Read Sons of Evil: Book 1 Book of Dread Online
Authors: David Adams
Sons of Evil: Book 1 Book of Dread
Sons of Evil: Book 1
Book of Dread
by David J. Adams
Text copyright © 2013
by David J. Adams
All rights reserved.
Cover art and maps
copyright © 2013 by Rachel Adams
All
characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Also
by David J. Adams
The
Soul Sphere: Book 1 The Shattered Sphere
The
Soul Sphere: Book 2 The Final Shard
Sons
of Evil: Book 2 Reckoning
DEDICATION
To Mom,
who found the first story I wrote and typed it up while I was at school, which
made me feel like what I wrote mattered…and for always letting me know I was
loved.
Chapter 3:
On the Road to Anson’s Furnace
Chapter 14:
The Battle of the Dalusian Plains
Chapter 17:
Glimmers in the Dark
Chapter 20:
New Friends…New Order
“I want to kill them all,” Landri muttered as
he ground his teeth.
Maybe it would have been different if his
mother still lived, but she had been gone for five years, taken by a fever that
refused to break, the delirium that had overcome her at the end a memory he
couldn’t escape. His father had grown colder to him then, something he had not
thought possible, the iciness a bitter contrast to the way his mother had
burned up from the inside. What little love his father could express was now
solely shown to Frelis, Landri’s older brother.
Landri kicked aside a stool, thinking of the
way his brother had stood over him as the gathered crowd laughed, the older boy
having easily parried aside the younger’s blows as they practiced their combat
skills with wooden staffs, and then the world turning upside down as Frelis
managed to hook Landri’s legs and send him flying. The faces grew harder and
more sinister as he replayed his latest defeat over and over in his mind, none
more so than that of his father, Thrum, who cheered the skill of his elder son
while sneering at the feebleness of the younger. Even besting Frelis, Landri
knew, would never bring him the respect and love of Thrum, not even his
grudging approval.
Landri swatted a pile of papers off a desk just
as he had swatted away Frelis’ hand when his brother had tried to help him up.
“Your anger causes you to
lose balance,” Frelis had said quietly, “both physical and mental. You have the
skill, but not the patience to use it.”
Landri had spit at Frelis and the laughter
suddenly stopped. Thrum rushed forward then, his face red with rage, ready to
strike at Landri, but Frelis held him back with an upraised hand.
“It is nothing,” he said. “He just needs time
to calm down.”
Landri had jumped to his feet and tossed his
practice staff aside, then ran from the looks, the shaking heads, the pity in
his brother’s eyes and the scorn in his father’s. He had run through the
castle, the servants scattering, seeing the seventeen-year-old was in one of
his rages, but Landri had no interest in taking his anger out on them. It would
simply be another reason for his father to scold and punish him later.
He found himself in the library, drawn by its
promise of solitude. The books he had spent little time with, far less than
Frelis. Frelis was only older by two years and was smaller of frame than
Landri, but he had an interest in learning that was foreign to Landri, and
everything seemed to come easier to the older boy, be it lessons in math or
history or weapons training and horse riding.
Landri’s face, red with embarrassment only a
few moments ago, was now an even deeper hue of crimson, fueled by rage. He
wanted to scream, the feelings welling up inside him and demanding a primal
release. He managed to control himself, not wanting to draw anyone near, but
his eyes went black, swimming with hatred.
“If they were dead,” he mused aloud, a thought
or a wish. No one would laugh at him then, no one would dare, for if King Thrum
and Prince Frelis were dead, then he, Prince Landri, would be king of Longvale.
And if I were king
, he
thought with a wicked smile playing on his lips,
then everyone would pay
.
The dread images he conjured up calmed him, and
he strolled the vast library, driven to do so without knowing why. He found
himself taking one of the candles that cast only a faint light in some of the
long-forgotten aisles, and went deeper, past where the library was regularly
kept lit, past rows of older tomes that had collected dust over years of
non-use.
A glint of gold caught his eye, and he bent
low, holding the candle before him to see what he had found. The candle
reflected off the edges of a slim volume that was framed in metal, brass or
tarnished gold perhaps. Landri carefully set the candle down and worked the
book out from under the small pile of larger volumes that rested upon it.
