Infernal Prey

Mark Winter

Description

In the deep shadows of the Carpathian Mountains, the dark forces of the Order are gathering. Their goal: the final destruction of the Kindred, the last guardians of magic. And only one crippled boy stands in their way.

Informations

• Publié par: eBookPartnership.com
• Date de parution: 06 mars 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781783013586
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

INFERNAL PREY
BOOK 1 OF THE AKHYRRI CYCLE
MARK WINTER
COPYRIGHT
© 2014 Mark Winter
Mark Winter has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
www.markwinter.info
Published by eBook Partnership
First published in eBook format in 2014
ISBN: 978-1-78301-358-6
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.
All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Prologue (I) (Of the Elder Gods and the Kindred)
Prologue (II) (Transylvania, the late Nineteenth Century)
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
Epilogue (Fin-de-siècle France)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark Winter lives in London with his wife, son and two cats. Infernal Prey is his first novel.
Mark blogs on science fiction, fantasy and horror at www.markwinter.info and www.witterlog.wordpress.com .
Follow him on Twitter: @lordmarkby
DEDICATION
For Ruaidhri and the Countess
Thanks for indulging me
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to my wife, who did a marvellous job of editing my manuscript. However a work of fiction always involves some considerable research, especially one set in a time and place which is not the author’s own; any historical, geographic or other errors are therefore entirely mine.
Prologue (I) (Of the Elder Gods and the Kindred)
‘Who is not either the pursuer or the pursued? All persecute or are persecuted, and Fate persecutes all.’
The Mysterious Stranger
Anonymous (1860)
All true tales begin long ago, and this tale is the truest, and the oldest. Before there were men upon the face of the world, there were Kindred. Perhaps we were not the first to claim the Earth, but we had held it long when men still dwelt in caves, flinching from the light and cowering in the darkness. Our sires were the Tenebrim – the Elder Gods, Exiles of Shadow – immortal and ineffable, and all children that issued from them shared their power in some measure. The Earth was our flesh and bone, the Seas ebbed and flowed in our veins, and our eyes burned with the memory of lost stars. We dwelt in citadels of light in those days, working miracles with our thoughts, and when we spoke, the world rose to our bidding. The Veil was draped over all the lands of the Earth, concealing our wonders from mortal eyes, for in us burned the purest state of Magic that ever there was or will be, and to look upon our splendour was to be struck blind or mad.
I have said we had foes, those who sought to reclaim us as their slaves, and from them the Veil could protect us for only so long. Eventually, we were betrayed and discovered. The Tenebrim were banished, our citadels levelled, our tribes scattered. For aeons after we dwelt in darkness and ignorance, but in time men came to know us, and revere us, and their worship was like the sweetest air. We had lost much to our ancient enemies and the strength Mankind lent us through his love, his offerings, was welcome. In turn we gave him the seeds of knowledge from which sprouted the first of his ancient civilizations; cities and kingdoms now vanished from memory but whose heritage lingers wherever Mankind treads and builds. Sometimes we even lay with human men and women, basking in the fires of their adoration, mixing our blood in the children we bore of them and they bore of us. Many human lines share Kindred heritage, and many of us are bound to their fate.
But then came the Usurper. In his cunning he turned our mortal followers against us and took our godhood for himself. Men’s prayers went to him, their offerings became his, their love nourished him and made him strong, stronger than all the Elder Gods combined. Men turned away from us, scorned us as Old Gods and devils and abandoned our altars. Toppled from our divine thrones, cut off from our strength, we dwindled, became shape-shifters, faeries, witches and lesser things. The Usurper forged a secret army, the Order of Jaimis, to hunt us down wherever we hid, and their fanatical warriors clove us with their swords and fed us to the flames.
