook) This isn’t at all what I expected. In 1985, by some sort of journalistic accident I was sent to Madagascar with Mark Carwardine to look for an almost extinct form of lemur

      2 min read

    • Article

      Strange Encounters

      Dec 16, 2021

      Strange Encounters
      5 min read

    • Article

      The Fool Who Fished For A King

      May 1, 2020

      The Fool Who Fished For A King
      9 min read

    • Article

      Externalities

      Jan 10, 2023

      “In economics, an externality is the cost or benefit that affects a party who did not choose to incur that cost or benefit.”—James Buchanan and W. Craig Stubblebine The library rolled heavily into town, bearing its cargo of knowledge mundane, esoteri

      15 min read

    • Article

      Bushbuck Reminiscences

      Nov 18, 2022

      Bushbuck Reminiscences
      5 min read

    • Article

      The Swords Of Silence

      Sep 11, 2019

      The Swords Of Silence
      5 min read

    • Article

      On Uppermost Winds

      Mar 1, 2024

      On Uppermost Winds
      5 min read

    • Article

      'But He's Naked!'

      Nov 20, 2019

      The following rewrite of one of Hans Christian Andersen's best loved tales is presented with apologies to the author, who did nothing to deserve it: So off went the Emperor under his splendid canopy. Everyone in the streets and the windows said, 'Oh,

      2 min read

    • Article

      HINTERLAND & HAMLETS

      Jul 31, 2019

      HINTERLAND & HAMLETS
      6 min read

    • Article

      FALSE IMPRESSIONS Part 2

      Mar 1, 2020

      FALSE IMPRESSIONS Part 2
      10 min read

    • Article

      The Fool Who Fished for a King

      Jul 1, 2020

      The Fool Who Fished for a King
      9 min read

    • Article

      WHEN FISH FLY: The Revolt on the Slave Ship Creole

      Mar 1, 2022

      On October 25, 1841, twelve-year-old Pleasant Brown boards the Creole, a merchant slave ship sailing from Richmond to New Orleans with a “cargo” of 140 enslaved men, women, and children. Pleasant’s grandmother, who had been born in Africa, was the da

      10 min read

    • Article

      A Stele For Marcus

      Apr 1, 2024

      A Stele For Marcus
      6 min read

    • Article

      TheBattle For Peace

      Nov 1, 2021

      Hi, I am Alice, welcome to my nightmare. Trouble always finds me. I was one of the one hundred people in this world who had magic running through my veins. I was placed in the school of magic. It was sick! You could learn to brew up good potions for

      4 min read

    • Article

      'Dunbar' Is A Moving, Brutal And Apt Update Of 'King Lear'

      Oct 5, 2017

      For centuries, Shakespeare's tragedy was too painful for audiences; it was performed with an altered happy ending. But Edward St. Aubyn has never flinched at inflicting pain on his readers.

      4 min read

    • Article

      The Dragon’s Teeth

      Feb 2, 2022

      The Dragon’s Teeth
      4 min read

    • Article

      Sepulturum

      Feb 26, 2020

      Sepulturum
      7 min read

    • Article

      The Kelpie

      Aug 7, 2019

      The Kelpie
      3 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Rise of the Unmaker Past

    0 ratings

    0 ratings0 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

      Book preview

      Rise of the Unmaker Past - Ethan Somerville

      The Eridon Chronicles Book 6

      Rise of the Unmaker Past

      Dawn of the Nightbringer

      By

      Ethan Somerville

      And

      Max Kenny

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      * * * *

      PUBLISHED BY:

      Storm Publishing on Smashwords

      Rise of the Unmaker Past – Dawn of the Nightbringer

      Copyright © 2017 by Ethan Somerville and Max Kenny

      www.stormpublishing.net

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

      * * * *

      Part One

      Nightbringer Reborn

      * * * *

      Chapter 1

      By the Snake

      Above the great Kyrox Range, the leaden sky began to glow a watery purple. A lone white dragon lifted from a craggy peak and swooped down over the Snake River Valley, enormous wings shivering the grass along the river’s banks and ruffling its glassy surface. After long hours of lying low on the water, mist began to curl into the air. Wild herd animals retreated into the safety of the thick forests.

      Tyrian Servar also woke from the cool summer night. The tiny fishing village nestled beside the sinuous river; thatched cottages dwarfed by the surrounding forest and rounded foothills. A small, plump-faced boy with thick red hair and fair skin crossed the village square, smoothing the rumples from his knee-length tunic. He ambled down Tyrian Servar’s broad main street and stopped outside the silent blacksmith’s forge. Casting nervous glances over his shoulders, he began to gnaw on his knuckles. Maybe they won’t show up after all, he thought hopefully.

      Kamrys! called a rough, deep voice.

      Suppressing a sigh, the little boy turned around. Two burly, black-haired youths in brown leather armour stepped out from behind the blacksmith’s, their rugged faces twisted into wicked grins.

      Kamrys attempted to disguise his disappointment. Hello Arryn, Surian.

      Ignoring Kamrys’ polite greeting, the smaller of the blacksmith’s boys folded his arms across his breastplate. So, you decided to show up after all!

      Kamrys stood his ground. What does it look like, tuber-head?

