The Blood of Winter: Demons of Lost Souls, #1

By John Ozmore

"THE BLOOD OF WINTER" is a dark fantasy about a soldier with the premonition of Death trying to stop a brutal king from spilling enough blood to wake an ancient darkness imprisoned beyond the stars.

Winter could remember Death's voice in the womb. It calls to him still, filling his mind with visions of all the ways he can die. King Drohn's conquest is destroying everything and everyone, leaving the world in ruin. Branded a traitor and forced to escape Winter must travel to the ends of the known world to gather allies.

The empires of Drakoor, Veiling, and Aastra have existed before recorded history and few know what they were built to hide. Winter must find the truth that hides beneath the surface to save the world from Annihilation. Along the way he will face a perilous landscape of mountains, deserts, infinitely growing trees, and calderas surrounded by boiling lakes and rivers to protect an indigenous tribe and the woman he loves.

When the blood from their war soaks the earth, the Demons of Lost Souls will rise and cleanse the world. The premonition of Death is an ally in war and Winter will need it to survive the coming darkness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Ozmore
• Release date: Oct 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386069553

John Ozmore

John Ozmore was born into an abusive environment and his first memory is of blood. He was later adopted by the Ozmore family. The wounds have healed but the scars remain, operating like a portal into the imagination. The worlds John Ozmore creates are both fascinating and frightening blending elements of fantasy, sci-fi, and horror into an imaginative landscape. The author lives in an art community and creates sculptures from things he finds in the forest and has published a photo in National Geographic.

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Dedications

This book is dedicated to:

The Nazario family, The V.O.W. crew including all affiliates and subsidiaries (you know who you are), to my father for adopting me and providing a positive role model to look up to, and to my family and friends for putting up with my weirdness.

In Memory of: Lauren Elaine Reynolds, Matthew Musteen, and Melody Lane

May you find peace beyond this realm.

Chapter One

Escape

––––––––

Fate is merely an instrument of chaos and we are puppets dancing to the music of its strings.

Ancient Proverb

She had a real name once, but she couldn’t remember it. The only memory of her parents was of their death when she was captured. The pain of it clouded anything before. She wanted any memory to grasp at before that horrible day, but she was too young then and the memories were lost.

The other slave girls had simply called her Tears. She cried a lot when she first arrived in Drakoor. There was little pity from the others. They had lost everything, and every girl’s story was horrifying and painful. Their minds were broken and their expressions sad, if they still had hope. Others were simply numb, and their minds had torn them away to another place where they might be safe from reality.

Scarcely able to function, most of the girls were just taking directions as they were used to, which Tears used to her advantage. The young girls next to her were breathing heavily, naked and bruised from the awful things they had endured at the hand of the king. They were his playthings, conquests easily discarded after too much use. Many had died over the years. They were the lucky ones. Death is a mercy.

Sneaking out of the castle wasn’t easy, and some had died in the process. They were still nearly fifty strong and so far undetected, but it wouldn’t last. The slave girls had murdered their share of guards to make it near the gate. The guards had all eventually fallen under the punctures and cuts of determined slaves. The bodies could be discovered at anytime and then they would send soldiers on horseback to ride them down. For now, they still had the advantage of surprise on their side, and they were close.

Stairs and ledges were carved directly into the stone of the mountain. Everything in Drakoor had been carved out of the mountain, or into it. There were several plateaus where the mountain peaks had been carved away creating rock cut homes and buildings, each plateau its own small town with stairs and switchbacks down to slot canyons that formed streets and alleyways between. There was only one entrance known to the citizens to get in, a great arch tunnel nearly three hundred feet tall carved through a six-hundred-foot tall bluff. The bluff rose over a vast open meadow trampled down by the traffic of feet, hooves, and wagon wheels. There was a drop-down gate held high above the arch that could be dropped like a giant guillotine when needed.

Much of the meadow outside the tunnel was actually a bridge now covered in dirt, grass, and even a few scattered trees. The bridge spanned over a deep river along the bluff. Several chains and cables descended from smoothed down holes high on the bluff and disappeared into the ground outside the tunnel to the bridge. The cascade of elevated towns ascended beyond the bluff.

