Well Country: Demon Hunter, #3

By Tim Niederriter

The master demon hunter prowls a deadly winter.

Within the Lands of Mercy, only two men live forever.

Deckard is the ageless demon hunter, renowned for his heroism and skill. He and the other immortal mage never speak, after centuries of a silent feud.

When a band of demon spawn arrives in the valley at the heart of the realm, Deckard gives chase to free captives from them. Yet, there is more afoot in the icy cold than mere demons and heroes. A dramatic political turn threatens the stability of all the nations of the land. 

At the center of the conflict stands the young mage Melissa Dorian and her family. It will take an immeasurable force to stop the coming calamity.

Deckard must step forward, but he can't fight alone this time.

As one journey ends, another begins in the land where demons crawl from the depths in the low places.

Well Country is the third novel of the Demon Hunter dark epic fantasy series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mental Cellar Publications
• Release date: Mar 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798223353379

Tim Niederriter

Tim Niederriter loves writing fantasy blended with science fiction. He lives in the green valley of southern Minnesota where he plays some of the nerdiest tabletop games imaginable. If you meet him, remember, his name is pronounced “Need a writer.”

Book preview

You can get a free Demon Hunter story and regular insights from the author by signing up using this link.

https://BookHip.com/KQDXQJ

THANKS TO EVERYONE who assisted with the process behind this novel.

Once again, to my proofreader, Barrie works like a madman. And another thanks to Reinhardt for his work on the chapter headers and formatting.

My parents and siblings are always there for me, as are many friends who may never read these lines.

Thank you.

This book wouldn’t exist without your support.

Tim Niederriter, March 2021

In the halls of mercy there is one law, and that is loyalty to she who rules from on high.

-Emperor Bakkengain of Jadiketz

On the eve of his death, the immortal emperor ate for supper a Chos-spawned boar. When finished, he turned to the servers who brought him the cursed animal, and, as was custom at the time, indicated his satisfaction with the meal by placing his napkin on his plate. Only once the servers went away satisfied did he mention the meal was overdone and dry. Such was the grace of my liege and brother in blood and service.

-Cyrus Bode, Imperial Chronicles Volume III

20 YEARS AGO

Two infants lay in cribs carved with the flowing patterns of mercy, side by side, one quiet, the other crying. Their mothers lay distant, being treated for their birth pains elsewhere in the baron’s hall. Two other figures stood before the children, looking down at the infants.

Born on the same day, murmured the slender young girl of perhaps twelve summers with a face like the demon of beauty herself.

The grizzled huntswoman scowled but made no sound for a long moment. They’re as twins then, twin demon spawn.

No, said the girl at the hunter’s side. They’re like all others. Neither of them is wicked by birth alone.

You can’t know that. The huntswoman folded her arms. As long as they live they will threaten all of the lands of mercy and the world beyond. Neither must be allowed to mature. She reached for the sword at her side.

The girl shook her head. The baron won’t let you kill his daughter.

The boy is worse, said the huntswoman. I can hear the curse in his spirit. His every essence is brutal to the ear. He’s one of them, Faena. He will be strong if he lives.

He’s not the only child gifted with such power, said the girl. Please, you must let him live.

You know his bloodline.

I do, said the girl. I’ve seen many things thanks to my gifts. He’s of the line of Chos.

Not just Chos, said the huntswoman. "He belongs to her lineage as well."

Mother Mercy forgive me, said the young girl. But Graneth... she looked up at the huntswoman’s eyes, her face suddenly streaked by free-flowing tears. You must take him from this place. Go west. Find him a home far from the shadow of this curse.

She bowed her head. If that’s what you command, mistress.

Consider it so. The girl sighed as the huntswoman scooped up the crying baby boy.

Graneth hummed softly as she lifted the child. Despite her willingness to kill, she was a mother herself and knew many ways to soothe an infant, though she’d not done so in years. She rocked him back and forth gently until his cries diminished, then stopped.

