Sorrow's Ruin: Eald Cearo: Demon Forged, #1

By Lee Donoghue

Sell a soul, just make sure it’s not your own.

Markus Yahne, Lord of Tabacon, always considered himself a lucky man. That was until he drew the glare of a demon’s regard.

When he is betrayed by Hyden Rosik, a vampire knight he once considered a friend, he must make a choice that strikes at the very heart of who he is: give up everything that remains to him to get back all he has lost. 

An unholy bargain gives him hope and teaches him more than he expects about life and love, but also hate. Darker designs are in play and his decisions lead him deeper into a snare where torment and revenge must blight his heart, and ultimately nudge the balance of power within the world of Eald Cearo. 

For good or ill, Markus Yahne must change the course of Sorrow’s dominion. Time is short, and dread tells his story.

Will despair drive him to ruin or will love guide him through the horror of his choices? 

You’ll love this dark fantasy novella because battling evil is never without risk. Pick up this page-turner today!

Sorrow’s Ruin is the first 25,000-word novella in the Demon Forged series. Look for it under Dark Fantasy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adumbral Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386031888

Book preview

Vampyric Requiem

They said the dead wandered the woods. Markus Yahne prayed his wife was not among them.

He dismounted his palfrey in the dark, and peered back at his men-at-arms, still upon their mounts. He was about to roar at them, urge them forward when they clambered to the sodden ground. Beyond them and despite the downpour, he could see the few lights of Farlow glittering in the distance.

His men struggled to get lanterns aflame in the deluge, and he forced himself to wait while they completed the task. It would serve no good to charge ahead in such a place without light, and he was not sure they would follow should he do so. Instead, he thought about Ailsa and stared at where the path narrowed before being swallowed by Rosik Wood.

He had only seen her that morning. Some jest of his had brightened her face as it always did. He remembered her mock outrage, how she promised to repay him for his prank. Ailsa, I am coming.

His marshal, Demeo Ruglis, passed him a lantern at last, shielding it from the worst of the weather with his sopping cloak. ‘Lord Yahne, we are ready.’ Demeo hesitated for a moment, and then said: ‘It might favour us to wait for reinforcements, or at least until dawn.’

‘Do you think Rosik will wait for dawn?’ Markus stalked towards the edge of the copse, and was heartened to hear Demeo barking orders behind him.

The thicket enveloped Markus, branches and roots gathering in upon him. The trail seemed so narrow before him, but he dared not stray; the woods promised ill for those who lingered. The handle of his lantern felt slippery in the wet, and he gripped harder than he needed. His quick breaths steamed in its light as he fought to control his imagination’s menace.

Every so often he glanced back the way he had come, as if to be sure his soldiers still followed and the track behind still remained. Yet he most strained to discern the route ahead, seeking out detail where the trail meandered into the murk. The strange shapes and shadows became nightmares come to stop him.

The deeper into the heart he strode, the greater his foreboding. This place was indeed part of Rosik’s demesne; the man’s influence was alive, directing the wind, the rain, and the unseen things.

He was compelled to stalk this course, however. No matter the dangers lurking out of sight; their terrors were meagre compared with his worst fears. Anguish drove him on his journey, and the panic which threatened to flood him sped his steps. He could not be too late. If any effort of his was worth the taking, let it be now. Let her be safe.

His men-at-arms muttered as he forged on, their misgivings clear. The House of Rosik had gained a fearsome reputation, ever since Sir Hyden Rosik had assumed the role of house head from his father. Meher had been a man who always strove to keep the best of things around him. Hyden, by contrast, was not such a man. Yet those following Markus now were loyal. They will not let me down.

Demeo’s voice came from close behind him. ‘The men are worried Lord Yahne, and we cannot hope to succeed without them I fear. Sir Hyden ensured he was seen taking your wife. Why do so unless this is a trap and he hopes to butcher you and those who attend you?’

The notion discomforted Markus, though he could not afford to pay it heed. I should have kept Hyden closer over the years. ‘Whatever he wants, we shall work it out. Ailsa will not be harmed and neither will we.’ He found it hard to believe his own assertions, and added: ‘We were friends once, and Hyden will remember that.’

‘Well, this is not the way I treat my friends, that is for sure,’ Demeo said. ‘There are rumours about Sir Hyden… they are not true, are they?’

Markus was about to retort when the words stuck in his throat. I do not know. To my shame, I have let us become strangers. ‘We must make haste, marshal.’

The grasping canopy of the trees kept most of the deluge from them, but Markus shivered nonetheless as he pushed his way deeper. Tangles of ivy choked their trunks, vines snaking out across the track. As he pulled his saturated cloak further about his shoulders, his light cast dancing shapes among the limbs overhead. The litter of the woodland floor was soft underfoot: they made little sound to compete with the rainstorm and the cracking of branches as the wind reached through the wood.

They soon found a decaying oak lying over the trail. In the gloomy illumination, Markus fancied a face marked the side of the trunk. The knotted bole looked like an old man screaming, his mouth where a woodpecker once nested. He realised he was out of breath; his pace had quickened as his mind had raced.

He climbed over the dead trunk, ensuring his light didn’t go out. The rain lashed down heavier here, but he didn’t care. Ah, Ailsa. I need you to be okay, he thought. By the gods, I shall rescue you from whatever evil Hyden Rosik is. I promise I’ll protect you, my love. The dread of losing her detached him from his surroundings, his focus narrowing to exclude much about.

It was why he failed to recognise the danger until the panic of his soldiers screamed at him.

Above their shouts came the crashing of branches and the shaking of the thicket, as though some terror loomed. The storm howled at him, and he stepped back, tripping over a half-buried root. His lantern went out as it hit the ground, and he plunged into near darkness.

Scrabbling to his feet, he saw all but Demeo were fleeing and he yelled after them into the dwindling light, to no avail. Demeo seemed frozen in place, his own lantern casting shadows across his face, and giving him a look of frenzy.

Markus swung towards whatever threatened, yet the copse was quieted now. He unsheathed his bastard sword and gained little reassurance for doing so. His ragged breathing filled his ears, and he stood poised. The moments grew longer and the woods were still just the woods. Was it the wind? For a few heartbeats, he tried to believe something was not out there watching him.

The little light reaching him from Demeo’s lantern started to retreat. Facing the marshal, he found him backing away, shaking his head. ‘I am sorry, Lord Yahne. We cannot do this without the men.’ Markus made towards him and the marshal retreated faster still.

‘Wait,’ Markus said. Desperation filled his voice, his hopes slipping away with the marshal’s light.

‘I am sorry.’ Demeo paused long enough to toss his tinderbox at his lord before fleeing into the undergrowth.

In the dark and wet, Markus just stood for a time, until his thoughts returned to Ailsa. He fumbled for his lantern and eventually he coaxed light from it once more. The route ahead looked all the more sinister; the