      Arryn’s battered face darkened at the insult to his questionable intelligence. I thought a soft-’earted little milksop like you would ‘ave backed out at the last minute.

      Well, you thought wrong. Kamrys punched himself in the chest and declared with more certainty than he felt; If you can throw rocks at warlocks, then so can I!

      You couldn’t rip the wings off a dead quoroc, Kamrys! Arryn prodded the boy with a stumpy finger. You’ll lose our bet fer sure!

      Surian rubbed his coarse hands together. Yeah!

      How can you be so sure, Surian? Kamrys’ cobalt-coloured eyes narrowed. Are you are warlock too?

      Little insect! Surian swung clumsily, but Kamrys dodged nimbly out of the way. You might be the Yamesh’s son, but I can still pulp you!

      Arryn yanked his brother back. He’s not worth it! Save yer anger for the Turning!

      Surian flung Arryn’s hands off. Orright, Artek take you! He glared at the small headman’s son and then spat on the ground at his feet.

      Kamrys looked up, his round face inscrutable. Let’s get this over and done with. He spun from the brothers and strode back towards the village green, false bravado in his step.

      Looking back on the previous day’s foolishness, Kamrys regretted his rash decision to take Arryn up on his ridiculous wager. So what if I lose? he asked himself. All I have to do is the boys’ chores for a day! Big deal!

      But as the village green came into view, Kamrys realised it was too late to flee.

      A stone temple and two wattle-and-daub houses faced the fenced-off pillory where the warlock languished. They belonged to High Priest Lord Kelric, Headman Arond Servar and Healer Lady Nyoni. Beside the pillory towered the Mistress of Death, a gruesome engine of execution that had been left behind by the long-gone Masters. In the late evening of this very day, it would take the warlock’s life in a ceremony Lord Kelric called the Turning of the Damned.

      As he crossed the green, Kamrys tried not to look at the brooding Mistress. But he found himself fighting a losing battle. The evil contraption demanded attention. Cruel spikes, still stained with blood from the last Turning, stabbed at the misty sky. A soft breeze stirred limp leather straps into a gruesome half-life. They flapped eagerly about a central wooden shaft, as though yearning to constrict around a living body and suck the life from it. Although her gears were speckled with rust, and her planks warped from the elements, the Mistress still retained her evil dignity. No doubt the high priest’s acolytes would be cleaning her later.

      She’ll feast well tonight! Arryn asserted as he vaulted the pillory fence. His brother followed, Kamrys bringing up the rear.

      Cautiously, the headman’s son approached the stocks.

      You’re not supposed to be here, Kamrys, whispered a tiny voice inside his head. If your father finds you here he’ll send you to Lord Kelric! And you know what he’ll do to you! You won’t be able to sit down for a week!

      The filthy, semi-conscious warlock dangled in the pillory, head and wrists secured by battered boards. Blood from various abrasions had matted his mouse-coloured hair and stiffened his torn robes so they cracked when he attempted to shift position. Numerous objects littered the dust in front of him; rocks, rotten fruit, lumps of animal dung, chunks of wood and broken crockery.

      Suddenly Kamrys’ throat constricted. He’d expected the stocks to contain a scaly, demonic monster, struggling, spitting and throwing foul curses! Not a normal person, so weak, so hurt-

      and so Li Karian!

      The boys’ approaching footsteps roused the accused from his stupor. Slowly he lifted his head, blinking and trying to focus. He hawked out a wad of bloody phlegm.

      What’re you waiting for? Arryn demanded of the shocked Kamrys. Someone to hold your hand?

      Look at the poor creature! Kamrys turned on the brothers, his bright eyes flashing. "He-he’s one of us! How can you even think of hurting him?"

      Arryn scooped up a bloodstone. Don’t forget to muck out our ferg-sties!

      I’ll scrub them until they shine! Kamrys spun away, tears stinging his eyes.

      By Monya - how can people be so cruel? he wondered, vainly fighting his tears.

      Arryn stepped back with a leer, weighing the jagged stone in his fist. He wanted to hit that warlock right on his long, pointy nose.

      No, the warlock croaked, trying to ward off the attack with one restrained hand.

      Kamrys whirled around in horror as Arryn’s bloodstone struck the captive on a cheek-bone with a painful crack. The warlock twisted, biting back a scream. Fresh blood trickled down his face from the new gash.

      But instead of weeping he Looked.

      His Vision had never been so powerful-

      -so unmisted-

      -so unsullied.

      What he saw made the pain of the present seem almost non-existent. He smiled.

      Artek’s Bowels! I missed! Arryn slapped the prisoner’s cheek as though it was his fault. Evil nightdweller!

      Stop it! Kamrys grabbed Arryn by his belt.

      Easily yanking himself free, Arryn faced the headman’s son. What?

      Stop hurting him! Kamrys balled his small hands into fists. I mean it!

      Monya’s Teeth! The warlock’s cast an evil spell over him! Eyes flooding with genuine fear, Arryn caught his brawny brother’s arm. Let’s get out of here before he does the same to us!

      Not daring to tear their eyes from Kamrys, the boys hurried away.

      Sickened and confused, Kamrys watched them scramble over the fence. Eventually he turned back to the dying captive. The warlock managed a broken-toothed smile.

      Kamrys twisted his hands together. H-have you really cast a spell over me?

