Sons of Evil: Book 1 Book of Dread

by Adams, David

  Sons of Evil: Book 1

  Book of Dread

  by David J. Adams

  Text copyright © 2013 by David J. Adams

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art and maps copyright © 2013 by Rachel Adams

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Also by David J. Adams

  The Soul Sphere: Book 1 The Shattered Sphere

  The Soul Sphere: Book 2 The Final Shard

  Sons of Evil: Book 2 Reckoning

  DEDICATION

  To Mom, who found the first story I wrote and typed it up while I was at school, which made me feel like what I wrote mattered…and for always letting me know I was loved.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: The King’s Room

  Chapter 2: The Book

  Chapter 3: On the Road to Anson’s Furnace

  Chapter 4: A Touch of Magic

  Chapter 5: Krangstand

  Chapter 6: Book of Dread

  Chapter 7: Two Farms

  Chapter 8: An Old Friend

  Chapter 9: New Bern

  Chapter 10: The Dragon’s Teeth

  Chapter 11: The Hunters

  Chapter 12: The Demon Riders

  Chapter 13: The War Camp

  Chapter 14: The Battle of the Dalusian Plains

  Chapter 15: Into the Far North

  Chapter 16: Amon Val

  Chapter 17: Glimmers in the Dark

  Chapter 18: The Haunting Past

  Chapter 19: Lon Antar

  Chapter 20: New Friends…New Order

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “I want to kill them all,” Landri muttered as he ground his teeth.

  Maybe it would have been different if his mother still lived, but she had been gone for five years, taken by a fever that refused to break, the delirium that had overcome her at the end a memory he couldn’t escape. His father had grown colder to him then, something he had not thought possible, the iciness a bitter contrast to the way his mother had burned up from the inside. What little love his father could express was now solely shown to Frelis, Landri’s older brother.

  Landri kicked aside a stool, thinking of the way his brother had stood over him as the gathered crowd laughed, the older boy having easily parried aside the younger’s blows as they practiced their combat skills with wooden staffs, and then the world turning upside down as Frelis managed to hook Landri’s legs and send him flying. The faces grew harder and more sinister as he replayed his latest defeat over and over in his mind, none more so than that of his father, Thrum, who cheered the skill of his elder son while sneering at the feebleness of the younger. Even besting Frelis, Landri knew, would never bring him the respect and love of Thrum, not even his grudging approval.

  Landri swatted a pile of papers off a desk just as he had swatted away Frelis’ hand when his brother had tried to help him up.

  “Your anger causes you to lose balance,” Frelis had said quietly, “both physical and mental. You have the skill, but not the patience to use it.”

  Landri had spit at Frelis and the laughter suddenly stopped. Thrum rushed forward then, his face red with rage, ready to strike at Landri, but Frelis held him back with an upraised hand.

  “It is nothing,” he said. “He just needs time to calm down.”

  Landri had jumped to his feet and tossed his practice staff aside, then ran from the looks, the shaking heads, the pity in his brother’s eyes and the scorn in his father’s. He had run through the castle, the servants scattering, seeing the seventeen-year-old was in one of his rages, but Landri had no interest in taking his anger out on them. It would simply be another reason for his father to scold and punish him later.

  He found himself in the library, drawn by its promise of solitude. The books he had spent little time with, far less than Frelis. Frelis was only older by two years and was smaller of frame than Landri, but he had an interest in learning that was foreign to Landri, and everything seemed to come easier to the older boy, be it lessons in math or history or weapons training and horse riding.

  Landri’s face, red with embarrassment only a few moments ago, was now an even deeper hue of crimson, fueled by rage. He wanted to scream, the feelings welling up inside him and demanding a primal release. He managed to control himself, not wanting to draw anyone near, but his eyes went black, swimming with hatred.

  “If they were dead,” he mused aloud, a thought or a wish. No one would laugh at him then, no one would dare, for if King Thrum and Prince Frelis were dead, then he, Prince Landri, would be king of Longvale.

  And if I were king, he thought with a wicked smile playing on his lips, then everyone would pay.

  The dread images he conjured up calmed him, and he strolled the vast library, driven to do so without knowing why. He found himself taking one of the candles that cast only a faint light in some of the long-forgotten aisles, and went deeper, past where the library was regularly kept lit, past rows of older tomes that had collected dust over years of non-use.

  A glint of gold caught his eye, and he bent low, holding the candle before him to see what he had found. The candle reflected off the edges of a slim volume that was framed in metal, brass or tarnished gold perhaps. Landri carefully set the candle down and worked the book out from under the small pile of larger volumes that rested upon it.

  In the dim light it looked black, but when he drew it nearer he could see it was a deep red. No title or marking of any sort was upon the book, and a clasp held it shut. Before he could despair of not having a key, he noticed there was no lock on the clasp, and he gave it a gentle pull, expecting it to open easily.

  The clasp did not budge.

  He turned the book over in his hands three times, trying to see what held the clasp in place, but had no luck. He pulled again, harder, his muscles straining, but the clasp resisted him. With a grunt of frustration, he flung the book against the nearest wall, the candle guttering once but clinging to life.

