Night of Rain

by J. C. Owens

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Look for these titles from J. C. Owens

  Title Page

  Copyright Warning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Coming Soon

  Also by J. C. Owens

  More Romance from Etopia Press

  Excerpt from A Warrior's Choice by Xander Tracy

  Look for these titles from J. C. Owens

  Now Available

  The Anrodnes Chronicles

  Dark Rain (Book One)

  Night of Rain (Book Two)

  Coming Soon!

  Drums in the Rain (Book Three)

  The Taken Series

  Taken (Book One)

  Out of the Darkness (Book Two)

  The Wings Series

  Wings (Book One)

  Wings 2: Dominion of the Eth (Book Two)

  The Tarsus Series

  Tarsus (Book One)

  Fire and Ice (Book Two)

  Wishes

  The Ice Prince

  Betrayal

  The Falling

  Soulseeker

  The Chosen

  Dragon Forge

  Siren’s Call

  Farfall

  The Emperor’s Wolf

  Night of Rain

  The Anrodnes Chronicles Book Two

  J. C. Owens

  Etopia Press

  Copyright Warning

  EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/).

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Published By

  Etopia Press

  1643 Warwick Ave., #124

  Warwick, RI 02889

  http://www.etopiapress.com

  Night of Rain

  Copyright © 2019 by J. C. Owens

  ISBN: 978-1-949719-22-2

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Etopia Press electronic publication: April 2019

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cermin

  Cermin darted out from his hiding spot, keeping in the shadows of the buildings, sliding into another spot of safety with his heart pounding. He lay there, silent and still, like a rabbit gone to ground, listening.

  There was nothing, only the faint crackling of a fire that had not yet consumed the entirety of a building.

  Smoke hung heavy in the air, half choking him. He had not yet seen a single living being. Plenty of dead though, most of whom he had known all his life.

  He huddled in the makeshift shelter of a fallen wall, trembling, fighting for control.

  All that he had ever known was lost. The invaders had come out of nowhere, with fire in their eyes and blood on their swords, and they had swept away his life.

  At least he still had life. Others had not been nearly as fortunate.

  Like his grandfather. The man had shoved him out the back door, told him to run to the nearby forest. He had done so, panicked, not thinking, only obeying.

  Now he cursed himself virulently because he had left his grandfather behind. The man had not attempted to follow Cermin. Instead, like the brave old man he was, he had stood his ground and protected their small home, giving Cermin the chance to escape.

  Now his grandfather lay dead, killed without thought or the least amount of mercy. It was as if demons had descended upon them. The invaders had moved on, leaving death in their wake. Only then had Cermin left his hiding spot in the forest to return to the village…

  Tears ran down his cheeks, and he brushed them away impatiently. This was no time for grieving. Not yet. His grandfather had taught him to survive and survive he would. He just needed supplies and a horse, if any had been spared. Then he would travel the four days necessary to get to the next town to the west. They would notify the king, and the king would find these demons and slay them.

  The thought buoyed him. He crawled along the fallen wall, finally managing to make his way through a hole into what remained of the building.

  There were few supplies left. The store had been thoroughly ransacked, and there was little of value among the rubble. He had worked here, within the store, ever since he’d been old enough, bringing in coin to help his ailing grandfather, who struggled to work enough to feed them.

  He rose up and dusted himself off, viewing the wreckage with a clenched jaw, his eyes burning with unshed tears, his throat tight with grief. Just a few hours before, he had left here to go back home, and it was then they had struck.

  There was a smell of blood behind the counter, and he saw a hand curled lifelessly, jutting out upon the floor. He moved closer, tentative now, unable to curb his fear.

  He reached out, fingers trembling, and gently touched that familiar hand.

  It was cold.

  He jerked his hand back, tucking it against his body as though to chase away the chill that momentary touch had engendered.

  It was clear enough that Clausia was dead, her kind voice forever silenced.

  He took several quick steps back, shuddering.

  This had to be a nightmare, it had to.

  Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. It was quiet, peaceful in the little village of Qartus. Everyone knew their neighbor. The worst thing that ever happened was one of the miners getting drunk and getting into a fight or two, spending the night in the jail to sober up.

  Now the town lay in ruins for no reason that he could discern.

  He gritted his teeth, forced himself to move. The main shop had no food left. The supplies had been pillaged or destroyed. But there was still one last chance. Something the raiders might have missed. He passed through the broken door at the rear of the building, into the stables that adjoined the back wall.

  The animals were gone. Sheep and goats and two horses.

