Heritage: Book One of the Gairden Chronicles by David L. Craddock Page A
Authors: David L. Craddock
Tags: Fantasy
Ads: Link
after hours cooking over an open flame. She slowed, tempted. More than tempted. She was contemplating crawling through the aperture and tearing the beast from the spit with her teeth. But, no. Gifts first, food second.
When she arrived at the closed door of her chambers, she gave Jonathan a flat look as he attempted to enter alongside her. He stepped back, raising a fist to his chest in salute as he moved to stand beside the door. Closing the door behind her, Nichel’s face broke into a grin. A large silver package sat waiting atop the tangled mess of sheets and blankets.
She moved as fast as she dared, not wanting to break the peace treaty her stomach had signed with movement of any kind. A tiny piece of parchment was attached to the lid. Nichel plucked it off and prepared to read it, but her eyes drifted back to the package as if caught on a fishing line. She let the note drop to the floor.
As had been her custom since she was old enough to understand what gift-wrapped boxes meant, she gave the present a delicate shake. The contents thudded against the side of the box, causing the princess to wobble as she steadied herself. Nice and heavy! She tore the paper off in a gleeful frenzy, threw away the lid, and screamed.
Inside the container, leaving gory trails where they had rolled around during their long journey, were the decapitated heads of Romen of the Wolf and Cynthia Alston.
On the floor, the crumpled parchment slowly unfurled like a blooming flower. In the center was a design—the letter ‘H’, the blade of Crotaria’s most well-known sword sheathed in the letter’s center bar. Below it, written in the blood:
Long Live the Crown of the North
Chapter 6
Bad Dreams
A IDAN OPENED HIS EYES with a start, deeply afraid and confused over why. Blinking, he looked around. Galleries cascaded upward around the walls. Torches flickered in between each gallery. The floor beneath him was cold, hard. Stone. Raising his head, he saw the Crown of the North and its companion throne across the room. They looked small from where he lay, like toy chairs meant for dolls.
I’m in the throne room. Another thought: Why? The last thing he remembered was dozing off in bed after a long day riding the hills outside Calewind. Had he walked here in his sleep?
Shadows writhed along the walls. No light stretched beyond the flickering pools of orange cast by the torches. A chill hung in the air, as if the windows—all clamped shut—had been left open. Aidan shivered. He could sense... something, a vague presence that was not welcome. It smelled dirty and rotten.
He attempted to rise when he noticed movement at the edge of his vision. Turning, he stared around in confusion, wondering what had caught his attention—then drew a sharp breath. The torches mounted around the walls flickered, but the shadows they made had gone still. As he watched, they stirred as if awakening from sleep then oozed toward the center of the ceiling, a confluence of streams of tar.
Aidan’s breath caught. Low laughter drifted into his ears as the shadowy bulk, twice as wide as his bed coverings, seeped down the wall. The fiery heads of torches shied away. Suddenly the dark mass pounced, snuffing out the flames. The room grew dimmer. The shadow continued downward, gaining speed. Again it slowed near a line of torches, and again it flowed over them, wrapping around the room and extinguishing the lights with a hiss. Smoke curled up from each bald torch, its dying breath. The raspy laughter grew stronger, the shadow spilling down now, choking all the light from the room until Aidan was left lying in darkness.
Unable to move, barely able to breathe, Aidan shivered, waiting. An icy vapor ran up his legs; he felt as if he were slowly sinking into a lake in the grip of winter. The coldness slid forward, spreading over him. The laughter was all he could hear now, drowning the pounding of his heart and his clacking teeth.
The darkness
When she arrived at the closed door of her chambers, she gave Jonathan a flat look as he attempted to enter alongside her. He stepped back, raising a fist to his chest in salute as he moved to stand beside the door. Closing the door behind her, Nichel’s face broke into a grin. A large silver package sat waiting atop the tangled mess of sheets and blankets.
She moved as fast as she dared, not wanting to break the peace treaty her stomach had signed with movement of any kind. A tiny piece of parchment was attached to the lid. Nichel plucked it off and prepared to read it, but her eyes drifted back to the package as if caught on a fishing line. She let the note drop to the floor.
As had been her custom since she was old enough to understand what gift-wrapped boxes meant, she gave the present a delicate shake. The contents thudded against the side of the box, causing the princess to wobble as she steadied herself. Nice and heavy! She tore the paper off in a gleeful frenzy, threw away the lid, and screamed.
Inside the container, leaving gory trails where they had rolled around during their long journey, were the decapitated heads of Romen of the Wolf and Cynthia Alston.
On the floor, the crumpled parchment slowly unfurled like a blooming flower. In the center was a design—the letter ‘H’, the blade of Crotaria’s most well-known sword sheathed in the letter’s center bar. Below it, written in the blood:
Long Live the Crown of the North
Chapter 6
Bad Dreams
A IDAN OPENED HIS EYES with a start, deeply afraid and confused over why. Blinking, he looked around. Galleries cascaded upward around the walls. Torches flickered in between each gallery. The floor beneath him was cold, hard. Stone. Raising his head, he saw the Crown of the North and its companion throne across the room. They looked small from where he lay, like toy chairs meant for dolls.
I’m in the throne room. Another thought: Why? The last thing he remembered was dozing off in bed after a long day riding the hills outside Calewind. Had he walked here in his sleep?
Shadows writhed along the walls. No light stretched beyond the flickering pools of orange cast by the torches. A chill hung in the air, as if the windows—all clamped shut—had been left open. Aidan shivered. He could sense... something, a vague presence that was not welcome. It smelled dirty and rotten.
He attempted to rise when he noticed movement at the edge of his vision. Turning, he stared around in confusion, wondering what had caught his attention—then drew a sharp breath. The torches mounted around the walls flickered, but the shadows they made had gone still. As he watched, they stirred as if awakening from sleep then oozed toward the center of the ceiling, a confluence of streams of tar.
Aidan’s breath caught. Low laughter drifted into his ears as the shadowy bulk, twice as wide as his bed coverings, seeped down the wall. The fiery heads of torches shied away. Suddenly the dark mass pounced, snuffing out the flames. The room grew dimmer. The shadow continued downward, gaining speed. Again it slowed near a line of torches, and again it flowed over them, wrapping around the room and extinguishing the lights with a hiss. Smoke curled up from each bald torch, its dying breath. The raspy laughter grew stronger, the shadow spilling down now, choking all the light from the room until Aidan was left lying in darkness.
Unable to move, barely able to breathe, Aidan shivered, waiting. An icy vapor ran up his legs; he felt as if he were slowly sinking into a lake in the grip of winter. The coldness slid forward, spreading over him. The laughter was all he could hear now, drowning the pounding of his heart and his clacking teeth.
The darkness
Similar Books
