Netherworld

By Ari Ryder

DEATH IS ONLY THE BEGINNING.

 

Casper Renolds heard tales of the Netherworld every Holy Day as a boy. It was a mysterious place. A dark place. A space between spaces where the gods of Wayland tested a departed soul to prove it wor

• Language: English
• Publisher: Poison Apple Publishing
• Release date: Mar 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9780578383378

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

1

The Miller

A STICK CRACKING IN AN OTHERWISE-SILENT FOREST WAS never a good sound.

Casper Renolds froze, crossbow at the ready, listening. Caution tainted his brown eyes. It could just as easily be a deer as it could a bear, and Casper wasn’t keen on meeting the second. The rapaxion bears in this part of the wild were vicious and territorial, not at all like the gentler brown bears to the east. His finger tensed on the trigger. He heard no further warning sound until . . .

HA! a voice exclaimed as someone tackled him.

Casper went sailing to the ground, his crossbow firing a bolt into the nearest tree. He was about to throw his attacker off when he realized she was laughing. His brow furrowed. When he looked over, he saw his sister shaking with mirth, clutching a stitch in her side. He shoved her off of him, prompting a shriek that trailed into more laughter.

You should have seen your face! she wailed.

Kaelyn! he growled, tossing a handful of dirt in her direction.

She dodged the bits of earth, grinning all the more.

I told you to help Gran put the pot on, Casper chastised, attempting to be stern. It didn’t work well under her joyous gaze, and he soon found himself smiling.

I did, Kaelyn replied with a grin. Which is precisely why I’m here. Supper’s nearly ready, and Gran sent me to fetch you.

Casper sighed in defeat. He supposed he couldn’t be upset with her for listening to Gran. The would-be hunter rose to his feet and offered his sister a hand. She took it, beaming. Find anything worth hunting? Kaelyn asked, almost teasing.

Well, if I had, you’ve scared it away, he joked. He yanked the bolt from its poor, undeserving target. You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.

You would have bloody missed anyway.

He scowled at her.

Kidding, she amended.

Aye. You’d better be.

Together they started back down the path, Kaelyn looping her arm through her brother’s. They both had the same fair hair, but where Casper’s eyes were brown, hers were a glittering blue. At twenty, he was the elder by two years, though it often felt so much more than that. After their parents died many years prior, Casper had become the sole owner of the gristmill and, by law, the male guardian of his younger sister. It was a heavy responsibility, but one he bore with pride.

The journey through the woods wasn’t far. Soon they stood at the edge of the tree line overlooking a large wheat field that grew in the space between the forest and the well-worn dirt path to the city. A small stone cottage with a thatched roof stood not far from the giant windmill turning with the breeze. Forest hemmed the gristmill in on all sides, creating a square of natural walls that cut the Renolds family off from the rest of Wayland. It was a classical and picturesque scene in the fading light of day. The siblings steadily made their way around the crop, ambling as if they had all the time in the world. Kaelyn chattered on about Market Day gossip, but Casper was hardly listening. His mind was instead preoccupied with the coming winter and how they would make ends meet before the first snow settled in. It was a five-mile journey for supplies, and Casper had sold their horse and cart to pay the taxes, forcing him to take flour into the city every Market Day by wheelbarrow. It meant selling less flour, which only got them farther behind.

Kaelyn seemed to sense his distress as they crossed the road, and she cast him an apologetic smile. Everything will be all right, brother, she assured him, guessing at his thoughts. You’ll see.

He smiled in earnest, his trance broken, and pulled her into an appreciative side hug. He kissed the side of her golden-blonde head. Aye, it will be, he agreed. It would have to be. He wouldn’t let any other outcome be an option.

They’d reached the door by now, and Casper held it open for his sister. Once she’d passed through, he followed her inside and pulled the door shut. The room beyond was small and open with a gnarled wooden floor and stone walls. A perfectly made cot sat in one corner where their gran slept every evening. Stacked on a tiny stool beside it was a meager collection of books, the titles of which had long since been worn down on the spines by continual reading. The center of the cozy room housed a long wooden table with benches on either side where the Renolds family ate their meals, played games, or folded the wash on Leisure Day. Rows of iron pots and pans hung from pegs on one of the ceiling girders, and a handcrafted pine cabinet housed simple tin plates and cheap utensils. A ladder disappeared through a square hole in the ceiling, leading to the second floor, where Casper and Kaelyn shared a room. Near the fireplace, stirring the contents of a large cauldron over the flames, stood Gran. At first appearance, she looked frail and old with a wiry frame, but one look into her piercing blue eyes showed all the strength of a much younger woman. She wore a simple blue dress with a food-stained apron tied around her middle. Her gray hair was piled in an elegant updo, speaking of the neatness and care with which she performed every task. The blazing fire filled the room with warmth, and the smell of fresh stew made Casper’s stomach ache with hunger.

