Demon Forged

By Lee Donoghue

The time of demonkind is upon us. The World’s Sorrows rise and we shall take our birthright. 

Across the lands of Eald Cearo, the dwellers in the dark have sensed their chance is nigh: mortal men and women now rely on false hopes and half-truths. No longer does humankind recognise the dance between free will and fate, and thereby does the night hope to overtake it. 

Demon Forged is a collection of three linked novellas that follow men and women of Eald Cearo as they battle demons both within and without. Reluctant champions, they have critical parts to play in the eternal struggle between the World’s Sorrows and Nature’s Order.

If you love dark fantasy novellas, you’ll love this collection because battling evil is never without risk.

Sorrow’s Ruin

Despair pulls your strings, so come crawling faster.

Markus Yahne is tormented by a vampire knight who takes away the love of his wife and offers him a choice which strikes at the very heart of who he is: give up everything that remains to him in order to get back all he has lost. 

Yet there is more to his unholy bargain than he realises. His decisions lead him deeper into a snare where betrayal 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? 

Wyrdseer’s Lament

Fear blinds you as your life burns faster.

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? 

Furious Host

Anger smashes your dreams, now obey your master.

Orlaith Ciardha has been searching for redemption ever since fleeing the crimes she committed in Sorrow’s name.

She is pulled into a desperate struggle for power as immortals rage against the natural world. Her choices will not only change her forever, but mean the difference between light and dark across the lands.

In this dramatic conclusion to the series, will her choice between penance and sacrifice set her free or condemn the lands to darker night?

If you love dark fantasy, this novella collection is for you. Pick up Demon Forged today! 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adumbral Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386308980

Book preview

Sorrow’s RuinSorrow’s RuinVampyric 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 long grasses off the trail concealed the worst of Markus’s wild dread.

There is nothing hiding, he told himself as silhouettes danced across leaf and bough. Nevertheless he felt watched; the dark off the path held eyes he couldn’t see. The branches moaned with the gale, and the torrent beat against his face. Nothing had changed, though he was not now alone. After swallowing his rising distress, he strode onwards.

Hyden Rosik was master of these woods and all they contained. He was no mere man still, of that Markus was certain. His kind had been a canker on the land for centuries, a curse to touch every heart. It repelled him to think of what Hyden had become. Each step took him nearer when he wanted to shrink back afraid. Yet he had only one course, for Ailsa was somewhere ahead of him.

At length, Markus came to the far side of the wood and out of its cloying atmosphere. High on the lonely hill before him stood his destination: the tower of House Rosik. It had a welcoming look; not a fearsome spire of some dread lord, but a place where travellers might find hospitality and a warm fire, at least in times gone by. Through the swirling rain he saw lights burning within.

As he drew nearer, the path widened and became cobbled. Pink rose bushes lined each side, like escorts to those who dared visit. To the left, a flag carrying the stars of its owner occasionally snapped on its pole as the wind whipped the halyard.

Markus caught sight of the sheltered entrance way to the tower where a mighty oak door stood shut. Elaborate copper braziers burned in their sconces, despite the deluge which should have made them die. The pungent, sweet-smelling smoke of rose and grapevine trimmings hit him as he clambered up the short steps to the threshold.

He paused to scrutinise the grim thicket he had escaped, just visible at the limit of the light. Reminding himself of loss and worry, he turned to knock at the oak with his sword hilt. The door rattled on its hinges, the impact ringing through his fist and up his arm. Boom! The sound echoed off into the woods behind. Boom! Boom! Uncertain of his words, he yelled, ‘Rosik! Open up! This is your Lord of Tabacon.’ His voice got stronger, more determined. ‘I demand you open up now.’

He was about to rap again when the lock’s tumblers groaned as a key turned from inside. With a deep breath, he steadied himself as the entrance yawned to reveal a thin man gazing down at him with cool, blue eyes. Hyden Rosik smiled and nodded his head of thinning blond hair at Markus. ‘I have been expecting you,’ he sneered in a voice like a whetstone.

