He didn’t have much time. That much was certain. And pretty soon, the decision would no longer be his to make at all. He had to move fast. Having already failed the community once, he saw his final opportunity to redeem his character. He couldn’t save them from the invaders but he could still save them from himself.
If he killed Evan now, he knew he wouldn’t stop until there was nobody left in Cramwell still breathing. So instead of fighting, he ran, and this time he didn’t look back. He had started a fire and was sure it would burn itself out long before it reached where he was going. Whether the last of the Overlord’s elves won – unlikely – or the villagers overwhelmed and butchered them – more likely – he wouldn’t be around to see it.
He ran, and kept running. He ignored the burning in his lungs and the sickly complaints of his melting calves. When he reached the edge of the village he tore into the forest where only the hunters dared venture.
He ran, his senses filled with the sobering strikes of wet leaves slapping against his skin. There, uneven ground, punctuated by twigs, reduced his escape to a lunging shamble.
When he couldn’t run any longer, he jogged. And when the terrain became too steep, he climbed, sinking his fingers deep into the earth with a monotony that he was sure would never end. He navigated difficult hills and rolled through brush on the other side to maintain his forward momentum. When he had walked for hours, and he was sure no one would follow, he stopped.
“Perfect,” he said.
His throat was hoarse so he made a mental note to find water at the first chance he got. For now, though, he was pleased at where he had arrived. Surprised even. The forest around the village was a dangerous place, infested with wild creatures of all shapes and sizes. Life was abundant, but its darker cousin shadowed it at every turn. He had half-expected to encounter the ugly face of death at some point but the predators had, for some reason unknown to him, left him alone.
In the glade in which he now found himself, untouched by civilised hands, one might never have suspected that monsters stalked nearby. An eerie stillness veiled the area.
Stepping forward, he sunk his boots into a deep carpet of moss. The thick parasite clung to almost every surface, spreading a hundred feet in all directions. Garlands of climbers snaked from ancient trees that rose so high their top branches were lost in the clouds. Somewhere close by, the pleasing gargle of running water assured Jack that this would be the place he would spend his first night alone as a monster.
This was confirmed by the sight of a single, giant, fallen tree in the centre of the glade. Thick as a house but carved hollow by rot, its roof was a jagged edge of massive splinters. It was perfect – dangerous, speckled with fungus, and rotten to the core.
Yes, Jack decided. This’ll do for the night.
An almost undetectable smirk appeared on his face.
“Maybe longer,” he said aloud.
Absentmindedly, he reached for the Booke of Spells still pressed flat under his belt. Raising it to his face, he breathed in the warm, woody smell of the brown pages.
The power smelled good.
The End
* * *
Another Chosen One is the introductory novella to a brand new fantasy series by bestselling author Daniel Parsons.
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About the Author
Daniel Parsons lives in South Wales, UK, where he writes fast-paced fantasy and horror stories.
He has written seven books, including The Twisted Christmas Trilogy, The Necroville Series, The Canvas Chronicles and The Creative Business Series for authors. His books have sold in six countries and he has hit multiple Amazon bestseller lists.
His comedy zombie story, The Dead Woods, has received extensive acclaim on the story-sharing website Wattpad where it garnered over 34,000 reads across 70 countries and was named one of the site’s Top Zombie Stories as part of a campaign to promote Hollywood’s Pride and Prejudice and Zombies movie.
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The Skincutter’s Daughter
Joshua Robertson
The barrel toppled from the horse-drawn cart and smashed against the dirt road, missing Adela by a hair’s breadth. The coachman’s outcry was deafened amid the din of the crowded thoroughfare, as he attempted to steady the pale mare by its breeching straps. Adela’s eyes bulged like a frog squeezed too tight, enraptured by the wine spilling across the city street like a river of blood.
“Adela, come away from there.” The gentle tug on her shoulder gave her the sense to breathe. She exhaled louder than she intended and kneeled in the early morning light to touch the cherry-red liquid with fascination. “You are going to ruin your clothes.”
“Do not treat me like a child, Mother.” Adela stood up and placed her fingers to her lips. On the opposite side of the cart, the horse whickered and grunted, stamping its hooves and splashing droplets of wine in all directions. A handful of citizens from Egis, many whom Adela knew, buzzed by with a swell of disoriented murmurs, quickly apathetic to the abating spectacle.
“Stop. You are making a scene,” her mother said. Adela scoffed at her mother’s concern. She never met anyone in Egis who was not a snob, save her friend, Brenn, who showered her in kindness whenever their paths crossed.
Her mother lied regularly to her father about Adele’s whereabouts when she was with Brenn; afterward, she lied to her mother about how Brenn and she spent their time. Of course, they never did anything unfitting. He was old enough to be her father and said so more times than she could count. But people lied, and her business was not the business of her mother.
Adela hummed to herself.
Her mother closed the distance between them, pulling the long sleeve of Adela’s tunic down. “How many times must I tell you to keep your scar covered?”
Adela disregarded the lingering stares of the townsfolk, allowing her mother to tug at her clothes. Ten years ago, her father had cut her forearm, leaving the reddish, bulbous disfigurement as a reminder of his so-called message of atonement. She prayed to eventually understand the full meaning of his lesson, knowing the truth would come if she remained patient.