The young girls were starving and dehydrated. They just stood there naked like statues. No one wanted to be the first to break for the gate. Sentry guards were pacing the walls above them, still oblivious. Hiding in the shadows and breathing in heavy bursts of fogged breath, the girls shivered and shook in the autumn chill, scared to death. They agreed to go at the same time to confuse the guards once the alarm was raised, and it would be. They had to make a run for it across a vast space of flat open ground. The sun was setting. They wanted to wait for nightfall, but a distant murmur of panic started to fill the air. The dead guards and missing girls had been discovered. They were out of time.

The girls’ hesitance to be first worked in Tears’ favor. She ran with every ounce of will she had left, trying to escape the years of labor that kept her bound in this place as just another nameless slave. She was naked and frightened, pushing herself in grunting breaths with long strides through the tunnel and out the other side. Guards inside the tunnel were so confused when a skeletal, naked girl ran by at full sprint that it took them a moment to register what was happening. Suddenly an entire mob of naked women poured over and through them with slashes of knifepoint and screams of surprise. Calls echoed down the wall and the alarm was raised.

It was a maternal instinct that drove Tears to rally the slaves for an escape, and she did what had to be done. She gave them what they wanted: they wanted to die, and their sacrifice could keep her and her unborn child alive. They made it into open ground outside the gate. The other girls were screaming amidst the calls of soldiers and galloping horses. Worse still was the sound when their screaming came to an abrupt halt.

Behind Tears, a horse’s hoof beats were growing louder and closer. She let out a scream of fright, pushing herself to run faster and gasping for breath. The hooves were pounding the earth with a deadly rhythm, fast and steady. A distant siren song of screams echoed across the valley. It felt like the gods were plucking at the strings of fate in a funeral dirge. The chill of Death was at her heels. Tears had made it into a field of short grass in Drakoor Valley that stretched for half a mile before it found the edge of the Faiette Forest.

She felt the horse’s hot breath on her neck as a net wrapped over her body and sent her tumbling to the ground. Tears kicked her feet wildly, but with careful purpose, pulling her feet from between the netting. She waited impatiently, trying to control the fear urging her to run, and grasping the edge of the net in her fist. She tried to stay calm. Her timing had to be perfect for this to work, or the soldier would simply overpower her, and all would be lost.

The rider dismounted and lunged, pinning her to the ground. His spit sprayed across her naked skin from the effort of holding and yelling at her. She slipped his hand and turned, elbowing him in the nose while rolling over him with the net. She slipped her other sweaty, boney wrist from his grip and ran. The soldier was caught in the net. His feet slid across moist earth, trying to chase her in desperate lunges.

Tears could see the tree line that would take her beyond this terrible place to the safety of the vast forests beyond. It was her only chance. The soldiers were caught up in their own conflicts, and the girls were being murdered if they struggled. The screams were dying out, and the guards wouldn’t be distracted for long.

The kingdom of Drakoor loomed large behind her like a painful memory. Tears ran from the shadow, searching for hope beyond its horrors. She made it to the forest before they rounded up the others, breathing in sobbing breaths of panic and looking for a place to hide. Mist was creeping into the forest, and she hoped the old ones were answering her prayers. Tears struggled to maintain her balance, lunging in great leaps across river stones, as though the ground were made of fire. She was trying to leave as little evidence as possible while moving as fast as possible. She was out of time.

Soldiers were coming into the forest after her. She dove under the roots of a tree. The soft soil around it had eroded, and she dug at the ground in panic, covering herself in dirt and leaves. Two horsemen stopped less than twenty feet away. She could see their faces through the roots. She held her breath and closed her eyes, not wanting to witness her capture. The mounted guards split up and rode away into the forest. The soldiers would not be willing to admit failure for fear of death at the hand of their brutal king. Their fear gave Tears time.

She inhaled deeply with a sob, exhaling inside her elbow with a puff of fog while trying to stifle the sound of searching for breath. The air grew colder with darkening skies. She wiped tears from her eyes in frustration and defiance as though they were simply an annoyance. It had been a while since she cried, despite her namesake. Numbness and defeat had taken her in that prison, just like the others, till the morning sickness began and her belly began to swell. She had time to make this work, to actually escape. It had seemed like a dream; she was so sure she would die. Tears choked down the initial excitement, knowing it was premature.

