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    Of Spells and Demons
    Of Spells and Demons
    Of Spells and Demons
    Ebook361 pages5 hours

    Of Spells and Demons

    By Kenneth McDonald

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    About this ebook

    Something dark is stirring on the edges of the mage-kingdom of Sacreth. The ruling Mage Council, complacent and divided, is stirred to action by the attack of a rampaging demon on one of the valley’s outlying settlements. The young but talented wizard Keric Olwyn is sent to investigate, along with a hand-picked team of elite Border Wardens, and a somewhat reluctant mountain guide. Armed with some of the most powerful magic that Sacreth’s mages can provide, Keric and the Wardens must confront and overcome not only demons, but magic and treachery in their efforts to protect the people of Sacreth from the threat posed by the wizards of the mysterious Academy.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKenneth McDonald
    Release dateAug 20, 2010
    ISBN9781458126566
    Of Spells and Demons
    Author

    Kenneth McDonald

    I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

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      Book preview

      Of Spells and Demons - Kenneth McDonald

      Of Spells and Demons

      Kenneth McDonald

      Kmcdonald4101@gmail.com

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2010 Kenneth McDonald

      * * * * *

      Works by Kenneth McDonald

      Wizard’s Shield

      The Mages of Sacreth

      The Labyrinth

      Of Spells and Demons

      Grimm’s War

      Grimm’s Loss

      The Godswar Trilogy

      Paths of the Chosen

      Choice of the Fallen

      Fall of Creation

      Daran’s Journey

      Heart of a Hero

      Soul of a Coward

      Will of a Warrior

      Courage of a Champion

      * * * * *

      Chapter 1

      It started on a dark, quiet day, in the rugged foothills of the White Mountains, at the very edge of the valley kingdom of Sacreth. Heavy gray clouds had blown in from the west, and now hung over the hills expectantly, as if hesitant to continue on over the mountains. A wind had been blowing earlier, but now, in the last minutes of the day, a still fell over the foothills.

      A farmer was leading his two oxen along a rutted track that wound in and between the knobby hills. Occasionally he glanced up at the sky, his dark eyes under heavy brows flashing as if they could command the clouds to withhold their burdens. He walked with a heavy gait, and looked tired. The animals lumbered after him without complaint, as it was the end of a day, not the start, and they knew that food and shelter waited as their reward for a day's work done.

      Jym Belbrinder felt tired, but it was more than a day of hard work in one of his scattered fields that weighed down his steps. The children of Penryn called him Old Jym. He wasn't really that old, even with the way that a life on the land aged you, stole the sheen of youth from skin and muscles through the agency of sun and wind and hard labor. But age is often as much a state of mind as a state of body, and in that sense Jym had truly taken on the air of an old man.

      It hadn't always been so. Just five years ago he had been eager and full of life, making grand plans for new fields and new crops, maybe even an inn in the village for retirement, and a new generation to carry on the hopes of the old. But all those dreams had turned to dust when his wife had died, giving birth to their first child. Even the possible consolation of a son had been denied him, for the child was sickly and weak, early as he had been, and died only a few days after his mother. Leaving just Jym. Old Jym.

      His mind often wandered as he walked this familiar track, which wound from his farm to his fields and then finally down into the village proper. Most of the foothill farmers had similar holdings, for the hills were steep and rocky, and the arable scraps were scattered about like seeds strewn by the farmer's hand. His own four fields marked him as a middling prosperous farmer, and perhaps he might have been able to build that inn in town—he’d even marked a likely lot, back then—if all reason for pushing that dream hadn’t suddenly been taken from him. He remembered the Nevan priest, could even recall every detail of him, from his thick jowls to the musty smell of his cowled robe from that day, but every word that the man had said was just a vague jumble in his mind. Reassurances and promises, he thought. He had not returned to the small church off Penryn’s central square since that day, nor would he. It had always been Serah anyway, who had insisted that they attend the services. Yet her piety had done her little good in the end.

