by G. R. Thomas
Books by G.R. Thomas
The A’vean Chronicles
(In reading order)
Awaken
Surrender
Allegiance
Redemption
Child of Fear and Fire
Copyright © G.R. Thomas 2021
Author: G.R. Thomas
www.grthomasbooks.com
All rights reserved
First Published 2021
This is a work of fantasy fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. All statements, activities, stunts, descriptions, information and material of any other kind contained herein, are included for reading entertainment purposes only and should not be relied upon as fact for accuracy, or replicated in any way as they may result in injury.
This book, or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotation for the purpose of a book review.
Editor: Full Proof Editing
Cover & Interior: Platform House:
www.platformhousepublishing.com
Table of Contents
Chapter ONE
Chapter TWO
Chapter THREE
Chapter FOUR
Chapter FIVE
Chapter SIX
Chapter SEVEN
Chapter EIGHT
Chapter NINE
Chapter TEN
Chapter ELEVEN
Dear Reader
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by the Author
This is a work of dark fantasy created to entertain the reader and whilst not intended to cause distress, it may do so for some readers. This story contains fantasy violence, supernatural themes, death, talk of self-harm and non-graphic sexual abuse. If anything in this story causes concern or distress, please contact a support service in your community.
To my husband and children, who sat around the dining table one night under candlelight after the power went out. You helped me work through my story idea, and under the gentle flicker of that candlelight, Child of Fear and Fire found its feet. Thank you and I love you.
Galdrewold
Fictitious English Forest
(Galdr): Old Norse word for spell or incantation.
(Wold): Derived from the old English word, Weald, meaning forest.
Child of Fear and Fire
By G.R. Thomas
Fear rouses wicked things. It uncoils an ancient hunger, casts a rancid breath upon the wind in search of the vulnerable. Wicked’s tide ebbs and flows at the shoreline of the weak. It oozes into cracks, tends to pains of the soul, draws fear into its dark ocean. It mothers and protects, moulds and nurtures fear, until it becomes something altogether unimaginable.
It’s strange what the mind does when death claws for you. Eliza didn’t see flashes of life’s joys, achievements or highlights. Instead, fear mastered her thoughts, resentment burned into her soul. She wondered only if death would be less painful than life.
Eliza held onto the only things anchoring her will to stay in this world. The burn of twine bit into her palms and a bitter cold ached up through her toes from the frigid water below.
Darkness yawned its hungry maw for her flesh. Eliza scrambled to stay above the water, clawed at the rope that sliced without mercy. Eliza’s wordless sobs echoed around her. Tears dripped from her chin and slid down her throat. The rope shook; her body swayed like a pendulum. She kicked out; her sodden boot slid against the slimy wall of the well. Water sloshed out of the bucket she clung so desperately to — drip, drip, drip.
Fear was a deep pain that trembled through Eliza’s body. It leached from her skin and stuck to her clothes. It tasted salty on her trembling lips, stung her eyes and clouded her vision. Fear intensified; it twisted her gut as she imagined how deep the water was below and what it would taste like when she drowned.
Terror eked from her. Desperation coalesced in the snowy puffs of each exhausted breath. Fear melded to her screams; it mirrored her, clung to her, then cleaved a part of itself away. Its miasma circled its way up the stone walls, swirled past three vindictive smiles peering over the edge of the well. Fear tasted them on its way past, fed on their rage. It coiled around them, thrived upon their nastiness, then spiralled upwards towards the sky, slipped along the morning breeze towards the hedgerow and deep into the sleeping Galdrewold.
Panic tightened Eliza’s calloused fingers. They cramped at the knuckles and weakened by the moment, desperately wrapped around the rope that held both her and the bucket aloft. She could feel the hunger of the well water, imagine it pushing itself into her lungs. Would it hurt? The thought drew the veil of unconsciousness over her, but even that reprieve was denied as a drawling voice echoed down.