Empty-handed again? Gran asked, her aged voice full of compassion.

All the game must have headed north, he replied, leaning his crossbow against the wall near the door. I could barely find any tracks.

Kaelyn gathered tin plates and set them on the long wooden table, then returned to the cabinet to fetch some goblets and utensils. Casper sat at the table with a heavy sigh, folding his arms over the tabletop. Hunting was almost a fool’s errand of late. Casper managed to scare up a few squirrels or a bird now and then, but all the big game was scarce. It only furthered Casper’s constant worry. Buying meat in town was far too expensive, and they were near penniless. Flour wasn’t selling like it used to despite its necessity. Competing mills had sprung up at the other side of Wayland, and Casper simply couldn’t keep up with them on his own. Lord Harlen was threatening to put them out of business if they didn’t pay their rent soon, and with the local sheriff in his pocket and a distracted mayor, there was nothing to stop him.

Never you worry, Casper, Gran spoke in a gentle voice. Things will turn around. They always do.

She cast him a reassuring smile. He returned it half-heartedly. Gran gestured to the empty plates, speaking to Kaelyn. Bring me those, would you, dear?

Kaelyn beamed. Of course.

As she moved to fetch them, Casper watched his family with a tired gaze, reminded of what he worked so hard for. There were similarities between Kaelyn and Gran when they stood side by side. The same dimpled smile and blue eyes. The same profile. The same gentility that masked a fierceness hidden underneath. He could hardly put a finger on the moment Kaelyn had grown from a girl into a woman, but she was a woman now. Casper wasn’t the only one to notice. On the rare occasion when she joined him for Market Day, the eyes of many gentlemen lingered longer than they should, none longer or more uncomfortably than their landlord, Charles Harlen. Casper often kept these tidbits of information from his sister. She was a carefree and jovial spirit. He didn’t wish to worry her unnecessarily, but Harlen had already approached Casper more than once, asking for Kaelyn’s hand. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep refusing without repercussion, or how much longer he could keep it from them. They seemed so happy and unburdened as Gran loaded plates with stew, Kaelyn bringing each to the table once Gran had filled it. The less he worried them, the better.

The last plate of stew was set in front of Casper, the aroma of which made Casper’s stomach growl. There was no real recipe. The stew was made of whatever they could find and throw together, but somehow it always tasted wonderful. Casper credited this to his grandmother’s skill as a cook—a skill she’d been carefully trying to pass on to Kaelyn.

His sister sat beside him. Gran set a wine jug in the center of the table, then sat across from them.

Would you bless it, dear? Gran asked of Casper.

Of course, he agreed.

They each bowed their head respectfully, and Casper offered up a prayer to the Maker, thanking him for the food on their table, the roof over their head, and all that he provided them. It was a well-worn prayer, but nonetheless earnest, even if Casper felt like his prayers bounced off the ceiling lately. When he’d finished, Kaelyn reached for the wine and poured some in each of their goblets. He thanked her quietly, realizing he’d been in his head too much this evening. Not wanting to burden them with his thoughts, he picked a topic of conversation before either of them could ask him why he seemed troubled.

Have you heard anything of your friend? Casper asked Gran.

Gran sighed, looking vexed. It’s a bad business, she replied. The burns were far too severe. There is no hope of her return from the Netherworld.

Casper’s heart sank. The Netherworld and all its temptations offered the dead a second chance at life, but a soul needed a body to return to. If the legends were true, then Gran’s friend would be trapped in a world between worlds, erased for all eternity. The thought chilled Casper to the bone.

I’m so sorry, Gran, Kaelyn sympathized, reaching across the table to take Gran’s hand.

Gran smiled gently and gave Kaelyn’s hand a squeeze. Thank you, my dear, but I think we all knew it was hopeless. Most who enter the Netherworld never make it out again.

Some of them do, Casper said without thinking.

Both women turned their gaze on him, Kaelyn’s almost a glare. He cleared his throat and attempted to amend his statement. I mean . . . there’s Bash . . . and Harlen.

