Blades of Blood

By Melanie Hatfield

How far would you go to protect the ones you love?

Princess Azedeh, heir to the throne of Turrack, slays the evil in her kingdom under the guise of Tina the Terrible, the most feared assassin in the land. When a creature of dark magic terrorizes her home, she must journey to a dangerous land to stop it at the source. As she encounters more magical beings on her quest, she must determine whom she can trust—and a wrong decision will cost the princess her life.

"Blades of Blood" is the first book in "The Chronicles of Turrack" series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melanie Hatfield
• Release date: Apr 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310404047

Melanie Hatfield

Melanie Hatfield spent a decade in Los Angeles with hopes of becoming a television sitcom writer. That dream did not come true, but she learned how to write like a pro. She wrote her first fantasy series, Kingdom of the Snark, to incorporate her two favorite genres of comedy and fantasy. Her second fantasy series, The Chronicles of Turrack is an action-adventure spin-off from Snark. Ms. Hatfield currently lurks in her hometown of Kansas City and writes whatever she pleases!

Book preview

BLADES OF BLOOD

BOOK 1 of THE CHRONICLES OF TURRACK

Melanie Hatfield

Blades of Blood: Book 1 of The Chronicles of Turrack

By Melanie Hatfield

Copyright 2015 by Melanie Hatfield

Smashwords Edition

Cover art by JoshuaJadon.com

Digital edition produced by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, taping, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner except in the context of reviews, quotes, or references. To obtain permission, contact the writer through her website at www.melaniehatfield.com.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Anything in this novel that is anyway similar to your own life and/or work is coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Evangeline (An Epilogue)

About the Author

Chapter One

I fly through the air with the grace of the royal blood that pumps in my veins. The Golden City of Turrack is a hodgepodge of shadowy shapes during the night, but I’ve patrolled this town long enough to avoid slamming into them. I may only have sixteen years of life under my belt, but I have four years of experience as Tina the Terrible, the most feared assassin in the land, to fuel my confidence. I leap from rooftop to rooftop like a cat, my disguise making me nothing more than a shadow of a shadow.

The lack of a moon doesn’t aid the visibility through the black veil sewn into my hood. I dash across a flat top building, knowing that there is a metal fire escape along the next building. I jump off the roof, summersaulting in the air as I prepare to land upon my boots. I’ve performed this jump several times before, but the darkness throws my calculations off. I miss the section of the metal platform I was aiming for, and my stomach does flips of its own as I fall.

I suppose I’m fortunate that there are multiple levels for the fire escape, but it doesn’t feel that way when I slam upon the lower shelf. My head bangs as I bounce off metal, the clangs of my error thundering through the silent alley. I roll until I crash into the metal bars, stunned by the force of my momentum. Although it was fortunate that the bars prevented me from falling into the streets, my brain is too busy spinning in my skull for me to show any gratitude for the designer.

Get out of here!

The gruff voice snaps me back into attention. I crouch as I press my body into the brick apartment building. A man sticks his head outside a window, the pathetic flicker of his candle barely illuminating the knife in his other hand.

Get back inside, a woman calls from inside the apartment.

"It could be him," the man yells back.

It’s probably just a cat, the woman groans.

I’m sick of being afraid to sleep at night. If no one will do anything about this foul bloke, then I will.

You’re going to get yourself killed, you idiot, the woman shouts.

The man puts down his candle and knife as he wiggles his way out of the window. I’m curious to find out what he was talking about, but not foolish enough to linger—if he discovers that the kingdom’s most wanted assassin was the one who disturbed his sleep, he might still be inclined to use that blade against me. He wouldn’t stand a chance against my own hidden knives, but such a battle would not be worth my efforts. I’m not even certain I could hold my own with the throbbing that’s overtaken my body.

I jump over the railing. My muscles scream with agony, still not fully recovered from my crash. I bite my lower lip to suppress a grunt and hope that the sound of my boots finding the shelf below was not heard by the man above. I do my best to stay light on my feet, but pounding reverberates through my ears, and I’m not certain if it’s my head beating me for my foolishness or the man above stomping around in search of his mysterious foe.