      He rounded the last bend, and halted. The oxen fidgeted a little behind him at the unaccustomed delay. Ahead, just a short distance down the track, was his farm, settled nicely in a wide dell within a surrounding ring of low hills. From his vantage point he could see all of it; from the smart little farmhouse to the barn, the enclosure where he kept his animals, and the plots that covered nearly every stretch of flat land within the confines of the dell. It was the fallow-time for these fields, so there was nothing there save for weeds and the straight ranks of turned earth.

      The dell was quiet, but something wasn’t right. It was like the sense he got of a coming storm, a whispered warning that came from somewhere deep within his bones. As if to echo his thoughts, a fat raindrop struck him on the forehead, then another, until a drizzle was falling all around. One of the oxen snorted, clearly desiring the shelter of its stall in the barn. The farmer wanted the warmth of his fire and supper too, but he stood there for another long moment, ignoring the cold rain as he tried to cipher out that single thread of unease that had intruded into his home.

      Finally, he started down into the dell.

      Despite the patter of the rain, an almost preternatural quiet hung over the farm, disturbed by the sounds that he and the oxen made on the packed dirt of the road as it softened into mud. That was unusual; ordinarily his animals would have sensed his approach even before he’d entered the dell, and started up their usual cacophony of sounds in anticipation of their dinner. The absence of the familiar sounds sent a cold chill down his spine that had nothing to do with the wetness that was dripping around the edges of his coat.

      As he approached the small corral he saw a lump of something sitting in the middle of the open space. He knew what it was, what it had to be even before he drew close enough to identify it. It was one of his sheep, recognizable now only by the tufts of wool that clung to its shredded form. The poor beast looked to have been torn apart, and the farmer felt a surge of bile rise in his throat that he suppressed only with some considerable effort.

      He glanced over at the gate, but it was still secure. Clearly some beast had gotten into his stock. Such things were not unheard of, here in the foothills. The White Mountains contained more than their share of dangerous predators, and sometimes one of them got it in its mind to come down into the low country. He’d heard that the Border Wardens had been catching a number of mire cats this last season, and certainly an agile cat could have jumped his fence and gotten into the pen.

      But where were the rest of his animals? He leaned over the fence and squinted against the continuing rain, which was coming down a little harder now, making observation difficult. There wasn’t much space inside the corral, the back part of which contained a sheltered overhang that shared a wall with his barn. Now the interior of the lean-to was all shadows and dark, but he swallowed as he detected forms within the darkness.

      Instinct told him to run, to flee, but he could not help circling around the outer edge of the corral toward the overhang. As he drew nearer the shadowy forms resolved into bloody heaps that had once been his animals. The floor and walls of the lean-to resembled those of an abattoir, with blood splashed liberally on the feeding trough and the wood planks behind it. Clearly the animals had clustered in this space in a vain effort to avoid whatever had crept into his corral, and here it had torn them to pieces.

      His unease had graduated into a full-blown terror, kept in check only by some deep reserve of hard-edged resolve. It was clear that no mire cat had wreaked this horror, had done this damage. The violence was so excessive that it was almost as if its perpetrator had relished the killing, had sought not only to destroy the defenseless animals but literally tear them apart. To his credit Jym felt fear not only for himself, but for his neighbors in the hills, the other farmers whose settlements dotted the hills around Penryn.

      He turned and ran toward the house. The oxen had remained standing where he had left them, stamping their feet nervously as if they could understand what had happened here. Jym saw with relief that the house seemed undisturbed, the front door secured with its heavy latch. It was designed to keep out animals, not intelligent intruders, but for a few moments his fingers fumbled on the handle as his fear threatened to break through and overcome him. He forced himself to take a few deep breaths, and pulled the handle aside and stepped into the house.

      The house was dark. There were a few small windows in the front room, thick panes of smoky glass set high in the walls. There was a short bar on the inside of the door, and he slammed it home with a reassuring and heavy click.