Night came at last. She crawled from the tangled roots and leaves in the moonlight like some fabled forest creature, shadows dancing on her pale skin from leaves trembling in the wind. Tears took in a deep breath and felt relieved for a brief moment, till she heard the baying of hounds in the distance. She ran like a person possessed, branches whipping at her skin with a familiar pain. Water splashed at her feet and she ran upstream. Tears slipped, landing violently on wet rocks.

She stood and continued to run with the searing pain of cracked ribs. There was no time to focus on the pain; she had endured worse. The stream dried up and she took a moment to catch her breath in heaving gasps before the sound of dogs sent her running again. Her feet found air in a sickly surprise as the ground dipped into a small gulley. She was sent tumbling through rocks and dirt, falling face first into a small pool of water.

She got to her knees, struggling to catch her breath and unsuccessfully trying to calm herself. Tears was unable to cope with all the emotions flowing through her mind; they were overflowing and pouring through her eyes. She couldn’t run anymore. Her lungs refused to take a breath. Her legs were shaking and trembling, refusing to take her any further without rest. Hopelessness filled her emotions and she held back the sobs, trying to accept her fate with dignity.

She kneeled in cold waters, eyes closed in prayer, bowing her head to the ground. The sound of howling and barking dogs became distant. The entire forest seemed to be waiting for the verdict, and the night was suspended in silence. She took in a deep breath and opened her eyes, only then realizing she hadn’t taken a breath in some time.

The water became calm, and her tears rippled in the reflection of the moon. She dipped her hands into the glowing white orb and drank in heaving breaths. She stared up at the moon, trails of tears leaving streaks of white flesh against her dirt-stained cheeks. The forest settled into rhythm, kicking into chorus as she calmed. Insects and frogs were performing a symphony just for her. She closed her eyes and smiled as gusts of wind brushed against her skin. This is what it felt like to be free.

It had been so long, she scarcely remembered how it used to be before the soldiers of Drakoor visited her land twelve years ago. She was only three when she watched the men murder her family; she had foggy memories of blood and screaming, the salty sting of tears on her lips. The men had grabbed and bound her, sending her to that terrible place. She would kill herself before she went back.

The first days of freedom were difficult, and she felt lost in the vastness of the world. A naked slave was not easy to keep hidden, so she snuck into a village by night to find clothes. She could blend in now, which was important to her survival. She kept to herself, covering the tattoos on her wrists that marked her as a slave, and only staying long enough to pass through. She tried to stay hidden and slept in the forests alone.

For four months Tears traveled, stealing food and supplies from any villages she passed. The urge to keep running was strong and she pushed on. She should have been searching for a good place to give birth, a place to hole up for the approaching winter. The options were limited. Her wrist scars were too easy to recognize and her belly had swelled, making travel difficult. She was on her own and the cold breath of Death was at her heels.

One night, her body suddenly convulsed in spasms and she gritted her teeth, hoping to stay conscious through this one. She woke up several minutes later and wiped the drool from her mouth. It wasn’t as bad as some of the other attacks she’d had over the years. It was a mild attack and she felt relieved, hoping her luck could continue.

The nights grew colder and the trees shivered in the wind, shedding their leaves. Winter was coming. She found a cave to take shelter in, gathering firewood and food. Tears would have to wait for winter to pass. This is where her son would be born.

She rubbed her belly, which had swelled considerably since her escape. Despite the child being conceived so horribly, she loved the life that grew inside of her. She couldn’t believe how much her stomach had stretched, and she held her hands to it as the baby kicked, whispering through tears. You will be born free and loved, and no one will ever take you away from me.

The temperature dropped dramatically. Winter had arrived. Even with a fire and shelter sleep was difficult. A violent and unrelenting storm rolled in, covering everything in ice. Trees were collapsing from the weight. The sound cracked like a whip, then sizzled before the booming resonance of their collapse rumbled across the landscape. The cracking sound went on for days till the forest had nothing left to sacrifice.