Markus barely heard him, such was the force of his foul presence. Rot filled his mouth and the air bit of mouldering leaves. The overwhelming sense of wrongness snatched his breath, and he dropped his lantern with a crash. His eyes widened as terror took over, and he needed to grab the door frame to prevent his legs from buckling beneath him.

‘So my Lord Yahne, I imagine you are here for the lovely Ailsa - I get few social visitors. Come along.’ With that, he strode down the brightly lit hallway without looking back.

At Ailsa’s name, Markus regained some of his composure and forced each leg forward to follow in Rosik’s wake. Ancient tapestries depicting battles of old lined their way, now frayed and with colours long faded. Well worn rugs muffled their footfalls upon the stone floor, hiding their advance. The fierce torches could not relieve the air of melancholy around them.

Markus was led through another reception room, again bright and warm, dust motes dancing as they crossed. Marble likenesses of Rosiks past stood sentry along its walls. The smell of mould mixed with the perfume of rose vases held by each stone sentinel. In the hallway beyond, Markus almost had the courage to strike at his host, and yet Rosik’s lack of concern for his drawn sword stayed his hand. First I must learn if she is safe.

Hyden Rosik stopped before a dark door on his left and looked at him with cruel eyes before entering. Markus followed him into a cosy study with an oval window reflecting the room against the black night outside. A single lit candle cast a gleam across a desk upon which balanced an untidy pile of books.

Rosik moved to a modest side table where he filled a couple of goblets with a garnet liquid and offered one to his guest. Markus shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. ‘Only wine, my Lord of Tabacon,’ Rosik said, shrugging as he set the second goblet down. ‘After all, it is not every day you deign to come to my humble abode.’

‘Where is she Rosik? What have you done to her?’ He fought back his repulsion for the creature standing before him, no longer human.

‘Never one for pleasantries, I recall. Mind you, how long has it been? Ah yes, not since my father’s funeral. Do you remember that day Markus? Do you remember the humiliation you poured upon me when you paid for the funeral? All those mourners, talking about what a goodly lord you were, when all the while your tithe was the reason House Rosik was so wretched.’

‘What has Meher’s funeral got to do with this?’ Markus stepped towards him. ‘Where is she Rosik?’

‘My father was a weak man, ever bowing and scraping to the wonderful Yahnes. I shall not follow his course, for as you have cast us aside, so shall I make you regret it. I had expected better from you, Markus. Ailsa though, she is a different story.’

‘Rosik - Hyden - please. Tell me what you want. I am not… I am not leaving until I am with Ailsa. Where is she? If you have hurt her -’

‘Hurt her? My, my. That depends on your view, for you are far too late, Markus.’

Markus raised his bastard sword in both hands and came for him then, fury and fear taking over from other considerations. Without regard for the swinging blade, Rosik shoved him to the ground.

So swift, so strong. For a moment, Markus lay winded on the dusty old rug. He snatched up his sword, ready to clamber to his feet when Rosik spoke again.

‘You always were one to be hasty, you poor, pathetic fool. You see, I have turned her: your Ailsa is no more your Ailsa.’

No! The night’s horrors drew in upon Markus and he had trouble breathing. This cannot be.

‘What do you reckon she makes of you now, with your vile, human frailty?’ Rosik said. ‘I can tell you. She is as disgusted by you as I am.’ Swigging from his goblet, he glared down at the man on the floor. ‘Let me show you.’

Rosik went to the side table and picked up a small object draped in burgundy velvet. With much care he placed it on the desk, and gestured him closer. As if in a dream, Markus stumbled over, each step to take him nearer to horror he did not want to believe. When the cloth was pulled aside, he was presented with a looking glass framed in ornate brass, the edges of the glass browned with age. Yet as he stared, he didn’t see his own reflection, but rather what appeared to be the image of a door.

