Daemons Within

By Dillon Blaine

An up-and-coming scholar is abruptly accused of a heinous crime. A malevolent force manipulates the thoughts and actions of the fragile and frail. A young lady is lost in the dark haze of her own disturbed perceptions. As the sun tumbled lazily from its apex on this very lazy summer day in the Year of Our Lord 1367, the stillness and serenity of the afternoon, and the entire village of Tealford, was harshly broken.

Can Bertram, Gautier, and Robert uncover the truth before justice is abused? Follow the suspicions of our three heroes as they face the vilest opponent imaginable: The deepest recesses of a tortured mind.

Daemons Within is Book I of The Sword and the Spirit Adventures. Set in 14th Century England, this suspense-packed action-adventure will renew your faith in good people, give you reason to challenge your preconceptions about the human mind, while the story keeps you guessing until the end,

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dillon Blaine
• Release date: Jun 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310415258

Dillon Blaine

Dillon Blaine is a historian, philosopher, and a student of human psychology. The Sword and the Spirit Adventures are his way of exploring the human condition and the need for encouraging generosity between people. The Sword and the Spirit Adventures are exciting and intriguing fictional stories of human suspense, drama, and humour, set in 14th century England. They follow three heroes as they solve mysteries and fight to right the wrongs of the powerful against the powerless. The three symbols of the sword, the Greek letter psi, and the cross, represent the specific contributions of the three heroes to each adventure.

Book preview

Daemons Within

Book I

The Sword and Spirit Adventure Series

 ψ 

by

Dillon Blaine

Published by Dillon Blaine at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Dillon Blaine

ISBN: 9781310415258

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This book is dedicated to my wonderful wife

who has always taken ‘for better or for worse’ as a promise meant to be kept.

Prologue

Playful! That was the word for it. Playful!

The sun danced off the churning brook as the water skipped and babbled over and around rocks and weeds, down a short but tumultuous fall, swirling around a dead tree half submerged, the victim of last month’s severe storm. But, today the storm was a distant memory and the horrible noise and threatening flood were gone, replaced by an azure blue sky, light fluffy clouds and the sweet sing-song of the birds in chorus with chirruping frogs and humming insects. A scene that could only be described as . . . playful!

The young girl smiled at her reflection in the brook, misshapen though it was by the boiling current. Ah! This was how life should be. Pleasant. No worries. Perfect. No fears. She sighed a contented sigh. . .

THERE YOU ARE YOU FOOL! Get back in the house and get dinner ready. God you are stupid, with your constant day-dreaming. Do you really think that you are better than the rest of us who must work for our daily bread? Get going, now!

The girl’s face clouded over, the truth suddenly dispelling the peace-filled lie. Her eyes glazed over and the smile disappeared. She didn’t belong in this beauty anyway. Her life was not related to God’s creation. She knew she did not belong here, or anywhere near here. God had left a long time ago, and the house He had prepared for her was long since destroyed and gone. Her life was a misfit. She did not belong. She would never belong.

At that moment, Grace Wells, a handsome and naturally cheerful woman ambled by on the opposite shore. She had a basket of linen in one arm and was holding her pretty blue dress in the other to keep it from the dewy grass. She had a tendency toward compassion and so it was unfortunate for her that she heard the young man’s abuses. She instantly felt sorry for the poor girl. Grace had seen Laurent, and her brother, about the town many times. The gossip was that the girl was somewhat . . . slow . . . and that she tended toward melancholy. Be that as it may, there was no excuse for her brother’s despicable language. Grace could not help feeling sorry for the girl and wondered if there was any little kindness that she could do for her.

But, at just that moment, the girl rose from the grass where she had been seated beside the brook and walked slowly away in the opposite direction toward a group of hovels at the edge of the town.

Grace pondered the sadness of it all and whispered a heartfelt prayer for the young girl’s peace of mind.

Chapter 1

As the sun tumbled lazily from its apex on this very lazy summer day in the Year of Our Lord 1367 the stillness and serenity of the afternoon was broken by the stomp and shuffle of heavy feet and the exhausted gasping of one who had obviously been running for longer than he was accustomed. When his frantic dash broke through the scraggly overhanging cedars and into the quiet glade where the three friends snoozed, disturbing their afternoon rest, the first of the trio to emerge from his somnolence and exclaimed in annoyance, Resté! Resté, monsieur! Why you move so vite, eh? Eez dere perhaps la lion approaché?

The man stopped but the panting got worse.

They . . . (gulp) . . . they will . . . capture . . . send me back! They cannot . . . send me back! I will not go!

The great bulk of the man rose from his rest to his feet slowly, gracefully, almost artistically, Mais, monsieur, where eez back?

The . . . press . . . gang. Getting his breathing under better control, he went on, They have this . . . this . . . lawyer, he spat out the word, who says I am bound to perform service for some Norman Lord I’ve never seen in my life. He paused and spat again. A God-damned miserable son of a pig lawyer!

Just then, he noted the second of the trio who had silently sidled up to the conversants while adjusting his black Benedictine habit and brushing the leaves off his overgrown but clearly tonsured scalp.

The escapee reddened. Pardon my bad language, brother, he meekly offered.

That is no problem, friend. I have been in the world a great many years. I have heard the word lawyer before. He continued to brush leaves from his habit, You do not believe you owe service to this unnamed Lord?

By all that is Holy . . . The arrow sliced the sentence abruptly as it entered the man’s right cheek then emerged from the back of his neck.

Gautier swiftly reached to the ground and jerked his long fighting sword from its scabbard, which was laying beside his make-shift bed, while simultaneously dropping into a well-practiced fighting crouch. He swung the sword left to right and, astonishingly, deflected the second arrow before it