by Kai Kazi
PRESENTS
SWORD and SORCERY
OF
avondale
Copyright © 2019 by Kai Kazi
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dark Stories Press
Kai Kazi Studio
Ottawa, Canada
www.kaikazi.com
Quazi Investment
2019
SWORD AND SORCERY OF AVONDALE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
FREE NOVELLA
Tears from Carlisle Indian Boarding School
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
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
FINAL THOUGHTS
A NOTE FROM KAI
A BIT ABOUT KAI
OTHER WORKS BY KAI KAZI
CHAPTER I
“We found the Wyvern, my Vlad.” Crinna said, heavy, lopsided jaw set hard against something or other. Drakho raised his head, blinking slowly in the sudden light of the lantern before swinging out of his cot in silence. With a nod he dismissed Crinna and Serg, pulling on a plain woolen shirt before he buckled a few leather guards into place and threw a thick cloak about his shoulders.
The snow cracked and rippled underfoot, breaking into shards hard enough to pierce and cut. His own kingdom of Bledd was cold, but this was a new kind of chill. Unearthly, unholy. A pocket of deepest winter in the desert that otherwise surrounded the Southern Wastes beyond Thuket. They had wandered beyond the edges of the map to find a monster, and it had not been disappointed so far.
“What do you think it looks like?” One of the younger men murmured, “I heard they’re not like witches in Europia.”
“That’s because it’s not a witch. Witches are human.” Another snapped,
“Then what is it?”
“An it.” A third butted in, red hair shining in the sunlight. Their pales faces glowed red; the reflected light from the ice was strong enough to sear. “They say they eat children.”
“They say that about every monster.” The first boy huffed.
Drakho strode by them,
“Ready the chains. If it won’t cooperate, we’ll drag it back.” They snapped to attention and scattered. “Crinna,” he said, nodding to the old warlord, “this better not be a waste of my time.” The threat hung heavy; the last find had been a mad woman. Comely, but no use for anything but fucking. Not even that.
“No. It’s her. It. It’s the right one.” He said, jaw tensing rhythmically as they left the camp, “It’s in there.” He said, and stopped dead before pointing to a slit in the ice.
“You’re not coming in?” Drakho said, raising a brow,
“I’d rather eat hard shit and nails.” Crinna grunted, striding away. Drakho narrowed his eyes; the old man was still sore about his brother. The would-be heir had been soft and soapy. Squeaky clean; kin to Drakho only in name, and far from what Bledd was used to. But Crinna loved him in his own, twisted way and seeing him cut down had been hard, no doubt.
Maybe he planned on retiring when Gadan ascended.
Drakho snorted and sidled into the crack in the ice. It opened as he went, peeled back to reveal a cavern full of shifting light and glittering edges. In the center a monstrous obsidian statue stood, twisted; it seemed to writhe in pain and pleasure, face contorted in a cruel mockery of humanity. Its surface shone as Drakho reached out to run a scarred hand down its face. The palm returned red and slick. He curled his lips and wiped the blood on his breeches,
“My prince.” A smooth voice flowed over him like a searing wind. Drakho smiled,
“You come around quick monster.” He said; this would be easier than he had anticipated.
“Not you.” The voice echoed again, with a cruel, grating mirth. Drakho turned, stumbling back into the statue; cold black eyes stared up at him, “My prince.” She reached past him and ran a palm down the statue, licking the blood from her fingers when they returned. “Do you like him? He likes you. He thinks you’ll do nicely.”
Drakho coughed, opening his mouth, tripping over the flurry of words trying to force themselves from his mouth. A woman. A beautiful one; but her eyes were pits, and the grace in her supple, voluptuous limbs promised pain in equal measure with any pleasure given. Her pale skin, what could be seen of it, seemed to suck light from the air rather than glow. The blood and gore smeared on her naked form should have repelled him, but he found only a cold acceptance of her in the pit of his stomach.
“Does he?” He said, “For what?” She smiled, face like stone in the reflected light. Each expression seemed carved into her skin, worn so deep that it cast shadow, moving so quickly that her flesh became water between each engraving.
“What it is you want?” She said, tilting her head like a curious bird, looking at him from the side,
“For what?”
“Service.” She tutted,
“What kind of service.”
“The kind you’ll beg for more of.” She grinned suddenly, buzzing with sudden energy before it leaked out again and left the shell cold, “what is it you want in return?”
“I want Europia.” He said, the fierce, sudden desire knocking the wind from his lungs, rattling his hands so they shook with frustrated want. Her lips peeled back like swollen skin bursting before infection, and white, straight teeth greeted him once more,
“Then you shall have it.” She said, and took his hand.
Behind the statue, beyond her prince, the floor was slick and black, shining in the light of a blazing fire. Drakho looked at the ice; it was strong as ever,
“It does not melt?” He asked, but she only tutted again, sucked her flat front teeth as if he were an imbecile child before she slumped to a cross legged rest next to a pile of gore and a bloodied knife.