      He did not stop to make a light; he had no intention of lingering long here. Despite the reassuring solidity of the house, he was not about to leave his oxen out in the barn overnight, and he did not want to wait until morning to warn the town about whatever had invaded his farm. The oxen would be difficult to manage in the dark and the rain, but he knew the road like an old friend, and fear would add impetus to his steps this night.

      Everything was in its proper place, and even in the near dark he found what he needed within moments. His heavy bow, resting in its rack above the fireplace. A quiver of steel-tipped arrows, dangling from a hook in the wall nearby. A long-handled woodaxe, propped up against the chest a few paces away. Once armed he flipped open the chest and hastily packed a few other items into a leather satchel. He was hungry, but figured he could eat once he’d delivered his message, once he’d reached the safety of Penryn. For now he grabbed a few stale pancakes left over from breakfast and stuffed them into the bag.

      Fully equipped, he turned back toward the door, but hesitated. There was one thing more he wanted to bring. His mind made up, he strode with deliberation into the back room of the house. This room had been his bedroom, although he more often of late slept in the large chair in the front room, rather than in the comfortable bed that he and his wife had once shared. This room was even darker than the first, with only a single square window in the wall to his right. It was cold, and with a start he felt a sudden gust of wind brush wet drops of rain against his cheek.

      He turned slowly, and saw that the window was gone, torn away along with part of its casement, the opening forming a jagged outline against the gloomy twilight outside. He felt a crawling fear shudder through him, his earlier resolve melting away against unreasoning terror. For a long moment he just stood there, paralyzed, his eyes the only part of him that moved as they darted from shadow to shadow. The wind continued to gust, blowing through the open hole in his wall with an eerie whistle.

      Then a shadow detached itself from the corner next to the window, and came at him.

      The motion snapped him out of the grip of the paralyzing fear, and lent a sudden surge of desperate energy to his muscles. A scream that he only belatedly realized was coming from his own mouth echoed in the small room as he spun and charged through the door back into the front room, the dark shadow close behind him. He felt a hot pain tear across his back, and nearly fell, staggering across the carpet of his familiar living room, the shelter that had suddenly become a prison. He lurched with a frantic surge toward the front door, slamming against it, fingers probing for the bar.

      The bar stuck stubbornly, and the door rattled defiantly in its heavy frame.

      Jym pounded on the door one last time in futile desperation, then spun to confront a visage straight out of his darkest nightmares.

      One last scream penetrated the night, then suddenly died.

      * * * * *

      Chapter 2

      Coran Vasey straightened his coat and stood in the saddle, lifting one travel-worn hand to shade the morning sun from his eyes. A storm had blown through the foothills over the past few days, leaving puddles everywhere and turning all of the roads to mud, but this morning seemed bright and full of promise. At least it would have been, were he not here on his current mission.

      His vista included a wide sweep of rolling hills covered with damp, clinging brush, broken here and there by a small plot of cultivated land hard won by patient effort. Square in the center of the view rested the village of Penryn, a knot of some twenty squat buildings clustered together as if for warmth around a fire. The image was particularly fitting now, given what he knew about this sleepy little hamlet at the edges of the lands of Sacreth. There were a few outlying settlements visible from his vantage, and he knew that there were yet more further out, tucked in amongst the hills and dales of this region. Beyond that the hills grew quickly steeper and rougher, until they merged seamlessly into the hard edges of the White Mountains. The line of peaks dominated the horizon before him as far as he could see in either direction. It was still too early in the season for the mountains to be fully covered in their pale cloaks of snow, but even now they looked forbidding, looming over the hill country with an overbearing presence.