      Feebly, the warlock shook his head. Nay. Your own inner kindness caused you - you - to- His strangely-accented sentence degenerated into a fit of coughing. As soon as it passed the captive lifted a grimy hand, beckoning Kamrys forward. The Yamesh’s boy took a couple of tentative steps. Closer, the captive insisted. I have something very important to impart.

      Kamrys found himself obeying the strangely hypnotic tone. He dropped to his knees before the warlock. The stench of dried blood, unwashed flesh, garbage and ordure made him gag and bury his nose in his baggy sleeve.

      Wh-what is it? he managed.

      Get ... out, the accused whispered, his ragged breaths hot on the boy’s cheek.

      "What?"

      Get out of this village. While you still can. In ... two days’ time an evil army will come up from the south and raze Tyrian Servar ... to the ground. Warn ... everyone...!

      Kamrys’ heart lurched and began to slam against his chest. Evil army? H-how do you know this?

      "I have God’s Sight! Now go ... go!" He waved a thin hand with dirty, broken nails. Warn ... your people ... get out before - it’s too late... Closing his eyes, the prisoner slumped forward into blissful unconsciousness. At last his work was complete.

      Warlock? Fearfully, Kamrys touched the prisoner’s pallid cheek. Nightdweller?

      Suddenly, a rough hand dropped onto Kamrys’ small shoulder and squeezed. He yelped in terror and sprang to his feet.

      His father, the village headman, loomed behind him. His weather-beaten face expressed fear as well as anger, for his only son’s immature soul.

      You know you’re not supposed to be here alone, Kamrys, the Yamesh growled.

      F-Father! Kamrys’ words tumbled over each other in his haste to explain. I bet - Arryn - he bet - chores - hit warlock-

      "Do you realise what you’ve done?" The Yamesh grabbed Kamrys by his shoulders and shook him. The boy’s thick red hair whipped across his face. Do you?!

      Too terrified to speak, Kamrys shook his head.

      The Yamesh dug his fingers into his child’s soft skin. "In listening to that - that filthy nightdweller, you’ve allowed him into your heart. Because you’re not yet grown your soul is still weak and corruptible by his kind’s evil! Do you understand me?!"

      Kamrys repeated his mute nod.

      Good. Still gripping his son by the shoulder, the headman marched him from the pillory.

      The warlock regained consciousness long enough to watch the yellow-haired headman propel his little boy towards the dark-walled temple nearby. A painful smile lifted his bloodless lips.

      At last, he thought, at last ... the time has come.

      Although Kamrys knew what lay in store for him in that black church, he still baulked outside the heavy wooden doors.

      You’re to stay inside until Lord Kelric decides your soul is pure enough, the Yamesh told him firmly.

      Kamrys blinked away frightened tears and nodded.

      His father pushed open the sanctuary doors and ushered the lad into the gloom beyond.

      Lord Kelric, High Priest of Monya the Creator, was already kneeling in prayer before the plain stone altar. He rose to his feet as the headman and his son approached, his features lost in the deep shadows of his heavy black cowl.

      Get up.

      Kamrys climbed laboriously to his feet, aching after hours of cowering on the frigid atonement room floor.

      Get dressed.

      Kamrys gingerly pulled the clean tunic over his head, wincing as the rough cloth rasped against tender skin still red and sore from flagellation.

      And brush your hair. You look like a haystack.

      Kamrys obeyed, wincing as the bone comb tore through lots of knots. Grooming complete, he turned to the cowled priest and folded his hands in front of his stomach.

      Please, let this awful ritual be over at last! he begged. I can’t stand another minute of this torture!

      Kelric smiled, a frightening up-twist of his thin, pale lips. You are no longer bound to remain silent, he declared in a gentle voice completely at odds with his terrifying appearance.

      Kamrys rubbed his neck. D-does this mean it’s over, Lord? he asked, a little too eagerly.

      Lord Kelric nodded. He lifted a skeletal hand and pushed his cowl back to reveal his face. Fair, almost translucent skin was drawn tighter than a drum-skin over sharp cheekbones and cleft chin. Ash-coloured hair, scraped severely back from a high forehead, fell in a long wavy tail over his right shoulder. Deep-set, violet-blue eyes seemed to bore right into Kamrys’ vulnerable soul. But because of the duration of your exposure to the nightdweller, your soul is still vulnerable to lingering malevolence. Until the nightdweller’s ashes have been scattered to the four winds, you must pray to Monya for one hour each day.

      Nodding, Kamrys started towards the atonement room door. Y-yes Lord. Now may I go?

      I was hoping you would stay and talk to me. Nimbly, Kelric stepped sideways, blocking Kamrys’ exit. You must have hundreds of questions.

      The little boy shook his head. He was full of questions, but far too afraid of Lord Kelric to ask him for answers.

      Kelric lifted a winged eyebrow so pale it was almost non-existent. No?

      N-no, Lord.

      A hypnotic note entered the priest’s gentle voice. I find that very hard to believe, Kamrys Servar.

      The boy’s will began to crumble. Honestly – there is nothing I want to ask you.

      You can’t lie to me, Kamrys.