Tears hadn’t gathered enough wood and was trying to thaw drenched limbs. The ice storm had nearly leveled the landscape. Her supply of food was growing thin, and the weather showed no signs of letting up. The blizzard blew an unrelenting wind through the cave’s entrance.

There were a few seizures that sent her body cramping into unbearable convulsions of pain. She had learned to live with it over the years. She would wake up, not sure where she was or how much time had passed and wipe dried vomit from her mouth. Sometimes she would panic and cry as she had done for so long before she was broken. Remembering she was free from that awful place and man, even in her desperate situation, was a blessing, and she took comfort in it.

She bundled up with a fur blanket stolen from a nearby village and sat next to a dwindling fire. Tears stared at the tattoos on her wrists, rubbing her fingers over the soft, scarred flesh. It was a reminder of the atrocities and torture she endured to find freedom. She was a survivor. Tears rubbed her belly, which looked stretched to the point of bursting, in stark contrast with the rest of her emaciated figure. She smiled, rubbing her distended stomach and speaking soft words to her child before frowning again as she looked outside. Her only destination was as far away from Drakoor as she could get.

The piercing pain hit her suddenly and she collapsed, lying on her back, breathing heavily between grunting gasps and screams. The pain was unbearable, the cold unrelenting. She rocked back and forth trying to hold herself together. She spread her legs and pushed, clawing at the ground, fighting to stay conscious, struggling through pain, pushing and screaming. She could feel her child’s head crown and intense pain stabbed at her insides like a hot knife. She screamed and squirmed violently, struggling to stay awake in panic and desperation. Not now, please not now! Her back arched in pain, and her fists clenched tightly, uncontrollably. She moaned and dug her heels into the ground. The pain was so unbearable she no longer possessed the strength to scream, and she finally collapsed. Her vision fluttered between firelight and darkness, the pain too much to bear, her eyelids too heavy to hold.

*****

Malek made his way back from the Massai village, dragging his pack sled filled with supplies like a stubborn mule. Winter had continued longer than anyone expected, and Malek made the treacherous journey out of necessity. The blizzard made it difficult to see, but he had been through worse than this. He searched for shelter during breaks in the storm and managed to find his cave; he had used it many times on this journey and could rest before continuing home. Then a shrill scream sent a chill down his spine.

He had heard legends of strange creatures roaming the forest, but in all his years of travel, Malek was usually the strangest creature in it. He knew the stories came from overactive imaginations of simple folk confusing natural sounds for demons. The shrieking sound that chilled the air forced him to second guess that assumption. Malek let go of his pack sled and pulled his sword. He crept carefully towards the sound, keeping his senses sharp, ready for anything, scarcely able to see the cave entrance dimly lit by a dwindling fire.

Malek lowered his sword and pulled back his hood as he entered. His scarred and weather-beaten face reflected winter’s beautiful and treacherous glow. His long hair and beard were covered in snow and ice. Frozen snot clung to his mustache. He looked down at the young, pale girl, lying still on the ground in contorted agony, her eyes wide open. Her abdomen was strangely formed, and at first Malek couldn’t make sense of it. He thought he heard a muffled cry and checked her breathing. She was dead. He saw the slave markings on her wrist and sighed.

Malek tried to reach in and pull the unborn child out. It didn’t budge, and he didn’t want to force it. He had run into similar situations with his goats. He cut into the girl’s stomach with his dagger, making careful incisions. Reaching his hand in the wound, he found the baby’s tiny rubbery body and unwrapped the umbilical cord from its throat. He coaxed it out with gentle force, cradling the newborn’s head till it slid out into open air. It was motionless.

Malek grabbed it by the ankles with one hand before it could hit the ground and then saw it was a he. The boy hung upside down in the grip of a scarred veteran soldier, waiting to be named. Malek slapped the flat of his dagger to its backside.