You must hurry, said Faena.

What about you?

The baron won’t punish me for this. I’ll stay here and watch over the girl.

Pelenhi, said Graneth. Her name is Pelenhi.

I won’t forget it. Faena smiled. Mercy grant you speed. Go far from the valley, far from Well Country.

May these two never meet again. Graneth slipped out the nursery door. She crept into the passage and then down the steps and into the night. Her steed carried her from the grand manse, and then from Blackwater County altogether.

Mother Mercy’s powers stretched broadly across the land, burning away illusion both of clouds and darkness.

But among the mortals below, none would speak the name of those two children together for years.

THE BATTLE OF WAGEWOOD ended that night, and fresh from the field, Cyrus Bode arrived at Blackwater Hall. Alone, he walked into the great hall where the Baron was resting his eyes under his crown. Little love was lost between Cyrus and the mortal lord of the southeastern lowlands of Chos Valley. Yet, of late they served Mother Mercy as allies.

Blood dripped from Cyrus’ arm, mostly belonging to the foes he’d slaughtered in the forests before returning to the valley at speed using his secret paths through the dream way. No demon, nor maladrite could walk where he had gone between. After a thousand years of practice, Cyrus was somewhat different from an ordinary man.

Of the two remaining immortals of mercy, he was by his own assessment, the stronger in mind and magic. He swept his arm to his chest, dragging the sleeve of his black blood-stained robe. Baron Creger Saipara, he said. It is I, Cyrus Bode, returned from battle.

The baron’s eyes flashed open, immediately alert and sharp. A broad and muscular man in his early thirties, the Baron of Blackwater could be mistaken for a veteran warrior with ease. The softness of his palms was the only sign of his magical training and noble lifestyle. Little fat clung to him, but still more than Cyrus allowed on his own form.

Lord Bode, said Saipara. Why do you track blood into my throne room?

Why? Cyrus shrugged. Because I’ve yet to cleanse myself after purifying Wagewood.

The baron’s eyes narrowed. How fared you and your soldiers in battle there?

My troops? Cyrus folded his hands, extending his thumbs upward so their ends touched and pointed at his chest. Are well. Not one of them drew blood nor lost life in the fray.

You don’t mean—?

But I do. I took the field personally, so you’ll pardon the mess I bring with me.

The baron’s eyes open wider. What of the enemy? Scouts reported ten banners marched on northern Wagewood as vanguard alone.

Cyrus said nothing for a moment. The baron’s eyes widened further. He nodded.

I assumed my sacra form. Ten banners, you say? I recall my knights retrieving at least that many before I departed to report. He smiled as he rarely did when in the presence of a rival. The baron’s forces had yet to swear allegiance to him in the many generations since he founded the Geteren Clan. Saipara’s forebears had always refused to serve his order, in favor of independent authority. Cyrus didn’t believe for a moment the demonstration of his power would impress the current baron enough to change that.

They were all too stubborn.

How went the labor here, baron?

Baron Saipara lowered his gaze. His eyes flicked to the servant at his side. Mother Mercy saw to my wife and my newborn daughter. She is good to us, even without your help, immortal.

Cyrus nodded, letting his smile fade. What of the other woman?

Alas her curse was too much for her. She passed after her child was born. The baron’s eyes misted with sorrow. Damn the beasts, the spawn of demonkind that destroy lives like hers.

Gritting his teeth, Cyrus considered the infection the demons from which the Chos Valley took its name, spread their evil. Curses be laden on them. His gaze moved to the trio of maidens in waiting standing on the far side of the room. Each one was but a child, even by the standards of mortals. The oldest couldn’t be more than twelve summers old. Her face was sweetly shaped, the kind that grew into great beauty. Where is the second child? asked Cyrus.

The baron shook his head. Tears began to flow from his eyes in full view of the rest of his court. Murmurs ran through the nobility speaking of the sorrows of their lord. Who could deny his affection for his subjects, the way he mourned the death of a common servant? Tears might be warranted from Cyrus as well, but none came. The woman was tainted. Her life had been forfeit, regardless.

