by AD Starrling
The Seventeen Series Short Story Collection
Seventeen Series Short Stories #1-3
A D Starrling
Contents
FIRST DEATH
First Death
DANCING BLADES
Dancing Blades
THE MEETING
The Meeting
Afterword
About the Author
Also by A D Starrling
Mission:Black Extract
Copyright
The Seventeen Series Short Story Collection #1-3
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First Death (A Seventeen Series Short Story) #1
Copyright © AD Starrling 2014-2016.
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Dancing Blades (A Seventeen Series Short Story) #2
Copyright © AD Starrling 2015-2016.
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The Meeting (A Seventeen Series Short Story) #3
Copyright © AD Starrling 2015-2016.
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Copyright © AD Starrling 2014-2016. All rights reserved. Registered with the UK and US Copyright Services.
Second eBook edition: 2016
First eBook edition published in 2015
www.ADStarrling.com
The right of AD Starrling to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written consent of the author, excepting for brief quotes used in reviews. Your respect of the author’s rights and hard work is appreciated.
Request to publish extracts from this book should be sent to the author at [email protected]
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people (living or dead), events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factitiously. All other characters, and all other incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Editors: Right Ink On The Wall (www.rightinkonthewall.com)
Cover: Streetlight Graphics (www.streetlightgraphics.com)
FIRST DEATH
A SEVENTEEN SERIES SHORT STORY #1
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AD STARRLING
First Death
1570. Carpathian Mountains, Moldavia.
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The shadows of the hunters danced between the trees, their forms at times insubstantial amongst the white flakes falling silently from the overcast night sky.
The boy knew all too well the deadly nature of the shapes chasing him through the forest. Blood pounded in his skull as he ran, the desperate thrum matching the cadence of his feet striking the snow covered ground. His breaths sounded unnaturally loud in his ears and masked the sounds of his pursuers. The sweat soaking his back had turned to icy trails, and frost crusted his eyes and nose. He ignored the stitch in his side, wiped at his face, and squinted at the dark landscape unfolding before him.
There was movement out the corner of his eye.
His heart stuttered in his chest as he spotted a gray shape. He looked around and counted four more monstrous forms closing in on him.
The spear carved the air with a silken sound. The boy watched breathlessly as it sliced through the water and impaled a fat trout. A sliver of blood flowed down the shaft of the weapon when the man lifted it from the river. The fish twisted and arched around the blade, its body glistening in the sunlight as it sought to escape. Its desperate twitches slowly stilled.
The man turned and smiled. ‘Your turn, son.’
The boy gripped his own spear with white-knuckled fingers. He stepped into the shallows and stared at the turbulent surface.
‘Remember, let your eyes guide your hand,’ his father said quietly behind him.
The boy let his vision unfocus until the river became a gray backdrop. An expectant hush fell around him, as if the world was holding its breath. He was wondering whether his father experienced the same feeling of detachment during a hunt when silver suddenly flashed to his left. His arm moved of its own volition.
The spear slipped into the water and found its prey.
The boy gaped. ‘I did it. Father, I did it!’
He lifted the weapon and gazed proudly at the trout thrashing around on its sharp tip.
His father kissed his head and ruffled his hair. ‘Well done, son. We shall have a nice supper this eve.’
The boy’s father placed their catch in an oilskin bag and cleaned the weapons in the rapids while the boy hoisted the fishing cage sitting on the bank into his arms. Freshwater mussels rattled around the bottom. He turned and followed his father into the forest.
Giant evergreens rose around them as they trod the path their footsteps had carved into the land over the years. The branches of the trees were heavy with snow, their crowns almost invisible against the clear sky. Cones and needle-shaped leaves covered the ground and filled the air with the clean, fresh smell of sap.
Winter had come early to the mountains this year. The days started to grow short and the nights long several weeks ago, much to the boy’s irritation.
He had had to wait until he was seven before his mother allowed him to accompany his father on his fishing and hunting trips. It wasn’t until this summer, when he turned ten, that he received his very first hunting knife and spear. Just when he had started to get used to the weapons, he had woken up to the year’s first snowfall.
His father pointed out plants and creatures as they navigated the trail home. The boy listened attentively. However many times they travelled this way, he always learned something new and fascinating. His enthusiasm dipped slightly when he was made to recite his French verbs. He stumbled over some of the words. His father corrected him gently and made him start all over again.
The boy did not begrudge this strict request. He knew his mind needed to be as strong as his body if he wanted to be even half the man his father was.
The smoky scent of burning wood reached them moments before the clearing appeared between the trees. A log cabin stood in the middle of the open circle of land. Although it wasn’t big, the building was of sturdy construct and had withstood nine harsh winters in the desolate and unforgiving Carpathian Mountains.
