by Carol A Park
Banebringer
Book One of The Heretic Gods
Carol A. Park
Shattered Soul Books
Pennsylvania
Copyright © 2018 by Carol A. Park
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Shattered Soul Books
2600 Willow Street Pike North
PMB 259
Willow Street, PA 17584
www.carolapark.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover art/design © 2018 Brit K. Caley
Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com
Banebringer/ Carol A. Park. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1-7321491-0-6 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-7321491-1-3 (e-book)
FOR MOM
Who taught me to read
AND DAD
Who “doesn’t like fantasy”
Contents
The Hunter
Blood Money
The Babe and the Blade
Demonspawn
The Bloodbane
Buying Time
Expectations
The Steward and the Maid
Cracks
The Second-Worst Disaster
Reluctant Companions
The Color of Blood
Bait
Revelations
Star-Leaf
Message in Blood
Beggars’ Refuge
Layers
Racing Time
The Ichtaca
Strange Powers
Pretensions
Unexpected Foe
Monsters at the Wall
Xambrian
Just Ivana
Danathalt
Fire and Ichor
Etiology
Aether
Memories in Blood
Science and Moonlight
Unmasked
Servants of Danathalt
Implications
New Allies
The Intruder
Harvest Ball
The False Prophet
Rescue
The Assassin and the Ri
Death
Acknowledgements
Writing is often thought of as a solitary endeavor, but as with most efforts in life, you don’t get far without a team. The support each of these people has offered has been invaluable to me.
It is nerve-wracking to give your unfinished work to others to read, and many thanks must go to my faithful test readers, Wes Allen and Tam Case, for your valuable feedback. I promise this time there will be a sequel!
I am also grateful to Amy McNulty, my editor, fellow writer, and a long-lost friend, who I was delighted to reconnect with.
I must also thank another friend, Brit Caley, for enthusiastically embracing my request to create this book’s awesome cover despite my having no idea what I was doing, and my brother-in-law, Andrew Park, for designing a super-cool logo for Shattered Soul Books and the interior chapter icons. I am lucky to have not had to look far to find such talented artists.
I cannot fail to mention those students who I will forever think of as my 8th grade Latin class, my original fan club, even though they had never read anything I had ever written. I guess it was just cool to have a teacher who was writing a book. This isn’t that book—and none of you are in 8th grade anymore—but if this one ever lands in your hands, I hope you enjoy it more than Latin (difficult to imagine, I know).
Thanks also go to my mom and dad, for never saying I couldn’t, and to my mother-in-law, who has been my constant cheerleader, along with other friends and family members too numerous to list.
And, finally, I must thank my husband, Calvin, whose only complaint about my writing endeavors is that I have trained him too well and forever ruined his ability to enjoy uncritically any book or movie that is anything less than above-average. He somehow manages to constantly encourage me while simultaneously critiquing my drafts until it hurts. This book wouldn’t be what it is without your input, and I would never have come this far without your support. Thanks for keeping me from writing silly things like “a regular boat.”
CHAPTER ONE
The Hunter
The tree limb Vaughn thought he had stepped onto dissolved into a puff of red mist. He lurched forward at the unexpected step, slipped on the damp undergrowth, and swore as the deadweight of the bloodhawk he was dragging behind him tugged out of his grasp.
The mist dissipated, though he knew the bothersome creatures the mist represented were still there. They flitted about in his peripheral vision, attaching to trees as random branches here or taking the shape of a butterfly there. He had counted at least a half-dozen following him—and making a general nuisance of themselves—since the bloodhawk had fallen from the sky with his arrow in its heart.
Since there was nothing else to glare at, he glared at the carcass of the bloodhawk, as though the misstep were its fault, and hefted it by its neck again.
He scanned the thinning forest ahead of him, his eyes involuntarily adjusting for the dying light. Smoke rose from the village chimneys above the trees. Almost there. And thank Rhianah for that. He had needed to range farther than before in hunting this one, and the bird—longer than he was tall—was getting heavy.
The things he did for a few coins, a real bed, and a good meal every once in a while—and if he had a woman to warm the bed for a night, all the better.
Or two nights. Two nights was all right, every once in a while, as long as he didn’t make a habit of it. A well-deserved reward for the community service he provided freely, right?
He grinned, the memory of the soft skin of the farmer’s daughter still fresh in his mind from the previous night.
He gave the bloodhawk an extra tug and continued on more carefully, determined not to let a bloodsprite trick him again.
The wind changed and the smoke he had seen tickled his nostrils instead.
He halted and squinted out of instinct rather than necessity. That wasn’t chimney smoke.
He dropped the bird, dipped his hand into the pouch sewn into the inside of his vest, and used his index finger and thumb to crush one of the silvery droplets of hardened aether he kept there.
