Wyrdseer's Lament: Eald Cearo: Demon Forged, #2

By Lee Donoghue

For I am Fear: You can’t see a thing as your life burns faster.

You’ll be hooked by this dark fantasy novella because the struggle against evil must never end.

Inais Montia sets out to save the heathen clans from their graven idolatry, believing he is casting light about the dark. How could he fail with right and the truth of gods on his side?

In the remote heart of nature, he encounters spirits both seductive and perilous, and is drawn into a world of demons and a battle for survival. He learns the cost of his false beliefs and needs to find his own path if he is to save himself.

Now Inais must make choices which will change him for eternity. 

Does the divine or the damned await?

Pick up this page-turner today!

Wyrdseer’s Lament is the second 25,000-word novella in the Demon Forged series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adumbral Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386373476

Book preview

Wyrdseer’s LamentFaith Of Fools

Inais Montia tumbled into the trap as his footing gave way. He plummeted, smacking the bottom of the pit hard. The soil was chill against his cheek as he lay there, waiting for the pain and shock to subside. His leg throbbed as he shifted his weight, causing him to gasp dank air.

Screwing up his face, he pushed to his feet, his portly frame swaying as he tried to hop around his prison. He allowed his eyes to dance about the rutted walls as he collected his wits, hoping for inspiration.

Wiping the sweat from his balding head, he cursed himself. Too preoccupied, I failed to see my path. He ran his palm over the damp clay of the ditch and judged little prospect of scaling it.

‘Help! I am a stranger here and I need your help,’ he hollered, aware that his call was just as likely to bring further danger. The gods will help me prevail. Squinting up at the dull light above, Inais soon heard snapping twigs and the heavy footfalls of an urgent approach. He reassured himself that his sword was still at his side and mumbled a brief prayer while he waited.

A dark shape leaned over the pit; a silhouette against the early autumn afternoon. After a moment, the figure was replaced by a coarse rope which unfurled down to Inais’s shoulder. He grabbed at the hemp strands, tried to haul himself up. The veins in his neck stood out, his face red as he struggled, and failed.

‘Hold,’ came a woman’s voice from above. Inais gripped the line tight with both fists, and in jerky movements she pulled him up and out of his snare.

As he lay on the litter of the forest floor, he felt a cool point pressing into his throat, and twisted to stare along the length of a spear. The girl holding it was younger, not yet of twenty years, and carried an expression threatening violence. Black markings ran up her forearms until they disappeared into her tunic, and across one side of her face, giving her a fearsome, feral look. No doubt the symbols of the heathen.

‘You are on Clan Coinin land. Outsiders do not wander here. Your head will adorn the boundary.’

The spear tip pressed with promise against his neck as he raised his hands. ‘Have mercy upon me. Please. I am Brother Montia from the Vermafta Sect. I… I have a great gift for your shaman.’

‘I am Blaithin Meadh of Clan Coinin. Give me your boon, stranger, and I shall take it to the ovate.’

‘Wait, no.’ Come on Inais, master your nerves. ‘Mine… it is a gift of words. In Drusolm, no treasure is as prized as knowledge.’

‘You are not in Drusolm, stranger. We care not for your ways here.’

‘Yet… your shaman - your ovate - is a wise man. He will recognise the value of ideas. If not, then my head is yours.’

‘Know this: if you visit the ovate, more than your head is at risk.’

‘There is indeed much at risk, my head the least of it.’

Blaithin hesitated, peering at him doubtfully before withdrawing her spear. Inais touched his fingers to blood on his neck before getting up and brushing mud from his soiled clothing. Take it one step at a time, Inais, he thought, as she prodded him into limping forward.

After an hour or so of toiling through the timberland in silence, he gave up trying to memorise their route. He was utterly lost and found his mind wandering to thoughts of home. He would have given his eye teeth for a hot beef stew. Yet the gods have provided. He knew this was where he should be, just as Prelate Seppel had predicted so many weeks ago.

Inais had flapped along the hallowed halls upon hearing that summons; Christalfus Seppel was not a man you kept waiting. ‘Brother Montia, please sit,’ Seppel had said with a tight smile. He had poured Inais a cup of fine mead and sat opposite, fixing him with his fierce gaze. To Inais, he had the manner of a hunter about him. ‘The Inner Council has a holy task for you, Brother. You have been chosen to help crush the heathen rites of the northern clans. Show them the true ways of the gods.’

‘I… do not know what to say, Prelate.’

‘You need only thank the gods for the opportunity. Enlighten these heathens and soothe their fears; become our Mouth of the Gods. Remember, the way to save their souls is to have them recant their blasphemies. You can do that, no doubt.’

The room was stifling; the smouldering fire making Inais sweat. He squirmed under the hunter’s stare. ‘It is an undoubted honour to have been so selected, yet I fear I am not well suited to long travel, Prelate.’

‘Nonsense. Your powers of suasion and the strength of your faith make you our perfect ambassador. We believe in you entirely.’

‘That is gratifying to learn, Prelate. I am of course a willing servant, but surely others will understand more about the wild clans of the north, and the customs we seek to change.’

‘You need know nothing of their sordid practices, Brother. Merely show them the sure path, bring them under our wing.’ Seppel reached into his scapular pocket and drew out a small pouch. ‘Yet the gods grant divine aid for you. If you find the shaman lords obstructive, place this powder in their food or drink. It will help you purge their heresy; help them see where once they were blind.’ He placed the pouch in Inais’s palm, covering it with his other hand. ‘We are counting on you to do your duty, Brother.’

Now, after many false steps and doubt, Inais was being guided to the heart of one of those clans. He would save them from themselves, and return having done some good.

As they wended their way past great oaks and larches, their leaves copper, Inais was enchanted by the beauty all around. So concerned had he been to find the ancient people of the forests that he had given his surroundings scant regard. Now he afforded himself time to absorb the wild nature and magic in leaf and fern. I can save those who love such places, he thought as he followed Blaithin into the soul of the greenwood, like a fly hurtling towards a web.

Inais knelt in the greensward before the sacred grove of Clan Coinin. Wildflowers of yellow and white still flushed across the grasses, despite the lateness of the season. A large wicker man, made of twig and branch, loomed to one side. Nearby a blaze crackled, sending thick smoke up into the pale blue of the afternoon. A small copper cauldron hung atop the fire, its sides burnished.

Before him, with his back to the grove, sat Ovate Aodh Ciardha. The older man wore a deerskin over his scrawny shoulders, and around his neck rested symbols foreign to Inais, fashioned in