The Heir of Eyria

by Osku Alanen

  The Heir of Eyria

  By Osku Alanen

  Text copyright © 2019 Osku Alanen

  All rights Reserved

  Table of contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 1

  Ronan

  When hunting a Daemoni, it is wise to come well prepared, else you risk a rendezvous with the beyond much sooner than you’d like. This night, Ronan, however, was anything but prepared. Instead, he ran across a dark forest, alone, chasing whispers in the wind. He had one thought and one thought alone running through his head.

  I reckon I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  The voices Ronan heard seemed to have no direction; they were everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The screams of women, children, men. These were the screams of the fallen. Voices he knew well. His family, his friends. Everyone he had ever lost or failed to save. There were also those whose lives he had taken. More souls than he dared count. Hearing their familiar voices brought back memories—memories he’d rather forget than revisit. Regrets.

  Ronan gripped his axe harder, muscles bulging under its enormous weight, knuckles whitening with the effort. The fear had all but drained his strength; he could hardly stand. Any other day, he would have looked intimidating. It was different when no one was around, though. No one except the dead and their whispers. And now he saw the dead everywhere around him, in every shadow and behind every tree.

  The Daemoni were toying with Ronan.

  If other men saw him now, what would they think? A hard-looking man such as him, scared out of his mind. When people saw him crossing the street, they stayed away. He wasn’t sure if it was a good or a bad thing. It was certainly bad when it came to the women. Not so much with men; not many a man raised their voice against him. One hard look was all it took to scare them away. And most knew the man he had once been—another regret, one he swore to never repeat.

  The wind howled through the scarce forest, the last few withered leaves gasping for their final breaths, as the coldness of the coming winter threatened to envelope them. Suddenly, the howl turned into a scream. A human scream?

  Ronan felt the blood in his body freeze. The grip on his axe was so tight his knuckles turned white. If he wasn’t holding it in front of his very eyes, he would’ve thought he’d dropped it. Why had he accepted this job? All he wanted was to spend time with his son—precious time. He sure as hell didn’t want to be alone in this damned place, hoping that he wasn’t the one to end up dead tonight. Another promise I might betray. Should I end up dead tonight, what will happen to him, to my son? Yet another street urchin, forced to fight for scraps, with no future to look forward to? Never. Not when I still draw breath.

  Voices around Ronan whispered to him.

  “Run.”

  “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Leave us be.”

  Ronan swallowed. Running felt like a good idea, but these were the whisperings of the Daemoni, and the Daemoni couldn’t be trusted. Experience had thought him that. And he sure as hell wouldn’t repeat the mistakes he had made when he was but a youth.

  Chasing after the voices might prove to be a terrible mistake, aye, but Ronan didn’t have time to second-guess his decisions. Not if he wanted to stay alive throughout the night. And he had come so far already, and he sure as hell wouldn’t leave without getting paid. He lifted his left leg. Then the right. They felt so heavy, but at least they worked.

  Ronan sprinted towards the voices, his trusty axe swaying from left to right as he ran through the woods that were now thickening around him. Slowly, his courage returned to him. Battles were always like this for him: it was the only time he felt truly alive. Fear could be both a gift and a curse. And in battle, the storm raging through his veins drowned all else. He would have to be careful, though. It was all too easy to lose control, and he would never make that mistake again.

  The thin layer of snow squeaked beneath Ronan’s heavy steps as he ventured deeper inside, the woods around him growing unnaturally loud. Branches of nearby trees felt like they were cutting into his flesh like the tips of sharp knives, but Ronan ignored the pain. When sprinting, his body was like a battering ram, and should any Daemoni cross his path, he could run them down with ease. It was one of his greatest strengths—the sheer weight of his muscled body. And with these cunning bastards, he needed all the advantage he could get.

  The howling in his ears grew louder by the second. Ronan saw light far ahead. The sheer weight of his weapon and the thick furs wrapped around him threatened to prove too heavy for a man so out of shape. He felt his stamina leaving him. He had gotten too comfortable. Too soft.

