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Sneak Peak!!! Prince of Darkness: Chapter 2
Wiping my brow with the back of my hand, I cursed the humidity clinging to the air. Coated in sweat from stripping the wolves clean, I wanted nothing more than to return to the lake—to the small bit of peace. To reprieve myself from the scorch of the sun, and the duties weighing with boulders upon my shoulders. Yet even that was fleeting.
I swung open the heavy timber door, the familiar warmth of spitting embers heating my skin. Gramps looked hard at work, as usual, melting the solid formation of iron into a gooey, silver liquid in the forge.
“Your blade is sharpened.” He worked without pause, concentrating on the hold of the tongs as he poured the spitting liquid into the mold of a rounded bullet.
I sidled up to the nearest table, varying metal tools and weapons presented in succession of price. A sharp point dug into my back where the knapsack of stripped meat and bone of the wolves hung from my shoulder. And it was killing me. The larger portions, the thighs and torso, had already been lugged and dropped off to the butcher’s, hence the ache and pulse to my biceps. Readjusting the death trap of bones, I picked up a throwing dagger, my finger tracing the sharp tip and smooth layer of metal.
They were far cleaner than the ones I owned…which reminds me—I need to get them sharpened.
“It’s on the other counter,” he grunted through the protective metal mask.
I turned, finding the stark silver blade sharpened and cleaned, looking duller than when I’d first received it many years ago. It was still just as sharp, though, unique and priceless in this ramshackle of a village. Created from the silver ore of Tre with black streaks along the silver metal, bolts of lightning appeared infused into its creation. The handle made from the finest oak in the region had my initials carved into the bottom.
It held a special remembrance, a reminder of the father I’d lost to the sickness that plagued our village. It was the only item I’d fight a thousand beasts to return back to my side.
“I need bullets for my pistol.” I shifted back to the display.
“Ten coppers for a pack of six.”
Squeezing the handle of my blade, I grumbled, “You couldn’t just give them to me for free?”
The forge hissed in tune with Gramp’s sharp intake of breath. “I run a business, not a charity. If you want bullets, you can forge them yourself or ask your brother to mold them when I’m not breaking my back to keep us livin’ in this dung of a hole.”
Rolling my eyes, I sheathed the knife at my hip. “It’s not like I’m wasting them on target practice, Gramps.”
He grunted, holding the tong over the forge. “Ten coppers.” Each word accosted, not a brick to budge. “Either pay it or go empty. I sharpened your blade and that’s all the charity I have left. You wouldn’t need them bullets if you stopped hunting.” His movements were slow as he stood, his aching knees a constant curse on his tongue. ”I do plenty work here to keep us fed.”
We both knew that was a lie—whether he wanted to admit it or not.
“You’re going out tonight.” There didn’t seem to be a question there, but the deep tomb of his voice suggested it as such. He hadn’t turned to face me, rather gazing into the flames hissing breath as if my reply would burn more than a flame’s touch.
“It’s supposed to storm,” I added, an answer enough.
The embers crackled, sparking and shooting with life as if to warn me of the dangers that would soon steal the night.
“You know your mother doesn’t like it when you hunt so late. Especially in those storms.”
I didn’t respond. No good came from arguing. We needed the money. Even in the trade of blacksmithing, our assets were still thin from the lack of clientele. They were either too poor or dying to buy anything of worth. It didn’t always put food on the table and with my mother still recovering from a broken rib from falling down the stairs, a lot of our survival had landed on my shoulders.
Some days, it felt like all of it and while he’d never admit it, it beset Gramps.
Sweat dripped alongside his neck, the stench of sweat deprecating the air. Not that I minded. Where he smelled of lingering ash and smoke, I reeked of death.
The foul essence of the wolf’s demise soaked into my clothes where scores of blood stained the cloth. Such activities would have me doused in acrid fumes for days to come, unable to scrub it clean—a reminder of the life I’d taken for survival and the survival of others.
I pulled out a small pouch and placed ten pieces of copper on the table. Sighing, I stared at the last two copper coins that sat disparagingly at the bottom of the woolen bag. “I’m going then.” I tucked the bullets into my pocket.