Her father knew best.
She could see her mother’s frown from the corner of her eye. Having no interest in focusing on the narrowed gaze or pursed lips, Adela pretended to study the coachman beyond the toe board. He hushed the animal in soft whispers, side-eyeing the passing people, while his thin fingers gripped at the bridle. Adela savored the wine on her tongue. The flavor was rustic, like charcoal, and peppered.
“An expensive plum. From Lonmere,” Adela finally said.
“Best wash the taste from your breath before we get home,” came the terse reply. “If your father finds out, neither of us will hear the end of it.”
“I am not a child,” Adela huffed.
Her mother scoffed. “Nor are you an adult.”
“Close enough,” Adela muttered, turning away from the coachman with a smirk. She pushed a strand of brown hair, akin to her mother’s, from her cheek.
Holding the expression, she waited for her mother’s response. Sulanna Forgaaf admittedly was a pretty woman, as mothers went, with the lifted nose and strong jawline of a noble. Nobility, however, meant little in a town like Egis, unlike Lonmere to the north or Gaetana to the south.
The two stood at equal height, nose-to-nose, despite Adela being seventeen years younger. She guessed Sulanna was not much older when she gave birth to her, yet somehow her mother always spoke with the sagacity of an old crone or, at least, made the attempt.
“Adults do not lap up wine like dogs, unless they w
ant to die like one,” Sulanna said sternly, folding her arms under her breasts.
Adela dried her fingers on her shirt, prepping her reply before her mother finished talking. “I was not lapping up anything. And I have seen plenty of adults face down in a pile of regurgitated wine at River’s, so save your wisdom for ignorant little girls who never saw a sloshed man.”
“Hm.” Sulanna tightened the hold around her midsection. “Brenn Dardrogen knows better than to take you there. The tavern is no place for a young…woman. You have a home.”
“Like home is any better.” Adela laughed until the sickened expression on her mother’s face caught her eye. As usual, her tactless, twitching tongue struck a chord. While she was speaking of her mother specifically, her mother likely thought she pointed a finger at her father.
She rid her face of all mirth. Dancing along lines was different from crossing them. Sulanna dropped her arms and folded her hands, skimming the road with concern.
“Stop worrying,” Adela murmured, trying not to mock the woman who birthed her. She leaned into Sulanna’s space to keep her fidgeting hands steady. “I never say anything to anyone about Father, especially Brenn.”
Sulanna wobbled her head, averting her eyes. “We should get back.”
The shrill, cracked tone of an angered old man stopped her and Sulanna from moving a single step. “You spilled my wine!” He stamped over the muddied street, slapping his hands together in front of him like he was smacking an invisible someone across the face. A brown, pointed hat bounced over his grey eyebrows, holding a handful of white strands in place against his temple and cheek, where the hair then blended into a frilly, groomed beard. “I should chop off your bits and feed them to the hogs, one inadequate, pitiful hunk of pink, bruised flesh at a time. Just like in Osgood Hawkins’s The Black Argument, except I will force you to watch!”
“My—my apologies, Vornic Sirska,” the coachman stuttered next to the cart. Any townsfolk who may have tarried too long moved away from the area with a mix of worried expressions.
Adela took a step closer, interested. Any northerner knew a Vornic served Counts, extracting the truth from prisoners through torture, but Adela had never seen one before. Pictures formed in her head of the imagery the odd-looking man painted with his words, leaving her practically oblivious to Sulanna pulling at her arm.
“You will pay for every drop—triple the cost—in either coin or blood,” the Vornic continued, his beady blue eyes fixated on the man. Nothing about the way he positioned himself suggested he cared about what passersby might think.
“A dumb child springing across the road startled the horse, Vornic,” the coachman said, scratching at his hairless chin. “We are not far from Lonmere. I will travel back and get another barrel.”
The Vornic spoke through clenched teeth, smoothing his fine green and golden clothes. “You have no idea what you are talking about. The wine is irreplaceable…” And then, as though fate plotted against them, the old man shifted his sight from the coachman to Adela. She withheld a gasp. At the new angle, she realized half his head was scarred with red lines and folded skin where he might have suffered from a burn years ago. Their eyes met a moment before the Vornic’s brow crumpled considerably, locking on Sulanna over her shoulder.
His jaw dropped, his eyes widening until they nearly popped, tilting forward on his toes. His quickened pace covered half the distance around the wagon seconds before his mouth began flapping.
“You, there! Where do I know you from? Speak to me. I am Vornic Witigor Sirska of Eldhaft and you will answer me.”
She heard her mother straining to answer. To the common man, she may have sounded like any other snooty Egis citizen, but Adela recognized the concealed dread. She used the same tone every time she reprimanded Adela’s father or Adela herself, like three years ago when she threw rocks at the neighbor boy and cracked open his head.
“We do not know each other. My daughter and I were just leaving,” Sulanna said, drawing her away. Her mother’s hand was shaking.
Adela’s foot scraped against the dirt, suddenly heavy and numb. A strange darkness clouded the corners of her eyes, and her knees threatened to buckle.