      Coran shook off such gloomy thoughts. He snapped an arm up and forward in command. Like a twisting centipede his patrol moved into step behind him, the string of mounted men and women following the twists of the path as it wound down ahead in the direction of the village. He did not need to look back to know that each of the half-score Wardens under his command were in their proper places in the line, nor to see the mixed looks of alertness and concern that graced their young faces. Well, except for Grimm, perhaps, but Grimm was—well, he was Grimm, Coran thought. His patrol sergeant was double the age of his oldest recruit, a decade older than he was, but the veteran careerist was still as hard as the stone of the mountains above them, a redoubt of calm control against which all of the dangers and worries of the world seemed to batter uselessly.

      People began to gather in the village below, Coran saw, even before they were halfway down the trail from the crest to the village. The village population could not have been more than a few dozen, but it was likely augmented now by people from the outlying settlements seeking the shelter and safety of the larger community. For all its picturesque quaintness, Penryn was still a border town, and a wall of mortared stone surrounded the ring of buildings, with a closed gate warding the point where the road entered. Coran’s experienced eye noted the men with longbows perched at several points along the wall, scanning the surrounding hills for any hint of danger.

      By the time they had reached the outer boundary of the village the gates had been opened for them, and a small stream of people had emerged to greet them. Coran identified the mayor from the description he had been given, a portly, balding man who seemed to quiver with emotion as he rushed almost up to his stirrup.

      Ah, Border Wardens! We’re so happy you have finally come!

      Coran frowned slightly, but he detected no noticeable emphasis on the word finally, so he let it drop. The two score or so people visible behind the mayor were obviously agitated, but seemed willing to let the mayor serve as their spokesman.

      I’m patrol leader Vasey, he said simply.

      Baldrin, elected mayor of our small community, the stout man replied. He just stood there for a moment, uncertain, then hastily added, I apologize—you and your men must be tired after the long ride. Please, come; we can set up quarters for you in the village. He turned and issued a few orders to the villagers around him, but no one left the small gathering, intent on the new arrivals and what they might do. In fact, a few stragglers were continuing to join the group, until nearly fifty people were standing in the open space before the village gates, or on the lip of the wall behind. Even the guards had come to watch, Coran noted.

      We won’t be staying long, Coran said. As he saw the look of dismay that crossed the faces of many of the villagers, he added, We’ll want to take a look at one of the farms that was attacked while we still have the day. He turned and said to his sergeant, See to the horses and the team. Be ready to ride out in half a cycle. Grimm nodded in salute, and the entire column dismounted. Coran gestured for the mayor to join him as he led his mount toward the gates. The villagers made a gap for them, but they hovered close, as if expecting key information to be exchanged at any moment.

      Have there been any more attacks? Coran asked.

      The last was two nights ago, the mayor replied. At the Fisk place, just a few hundred strides along the east track from the village. The family held the house for the night, but it killed all their animals, two horses, near on a dozen goats, and a cow. Tore them to pieces, it did. And some have said they’ve seen it creeping around in the vicinity of the village proper, last few nights.

      That demon’s got a lust for blood, and it’s not gonna stop till it kills us all! said one of the nearby villagers, a middle-aged woman. It done ripped old Jym Belbrinder to shreds, and in his own house, too!

      The mayor turned to the woman and tried to say something, but her comment seemed to break some sort of barrier, for it was followed by a babble from the assembled crowd, mostly of shouted warnings and similar predictions of doom. It was clear that all of Penryn had been caught up in the fear bred by the attacks, and Coran knew that the village was balanced on a fine line between effective response and uncontrolled panic.

      The mayor’s attempts to calm the crowd were failing miserably. Coran raised a hand to his lips and let out a shrill whistle, the kind that the Wardens used to signal patrol groups that were far separated. The loud note shattered the confusion, and in its aftermath quiet again fell over the gathering.

      All right, he said. I know everyone’s been through a lot of stress, but giving in to panic is not going to solve anything. We’re going to find out what we can about this thing, and track it to wherever it is hiding, and destroy it. That’s what we do. We’d appreciate it, though, if you would help us in this. Keep the village sealed, and the walls guarded. We’ll be back by sunset, if we don’t find it by then, and we’ll help ward the town. It is normal and understandable to be afraid, but don’t let your fear lead your way. Down that road lies disaster.