Baron, the child?

Dead. Baron Saipara sighed, wiping his tears. He must have felt the evil in him. Mother Mercy didn’t save him.

Regrettable, said Cyrus. She saved me the pleasure of wringing the life out of another Chos spawn. Baron, what news of the other fighting? The Kism advance remains to be stymied.

Perhaps you’re right. Word so far is that Lord Hadrian struck them in their heart and destroyed a Kism Avatar in the field on the southern edge of Wagewood. The foe scattered when their idol fell.

How do you know this? Cyrus scowled. It sounds fanciful.

Sir Berline sent word, a messenger who rode as hard as he could to tell us of victory.

This war has gone on too long.

The baron nodded. Now that you immortals have joined the battle, the end appears in sight.

Deckard Hadrian defeated the enemy avatar? said Cyrus.

With his knights at his side, the messenger said. He displayed great courage, I would believe.

No doubt. A Kism Avatar is not an enemy I would take on lightly.

You mean, you wouldn’t fight one alone?

A chill ran through him. Cyrus bit his tongue to slow his answer. Too hard. He tasted blood. Perhaps this was how Tetzirat, his elder brother in Mother Mercy’s service had felt all those years ago.

Yes. His voice sounded throaty, phlegmatic. Cyrus spat a trickle of blood on the stones.

Take care, immortal. Show my hall your respect.

Forgiveness, said Cyrus. I forget I’m not in the field.

Then, you are forgiven. Baron Saipara leaned forward on his throne. Are you wounded?

Not until a moment ago. Cyrus used his inner resonance to still the power to his tongue. Little pain came, and as his wound numbed, the blood-flow slowed and then stopped. My own fault.

Well, you’ve brought enough blood with you I’d have to have floor cleaned, regardless. The enemy must be shaking in their boots.

Those who still live, perhaps.

Wagewood is secure from the foe.

The Kism may well retreat. Could this war be over? The baron asked.

I don’t know. Keep your troops on watch. We can’t be sure if any sneaked past us for now.

I’ll dispatch rangers. Hunt them down and save Hadrian the trouble.

Cyrus nodded. I’d inspect newborn. And the bodies.

The baron’s eyes narrowed. You’re changing the subject.

I tire of discussing Hadrian.

You hate him that much?

No. But I fear him. Cyrus kept his true thought to himself. On the contrary. I’m glad he served our people well.

And yet I detect hesitation...

Do not put too much faith in Hadrian, baron.

Oh, Lord Bode, I don’t trust him any more than I trust you.

But you like him better, don’t you?

I don’t know him the way I know you.

You don’t know him. He is stronger than even I knew. Before he vanquished Tetzirat, I thought that rivalry would be his death. Oh, baron you truly don’t know the Lord of Winds.

The baron shrugged. That’s trouble with you ancients. After a thousand years, no mortal could.

He’s far closer to you than I. But your point stands.

The baron raised an eyebrow. I appreciate that assessment, Lord of the Clan. He smiled. The governor’s forces, even her personal demon guard, are in motion, too. Combined with Princess Onkassa’s troops, we’ve seen to it the northern edge of the valley is well-protected.

Good news, indeed, baron. But now you’re the one changing the subject.

What? How dare—

Silence. Cyrus shook his head.

You’re not my master.

The emperor held your family’s loyalty, as he did mine, baron.

So? You are no emperor.

I protect the lands of mercy in his place.

Of course. And your clan gobbles up more knights and mages every year. Governor Abelar. Princess Onkassa. You have their authority at your beck and call. Of the masters of Geteren, I alone don’t owe you that.

You haven’t reconsidered.

Lord Bode, after hearing of the deeds of Hadrian, I am done considering.

Cyrus clenched a fist at his side. This discussion is over. Show me the children, both of them. I don’t care that one is dead.

