Kellen HalfCaste, Book 1: The Hammer and Snow: Kellen HalfCaste

By Jeremy Mathiesen

An orphan wrestler raised among coal dust and steel.

 

A vile king clutching to his reign by a skeletal grasp.

 

When eighteen-year-old Kellen HalfCaste's mentor betrays him and poisons his best friend, he is forced out into the streets to survive by any means necessary. Hunted by Vampires and the king's men alike, Kellen must learn why his cruel world has been slammed on its crown.

 

Could the rumors of a base-born heir to the throne be true?

 

Kellen must find balance in a world where the scales are tipped if he is going to defend himself from the corrupt and unjust.

 

Cast as a born loser in a contest where the victors were decided long ago, is Kellen truly a mere pawn in this cruel game of hammer and snow?

 

Welcome to book 1 in the Kellen HalfCaste adventure.

 

A series within the Cyrus LongBones universe.

 

Get it now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Mathiesen
• Release date: Dec 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781775091806

Book preview

Chapter 1

A WOLF AMONG HOUNDS

PRESENT DAY

The warehouse was vast and frigid, poorly lit by dangling oil lamps high overhead. Coach Totrov moved through the crowd like a wolf among hounds. His jaw was square, his nose was flat and his ears were deformed from years of grating grappling on rundown wrestling mats.

Totrov pushed past several disheveled men crowded around a large competition floor. The spectators were drinking, laughing, smoking, and shouting. Within the press of bodies, two grunting grapplers shouldered into one another and threw each other to the muddy ground.

A tall man in a dark tailored suit with oiled black hair weaved his way through the mob of drunks and caught Totrov’s gaze. Nikolai Konev had cold green eyes, slightly pointed ears, and a long severe face. Streaks of silver accented his slicked hair. A pale gold tooth glinted among his bone-white teeth. Konev covertly drew from his white-collared shirt a small vial of crimson liquid. The glass tube hung from a thin gold necklace. He flashed Totrov the vial and gave him a subtle nod.

The thick squat Totrov returned the subtle gesture, then continued through the rabble towards a greasy black pillar. The wooden beam was tall and wide and supported the building’s waterlogged roof. Totrov found refuge within its broad shadow and collected a glass vial and leather water skin from within his woolen waistcoat. Inside the vial, a dark red liquid swirled with fiery phosphorescence. Totrov poured a single drop of crimson fluid into the skin. Then he shook the leather pouch to mix its contents. He replaced both skin and glass within his coat before continuing towards the rear of the building.

There, among empty crates and barrels, two wrestlers worked together practicing arm-drags and upper body locks. Both were shirtless and wore dark woolen tights with black leather lace-up boots. One athlete had chestnut hair and bursting shoulder muscles. The other had red hair and a back like a pale walnut. Neither of them could have been older than eighteen.

The mob cheered a wild, victorious cry.

Your boy’s up, a fit older man said, walking the outer perimeter of the crowd.

The wrestler with the red hair disengaged from the other and turned to face Coach Totrov.

Breathe, Totrov said, keep your posture, and don’t shoot unless your heads are touching.

The coach brought the water skin to the boy’s lips. The wrestler took a small sip, then made a bitter confused face. Totrov slapped him on the back.

Impose your will.

The red-haired youth breathed deep before snorting like a pacing bull. He pressed into the mob and pushed past three tall pale men. The largest of the three had a scarred discolored eye. The second had a long nose and a high forehead. The third had a deeply lined face like a goblin. All three watched him keenly as he squeezed through the crush of bodies and entered the circle.

***

The match had ended before it had begun. The red-haired boy had started strong, but something had overcome him shortly after the contest was underway. Blood had started to leak from his nostrils and he appeared off balance. His opponent had taken advantage of his missteps and had slammed him on his head.

The referee had shoved the winner off the red-haired boy and called in Coach Totrov. Totrov rushed to his wrestler’s aid.

How bad is it? the old coach asked, Can you move your hands?

The boy rolled to his side and coughed up more blood.

He needs a doctor, Totrov shouted.

The squat coach picked up his wrestler and carried him out of the muddy circle, towards the back corner of the warehouse. There, a wide double door led to a darkened alleyway.

Outside, sheets of rain smacked clean the narrow uneven brick lane. A horse whinnied in the darkness. Three tall angular men stepped forward from the shadows and into the light of the open door. The first man had a scarred discolored eye.

No, the boy gasped weakly, What is this?

The tall pale man with the long nose and high forehead stepped past the larger scarred man and grasped the injured wrestler roughly out of Totrov’s arms. The third man, with the deeply lined face, opened the door of a black horse-drawn buggy and helped throw the wrestler within. Sharpened teeth flashed in the big goblin’s mouth.

Vampires? No! the youth protested.

The three men pushed into the cab after the boy, muffling his cries. Then the shrouded coachman slammed the carriage door shut as the creaking buggy bumped and rocked its way down the wet black alleyway.