"Lord Harlen, Cas, Gran corrected him. Just because he’s a vile man doesn’t mean we should disrespect his title."

Casper resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Lord Harlen, he repeated quickly, the name leaving acid in his mouth. Anyway, it’s happened before. That’s all I meant.

He quickly shoved stew in his mouth to give himself space to think. He’d often had nightmares about the Netherworld—a dark and horrible place with changing landscapes and impassable tests. Gran was right. Hardly anyone survived who chose to fight, but stories were told of some who’d been granted second and even third lives. It made Casper nervous. One day, he too would have to face that cursed place. He’d face the Keeper, and he’d have to make a choice: to fight for his life at the risk of his soul or move on. I’m definitely moving on, he thought to himself. It’s not worth the risk.

He wondered what had made it worth the risk to Gran’s friend. Who would risk the peace of the Afterlife to come back to this horrible place?

Did they find out what caused the fire? Casper asked.

No, said Gran. But I have my suspicions it was no accident.

Kaelyn paused midway through bringing her goblet to her lips. What do you mean?

The fire was far too convenient, Gran explained. Mary had only just passed her first trial. If you ask me, someone didn’t want her to return as a Netherworlder.

Again with the conspiracy theories, Casper sighed, smiling slightly. Honestly, Gran.

They could be true, Gran defended herself, though she didn’t seem upset by his jab in the slightest.

There is no secret order pulling the strings, he assured her.That’s poppycock and tavern talk.

Why not? Kaelyn chimed in. The city is vast. The Outer Edge more so. Who’s to say there isn’t a vile group of individuals plotting to control things?

I say, Casper countered. "What would be the point of that? People like us are already in our place, and people like Lord Harlen, he emphasized for Gran, are already in command of our every move."

Kaelyn cast him a look of stubborn indignance, and he knew an argument would follow. She had a mind of her own, which Casper was actually glad of, but they often rowed about topics like this. He was content to keep his head down and get through another day. Kaelyn was the sort who would rock the boat if only she had the voice and platform to do so.

People like us could change the world if we wanted to, she retorted. You just don’t want to.

A spark of flame lit in Casper’s gaze. He wasn’t usually confrontational, but Kaelyn was adept at winding him up. He opened his mouth to fire back, but Gran interrupted.

That’s enough, the both of you. Eat your stew and hop to bed. Lots to do tomorrow.

Casper bit his tongue out of respect for Gran, but he sorely wanted to retaliate. It wasn’t that he didn’t want things to change; he simply had no way to change them. His responsibility was keeping food on the table and protecting his family. Couldn’t Kaelyn see that? But then, he supposed, he didn’t want her to see that. He never complained of his worry or struggles. Never told her how many vile and relentless suitors he’d kept at bay since she’d come of age, Harlen the worst of them. He didn’t want Kaelyn to know how dark and sinister the world could truly be. This line of thought cooled his temper, and by the time supper was through, he helped his sister clear the table with a stream of laughter and well-timed jokes. After a quick game of cards, they readied for bed.

Casper lay in his bed, staring at the slanted ceiling of the cottage in contemplation. His mind returned to the multitude of worries he couldn’t seem to shake that day. He wondered, briefly, if he shouldn’t let Kaelyn take more on. She was intelligent and capable. She could keep the books far better than he. It was an idea, at least. Casper set the thought aside for morning, drifting off to sleep, never imagining the thorn he was in a particular man’s side or how instrumental he would be in said man’s coming scheme.

NEAR THE HEART OF WAYLAND SAT PRIOR STREET, A LONG row of rich estates where Wayland’s elite lived in manors made of the finest masonry. At the very end of the row towered a beautiful white marble home with columns at the front and a fine garden in the rear. An iron gate surrounded it, guarded by highly skilled men. This was the home of Lord Charles Harlen, one of Wayland’s richest and most devious tyrants. He was by no means in charge of anything, but he had the money and resources to do whatever he pleased, thanks in part to a deal he’d once struck with Death. He owned more than half of the city and its surrounding area, including the mill where Casper tried and failed to make a living.

Harlen was more than just a shrewd businessman. Vile and villainous to the core, he was not easily trifled with. The Netherworld had changed him, made him stronger and more callous. No ordinary man could stand against him. Those who tried were silenced with nary a shred of evidence pointing back to the culprit. The rest were bought off with obscene amounts of coin. If they couldn’t be bought, they were threatened with terrors unimaginable, and Harlen never failed to carry them out. In his right hand, he held the sheriff, giving him access to poison the Watch with his own thugs. In his left, Harlen held Wayland’s darkest secrets gleaned from a network of loyal (and terrified) informants. The madman had but one goal: to rule the world. Death had given him power, and now Harlen was hungry with it.