“Mother, I…” Adela’s throat dried out. She suddenly felt woozy, sick. “I…”
Something was wrong.
“Are you certain?” Witigor stepped around the back of the cart. “I could swear—”
“Believe me. I would recognize a face as repulsive as yours,” Sulanna unexpectedly snipped, tugging at Adela once more. “Good day.”
She barely heard them. Adela’s mouth opened, but she could not hear her own words. Her tongue did not work. A wheeze escaped from her throat.
Witigor advanced. “I know you…your voice.” He paused. “Wait a minute. Sulanna Maelthirren? Impossible.” He inhaled sharply. “You should be dead!”
Her mother’s response was garbled. Adela’s eyes rolled to the back of her head; the street went black.
Her mind reeled, light as a feather.
“Adela! Adela!” Sulanna’s voice echoed in her ears, a hand cupping the back of Adela’s skull. The world was a shadow. The dampness against her shoulders, through her grey tunic, told her she must have fainted. She attempted to move, knowing she must be sprawled on her back in the middle of the street, and found she could not even wiggle her toes. “Wit! What did you do to her?” her mother screamed, the shrill sound ringing in Adela’s eardrums.
Sulanna must know him.
“I did not do anything!”
Her mother’s finger touched the edge of Adela’s swollen lips. “Poison?”
The word hung in the air.
“The wine was laced with ratsbane,” Witigor admitted faintly, hollow of any emotion. “Did she drink my wine?”
“What—what is happening? Mother…” Adela tried. Her words were drowned out by her father’s words echoing in her ears. You are stronger than them, Adela. Stronger than all of them.
Her father always knew best.
“It does not matter. I do not have time for this.” Witigor’s footsteps squished softly against the ground, distancing himself from them. He cleared his throat, speaking boldly to the coachman. “Fetch my personal guard from River’s. We have…criminals…in need of apprehension. Hurry!”
The coachman stamped away.
Adela’s eyes fluttered, the dim light of autumn piercing through her eyelashes, the street glimmering in a haze. She saw her mother’s head snap toward Witigor, who pointed at her with his wrinkled hand.
“By the gods, you are Sulanna. How have you stayed alive this long, staying so young when…?” He shook his head in bewilderment and sneered. “We will find out soon enough. I have perfected your father’s techniques. I read Knife in Hand and A Cold Flame by Sayer Savill. I will extract the truth!” He smiled smugly. “You may have heard Count Vlassi appointed me to be Vornic years ago, after you murdered your father. The Maelthirren name is dead!”
Adela did not have time to process Witigor’s words. He sounded mad. To her surprise, her mother sprang to her feet and clocked the old man with remarkable spryness.
He crumpled to the street, crashing to the wine-soiled ground next to her, unconscious.
A moment later, Sulanna was pulling her upright by the shoulders. “We must get you home to your father. Can you walk? Please, tell me you can walk.”
“What…did…” Adela tried.
“Can you walk?” Sulanna repeated.
She wrapped her arm around her mother’s neck. She could hardly feel her feet but somehow managed to straighten her legs and take a step. She offered a slurred response. “Yes.”
The streets blurred in Adela’s vision. Familiar faces bent into bizarre shapes and colors, distorted hums escaping their twisted mouths.
“Is that Adela?”
“Adela.”
“What happened up the street? Did you hear the shouting?”
“Sulanna?”
“We are fine,” her mother woul
d respond, half-carrying her past the buildings, dragging her into alleyways and less-traveled streets. “We will be fine,” she whispered. “Come on, Adela. Almost home.”
Her heart pounded against her breast, listening to her mother’s heavy breaths, when Sulanna suddenly stopped them. The sound of an older man’s accented, silvery tone grazed Adela’s ear. She recognized the voice immediately but did not have the strength to raise her chin and acknowledge him. “Are you two all right?”
“Brenn, help us,” Sulanna said, repositioning her arm under Adela. “The Vornic from Eldhaft is in Egis. Adela has been poisoned.”
Brenn’s steady hand grabbed at her shoulder, steadying her. “Why would he poison a girl?”
“I do not have time to explain right now,” Sulanna said.
He grunted. “Let me take her.”
“No, I have her,” Sulanna said. “Fetch Rehor and a remedy. Meet me back at my home.” Even in a daze, Adela twitched at Sulanna’s open invitation. Brenn had never been allowed at their cottage before. Her father would never permit it.
“How do you know Rehor?” Brenn asked.
“Please,” Sulanna pleaded.
“Are you certain?” His voice deepened. Adela did not hear her mother’s response. “Do you know what the poison is?”
“Ratsbane,” Sulanna said. “The poison is ratsbane.”
Without another word, Sulanna staggered away with Adela.
Brenn’s footsteps faded behind them.
Adela battled to stay awake, seeing little more than smudges of color dance across her vision. She knew they neared the cottage, but exhaustion overwhelmed her, beckoning her to sleep.
The poison consumed her.
People deserve death. Her father’s words returned; the same words he whispered to her when he forced her to slide the knife’s edge along her skin so many years ago. She may have been eight.
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