Banished: Venari, #1

Banished

A GORY STORY FROM THE

WORLD OF VENARI

LOU YARDLEY

Copyright © 2020 Lou Yardley

All rights reserved.

Copyright

Published by

Lou Yardley

www.louyardley.com

Copyright © 2020 Lou Yardley

Cover layout © 2020 Lou Yardley

Cover illustration © 2020 Neil Fraser, Neil Fraser Graphics, www.neilfrasergraphics.com

Edited by P.J. Blakey-Novis, Red Cape Publishing

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior, written permission of the publisher.

The right of Lou Yardley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.

First published November 2020

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Chapter One: Brutus

Chapter Two: Verum Visus

Chapter Three: Things Unseen

Chapter Four: The Visit

Chapter Five: Messengers & Crypts

Chapter Six: The Church

Chapter Seven: The Seer

Chapter Eight: An Unlikely Duo

Chapter Nine: The Cabin by the Woods

Chapter Ten: A Worthy Punishment

Chapter Eleven: Anastasia

Chapter Twelve: The Cleansing

Chapter Thirteen: A Grave Error

Chapter Fourteen: Nourishment

Chapter Fifteen: Ginger’s Decision

Chapter Sixteen: The Summoning

Chapter Seventeen: New Recruits

Chapter Eighteen: A New Day

Chapter Nineteen: Secrets & Sickness

Chapter Twenty: Taun Grove

Chapter Twenty-One: Banishment

Chapter Twenty-Two: Through the Forest

Chapter Twenty-Three: First Blood

Chapter Twenty-Four: Disaster

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Few Moments Earlier

Chapter Twenty-Six: Krogut’s Tooth Pathway

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Old Dead Oak

Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Elkbury Trio

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Oak Lane

Chapter Thirty: Awakening

Chapter Thirty-One: The Church of Altum

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Battle of Elkbury

Chapter Thirty-Three: Grima

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Finger, The Pebble  & The Ring

Chapter Thirty-Fie: The Vial

DEDICATION

––––––––

For Max Henry McHugh (Max the Brave)

Our superhero.

––––––––

www.maxthebravefund.org

I COULDN’T HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT YOU...

I may have stuck the words on the page, but I couldn’t have done this without the support and encouragement of those around me. Special thanks go to Mark who is always on hand to answer the important questions (like ‘what happens when you’re being burned alive?’), Mum, Suzie, Nige, and all my friends and family.

A huge thanks to Peter Blakey-Novis for editing this beast and stripping it of typos and the odd bit of bizarre punctuation. Thank you to Philip Rogers for all the promo!

Thank you to Neil Fraser for the AMAZING artwork. You’re amazing and you totally captured what I was trying to describe with the daemons.

Thanks to Sludgework for the new Venari logo (and my Dagrimm Reader logo).

Extra special thanks to Janine Pipe for her unending support and for being a great co-host on Cryptids, Crypts & Coffee (check it out – it’s on YouTube!).

I also need to give a HUGE thank you to all of my Patreons. Thank you for your support and for giving many of the characters in this book with names.

My lovely patreons: Paul Metzger-Phillips, Ange Shepherd, Krista Walsh, Synn Unsworth, Owen Morgan, Rick Eaglestone, Gary Groves, James Corprew, The Coycaterpillar Reads, Neil Fraser, Rich Price, Jim Coniglio, Rachael Gater, Sarah Thomson, Steven Pipe, Daniel Jervelius, and Nathan Growler.

Elkbury, Egral

Somewhere on Venari

Year 542

Chapter One:

Brutus

SWEAT COVERED EVERY inch of Shep’s body. The evening was uncomfortably warm. Given the option, Shep would have always chosen to be too cold rather than too hot. At least when you were too cold, you could put on more clothing or light a fire. What could you do when you were too hot? Remove your own skin? It didn’t seem like a feasible option.