***

Castle Tsarstov was an ancient stone keep bridging a narrow yet deep branch of the Tsarstov River. The roofs of the castle’s tall stony spires were refurbished with modern metal shingles and its once wooden-shuttered windows were now protected by stained glass. High brick and mortar walls defended the east and west banks of the river fortress.

Where the waters flowed below the castle’s bridgework, thick wooden boards walled off the masoned archways, leaving no flank undefended. Stone pillars and pointed metal bars protruded from beneath the fort’s watery underbelly. The ancient submerged columns supported the hulking structure above.

The perimeter wall that ran along the west bank of the river was twenty feet high and spanned two city blocks. The large black horse snorted steam from its billowing lungs as it pulled its carriage past the fortress's western gate. The castle entrance was illuminated by two large stone dragons. The marble beasts breathed blue flame. Shadowy guards huddled in nearby guardhouses and sheltered themselves from the driving rain. The shrouded coachman nodded to the sentries as he drove past the main gate and continued towards another, more inconspicuous, passageway. No light marked the second entrance. Its small door was hidden behind thick tangled ivy.

The wooden doorway edged opened and a small gas lamp appeared in the pitch-black night. The coachman reined back his horse and brought the carriage to a clumping halt. The cab door banged open. The three large angular men dragged the sickly wrestler out into the night. The snorting horse whinnied, its large eyes wide with fright. Nikolai Konev stood at the gate’s entryway, lighting the passage. The shadows from the oil lamp accentuated his sinister scowl.

Inside, quickly, he said, nervously peering about the street.

The three men shoved the ailing wrestler past Konev and into the secret passage. Konev shut and latched the gate behind them. The sound of the pouring rain became a muffled din beyond the thick wooden door.

I will guide the way, Konev said, as he pushed ahead through the low narrow tunnel.

He lit their way to a cramped, spiraling staircase that led beneath to a subterranean passage. The wrestler coughed and struggled. The three large men grunted and swore as they dragged the half-senseless youth down the winding stairs.

The passage air was cool, but the deeper they descended, the warmer and more sulfuric each breath became. Water began to weep from the craggy brick-lined walls and drip from the cambered ceiling. The stone steps seemed to delve beneath the very fortress itself.

Finally, the stairway arrived at a dusty stone floor landing dominated by a large copper-plated door. Nikolai Konev banged on the bronzed exterior with his boney fist. The sound of iron sliding against steel came from beyond the doorway. The clank of a heavy pin echoed throughout the catacomb. The lumbering door cracked open. Warm humid air filled the passage. The entryway groaned as it swung wide, revealing a hooded man standing at the threshold. He peered from beneath his shroud at the five men. Then he stood aside to let them enter. Konev led the way into the candlelit room. The three kidnappers followed, dragging their captive along with them.

Within awaited a large brick-lined chamber with high vaulted ceilings and several wide arching alcoves hidden in shadows. At the rear of the subterranean hollow stood what looked to be a massive floor-to-ceiling cast iron furnace built into the very brick wall. The front and sides of the iron hulk were painted black and detailed in gold trim. Two large rectangular doors were latched shut at the front of the furnace. The furnace resembled what might have been the giant head of an aristocratic tin man. Something large shifted and snorted within the metal tomb.

No! What am I doing here? the red-haired boy moaned.

In the center of the room, several cloaked figures stood in a circle around a large stone table. The angular men dragged the youth near, pulling off his boots and britches, and laying him across the cold, hard surface.

What’s happening? What are you doing? the wrestler asked.

A hooded figure brought Konev his own dark cloak as the three pale men shackled the boy’s wrists and ankles to the table. Another garbed form moved to the side of the furnace and opened a small hatch in the cast-iron crypt. The person held an oversized steel syringe in their two hands. They inserted the big needle into the hatch. The large thing within roared and crashed against the massive metal container. Orange and blue flames jetted from the slits in the lids of the shuttered windows. The cloaked individual carried the steel instrument to a small table, then returned to the group with a golden goblet brimming with crimson liquid.

The three angular men nodded to everyone gathered, then left the room through the door that they had entered. The chamber was locked tight. All who remained united around the shivering boy, dressed in nothing but his underwear. The goblet was passed to the head of the table. A tall bent form drew back his hood.

King Morozov… the wrestler gasped.

The old king looked down at the young man with lusty rheumy eyes. His dark wig did not hide his old age but instead accentuated it. Long white hairs grew from within his pointed ears. A vial of crimson liquid hung from a necklace around his vulture-like neck.

The Sons of Cyrus gather here to make sure that your spirit lives on through all of us, King Morozov said, his voice shaky and labored.

His wispy beard half-hid circular sores around his thin-lipped mouth. His long wrinkled face appeared skeletal in the candlelight.

Drink, my boy, the king said, raising the goblet to the youth’s lips, give of your youth, your strength, your vitality.

The prisoner pursed his lips and desperately turned his head away. Two men on each side of the king drew back their hoods and grasped the young man by the head and jaw, forcing his mouth open. Both resembled the king. Both had the same pointed ears and necklaces of crimson liquid around their necks.