With a gesture from Rosik, the door opened and there was Ailsa, pale and alone, sitting on a chair in a gloomy chamber. She still wore her long white dress from the morning, appearing unharmed. ‘Ailsa!’ Markus cried, but she did not respond. After a moment, however, the tiny figure moved to the doorway, glancing around. Markus made her out better now, and touched the glass as if trying to reach her through it.

She wrinkled her nose, seeming to stare straight at him, and slammed the door shut.

He stared at the looking glass, and with another motion from Rosik, the door was replaced with his own image, the shock gaping back at him. He slumped to the floor, his world collapsing about him. This couldn’t be right, couldn’t be happening. Oh my poor Ailsa.

Many long moments passed before Markus spoke in a voice barely heard. ‘Do you recall we were married near here?’ Old memories and new rushed through his mind as he tried to make sense of what had become of her.

‘Up on Rilma, yes. What a fabulous day it was for the perfect couple. Those blue and yellow ribbons of the wonderful House Yahne around the tree, the sun shining on the gods’ own favourites. Tell me Markus, how does the touch of rain in your own life feel?’

‘Why did you do this?’ Tears wet his cheeks as he studied the glee on his host’s face.

‘It is time for you to make recompense, though we might all come out ahead in these dire circumstances,’ Rosik said. ‘I am prepared to turn you too. Then you may have your Ailsa for I tire of her anyway. There you have it: a chance to live happily ever after. And I do mean ever after.’

‘You think I would become like you? The thought disgusts me,’ Markus whispered.

‘And yet you will do it, if you want her back. If the famous Yahne love story trumpeted across the land is true.’ Rosik stooped to peer close. ‘There is a tiny condition, however. I am inclined to grant you this gift so long as you sign over your estates and titles. I have always wanted to be a lord.

‘You must also leave Tabacon this night, a pair of penniless beggars, not to return. There is a certain poetry to that, is there not?’ He rose to loom over him once more. ‘You shall see no family, no retainers. No one will hear of you again - I will not see your face. If you remain, you should know I can switch your day to night and bring sorrow to blind you to all else.’ Rosik gestured at him. ‘Of course, I shall kill you if you fail to accede.’

‘You imagine anyone will accept you as Lord of Tabacon - with or without a piece of parchment?’

‘My dear Markus, leave that to me. You need not worry either way.’

Markus sat on the ground, his head bowed. He wants to take away who I am. He swallowed back bile and hatred as he considered his plight. And he has already snatched everything from Ailsa. Our life as it was is over. He broke down then, wracking cries overwhelming him. He could not forsake her. What is my life without her anyway? With fear and despair washing over him, he knew Rosik was right. For Ailsa, he must do this, he must do anything.

After a time, he scowled up at Rosik’s gloating face. By the gods, he promised he would take his revenge. He should have confronted him years ago, but it was too late now. ‘Okay Rosik. You win. Have my lands. Turn me and tell me where Ailsa is.’

Rosik smirked and poured more wine. He gestured Markus into a chair by the desk. Resigned to his fate, he sat and watched as Rosik reached into the desk drawer for parchment and held out a quill to him. ‘Sign over everything to me, and you will have what you wish.’

Full of sudden trepidation, Markus scribbled out his commands to bequeath Sir Hyden Rosik the lordship of Tabacon and its territories. As he wrote, Rosik’s foul presence pervaded his every sense. He paused to draw a slow breath before signing, his palm slick with sweat and shaking at what was to come. At length, he rolled the calf skin parchment, which he sealed with drippings from the candle. Pressing his ring into the molten wax, he left an indent of a tree and crescent moon - the sigil of House Yahne.

‘Now I shall turn you.’ Rosik sounded eager, excited.

Knuckles white, Markus gripped the arms of the chair, holding his breath as his heart raced. ‘Wait,’ he cried out, eyes wide. Too late, the bitter steel of a blade was at his throat, the razor edge slicing into his flesh. He gasped and struggled in panic, but strong hands kept him in place. The shock must have taken the pain, for he felt none - only the numb realisation that all was ending came to him. He noticed his blood pooling on the desk, and of a sudden found himself in a detached calm. So this is