“Sit.” She said, “And strip.”
“Why?” He asked, brows drawing down,
“You want your kingdom?” She leaned forward, large breasts swaying. His eyes flicked down, he licked his lips,
“Yes.” He said, “You know I do.”
“I know it all.” She laughed,
and motioned for him to sit. “I know it all, boy, and I’ll share with you what you share with me, now strip and sit.” He did as ordered, marveling at the warmth of the cavern, wincing at the heat of the blood beneath his bare buttocks. She took his hand,
“I’ve been reading the rabbits,” she said with glinting mania in her eyes, “they told me that little Vlad Drakho would be coming to see me. Told me what you did your brother to be Vlad. Told me you needed me…” She dug the dagger into his arm, cutting down the vein in a swift motion. Drakho scrabbled to close it, cold fear flushing his body, shaking his bowels, but she stopped him with a stony hand, “Peace.” She said, “I won’t kill you, boy. I need you alive.”
His blood trickled in crimson tendrils onto the floor. She released him and passed a rag without a word. Drakho tied his arm with a curse.
“Let it mix a moment, yes?” She lifted a mangled rabbit corpse, “Yes?” She prodded it, “You’re no conversation anymore.” She laughed and discarded it.
“You’re mad.” Drakho laughed, but her face hardened,
“I see what you could not bear.” She whispered,
“What was the purpose?” He snapped, dull throbbing and sticky heat wearing his patience to the bone,
“Blood is the price.” She said, “And the medium.” She trailed a finger in what he now realized was a pool of blood in the floor, “And the pay. Blood is all of life, little Vlad, do you see?”
“I see.” He said, swallowing a tick, acrid lump in his throat as she reached for him, gripping his hair,
“Look down, and tell me what you see.” She said smoothly, as if they were playing a game of castle-siege.
The black pool swam, his eyes burned, and the Vlad saw. When he looked up at her it was with a kind of reverence,
“Give it to me.” He whispered hoarsely,
“And what will you give me?” She leaned forward, submerging her arms to the elbows in the pool. Drakho fought to calm his clattering heart,
“Whatever you wish, my lady.” He said with a vulpine grin. The woman nodded, licking her lips,
“Call me Shaitani.”
CHAPTER II
Jon stared at the doors of the manor; they were quite fine, but not what he had come to see to. He shifted in the saddle… Dutchess was as tired as he was, and had the harder task for carrying his old bones as well as the golden armor that marked him out. An honor, a duty, and a heavy task for both of them.
A huge fucking target on his back. Come take a shot at the kings favored, one and all. Show the old bastard why he should have retired long ago. Jon cleared his throat,
“Duke Ravensbrow of Avondale, you are requested to surrender yourself to the royal guardians forthwith.” His voice echoed and rumble like thunder. “You have been found guilty of bribery, extortion, corruption, theft, and the crime of high treason against his majesty, King Ridgehand of Avondale.”
Several long moments hung in the air, drawn out somehow by the old manor doors before them, shut and locked, but somehow expectant. Finally, they heard a low creak, the sliding of a rusting lock and a scream of protest from the manor’s ancient doors.
The first of them seemed like demons, whirling, screaming blurs of rage and steel. They moved like one, spilling over the courtyard like a plague, but when Jon struck down with his short dagger a scream spilled out and they came into focus. Suri warriors from the east. Of course, Duke Ravensbrow would have found the best, or worst, money could buy. He had no shortage of that, in any case. He barked a rapid succession of orders as he threw his shield above his head in a desperate attempt to avoid the sudden onslaught of arrows. Some of his men were not so lucky; while royal guardians were incredibly well prepared they, too, could be taken by surprise. Dutchess reared, kicking a Suri senseless before Jon could slide off and slap her rump, sending her off to safety. She would return. Somewhere in the throng a scream sounded; his or theirs, he could not tell. It had been as much a surprise to him as it would be to the newest recruits here now that there was no honor or glory on the battlefield. No matter what the romances said. Ask the ghosts if glory and honor matter, and they would say no. Intelligence matters, viciousness matters, the thickness of your plate and the strength of your guts does. These are all that can save you on a battlefield.
He scanned the exterior of the manor as he thundered across the new battlefield, muttering curses. He counted an incredible number of both archers and swordsmen; he and his men were matched man for man, and that made the outcome subject to luck. Bastard of a thing with no respect for anyone, luck, but it had been on his side more often than it should. The disgraced duke appeared to have considered everything as he fought for his freedom, but the indomitable Master Greendale, as King Ridgehand often introduced him, probably just to piss him off, had more than one plan. Wordlessly, he reached out to his lieutenant, who pitched him a nasty looking metallic orb. With a grunt, Master Greendale hurled it at the metal bars of the courtyard, holding up his shield as metal and stone exploded and hurtled back towards them.
