Scorpion's Sting Part One

By Stephen J Coey

Ever since the mysterious Saviour came to the Kingdom’s rescue ten years ago, peace has reigned. But now the land’s deadliest assassin is at large. Women and children vanish mysteriously from the city of Nydar. Civil war looms. Preternatural beasts threaten to overrun the land. Behind the scenes, pulling all the strings is an evil sorcerer of great power. And the Saviour is nowhere to be found.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen J Coey
• Release date: Jul 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463319802

Stephen J Coey

Stephen J Coey lives in Darwen with his wife and three children and their dog, Molly. He started writing fantasy, horror and even a little sci-fi as a young boy, and still enjoys this now just as much as he did back then. Scorpion’s Sting is his first novel. If you’d like to follow Stephen to keep abreast of all his future releases, feel free to contact him at [e-mail], or @StephenCoey on Twitter. Praise for Scorpion’s Sting: ‘A right page turner’ Rebecca Healey

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Connavar Rydden was an alchemist. There were only two people in the whole of Ehronin who knew this. To everyone else, he was known simply as Conn, and would often pose as a pedlar. He could make salves that healed mortal wounds, and elixirs that healed pretty much anything excepting certain terminal diseases, and dark magic, of course. He could get into the heads of the weak-minded and persuade them to do his bidding, and he could tame any creature, be it alive or summoned from the dead. He could dream the future while asleep. And, using any one of the many throwing knives secreted upon his person, he could split a flea clean in half from fifteen paces.

But he had very little of his elixir left, had lost the griffin he had ridden here, was stranded in the depths of a vast and barren desert called the Ceaseless Sands, and was about to be caught in the middle of a violent sandstorm with no shelter, no food, and – most worrying of all – no water.

The winds lashed his face with sand that could strip the whites from a man’s eyeballs. Using both hands to shield his eyes, he descried the vague outline of something large nearby, and made his way over to it. He was almost upon it before he realised it was a sycamore tree, and he almost stopped in wonder. For the last three days he had seen naught but yellow sand and blue skies. He had seen no mountains, no clouds, no birds, nor any other living creature. And no trees.

The sycamore was golden, skeletal, and forlorn. Like as not, its leaves had been disintegrated by a previous storm. But its trunk would still offer him some protection. Dropping to rest against its bole he sat, head sagging forward, eyes squeezed shut, and listened to the surging of the wind. He was here, in an empire called Mori Voh, to seek the help of the Master Alchemist, but knew in his heart that he would not find him. He had journeyed far and searched high and low, but nowhere was his old mentor to be found. Accepting defeat, he leaned back his head – and felt a sudden, sharp pain in his neck.

He jerked forward, raised a hand to his neck and grimaced. He turned his head, careful of the stinging sand, and saw at once the danger. It was a bark scorpion, small in size, tan in colour.

One sting was all it took to kill a man.

The alchemist remained where he sat. His reflexes did not drive him to bolt, nor to strike out at the creature blindly. Rather, he linked minds with it, and calmed it. Then he used his left hand to pinch its tail – and impaled it with the throwing knife now clenched in his right fist.

The pain in his neck flared. His lips had gone numb, his throat – he hadn’t thought this possible until now – had turned even drier, dry as old and dusty parchment. From his pack he retrieved a copper phial and drank its contents thirstily. His back convulsed and most of the liquid missed his mouth and spilt down his front. Nevertheless, what little he did swallow took effect almost immediately, nullifying the poison and leaving him light-headed. He smiled. A big wide smile that split his face. Had his fingers fumbled, had he dropped the phial, it would have been all over for him.

The alchemist glanced at the phial still in his hand and noted with dismay that he had used up the last of the elixir he carried in liquid form; he still had some in the form of salve, which could be applied to wounds or broken bones, but the liquid was spent. He could ill afford to be stung a second time. He cast about and checked for further scorpions.

He spared a thought for the griffin he’d lost that had flown him across the desert, and hoped the poor creature was still alive.

Of a sudden, the alchemist felt a moment of surrealism. All alone and ill-equipped, searching for further scorpions, he was about to be caught in a sandstorm, yet all he felt was calm. The brunt of the violent storm was about to strike, and he suddenly felt connected to the world – to the golden, leafless tree, the searing sun and relentless incoming storm that drove the sand before it.

Sometimes when he slept he had glimpses – visions of things yet to pass – in which he saw people usually at their moment of altering fate. But right then, for the first time conscious and awake, the alchemist had a glimpse. He closed his eyes and saw the king of Ehronin and his youngest son, Prince Jolin, and knew that what he saw could potentially spell disaster for the entire world of Ehronia.