      I’m not lying-

      Kelric smiled disarmingly. You are. His depthless eyes stripped Kamrys’ soul bare. I am Monya’s chosen, Kamrys. He has granted me special abilities. Like you, I am an empath. But instead of feeling for primitive beasts I feel for the entire abandoned Li Kari race. I know what all our people think. He rested his hands on the boy’s narrow shoulders. His tough was deceptively light; he had more than enough strength to stop Kamrys from escaping. I know what you are feeling right now. I know that you are afraid of me - and bursting with questions.

      Kamrys gulped, his heart pounding.

      I will answer them for you, Kelric’s mesmerising voice continued. All you have to do is trust me.

      Kamrys could feel his resolve sliding as Kelric’s words echoed through the corridors of his mind.

      Trust me ... trust me ... trust me...

      Why shouldn’t I trust him? Kamrys wondered as a strange mist seemed to envelop his mind and drove away all mistrust and foreboding. He’s a priest of Monya the Creator...

      The little boy took a deep breath. I-I always thought warlocks were monsters with long fangs and forked tongues, he began.

      They are, Kamrys.

      Then why did that one look so Li-Karian?

      In an attempt to earn our pity, he used his ill-gotten powers to disguise himself as one of us. And it worked. You felt sorry for the nightdweller, didn’t you?

      Kamrys found himself nodding.

      If you had been as old and mature as Arryn and Surian, you would have been immune to his evil influence.

      Yes, Lord, Kamrys answered, still held captive by Kelric’s spell.

      You have something else to tell me?

      Kamrys nodded. The - the warlock told me that in two days’ time an evil army will come up from the south and raze Tyrian Servar to the ground. Is - is that true?

      Kelric quickly shook his head. No. But the warlock would like it to be. That’s why he told you. If he can make enough people believe his lies they will eventually become true. That’s where the nightdwellers get their power from. The weak, the spineless, and the Godless.

      I-I see.

      There’s no need to fear the nightdweller’s words, Kamrys. There is no truth in them. He patted the boy’s shoulders. Now you’re cleansed from his wickedness I want you to attend your first Turning and enjoy yourself. He smiled and stepped aside.

      Kamrys left the temple and crossed the green towards the bustling feast-site.

      Did the warlock really weave a spell over me? he wondered as the cloying fog lifted from his mind. Or was it cast by ... Lord Kelric?

      The last of the purple faded from the sky as bonfires burst into flame all over Tyrian Servar’s village green. The Mistress of Death’s wicked skeleton seemed to come to life in the light of flickering torches, thrust into the ground around her base. The Yamesh’s family was served first, followed by Lord Kelric and Lady Nyoni. As soon as they finished eating, they left to prepare for the ceremony. Kamrys and his older sister remained behind to watch other villagers drink, dance and attempt acrobatics.

      How do you feel, Rys?

      Kamrys looked up to meet Rojeni’s doe-brown eyes. Clad in a simple outfit of brown leather, thirteen year old Rojeni Servar was a tall, willowy girl with hair as red and straight as his own. She carried a dagger at her waist, and prided herself on the ability to use it better than any village boy.

      Frightened. He managed a wan smile.

      That’s understandable. She ruffled his thick red hair with a long-fingered hand. I too was scared when I attended my first Turning three years ago. But I soon learned that there’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re doing what’s right.

      Killing warlocks, Kamrys muttered.

      If they don’t turn from the Dark Path, then they deserve to die, Rojeni said simply.

      Kamrys didn’t answer. Was he the only one in the whole village who felt sorry for the poor nightdweller?

      What’s wrong with me, Monya? he asked his Lord. Am I still possessed by the warlock’s evil? Or does the wickedness come from somewhere else?

      He remembered the agonising purification ritual, and the priest’s shadowed, violet-blue eyes watching him beat himself with the leather-handled nine-tailed whip. Kelric had looked like he was enjoying Kamrys’ pain. The little boy shivered.

      Never, in all his ten years, had he felt so confused.

      It’s starting, Rys! Rojeni clapped her hands in excitement.

      Kamrys looked up. Resplendent in his bright ceremonial robes, the Yamesh emerged from the temple with his wife alongside. The imposing black-robed Lord Kelric followed along with his attendants; Arhyen, Deehan and Strahn. The small procession stopped before the Mistress.

      Two hundred-odd villagers clapped, cheered, whistled and stamped their feet.

      The Yamesh lifted a staff hung with beads and feathers, and thumped it on the ground for silence.

      Ooh, doesn’t he look handsome? Rojeni whispered.

      Kamrys nodded mutely, too upset to notice the direction of his sister’s wistful stare. He assumed she was gazing at their father.

      But she was watching Lord Kelric.

      Darkness has arrived, the headman began, his deep voice echoing across the reverent village green. Which means the Turning of the Damned can begin. He stepped aside to allow Lord Kelric and his acolytes to proceed to the stocks.

      While the priest watched, Arhyen, Deehan and Strahn freed the warlock from the pillory’s jaws and hauled to his feet. They dragged him, stumbling over his torn, filthy robes, into the bright torchlight in front of the Mistress.

      The villagers booed and hurled insults.

      Kelric turned to the semi-conscious warlock, hands on hips. Nightdweller, he began. The gentle voice Kamrys remembered now resonated with power. Do you turn from your Dark Path to walk with Monya the Creator, or do you continue your perverted existence as one of Artek’s twisted tools?