The man doesn’t pursue me as I hoof it down the metal stairs. The thumping noises in my head dissipate as I make my way to the streets below. My footfalls seem to echo like a rock being dropped in a cave, but perhaps the noise is only emphasized by the silence of the night. It’s far too quiet for this area. Although my outfit covers every inch of my skin, I can imagine the bumps forming as the hairs on my body stand to attention like soldiers.

The fire escape ends several feet above the cobblestone street. I’m not willing to risk the noise of unlatching the last part of the metal ladder. I scour the area below, glad that there are enough street lamps lit for me to take in a clear visual. No one is patrolling the streets, nor are there any ladies of the night or vagrants slinking about—odd that the usual miscreants of this part of town are not performing their nightly business.

I drop to the ground with a soft thud and skitter into the shadows. I may be risking much by taking to the streets, but the skies have proven to be unsafe for patrolling.

I slip into the doorway of a butcher shop, the outlines of skinned rabbits hanging upside down glistening from the window. I cling into the dark crevices as I strain my ears for any sounds of a typical late night—cries of passion from a streetwalker, screams of men in a robbery, the slamming of fists as drunkards battle for pride—but I all I hear is the sharp intake of breath. I realize it’s my own, and I relax my shoulders to soften my own nasal noise.

The brisk spring air refreshes my senses. In a split moment I catch the creaking of a door. A solid click of its closing follows, and I dash before I can lose track of its location. I jog around a corner and the bright light of the pub across the street makes my eyes water. My sight adjusts, and I rush through the spotty darkness as I make my way toward the door.

It was a solid steel door, rusted from neglect of its owner. The image of a flea chomping upon the flesh of a rat carved upon it informs me that I’ve made my way to the Biting Flea. The creaks seemed like screams as I open the door, and I grimace underneath my mask. It’s heavier than it looks, and as I struggle I wonder where the doorman who usually opens this monstrosity is located tonight.

No one offers a hand, but I’m not expecting any such courtesy. I manage to get it open after a few hard tugs and slip inside. A fire crackles from the hearth on the other side, making the place warmer than it needs to be. Red bricks add to the bloodsucking motif, the steel furnishings as rustic as the door. The few patrons littering the place whisper to each other, if they bother to have conversation at all. I’m not certain if they have been so quiet throughout out the night, or merely hushed their tone because of my presence.

I stroll to the booth in the back, glad that there isn’t anyone who I’d have to threaten to move. The grey metal bench freezes my skin through my outfit, adding to the chill that already grips my soul. The owner at the bar can’t see my glare through my mask, but he knows better than to dawdle. He doesn’t bother to take off his apron as he rushes a pint my way.

The usual mead, my dear? Eugene says as he forces a smile, a chipped mug trembling in his hands.

I snatch the drink without looking directly at him.

Thank you kindly, the man says.

He usually skitters away, but the gaze of his mildew-colored eyes lingers on me for a moment. My fingers find their way to the hilt of one of my belted knives—some people have tried to rip off my mask before. I’m not sure if that’s what he’s thinking of doing, but I prepare my muscles just in case.

I don’t mean any offense, Eugene says, his tone lacking the confidence to proceed with his thoughts, but are you old enough to be drinking?

Like it matters, I snarl, flipping a gold coin into the air with my free hand.

I’m not fully dexterous with my gloved fingers and the payment veers to his left, but he catches it before it flies past his head.

Always a pleasure to serve you, he replies, the glittering gold in his hand erasing his fears.

Funny how money changes a man’s attitude so quickly.

I nurse my mead, allowing it to flow through the mesh of my mask. The liquid sticks to the cloth like the drool of an infant, but I can’t risk exposing any part of my flesh for a moment. Anyone in here could identify my true self in an instant if they were to see my countenance. One mistake like lifting my mask for a drink could ruin years of all my efforts to keep my kingdom safe from the slime of the city’s underbelly.

Speaking of such filth, a familiar stench assaults my nostrils as I finish my sip. Glurm the Worm slides into the bench across from me without an invitation. His tattered cloak is stained with who knows what, but my nose informs me that it’s mostly body fluids. His oak-colored skin is blotched with bruises along his right arm, bare from the sleeveless yellow shirt specked with dried blood—an indication of his addiction to bamboo thorns. His hair drapes over his shoulders, the blackness streaked by rivers of grey. He stares at me with amber eyes, flashing a grin of missing teeth.