  There was little damage here, as though the invaders had been more intent on procuring the beasts than destroying the little stable.

  He mourned the loss of one horse the most. Yancy had been a young stallion, given as a gift to Clausia, and she had made a modest income by letting the beautiful horse breed various mares in and around the town and the countryside. The stallion was unpredictable and at first would let no one else touch him but Clausia. But Cermin had been patient, not pushing, but leaving small treats upon the stall door. Eventually, after a year of this odd interaction, Yancy had let him stroke his fine head.

  After that, they had formed a bond that Clausia encouraged. She was getting older, and the store was enough work, much less a rambunc
tious stallion. Or so she said. It became Cermin’s job to take Yancy to his various matings. He relished the times that he could ride on the sleek back and feel like he was on top of the world.

  He stared at the empty stall and sucked in a deep breath. The invaders had taken his friends, his grandfather, everyone he had known, and even the horse that he loved. All at once it felt like too much. The grief crushed down on him. Hot tears burned his cheeks. He stood there trembling. Then he raised his head, wiped away those tears furiously.

  His grandfather said that Cermin came from a long line of warriors, of great forebearers. He was probably telling a tall tale, but regardless, Cermin didn’t want to let those ancestors down. He pushed aside a broken board, then swept away the thick straw.

  Beneath it, well hidden, lay a trap door. It was obvious the raiders had missed it, and he sighed with relief. The first good thing this day had brought.

  Tugging back the heavy door, he reached out for the candle that lay in a nook by the stairs that led down into the darkness. He fumbled for a match, then struck it. His fingers were trembling so alarmingly that it was difficult to light the wick.

  At last he could blow out the match, carefully placing it in the small ceramic bowl that was set there for that purpose. One had to be careful of fires where there was straw.

  Thoughts of fire made him flinch, brought him back to the terrible images he had seen once he had crept out of the forest. The raiders had left some three hours ago, but he had not been able to convince himself to come out of hiding until now. The village was razed to the ground, like a giant malicious hand had come down and crushed, then burned everything. Everyone. He knew he needed to accept that and focus on reaching the next town, but his mind wouldn’t let it go, even though the pain was too much to bear.

  He sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. He was covered in ash, ash that had gently floated down into the silence of the once vibrant village as he had passed like a ghost through the destruction.

  He sneezed once before forcing himself into action. This was the storehouse for all the extras Clausia had squirreled away. Seasonal things, things she had collected down through the years, and most importantly, the winter supplies like her famous beef jerky. It would keep him going until he could reach sanctuary at the next town.

  He found a sack and stuffed it full, adding anything else that might sustain him and not rot. A small wheel of cheese, some dried mushrooms and fruits.

  When done, he crawled back up the stairs, carefully blowing out the candle and setting it in the sconce on the wall. Scrambling up to the stable floor, he closed the heavy door with a grunt of effort and then kicked the straw back into place, removing all evidence of what lay below.

  Perhaps, in times to come, he would need the supplies there. Who knew what the future would bring?

  He was twelve years old, and completely and utterly alone.

  He exited from under the broken wall after taking his time and cautiously scanning the area.

  There was no sound but the wind in the trees and the same crackling, almost-burned-out fire that had consumed the town hall.

  At last he emerged, standing silent and still, gauging his surroundings. His grandfather, in past years before he became too crippled, had taught Cermin much of hunting, of stealth and…

  A horse snorted behind him, and he gasped and whirled around, icy terror in his veins.

  A rider sat only a few feet from him, astride a gray stallion, dark eyes watching him unblinkingly from beneath a cowled hood. The armor the man wore was completely unfamiliar, and Cermin felt the terror sink deeper, into his marrow.

  This must be one of the demonborn invaders that had decimated his world.

  The man, if man he was, swept back the hood, and Cermin stared, suddenly uncertain. This was no dark being such as the raiders had been.

  Instead, he was a creature of light and beauty, long braided hair glittering in the sun like gold itself. Like an angel Cermin had seen in a painting once.

  The man watched him in silence, then let his eyes scan the destruction, his jaw tightening.

  Cermin stood frozen, unable to decide whether to flee or if perhaps this might be a rescuer. He was exhausted, desperate, and alone, but he stood there fighting back tears and ready to run if this golden-haired angel suddenly became one of the demons he feared.

  The man’s gaze finally returned to him, roving over his filthy clothing, something in his eyes softening.

  “When did they come through here?” The question was gentle, the voice so smooth and soothing that Cermin could have wept.