Not only did he see, but he heard their thoughts…

…He saw as the king watched his youngest son with a profound fondness that has been known by many fathers, noble and common alike, throughout the aeons. The boy, seven winters old, toy sword in hand, re-enacted the Battle of Nydar. The battle had decided the war. And it had all come down to a duel between two men: Bastion, Saviour of Ehronin; and Skel, the quick and deadly champion of Mori Voh. Bastion had won and had saved King Oaken’s realm.

‘I am the best swordsman there is, Father!’ declared the boy prince.

‘As was Bastion,’ said the king.

‘He won the war! I’m Bastion, and I’m going to kill Skel.’

The king smiled, infused with the pure love and joy that his son brought to his life.

After overcoming hundreds and saving the kingdom with his toy sword, Prince Jolin turned to his father. ‘Where is Bastion now, Father?’

‘Nobody knows, my son. The Battle of Nydar was ten years since. Soon after winning me victory he quit the army – with my blessing, mind – to start a family. It may sound odd, but never had I laid eyes upon the man before he stepped forward to take my injured champion’s place in the duel. And afterwards, having taken his leave, he disappeared and was heard of never again. Like enough, he wished to remain anonymous, away from those who would gladly have seen him brought low out of jealousy or misplaced honour. Or perchance he loved his wife. Your grandfather always said love can do strange things to a man. Whichever way, I hope he is well.

‘Now, Jolin, it is time to make ready. Many people will fill the great hall tonight at the banquet.’

Time blurred momentarily for the alchemist, then, later that night at the banquet, in the great hall when no one else was watching, he saw a sickly pale man with long, greasy jet black hair and protruding eyebrows above sunken eyes approach Prince Jolin. He offered the boy a goblet, telling him it was the finest honeyed water in the kingdom. The boy expressed his doubts, but the sickly pale man pressed him, explaining that the great Bastion had swigged the very same drink on the day he had slain the mighty Skel.

‘No, do not drink it!’ yelled the alchemist from a thousand miles away, leaning forward from the sycamore and reaching out a hand, fingers splayed. But it was no good. The young boy within his glimpse could not hear him, and he drank the poison.

A little later King Oaken disappointed all of his guests by cutting short the festivities. All were made to quit the castle. His youngest son had fallen ill, struck with fever. In delirious fits Jolin cried out that Skel had come back from the dead to kill him.

The sickly pale man had already left, and soon after met with a hooded man garbed in black – an assassin. The alchemist did not understand why, but he was unable to focus upon the assassin within the glimpse; nor could he hear his thoughts – nor the sickly pale man’s, for that matter.

The sickly pale man muttered a few inaudible words to the assassin, who gave a nod of his head and disappeared into darkness.

Back at the king’s castle, the boy did not survive the night…

...Time shifted slightly. Now the alchemist saw a young girl, locked in a cell. She longed to be released from the cell so that she may carry out her duties tending the garden outside. Outside! How she longed to be outside! But she was only permitted to leave the cell for two hours a day, time that she must spend either in prayer or tending the garden. In the summer months these precious hours were mostly spent in the garden, but in winter they were spent almost exclusively in prayer.

She didn’t mind prayer of course, or she didn’t used to – but there was only so much a person could endure, especially as the rest of her time must be spent inside the cell, striving for enlightenment. She was special, she had been told. The One God had plans for her. She was to one day become Mother Superior of her very own monastery. But first she must find enlightenment.

That night she struggled to sleep, and half awoke to what sounded almost like her cell door being unlocked. But that was crazy, so she closed her eyes again. But then she felt a hand upon her brow. It was strange, but she felt no fear. Rather, the man’s hand upon her brow somehow seemed familiar. Of a sudden she felt very tired. So she closed her eyes and allowed sleep to take her.

...Time passed. The girl was standing as close to her cell window as she could get whilst looking up through the iron bars, out into the blue sky. The window was too high up for her to reach, so she rested her hands against the wall. Her hands! She noticed for the first time that her hands were wrinkly! But she was only young and hadn’t been here long enough for her hands to age so!

Her cell door opened and the nun who was her mentor said, ‘Come, child, it is time for you to tend the garden.’

‘Sister!’ she cried. ‘My hands have wrinkles! What is happening to me?’

‘Nonsense, child, you have nothing to be alarmed about.’

‘But look!’ said the young girl, holding out her hands.

‘It is nothing to worry about,’ said the nun. ‘You are a little older now than when you arrived. Your hands are bound to age a little. It is nothing unusual.’

...Time passed, and the young girl stood at her window again. She looked down at her hands. They looked like those of an old lady. What the nun had told her about being a little older than when she’d arrived was a load of nonsense. The girl held her hands up to the ray of sunshine beaming through her cell window above, turning them, studying them. She felt scared. An overwhelming sense that her life was slipping through her fingers gripped her soul and she put her head in her hands. A thought struck her, and she straightened and opened her eyes. She took her hair in her aged fingers and looked at it. Her hair was grey!

Just then her cell door opened, and the nun stood in the doorway, regarding her.