Deep in the midst of Harlen Manor, Lord Harlen paced his ornate study, boots hardly making a sound on the expensive handwoven rug. A blazing fire from the hearth was the only light, casting his sharp features in eerie shadow. The man was nearing forty with dark hair to his shoulders, greasy and slicked behind his ears. He’d been handsome once, but age and a dark heart marred his appearance now. Something sinister lurked behind his cold, gray eyes. His white silk shirt was as perfectly pressed as the fitted black vest he wore over it, the solid gold buttons of which gleamed in the firelight every time he took a step. He was in a true rage tonight, barely containing his temper. Despite how powerful Lord Harlen was, Casper Renolds seemed to say no to him far too easily. He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t comprehend it. Casper was weak, insignificant—a poor, pathetic miller whose future Harlen held in his hands with a choking hold, and yet Casper did not yield. Not when the taxes on his land went up. Not when Harlen threatened every patron to buy from his competitors. No matter how tightly Harlen squeezed, Casper would not give him what he desired most, and time was running out to obtain her. Harlen had been hoping to do this the easy way, but Casper Renolds had stood in his way for far too long. It was time to remove him from the equation. It was for this reason he’d summoned the sheriff, who now lounged in one of the expensive leather armchairs, watching Harlen pace back and forth with apprehension.

Sebastian Carrow, most often called Bash, was different from Harlen in almost every way. Where Harlen seemed refined, Bash was rough around the edges. Broad shoulders and thick muscles were barely contained by the faded brown Watchmen’s longcoat, and his boots were caked with mud and something that looked suspiciously like blood. A scar ran over his right eye, shallow enough that the dark-brown pupil was undamaged. His head was shaved bald rather than dealing with the patch where hair refused to grow—he’d been bludgeoned to death on his first trip to the Netherworld. Even his speech lacked the polished accent of a high-born Waylander. The only thing these two men had in common was the Netherworld triad tattooed on their wrists—the mark of those who’d survived the trials. It was in the Netherworld that they’d first met and formed an alliance. An alliance that had continued long after their return to the land of the living. Bash owed Harlen a debt he could never repay, and so he did as Harlen asked, usually without question. A native of the Slums, his moral compass had never pointed due north. Despite this, Harlen’s request of murder made Bash uneasy. Killing the miller seemed like too obvious a play to him.

Are you sure this plan of yours is wise, mate? he voiced his concern. I mean, killing the Renolds lad . . . it’s a bit much.

Harlen whirled, fire in his eyes. Have you lost your nerve, man? he spat.

No, I just thought—

Well, don’t! Harlen snapped. "We both know what happens when you start to think."

Bash bristled silently at the offense. It was true, he tended to be more brawn than brains, but he wasn’t entirely unintelligent. He had a knack for strategy, which came in handy as the sheriff of Wayland’s Watch. Normally Harlen valued that skill, but tonight reason had given way to passion—never a good thing for a Netherworlder. Unchecked rage could do unspeakable damage. Bash tried again, still tiptoeing on the proverbial broken glass.

"Do we even need the Netherstone to work? Bash sighed, doing his level best to keep annoyance out of his tone. The mayor is still hiding behind closed doors since you killed his daughter. You own most of the city. You may as well be the bloody king."

The corner of Harlen’s mouth twitched in a dangerous half-smile, the one he always gave right before he lost his temper. Have you forgotten our aims, Bash? Why we survived?

Bash remained silent, knowing Harlen didn’t require an answer.

We must overthrow the Maker, he continued, circling the chair in which Bash sat. To do that we need to be stronger, Bash. More powerful than a god.

"You mean you need to be a god," Bash uttered.

Harlen chortled, clapping a hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. Yes, well . . . I’m the leader and you’re the lackey for very good reason.

Bash rolled his eyes, but he’d long since learned when to keep his trap shut. Harlen’s temper was, after all, how Bash had obtained his dashing scar. What do you want me to do?

Harlen moved to the fireplace once more, cold eyes staring into the glowing embers. Do you still have a contact in the Assassins Guild?

Aye, Bash replied.

Send them a message, he ordered. Tell them I’ll pay any price for it to look like an accident.