The prisoner moaned and strained against his chains. Morozov poured the chalice's contents down the injured wrestler’s throat. The youth coughed and choked. Red liquid spat up on his face and neck. Before the goblet was empty, he began to thrash and twist on the stone table.

Stop, he gasped, wrenching his head free from the two men’s grips, I’m burning!

The hooded figures surrounding the table spoke in unison.

The blood of the dragon mingles with the blood of the pure, they said.

Then, men and women alike threw back their hoods and lunged at the chained figure, biting and drinking the blood of his flesh. Desperate shrill screams filled the dank brick chamber. Then all became silent.

The blood of the dragon mingles with the blood of the pure, King Morozov said, grinning wide and wiping blood from his white beard, and brings about the Angel Queen’s spirit.

Then, slowly, a greenish-grey vapor seemed to rise from the pale wrestler’s lifeless form and the face of an impossibly beautiful woman began to gather within the gaseous haze.

Chapter 2

THE DEVIL AT THE DOOR

SEVENTEEN YEARS EARLIER

It was late summer in the capital. The air was cool, but not yet cold. A distant church bell rang in the darkness of the early morning hour. A black horse-drawn carriage rattled down the reeking alleyway of a south-end slum, beyond the old town walls. The coach stopped at the back door of a one-time carpenter’s shop. The rickety space had long ago been converted into a struggling wrestling gym.

Nikolai Konev, his hair void of the silver streaks and his posture less stooped, stepped from the door of the creaking buggy. In his long arms, he held a small bundle close to his chest. With a leather-gloved fist, he rapped on the heavy wood of the gym’s back ally entryway. A drunk grumbled and shifted, slumbering in the doorway of a shop across the lane. After several moments, a young, dark-haired woman with startling blue eyes opened the door. The woman wrapped herself tightly in a faded grey night robe, her pregnant belly seeming ready to burst.

What is it? she asked coldly, It is three o'clock in the morning.

I apologize, Mrs. Totrov, for my early morning intrusion, Konev said, but is your husband available?

Mrs. Totrov gave the man a cool gaze, then shut the door in his face. The door reopened revealing a younger, slimmer Coach Totrov.

What can we do for you, Mr. Konev? Totrov asked, his eyes low.

Konev uncurled his long arms and revealed a sleeping child no older than three or four months of age.

You will take this boy, and you will raise him, but not as your own, Konev said, You will keep him healthy and alive, but no more will be required of you. He will be but one of your many young strong wrestlers, training and competing, until the day I return to claim him.

Coach Totrov hesitated for a moment, then stepped forward and gathered the young child in his thick arms. Konev reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a thick envelope. He stuffed the envelope into the baby’s swaddle cloth.

The first payment of your monthly allowance for the child’s care, Konev said, He will be unremarkable, you understand? Just a poor orphan wrestler among many others whose parents died or couldn’t afford him.

Coach Totrov nodded, visibly disturbed. Konev then tipped his black top hat to Totrov before turning and retreating within his awaiting carriage.

Healthy and alive, Mr. Totrov, Konev repeated, as his coach pulled away, Nothing more.

Totrov closed the back door with his foot as he carried the sleeping child inside his home. His wife stood with her arms crossed within their dingy makeshift kitchen. The floorboards above creaked with the sounds of several young orphans sleeping on the hardwood floor.

Mrs. Totrov slowly stepped forward and inspected the young child in her husband's heavy arms. The boy had a head of thick brown hair. His eyes, when closed, formed delicate straight long-lashed lines, as if painted true by an artist's brush. His ears had been recently clipped and stitched at the top.

Mrs. Totrov inadvertently sucked in her shuttering breath. Terror and anger hardened her soft features.

He is a midborn half-caste, she whispered, venom in her tone, This is someone’s bastard child. Someone with wealth and power. You have made us a deal with the devil and brought him into our home.

She clutched her pregnant belly and began to weep with fright.

Look around you, Mishka, Rustam Totrov said, gesturing to their disheveled house, the devil is already here, for we live in hell.

He grasped the envelope of bills stuffed in the baby’s swaddle cloth.

This child is our way out.

***

Coach Totrov’s wife died in childbirth two months later, but, to the midwife’s surprise, his new daughter lived. Totrov named his miracle baby Misha in his late wife’s memory.

The squat coach was heartbroken. He blamed himself for not being able to provide a more suitable home, a more prosperous life for his late wife. He also blamed the heavy shadow thrown by the half-caste child upon his family. Had Mishka been right? Had the bastard boy brought misery and misfortune to their doorstep?

Over time, the money Totrov gained from harboring the abandoned boy eased many of his monetary burdens. He could afford more regular food for his wrestlers and debtors no longer threatened to take his gym or his life.

Totrov’s new daughter received all of his love and attention. The orphaned boy had to settle for the attentions of his various wet nurses. Eventually, Totrov needed to