The baron hunched forward. Lord Bode-

I won’t leave until I do. Now, show me to them, Creger.

The baron trembled, then hung his head.

His fear is correct. Even as a trained hedge mage, he would last not a moment against me if I chose to use force.

Very well. He rose from the black throne, pushing off the gnarled wooden arm-rests with both palms. This way, Lord Bode.

Cyrus followed the baron from the room to a nursery on the second level of Blackwater Hall. They were accompanied by the three maidens who’d waited in the central hall. The nursery room was dark when they arrived. Cyrus inspected the crib where the baron’s daughter lay sleeping. The nursemaid in attendance frowned as Cyrus raised his head from the ordinary infant girl.

Where is the other’s body? he asked.

Please, my Lord, said the young maiden with the near-supernatural potential for beauty. We took the lady and burned them together.

You what? What custom does that follow? Cyrus’ eyes flicked to the baron. Did you know this?

N-no, Lord Bode.

You bought them time. They cleaned up your mess.

I didn’t order them to do anything—

No. Cyrus shook his head. I believe you wouldn’t defy me, boy. You trusted your little children to disobey my edict for you. Every spawn of Chos, alive or dead, must be taken to the clan, to Empire. That law exists to protect us all from their poisons.

That is no law here. Not in Blackwater County.

Cyrus sneered, deliberately meeting the baron’s gaze. Spirit demands you obey. Mother Mercy commands.

That isn’t her order. It’s yours.

And who does my authority flow from, baron?

Please, Lord Bode. You’ve seen what you came to see.

Cyrus inclined his head, listening for songs of distant essences. The magical notes would reveal the infant demon spawn’s presence if he was still nearby and the baron was lying. Yet, nothing beyond the ordinary appeared.

Please. Please go.

Sit down, baron. You’re shaking. Cyrus grimaced. Don’t think you fooled me. That child is alive, isn’t it?

Yes. Forgive—

Where is it?

I don’t know. It’s as you said. My servants acted without my planning.

Then, perhaps you ought to take care, Baron Saipara. You have an heir to look after. For now.

The baron’s hands made fists. Cyrus laughed.

Mother Mercy saw fit for both your daughter and the demon spawn to live. I can forgive you, baron. But I do not forget. That is my gift.

Lord Bode.

Goodbye, baron. Cyrus let the five tendrils of shadow flow from him as if his whole body and long cloak were a single backward-facing hand. A cluster of his resonating essences tipped each shadow. Sprites and banes mingled in each dark, ethereal limb as he opened the path. The stony door to the dream way allowed entry in an instant, with a serpentine hiss. Cyrus Bode stepped in and left Blackwater Hall behind with another hiss as the path sealed behind him.

He walked the secret way toward Wagewood, where his knights, as ever, awaited his next command.

WINTER HIT THE NORTHERN lands of mercy hard that year. Deckard Hadrian hated to see the people suffer, and he abhorred the cold's abyssal claim on the riches of the wealthy.

Catching a chill current of wind, he descended from on high, carried light as the leaves of autumn. Fields lay frozen below as he left the western lands around the city of Alliance behind him.

The wind carried him inexorably eastward toward the Chos Valley. He once told himself he'd never return to the place willingly. The depths of lower Geteren, so-called Well Country, where the most dangerous demons reared from the depths of the earth all-too-often, was not his domain to guide or protect.

The realm belonged to another of Mother Mercy’s agents, making it the one place in all the lands that the immortal demon hunter refused to fight for so many years. And why? Because he was afraid. Deckard could admit his nature to himself. Hiding from one's inner thoughts wasn't tenable after over three hundred years of life.

He told himself he wasn't getting any closer to the valley's edge without good reason. His mission lay behind him, and unlike Deckard, the mortals he loved were always running out of time.

Deckard descended over the combined school and convent where witches were educated in their trade. As members of Mother Mercy's clergy, the all-female mages received the best training, the finest implements, and the sternest discipline.