The newborn opened his eyes and screamed at the horror of being alive. Death had held him first in the womb and pain brought him out of its grip. Malek cut the cord and held the screaming child curled in one arm. He squeezed the girl’s breast to see a small trickle of milk and held the baby’s mouth to her nipple. The child stopped crying as he suckled his dead mother’s nectar. The sound of a crackling fire in its dying embers, the breathy lullaby of winter’s wind, and the soft suckling of a newborn resonated a melancholy sadness in their strange song.

Now that the rush of excitement was gone, Malek started to think sensibly. The thought of leaving the child entered his mind. This isn’t my problem. He set the child down and headed for the exit, trying to do it quickly before he changed his mind. Malek made the mistake of looking back, bouncing on tiptoes with aggravation, ready to flee. The boy started crying again and reaching for the skies with awkward waves, in desperate hope of human touch. The newborn had seen something in the womb when his mother died, something that never left. It was with him still.

Malek dropped his shoulders, turning to stare outside into the whiteout as strong winds kicked up in a shrill roar. He left the cave and went out into the storm. He knew he couldn’t leave this child here to die. The matter had been decided for him when fate conspired and brought him to this moment. There was no reason his path should have stumbled upon this child, unless it was fate. Malek gathered his things from the forest, already buried under ice and snow, and returned to the cave.

He picked up the infant, holding him at arm’s length. Blue eyes reflected the amber glow of fire in his right eye and the white of winter in his left. We’ll have to give you a name, he paused as if waiting for a response. How about Agron?

The child lowered his eyes.

No? OK, how about Mikhail? It’s a strong name.

There was no response. A child had to accept its own name.

Malek looked outside the cave’s entrance, the white wind burying everything in its path, forcing trees to tremble, to crumble, blanketing the earth to hide its color. The trees sacrifice their children before it, weather the storm, and are reborn. Winter, he whispered.

Winter looked into his eyes and seemed to smile. Malek placed his finger in the baby’s face, and Winter grabbed it instinctively with both hands, trying to put it in his mouth. Malek smiled, Winter, it is.

*****

Winter had grown quickly in the five years since his tragic birth. The child stomped about, enjoying the crunch of dead leaves at his feet and jumping into any pile he could find in their long walks through the forest. Malek was glad the boy found a distraction that momentarily stopped his bundle of questions. He was hard on Winter, as all parents must be, but Malek loved his adopted child.

What are those marks on your body for? Winter asked pointing to the intricately scarred red tattoos covering most of Malek’s body.

I was a soldier. These marks tell my story and show my rank. You see that one there? Malek said, pointing to a strange symbol on his forearm. That is the symbol of the bloodlust, a respectable honor. Don’t even remember most of it, but as my comrades tell it, I killed near fifty men.

Why? Winter asked, unimpressed.

Cause they would have killed me if I hadn’t.

Why did they want to kill you?

We were at war.

Why?

Ah, enough with the questions boy. Go play and leave me be for now.

Malek enjoyed his short-lived moment of quiet before Winter came back with more questions. Why don’t I have a mother?

She died.

How?

It’s getting dark. We’ll make camp here. Gather some wood, boy.

Winter gathered wood and kindling while Malek set up trip wires with bells around the perimeter. He helped him light the fire. They sat beside each other eating hard bread before putting out the flames. Winter fell asleep with unanswered questions.

The trip wire bells tinkered in the darkness. Malek jumped up and pulled his sword as two men approached at a run, weapons drawn. He killed the first man quickly, with a single stroke to his neck, slicing the jugular and letting him bleed out. He disarmed the second, leaving him mortally wounded with a stomach puncture and trying to crawl away. Malek double-checked to be sure the first attacker wouldn’t be a problem, but he was still gurgling and holding his neck. He was in the final stages of dying, so Malek focused back on the other assailant. Winter stared from behind a tree, frozen in fear. Get out here, boy, Malek shouted.

Winter came out of hiding and stood beside his father. Death came with him. Malek handed him a dagger. Death became aroused, whispering to Winter, showing him how many ways he could kill. The moment was a flash of time, an emotion, and Death became his mentor, protector, and teacher.

Send him to his rightful place, Malek said calmly.

Winter looked at his father, his hands shaking, clutching the dagger with both hands. Death had frightened him. The fear reminded him of being in the womb.