  Suddenly, the frozen woods around him vanished. He had entered an opening of sorts—a field of flowers blooming in defiance of the cold as far as the eye could see. And in the middle of the field, Ronan saw the source of the voices.

  The Daemoni. Three of them. And, by the gods, these were a nasty bunch. Three winged creatures of pale skin and fangs as sharp as any knife. The folks at the village had shared their terrifying tales of how the Daemoni of the woods had kidnapped their young males, luring them inside the woods, never to be seen again. Ronan could finally see the reason why.

  Despite the unnatural look of these Daemoni, they did look like women. He was mesmerized by the sight. His frown eased. Their fangs seemed grow smaller, along with their wings. Their pale skin didn’t bother him that much anymore, either.

  “Come to us, Ronan,” one of them whispered.

  “I know you want to,” the second one said with a seducing voice.

  “Please,” the last said, beckoning Ronan to her, gently tracing her finger along her body.

  Ronan swallowed. What was he doing here again? Something inside his mind was screaming at him, shouting for him to cut them down, but Ronan couldn’t fathom why. Why would he want to harm a hair on the heads of these beautiful women?

  Ronan took a step closer, his frown eased into a soft grin. Damn, these women were beautiful. Way too beautiful for a hard man like him. His anger had all but dissipated. Instead, a deep lust was growing inside of him, clouding his thoughts. He would do anything to be with them. Anything.

  They try to deceive you.

  Ronan brushed the voice in his head away. For so many years in his youth, he had listened to the voice, obeying its call. No more. He had pushed down that part of him and would never rely on it again.

  The Daemoni were upon him. Touching his body all over. Ronan dropped his weapon. After all, what use did he have for it now? He smiled. He had never been the center of attention, not like this. Women might not have called him ugly, but they often thought him too intimidating—especially with his nose that had been broken so many times Ronan had lost count. And his scarred body hardly helped, either.

  Trust me.

  Ronan frowned at the voice. Its presence hadn’t felt this close for years now. He should have been alarmed, but he found that he couldn’t turn his gaze away.

  “Father,” someone behind him shouted, but he didn’t pay any mind to it. Still, this time the voice had sounded almost real. Had it always sounded like that? Something about the voice seemed awfully familiar to him.

  There is danger here.

  The three women circled him, slowly removing his furs.


  “Father, please. What are you doing?” the voice repeated, sounding more urgent.

  Ronan looked behind him, angry at being disturbed at a time like this. His eyes widened in surprise. He knew the boy. He knew him well. He had raised this boy, nurtured him, protected him. The reality of the situation around him came rushing back to him. He remembered why he was here, and he remembered what he was set out to do. He was here to kill these creatures, not mate with them. Gods, what was he thinking? But his son, what was he doing here? He should be home, waiting for him.

  He pushed the beasts away, lifting the weapon he had dropped. The Daemoni slowly retreated at the sight of it, their fangs bared. They hissed, and Ronan lunged, swinging his axe overhead. The first of the beasts fell with a single blow, its companions shrieking with a deafening cry of anguish that made Ronan shiver with the sheer wrongness of it.

  The two remaining Daemoni divided, lunging for Ronan from left and right in a simultaneous, coordinated attack. It was sometimes hard to remember that these creatures weren’t simple beasts, but that they possessed intellect. And that made them dangerous.

  Ronan rolled forward, evading their attack. He quickly regained his footing, followed by a wild swing of his axe, hoping to hit at least one of the creatures as the sharp steel cut through air. The axe hit its target. The second Daemoni fell silent as its head fell to the ground with a barely perceptible thump. He had missed the third one, barely. The beast looked at its fallen comrades and it screamed, deafeningly. It was so loud Ronan could almost feel his eardrums shatter.

  With his ears ringing, Ronan prepared for the last Daemoni to attack him. These creatures were intelligent, aye, but when they were enraged, they quickly transformed into mindless beasts.