      Rojeni clasped her hands together, her eyes brimming with adoration.

      The warlock looked up into the priest’s shadowed face. Then he spat on Lord Kelric’s robes. The bloody saliva landed on the black cloth and hung like a silver chain. Does that answer your question, false priest? He tossed back his head in hysterical laughter.

      The villagers drew back in outrage.

      Lips skinned from his teeth in a bestial snarl, Kelric struck the warlock’s discoloured cheek an open-handed blow. The warlock staggered back against the acolytes, but showed no sign that the smack had hurt him. You cannot harm me, you barbarian witch-doctor! I live in a world where pain and death are mere illusions!

      Then go back there. Kelric turned to his attendants. Let the Mistress have her feast!

      The villagers swarmed up the hill towards the death-machine, clapping and cheering. Rojeni dragged Kamrys from his seat and into the crowd. Confused and afraid, he felt none of the savage enjoyment around him.

      Kelric’s attendants tore the warlock’s robes from him, leaving him naked and shivering in the cold night. Then Arhyen and Deehan prodded him up a rickety wooden ladder with their staffs. Following him up, they used the Mistress’ leather straps to secure him above the central shaft.

      Screaming for blood, villagers pelted the bound nightdweller with bones and crockery. Arryn lobbed an overripe belsar fruit. It smashed against a support, showering onlookers with fermented pulp.

      "Die and be damned!" Lord Kelric shrieked. His cry was soon whipped into a chant punctuated with flying food, stones and offal.

      The acolytes descended and took hold of two handles on either side of the machine’s base.

      The warlock gazed into the night, searching for something only he could see. His demented smile remained, frozen on his face like it had been painted on.

      "Now!" shouted the Yamesh over the din.

      Arhyen and Deehan thrust the handles forward. Groaning like an injured beast, the shaft creaked upwards through the Mistress’ ancient innards.

      "Release!"

      Strahn yanked down a lever, unlocking a hidden spring. A murderous metal spike shot out of the shaft and upwards into the warlock’s buttocks.

      Die and be damned! Lord Kelric’s dark eyes gleamed with terrifying lust. Die and be damned!

      The Nightdweller howled in agony. His skinny hands twisted into claws as the bloody prong exploded from beneath his rib-cage. Blood fountained out, raining down on the onlookers and coursing down the metal shaft embedded in his body. He gasped a word only Kamrys heard.

      "Eridos..."

      Pulling at his bonds, he spewed up a river of blood.

      The chant continued. Die - be damned - die - be damned-

      "Death is very real now, nightdweller!" Lord Kelric flung his arms into the air. The sleeves of his robe fell back to reveal his bare forearms, covered with hundreds of white scars.

      After one final convulsive jerk, the warlock dropped his head and relaxed in the Mistress’ arms.

      The crowd’s ecstasy effectively drowned out the terrified whimpers of one small, innocent boy.

      Over the next few nights Kamrys slept only fitfully. Too many nightmares threw him into screaming, shaking wakefulness. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the Mistress’ cruel shaft ripping into the warlock’s flesh, and a crowd of villagers he’d known all his life transform into a pack of bloodthirsty monsters. They had revelled in the blood raining down, some even fornicating on the grass beneath the Mistress of Death.

      Kamrys spent the next two days doing Arryn’s and Surian’s chores, and brooding alone. He couldn’t tell his parents about his nightmares lest they call him witch-lover and force him to undergo another agonising purification ritual.

      He was afraid.

      Obediently he prayed to Monya for guidance but even the all-powerful God of Good seemed to have deserted him. Never before had Kamrys of Tyrian Servar felt so alone. The only beings he could turn to were his friends, the animals.

      Two days after the Turning, Kamrys’ mother asked him to go into the forest and fetch some ripe redberries for a pie. Kamrys eagerly compiled. Berry-picking was an excellent opportunity for him to visit his animal friends. He followed a narrow, well-used trail into the leafy darkness, where he was soon engulfed by a mysterious silence that everyone else seemed to find disturbing. He whistled cheerfully as he worked. Wild creatures recognised the pleasant sound and joined him. He talked to them, fed them the juiciest berries, and listened attentively to what they had to say.

      The path soon widened into a small clearing littered with needles, leaves and twigs. Needing a short rest, Kamrys sank down beneath a pine and delved into his basket, his stained fingers seeking more of the choicest berries. A red filpa and brown malquora settled beside him.

      Delicious, he thought as he licked the berry juice from his hands and leaned back against the old tree’s gnarled trunk.

      The animals started as two enormous kyroxes swept into view, their wings whispering the hypnotic messages only Kamrys and the animals seemed to hear.

      It’s alright. Kamrys slipped protective arms around the frightened creatures’ shoulders, I won’t let them hurt you.

      But the animals remained tense and shivering, ears pricked. Only when the kyroxes drew their wings and legs close and plunged out of view, did the filpa and malquora relax.

      I pity whatever they saw, Kamrys muttered. A vision of the huge dragons swooping down on a helpless herd entered his mind. Sadness at the cruelty of nature engulfed him.

      Why must some creatures die so others can live? he asked his friends.