“I’ll raise the bucket if you promise to tell fat old Mrs Embrey that it was you that took the tartlets yesterday,” Margaret, the older of the sisters, pulled back on the rope again. The aged whiskers of it brushed her cheek; its ancient plait held Eliza’s life in its grasp. The bucket plunged a few feet. Her foot slipped and grazed the top of the cold water again. Her toes curled in her boot. She screamed louder as she swung precariously, the stone walls suffocating, the water a dark eye watching, waiting for her. Eliza’s arms shook as she tried to pull herself back into the pendulous bucket. The rope slid again; wetness wicked up the hem of her dress. It weighed her down, pulled her towards the darkness. The depths of the well watched on, glistening with patience beneath her.
Fear consumed her, paralysed her will, immobilised her thoughts, engulfed her voice. Breath carried only her guttural moans for mercy. The sisters had tricked her again, promising her something pretty, a relief from torment if she went down the well to retrieve something that was never there in the first place.
They let the bucket plunge and pulled it to a hard stop at the last moment. Laughter mingled with the splash of water. The freezing shock winded Eliza. Her hungry gasps for air echoed back. Did death sound so loud? The water sloshed hungrily at her body until a breath finally filled her lungs again. She bobbed waist-deep, clinging with the last of her strength to the rope before the bucket heaved upwards in awkward tugs. Eliza’s body banged against the slimy walls. Bruises swelled quickly on her delicate skin. Her cries were a thousand voices that echoed over and over, trapped, unable to escape, a prisoner, just as she was.
The bucket lurched a little faster. Eliza nearly lost her balance, only saved by the one leg she had wrapped around the rope. Her whole body wobbled backwards; her head smacked against the rocks. Pain ricocheted through her head, but it couldn’t mask the acidic voice of Margaret.
“Well?” Margaret shouted down into the depths. “Will you confess?” She dropped the rope again. The bucket splintered under Eliza’s foot. She felt it begin to give way underneath her. Warmth spread down her legs; a metallic taste filled her mouth.
The bucket lurched up out of the water again.
“Cook will surely give you a good whipping, but that’s to be expected of a servant,” Margaret called down, all too calmly. Eliza’s hands slipped, her palms shredding by the moment. Her sleeve caps lapped up her blood. Her sobs deepened, her consciousness again slipping away. Eliza’s whole body began to numb, her fingers began to uncurl. She let one leg dangle over the side of the bucket. Her eyes rolled. Everything was a blur. Sound slowed and dulled. Her head felt like it was under a pillow. Exhaustion nipped away the rage that wanted to rise within her. Fear, however, remained her master.
Laughter circled its way down the well shaft and slapped away the haze of her concussion. Her fingers curled tighter around the flaxen twin
e, and she spat the taste of blood from her mouth. She blinked away the sleep that wanted to claim her and squinted at the glare of the light above.
“Tell that fat old witch that it was you who stole from the kitchen, or I’ll tell Mother you took them.” Margaret leaned deeper over the ledge. “Think you won’t be dropped on the steps of a Brothel? Might find your mother there!” The sisters laughed hysterically. Their blurred faces were an evil smear against the small sphere of blue sky.
Fear tempted Eliza again to the comfort of unconsciousness, to a place where the pain was eclipsed, where everything was safe and numb. She closed her eyes just for a moment, imagining the reprieve, but then blinked hard awake when her foot dipped back into the icy water. If she drowned or was dismissed, they would turn on their infant brother, the next in line without a voice. Eliza’s belly churned with a stronger flicker of anger. A small fire she never stoked, but it was there, nevertheless. It burned a little brighter for fear of what they could do to such a tiny innocent —
And that which feasted on fear rejoiced in her anger.
“She’s too dumb, Margie.” Annabelle laughed with delight and dropped her arm over the well’s edge, pointing down at Eliza with her doll. “We should just drop her like this.” Annabelle released the doll that hung from a noose of ribbon. The doll breezed limply past Eliza; the splash below shuddered through her. Shivering in her soaked clothes, Eliza rationalised a whipping was better than drowning, it was better than the cold fingers of fear that slithered through her veins, and it was certainly better than being cast out to the street where it would be a Whore House for a living.