  Except this one didn’t.

  The last Daemoni turned its gaze towards Ronan’s son, who was standing helpless to Ronan’s right. And in a moment of sheer horror and shock, Ronan understood what it was about to do.

  The Daemoni lunged.

  “Flee, Keran,” Ronan mouthed in desperation, but he was too late. The Daemoni had already sunk its massive fangs into Keran’s neck, the boy’s eyes widening in shock and pain.

  Ronan roared, sprinting for his son’s aid. He lifted the Daemoni’s head from his son’s neck with a single hand, crushing its throat with only his grip, sending it sprawling to the ground. He lifted his axe high above his head, bringing it back to the ground with a blow that could shatter a mountain. The monster’s head split into two.

  Ronan exhaled heavily. He had succeeded. He turned his sight to his son, gasping as he saw him shaking on the ground. “The fangs,” Ronan whispered. “Poison.”

  “Father, it hurts,” Keran whimpered.

  “I know, son. I know. Just hang in there.”

  Ronan carefully inspected the wound in his son’s neck. It was deep, but there was less blood than he’d expect. Something in the Daemoni’s fangs caused blood to coagulate, perhaps? That was good, Ronan knew. At least he wouldn’t bleed out.

  He will perish within the hour.

  Ronan bit his lip; the voice was right. He needed to find help and fast. He cut off a piece of his shirt, bandaging it around his son’s neck.

  “Keep pressure here, son. Press hard. I reckon we have plenty to travel, and I will have to carry you.”

  Ronan took a final glance at the three dead Daemoni. He frowned. He should take a trophy with him as a proof of a completed hunt, but he didn’t have the time. Hera would be pissed, but there was no helping it: when it came to his son or a few coins, it was no choice at all. Cursing his misfortune, Ronan lifted his son up his shoulders and started running.

  ***

  The boy had grown frighteningly pale during his run back. Ronan’s hope that the poison’s coagulating effect would prevent Keran from bleeding out quickly proved false. The makeshift bandage Ronan had ripped from his shirt had quickly saturated with blood, forcing Ronan to push past the limits of his endurance as the blood slowly dripped down Ronan’s shoulder. Keran had lost consciousness soon after. The creature’s fangs had sunk deep. Too deep.

  Ronan was past the point of exhaustion by the time he reached a lone cabin in the woods. Eira was his last hope; there was no time to bring him back to Riverend for treatment by proper surgeons. But would she help him? Ronan shook his head, shaking the useless doubt and fear away. She would. She cared for the boy, deeply. She would never turn him away.

  “Eira!” Ronan roared as he appeared from the woods, carrying his son in his arms, covered in sweat.

  A woman of white hair and fair tone quickly appeared from the cabin, tightly gripping a hatchet intended for woodwork. She was wearing scarcely anything on her, obviously ill-prepared for visitors. She had become a true hermit these past years, and whenever strangers came towards her cabin this late at night, they likely had something else in mind than a friendly visit.

  Eira dropped her hatchet when she realized who was running towards her. Her frown deepened once she saw the boy on Ronan’s shoulders. “Quick, take him inside,” Eira said, holding the door to the dimly-lit cabin open.

  Ronan carried his son inside the with scarcely a word. It had gotten almost too dark outside; their hike had taken a lot longer than Ronan had anticipated. A moment longer and Ronan might have lost his way. The forests around these parts were not known for their hospitality, especially for a lone wanderer and an injured boy. If not a hungry wolf, then a group of bandits might seek them out in the darkness of the night, hoping for an easy prey.

  The cabin itself smelled like freshly baked bread, with only a few candles illuminating the two crowded rooms inside. Ronan lowered his son on Eira’s bed with care, heart filled with anguish once he saw how pale the boy truly was, and how his lips had turned almost blue.