  Cermin debated answering, but there was something about this stranger that gave him hope.

  “Just after the sun rose,” Cermin choked out.

  The man leaned back in the saddle, a look of weariness on his features for a split second before it smoothed away in expressionless neutrality.

  “Your family?”

  “My grandfather lies dead.” The words almost broke him again, as though voicing them made it real at last.

  “Are there other survivors?”

  “No.”

  The man closed his eyes as though absorbing the news before meeting Cermin’s cautious gaze once more.

  “Will you come with me then? I know I am not of your people, but there are those who are fighting those who did this. I can find safety for you at least.”

  “I’m going to the next village.” Cermin pointed down the mountain.

  The rider shook his head. Cermin felt his heart sink at the gesture, at the grim look on the man’s face.

  “I just passed through there some days ago. There is no village there anymore. It was razed to the ground before yours. There is not a single survivor to be found.”

  Cermin absorbed the information numbly, eyeing the stranger for long moments before his gaze turned back upon the smoldering village. He had never left here, never wanted to. Everything that he knew, that he loved had existed within this place.

  Gone.

  “If I go with you, I want your name first.” As though that was any protection at all.

  The man smiled, soft and slow, and Cermin found himself edging closer, eager to be in the proximity of the warmth it generated.

  “My name, young one, is Hredeen.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Zaran

  Empire Camp

  Bhantan

  Zaran leaned back in the camp chair, feeling exhaustion stealing over him so that he almost nodded off. He half expected Naral to push at him or mock him for his inability to stay awake.

  But Naral was hundreds of miles away, and Zaran was trapped here, far from home, trying to end Odenar’s invasion of Bhantan before more innocent civilians lost their lives. So far, it grieved him to say that he had not been successful…

  He felt a gentle touch on his arm, and a mug of ale was pressed into his hand. He looked up to meet amused dark blue eyes.

  Gratolin, one of Naral’s commanders, had been a godssend. His burly form hid a soft heart, and he had hovered over Zaran, ensuring that everything he could possibly need was at hand. This experience would have been far, far worse without his presence and that of the other two bodyguards that Naral had insisted he take with him.

  It seemed eons ago that he had left the security of Persis behind and ventured into Odenar. Once they’d uncovered the invasion plot, his brother, Emperor Taldan Anrodnes, had put him at the head of an imperial army. They had pursued the renegade Odenar forces across the borders of Bhantan.

  The peaceful countryside was lying in tatters from the atrocities perpetrated by the Odenar military. There was now no doubt what their leader’s orders had been. They were heading straight as an arrow for the illenium mines to the north. In their passage, they had, without mercy or conscience, destroyed any and all settlements, farms, villages, and towns in their way. Unused to war, the people had fallen before them like wheat before the scythe, their blood spilled upon their own lands.

  The things Zaran had seen
, chasing the Odenar invaders…he would never forget them. They had been branded into his mind.

  Zaran took a deep gulp of the ale before he set the mug on the small table beside him and leaned forward to set his elbows on his thighs, his head in his hands.

  He had never imagined such deaths. He had ordered the executions of criminals at home, had stood by while they were carried out, but those were people who had deserved the sentence.

  These citizens of Bhantan were innocent of any wrong in this. They had not provoked this invasion in any way, shape or form.

  Zaran gritted his teeth. When this was over, he was going to take great pleasure in ordering Parsul Yoldis’s death. He would make sure that the manner of that death was drawn out and as painful as possible, a small recompense for the atrocities the man had wrought, the loss of life that had no purpose beyond sheer brutality.

  Right now, they were chasing the tail of the snake. They needed to find a way to speed up their progress, to find the head and stop the Odenar military that was ahead of them by at least three-days travel, possibly as much as seven. The difference was that the Odenar forces were pillaging the countryside while Zaran’s forces were bringing their own supplies, necessitating a large contingent of wagons.

  Everything felt slow and ponderous. He chafed at the pace, but in this hostile chase, he was not going to split up his forces. They would need their strength and numbers once they reached the mines, for it was there that the true battle would take place.

  In the meantime, people were dying, innocents that never knew the reason for their deaths. It would take years for Bhantan to overcome what had happened here, the scope of destruction and death, the damage to minds that had witnessed the atrocities, those who had lived through the horrors.

  It was things such as this that created hatred, rage, and the need for revenge.

  That had been the lot of so many of the countries that Anrodnes had overcome in the past. Such wars and invasions were what the empire now sought to eradicate, the random, predatory attacks between countries. The assumption that brute force could and should rule the world.