A slapping sound drew Eliza’s eyes away from the doll that floated below. Sybilla, the middle sister, punched one fist into another, much like a street urchin itching for a fight. She had taken to slapping Eliza around the very day Mrs Embrey had brought her home to Norlane Hall, six years prior when she was a scrawny ten-year-old. Eliza remembered the confusion, the shock of a beautifully dressed young girl beating her. That was the first day that fear slipped around her heart.
Sybilla was as clever as she was vicious, always careful to hit her where the bruises wouldn’t show. Fear grew day by day since the very first punch to the gut, and she often flinched out of reflex when Sybilla simply walked by.
“Are you listening down there?” The crack of Sybilla’s knuckles sounded like bones breaking. “We could just say you’re a witch in church come this Sunday. Burn or hang? Perhaps a stoning to death? Do they still do that?” She shrugged her puffy-sleeved shoulders, looking to her sisters as though it was a perfectly reasonable query.
The rope creaked; its bristly twine unravelled a little above her strained fingers. Eliza gasped for energy to pull her weight above the weak spot. Her exhausted groans were cut through by Sybilla’s emotionless voice. “Tell the old bat you stole the tartlets. I’ll not miss Lady Henley’s garden party because of a pastry.” All three nodded before the rope was let slip again. Eliza’s feet were back in the water. The porcelain doll bobbed against her boot. It rolled over as the water rippled; its cracked, eyeless face glared back at Eliza. It looked as haunted as she felt.
“Did you steal from the cook?” Margaret yelled. Eliza imagined Margaret’s tongue forked, like a snake’s, that was the sound of her voice.
Another thread of mildewed twine snapped and curled over the back of Eliza’s hand. Eliza began nodding her head in agreeance to the lie that would save the sisters from social exclusion. Her eyes were glued to the horrific doll face. It spun slowly on the surface; its delicate dress weighed it down until it began to loll to one side. It bobbed unexpectedly. Something seemed to tug at the doll. The water rippled as though something dwelled in the depths. Eliza squealed again when a flash of white snatched at the doll. Bubbles rose and popped around her. It disappeared.
Eliza’s muscles cramped in horror. She could swear with each pop of a bubble; she could hear a sound, a whisper, a word. She squeezed her eyes and shook her head. I’m going insane, she thought.
She looked away, up to the surface, so impossibly far away, and pulled wildly on the rope.
She yanked her leg away from the touch of something. The doll popped back to the surface; Eliza screeched again. A small star was scratched into its face. The water rippled once more before the bubbling ceased and the doll slowly sank away again... gone.
Fatigue shook her arms, but she found the strength to tug one last time on the rope, crying for reprieve.
“You will confess?” Sybilla asked calmly. Eliza nodded until her neck ached.
The rope creaked and frayed some more. The bucket swayed and banged new bruises into her as it jolted up the length of the well. Eliza held on for her life until she was tipped out onto the ground, coughing and crying, spitting the lichen taste of the well out, gasping for fresh air.
Her raw fingers clawed gratefully into freshly cut grass. The cool eased the sting. She dug until she felt soil slide under her nails and breathed in the sweet tang of the grass. She wouldn’t look up as the sisters laughed.
“What is that smell?” Margaret giggled. “Must be some dirty, stray dog nearby,” Sybilla responded. “Ooh, smelly dog, smelly dog,” Annabelle sung and danced around Eliza, who was still bent over on the grass. She knew all too keenly that she had soiled herself with fear. The acrid smell of her own bodily waste was impossible to ignore. Humiliation overrode fear for just a moment. Her cheeks burned; her skin felt too tight; the only release was to peel it away, to rid herself of the pathetic shell that she was. She gulped back the urge to scream at them, to pull their hair, to spit in their faces, but she was flat out on the ground, the toes of their shoes too close to her head.