      The rabbit-like malquora and the deer-like filpa cocked their heads, regarding the boy through gentle eyes. Their acceptance of the natural order of things reached him via projected emotions and telepathic pictures.

      How can you accept this kill or be killed attitude? It’s so cruel!

      That’s nature, and nature is cruel Two-legged one, they answered.

      Then nature is wrong, Kamrys continued. All creatures should be able to live together in harmony.

      The unwanted two-day old memory forced its way into his mind as he waited for the creatures to answer.

      Die and be damned!

      Suddenly, the scream of a dying filpa shattered the cool afternoon air. Kamrys’ deer tensed again, lifting its pointed ears.

      It’s alright, Kamrys whispered automatically, stroking the small animal’s trembling flank.

      The filpa looked at Kamrys, large eyes brimming with pain. You know it isn’t, Li Kari. That was the cry of death.

      Tears filled Kamrys’ eyes as he remembered the first time he had heard that haunting cry. He buried his head in his hands.

      Keep quiet, Kamrys, Jorlan Servar told the excited five year-old. This is the type of forest filpa like.

      The little boy did his best to obey as he followed the hunter through closely-packed trees.

      Suddenly his uncle froze and parted the leaves before him with gentle fingers. There. He pointed.

      Kamrys gaped. He’d never seen live filpa this close before. A mother and her child lay on a bed of needles and bracken beneath the firs. The tiny, white-spotted fawn slept peacefully beside its alert parent, oblivious to the approaching danger.

      They’re ... beautiful! Kamrys gasped.

      The mother pricked her ears, lifting her black nose to sniff the still air.

      Shhh! Jorlan mouthed as he notched an arrow.

      Such a pretty baby! the boy whispered. He turned to the hunter. Can I pat it?

      Quiet! Jorlan hissed. Or I’ll not take you with me again!

      Kamrys slumped and pouted.

      Now watch. Jorlan raised his bow and gazed along the arrow shaft. He drew the string taut behind his ear and took aim at the unsuspecting mother’s throat.

      Still unsure of what was happening, Kamrys watched in fascination. Jorlan’s fingers twitched. His arrow whistled across the space dividing man and deer and met flesh with a heavy thud. Yes! We’ll feast well tonight!

      The filpa slumped, blood spouting from its throat. Its shriek of agony shattered the silent morning air. Then its dying howl was joined by another. Jorlan spun in horror as his nephew clutched his knees to his chest and keeled over.

      All Kamrys could feel was the injured animal’s pain and concern for its child. He clutched his throat, suddenly believing that his own lifeblood was pumping away.

      Stop this foolishness, Kamrys! Jorlan tried to haul the screaming child to his feet.

      But Kamrys couldn’t hear the hunter’s voice. He writhed free and fell to the ground, clawing and biting the needle-strewn dirt as the filpa’s death throes took over.

      Stop it Kamrys! Jorlan ordered, now more afraid than annoyed. Stop it!

      But only when the last of the creature’s lifeblood left it did the cacophony inside the boy’s head ease. Oblivious to everything except the emptiness inside him, Kamrys rolled into a tight ball that mimicked the baby filpa’s pose.

      Kamrys? Jorlan prodded the trembling boy. Kamrys?

      Eventually, Kamrys realised where and who he was. He uncurled, jumped to his feet, and dashed into the clearing. He threw his arms around the orphaned filpa and drew its frightened little body close.

      It’s alright, alright, he whispered through his tears. I’m here, little baby. I won’t ever let you go.

      Jorlan tried to approach, but Kamrys spat so venomously at him, that he was forced to sprint back to the village for help.

      Only Lord Kelric could offer an acceptable explanation. After thoroughly examining the little boy, and many terrible purification rituals later, he concluded that Kamrys had been blessed with animal empathy. This unique talent enabled him to communicate directly with beasts.

      Despite Lord Kelric’s powers of persuasion, it took the Yamesh and his wife a long time to accept the boy for what he was. Even though Kelric stressed that Kamrys’ powers came from Monya and not Artek, they still believed that he was bewitched and treated him with fear and mistrust. Traces of this still lingered five years on, as the incident on the morning of the Turning had proven.

      Kamrys’ animal empathy changed his outlook on life; he became a pacifist and a vegetarian. His father wanted him to be a warrior because he possessed the physique for one, but instead of spending his time in mock battles with his fellows, Kamrys latched onto Lady Nyoni. He wanted to learn all about the healing arts.

      Which is more valuable? he asked his exasperated parent. The one who causes the wounds or the one who heals them afterwards?

      His decision to become a vegetarian resulted from his first and last hunting trip. When he tried to eat deer-meat after that horrible day, he remembered the mother filpa’s death and realised that some other poor beast had suffered the same agony. He promptly threw up all over the table. From then on he couldn’t bear the sight or smell of meat.

      Sensing Kamrys’ distress, the little malquora nuzzled closer. The boy slipped an arm around the fat rabbit, finding its warm, furry body comforting.

      In the perfect world, the boy murmured, allowing himself to drift into a private utopia, there’s no meat-eating ... no fear ... no hate ... no pain... He stroked the malquora’s short fur. No death...

      He closed his eyes.

      Another faraway scream soon jerked him from his beautiful daydream. What was that? he asked, startling the sleeping animals awake. He jumped to his feet, and the animals scurried backwards into the brush. Another dying filpa? No. It wasn’t shrill enough. It sounded more like ... more like...