Yet...

Deckard could recall more than one witch who lost her way from the light.

Twenty years ago, his finest student, Nilis Voggos, told him he planned to begin training witches himself.

How can you? Deckard asked.

As a man who practiced the arts, Nilis did not understand the secret methods taught only to fellow witches.

I'll administrate and tutor on the subjects I do understand. You taught me well enough for that.

I never taught you administration.

You don't know anything about it, either. Nilis laughed. I meant I can teach mages to wield sacra forms as full wizards. I'm an old man now. I'm tired of being a wandering mentor, a wizard with no home.

So, Deckard's pupil became the master of spell-training at the westernmost convent used by the Geteren Clan, just a mile outside the Chos Valley’s edge. He told Deckard in no uncertain terms, he would need help sometimes, as everyone did.

I'll visit you when the storms of winter are at their fiercest, Deckard said. Even I need shelter on those days.

Master, you are gracious.

As long as you live, I won’t forget you, my friend.

Deckard landed on the terrace outside the administrator’s chambers and knocked at the heavy door beside the window with a silk-gloved fist. The wooden entrance swung outward, pushed through the dusting of snow freshly fallen on the raised ground. A weathered face greeted Deckard. Nilis had grown older and whiter than Deckard would have expected since their last meeting.

He recalled the days when his student had been young and powerful in build, and Deckard himself still didn’t fear the valley the way he did now. Over seventy winters old, Nilis propped his shoulder against the silver-alloyed door frame. He smiled when his weary eyes registered Deckard.

It’s you! he said. I expected one of the students, come to ask for help.

Were you expecting anyone in particular?

Nilis laughed. No! Though, I often expect them philosophically. At least one student always wants some additional lesson or other.

Ah, but it’s a new year, said Deckard.

Indeed it is. And by this time of day, I’m sure the students are busy in the kitchens over their cauldrons and pans.

You still have them cooking?

Of course. Every witch can use experience with such chemistry. Now get inside out of this cold, master. Nilis propped the door open wider with one arm, allowing Deckard to step past.

Deckard bowed his head. Thank you, old friend.

Nilis walked toward the chairs set opposite each other before the windowpane beside the doorway. Care for a game before dinner? He motioned to a stone chessboard on the small circular table between the chairs.

Deckard laughed. I’ll try you once more.

THERE IS NO FOE LIKE a foe you haven't yet beaten. Deckard looked across the chessboard at his opponent. The wizard had grown old, but despite the lines of his sallow face, and his dusty-lensed glasses, Deckard still found the glint of promise and wit in his former pupil. Nilis was indeed a master of this game. The two of them took their time making the moves as they waited for the clock in the room with them to chime to indicate the dinner hour. Nilis took his time far better than Deckard.

You aren’t getting younger by waiting, apprentice. He smirked.

Neither are you, master.

One of us has more limited moments, said Deckard. Perhaps we should leave this until after the meal.

I will finish before that time comes, said Nilis.

It's your end, said Deckard. And your life to treat as you will.

I appreciate your indulgence, master. Nilis furrowed his already wrinkled brow and took a deep breath before moving his final piece into position. I believe that is a threat.

A threat, said Deckard. I think you're correct, unless... He looked over the board, eyed his options, and saw no way to escape. It’s a final threat. Well done. You have gotten better at the game, pupil.

Thank you, said Nilis. But if you applied yourself, you could defeat me.

Don't assume so, said Deckard. I'm no student and my mind isn’t as sharp as it once was.

Is mine? I wonder. Nilis rose slowly, his old bones creaking with the motion. He dropped a handkerchief from his opposite sleeve into his hand. He carefully began to clean the board, using the cloth to polish each piece lovingly as he went.

Deckard’s gloved fingers moved adroitly to collect the gleaming, cleaned pieces and place them back in the lacquered box where Nilis kept them.