Clothing clung to him, and he shifted uncomfortably under its weight. His horse grunted at the movement. ‘Sorry Brutus,’ Shep said. The horse was probably the mildest mannered horse in the world, but Shep had named him Brutus so people wouldn’t think of stealing him. It made the animal sound dangerous, when in truth it was the gentlest creature Shep had ever encountered. Behind them, the wheels of Shep’s small wooden wagon bounced off the ground, sending stones and twigs in various directions; more than once, a small bit of debris had ricocheted off Shep’s legs, some even making tiny holes in his breeches. He had no idea how much had hit his companion; Brutus rarely complained.

This path to Elkbury was little used, but that didn’t worry Shep. If anything, it drove him forward. After all, if very few came to the village, they’d have very few to trade with. They’d be chomping at the bit to get what Shep was selling. And he was selling good stuff. Glancing back at the wagon, Shep imagined the cheeses, breads, and other treasures he had hidden under blankets. He grinned; if all went well, he’d soon be a rich man. Why hadn’t anyone thought to use this route to get to Elkbury before? This shortcut was far quicker than the usual route, and it was drenched in better scenery. The smells of the forest were intoxicating, well worth the trip alone. People were fools.

After a while, the path brought them to a lake. Moonlight danced on its still surface. It looked so inviting. Shep reached into the pocket of his threadbare coat and pulled out a faded and folded piece of paper. The trader had the map committed to memory, but sometimes he liked to look at it to make sure he was travelling in the right direction. He was. He always was. Shep’s sense of direction was second to none.

Just as he expected, the map told him that the lake in front of him was Taunriden Lake. This meant that the village of Elkbury was only a short distance away; he could be there within an hour.

Or he could spend the night at this beautiful lake. There was no rush, after all. It would probably be too late to enter the village now, anyway. Those people weren’t used to visitors, and they certainly wouldn’t trust someone who showed up under the cover of darkness. No, waiting until morning seemed prudent. If he wanted to set up an ongoing trading relationship with them, he had to do everything right. He hopped off the horse’s back and thudded to the ground. Shep was a fine businessman, but he had the grace of a lump of stone.

‘What do you say, Brut? Shall we camp here?’ Shep was in the habit of talking to his horse, even when he wasn’t on the road on his own. Brutus never answered, but that didn’t matter, Shep had the idea that he knew what his companion would have said and filled in the gaps. This time, however, the horse did answer him, although not by using words. Brutus huffed as if agitated, all the while keeping his eye on the body of water. ‘What’s wrong, you silly ol’ boy?’ Shep asked, puzzled by the animal’s reaction. It made no sense. He looked around, searching between the trees for signs of predators or robbers, but his eyes found nothing. ‘What have you seen?’

But the horse’s attention wasn’t on anything hidden in the trees, Brutus was still staring intently at the lake. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t make you go for a swim,’ Shep said. ‘Although that doesn’t seem like a bad idea. It would be good to cool off. Sure you won’t join me?’ Brutus huffed again and pulled away. ‘Suit yourself,’ Shep said, stepping towards the lake.

Several sets of yellow eyes watched in interest. Ripples appeared on the surface of the water. Brutus made a panicked noise quite unlike anything Shep had ever heard him make before.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, wading into the lake for a paddle. ‘Everything is fine.’

Something grabbed hold of his ankle. The horse bolted, losing itself in the forest.

Chapter Two:

Verum Visus

‘HE’S DEAD.’ WREN GOODWORT said. Her words felt final. They also felt alien. Elkbury wasn’t like other places. People here didn’t die of natural causes. If a dead body was found in the village, there was only one reason for it. Murder. And murder hadn’t happened here in a very long time.

‘Dead.’ Heather Boyd repeated the word. Dark bags sat underneath haunted eyes.

‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ Wren continued despite the blank look on the other woman’s face. ‘Are you sure you didn’t see anything?’

Heather shook her head.

‘And you didn’t hear anything?’ Wren asked and Heather responded with another shake of the head. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I told you everything I know,’ Heather said, wiping her eyes on a damp handkerchief. Wren was getting more and more frustrated by the minute. The woman had been crying since Wren had arrived. Wren was sure this was to be expected - the woman’s husband had just died - but she wasn’t used to displays of emotion like this. What was she supposed to do? Offer her comfort? Surely that was someone else’s job; hers was to catch a killer.