It’s been a while since you’ve last visited this booth, Glurm says, the pitch of his voice too high for him to be considered a man. I was beginning to think that some evil fate had befallen upon Tina the Terrible.

It seems as though I wouldn’t have been the only lost patron, I reply, my voice deepened enough to question my own gender. This place is dead for a weekend.

Aye, Glurm replies, there is an evil stench that lingers in the air, keeping all of us miscreants hiding in our rat holes.

Are you sure that it is not the stench of your own armpits that gags your breath?

Glurm wheezes out a laugh. Your wit is as sharp as your knives.

I roll my eyes, but the gesture is lost underneath my mask. Do you have something to share with me, Glurm?

I always have something, he replies, wiggling his thin eyebrows, but can you afford the information?

I release a growl, but it fails to intimidate Glurm. He holds out a hand, the boney fingers twitching for payment. I take a gold coin from the pouch on my belt—a coin with the image of my face etched into it—and drop it into his palm.

He sneers at the glimmering gold. Eugene got a coin with the king’s face, but I only receive a princess?

I reach over the table, glad for the gloves on my hands as I grab the slimy collar of his cloak. I drag him over, and the lightness of his frame surprises me. He feels more like a shell than a man of flesh and bones. I whip out a knife, pressing the tip against his neck. I can pay you in steel, if that is your preference.

The princess has value, Glurm chuckles, the fear in his voice taking over his fake mirthful tone. She is worth the information I have.

Then spill it, I say as I release him.

Glurm rubs his neck as he recoils to his side of the booth. There is a shadow more terrifying than you lurking in the streets of the Golden City, he croaks. He is a man with skin so dark he doesn’t require an outfit of black to remain hidden, unlike some people, he adds as he stares at me with a flippant glare. Some say that he appears to be an average man, but he can grow to be taller than a street lamp.

I snort at this, and Glurm shakes his head.

Do not be so quick to dismiss such a claim, he says. It’s said that he is not a normal man, but a shadow of magic.

I take a sharp hiss of air through my nostrils. Preposterous, I snap. Magic was banished from our kingdom thousands of years ago. Magical beings only live in Quaal.

So we all believe, Glurm snickers. I don’t know if you are aware about the War of Nuns in the Kingdom of Quaal, but it’s said that the wizards who survived have crossed into our borders. Some believe they are plotting to take back the land that once belonged to them, and this new villain is their scout.

Memories of my misadventures in Quaal flood my mind. I was there when the female wizards revealed themselves to the world nearly two years ago, but never found out what became of them after their leader enchanted a dragon to take me back to Turrack.

How would anyone know what a wizard looks like if Turrack doesn’t have any? I ask, adding to the pretense that I have never seen such a creature.

They’re a queer folk, sneers Glurm. People say they have unnatural color hair, like bright orange that will melt the eyeballs out of your skull, and silver as rich as the metal. One bloke said he was visiting his cousin in the farmlands when he saw a woman with twisted hair of teal. She was chanting a spell, making dark clouds appear from the sky, and it rained when there had been a drought for a month.

The description reminds me of the leading wizard I met in Quaal—Halotana. It seems doubtful anyone would make up such a colorful hair description, Glurm least of all.

So wizards exist in Turrack once more? I mutter.

It seems like a children’s tale, Glurm replies, but sometimes legends come to life.

Not in this kingdom, I grumble. So what has this magical warrior done to people?

Killed them.

Care to give specifics? I ask after a lingering pause.

I haven’t heard of anyone surviving an encounter, continues Glurm, but there have been a few witnesses. They say the man grows in height, lifting his victims off the ground as he sucks them into oblivion.

What does that mean?

Glurm shrugs. A whore told me that one of her customers was sucked by the magical man. She said it was as if the creature just stared into the man’s eyes and his entire body became a wisp of air sucked into the villainous shadow’s mouth. There’s no blood or discarded body or any indication of a murder. What else but a wizard’s pet could do that?

I shift upon my buttocks. How long has this been going on?

About three weeks now, Glurm replies as he scratches his armpit. "I swear upon the queen’s tits, he’s attacked this neighborhood five times in the past two