‘My hair!’ the young girl sobbed.

‘I think your path to enlightenment has come to an end,’ said the nun. She swung shut the cell door leaving the stricken girl by herself again. A moment later the sickly pale man with long, greasy jet black hair and protruding eyebrows above sunken eyes entered the young girl’s cell and bade her lie down upon the straw pallet. He laid his hand upon her brow. The girl gasped, feeling more than just tiredness this time. She felt as if her very life-force was being leached away from her. She felt as if she was dying!

‘No!’ she screamed and rolled off the pallet.

The sickly pale man grabbed at her shift and it tore down her front, revealing sagging, wrinkled breasts.

‘What have you done to me?’ the young girl screamed.

The sickly pale man knelt by her side and smiled apologetically, knowingly, benignly. ‘I must level with you, girl. I am not, in fact, a priest. And the nun outside is not, in fact, a nun. And you have not spent your childhood here to find enlightenment. Rather, you have been a precious source of energy to me.’ The young girl’s eyes welled up with tears. Her whole childhood had been a lie. She’d been betrayed by those she’d trusted most. She looked crestfallen. She looked broken. ‘You see,’ continued the sickly pale man, ‘I am an alchemist, and have been harvesting your energy in my search for immortality.’

From a thousand miles away, in the depths of the Ceaseless Sands, the alchemist roared impotently: ‘You are no alchemist!’

‘But fear not,’ added the sickly pale man, ‘for am I sure that your One God will welcome you in heaven.’ So saying, he placed his hand upon the girl’s brow, closed his eyes and took a sharp intake of breath as he drained the last vestige of life from the young girl. When her body hit the ground, it looked like the long dead corpse of a decrepit old lady.

...The alchemist opened his eyes and surged to his feet. The sandstorm raged about him and he had to shield his eyes with both hands. He still felt as one with the world and used that connection to reach out to the griffin he’d lost, hoping it had strayed not too far. And hoping it had managed to escape the storm, especially as it would have had to deal with the suffocating finer grains of sand the higher it went. He needed to put this expansive land that was Mori Voh behind him. He needed to get back to Ehronin, fast – atop the griffin, preferably.

His glimpses were usually of the future. But from what he had just seen, he knew that this one had already started.

PART ONE

Tyranny is a tidal wave; it is a most powerful colossus and sweeps through the land leaving in its wake the purest destruction. It is all well and good to say, It will pass, but were you there as it struck, by your side would you want a Hero of the Light.

– On the Gods’ Perennial War, author’s identity lost to the depths of time.

CHAPTER ONE

GOD OF GAMES

The room fell silent.

No sooner had the stranger from out of town entered the alehouse than he wished he hadn’t. Folk had been dining and dicing, drowning their worries in ale. They’d been sharing tales of hardship and gawking at the barmaid.

Now they stared at Seb.

I should leave, he thought. But he didn’t. It was then that he noticed the Silor-Thenn, garbed in the unmistakable tight-fitting leathers of a bounty hunter from Rin, renowned for their deadly skill with blade and bow. I should leave for certain. Instead he made his way to the bar, past accusing onlookers and others who chose to pretend he wasn’t there, staring instead into pitchers and goblets and mugs.

He ordered his ale, nodding acceptance when the barkeep insisted that once the drink was consumed he should leave and never come back.

‘Your pig-headed obstinacy will be the death of you,’ croaked an old hag with balding blonde hair and brown and yellow teeth. She sidled up alongside him. He expected her to smell about as pleasant as a slop bucket but was surprised to find that she did not altogether smell too bad.

He glanced behind and saw that already one bruiser had moved to block his escape through the front entrance. Another two now guarded the rear.

‘It was only a game of dice,’ he answered the old hag.

‘Exactly,’ she rejoined. ‘So there was no need for Ernie to wind up dead, was there?’

‘He died?’ Seb eyed those close by, gauging whether or not anyone had overheard her. Many were straining to hear the conversation, and he didn’t need some old hag stirring the pot when things were already hostile.

Three now blocked his escape via the front. The Silor-Thenn remained where he sat, away to one side, halfway between the front and rear entrances.

‘Aye,’ said the hag, fixing him with an accusing squint. ‘I thought you knew. You’re about to be accused of his murder.’

Well, that explains the animosity. He took another look at the two bruisers at the back. One of them was very large and looked about as immovable as a tree trunk.

‘He tried to steal my necklace,’ he explained in a quiet voice. ‘Then he ran into a wall.’

‘Pah, damned fool,’ she wheezed. ‘Come with me if you want to live.’

Seb watched as she turned away from him and shuffled her way towards the back door. What could she possibly do to save him?

He didn’t heed her advice. Instead he got comfortable on a worn stool and took a pull of the frothy ale, usually bitter yet refreshing – but right now he found he was unable to enjoy it. The villagers would want to see him swinging from a rope before the day’s end.

