by Aaron Bunce
Ghadarzehi squinted, picking out a small group of figures entering the square and dispersing into the massive crowd. Light glinted off the nearest, the small figure moving directly towards them and growing closer. It wasn’t armor that caught the light, Ghadarzehi realized, but his face. They were men with metal faces.
“Impossible,” he breathed.
“It is the da’kar,” Histarian responded, and slowly crept back fully into the shrubs. Ghadarzehi followed, suddenly uncomfortable out in the open.
His thoughts raced, the stories and lore spinning together. The da’kar was upon them, the battle that would end all battles.
“What of the softskin?” he asked, as Histarian made to leave.
The Jah’dun paused. “He is no longer our concern. We must gather the clans, and tell them da’kar has come. Our time of hiding has come to an end,” Histarian said, and leapt up to the next ledge.
Enjoy the following excerpt from
Succession
Overthrown Volume 4
Coming late 2018
Prologue
Samford nudged the bucket at his feet with a boot toe. He’d only relieved himself a short time ago, but the piss had already frozen solid. He irritably slid the bucket into the far corner and turned to pace, trying, and ultimately failing to ignore the wind’s damp bite.
“Salty and warm,” he muttered over and over, pushing his mind towards the southlands, towards home, and much warmer waters. He filled his head with memories of clear, blue-green waters, white, salt-stained bluffs, and fresh, roasted thrasher fish on the beach.
Using his spear like a walking stick, Samford paced the distance of the small watchtower, intermittently looking down over Pinehall, the steep, bowl of the rocky slope aglow with the light of a hundred homes and halls. His eyes traveled beyond the glowing city, to the dark docks and wharfs, where three score fishing boats sat quietly in the moonlight.
His trip north hadn’t been the adventure his friend, Charles, promised. “We’ll go north, see the world and find adventure,” he muttered, bitterly. Charles hadn’t made good on any of his promises yet, save to drink away what little coin they did manage to earn, and sleep with every bar maiden he could talk into his lap.
Hells, he’s warm and in bed right now. Probably nestled up next to some naked girl, with a belly full of mead, Samford thought, and turned, flipping the spear over and dropping the bladed point into the watchtower’s pitted floorboards. He pulled the weapon free and trod back in the other direction, passing the heavy, bronze warning bell. A small pool of light illuminated the middle of the small tower, a solitary lantern hanging directly above.
“Freezin’ my pisser off, standing out here, staring at mountain walls they say can’t be climbed! Seems like a waste of time,” he groused.
He stopped at the far, north railing, the rocky, tree-covered ridge of the valley rising up above him, the moonlight washing everything in sight with a cool, silver hue. He leaned over the rail and spat, the trees and scraggly bushes rustling gently in the lake’s damp wind. A rock clattered down a steep drop-off to his right, the noisy echo dying quickly in the wind. He scanned the dark trees warily, nothing, and everything moving at the same time.
Probably just another mountain cat, he thought, clutching a little more tightly to his spear. The cats could get quite large, and if desperate enough, would attack a person. It wouldn’t catch him unaware.
After a lengthy time, the quiet returned, and Samford fell back into his bored routine. Just the wind, he thought, and turned away from the cliff and returned to the lake view side of his watchtower. He stared down at the city for a long while, letting his mind spiral back through the increasingly bad decisions that led to him leaving home, regretting every one of them, yet refusing to admit it out loud – for that would make his pa right, and he was sure as hells not going to concede that.
A vibration passed into his boots and up through the wood handrail. It was so subtle he almost didn’t notice it. Samford turned, just as a dark figure kicked their feet over the final rung and stepped clear.
“I think you’re in the wrong spot, mate. I man this tower till dawn,” Samford said, shaking away the cobwebs of sleepy memories, “unless you brought food, shove off.”
The new arrival didn’t respond. Instead, they stepped forward, carefully skirting the lantern light, something shiny glinting in hand.
“Stop right there,” Samford growled, his throat suddenly tight, “don’t come any closer.” The warning bells went off in his mind, but he barely got his spear up in time, and very nearly dropped it in his haste.
A long blade cut in, not to slap his spear aside, but to move parallel with the shaft and skewer him. Samford jabbed straight ahead and sidestepped, only the long reach of the spear saving his life. The man grunted and fell forward, the spear plunging into his chest, his shiny sword cutting the air between them.
Samford leapt to the side, avoiding another cut of the sword, but the man fell to his knees, gurgling and clutching at the spear. He fumbled for the warning bell, but stilled his hand. The man would be dead in moments, if not already. The guard wouldn’t need to be notified simply to remove his corpse. And worse, they would flail him alive if he pulled them from warm beds for something as small as a dead brigand. The lake breeze swirled around him as he turned, his attacker motionless on the ground. And then the man moved, pushing off the ground as a mass of wrenching, twisting limbs.
Impossible, he thought, recoiling as the man staggered forward. The spear hadn’t just pierced his body, but his sternum, and beneath that, his heart. It should have been a fatal strike, just as he had been trained. But he wasn’t dead, and with an inhuman groan, pulled the spear free. Blood spurted from the wound, spattering in a dark line onto the ground.
Samford dodged back, but the man lurched forward impossibly fast. A hot, cramping pain filled his guts, overriding every other thought and desire. He slumped towards the ground, moving with the pain, and fell to his knees. He looked down and found his spear protruding from his stomach.
The man lumbered closer, stepping directly into the lantern’s pool of light. Samford cringed. He wasn’t a man. At least not like any man he’d seen before. His skin was thick and leathery, pocked by holes, as if he had been sewn together from other men’s flesh.
The ghoulish man lifted his sword high, and Samford instinctively turned his head. His vision flickered and blurred, but he caught sight of movement just beyond the watchtower. A form scrabbled down the almost sheer face of the rocky slope, moving between the dark trees and towards the city below. Then he saw another, and in horror, realized the bluff was swarming with them.
Impossible…how? Have to warn…them.
Wincing, he turned back to the horrible man, his bloody hand instinctively reaching out for the warning bell. A flash of silver filled his vision, and Samford tumbled into the cold, dark nothingness.
About the Author
Aaron Bunce started his academic career in criminal justice, but eventually connected his life-long love of literature with his passion for writing. After finishing his debut novel, Within, he attended Southern New Hampshire University’s English and Creative Writing program. He released his second novel, Before the Crow, in April 2016, and graduated later that same year with a B.A in Creative Writing, with emphasis on fiction. The third book in his Overthrown series, A March of Woe, released wide in print and digital formats March 1st, 2018, and is destined to be the most exciting volume yet. He is working hard to bring Succession, volume 4 to fans of the series by the end of 2018, as well as an entirely new novel, Unleashed, a sci-fi thriller set on a mining station in deep space.
Aaron prefers darker, grittier stories, detailing the struggle of flawed, relatable characters set against fantastical backdrops. Beyond writing, Aaron is the owner and chief editor of Autumn Arch Publishing. For more information on his fiction, social media, future titles, and author events, visit him online at www.Aaronbunce.com.
br />
Aaron Bunce, A March of Woe (Overthrown Book 3)