The boy thought it was the best home that had ever existed in the whole wide world, especially since his father and mother had built it with their own hands when he was but a baby.
His father hastened his pace. The boy fell in behind him.
Seconds before they reached the porch, the front door opened and a woman stepped out. She had a large quilt in her hands and was using a stick to beat dust out of it. She paused and looked up at the sound of their footsteps.
‘Mother, I did it! I caught a fish!’ the boy shouted. He broke into a run and overtook his father.
A dazzling smile curved the woman’s lips and lit her sparkling blue eyes. ‘You did? Oh, that’s wonderful!’
His father dropped the oilskin bag, scaled the shallow steps to the stoop, and lifted the woman by her waist. The stick and the quilt thudded to the porch. She gripped his shoulders and laughed wildly as he spun her around. He finally stopped and held her against him.
‘Hello, wife,’ he said softly, his gray eyes brimming with love.
‘Hello, husband.’ She lowered her head and kissed him. His arms tightened around her.
The boy grimaced. He had become accustomed to these
displays over the years. Though he couldn’t for the life of him fathom why pressing one’s lips against another person’s could make two people so happy, it evidently did, judging by the number of times his parents engaged in the activity.
He tolerated their passionate embrace for as long as he could before releasing a loud sigh.
His father reluctantly broke the kiss and slowly lifted his head. ‘Our son is a villain intent on stopping our lovemaking,’ he muttered.
His mother wrinkled her nose. ‘I suspect you were the same at that age, love. Give it another five years. We will be beating females off him in droves.’
The boy listened to this conversation with an affronted air. ‘I shall never kiss a girl. They are soft and—and horrid!’
His father threw back his head and laughed.
‘Oh.’ His mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you calling me horrid?’
The boy opened and closed his mouth soundlessly.
‘Come here! You shall be punished for such impudent words,’ she said in a fake growl.
She was at his side in a heartbeat and raised him high in the air. The boy squealed and squirmed as she pressed her lips repeatedly to his face and neck, blowing ticklish raspberries into his skin.
‘Stop! Stop, mother! Father, make her stop!’ he gasped between giggles.
His father grinned and shook his head. ‘You should know better by now, son.’
They had the fish and the remains of the vegetable stew from the day before for their supper. His mother helped him practice his written Latin while his father cleaned the rest of their catch before storing the fish with the mussels in the icebox under the kitchen floor. Later that night, the boy lay in bed and listened rapturously while his father told him a story. Though he had heard it many times before, he never grew tired of listening to the tales about two races of men who could survive death itself.
As he drifted off to sleep, the boy heard his mother stop in the doorway of his room.
‘I fear the snow will only get heavier in the weeks to come,’ she said quietly. ‘You should go down to the village soon, before the passage becomes impassable.’
He heard his father murmur his accord.
The next morning, the boy woke to the sound of a muffled thud coming from the front of the cabin. His eyes widened. He slipped out of his bed and ran barefoot to the kitchen. His suspicion was confirmed when he saw what lay on the table.
‘Father, can I come with you?’ he asked eagerly, his gaze switching between the two adults who stood there.
His father looked up from the heavy, leather sack he was packing. He was already dressed in his thick winter coat and sturdy, fur-lined boots. He raised a questioning eyebrow at the woman across from him.
A frown creased her brow as she finished folding a pile of animal pelts into a second bag. She turned and pinned the boy with a narrow stare. He held his breath.
‘I shall agree to let you accompany your father on one condition.’
The boy’s heart sank. ‘What condition is that?’
‘That you shall learn the basse danse upon your return.’
The boy groaned while his father chortled.
‘I am determined that at least one of the men in my life should be able to dance. Since your father is about as graceful as a duck on ice, this responsibility sadly falls to you,’ his mother stated.
The boy hung his head and considered his options. There were not many of them.
‘A duck on ice?’ his father muttered.
‘You make up for it in other ways, mon cher.’
The boy sighed. ‘I will do it.’
They set off shortly after on the day-long journey that would take them east through the forests and the treacherous pass in the mountains to the neighboring valley. The boy could barely hide his excitement. He had only been to the village once before and was thrilled to be able to visit there again before winter confined them to the cabin.
It was an uneventful trip. They spent most of it going over the lessons he had learned the previous week and talking about the various plants and creatures they saw on their travel.
Dusk had covered the land in inky shadows when the lights of the village finally appeared in the distance below them. Nestled in the curve of a river, the commune of one hundred souls was the closest human outpost within walking distance of their home. His father travelled there twice a year to trade fur from the animals he hunted for oil and rare goods.