In the dim light it looked black, but when he
drew it nearer he could see it was a deep red. No title or marking of any sort
was upon the book, and a clasp held it shut. Before he could despair of not
having a key, he noticed there was no lock on the clasp, and he gave it a
gentle pull, expecting it to open easily.
The clasp did not budge.
He turned the book over in his hands three
times, trying to see what held the clasp in place, but had no luck. He pulled
again, harder, his muscles straining, but the clasp resisted him. With a grunt
of frustration, he flung the book against the nearest wall, the candle
guttering once but clinging to life.
Landri stilled his ragged breathing, thinking
to leave the book alone, trying to convince himself he need not know what it
contained.
“Probably some old hag’s foul recipes,” he
groused to himself.
He glanced at the book, a sideways glance,
hopeful that the toss had broken it open. It remained closed, the candlelight
dancing on its casing.
Landri snatched the book up and tore at it with
his pent-up fury. After all he had been through, this book spiting him was more
than he could bear. The flesh of two fingers on his right hand were sliced open
by the metal frame, and Landri let out a quick gasp of pain and dropped the
book. He put the fingers to his mouth, tasted the blood, then spit it out. As
he absently brushed the wounded digits on the leg of his pants, he looked at
the book, and what he saw made his eyes go wide with wonder.
The clasp fell aside and the cover of the book
opened, even though the book rested with its back flat on the ground. A dull
light seemed to come from the first page, a muddy yellow glow, and as he leaned
forward to see what was written there, the bitter smell of sulfur stung his
nostrils.
(Ten Years Later)
Sasha Stoneman looked at the
king’s bed, and her hand crept upward until it held the collar of her work
blouse tightly closed. She swallowed, felt the hand there, and forced it down. She
wished she could calm her racing heart and churning stomach as easily.
She had been in the room before,
doing her cleaning, and had always thought it a humble room, for a king. The
bed was large enough for three, but was of simple construction and was covered
with a faded tan quilt. The dresser, nightstand, and desk were nicely crafted,
but made of local oak, rather than some exotic species. A small fire burned in
the cozy fireplace on the western wall, while opposite a simple window, over
which the curtains were currently drawn, looked east. But tonight the room
seemed sinister and close, the smell of alcohol and acrid sweat lingering in
the air, and it was with fear that she looked back at the door that had just
been shut behind her, waiting for the knob to turn and the king to enter.
She went to the window, gently
pulling aside the curtains and peering out, hoping against reason to find some
salvation there. But the window was heavily barred—likely to keep away would-be
assassins—and the darkened courtyard was three stories below, abandoned but for
the sentries that kept watch. Even if she could call out to them it would bring
no help—it had been one of the sentries that had brought her here.
Sasha had seen this particular
sentry before, an older man with a stubbly beard and a hard look. He had simply
said, “The king requests the pleasure of your company,” with a knowing look,
and had grabbed her roughly by the elbow and whisked her away from the other
servants. She knew better than to protest. Others had done so and been beaten,
or worse. The other women just looked away, sorry for Sasha but glad it wasn’t
them.
Sasha crept back toward the
door and listened. A moment’s silence was like a glimmer of light in the
gathering darkness and she reached for the doorknob, but then she heard the
guard clear his throat and the rap of the base of his staff against the cold,
stone floor.
Slowly she paced the room,
playing out conversations in her mind, picturing the king being reasonable and
sending her on her way. Perhaps he only needed someone to talk to, she thought,
while a deeper part of her laughed at her own naiveté.
There is no escape
,
that icy voice whispered.
She sat down to try to calm
herself, realized being on the bed when the king entered would send the wrong
message, then quickly stood up. Her skirt caught a candlestick on the
nightstand beside the bed, knocking it to the floor. In the empty room, the
sound seemed far louder than it was, and she half-expected one of the guards to
come in to investigate.
As she knelt to pick up the
candlestick, she could see how badly her hands were trembling. She stayed crouched
for an instant with her eyes closed, forcing herself to take a deep breath. She
opened her eyes and placed the candlestick back on the nightstand.