‘But you haven’t told me very much,’ Wren said, pacing around Crispin Boyd’s body. He was propped up against the back wall of the house, hidden from the rest of the village. It was as good a place as any for a murder spot, there was very little chance of being caught in the act. Looking out towards the line of trees that marked the edge of the village’s land, Wren caught sight of a small hut. Even though she didn’t want to, she made a note to pay that dwelling a visit after finishing up here. She liked solving and unravelling problems and mysteries, she didn’t much like talking to people to do it.

‘But it’s all I know,’ Heather said. She kept looking down at Crispin as if he might get up again at any moment. His eyes were closed like he was sleeping, but Wren doubted that was how he had died. People didn’t tend to look that peaceful when they were being murdered. Not that Wren had much experience in the area. There hadn’t been many murders in Elkbury in the time that she’d been the sheriff here. In fact, there had been zero... until now. But she spoke to any travellers who stopped by the Old Dead Oak and they usually had a tale or two. That made her as much of an expert as anyone.

The man looked very much as he had in life, aside from a grey tinge that had started to coat his skin, making him seem unreal. It was like someone had made a near-perfect replica of the man that Wren had seen wandering the village for as long as she could remember. Perfect, apart from the fact he wasn’t breathing, the gaping wound under his chin, and the huge bloodstain that covered the front of his shirt.

‘Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to hurt him? I mean, had he upset anyone recently?’ Wren asked, but she knew what the answer would be. Questioning Heather was a complete waste of time. She either didn’t know anything or, if she did, she wasn’t saying.

‘No, Crispin got on with everyone,’ she said.

‘And he wasn’t... He wasn’t sick, was he?’

‘No, of course not! I would have reported it to Father Arcadius if he was. Those are the rules.’ Heather said, her dull eyes suddenly blazing with fury.

‘Yes, those are the rules,’ Wren agreed.

‘And his throat wouldn’t be slit if he was ill, would it?’ Heather said. ‘So he couldn’t have been sick.’

‘Just because someone killed him, it didn’t mean he wasn’t ill,’ Wren said.

‘I said he wasn’t sick!’ Heather said before bursting into a fresh set of sobs. Once again, Wren told herself that trying to talk to this woman was pointless.

‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, you can make arrangements for the body. I’m sure Father Arcadius will help you.’

THE AIR SEEMED TO TURN colder the closer Wren got to the trees. The hut at the very edge stood alone, the only sign of life was an old donkey that waited outside, watching her arrival. While Wren envied Gary and Ginger Groves and their way of life, they also made her feel awkward. Despite the fact they lived far away from everyone else, they were also warm and welcoming whenever someone did make the effort to visit them. Wren wasn’t used to that. Most people respected her, but they also feared her. Maybe they thought she’d find out they’d been up to something they shouldn’t have been. That served to make her think that most of her neighbours were guilty of one thing or another. The door of the hut opened, and a tall, bearded figure emerged. Gary was an imposing man, but most described him as a ‘gentle giant’. That aside, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that he could have overpowered someone like Crispin. He was definitely strong enough to hold another man still and slit his throat.  At the prospect of having found a potential suspect, Wren quickened her pace.

‘Mornin’ Sheriff!’ he called out, his voice far more cheerful than anyone’s had reason to be so soon after sunrise.

‘Hullo, Gary,’ she replied, meeting him next to the donkey.

‘Not that it’s not good to see you, but what brings you out here?’

‘An investigation,’ Wren replied, unable to keep the hint of excitement out of her voice. There wasn’t much crime in Elkbury, so there wasn’t that much for her to do; she spent most of her time helping out the baker to make ends meet. Now she could actually prove her worth. She could show how much the town needed her. She could feel valued.

Gary’s eyes widened. ‘An investigation?’