The boy studied the towering wall of solid timber that enclosed the settlement. Fortification against invaders and looters, his father had told him the first time he saw it. A creak echoed in the night as they turned the corner and came within sight of the gates. The entrance to the village was being secured.
‘Hurry,’ said his father. The boy quickened his step.
They slipped through the narrowing gap seconds before the portal thudded closed. His father greeted the two men in charge of the gateway.
‘Haven’t seen you in a long time,’ one of them said with a grunt. His gaze dropped. ‘Is this your boy? He has grown big.’
‘That he has,’ his father said in an even voice. ‘Is there room at the inn, do you know?’
The man hawked and spat in the mud. ‘Some passing tradesmen came through today.’ He shrugged. ‘You can always ask to be put up in one of the stables if they cannot lodge you there.’
His father expressed his thanks and wished the men a good evening.
A thin film of ice covered the puddles dotting the busy main thoroughfare, the glassy sheets amplifying the yellow glare from the torches and oil lamps lining the porches of shops. The boy peeked through open doorways and caught intriguing glimpses of a world he knew little of. Icy drops fell from the sky and struck his neck as he stumbled after his father. The boy shivered and looked up at the large, two-storey establishment they were headed for. Set apart from the other buildings, it stood at the top of a slope and towered over the rest of the village.
A few curses rose around them as people slipped in the dirty slush in their rush to find cover from the downpour. As they passed the smithy, a man missed his step and collided heavily with the boy’s father. The stranger looked up, mumbled an apology, and moved out of their way.
A moment later, the boy felt a hot gaze on the back of his neck. He looked over his shoulder.
The man who had bumped into his father stood motionless in the middle of the street, oblivious to the rain pelting down from the heavens and the villagers scurrying around him. His pale face glistened in the light of the flickering flames from the smithy’s forge as he stared at them.
The boy had opened his mouth to call out to his father when a loud crash sounded from up ahead, startling him. He bumped into the back of his father’s legs, grabbed the reassuring weight of his winter coat, and peered around his waist.
A couple of men had staggered out of the inn’s entrance. For a moment, the boy thought they were embracing. It did not take long to realize from their muffled grunts and red faces that they were, in fact, brawling. A thick stench of sweat and spirits washed over the boy and his father as they watched the two figures exchange clumsy blows. The men landed in the mud. They swatted at each other and were crawling onto their knees when a bucketful of dirty water hit them in the face. They choked and spluttered.
The boy stared at the full-bosomed figure who stood in the brightly-lit doorway, empty bucket in hand. It was the innkeeper’s wife.
‘And let that be a lesson to you, you rogues!’ the woman snapped. ‘Now, leave!’
The men gaped at her, climbed unsteadily to their feet, and tottered down the incline toward the village thoroughfare. By the time they reached the bottom, they had their arms wrapped around each other’s waists for support.
The stranger who had stood staring after the boy and his father had disappeared.
‘Oh.’ The innkeeper’s wife brightened when she saw them. She greeted the boy’s father warmly.
‘Come now, don’t be frightened,
’ he murmured. The boy stepped out from behind his father’s reassuring form and blinked in the light.
‘Good Gods! This is never your son!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘What a handsome devil!’
To the boy’s utter horror, the innkeeper’s wife grabbed his shoulders and planted a big, fat, wet kiss on his cheek. He was still recovering from the shock of the experience when his father ushered him into the bustling, smoky interior of the building.
The next hours passed with dream-like swiftness. Since the inn also served as the village store, the boy watched his father exchange the animal pelts they had brought in their sacks for oil, sugar, spices, and other scarce merchandise they would need to survive the harsh winter in the mountains. As they ate a hearty meal with some of the tradesmen who were staying at the inn, the boy became aware of two girls staring at him from the landing at the top of the stairs. They giggled and whispered to each other whenever he looked their way. The boy saw the innkeeper’s wife smile and wondered with a mild degree of panic whether he would have to suffer the ignominy of being kissed by her daughters as well before the night was over.
He was spared this fate when his father told him that it was time for bed. The innkeeper’s wife had asked two of her guests to share a room so as to accommodate the boy and his father. Full of hot food and a suspiciously copious supply of free beer, the men had mumbled their wholehearted acquiescence to her request.
As he lay next to his father and let sleep claim him, the boy thought once more of the man who had watched them earlier that evening.
They made several purchases at the shops and craftsmen’s houses in the village the next morning before heading through the open gates and into the mountains. A blizzard slowed their progress when they got to the pass and they did not reach home until late in the night.