She paused, something out of
place playing on her subconscious. She slowly knelt down again and looked under
the nightstand. There a thin metal chain hung from a small key, which had been
left in a lock on the underside of the nightstand. She hesitated, feeling she
had found a secret and wanting to investigate, but afraid to pry. The
nightstand’s lone drawer had no lock. She opened it instead of the lock,
grimacing at the small squeak of wood-on-wood, and studied the contents with
growing disappointment: a nightcap, a sweat-stained shirt, an old brush full of
hair, a couple of spare candles.
Something about the sides of
the nightstand bothered her. She caressed the smooth wood while her eyes fell
upon the drawer, and then she understood. The drawer’s face was the right
height, but the inside was much shallower. It dawned on her that the key likely
opened a small compartment hidden under the main drawer.
The key in the lock drew her
attention once more. She reached out, hesitated one last time, then gave in and
turned the key.
She felt the weight
immediately, something substantial being supported by the thin wood. She let
the panel down slowly and reached in to keep the contents from spilling onto
the floor. As the panel fell completely open, Sasha found she held a book. Without
thinking she placed it on the ground and recoiled, something inside her
repulsed by the tome. She closed her eyes and took a moment to compose herself,
confused by such an irrational reaction.
With a little distance of
space and time she again regarded the prize. No picture or word graced the
book, and this, along with a keyless clasp that bound it shut gave it a certain
air of mystery. Sasha reached tentatively at the clasp, pulled once, and was
unsurprised that it did not yield.
Subtle noises from outside the
room alerted her, voices and approaching footfalls. Quickly she closed the secret
panel and turned the key. With a foot she nudged the book under the bed.
The door opened with a bang. King
Landri stumbled in, a half-empty bottle of wine clutched in his right hand. His
shirt was badly soiled with food and wine, and his pants were little better. He
reached for the doorknob and missed, lost his balance, and would have gone down
but for his shoulder hitting the wall, which held him up. He tried again,
managed to find the handle, and flung the door closed. He took a long pull from
the bottle, most of the liquid finding the target but plenty spilling down his
chest, and then his eyes found Sasha, who had backed against the wall. He held
the bottle out toward her, an offering.
“No, thank you, your majesty,”
she said, more calmly than she thought possible.
He shrugged at this and took
another long drink. “Waz-yer-nam?”
Sasha forced a smile. “Excuse
me?”
Landri stood as upright as his
current state allowed, and with a touch of anger asked, “WHAT…IS…YOUR…NAME?”
“Sasha, sire.”
This response amused the king.
“That’s a funny last name…what people call me!” He went to the bed, struggling
to keep his balance and plopped down. Some of the wine slopped onto the quilt,
starting a muddy brown stain. He pulled at his chin, lost in some reverie for a
moment, his back now to Sasha. He shook his head and asked, “Do you know who I
am?”
“Of course, sire. You are
Landri, King of Longvale.”
“So I am!” he said, as if
surprised by the fact. He took another drink, turned his head fractionally to
catch a glimpse of Sasha, then turned away again. “Do you know why you’re
here?”
She did, but without
hesitation she replied, “No, your majesty.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Married?”
“No, sire.”
He drained the bottle and
tossed it aside. “Why don’t you come and sit next to me.”
Sasha closed her eyes and
tried to keep her composure. She felt like her heart would beat right out of
her chest. “I’m more comfortable standing, your majesty. If you don’t mind.”
“But I do mind.” He made to
rise but fell back onto the bed instead. “Here, come and help your king stand.”
“But, sire, I—”
“Don’t make me call the
guards. You wouldn’t like that.”
Sasha was sure she wouldn’t,
but she was beginning to consider it a viable option. Still, if she was only
helping him off the bed…
Sasha moved to where Landri
sat and took hold of his left hand and forearm. For a moment he simply smiled
at her, and she started to pull him to his feet, but then suddenly his face
went hard and he gripped her wrist fiercely. He used his strength and his dead
weight to pull her down onto the bed, then started to kiss her roughly on the
neck.
Sasha had worked all her life,
on the farm as a young girl and in the king’s castle these last six years. Her
build was average, but the labor gave her a sinewy toughness. When she
instinctively pulled away, she was able to break Landri’s vise-like hold and
leave him flat on his back. The short-term price for this was a pair of
scratches on the back of her hand and a slight tear of her blouse at the
shoulder. The longer-term implications were of more concern, especially
considering the way the red color was moving up Landri’s neck and onto his
face, as if he were a thermometer suddenly dropped in boiling water.