      …the shriek of a dying Li Kari!

      Terror knifed into the little boy like a physical pain. He sprang to his feet and bolted towards Tyrian Servar.

      The trees parted. Tendrils of oily black smoke, lit by sparks and burning ash, curled up into the evening sky like triumphant hands.

      Kamrys screamed.

      in ... two days’ time an evil army will come up from the south and raze Tyrian Servar ... to the ground ... warn ... everyone

      Houses and barns erupted into funeral pyres. Walls thundered to the ground in explosions of ash and flame. Smouldering bodies littered the blood-stained streets, and the shrieks of the dying filled the heavy air. An indecipherable figure, clad in flames, fled past Kamrys and vanished into the darkness behind him. His agonised scream took longer to fade.

      A group of long-haired, leather-armoured warriors appeared, dragging two struggling figures between them. As they approached, Kamrys realised who the captives were. Father! he shrieked. Mother! He bolted from the forest.

      The headman looked up in horror. "No Kamrys! Run! Get away from here!"

      The boy leapt onto the back of the monster holding his mother and started pummelling him with his small fists. Let her go, you beast!

      Swearing in some alien tongue, the warrior flung the boy off. He fell heavily onto the ground and lay dazed until rough hands hauled him to his feet. They held him secure and made him watch as another soldier smiled wickedly, and drew a shiny dagger across the petrified woman’s throat. The new mouth’s lips parted and spat blood as her head fell back into her murderer’s arms. Hot metal sprayed into Kamrys’ face.

      Kamrys shrieked and struggled against the gloved hands, He only wanted to escape and-

      hurt - maim - kill

      kill them all!

      A spiked metal ball, connected to a wooden shaft by a short chain, swung through the air and smashed into the headman’s skull. There was a crunch like a boot stepping on an eggshell.

      Kamrys screamed again.

      The soldiers threw more foreign words, then before everything went black, Kamrys had time to think; But I didn’t believe!

      * * * *

      Chapter 2

      Where the Demons Live

      The regular tramp of a contingent of soldiers woke Ansharedan of the Sondarth Mountains from a delicious morning doze. The fourteen year old boy sprang from his straw-filled bed, rushed to the window, and threw the wooden shutters wide in time to see the standard-bearer pass.

      All praise Tash Serbidorn the Third! Ansharedan waved enthusiastically from his window.

      Although the soldiers were weary and battle-worn, they returned the boy’s greeting with the same vigour.

      This time next year I’ll be marching with them, Ansharedan thought as he gazed longingly after the company. I’ll have helped kill a dragon and earned my place in their ranks!

      He turned from the window and dressed quickly in sleeveless woollen tunic, leggings, leather boots and thigh-length cloak. He raked his chestnut curls back into a ponytail, then scooped up a rucksack of supplies and an unadorned short-sword, his most prized possession.

      Pushing aside the woollen drape separating his tiny bedroom from the main part of the house, he strode into the warmth of his mother’s fire. Morning, Ma, he called cheerfully to Melgara, the plump, red-faced woman tending the smoking pit at the centre of the room.

      Morning, Sharedan! She gave him a loving smile.

      Ansharedan turned to the stocky, weather-beaten poldrok-farmer seated by the fire pit with a bowl of porridge in his callused paws. Morning, Pa.

      The brawny man looked up, his piggy eyes displaying none of his wife’s cheerfulness. ‘All praise Tash Serbidorn’ indeed, he grunted. Where did you pick that idiotic string of words up from, boy?

      Where’ve you been, Pa? Ansharedan scooped up his bowl from the kitchen table. Asleep for the past two years? ‘All praise Tash Serbidorn’ is a common form of greeting these days.

      Why anyone’d want to sing praise to that fat milksop’s beyond me, the farmer growled, too weary to berate his son for his cheek.

      "He might only be a child, Neomor, but he is our sovereign!" Melgara reproached as she ladled porridge into Ansharedan’s breakfast bowl. The boy dropped his bulging rucksack onto the floor, flopped into a seat opposite his father, and delved hungrily into his oatmeal.

      An emperor who lets himself be bullied by his own senate’s not fit to rule, Neomor declared.

      An uneasy silence followed, because no-one knew how to answer. Neither Ansharedan nor Melgara could deny the stories that reached them from the Eternal Capitol.

      Ansharedan put his empty bowl down on the floor and rose to his impressive height. At fourteen, he was almost as tall and muscular as his father. He about to collect his pack and leave when Neomor noticed the short-sword he flaunted at his waist. His bushy grey brows drew downwards in disapproval.

      What’s this nonsense then? Rising to his feet, he gestured towards the blade.

      Protection. Ansharedan drew the weapon and dropped into a fighting stance. Before Neomor could react, the shining blade found his throat. Cold metal bit into the farmer’s neck as Ansharedan grinned, displaying his even white teeth.

      Sharedan! Melgara cried in shock.

      But Neomor’s reaction was even quicker than Ansharedan’s. He grabbed his son by his sword arm and shoulder, twisted, and threw him flat on his back with a resounding thud. The sword clattered to the floorboards. I don’t need a blade to protect myself, boy!