He crept forward, leaving the monster he had slain behind, wishing, when twigs kept popping under his feet, that he was as good at moving silently as he was at moving invisibly—with the aid of the aether, of course.
The forest petered out and he crested the rise that would allow him to look out over the quaint, sprawling village.
He sucked air through his teeth. Burning skies.
A blackened husk was all that remained. Charred timbers still smoldered, producing the smoke he had seen a few minutes ago, and on the far side of the village, flames were licking up the last of the village proper. Beyond, even the farms had been burned, including the crops in the fields and the barns that housed the cattle that the bloodhawks had been ravaging. Nothing moved save the scavenger birds that had descended, already hunting for flesh to pick at.
The fallen buildings made it easy for Vaughn to see directly into the village center, which the hard-working villagers had paved in stone over the years to create a more hospitable place for market day. A symbol encircled the well, proclaiming to anyone who would pass by that the town had been condemned by the Conclave for heresy. To his eyes, the symbol had an unmistakable luminescent sheen. Blood—and fresh, by the color.
<
br /> Vaughn hardly dared to breathe. He wanted to close his eyes but was unable to tear them away from that sight.
There was no need to paint the symbol in blood. It wasn’t standard practice. It was blood because someone knew a Banebringer—the only type of person who would be able to tell from this distance what it was—would see it. Blood always looked like this to Vaughn and those like him, even in daylight. And his extra-sensitive vision made it even more noticeable in lessened light. Someone also knew that.
He finally closed his eyes. No. Rhianah, no.
He ought to run—now. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t leave without seeing if there were any survivors. Perhaps the villagers had been allowed to flee. Perhaps their homes had been the only price they had paid.
He knew his hopes were in vain even as he approached and began walking through the ruins, as silently as he could. Too many birds had found purchase in too many spots around town.
He turned his eyes away from the birds, sickened, only to be looking in the right direction to see a figure step out from one of the more intact buildings. “So. I was right. You simply couldn’t resist coming to see the damage you inflicted.”
Vaughn froze. Had his invisibility failed? But the moon was nearly new, and it was daytime; it should be nigh on perfect right now.
“I know you’re there. Your boots are already blackened with soot.”
Vaughn glanced behind him. Footprints in the ashes led right to where he stood.
The ashes had adhered to his boots, damp from his trek through the woods. He was such an idiot. Why couldn’t he have just run? He turned to look for a place to hide—for some way to flee without the footprints following him.
But it was as though a volcano had erupted. Had Gildas done this on purpose? Scattered the ashes so evenly, so that Vaughn could be tracked walking into the town?
He unhooked his bow from his back, reached into another pocket on his pouch, and started stringing it.
The figure walked closer. “Preparing your bow?” He spread his arms out to the side, palms open. “Come. Why don’t you show yourself? My hands are empty.”
Right. Vaughn knew from experience how fast Gildas could produce his hand crossbow. And he didn’t have to be accurate. If a bolt treated with the right substance grazed Vaughn’s skin, he would be too delirious to even know he was about to be Sedated.
He eased back a few steps and then darted behind the nearest half-burned wall and crouched down.
Footsteps moved closer to his position, but Gildas was taking his time. Toying with him.
“If you’re wondering why I did this, I thought perhaps a more powerful lesson was in order.”
Monster. Vaughn half-stood to be able to sight Gildas with his arrow over the wall. He was looking in Vaughn’s direction, but his eyes roved from side to side, no doubt searching for some sign of Vaughn’s precise location.
Vaughn shifted, causing his bow to dip and scrape against the top of the wall. He jerked it back up, but a hand-sized chunk of wood crumbled into ash anyway. Vaughn ducked down in time to hear the thwack of a crossbow, and a moment later, the tip of a bolt had lodged itself in the disintegrating wood right in front of Vaughn’s nose.
He shuffled backwards. As always, Gildas was playing a dangerous game. If he were unlucky, and one of those bolts killed Vaughn…
Then again, Vaughn had never been certain if Gildas cared.
The effects of the aether he had crushed earlier had almost worn off, and his supply was running low. Still, he was loathe to burn it from his own blood unless it became necessary…
He almost laughed. This wouldn’t be a good example of necessary? He transferred his mental grasp from the aether he had crushed to the aether in his blood, and the crossbow thwacked again. The bolt flew over his head this time.
He must have flickered into visibility in the transfer. He ducked down farther and crept a few more paces down the wall, which was fast coming to an end.
This was bad. He could make a run for it, but his footprints would give him away. And the ground directly behind him rose steeply as it gave way to the woods. Knowing himself, he would slip as soon as he reached the wet grass and roll back down the hill and right to Gildas’ feet.
He peeked around the edge of the wall and sighted Gildas once more. Do it. Just do it, Vaughn. He was standing right in the open, not even making an attempt to shield himself. Making a mockery of Vaughn’s own cowardice.