He grunted in reply.
Gramps had always been hard. There wasn’t much emotion that came from him, but when it did, it was often in the form of a temper or low grunts. Ever since my father’s death, he worked himself from the rise of the sun until the height of the moon, keeping us off the streets and far off from the dangers of hunger. Such a toll was burdensome; I’d be daft not to see it, sympathize with it. For while I knew he cared for us, he made it difficult at times to find love somewhere in the coals of his gaze.
Today was one of them.
“I’ll make sure Ross gets home for dinner then.” A bitter annoyance laced my tone.
Nothing. Even as I waited, watching the hunch of his frame—his shadow a looming omen of the setting sun—no comfort came. A stay safe was all I wanted. He didn’t even need to say he loved me, just something to show he cared.
At times, I wondered if the fire had burned away his heart, leaving nothing in return but ash and fickle remains.
With a slam of the door, I parted the wailing embers and blazing bitterness on my tongue, wandering onto the village street. It too remained desolate, much of the village already having parted to their homes. The pub, however, would be full of life, just as it always would be at this time of hour. I could already hear their riotous laughs and roaring howls streets away. My younger brother was no doubt bustling in sweat with such a crowd.
I walked under the dim lights in silence—the center of the village much like a small town. Shops and small living quarters stacked up on top of one another, even restaurants that kept the village full of life despite the poverty within it. The alleyways always smelled foul, the ground muddy at every step, and in the summer months the hairs on my neck stood with anxious worry of nearby hungry beasts that found their way to our unguarded village.
Leaves thrashed. Winds cooled. The pound of thunder rode in the distance. White light bolted with an echo of vehemence in the sky. The storm neared and soon enough, we’d be within its domain.
A high-pitch scream pierced the air.
My head snapped, turning toward the direction of the local inn. “By the King’s head, what now?!”
I sprinted down the road, pulling out my knife. Mud and dung splashed around my boots, traveling up my pant legs, a glorious splatter of the dung hole we lived in.
I barged through the double doors of the local Inn to find Miss Turner screeching and hollering like a mad woman. Her red hair was a frazzled mess, and she only wore a pair of shorts and a tank top barely covering her breasts. Not that it mattered much considering how rare it was for the rooms to be boarded.
She turned to me with wide eyes. “Help!”
Stepping in cautiously as if another vampire wolf may attack with clawed talons and razor teeth, I stuttered, “Wh—what is it?”
I inspected the room, but found nothing amiss. No beasts, not even a soul in sight as I scanned the lobby. Only the heads of beasts’ that hung like trophies on the timber walls, their eyes and jaw wide, teeth bared in their final moments in death. Some of them I’d killed—my favorite being the Horned Snapper, a giant turtle with spiked horns protruding from its shell like a porcupine with its horned snout raised to the ceiling.
Miss Turner gripped my arm, pointing to the lone door in the corner of the room with a shaking hand. “Sh-Sh-”
“Shock Lizard?” I guessed. They were annoying creatures, not deadly, but vexing in the way their tales shot out electric currents that could force a grown man unconscious.
Shaking her head, she croaked, “Shadows.”
I sighed, fighting the urge to roll my eyes, least it be disrespectful. “I’m sure there aren’t Shadows in your basement, Miss Turner.”
Miss Turner whipped her head and held my gaze. “I know what I saw, girl. There was no mistaking it. The shadows moved I tell you and the darkness twisted like a bloody tornado.” She ran a hand through the mess of her curls in her hair. “I’m not some crazy bat. Something moved down there in the shadows.”
Of course, I wanted to scoff. Because it couldn’t be anything other than a make-believe being from a bedtime story.
I shrugged off Miss Turner’s hand and approached the door.
“Careful,” Miss Turner warned. “It might try and seduce you.”
I lifted a wry smile. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. If there are any Shadows—” Which there won’t. “I’ll make sure to stab ‘em where it hurts.”
As I started to close the door behind me, Miss Turner shouted at my back. “But Shadows can’t be killed!”
