Cursed

Casey M. Millette

Description

A war rages between kings and clans for centuries, their nations split and their kingdoms fallen. Caught in the midst of poverty and bedlam, twenty-year-old Aldor faces a choice. Should he leave home and start his life anew, or stay and protect what little he has? 



Aldor has only made one friend in his life and has never seen a legendary creature before. As soon as he steps beyond his door, he finds himself an outlaw, hunted by creatures of pure fantasy. 

 

Forced into joining a team of misfits in a race to recover a sacred, lost stone, Aldor finds unexpected friendships and adventure. But just as things start to look promising, disaster strikes, wielding the unexpected and the terrifying!

 

Aldor's life will never be the same as he struggles with true feelings of fear, loss, love, and suffering for the very first time.

Informations

• Publié par: The Parliament House
• Date de parution: 18 septembre 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9788828375340
• Langue: English

Extrait

Cursed
The Hunter Inside


Casey Millette
Copyright © 2018 by Casey Millette
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Rebecca Milhoan & Jacklyn Turner
Designed by Shayne Leighton
Published by The Parliament House
www.parliamenthousepress.com
Contents



Foreword


1. The Best Adventures Are The Least Expected

2. Not Lost, Not Found

3. New Friends

4. The False King

5. A Way to Start Things

6. All That’s Left is Optimism

7. The Hospitality of a Guardian

8. Rolling Down the River

9. Sindie Lair

10. A Lost Island

11. More Troubles. . .

12. The Climb

13. Tree of Horror


About the Author

The Company Still Needs Your Help

The Parliament House
For Lauren and Grace,
And all the adventures we shared
Foreword



“Home is behind, the world is ahead,
And there are many paths to tread,
Through shadow to the edge of night
Until the stars are all alight.”
-Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings


“I believe that tomorrow is stronger than yesterday
And I believe that your head is the only thing in your way
I wish you could see your scars turn into beauty
I believe that today it's okay not to be okay
Hold on, hold on
'Cause I have been where you are before
And I have felt the pain of losing who you are
And I have died so many times, but I am still alive.”
-Christina Perri, I Believe

1

The Best Adventures Are The Least Expected

I t hurts. There isn't a way to describe a stab-wound that justifies it, so that'll have to do. It was a close call – being pinned down to the floor like an insect to a ruddy scientist's board, nor was it an experience I'd recommend. If it wasn't for Jethro, once the metal entered my skin, it would've been over within a heartbeat. Glimpsing Farthan's smirk but unable to hear his words as he screeched—a brittle sound—was enough for me.
It’s been days. Days since the bloody squeals of arrows, chains, and pullies… like the gateway to hell started, and I’d be lying if I’d told you it hasn't been pandemonium. It’s hard to remember where we came from or where we’re going, King Jethro, the troops, and I as we cower between the only thing between us and Farthan: a rock wall not a meter thick. Every time the sun is snuffed out, we see nothing; rock behind, death ahead. Having Farthan gut me like a fish last night made me wonder –
There wasn’t anything else. The rest of the narrative was splattered with far too much blood for comfort. Crimson stains seared away the rest of the lettering like a burn charring flesh, little droplets here and there dotting the i’s for Rowan as a favor. It was the last thing the man had written since the demolishing of Bishopthrope Citadel. Like most stories, good had won in the end. Shortly after Rowan’s death, King Jethro had been able to rally his troops to victory against Farthan and the army he'd bred himself. Orcs hadn’t been used as an asset of war since ancient times, but Farthan had figured how to change that quickly.
The library was a greasy place. That's probably the reason why Aldor never got into books. He hadn't thought it possible for firelight to look sticky, but the torches lining the walls of the dungeon-like athenaeum certainly did. Books. Crackling. Papercuts. Old ladies. Ugh, definitely not the best place in the world.
Aldor closed the script gently and shoved it behind the counter again. Two things got him the special privilege of having access to the real archives hidden in the library: being Rowan's son and having Prince Jonathan as his best friend. Some people argued that Aldor was only Jon's friend because of the benefits, but seeing as Aldor didn't have the guts to interact with anyone else, that speculation dissolved quickly.
A good eighteen years had come and gone since his father had passed away, and now all Aldor could do to be sure Rowan existed once was stare at his blood drippings that dotted the manuscripts. Despite the wounds carved into the teeth of mountains and the marks searing the moors, it was like Eldoran had fallen asleep. Orcs hadn’t been seen in nearly two decades and civilians were off their guard. It was like a curtain that had briefly encircled the world was thrown back. No one second-guessed another’s intentions, the smog of war rendered the north completely untouched. His heels slapped the library floor, the echo of his footsteps strangely satisfactory as he strode through the corridors. The light poured in now and poked his eyes, having to adjust to the brightness of the world above ground.
Aldor was pleased to say that he had more to life than studying ancient scripts. Aldor lived in Dagon, a northern agricultural realm, for longer than he could remember. Glen, his nurse from infancy, told him so. His world was composed of the empty plantations stitched together by hedges and nothing else. The hunger for change burned in his belly whenever he saw the guards ride into the forest that enclosed the tiny bubble he called home. He hated it. He hated the feeling because it couldn’t be contented.