“If there is blood on anyone’s hands here, it’s yours, Teyrnon. Treating with demons is a serious crime.”
The use of his given name, that of the third son of the Ri of Ferehar, finally tore a snarl from his throat. He was no longer that man. “The only demon I’m treating with is you.” He gestured with his bow, though no one could see it but him. “These people were innocent. They had no knowledge of what I am. I was hunting bloodhawks that had been harassing their livestock, and they showed me hospitality in return.”
Gildas’ smile grew grim. “I know what you were doing. It’s what you always do. Flitting from town to town, seeking refuge in exchange for hunting bloodbane. You just can’t resist trying to make atonement for your crimes.”
Vaughn wanted to deny it, but the words stuck in his throat. Crimes? No. He didn’t believe he or any other Banebringer had done anything warranting the notice of the heretic gods. They were capricious, if they existed at all. But atonement?
Yes. He wanted to believe he did what he did solely out of the goodness of his heart. He demanded no payment—only accepted what often poor villagers offered in return. Knowing he was helping to quell the plague upon the land that his existence—and that of other Banebringers—brought was reward enough. That, and a night or two of peace and safety, though it be a mere illusion of the normalcy he craved. But it also diminished, if temporarily, the ache caused by what had been lost on his account.
Gildas moved in his direction, still talking. “But there is no atonement. You’re cursed. And those you associate with will pay the price for harboring a demonspawn.”
Vaughn glanced behind himself again. Wet grass. Wet. Surely he could do something with that.
He chewed on his lower lip. He rarely used that part of his powers. He wasn’t good at it, so it took more out of him. Could he handle staying invisible and harnessing the water from the grass at the same time? And what would he do with it once he had it?
Gildas had almost reached where he crouched. Much closer, and he wouldn’t need the crossbow. He could reach out and stab him with the needle.
“You won’t escape me this time, Teyrnon.”
Just release the arrow.
His hand started to tremble. He tried to will it into submission—to will himself just to let go of the string…
But like every other time he had been handed this opportunity, he couldn’t do it. He simply could not kill his own father.
He was wasting time on this. He knew he wouldn’t do it. Frustrated, he secured the bow on his back and began to retreat. If he was going to attempt an escape, now was the time.
Gildas stopped moving and cocked his head to the side, listening to Vaughn’s footsteps, which would soon become visible to him from over the remnant of the wall.
Vaughn concentrated on the droplets of water that sprinkled the grass and the dampness in the dirt. He gathered it together up on the rise and began pulling it closer, hoping Gildas wouldn’t see the trickle as it came.
Gildas’ eyes lit on a spot at Vaughn’s feet, and he smiled.
Vaughn hurled the water at his crossbow and started running.
The thump on the ground and Gildas’ curse came simultaneously.
Vaughn had been aiming merely to startle Gildas, thus gaining himself a few precious moments to scramble up the rise. If he had managed to knock the crossbow out of his hand, even better.
Unfortunately, his concentration on the water caused him to lose control of his invisibility, as he had feared. He slipped halfway up the rise and lost half the gro
und he had gained. It turned out to be in his favor, because a bolt hit the spot where he would have been standing had he kept moving in that direction.
He regained control of the aether to fade out of visibility again and weaved back and forth up the rise, hoping Gildas wouldn’t be able to predict his next location. He only had to make the tree line.
Bolts flew far too close to him several times, but, finally, he reached the top and hurtled into the woods.
Gildas let loose a torrent of curses from behind him. “There will no longer be refuge for you, Teyrnon!”
In other words, the same fate would befall any town he tried to seek safety in from now on, if Gildas found out. Hundreds of innocents to prove a point. Gildas had been cruel in his hunt for Vaughn over the years, but this atrocity topped them all.
He stopped and leaned against a tree to catch his breath and closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of the burned town in his mind. If there is blood on anyone’s hands…
He gritted his teeth and denied himself guilt. He wasn’t the criminal here. And he would never know peace until his father—his own, personal Hunter—was dead. And if he couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it…
He clenched and unclenched his fist a few times. Perhaps it was time to spend that stolen fortune.
Ivana held herself still as the eyes of the eunuch in charge of Gan Pywell’s personal stash of so-called companions slid over the lounging women. Almost all of the women—girls, really, most barely of age—followed his gaze: some anxious, some bored, some resigned, and a small few downright terrified.
The last were the girls Ivana had come in with. None of them, including Ivana, had been broken in yet, though they had been there three weeks.
The girl closest to Ivana shrank back as the eunuch paced to where the three of them sat. Ivana lowered her eyes, as was proper, and waited.
She hoped he chose her this time. She was tiring of this place.
“You.” The eunuch’s voice was rich and commanding; he had obviously been castrated later in life.