      The villagers seemed to take some solace in his words, although their worry was still writ large on their faces. The mayor took Coran by the elbow and led him through the crowd, which fell in behind them as the company moved single-file into the village.

      Come, we’ll get you and your men food and drink at the tavern.

      The village was so small that they were at their destination almost before the mayor finished speaking. The tavern was apparently a small stone house with a wooden addition hanging to one side, the two halves of the structure mismatched and clashing. Two hitching posts stood before the wooden half of the structure, although Coran had yet to see a horse since he had come into the village. The building formed one side of a small square, an open, muddy space dominated by a stone well and populated by a few chickens and other small animals that fled at their column’s approach. The other buildings were much like the tavern; sagging, tired structures that were strictly functional in design. Wood was scarce in the immediate area, so many of the smaller buildings had roofs of thatch, some of which were clearly in need of repair.

      The interior of the tavern was a claustrophobic space, with low beams overhead that forced one to duck upon walking through. The entire common room consisted of two small tables and a short bar against the far wall. The floor was made up of poorly spaced boards covered with a thick layer of half-dried mud. Coran thought he heard a faint squeak as he and the mayor entered the place, but he wasn’t sure if it belonged to the creaking boards or to rodent residents of the place. Either option seemed appropriate to the décor.

      Come into the house, the mayor prodded. Your men can take their rest, and get something warm to eat, while we talk.

      Coran nodded. He knew that his orders would be obeyed, and that Grimm would see that the patrol was ready to ride at the stated time. Coran himself was eager to depart, to start on the already cold trail of their adversary, but he didn’t want to miss any clues that the people of Penryn might have to offer. Although inwardly, he doubted that they had any more insights to share besides what he had already learned outside the gates.

      A half-cycle later the patrol was riding hard again, this time following a faint track that ran over the hills east of Penryn. Coran had been right about the limits of the mayor’s information, but at least he had some more details about the attacks. No one living had gotten a good look at the creature, although from their collective observations it could not have been much larger than a man. At first he’d entertained the possibility that it could be a man, a deranged killer, perhaps, come down from the mountains intent on murder. They said that the mountains did strange things to the mind if one stayed up there long enough, and he’d always been a little suspect of those who willingly traded the civilization of the lowlands for the harsh life in the high country. But as he learned more, he thought that the raw fury of the attacks had to indicate a beast of some sort. He had some experience with dangerous predators, mire cats and other creatures that still hunted the wild borderlands of Sacreth. What would drive a beast to such bloodlust, though, perplexed him. Even the fierce mire cats rarely attacked humans unless their territory was invaded, and he could not remember hearing of an attack on an organized settlement like this before.

      He pushed all of the questions into the back of his mind as they rounded another hill and saw the farm. It wasn’t a very large place, situated in a niche between several hills, with a farmhouse, barn, and fenced-in corral. It seemed in most ways to be a typical small farm, perhaps even a little more prosperous than some of the places he’d seen in Penryn. But the two bloody heaps that straddled the road stole a lot from the restfulness of the scene.

      He gestured, and his patrol spread out behind him, each responsible for watching a fixed portion of their surroundings. He’d considered taking a guide from the village with them for this expedition, but had ultimately decided against it. The fear had permeated the village too thoroughly, and if brought with them, it might prove contagious to the men and women under his command.

      Callor and Thinders, he said, singling out two of his force. Fire arrows ready.

      The two Wardens unlimbered their short composite bows, drawing the long red arrows from their quivers as directed and nocking one each to their weapons. The two were the best at mounted archery, and while they would be more effective on the ground, he didn’t want to restrict their mobility, not yet.

      Staggered line, he said, and then started down the path toward the farm.