‘Yes,’ she said before clearing her throat. She needed to be professional now. ‘I need to ask you a few questions.’

‘Oh, right, of course,’ he replied. ‘Go ahead.’

‘When was the last time you saw Crispin Boyd?’

‘Crispin?’ Gary said, looking across the fields in the direction of the Boyds’s home. Maybe he thought he’d be able to see him now. ‘Has something happened to him?’

‘Yes... he... er... he’s dead. Murdered.’

‘Oh...’ Gary said, leaning against the donkey for support. ‘You’re sure?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Wren replied, thinking it would have been a miracle if he’d survived that injury. ‘I know he was your friend-’

‘My best friend,’ Gary said, his voice proud as if knowing the other man was a great accomplishment. Wren wished that she had friends like that.

‘Indeed,’ she said.  ‘When did you last see him?’

‘That would have been yesterday afternoon.’ he said, ‘We had a couple of ales and then I came home to have dinner with Ginger.’

‘Thank you. So you were drinking at the Boyds’s house?’ Wren asked, trying to piece together what would have been Crispin’s final hours.

‘Yes... we didn’t feel like going to the tavern,’ he said.

‘Right... I’m going to ask you the same question I asked his wife. Can you think of any reason why someone would want to hurt Crispin?’

Gary shook his head. ‘Nope, not a single one. Everybody loves Crispin... or loved him. I suppose I should say loved now, shouldn’t I?’

‘How did he seem yesterday? Did he seem unwell?’ she asked, moving on quickly.

‘You mean, was he ill?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was fine. They would’ve reported it if he was ill, wouldn’t they?’ he said, echoing Heather’s words. ‘It’s the law.’

‘It most definitely is,’ Wren agreed. ‘I guess I’ll keep investigating. Thank you for your help today.’

‘No problem, any time.’ Gary said, his tone lightening now that it seemed this conversation would soon be over. ‘Well, good luck with it all.’

‘Thank you... I was thinking about talking to Grima next,’ Wren said, before saying her goodbyes and then heading back to the village. Talking to Grima seemed as pointless as asking Heather what had happened; the old woman had completely lost the plot. The rest of the village seemed to think that she was able to see the future - or ‘the truth of things’ as many described it - but not Wren. As far as she was concerned, the only thing the old woman was able to see was complete bullshit.

‘WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?’ Anastasia asked, looking at her grandson with an expression that somehow conveyed both confusion and disappointment.

‘C’mon, everyone’s scared of Grima,’ he replied, his voice full of the whining tone that teenagers communicated in a majority of the time.

‘Yes, but that’s because they’re scared she’ll see the truth of them. Everyone has a secret and people tend to want to keep them hidden.’

‘Can she really see everything?’

‘I have no idea. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe she only sees what she needs to at that moment. Only she knows that... and that’s her secret.’ Anastasia said. ‘Now, quit stalling, Heddy, and go take that tea out to Grima, I’ll be out in a bit.’

Taking the hot beverage out of the kitchen, Hedwin approached the old lady who was sitting in the small garden outside the house. Old and frail, she looked like she would float away on the slightest of breezes, but Hedwin knew better. Grima was made of sterner stuff. Sometimes he thought she was the toughest person in the village. She was sat on one of two rocking chairs with her eyes closed. To some, she might have looked like she was sleeping, but most of the village knew that she was more than aware of what was going on around her. Grima saw almost everything. No-one really knew how or why, but Grima had been able to see things she had no business seeing but was unable to see everything else. Having lost her normal sight at the age of eleven, Grima had been gifted with what she called her Verum Visus - or True Sight - almost immediately.

‘Thank you,’ she said as Hedwin approached. He’d been as quiet as possible, but she’d still heard him. Or saw him. It was unclear how her powers worked and that was what made the boy fear her; she was unpredictable. Knowing that he would probably stutter or say the wrong thing if he spoke, Hedwin handed her the tea without a word. ‘Be a good lad and tell your grandma to come outside. A visitor will be here soon.’