  Landri stilled his ragged breathing, thinking to leave the book alone, trying to convince himself he need not know what it contained.

  “Probably some old hag’s foul recipes,” he groused to himself.

  He glanced at the book, a sideways glance, hopeful that the toss had broken it open. It remained closed, the candlelight dancing on its casing.

  Landri snatched the book up and tore at it with his pent-up fury. After all he had been through, this book spiting him was more than he could bear. The flesh of two fingers on his right hand were sliced open by the metal frame, and Landri let out a quick gasp of pain and dropped the book. He put the fingers to his mouth, tasted the blood, then spit it out. As he absently brushed the wounded digits on the leg of his pants, he looked at the book, and what he saw made his eyes go wide with wonder.

  The clasp fell aside and the cover of the book opened, even though the book rested with its back flat on the ground. A dull light seemed to come from the first page, a muddy yellow glow, and as he leaned forward to see what was written there, the bitter smell of sulfur stung his nostrils.

  Chapter 1: The King’s Room

  (Ten Years Later)

  Sasha Stoneman looked at the king’s bed, and her hand crept upward until it held the collar of her work blouse tightly closed. She swallowed, felt the hand there, and forced it down. She wished she could calm her racing heart and churning stomach as easily.

  She had been in the room before, doing her cleaning, and had always thought it a humble room, for a king. The bed was large enough for three, but was of simple construction and was covered with a faded tan quilt. The dres
ser, nightstand, and desk were nicely crafted, but made of local oak, rather than some exotic species. A small fire burned in the cozy fireplace on the western wall, while opposite a simple window, over which the curtains were currently drawn, looked east. But tonight the room seemed sinister and close, the smell of alcohol and acrid sweat lingering in the air, and it was with fear that she looked back at the door that had just been shut behind her, waiting for the knob to turn and the king to enter.

  She went to the window, gently pulling aside the curtains and peering out, hoping against reason to find some salvation there. But the window was heavily barred—likely to keep away would-be assassins—and the darkened courtyard was three stories below, abandoned but for the sentries that kept watch. Even if she could call out to them it would bring no help—it had been one of the sentries that had brought her here.

  Sasha had seen this particular sentry before, an older man with a stubbly beard and a hard look. He had simply said, “The king requests the pleasure of your company,” with a knowing look, and had grabbed her roughly by the elbow and whisked her away from the other servants. She knew better than to protest. Others had done so and been beaten, or worse. The other women just looked away, sorry for Sasha but glad it wasn’t them.

  Sasha crept back toward the door and listened. A moment’s silence was like a glimmer of light in the gathering darkness and she reached for the doorknob, but then she heard the guard clear his throat and the rap of the base of his staff against the cold, stone floor.

  Slowly she paced the room, playing out conversations in her mind, picturing the king being reasonable and sending her on her way. Perhaps he only needed someone to talk to, she thought, while a deeper part of her laughed at her own naiveté. There is no escape, that icy voice whispered.

  She sat down to try to calm herself, realized being on the bed when the king entered would send the wrong message, then quickly stood up. Her skirt caught a candlestick on the nightstand beside the bed, knocking it to the floor. In the empty room, the sound seemed far louder than it was, and she half-expected one of the guards to come in to investigate.

  As she knelt to pick up the candlestick, she could see how badly her hands were trembling. She stayed crouched for an instant with her eyes closed, forcing herself to take a deep breath. She opened her eyes and placed the candlestick back on the nightstand.

  She paused, something out of place playing on her subconscious. She slowly knelt down again and looked under the nightstand. There a thin metal chain hung from a small key, which had been left in a lock on the underside of the nightstand. She hesitated, feeling she had found a secret and wanting to investigate, but afraid to pry. The nightstand’s lone drawer had no lock. She opened it instead of the lock, grimacing at the small squeak of wood-on-wood, and studied the contents with growing disappointment: a nightcap, a sweat-stained shirt, an old brush full of hair, a couple of spare candles.

  Something about the sides of the nightstand bothered her. She caressed the smooth wood while her eyes fell upon the drawer, and then she understood. The drawer’s face was the right height, but the inside was much shallower. It dawned on her that the key likely opened a small compartment hidden under the main drawer.

  The key in the lock drew her attention once more. She reached out, hesitated one last time, then gave in and turned the key.

  She felt the weight immediately, something substantial being supported by the thin wood. She let the panel down slowly and reached in to keep the contents from spilling onto the floor. As the panel fell completely open, Sasha found she held a book. Without thinking she placed it on the ground and recoiled, something inside her repulsed by the tome. She closed her eyes and took a moment to compose herself, confused by such an irrational reaction.

  With a little distance of space and time she again regarded the prize. No picture or word graced the book, and this, along with a keyless clasp that bound it shut gave it a certain air of mystery. Sasha reached tentatively at the clasp, pulled once, and was unsurprised that it did not yield.