He wanted naught more to do with the world of man. Although first, there was one thing that must be done – and at all costs.

Just then a man of nervous disposition and middle years edged sidewards towards Seb, leading always with his right boot, head swivelling this way and that in a feeble attempt at reticence. He hopped on to a stool next to Seb and feigned interest in the kegs and bottles of spirits and wine behind the bar. Although now sat down, the man’s head continued to bob up and down, as though ducking an unseen object swung at his head.

‘So last night,’ said the nervous man, ‘you dealt with the child snatcher.’

Seb said nothing.

‘You saw him take every penny and crown of good Roland’s coin from the poor fool after just a handful of games of passage.’

Seb said nothing and took another pull of his ale.

‘Then the child snatcher offered poor Roland a chance to win back his coin. Didn’t he? Eh?’ His head continued to bob.

Seb said nothing. If the nervous man expected an answer he would be sorely disappointed.

‘Come on, don’t make me spell it out.’

Seb ignored him.

‘Look, I know you’re a good guy. That bastard child snatcher won poor Roland’s daughter last night after the idiot agreed to a double or nothing bet. Well, the child snatcher once took my daughter from me too. Only last night, when you bet him all that coin, against Roland’s daughter, you meant to return his daughter to him had you won. Didn’t you?’

Seb said nothing.

‘Yes, you sure did. I feel it in my bones. And I’m willing to bet that bastard child snatcher didn’t much fancy waiting for his promised coin. I reckon he thought to take that pretty necklace from you instead, because a bird in the hand is better than two in the bush. Have I got the right of it?’

Seb’s hand involuntarily went to his pocket and grasped the three dice he had taken from the child snatcher after he’d been attacked by him. As he had suspected, two of the dice were weighted to always land on a six. He’d taken them from his unconscious attacker as a trophy of sorts. Then his hand raised to the necklace about his neck and he afforded the nervous man a nod of the head.

‘Aye,’ continued the nervous man. ‘Only that bastard met his end. But why did you come back in here? They won’t allow you to leave alive, you know. He was one of their own. They’ve got men at each door, waiting for you. Now they’ve got you here they’re happy for you to get drunk, make it all the easier for them. And as chance would have it, there’s even a bounty hunter. If he should catch wind of what’s going on – which he will of course, if he hasn’t already – even if you somehow fight off everyone in this tavern, you won’t get past the bounty hunter! It grieves me to say, but you’re a dead man walking, my friend. Well anyhow, for what it’s worth, outlander, I thank you for what you did last night.’

‘Yes,’ replied Seb, ‘but you won’t do anything about it. Just like you didn’t try to help your friend Roland last night when he lost his daughter.’

Seb finished his ale and slammed the mug on the bar, leaving the nervous man speechless, head still bobbing, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. Seb headed towards the large bruiser built like a tree trunk, stood feet planted yards apart, towering above his smaller companion.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ prompted the large bruiser.

‘Can’t a man take a piss at his leisure?’ said Seb.

‘You ain’t going nowhere, murderer.’

‘It was his own doing. He tried to steal my necklace then ran into a wall. Now stand aside. I have no desire to cause you harm.’

For a moment the bruiser looked less certain of himself. Then his face set and he said, ‘Spoken like a killer. There’s no room in Winderbrook for the likes of you. You’re a murderer and will suffer for your crime. Ernie was a good man who brought us wealth and fortune.’

‘A good man? He took pleasure in taking honest folks’ young daughters from them. If that’s a good man, I’d hate to meet a bad one.’

The large bruiser took a long time thinking of his next remark. He wasn’t exactly the brightest of the bunch. Just the biggest. Eventually, he retorted, ‘You’re a bad man.’

‘Not a bad come back,’ said Seb. ‘But you’re not the sharpest tool in the box, are you?’

Seb saw that he would get nowhere with the brute and didn’t bother waiting for another of his slow answers. Seb had numbers against him and needed to attain the front foot. Especially as the other bruisers guarding the front were now making their way over. Thankfully, the Silor-Thenn bounty hunter remained seated at his table – for now.

An old man was sat just within reach, drinking ale from a mug. Seb scooped it up and rammed it into the large bruiser’s face.

The smaller bruiser reacted quicker than Seb expected, and took a swing for him, but Seb still managed to sway from the punch and butted him squarely on the side of the head. The smaller bruiser dropped to the rushes, out cold.

Seb turned in time to dodge from a dagger that cut the air instead of his neck. Instinctively his hand reached to the base of his back and grasped the haft of the double-headed battleaxe hanging from a baldric.

No, if I draw it, I’ll kill them.

The dagger came at his gut. He sprang back and tripped on another’s outstretched foot. The axe dug into his back as he hit the floor, but he paid it no mind. His blood was up, and the rage was upon him. I