      Fear and anger fought for possession of Ansharedan’s handsome face. He leapt to his feet, shaken and confused by his father’s sudden display of power. How’d you do that?

      Neomor folded his beefy arms, his lumpy features impassive. I learnt self-defence when I was a soldier.

      You - you were a soldier? Ansharedan gasped. "You fought for the Emperor?"

      Yes. A long time ago, when I was like you - young and foolish.

      Then why - why- Ansharedan spread his hands, unable to express his disgust at his father’s current profession.

      But Neomor understood. "I wanted to live."

      You - you deserted?

      No. Service in his Imperial Majesty’s armies is only compulsory until the age of twenty-five. Neomor dripped sarcasm. I simply served out my time and left.

      You make it sound like a prison sentence!

      It was.

      Let me get this straight, Ansharedan stepped forward and spread his hands, "You left the army to become a - a poldrok farmer?!"

      Neomor nodded, unmoved by his son’s reaction. I wanted to settle down and have a family, not die in a distant country fighting someone else’s war.

      "But how could you reject all that honour and glory - for - for this?!"

      Neomor lost his temper. You go and fight if you like. Gain your honour and glory. Lose a hand or leg or eye. Lie screaming for hours while vultures circle above you, waiting for you to stop moving! Spend the rest of your life as an invalid who can’t even walk or feed himself properly!

      Ansharedan bent and retrieved his sword, too humiliated to speak.

      Neomor grabbed his arm before he could collect his backpack, and spun him around. One of these days, your wickedness will land you in serious trouble, boy. He took a deep breath. I think you owe me an apology.

      Ansharedan hung his head so his father couldn’t see his face. Sorry, he mumbled petulantly into his chest.

      I can’t hear you, Ansharedan.

      Ansharedan looked up. I’m sorry - alright? He snatched up his pack and turned to go.

      Again Neomor pulled him back. Mind telling us where you’re going today?

      Yes! Ansharedan jerked his shoulder from of his father’s grip. "I do mind!"

      We’ve a right to know, Ansharedan!

      Ansharedan sucked in a deep breath. On a lema hunt with Torandeth and Gilmana! His dark grey eyes flashed. Now let me go, for Anleth’s sake!

      But Neomor refused to be put out by his son’s anger. He’d had years of experience dealing with his headstrong boy. "No. Not until you tell me where you will be hunting!"

      "Where the demons live!" Ansharedan shouted as he thrust past his father and bolted through the open front door.

      "Ansharedan!" Neomor roared, pounding after his son. Come back here right now!

      Ansharedan increased his pace across the muddy field. Several poldroks; shaggy bovine animals with curled horns and cloven hoofs, looked up from their munching as Ansharedan jumped the wooden fence surrounding their paddock and disappeared into the misty wood beyond.

      Ansharedan glanced over his shoulder. Good, his father wasn’t following. He could slow down.

      He fell into a steady jog. Humiliation, anger and frustration fought for control as he followed the muddy, well-trodden track through the thinly-spaced deciduous trees. In his heart he knew his father was right and hated him for it. But he still couldn’t understand why the old man had rejected soldiering to become a poor poldrok farmer. He could have had so much more. An angry tear trickled from one corner of Ansharedan’s eye. I could have had so much more...

      With those selfish thoughts chasing their tails around his mind, the boy approached Devil’s Mountain, highest peak of the wild Sondarth Range. From the distance its jagged twin peaks resembled demonic horns, curling upwards into the cloudy midsummer sky.

      All the locals knew about the complicated network of caves riddling the ancient mountain’s interior, but only Ansharedan and his friends, Torandeth and Gilmana, had attempted to explore them. The legends of monsters, demons and evil sorcerers lurking within didn’t worry them. If such creatures did dwell in the mountain, why hadn’t they emerged to take control? The only story they believed revolved around the Masters’ treasure.

      Ansharedan skidded to a stop beside the marked belsar tree. A cursory glance told him his friends hadn’t arrived yet. Typical, he muttered under his breath, in no mood for delay.

      An eerie howl rent the air.

      Ansharedan whirled around as a lean body plummeted from the branches above and threw him to the ground. Ansharedan grappled furiously with his wiry attacker, trying to pin him to the ground and pummel him unconscious. But as soon as he’d flattened the aggressor beneath him he recognised the round face, impish grin, and long blonde hair.

      "Gilmana!" he exploded. On realising that he’d been the victim of an age-old practical joke, more anger blossomed inside him.

      The secured thirteen year-old laughed uproariously. Oh Sharedan! You should have seen your face! Are you sure you didn’t shit yourself?

      Ansharedan only just managed to hold back from slamming a fist into Gilmana’s laughing face. He got to his feet and stalked off in disgust. Still giggling, the blonde boy picked himself up and followed.

      Sharedan? he called after him.

      The older youth ignored his tentative call, too busy battling tears of anger and humiliation.

      Hey - it was only a joke!

      Stocky, black-haired Torandeth jumped down from the tree in which he’d concealed himself. I told you so!

      Alright, Anleth take you! Gilmana turned away in annoyance. So it was a dumb idea! His fingers twisted into a rude gesture behind Ansharedan’s back.

      More tolerant, Torandeth slapped

      Enjoying the preview?
      Page 1 of 1