In the muffled aftermath of the blast he gaped at the manor and its gardens; time had taken its toll clearly, but it was a sprawling, beautiful place with largely oaken exteriors. Careworn, but there was a certain majesty about it still that appealed to him. An enormous statue of The Prophet, likely made of marble, shot skyward, the sun glinting off its stark white lines. Even in the midst of the battle he looked serene; his sandals were bloody. The manor had clearly once been well-loved, but judging from the tufts of grass that sprung up through the cobbled courtyard, it had been some time since it had been looked after properly. Still, the roof was solid and flat black, with sweeping expanses of windows that afforded the resident impressive views of the lush countryside that surrounded him. There seemed to be no reliable way that a party of men could break through the solid wood and get to Ravensbrow. It was a good piece of work on the part of the craftsmen, and beautiful to look at. Of course the problem wasn’t the manor, the problem was that the manor was ill-gotten. Duke Ravensbrow had been defrauding his people for years, and it was not until recently that his treachery had been discovered. King Ridgehand did not take kindly to those who treated his citizenry poorly, and even less kindly to those who thought selling Avondales secrets to other kingdoms was profitable. And Jon, for his part, found the man to be a first class weasel.
The battle around him, if that was what it was, had started to become ragged and jerking. The Suri were breaking. Fearsome, but trained for quick kills… they lacked the appetite for lengthy battles, and had not the armor to take direct cuts and jabs. Their agility was key, and in the confined courtyard they could not use it. The last of the mercenaries were dispatched handily. Jon sighed and stretched his arms, wriggled his toes. Counted his men. Two down,
“Take the dead, Captain,” he said, “and return to the city with Petre and Saul. We will bring the most noble Duke to justice.” Keeping his sword at the ready as he tentatively made his way into the lavish mansion Jon held his breath, only to lose it when he saw what lay within. The interior seemed entirely made of marble, with sweeping, arched ceilings that seemed to stretch to the sky. Along the far wall was an impressive fireplace that blazed fiercely even though the summer weather seemed too warm to make the need of a fire possible. Overhead, a large golden chandelier glinted at them threateningly. The footfalls of the men echoed hollowly past the construction of what appeared to be a 20-foot angel, similar in size to the statue outside.
“Master Greendale.” Ravensbrow said from above with the kind of pomp that told Jon he fancied himself quite impressive. The voice was weak and reedy, however, and his sagging skin was grey with fear. He was little more than a fat, greedy old man. Jon wrinkled his nose as he looked up, “I had hoped you wouldn’t be the one to come, you know. I always had the greatest respect for you.”
“Not enough to refrain from stealing from my oldest friend.” He retorted, scowling, “Or to treat your people well, or hand yourself in with honor for that matter.” Rav
ensbrow frowned, jowls quivering,
“You don’t understand anything, Jon. You’re a jumped-up farm boy. When Ridgehand goes you’ll go, too, you know. The life debt he owes you won’t buy you the mercy of the estates.” He said, “And the girl won’t shield you either. Or wouldn’t I should say. It won’t matter soon.” He waved a fate hand and more Suri spilled down a staircase concealed by the construction work. The muscles built through years of hard training, and, yes, farm work, creaked to life with not inconsiderable speed, considering the forty or more years behind him, and he slid into a clean riposte, spearing one mercenary with ease. He brought his sword back, his gaze fiery, and swung with the cool natural precision of a veteran. He was here to do a job, nothing more, and he would not be denied. These were the cream of the crop, however, and they met his men with equal ferocity, determined that they should beat the royal guardians back and out of the manor one way or the other.
Blood was seeping onto the marble floor from all angles, making it slippery and treacherous under-foot. His men were skilled, well-trained, honed from years of hard-bitten battles and rough conditions, but even they tired. Even they were weary of the constant bend and tear of the battlefield, and the hard ride here. A Suri mercenary slipped behind Danse, at the very edge of Jon’s vision, but didn’t kill him. Instead they skipped around him towards the scaffolding around the statue and pulled a wicked looking dagger from their belt. Jon pushed his sword through the nearest enemy and stopped, heart slowing as the mercenary sliced through one of the ropes holding the half-formed statue in place.
“Get back,” he croaked, and then drew in a deep breath and roared, “fall back to the doorway!”
With an incredible groan the scaffolding collapsed, bringing large parts of the massive angel statue with it, and sent men scattering in every direction. Jon hit the ground with a grunt, waiting for the pain. A scream tore through the air in the dusty aftermath, and Jon looked around. One of his men, Tovar, was trapped under a fallen hunk of marble, screaming like a caught rabbit. The mercenaries were not so fortunate; their dead outnumbered the living, lying in bloodless heaps of flesh and broken bones. Those who could do so fled without words or threats. They were alive. Jon sighed and got to his feet,