“Everything can be killed,” I mumbled, leaving my knapsack of stripped beasts’ beside the door.
I descended the stairs, each step bellowing with a creak in the wood. The low-hanging lights were just bright enough to see past the bottom of the last step.
I wasn’t sure what I might find in the basement, but it wouldn’t be no bloody shadows.
Because Shadows weren’t real.
Tightening my grip on my blade, I stopped at the last step. I waited and heard nothing. There was only a dim darkness and a bunch of rubbish from stacked papers and bins to kitchen utensils piled along a wooden table. Even a rocking horse sat ominously in the corner.
A slight shift in movement had my head jerking to the right. There was a whisp, a void of—of shadows spiraling and weaving through the air into a vortex of smoke.
Heart pounding and eyes narrowing, I stepped closer. Not Shadows, I reminded myself.
The black cloud of smoke moved and twisted, drifting to the other side of the room. It knocked into the wooden horse, forcing the rails to rock back and forth, its black wooden eyes staring like a blank slate into my soul. I shivered. Then readied my hand, yanked my shoulder, and threw my blade into the cloud of mist.
A blood-curdling screech pierced my eardrums, compelling me to cover my ears before the sound deafened me. The blade clinked against the back of the stone wall before falling with a pathetic metal clunk to the floor. The mist moved, screeching into a haring cry.
I tightened my jaw and pulled another blade from my belt loop.
The mist stopped.
My breaths battered and rammed against my ribs. My throat felt dry, the air heavy with the weight of lead. A rasp escaped me. I couldn’t—I couldn’t breathe. I reached for my throat, stumbling into the wooden post of the staircase.
Wha—what’s happening?
Black spots impaired my vision. I was slipping, falling further and further into unconsciousness. And just when I thought I’d been dredged too far under, the entity paused just long enough for me to see what lay beyond its cloaked mask.
A face, a hollowed skull with two black, beady eyes, the notable eight hairy legs with pointed claws, jagged abdomen, and the distinguishable spinnerets of its bosom.
Not a Shadow. A mist spider.
Beasts more deadly than any fantasy Shadow could ever be. Their poisonous mist—loosed when it felt endangered or starved—made victims paranoid and anxious. Hallucinations invaded the brain until the muscles weakened and its prey collapsed. Then fanged talons would dig into the victim’s skin and feed. Compared to the beasts that lurked within Blood Hill, humans were easier to kill for a quick meal.
“And you just had to come here,” I seethed, pain trailing like a pointed fang across my throat.
Hands sweaty, my heart pumped into my throat with a rigorous beat of pain to my chest. With a shaking arm, my movements slow, lagging behind the direction of my thoughts, I grabbed another blade from my belt.
I blinked. With what vision remained, I found my target, raising the knife up by its point in preparation of its throw. Don’t bloody miss. I swung my arm back, its weight flitting through my fingers, the sound of blade hitting flesh soothing my ears.
Bless the King.
The mist disappeared, the threat removed.
I waited until my mind cleared before pulling the knife from the spider’s hairy form. With a shudder, I disgruntled my face. Such hideous creatures.
“I hate spiders.”
I trekked back up the stairs and flung open the door.
“Well?” Miss Turner stumbled toward me, her voice frantic, a pitch too high.
Bending down for my bag, I sighed. “It was a mist spider.”
Miss Turner’s eyes widened, a gasp escaping between her lips. “That’s what that was? But I could have sworn—”
“It was a spider. Not a Shadow. A mist spider that could have bloody killed us both. But it’s dead now. I’d suggest you put it into the furnace before it starts to rot and smell up the place like rotten meat.”
Miss Turner nodded, but stared at the door, hesitant. “You can’t do it I suppose?”
“I’m a beast hunter, Miss Turner. Not a maid.”
Not sure why everyone thought I’d clean up behind all their misfortunes.
I strode past her, heading back out into the street where darkness cloaked the sky as if it were hiding the sun—as if our run-down crooked homes and soiled streets were too poor, too indecent, to be blessed in the light. The streets were quiet, everyone no doubt hiding from the dark, afraid Shadows would suddenly appear in our off-beaten and isolated village.
