Axe for a Neck: Chronicles of a Ring Reaper Duology, #2

By Jonathan Evan Hudson

Death crept toward Gerald Coder from the shadows. Clicks against the dry mud warned him of that much.

But a promise was a promise. His journey was no fool's errand. The sound of claws in the humid night. With only a haystack s cover against the coming nightmare.

And his arcane weapons to overcome the impossible.

Enjoy this second stunningly spellbinding novel of an enthralling epic fantasy duology that only the acclaimed Jonathan Evan Hudson could tell. Perfect for fans of unique monsters and mayhem.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordpulp Studios
• Release date: Oct 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393039648

Jonathan Evan Hudson

Widely traveled, Jonathan Evan Hudson spends as much time studying life as he does writing gripping tales of fantastic adventures. From the giant redwoods of California to the deserts of Israel, his thrilling stories all draw on first-hand experiences and expand them with the fantastic and his acclaimed creativity.

Book preview

Chapter

One

Death crept toward Gerald Coder from the shadows.

Clicks against the dry mud warned him of that much.

The sound of claws in the humid night.

Gerald squatted behind the haystack beside the stable. Its thick stink hiding the smell of whatever pursued him. Mingling with the foul stenches of a typical alley in a small town. Enough to squelch his yearning for the tavern’s ale and beef stew despite a long day’s travel.

To squelch his appetite forever.

The din of the tavern beside him murmured through the building’s warped wood. Full of innocent people unaware of the danger lurking in the night. A danger that would slaughter until it itself was killed.

Assuming he hadn’t imagined the sounds.

Assuming his info was correct.

And this journey to Twin Shar wasn’t a fool’s errand.

Crunches came from the other side of the haystack.

Soft pats.

Strokes.

His heart leapt to his throat.

Pumped as bitter as the burnt coffee he drank this morning, so long ago.

As a student Ring Reaper, Gerald shouldn’t have left his teacher Babbit and his fellow students behind. Shouldn’t have gone off on his own to deal with the nightmare in Twin Shar – the most romantic city in the world now a secret hotbed of monsters and other enemies of the mortal world.

Though his duty as a Ring Reaper was to fight against the Netherworlds. To defend the mortal world against monsters, demons, and other creatures of the Netherworlds. Armed with the only weapons mortals had against those demons and their horrible ilk.

The mutilated survivor who reached Babbit had warned them about Twin Shar. About the sick games and experiments conducted by the Court, the government of the city. About the multitudes of victims dying each day, suffering fates worse than death.

Enough to push Babbit into investigating it himself.

But Gerald couldn’t explain why he had to go alone.

A promise was a promise.

Even to a creature of the Netherworlds. To an enemy of the mortal world.

Especially if it meant saving the mortal world.

Gerald held his breath.

Fingered his saber.

A blade hexed to pain any creature of the Netherworlds it pierced.

A blade he practiced wielding countless times before.

One knife in each of his sleeves. His raspberry shirt with lavender cuffs hid them along his arms with one in its collar.

All three hexed as well.

And Elvira on the roof.

His Scythe.

Once a vicious assassin of the Netherworld. Now his willing servant.

A sniff erupted from the side of the haystack.

Gerald froze.

Prayed the dim light would hide him.

His slim body of eighteen years tugged together.

The creature’s fetid smell grew stronger.

He had been in worst situations. In Cabalton he had been captured by creatures of the Netherworld. Forced to fight in a ring of horrible monsters for the entertainment of other monsters.

And survived.

He could handle this.

A hiss rang out.

And the creature stepped in front of Gerald.

Its wiry form filling most of the alley.

Elongated arms ending with hooked claws.

Massive talons destroyed the remains of boots of its feet.

Its maw of fangs as big as its skull. Its face disfigured.

But those eyes.

A nightmare that was once a man.

Proof of the Court’s crimes.

Just like the survivor had said.

Enough to burn Gerald’s veins with fiery acid.

Just like the victims of so many Babbit had shown him. Farmers killed by wheat turned live and vicious. Guards, from seasoned veterans to young boys no older than Gerald, mutilated into a salad of body parts, all to feed a monstrous pet summoned by a violet siren. Terrible crimes burned into his memory. Churning his stomach sour with bile, bitter with fear.

Gerald yanked out his saber.

Lunged at the monstrosity.

It swung its arm.

Backhanded him.

Smashing against his ribs. Cracking them.

He stumbled into the haystack. Spit out a coppery taste.

There were worse things than death.

The monster gurgled something. Words mushed out a mouth that could no longer form speech.

But its contorted face needed no interpretation.

It had to die.

Gerald spun back onto his feet.

Slashed at it.

Pain of broken ribs stabbing his chest.

The creature snarled.

Struck at his weapon.

Gerald darted back.

The hard dirt scrapping against his boots.

Bitter ice of fear scissoring his spine.

His other Scythes were inside the tavern.

Busy with the mission he gave them.

A foolish decision.

He should have used all his Scythes against this monster.

But he was too used to fighting alone. Only a month had passed since he had gained four Scythes. Once they were creatures of the Netherworld, now his willing servants – except for one. Not enough time for him to become comfortable with the idea of them slobbering over him.

Gerald backed away slowly.

Waved his saber at it.

It growled at him.

Lumbered closer.

Look at what we have here, said a girl several feet behind him. Voice lyrical. Sliming his bones like a rotten orange with its sweetly foul magic. The Grim’s caught another one.

Gerald’s mouth dried.

More bitter than the burnt coffee drink he drank this morning, so long ago.

Time for a desperate plan.