Our power has all but faded from the world, and the most enlightened of men have forgotten us or dismiss us as myth, but the Kindred are stubborn and we linger still. Where the Veil still clings in tatters, we hide in plain sight. In the remote and hidden places of the world we make our strongholds. Some live among men, unnoticed in their towns and cities, mixing our blood with theirs over generations. Our power is a memory now; a pale shadow of what it once was, surrendered at the last as our price for survival. Some of us though, some of us are bitter, and burn with anger, refusing to go into the shadows and be forgotten. Our cults they took underground to be nurtured in secret, wringing every ounce of sustenance from paltry congregations. Some are beautiful in the eyes of men and supp hungrily at the lust that smoulders in mortal hearts. And there are those who said: ‘If Man will not feed us with the reverence of his soul, then let him feed us with the nightmares of his slumbers, the sweetness of his sufferings and the very life that burns fleetingly within him.’ They are the hunters in the dark, the night-haunts and life drinkers. While most Kindred look away from them in sorrow, it is always the night hunters who are strongest, eking out their centuries at the expense of mortal lives, while the rest of us… fade.
Prologue (II) (Transylvania, the late Nineteenth Century)
Talia strode silently along the cobbled street, night's shroud wrapped around her like a cloak of shadows. She held her head with a gentle arrogance, secure in the protection of accumulated secrets. Her rich black hair flowed over her shoulders and blended with a dark shawl that rippled like wings aching to spread. The shawl and the simple gown she wore suggested wealth, a quality weave not found in these parts, but she wore no jewellery; her poise was adornment enough. She imagined herself Persephone, risen from the Underworld for a stroll.
Having already fed that night, there was no urgency in Talia's stride. The violet depths of her eyes glittered with satisfaction. She did not feel the chill in the air despite her light clothing, which for most would have been inadequate for the late autumn. If any of the villagers chanced to see her out it would be a cause for furtive glances and unsettled whispers the next morning. But no one saw her. No one ever did. Sometimes she found herself reflected in another's eye, but that eye would see her no more than a mirror does when it catches a vain image. She was a keeper of secrets, and a secret herself.
***
Talia was well known in the village of Ghurda, admired for her beauty and noble bearing. Her delicately pale skin and strange accent hinted at other lands, perhaps to the west (but who could say? Few villagers had travelled more than a day’s ride from their homes). She visited the markets on occasion and bought fabrics, herbs and rustic perfumes. She spoke kindly and with interest to all she came across, spending money with the care of one who can afford extravagance but has little interest in it. Rumours regarding Talia and her reclusive, unseen husband were circulated at every meeting of men and women in Ghurda, at every moment spent in idle chatter. They were a nearly limitless source of idle speculation. There was even more gossip regarding her husband, the Count, than there was about Talia herself, as so few had ever even seen him. At first there were rumours that he practiced the black arts, but when Talia became better known in the little village the distrust faded. The villagers enjoyed them hungrily like flies on spilt jam.
Talia and the Count lived in the ancient Tower outside the village, a weathered structure that had pierced the dense forest since time out of mind. A better place for the engendering of superstition could not possibly have been found. The small caravan that had brought them and their belongings had been spied arriving there only a year before in unpleasant and dangerous travelling weather, a night when some said the Old Gods rebelled briefly and vainly against the domination of the Usurper. A deputation of villagers had been shown a Habsburg deed by the imposing new boyar the following day. A few days after that, Talia had first wandered into the village market. Soon they were both incorporated into treasured fireside folklore. Maybe they were heretics, or dishonoured nobles, or witches, but they were also as much common property as the village well. The villagers needed the Lord and Lady of the Tower in a far more profound way than the Lord and Lady needed the villagers.
***
Tonight, the streets of Ghurda were dead. The moonlight lanced through transitory cracks in the rainless clouds, filtering between black walls and meticulously thatched roofs, garnishing them with silver and collecting in faerie pools on the street. Nothing moved but the shadows, cavorting imps playing with Talia’s shifting perspective as she walked. Rats, cats, night birds – all were silent and still as she passed them, as if in respect for nobility even they recognised.
The faintest whisper from the village tavern stalked her; she heard it distinctly, w