H is head was too busy to notice much of the market, so all the faces, sounds, and sights were only smears of memory. The market stood in a vast, cobblestone square, circled by dense forest on all sides. The Castle is a bit monstrous with gargoyles to match, looming several thousand feet high, its spirals tickling the sky's underbelly. Shops crowded around a dense sea of bodies and noise. There were no gaps between the stalls. The mingling smells of sweet blood from the butchers, sweat, and spices could've been overwhelming if Aldor wasn't so used to it.
“Oi! Watch it!”
Aldor dipped his head apologetically, slipping through people making him stagger. “Sorry, sorry!”
He slunk along the edge of the town and out of way, moving into the forest. Noises of a different life set apart from the turmoil of the city enveloped him as he shifted into trees. It was soothingly dark, the harsh eye of the sun cast a glare on the trees which absorbed it into a dense canopy. The forest, though mostly feared, was often taken for granted as a sort of protection. It kept things out. The natural wall was thick, and no one ever ventured in there—except for Aldor, Jon, and the king's patrols, which was a rare thing to see in these days of plenty.
The blue thread of the river gushed through the woods nearby, slicing Dagon neatly in two before moving on to join the River Everlasting farther down. Parts were more lax than others, and that was exactly where Aldor found him. The heavy sword on his belt made Jon look more intimidating than he really was. He was a princely figure. Literally. Jon hated being the king’s grandson, but that wouldn’t stop his ceremony of becoming admiral. A ceremony which was to take place that night. Aldor was proud of himself because he hadn’t forgotten.
“Aw, you bothered to show up after all.” Jon already strode ankle-deep in brown water, bow in hand.
Aldor rolled his eyes and parted through the bracken toward his friend. “Long story. Let's leave it at that.”
“You look terrible.”
“Wow. At least I can always trust you to be honest.”
Jon grinned as Aldor bent to lift the bow Jon brought for him off the ground and followed the prince's example quietly. A flicker of silver caught his eye, not to be missed in the messy fluid of brown. He noticed Jon turn at his shoulder, licking his lips and praying that Jon would keep his mouth shut. Apparently, that was asking too much.
“You're doing it wrong.”
“Shut up.”
Aldor's fingers slid into place in the curve of the bow. Perfect. The sluggish creek hissed around his waist now, but he didn't stir. He utterly focused on the dark outline of the fish in front of his nose. So close, yet so far.
“Come on,” his scruffy lips yearned. “Just a little closer.”
Aldor's shot was hindered by Jon's disapproving monotone. The arrow cut through the water and out of his vision in a flash.
“You know that was my dinner, right? Just making sure. . .”
Jon's shrug was apologetic but smug. Aldor had never seen Jon flustered before, and today was no exception.
“You took too long,” critiqued Jon.
“No, I was distracted.”
Aldor crossed his burly arms as he watched his friend swagger effortlessly through the water. He squared his shoulders as Jon grew closer, emphasizing their obvious height difference. Aldor has Rowan's build, but not his confidence. Aldor's ragged beard, which he'd struggled so hard to grow, buried lost traces of boyhood. Dark locks completed his stubble. Piercing blue eyes flickered along the lazy creek's bank to the Dagon River surging not five yards away.
It seemed as though the only thing Aldor got from Rowan were his looks. It wasn't a lot. Even though Rowan had been revered as a hero, Aldor hated to admit that he didn't know much about his father at all. It was why he was desperate enough to break into a library. Glen, the caretaker who'd raised him since his father died, didn't speak of Rowan very often. No one did.
There was a squelch as an arrow snapped into a n