Even if they were real, what Shadow would want to come here?
Cursing, I made my way down the street and to the pub, snatching open the wooden oak double doors. The boisterous commotion poured into my ears, and I grimaced at the immediate scent of puked liquor—Barf’s last hours, no doubt, staining the floor. Disgusting. While I'm sure every village had a local drunk, ours couldn’t hold his liquor.
“Want a beer?”
I turned to the source of the voice—a brunette gal by the name of Kristine and one of the many bartenders that served the counter.
“I’m good, thanks. ‘Bout to head out for a hunt once I collect Ross.” And I didn’t have any coins left to spare. Still can’t believe he made me pay for them. I bit down on my bottom lip, irritated.
“Your loss.” After putting the cup away under the counter, she turned back to me, brow raised. “Heard ya killed two vamps today.”
I sighed and leaned over the counter with heavy eyes. “Yeah. Missin’ Mark was trying to strip my kills.”
“Bloody buffoon. Man couldn’t hit a bullseye if it was staring him down the face.”
I nodded in agreement. “How was Ross today?”
Kristen laughed as she swiped the counter with a rag. “Got himself into some trouble with some soldiers passing by. Spilled a bit of ale on their fancy clothes. It was an accident of course,” she quickly added. “It’s a good thing he’s a quick whip. I was almost sure they’d knock him to the ground and bleed him ‘til he dried.”
My hands curled into fists at the mention of the Royal soldiers. Too busy drinking and getting drunk off their asses to actually help the people of this village in any way to. They were all useless.
“He’s a good kid.” I shook my head. “Just seems to always find the middle of trouble.”
Kristine assessed me, a quirky smile painting her lips as she cocked her head. “Wonder where he gets that from?”
I put my hands up, refuting such a claim. “Definitely not from me.”
My gaze wandered through the pub to find my brother sitting on the floor near the corner. He was huddled around a green-hooded man with a few of the other village children.
“Who’s that?” I pointed toward the unfamiliar stranger.
Kristine stopped cleaning the counter, following my pointed finger. “Don’t know,” she drawled. “New guy. Looked to be part of the Royal Regrade. Got that crest on his cloak.”
Odd. What would a Royal Regrade be doing out here?
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
“Always a pleasure my gal,” Kristine giggled.
I ventured over to where the group of children were gathered and tapped Ross on his shoulder. “Come on now.”
He turned, eyes whimpering—ones he knew I could never say no to, ones that tugged against my heart in a need to remedy the pain prominent there. “Now? But he’s just about to tell the story of the Rise of the Realms.”
“It’s just a story,” I chided him. “Gramps can tell you when you get home. You’ve heard it a thousand times.”
“Please,” Ross begged on a cry, eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Dammit. He always knew how to manipulate my emotions.
The boy was twelve and was less than a year away before he turned thirteen and was sent to Combat Training. All boys, no matter their status, between the ages of thirteen and fifteen were sent to serve their country. Once graduated, they were enrolled in a lottery system to determine who would serve their King and Country.
Some would not have to serve and those were usually the ones with the gold in their pocket. Others, like Ross, would end up on the list to fend the Kingdom as soldiers. He didn’t have much time left to be a boy, to laugh and to run as he pleased. It only made sense to let him hold on to that for just a while longer.
“Fine,” I caved. “But as soon as it’s done, we’re leaving. I want to go hunting before the storm passes.” In no way was the storm going to pass in the few minutes that it took to tell the story, but I didn’t trust soldiers—especially a Royal one.
Ross’s rounded cheeks flushed with the heat of iron. The begging halted, replaced by a radiating smile complementing his wavy blond hair. “Thank you.”
I took a step back and sat alongside the counter.
“The Rise of the Realms,” the stranger began, his voice sounding rough and cracked like he’d inhaled an entire ember.
The noise level dropped amongst the pub. Children stopped bickering, holding their breaths in anticipation, while drunks ceased their idle, nonsensical chatter. Other patrons stilled and lent their ears to hear the man’s story—a fairytale, for it could be nothing more.
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