Once full, Nilis set the box on top of the board on the corner of his desk by the large window, now laced with new feathers of ice.

The two of them face each other and nodded. Even in the dead of winter they yet had time to play a game of skill. The master wizard had been training witches to wield power for nearly a generation and resided at this school about half that time.

Deckard had never mastered a sacra form of his own. Yet, Nilis always treated him deferentially, even beyond what one might expect, from friend to friend. His promise to his student aside, that friendship brought Deckard back to the convent each year. It was hard enough to find a friend when one lived an ordinary life. After over three centuries, few people remained accessible to him as more than subjects or allies. Or enemies, he amended silently.

At least he’d yet to see any enemies since leaving the city of Alliance. Shall we go check on your apprentices? Deckard turned to the clock, still reading ten minutes before the dinner bell.

Perhaps now would be the best time, said Nilis. Did you meet any of them before you found me here?

No, said Deckard. I thought you’d prefer to introduce me, rather than have me sneak around before announcing my presence to you as administrator.

That’s correct. I appreciate your respect. Nilis gave a wide smile. His teeth were still firm and strong, though yellowed with age. Nilis eschewed the use of tobacco or other such substances and his essences kept him in reasonable health despite his over seventy years of age. Shall we?

I think so.

The two of them made their way through the passage at the center of the administrator’s quarters, then down the steps where Nilis might have struggled if it weren't for his magical preservation of muscle and bone. They entered the walled yard outside the building. Unlike the yard of a castle or noble house, the grass here was still green even in the dead of winter. A small garden grew to one side.

You invested your essences here. Deckard arched an eyebrow. Is it right to assume we can simply use this power rather than preserve its strength?

I'll use my sprites to enhance the grass if I so wish, said Nilis. At the least, it keeps my students and me in fresh vegetables and other plants when they practice their matching with living things.

That it does, said Deckard. You know, I am interested in your student’s progress this time of year. After all, you live near the Chos Valley and have many students who aspire to join the clan.

The Chos Valley placed a heavy pall on the surrounding area as if it cast a shadow of its own. That influence left a long scar, carved into the skin of the world.

I have several witches training new sacra forms. Two have nearly mastered theirs. Nilis frowned, his brow wrinkling deep with thought. But Deckard, please let me introduce you to some of the younger students first. We have some that are very promising.

As much as I am interested in your new apprentices, he said. I’d surely like to meet those who are closer to completing their forms. Perhaps some of them will seek the path of the hunter.

You’ll meet them all in time, said Nilis.

If I stay long enough.

Do you have business elsewhere? Nilis arched a graying brow. In a winter like this?

I think not, but there are always possibilities.

They made their way through the yard’s green grass, but no students were taking the air. A chill breeze combined with the gray winter clouds to blanket the world in cold. Beyond the walls lay snow and ice.

The blizzards blanketed the land to the west, but the valley itself would probably remain mostly free of heavy build-up, because of the numerous world wells within it providing vents of hot air throughout the lowlands.

Deckard hoped he didn't have to see any of those places during this visit. As far as the northlands went, the convent was as far east as Deckard preferred to travel.

The Valley, said Deckard, unable to keep the question back. What news have you from Empire City?

Not much, my friend, said Nilis. I heard the scroll you delivered at the end of the summer to Cyrus' treasury has finally been accepted into the vault. There were doubts as to its veracity, given the inscriptions upon it.

I fear the circumstances under which I acquired that scroll could place its nature in contention.

I understand, said Nilis. I heard the rumors when Lady Nasibron returned to Empire.

Kellene Nasibron is back in the city? Deckard folded his hands. I pray she doesn’t regret her journey south.

Too many of the powerful have regrets in the valley as it is, said Nilis. "But I’ve heard little of late. Unlike you! You’ve been busy this winter, my friend. Of course, everyone has heard the news from Alliance. The Lady Regent had kind words to say in her letter and her messengers were more than pleased to remark on your heroics during the final encounter