      The dark humps resolved into the carcasses of two large animals, probably oxen by the look of them, although the bodies had been mangled and now lay at unnatural angles in the mud. A small cloud of insects alighted at their approach, but Coran kept his distance. The bodies already showed signs of decay, and the smell traveled far enough to make a closer examination unwelcome. Instead, he cut across a field of tilled clods directly toward the house.

      The house appeared empty, its heavy door standing half-open. Coran knew that the villagers had already been here, and had taken the body of the slain farmer back to Penryn for burial. Yet somehow the house still had the look of a tomb, a forbidding aura about it that seemed strangely malevolent as the Wardens sat their horses on the muddy space before it.

      Coran shook off the thought, a little angry with himself for falling under the dark mood that hung over this place. A man had been killed here, yes; killed in a most vicious manner by an as yet unidentified slayer. But he had a job to do here, and giving in to flights of fancy would not aid in that endeavor.

      He dismounted. Scout the area, in pairs, he said to his command. Shout out if you see anything, and don’t stray out of sight of the others. Grimm, Malor, with me.

      The hard old sergeant and the indicated recruit dismounted and joined him as he moved toward the building. Gira Malor was a young woman of perhaps twenty years, and Coran had not picked her by accident. While almost useless with the bow, and little better with the spear, she had a natural talent for close-in fighting, and fought with both the standard Sacrethian shortsword used by the Wardens and a Sokhal slashing knife in her off hand. Coran noticed that she kept her hands near the hilts of both weapons as they proceeded into the house.

      The place was full of the smell of stale blood. It was easy to see where the farmer had met his end, for a still-moist puddle of dark red marred the floor directly behind the door. A trail of blood was visible running across the room to the single door in the back wall, indicating perhaps that the man had encountered the thing in the back of the house, and then fled here before being caught and slain. Splatters of red were visible around the entry, on the side walls and inside the door. It almost looked like too much blood to be from one person, if Coran hadn’t seen first hand too often just how much could be spilled from one man’s wounds. Bootprints were visible in and around the puddle, but Coran knew that they were probably from the villagers who’d found the farmer’s body.

      Neva’s mercy, Malor breathed. Coran looked back at her, and saw that her face had grown suddenly pale. Sorry, sir, she said, noticing his attention, restoring her control over her features with an obvious effort.

      It did not take long to search the small house, which contained only two rooms, the front room and a small bedroom in the rear. Coran’s earlier suspicions were proven true when they saw the hole in the back room, through which apparently the creature had forced entry. The Warden examined both the broken sill and the glass-strewn floor beneath it carefully, but there were no further signs of what had caused the damage. Apparently, though, whatever it was had not suffered injury in crashing through the glass; there were no bloodstains in here.

      A sharp whistle heard through the open window drew his attention. It had two blasts, so it didn’t herald immediate danger, but he and the others immediately returned outside.

      What is it, Kellan? Coran shouted from the front stoop. Kellan and another Warden were inside the corral, their horses secured to the fencing a short distance away.

      Found tracks, sir, the lanky young man reported, pointing with the tip of his shortspear toward the muddy ground.

      Coran, with Grimm and Malor in tow, crossed to the far side of the corral near the barn and hopped over the fence. Most of the corral was a muddy mess, but there was a lean-to that jutted out from one side of the barn over a small corner of the corral. The overhang covered a feed trough and a hay bin, as well as another cluster of slaughtered animals. Kellan looked as grim as Malor had earlier, but he was indicating a bare patch of earth just under the edge of the overhang, which had gotten wet enough to grow soft without being turned into a mire.

      I’ve never seen the likes of this, sir, Kellan said, as Coran bent low to examine the tracks.

      Coran had to agree with the sentiment of his Warden; the track was unlike anything he had ever seen. The prints looked almost like a man’s bare feet at first glance, until one saw the deep indents made by claws both at the front and rear. The prints were tinged with red, indicating that whatever had made them had stepped in the blood from the slain animals. They were deep, too; he doubted than even a man in full plate would have left marks so deep in the soft earth. As far as he could tell from the short sequence, their owner walked upright. He already knew

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