And the girl?

She’s to remain untouched, Harlen said sternly. Not a scratch. We need her.

Bash pushed himself to his feet with a resolute sigh. Very well then. Consider it done.

Harlen didn’t say another word. He simply stared like a madman into the flames. Bash took the lord’s silence as his dismissal and departed out the study door, shaking his head in disapproval. Harlen didn’t care one jot for Bash’s opinions. Even if anyone suspected Harlen to be responsible, they wouldn’t be able to stop him. Soon no one would be able to stop him. Not even the council. The thought brought a sinister smile to Harlen’s lips. The murder of Casper Renolds would change everything.

CHAPTER TWO

2

Murder in the Dark

NIGHT CHOKED WAYLAND’S COUNTRYSIDE IN DARKNESS. Even the moon hid behind the clouds as if it knew something atrocious was about to happen. It was all the better for the nameless assassin standing on the edge of the Renoldses’ wheat field. A light hooded tunic of deep ebony covered his torso, cinched with a sash of blood red. Black trousers, leather gloves, and sturdy boots completed the ensemble, all engineered for easy movement and blending into the shadows. A skeletal mask obscured his face with tunic hood drawn—a personal signature. On the rare occasion he let himself be seen, he enjoyed striking terror into the hearts of his victims. Only his eyes were visible, emotionless and cold.

He’d been told very little about his target, only that Lord Harlen wanted him dead and needed it to look accidental. Normally the assassin preferred time to watch his target and assess habit patterns so he could take advantage of them, but Harlen had paid handsomely for the deed to be done tonight. He’d been given enough to know the layout of the cottage and where Casper would now lie sleeping, dreaming of a better tomorrow that would never come. This murder would be simple—too simple in the assassin’s opinion. But who was he to complain about the fifteen thousand that would line his pockets, all in gold coin? Certain that all in the household were now fast asleep, he crept through the wheat, barely making a sound save for the rustle and crunch of stalks being pushed aside and crushed underfoot.

He moved across the road and around the cottage, knowing his target well enough to know where Casper ate and slept. The lad would be soundly dreaming in the loft, to which there was an upstairs window. On a warm night like tonight, the window would be propped open to let a breeze into the room. Sure enough, when the assassin rounded the corner, the shutters for the loft window were open, as was the glass pane. Taking a running start, the assassin jumped, launched off the nearby hay cart, kicked off the chinked stonework of the cottage, and grabbed the ledge of the window. From there, it was all too easy for the lithe man to pull himself up and over the sill.

The loft room beyond was simple. Hardwood covered the floor and ceiling, while the walls were the same stone as the exterior of the home. Two pine beds were in the room. Kaelyn slept soundly in the one on the far wall, a dressing table and candle near the headboard. Casper was in the other, nearest the window. The assassin took in the room, studying the floor and every place it might creak if he stepped there. With catlike reflexes, he slunk across the space to Casper’s bed.

Casper’s mouth hung slightly ajar as he slumbered. That would make the assassin’s job easier. He slid a small bottle of clear liquid from a pouch on his belt: a deadly poison containing ingredients found only in the Netherworld, making it nearly undetectable should doctors perform an autopsy. The bottle made only the slightest sound as the assassin pulled out the cork. He was just about to pour the contents between Casper’s parted lips when Kaelyn stirred in the other bed.

The assassin ducked behind the curtain that covered the alcove with the wash basin. Kaelyn sighed and rolled over, falling back into her dreams. Once certain she was sound asleep, the assassin slipped from his hiding place and cautiously approached Casper. This time he didn’t hesitate before he poured the clear liquid into the young miller’s mouth. Casper swallowed automatically at the tickle in his throat, coughing a little.

Time moved at a snail’s pace, but the assassin remained unmoving to watch his handiwork. Slowly, Casper’s body began to show signs of slowing down. His breathing became labored and the pulse in his neck weakened. Soon the lad struggled to breathe at all. That was when his eyes snapped open, his body attempting to shock itself awake and fight back. It didn’t last long. The assassin watched with pride as the light left Casper’s eyes, his soul bound for the Netherworld. If the miller passed on, he’d be out of Harlen’s hair. If he chose to fight, he’d never make it through the trials. He’d be erased from all existence.

As silently as he’d come, the assassin slipped back through the window, leaving Casper for his family to find.

A HORRIFIED SCREAM RIPPED THROUGH THE RENOLDSES’ home the next morning. Gran was startled awake, her