Enter the Nidings: Nidings, #1

By R.B. Ashton

Man-eating giants. A kidnapped princess. Can 6 unlikely heroes succeed where armies have failed?

 

Trouble stirs in the Clear Valley frontier that separates the realm from monsters of legend. The Thundress Tribe, enormous giantesses banished to the mountainous Nidings, are raiding villages and devouring people. Worse, they have captured Princess Vivaria. Their demands: give up the Clear Valley or die.

 

The last great wars against the giants cost countless lives. Now, the king refuses to risk direct battle.

 

Scholar Arabel Sloane, the leading expert on the thundresses, is tasked with saving the princess – quietly. She doesn't know how to fight, and has never seen a giant in the flesh. Her only hope is an elite group of adventurers: a monster hunter, two warriors, a thief, and a palm witch. Yet her companions are as untrustworthy as they are deadly.

 

Together, they must journey into the forbidden Nidings and face creatures determined to eat them alive. And that's if the witch doesn't eat them first...

 

Start your journey into the Nidings today with this concise epic; a dark fantasy adventure as frightening as it is thrilling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neringa Press
• Release date: Jan 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201111519

Book preview

1

Arabel Sloan had to approach the witch alone.

Worse, she was in the least-hospitable tavern Arabel had ever seen: the Hunted Pig, in Gorn, a village at the frontier of civilisation. As a scholar from the fortified city of Burgwec, Arabel had been sheltered from such places all her life. Standing outside the uneven, three-storey timber building, alive with rowdy shouts and bad string music, she felt her merchant-style blue-suede suit was too tight, emphasising her body rather than masking her femininity as she intended. The jacket and trouser combo was scruffy and the leather thick enough to deflect a weak knife blow, but it showed off her hips and squeezed her chest as tight as a corset. Still, scribe’s robes would’ve made her more of a target.

She opened the door and the din and smell of alcohol and unwashed bodies hit her. A small table of men playing cards glanced at her then looked away. The packed tavern’s men were too busy drinking, arguing, and propositioning busty women in frilly dresses to notice a shabby merchant. They were unclean and unhealthy, overweight or underfed, many in partial undress. Almost everyone had a blade somewhere about their person.

Arabel adjusted her round glasses, trying to pick out the witch. The sooner she got out, the better. There, in the corner, was a woman in red. Arabel started towards her. The floorboards stuck with each step and crunched with broken glass. As she passed one table, offering quiet excuse-mes, a man growled, Evening, darling, wanna join us?

She flashed a dismissive smile, barely making eye contact, and continued. He was a burly guy in studded mercenary leathers, a scar over one eye and missing a few fingers. He called after her, Don’t be like that, come tell us your name!

Arabel hurried on, until she reached the table in the corner, under the shadow of the creaking staircase.

Mistress Caracae? Arabel asked with as friendly a smile as her nerves would allow.

The woman had watched her all the way. She was a slender beauty in a rich burgundy dress, subtly hemmed with gold, breasts bulging out the top. Her sharp-featured, smooth-skinned face was shrewd, jet black hair long, hanging over her shoulders, down towards her waist. She appraised Arabel with big eyes and said, I’m no mistress.

Sorry, of course, yes, Arabel flustered. I wasn’t sure the correct honorific. Lady?

Caracae, for it must be her, laughed. Honorifics are for civilised folk. Those that know my name know to avoid me.

Arabel paused, reassessing the woman. She was drinking from a large metal tankard, left well alone in her nook. The closest tables had no one sitting on them; consciously or not, the tavern-dwellers gave the witch a wide berth.

I see, Arabel said. Well. I’ve come with a proposition, from –

Not interested, Caracae said. She had a commanding presence, larger than life even as she was sitting down and Arabel standing over her. Her smile held the invitation of a spider, and as Arabel tried not to look at that her eyes wandered down, to the hypnotic expanse of the woman’s cleavage. Man or woman, interested or not, those curves of smooth flesh would draw any eye. Arabel quickly looked away.

You’d best leave before you draw any attention, Caracae said.

Right, Arabel replied, weakly. It had been a mistake, her coming here. Caracae was as unimpressed by her as she might’ve been by Grawn or the monster hunter. The others might have provoked a witch, but at least they’d get her attention. Even with all the authority given her, Arabel had no place being here. She said, Only, this is very important. The Baron himself has an offer. It involves the Rake Stone.

Then he can come and find me, if he wants a talk, Caracae said. Go on. Get.

She waved a dismissive hand and Arabel took an involuntary step back. Not from fear, but as if pushed. She frowned at her own booted feet. The witch was smiling again, not blinking. Arabel hadn’t imagined it – was that a tiny hint at her magic?