  Subtle noises from outside the room alerted her, voices and approaching footfalls. Quickly she closed the secret panel and turned the key. With a foot she nudged the book under the bed.

  The door opened with a bang. King Landri stumbled in, a half-empty bottle of wine clutched in his right hand. His shirt was badly soiled with food and wine, and his pants were little better. He reached for the doorknob and missed, lost his balance, and would have gone down but for his shoulder hitting the wall, which held him up. He tried again, managed to find the handle, and flung the door closed. He took a long pull from the bottle, most of the liquid finding the target but plenty spilling down his chest, and then his eyes found Sasha, who had backed against the wall. He held the bottle out toward her, an offering.

  “No, thank you, your majesty,” she said, more calmly than she thought possible.

  He shrugged at this and took another long drink. “Waz-yer-nam?”

  Sasha forced a smile. “Excuse me?”

  Landri stood as upright as his current state allowed, and with a touch of anger asked, “WHAT…IS…YOUR…NAME?”

  “Sasha, sire.”

  This response amused the king. “That’s a funny last name…what people call me!” He went to the bed, struggling to keep his balance and plopped down. Some of the wine slopped onto the quilt, starting a muddy brown stain. He pulled at his chin, lost in some reverie for a moment, his back now to Sasha. He shook his head and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

  “Of course, sire. You are Landri, King of Longvale.”

  “So I am!” he said, as if surprised by the fact. He took another drink, turned his head fractionally to catch a glimpse of Sasha, then turned away again. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  She did, but without hesitation she replied, “No, your majesty.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “Married?”

  “No, sire.”

  He drained the bottle and tossed it aside. “Why don’t you come and sit next to me.”

  Sasha closed her eyes and tried to keep her composure. She felt like her heart would beat right out of her chest. “I’m more comfortable standing, your majesty. If you don’t mind.”

  “But I do mind.” He made to rise but fell back onto the bed instead. “Here, come and help your king stand.”

  “But, sire, I—”

  “Don’t make me call the guards. You wouldn’t like that.”

  Sasha was sure she wouldn’t, but she was beginning to consider it a viable option. Still, if she was only helping him off the bed…

  Sasha moved to where Landri sat and took hold of his left hand and forearm. For a moment he simply smiled at her, and she started to pull him to his feet, but then suddenly his face went hard and he gripped her wrist fiercely. He used his strength and his dead weight to pull her down onto the bed, then started to kiss her roughly on the neck.

  Sasha had worked all her life, on the farm as a young girl and in the king’s castle these last six years. Her build was average, but the labor gave her a sinewy toughness. When she instinctively pulled away, she was able to break Landri’s vise-like hold and leave him flat on his back. The short-term price for this was a pair of scratches on the back of her hand and a slight tear of her blouse at the shoulder. The longer-term implications were of more concern, especially considering the way the red color was moving up Landri’s neck and onto his face, as if he were a thermometer suddenly dropped in boiling water.

  Sasha backed away while Landri sat up. He swooned, the alcohol overcoming the adrenaline rush born of his rage. He flopped backward, grabbed the discarded wine bottle by the neck, and flung it half-heartedly at Sasha.

  Sasha dodged aside and the bottle smashed against the wall. She looked from Landri to the door and back again, wondering if the noise would bring the guards. To her surprise Landri started to laugh.

  “I suppose you have me at a disadvantage, dear,” he said, still l
ying flat on his back. He continued to laugh and shook his head, and Sasha realized that the king was mocking his own alcohol-fueled impotence.

  He fell silent and closed his eyes, and for a moment Sasha dared hope he had drifted off to sleep. She inched toward the door, wincing even at the subtle swishing sound of the fabric of her skirt against her legs.

  In the courtyard the watch sounded the hour.

  “You have no idea how powerful I am,” he stated flatly.

  She froze in place but remained silent.

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do, sire. You are king.”

  His laugh this time was derisive. “Kings come and go. They have the power given by birth or law. Power that can be taken away by an assassin or an invading army…or even a fever run amok.” Here he paused, his mind somewhere else for a time. “I have a better source of power.” He reached toward his neck, as if expecting to find something there, and when he didn’t he frowned, mumbling “Where’s my key?” With a start he rolled over and onto his elbows. The motion was too much for him, and he muttered under his breath about how he wished the room would just hold still for a moment. He shimmied forward, making little progress and bunching the quilt up underneath himself. He seemed to be trying to reach the nightstand beside his bed. Slowly he lowered his head and his body sagged as if having completed some great effort. “You’ll be back,” he muttered.

  Sasha held her breath, praying the king had drifted off into a drunken sleep. Just when she began to hope she could make her escape, he slowly lifted his head, his eyes suddenly wide and bright.

  “You’ve seen it!” he shouted.

  “Sire, I don’t know—”

  “Liar!”

  His eyes went to the floor once more, and she followed his gaze, and there saw that the corner of the book yet peeked out from beneath the bed. Involuntarily she gasped, and as she raised her eyes she met his, and she knew from the fire she saw there that all was lost.