Hedwin nodded before remembering who was talking to him. ‘Yes, will do.’

Before walking back inside, he took a look around. While there were plenty of people wandering the dirt roads, getting on with their business, no-one appeared to be heading towards the house. People didn’t tend to visit when Grima was over, but Hedwin was inclined to believe her. ‘Grandma, Grima wants you to go outside,’ he said.

‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ she said, tidying up.

‘But she said you’re going to get a visitor.’

‘A visitor?’ she asked, turning towards her grandson. ‘Here? Now?’

‘That’s what she said,’ Hedwin replied with a shrug. After drying her hands, Anastasia picked up her own cup and went outside to join her lifelong friend.

GARY WATCHED THE WOMAN leave. He’d known that Wren believed everything his Aunt Grima said was rubbish and lucky guesses, but he hoped she wouldn’t talk to her at all. But, if she did, he hoped this aunt would keep his secret if she was able to see it. They were blood, after all. ‘We did the right thing,’ he said, gently petting the donkey. The donkey snorted in response. Gary always took this to mean that the animal was agreeing with him. ‘I have to believe that we were doing the right thing.’

This time, the donkey didn’t snort. Instead, it bolted towards the tree line, leaving its owner standing open-mouthed. Usually a docile creature, this was completely out of character.

‘Hey! Alvin! Come back ‘ere!’ Gary called, but the donkey ignored him. Sighing, Gary chased after him. ‘What’s got into you?’ The animal stood stock-still, watching the trees. Holding his breath, Gary found himself watching the same area. Something had to be in there, hidden within the darkness and camouflaged by foliage. It was the only reason for Alvin’s behaviour. Minutes ticked by while Gary waited, and he’d almost reached the point where he was about to turn both himself and the donkey around and head back, but then he heard it. Something was crashing through the trees.

Towards him.

He held his breath again in the hope that it would make him hear better, but he needn’t have worried. The crashing was getting closer. And closer. Gary felt his curiosity slip away. Having lived in Elkbury his entire life, he’d always been told to stay away from the trees and the daemons that waited beyond them. In all his years, he’d only seen one from a distance, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to meet one face-to-face. He was about to see what they looked like close-up. They’d stop being part of a scary story and become real life. What if it was angry? What if it knew what he had done? Perhaps that’s why it was crashing through the trees; it was coming for him. It was coming to take him away. In a matter of moments, Gary was sure he would be dragged kicking and screaming to Taunriden Lake.

Something burst through the trees in a flurry of movement.

Gary screamed.

THE SCREAM SEEMED TO echo through the tiny hut, instantly making Ginger panic. It sounded like Gary, but that couldn’t be right. Gary wasn’t prone to hysteria. Usually level-headed, he was the kind of person who could be counted on in an emergency. If he was screaming at the top of his lungs, something was wrong. Very wrong. Running barefoot from the hut, Ginger raced towards her husband as quickly as her legs would carry her. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ she shouted.

The shadows from the tall trees sucked the warmth out of the morning and Ginger shivered. This was bizarre considering how hot the night had been. Autumn and winter were definitely on their way. Rubbing her bare arms to generate some heat, Ginger approached her husband.

‘Take a look at this guy,’ Gary said. Although he was still visibly shaken, he’d stopped screaming. His entire focus was on the horse that now stood before them. Even Alvin was taking an interest. The horse was huge; the kind of thing that a knight would ride into battle. The kind of horse the Queen’s Men had in Red Fern. A mighty steed.

‘He’s impressive,’ she said, giving the animal an appraising look. ‘Where did he come from? Who does he belong to?’

‘Us now... I guess...’

‘We can’t just keep a horse like this. Someone is obviously missing him,’ she said.

‘I don’t think anyone is,’ Gary said as he took her hand and guided her around the animal. ‘Take a look at this.’ Bite marks lined the animal’s flank. Angry, red wounds oozed and gaped at her.

‘What happened to him?’

‘He came from the forest,’ Gary replied as if that answered everything. ‘He just came bursting out like daemons were chasing him. Scared the life out of me.’