Arabel gulped and turned to leave. Whatever the risks, someone else could handle this. She raced through the tavern, bumping men and apologising, until she burst outside and took a deep breath of relatively fresh air. She looked side to side, realising how afraid she was, and started down the road. She’d go to the barn where the others were waiting and send Grawn instead. The royal knight might not be welcome in such a tavern, but he wouldn’t back down. She was an idiot, thinking –

Running off so soon? a man’s voice stopped her, a sudden chill shooting up the hairs on her neck. She slowly turned around to see the scarred man from the tavern in the street behind her. We didn’t get to talk yet.

He was leering an ugly smile, and had a friend alongside him, a bulky man in a tatty shirt, with a knife at his side. Arabel’s hand instinctively went to her own knife, sheathed at her hip, but the man said, Ah, ah – be nice. Don’t want to startle Ruft.

He nodded over her shoulder and Arabel twisted again. A third man emerged from the shadows ahead, patting a bat against his palm. He was taller, with a brick-shaped brow.

We just want a bit of fun, Ruft said. New in town, ain’t ya?

I’m not travelling alone, Arabel warned them. I advise you to go back inside.

Oh you advise us, do you? the first man said, making his friends laugh. He took a step closer. They all moved closer, and Arabel backed off. But she had nowhere to go – walled in by buildings either side of the street, she’d have to knock down one of them to get past.

Relax, we’re just gonna have a bit of fun, the leader continued. You like fun, don’t you? Why come to a tavern if you don’t like fun.

I was meeting someone, Arabel answered through gritted teeth. The men collectively stepped towards her again, almost in arm’s reach. Another step and they’d fence her in completely. She could scream for help. As if anyone in the tavern would hear her – or care. No. She had to run.

The scarred man was about to speak again, about to take another step, when she ducked and darted past him, aiming for a gap. He flashed out quickly and caught her arm in a strong grip, pulling her tight back against him. His rotten breath curled her nose as he spat in her ear, Now, that ain’t nice!

She kicked and tried to pull free, but he held her tighter and the other men closed in.

Then she was thrown down, scuffing her knees across the dirt, and her glasses fell off. She crawled quickly forward, snatching the glasses back up, but no more attack came. They hadn’t pushed her, she realised, as she turned back – they’d released her. She froze.

The three men were bunched together, rigid as though being squeezed by an invisible force, faces contorted in a mixture of fear and anger. The witch Caracae stood ten metres back, arm outstretched with a hand up as though it was her who held them there. The witch was lit in dramatic shadow from the little yellow glow that came out the tavern windows, her dress down to the ground. Arabel gaped – she had never seen a witch at work before, and even doubted the existence of palm magic. But the men were locked there, groaning as they tried to resist her power.

Caracae brought her other hand up and closed both together, as if in a very slow clap, and Arabel gasped as the men shrank. In line with the hand movement, their bodies compacted, squeezed smaller, until they were so small she could barely see them floating in the shadow. Their panicked pleas rose into squeaks. Then they were released and fell to the mud with cries. They bounced like dropped toys and quickly tried to right themselves, regaining control of their bodies. All three were crying out in fear and pushing one another to break off in different directions. Arabel could just hear the scarred leader swearing at the tall one – no longer tall at all; they were the size of small mice.

Don’t just gawk, they’ll get away, Caracae said. The witch strode casually towards Arabael, in no hurry herself, and it made her move quickly backwards. The tiny thugs noticed her approach and shouted at one another, twisting about to run the opposite way. By the time Caracae reached them, their best sprints had only taken them about a foot over the mud.

The bulky one at the rear tripped and rolled onto his rear as he tried to get up. He shrieked as he looked up to see Caracae next to him. Arabel’s mouth was open in wonder – the witch was intimidating already, how much more terrifying to see her from his perspective, a tower of a woman.

She didn’t give him time to dwell on it; Caracae raised her leg, the dress parting to reveal a sandalled foot, and without warning she brought it down in a quick stomp. Arabel gagged, hand to her mouth as the man squelched under the witch’s sandal. Caracae ground her toe, briefly, before moving on.

The other two men had run slightly further, tall Ruft having outpaced the leader, but it made no difference. Caracae took two more steps to clear the distance, then crouched and grabbed first the scarred one then, leaning forward, the tall one. They thrashed and screamed from her fists, but at their size the sounds were pitifully quiet. Caracae rose to stand and looked from one hand to the other as the men struggled. She caught Arabel’s eye and said, One for you, one for me. Do you have a preference?

Arabel’s mouth was still open but she couldn’t speak.

Caracae shrugged, not waiting for her to regain her senses, and she pushed the scarred man between her scarlet lips head first. His legs kicked as she sucked him in, then his screams were muted as her mouth closed over him and she swallowed.

Arabel took another step back and tripped on the porch of the building behind her, falling to land on the boardwalk. She tried to back off, but Caracae was suddenly in front of her, moving with an unhurried yet frighteningly fast speed.

Catch, the witch commanded. Before Arabel knew what she was doing, she had both hands up to receive Ruft as Caracae dropped him. Arabel pushed her arms away