  “What happened?” Eira asked gently, examining the wound. She felt the boy’s forehead, removing the bloodied bandaged, and replaced it with a clean towel, motioning Ronan to keep pressure at the wound as she moved to study the boy’s pupils.

  “A Daemoni,” Ronan grumbled, grinding his teeth. “Sank its damn teeth right in.”

  Eira frowned, looking at Ronan with bafflement. “You let him come with you for a hunt? By the gods Ronan, have you lost your mind?”

  “It’s not like that, Eira. The boy must’ve followed me there. He wasn’t supposed to be there. I went there alone,” Ronan muttered.

  Eira sighed. “No matter. What’s done is done. But the boy’s weak, Ronan. If you came here a moment later….”

  “What can I do?”

  “Leave. Let me work. I’ll do what I can for him. There’s nothing more you can do for him.” She ripped off Keran’s shirt and removed the new towel, which had quickly turned bloody as well. She ran for a cabinet by the corner, taking some foul-smelling liquid, smearing it on the wound.

  Ronan nodded, leaving Keran in Eira’s care. He had no choice but to trust her. While not a proper surgeon, she had patched him up more than a few times, even bringing him back from the brink of death once. Why she had shown such kindness for him, Ronan could scarcely comprehend, but he had been grateful, always. Showing emotion never came easy for him. It was weakness—that’s what his father always used to say.

  Ronan’s knees buckled, and he collapsed on the half-frozen steps of Eira’s cabin. He cursed the gods, blaming them for bringing yet another tragedy into his life. But, still, the one he blamed the most was himself for being so careless. No one was supposed to get injured, especially not the boy. Not during a hunt this simple. He had only accepted to job to get some coin, so he could buy his son something to eat. He couldn’t bear watching him go to sleep with his stomach empty one day longer. He had sworn to himself countless a time that he would never hunt another Daemoni. But time and time again, it had proven too difficult a promise to keep. After all, what are vows and promises worth when your pockets are empty, and you hear your son cry of hunger?

  The inability to do anything for his son soon overwhelmed Ronan. He tried t
o convince himself that he had done all he could bringing him here. He would survive. He had to. Ronan had no one else; his son was all he had left. He screamed at the open sky, venting his frustration. The crows in the nearby trees flew off with haste, alarmed by his sudden sound. It was growing darker by the minute. And colder. Ronan could feel chills all over his body, and now that he had stopped running, he finally noticed his sweat-stained clothes. Should he stay outside like this for much longer, he would surely freeze to death. Then again, he deserved it, didn’t he? To freeze to death. His actions today had almost gotten his son killed. He should just lay here, on these very steps, and wait for to death come knocking.

  “Ronan,” Eira said calmly, appearing from the cabin with bloodstained fingers.

  He lifted himself up, eyes jerking awake. Had something happened? Gods, was his son dead? Heart racing in his chest, he entered the cabin on Eira’s beckoning, gasping once he saw his son laying there on the bed, motionless. He turned his head towards Eira. “Is he…?”

  Eira shook his head. “He’s alive—barely. You were wise to bring him here. He has a chance, now. A good chance.”

  Ronan nodded his thanks. No words were necessary. He knew he owed her; there was no need to state the obvious. He placed his sweaty palm on top of Keran’s chest, watching his chest go up and down in a gentle motion.

  “The poison?”

  “Neutralized. Some part of it still runs through his veins, but your son is strong. In time, he should recover. You’re lucky, Ronan. He’s not the only one bitten by a Daemoni that’s been brought here. My last patient wasn’t so lucky, and I wasn’t prepared then, but I am now.”

  “Oh, Keran,” Ronan whispered, voice shuddering. “Why did you follow me into the forest? I told you never to go there….” He wasn’t an emotional man, but seeing his own flesh and blood come so close to death surfaced emotions he thought he buried long ago. Showing emotions in this part of the world was a weakness, and weak men don’t live for very long. If men don’t kill you, then the Daemoni will. Only those who fight for themselves survive. All other men are prey. He wiped away his tears and stood up.