‘I heard.’

‘I thought he was a daemon for a moment.’ Gary lowered his voice as if making a confession. ‘I thought they’d come for me.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, ‘why would they come for you?’

Ginger didn’t notice as her husband avoided her gaze by inspecting the horse a little more closely. Nor had she noticed that he’d left the hut the night before.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, still looking at the horse. ‘I guess I just spooked myself... How about you help me get this guy cleaned up? Even if someone is looking for him, I’m sure they’d want us to help him.’

‘You’re right,’ she said, as they made their way back towards their small patch of land. Alvin followed behind them, eyeing the newcomer warily. ‘You clean him up and I’ll let people know.’

ANASTASIA TOOK A SEAT in the rocking chair opposite Grima, moving carefully so as not to spill her tea. ‘I hear we’re getting visitors.’

‘Just the one,’ Grima replied, ‘and it’s not going to be good news.’

‘I didn’t think it would be,’ she said, taking a sip of hot tea and letting the conversation lapse into a comfortable silence. It wouldn’t do to probe Grima with questions. If she had more information to give and she wanted to share it, she would. She didn’t need anyone to tell her to do it.

‘Something’s upset the balance,’ Grima said.

‘Should we tell Father Arcadius?’

‘Probably. No doubt someone will tell him before we get the chance.’

‘Tell him what?’ Anastasia wondered, but she didn’t speak the thought aloud. Sipping her tea, she looked out at the other villagers. These were the same faces she saw every single day. These were the people who she traded with. The people she cared about. What did Grima’s latest vision mean for them?

‘Here she comes,’ Grima said, and Anastasia looked down the main road. In the distance, there was a figure. They were too far away to see who it was and there was no way to know if they would end up coming to the house. But, Anastasia believed her friend. She had more faith in the other woman’s Verum Visus than anyone else. Perhaps even more than Grima herself.

‘I guess I better brace myself.’

‘I think we all should,’ Grima said.

Chapter Three:

Things Unseen

‘THAT’S GINGER GROVES,’ Anastasia said as the figure moved closer. ‘I wonder what’s brought her into civilisation.’

‘Trouble,’ the other woman said, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘Bloody trouble. I’ll know more once I’ve read her hand.’

The woman stopped a few feet away, breathing heavily; it looked like she’d run the whole way there. ‘There’s... a... horse,’ Ginger said, fighting to get her breath back.

‘Calm yourself and give me your hand,’ Grima said, holding out her palm. Her hands shaking, Ginger complied without question. Grima’s brittle but soft skin felt paper-thin. ‘Just relax, you’ve got nothing to fear.’

Setting her lips in a line, the younger woman nodded. She seemed eager to do as Grima said, but Anastasia noticed that she looked terrified.

‘It’s worse than I thought.’ Grima said, either not noticing Ginger’s panic or ignoring it. ‘Two lives were taken in Elkbury during the last witching hour.’

‘I heard about Crispin Boyd this morning.’ Anastasia said. ‘Who is the other?’

If she was annoyed at being interrupted, Grima didn’t say anything. Harsh words would have been spoken if the interruption had come from anyone else. Grima let her lifelong friend get away with a lot.

‘A trader,’ she said. ‘The owner of Ginger’s new horse.’

‘And are they both... y’know?’ Ginger asked, obviously believing that questions and interruptions were now allowed.

Grima tutted. ‘You can say the bleedin’ word, child. The word itself can’t hurt you.’

‘Fine,’ Ginger said, even though the look on her face suggested she was anything but fine. ‘Were they both... murdered?’

Satisfied, the old woman gave a slight nod. ‘In a way,’ she said. Neither Ginger nor Anastasia could tell if being vague was Grima’s intention.

‘Someone should tell Father Arcadius,’ Ginger said.

‘Run along then,’ Grima said, waving her away.

From his spot just behind the door, Hedwin listened, a mixture of fear and excitement flooding his senses.