Chapter

Two

Ashley Kymber congratulated herself on her brilliant plan.

She leaned back on her chair and sighed. The din of the tavern brewing around her. Breathing in the thick aromas of beef stew and ale. The plate on the table in front of her filled with strawberry chews. A pyramid of the best candy one could get a day away from Twin Shar.

And ready to be poisoned just right.

Stacey perked up in her chair beside Ashley. The pretty redhead frowned like puppy caught misbehaving. Nice and innocent seeming. Her strawberry scent just as sweet.

A good disguise for her friend.

Too bad it was usually sincere. She never misbehaved. After working their asses off in training, after Gerald then insisted they were slacking off, Stacey actually apologized – apologized – to him. As if they inconsiderate lout care a whit for them.

Even with her short ruby dress an obvious souldress for a ruby siren. The stylish holes in its sides, nice curvy ovals and a low neckline, would warm any guy’s blood. A bronze skin patch over the mark on her chest, the tattoo of crisscrossed scythes – the mark of a Scythe.

Combined with Ashley’s presence – blonde perfection with pink highlights. Smelling of bubblegum. In a short pink dress showed off plenty and hinted sensually the little it covered. The low neckline hidden by a translucent lace top of snow white. A peachy skin patch over her Scythe mark too.

The perfect outfit for a pink siren.

Those shadowsworn men over at the other table would spill every secret they knew.

Probably everything and then some.

Yet Amber frowned too.

Sour as lemons.

Like usual.

Are you sure about this? Amber asked, pouting.

Sitting across from Stacey, Amber didn’t have the looks of her friends and always found a way to whine about it. Even with the prettiest lime green highlights in her blonde hair. A slender figure as lovely a cherry tree. Her lime green souldress similar to Stacey’s except for the long, draping sleeves.

Yes, said Ashley, leaning forward elbows on the table, stomach churning sour, Gerald wants us to learn what he can.

But he said just to listen, not to talk to them, murmured Amber. Her dainty face twisting. As if the thought of disobeying Gerald was too hard on her.

As if they could hear anything from a couple of tables away.

Yeah, said Stacey, her shoulders crunched to her neck, He said –

I know what he said, said Ashley, suppressing a moan. Ever since Gerald bound them, those two did whatever he wanted.

Without question.

Except once.

And that exception was the only reason Gerald’s instructor Babbit had spared Ashley’s life. She was defective and most defective Scythes were killed.

Of course, those Ring Reapers claimed sirens like Ashley and her friends lost their humanity as they aged. Just because of the magic in their voices or something. Claiming Amber’s cruel experiments to improve her craft were such signs. Stacey’s practice on beasts too.

And Ashley’s thieving.

As if only sirens were thieves.

Yeah right.

Only special girls were blessed with the ability for magic. They were called sirens. Each had a specific shade of magic. With its own powers and limitations.

And no men could cast magic.

Not unless a siren or demon granted them that power.

As it should be.

Just do it, said Ashley, knocking the table with her knuckles, and adding a sly smile, You know how he likes pleasant surprises. He might be happy enough to share his bed if you do.

Amber and Stacey gasped.

Perked up.

Really? they asked together.

Idiots.

Her stomach churned more sour than lemons.

Before Gerald bound them, they would have never fawned so eagerly over a guy. Never this badly. Even Elvira fawned over that lout. As if that creep would ever touch her that way.

It was Ashley he leered at.

The one Scythe that wouldn’t have him.

Yes, said Ashley, watching the tavern maids weave through the crowd. One carried a tray of bowls toward the shadowsworn’s table. Now hurry and do it right. This won’t work if they’re too full to eat – unless you think you can’t manage it.

Amber squirmed at the last jab. It twisted Ashley’s insides but sometime you had to motive a friend that way. With Stacey and Amber being sixth rank sirens, the weakest rank, the fact that Ashley had reached fifth rank a couple years earlier than them must annoy them to no end.

Still, Amber eventually nodded and poked the top candy with her finger. She murmured something sweet and tangy. The sound tinkling through Ashley’s flesh. Zipping it with zest.

At the shadowsworn’s table, five men played cards. Two fatsos. A bald boulder and a greasy hairball. A muscled giant with a bushy beard of coal black. And a lean mean rat of a man. All ragged like overworked mercenaries complete with leather armor and bladed weapons strapped on.

Suspected shadowsworn, technically. How he knew he refused to say.

Typical.

With skimpy piles of coins in front of each – almost all bits. A halfer or two, worth six bits each. And no coppers. Forget silvers or golds.

Not worth the time to rob.

Typical low-life hired scum. She saw those sort all the time when she was a slave in Cabalton. She had to serve them, cozy up to them, treat those bastards like royalty – until Gerald freed her. Then bound her to him. The fucking slavemaster himself.

Amber settled back into her seat. A sour frown still plastered on her dainty face.

Come on, Ashley said, reaching over and picking up the plate of strawberry chews. Now poisoned to weaken any man who ate them and make them speak the truth.

Time to be sexy, giggled Ashley, winking at her friends.

They stood up. Smiling back at her. Both with glassy eyes though.

And not because of the shadowsworn either.

So she giggled again.

Pretend they’re all Gerald, Ashley said, smiling as she were savoring a cup of chocolate pudding, Just imagine how happy he’ll be when we give him their confession. Kisses for all of us, I bet.

That perked her friends up. Their eyes sparkling as much as the sugar on the strawberry chews.

Silly. Pathetic.

But they were her friends.

If they wanted that lout of a Ring Reaper to fuck their brains