Never hesitate! Do what needs to be done! Malek screamed, slapping Winter across the face.

Tears streamed down Winter’s face as he approached, Death’s chuckling condescension guiding him through the horror of it. The man was lying on his back gurgling, trying to scoot away with watery, frightened eyes that seemed to bulge in their silent pleading.

Put it in his throat and shut him up, Malek said, stepping on the man’s head to keep him still. Now!

Winter kneeled and closed his eyes as he swung the dagger into the dirt, missing the man entirely. The man swung with what little strength he had left, hitting Winter’s forehead and sending him tumbling. Malek punctured both of the man’s shoulders with his sword and he screamed. Winter avoided the man’s kicks and pulled the dagger from the soil.

You open your eyes and do it right! Malek screamed.

Winter wiped his tears. The mortally wounded man was struggling weakly with wheezing breaths, staring at him with wide bloodshot eyes. Death showed Winter all the ways he could die. He lunged down and pierced the man’s throat, holding the handle with a firm grip till he stopped kicking.

Malek let his foot off and sheathed his sword, You did what had to be done. You survived. He would have killed you if he had the chance. You’ve done a good thing, son, he ruffled Winter’s hair playfully and walked back to the campfire. Winter started to wipe the blade on his shirt. Let the blood stain your blade, Malek said while tossing him the sheath. It’s yours now. You earned it.

Malek slept peacefully by the fire while Winter stared into the darkness beyond its glow, still holding the dagger, every noise making him flinch. Death tried to comfort Winter with horrifying visions of his own death. The visions were meant to nurture and protect, and to warn of the horrors to come. All too soon a boy’s innocence was lost, and the terrors of the world flashed in nightmare.

They continued their journey at sunlight as a stale mist hovered above the ground, lightly pushed with each breath of wind. What happens to us when we die? Winter asked.

If we are lucky, we are taken by the Goddess. If not, then God will collect you for your failings.

Winter stared with confusion. Why?

Cause that’s the way it goes.

I don’t understand.

You don’t need to.

Why not?

Malek sighed, Creation is an accident. We weren’t supposed to be here in this...place, he motioned all around.

Why are we here?

"That’s every man’s quest to discover for himself. I can tell you how life came to be, so far as most believe at least. The God and Goddess created this garden we live in, and it included everything but us. One day Annihilatus, the God of destruction, had a disagreement with Adrasteia, the Goddess of life. He destroyed Her.  

"Adrasteia’s soul scattered from the heavens into the earth. We were formed from Her remains. The rest of Adrasteia’s soul absorbed into the earth and became the soul of the world. We go back to Her through Death. Annihilatus killed life, love, and compassion, and His soul became empty. Our existence upset the balance of their garden. God is trying to collect us—or gods, depending on whose book you read. God may have demons when He returns, according to some. He wants to be whole again, and reset the balance. Every death is an opportunity. He can find you in the fear of it. Pain calls to Him.

Don’t be afraid to die, it is inevitable; Death is there to remind you to live. You have to search for beauty in the chaos, for that is where enlightenment is. Appreciate every moment, because it wasn’t meant to be.

Chapter Two

Training

Winter flinched in pain as the master hit him repeatedly with a bamboo pole, every swing more painful than the next. He couldn’t scream out or it would only get worse. The grunting of pain was becoming more audible as he stumbled to gain balance in the melee. His muscles were trembling from the exertion, but he fought harder than the rest, and Master Loek had taken notice, pushing him harder than the rest.

What you are experiencing is not pain, it is a minor inconvenience! The master screamed at him, This is nothing compared to what you will experience on the battlefield! You must earn the right to be a member of Drakoor’s elite! Now stand up!

Winter tried to focus. Intense pain shot through his already bruised and beaten body. He closed his fists, despite broken fingers, gritting through the pain with clenched teeth; he tried not to collapse or call out, to take the pain with the honor and legend of the elite.

He stood up on the bamboo poles, keeping his balance and facing Braidyn, intent on sending him to the ground. Winter managed to maintain his balance and prepared himself. He stared into Braidyn’s dark brown eyes, which gleamed with a patronizing look to match the victorious smirk on his