DIRT SPLASHED UP AGAINST the back of his legs as Hedwin ran from the house. He found Laura Beth exactly where she always was, hiding near the church, watching the comings and goings of all who entered. He and Laura Beth had been born in the same week and were the closest thing to a sibling that either had. Both were quiet and watchful, apparently taking it upon themselves to keep an eye on the village.

Laura Beth was leaning against an apple tree, playing with a piece of string. ‘It’s a Cat’s Cradle,’ she said, holding it up for her friend to see and anticipating his question.

‘What’s it for?’ he asked.

‘It’s not for anything... sometimes things are just fun.’ she said.

‘Strange stuff has been happening,’ Hedwin said, changing the subject and taking a seat on the grass next to her. ‘There were two deaths last night. Grima said so.’

‘I thought you didn’t like Grima,’ Laura Beth said.

‘It’s not that I don’t like her... she just scares me,’ Hedwin said, unafraid to confess such a thing to his closest friend.

‘Who is the other death?’

‘Someone we don’t know. Grima said it was a trader. He had a horse.’ Hedwin shrugged as he spoke, the identity of the other victim uninteresting to him. ‘Grandma is worried, I can tell.’

‘Was the trader in Taun Grove?’ the girl asked, even though the answer was obvious. If he had come to the village, someone would have seen him.

‘He was... but at the lake, I think,’ Hedwin replied. ‘Do you think the daemons got him?’

‘Probably.’ she replied as she twisted the string in her fingers. ‘We should go to the lake.’

‘What? Why would you want to do that?’ Hedwin asked.

‘Answers,’ she replied. ‘We’ve been told about these daemons all our lives, haven’t you ever wanted to see one for yourself?’

‘No, not at all,’ Hedwin said. It was the truth. He couldn’t think of a single reason why you’d want to see a daemon up close. ‘I’d be perfectly happy if I never got to see such a creature in my entire life.’

‘Fair enough,’ Laura Beth replied, ‘but I’m going to see one. I just know it.’

At that time, neither of them could know how true that statement would end up being.

HE DIDN’T KNOW HOW, but he was beyond the trees, standing before the lake that he knew existed, but had never seen. It was forbidden for all but a few to visit Taunriden Lake. It was not a place for people, it was a place for daemons.

But, somehow, Gary was by the lake.

It was then that he saw it, the horse. At first, he thought that the animal had led him here on some fool’s errand, but then he noticed the lack of bite marks on its flank. It was like he was seeing something from the past. This couldn’t be real. Gary realised this must be the kind of thing his Aunt Grima saw. Maybe it ran in the family and, in his forties, Gary was just a late bloomer.

Or, more likely, this was a vision sent from the daemons themselves. He knew what Father Arcadius would say; he could almost hear the priest’s voice in his head. ‘They’ve marked you,’ the voice said, ‘you belong to them now.’

Gary believed that voice. It was hard not to, it matched everything the priest said each week from his pulpit. Up until now, Gary had thought he was safe, but one vital thing had changed overnight. Now Gary had committed the kind of sin that guaranteed a person a trip to purgatory on your way through to Hell. A noise tore Gary away from his internal battle; a horse in distress and a man calling to it. Gary watched as the man strolled over to the lake, ignoring the noises from the horse. Instead, he started to paddle and look into the water.

At first, it seemed that the man was merely studying his reflection in the pale moonlight, but Gary knew that couldn’t be the case. Whether this was a dream, a daemonic vision, or the ‘verum visus’, he had the feeling he wouldn’t be shown something as mundane as a man admiring his own image. Gary’s perspective shifted in an instant and without warning. No longer was he an interloper watching someone else’s scene play out, now he was playing a major role. Looking through the stranger’s eyes, Gary was able to see what had held the man so enraptured.

He instantly wished he hadn’t.

Eyes stared back at him. Unblinking eyes. Yellow eyes.

Daemon eyes.

Even though he had never seen such eyes before, he recognised them straight away. A primal part of his brain - a part locked deep inside him - knew what that expression meant.

It meant death.