The perfect hems of their dresses swished around her face as they jumped up and down, laughing harder. The cool ground tempered the buzzing under Eliza’s cheeks. A thudding ache dug into her ears and clawed its way around the back of her head. She just wanted to get away, to run and hide.
Eliza wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and coughed. She sniffed back her emotions and pushed herself onto her hands and knees. She glanced sideways at them, only briefly, biting her bottom lip until it stung. The sisters held their bellies, overcome with the joy of her debasement. The three young women were well beyond the age of childish cruelty, but yet, instead of preparing their manners for marriage, they seemed more intent on the art of torture — and Eliza was their daily prey.
A mid-morning sun beat down on Eliza’s head, easing the headache a little. A gentle wind swept through her mousy hair; her cap lost in the well. She sat back on her legs and wound errant, soaked curls behind her ears. She shook out her soiled apron and slowly stood; every muscle ached. Her bloodied palms smoothed her black dress down to her ankles, her chin quivered uncontrollably, a monstrous beast that betrayed her. A large tear slid from her lashes and settled in the corner of her mouth. She licked it away and sniffed the others back whilst re-lacing her sodden boots.
“Oh there, there,” Margaret said, tilting Eliza’s chin up, the glare of the sun stunning her vision for a moment. Blues and greens smudged her peripheries until Margaret’s pale complexion came into focus. Eliza stiffened. Margaret twirled a dark ringlet through her fingers, an expression of mock concern plastered across her face. Eliza focused over Margaret’s shoulder towards the immense hedgerow and wished she could hide behind it, away from them, away from everything.
“Worry not; we are all friends.” Margaret’s mutterings brought Eliza’s attention back from the grand divide between the perfect gardens and the wild forest beyond.
“You know we merely jest with you, Eliza?” Margaret’s brows curved innocently upwards whilst Sybilla crossed her arms, fists snuggled in her elbows. Annabelle smiled sweetly, twisting a ribbon around her own wrist until her fingers bloomed scarlet.
Eliza nodded quickly and curtsied to the sisters. Their unspoken threats were as palpable as if they’d beaten, drowned and hung her with the inference of their
words.
“Good girl.” Margaret patted Eliza’s head as if she were a dog, then wiped her hand down her side as though she’d touched something unspeakable. “Let’s just keep this all to ourselves, Eliza, and tomorrow we will make it up to you dear, you know, for saving us the humiliation of missing the garden party.”
Eliza’s eyes flooded. She stared at a single little clover missed by the gardener’s scythe. Their kindness always came with a sting. Her heart pounded against her ribs, new tears fell to her boots, soaked with her own waste and water. Her foot slid to the right and squashed the clover from existence.
“Come with us on our adventure tomorrow. I may even lend you one of my bonnets, that is, if you wash that stink off yourself!” Margaret screwed up her face and pinched her nose.
Eliza’s head swam. What was this new cruelty they had planned? An adventure with them was never a joy for her. Her fingers clutched the edge of her apron and plucked at the frayed threads. She peered at Margaret through the curtain of her loose hair. Margaret’s cupid lips pursed into a tight, vindictive smile. “What say you, dear Eliza?”
Eliza couldn’t so much as blink, let alone answer. Every day she wondered if it might be her last. Which day would be the day they’d kill her by accident or design?
Sybilla tapped her knuckles together. “Do you want more of the same? Play with us or let us play with you?”
Eliza nodded quickly, picked up her heavy dress and ran for the kitchen, almost looking forward to Mrs Embrey’s switch.
Eliza tossed and turned that night, waking numerous times to prod the lumps in her mattress, but comfort evaded her, and sleep wouldn’t stick. She lay there many an hour, exhausted, staring at walls. In the light of day, they were a worn grey, a tone that suited the room and her life. Bland and colourless was how she felt. The bloom of youthful exuberance had withered within her. No light lay ahead; darkness mastered the past, and the present was an unfulfilling nothingness sandwiched between an uncertain future and torturous upbringing. Eliza was a grey figure in a black and white world of rich and poor, cruel and kind. Somewhere in between everyone else, she merely existed, plain and ignored.