Sasha backed away while Landri
sat up. He swooned, the alcohol overcoming the adrenaline rush born of his
rage. He flopped backward, grabbed the discarded wine bottle by the neck, and
flung it half-heartedly at Sasha.
Sasha dodged aside and the
bottle smashed against the wall. She looked from Landri to the door and back
again, wondering if the noise would bring the guards. To her surprise Landri
started to laugh.
“I suppose you have me at a
disadvantage, dear,” he said, still lying flat on his back. He continued to
laugh and shook his head, and Sasha realized that the king was mocking his own
alcohol-fueled impotence.
He fell silent and closed his
eyes, and for a moment Sasha dared hope he had drifted off to sleep. She inched
toward the door, wincing even at the subtle swishing sound of the fabric of her
skirt against her legs.
In the courtyard the watch
sounded the hour.
“You have no idea how powerful
I am,” he stated flatly.
She froze in place but
remained silent.
“Do you?”
“Of course I do, sire. You are
king.”
His laugh this time was
derisive. “Kings come and go. They have the power given by birth or law. Power
that can be taken away by an assassin or an invading army…or even a fever run
amok.” Here he paused, his mind somewhere else for a time. “I have a better
source of power.” He reached toward his neck, as if expecting to find something
there, and when he didn’t he frowned, mumbling “Where’s my key?” With a start
he rolled over and onto his elbows. The motion was too much for him, and he
muttered under his breath about how he wished the room would just hold still
for a moment. He shimmied forward, making little progress and bunching the
quilt up underneath himself. He seemed to be trying to reach the nightstand
beside his bed. Slowly he lowered his head and his body sagged as if having
completed some great effort. “You’ll be back,” he muttered.
Sasha held her breath, praying
the king had drifted off into a drunken sleep. Just when she began to hope she
could make her escape, he slowly lifted his head, his eyes suddenly wide and
bright.
“You’ve seen it!” he shouted.
“Sire, I don’t know—”
“Liar!”
His eyes went to the floor
once more, and she followed his gaze, and there saw that the corner of the book
yet peeked out from beneath the bed. Involuntarily she gasped, and as she
raised her eyes she met his, and she knew from the fire she saw there that all
was lost.
“Now you know my secret,” he
said, his voice suddenly soft but holding dire malice. “No one can know that
and live.”
“My king, I know nothing,” she
begged.
“You know far too much.” He
struggled to sit up, his anger not quite enough to overcome the alcohol that
impaired his senses.
Sasha backed toward the door.
“Go
ahead, call for help, run out the door even. They won’t aid you.”
Sasha did not doubt the truth
of these words, but still she reached for the door.
The candlestick she had
knocked over earlier suddenly banged against the wooden doorframe, missing her
head by mere inches. The king rose and stumbled toward her, forcing her to
circle around the room, trying to keep the bed between them.
Landri retrieved the candlestick
and stalked toward her again, his gait wobbly and unsure. “Hold still and we
can make this quick.”
As he came around the corner
of the bed, Sasha rolled across it. He lunged forward, hoping to grab her
skirt, but instead lost his balance. His head smacked against then heavy wooden
footboard of the bed with a sickening, wet thud, and he slumped to the ground.
Sasha stood in absolute
stillness on the far side of the bed for two minutes that felt like an hour. Keeping
as much distance as she could, she finally found the strength to move and check
on Landri. He was propped against the bed, a thin stream of blood flowing from
his right temple, which had already started to bruise and swell. His breathing
was deep and steady. She considered her plight frantically, believing she could
leave now, but sure he would come for her when he regained his senses. His
drunkenness had saved her for now, but his threats were far too real. She
looked at the candlestick and the unconscious king, a fleeting thought passing
through her brain that she could kill him, but she knew that wouldn’t free her,
wasn’t sure she could do that, even now. Flight was her only choice, but once
she left, she was sure she could never be safely seen again by Landri or anyone
else at the castle, that she would be a refugee with nowhere to call home. And
if that were the case, then there was little risk in learning what secret the
book might hold, and if that secret gave some advantage, some hope that she
might escape Landri’s clutching grasp, so much the better.