I Say Your Name in the Dark Nights: A Story of Kagen the Damned

By Jonathan Maberry

I Say Your Name in the Dark Nights is Jonathan Maberry's never-before published adventure that blends swordplay, action, adventure and horror.

Kagen Vale—disgraced former palace guard, damned by his own gods, on the run from bounty hunters and assassins—discovers that no matter where you try to hide, evil can find you. In this standalone short story, Kagen the Damned squares off against a clan of ferocious supernatural predators in service to the Witch-king.

"Fantasy readers will be spellbound by the intricate worldbuilding and the delightful cast."—Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Nov 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781250887658

Jonathan Maberry

Jonathan Maberry is a New York Times bestselling author, five-time Bram Stoker Award winner, and comic book writer. He writes in multiple genres including suspense, thriller, horror, science fiction, fantasy, and adventure; and he writes for adults, teens, and middle grade. His works include the Joe Ledger thrillers, Glimpse, the Rot & Ruin series, the Dead of Night series, The Wolfman, The X-Files Origins: Devil’s Advocate, Mars One, and many others. Several of his works are in development for film and TV, including V Wars, which is a Netflix original series. He is the editor of high-profile anthologies including the X-Files books, Aliens: Bug Hunt, Out of Tune, Hardboiled Horror, Baker Street Irregulars, Nights of the Living Dead, and others. He lives in Del Mar, California. Visit him at JonathanMaberry.com and on X (@JonathanMaberry) and Facebook.

Book preview

1

The imperial messenger stood shivering in the entrance foyer of the grand old house.

There were no candles lit, but a fire blazed in the hearth and the dancing flames cast goblin shadows across the floor. Strange shapes chased each other up the walls. Sap from green wood hissed and popped, and the smell of herbs rose from the burning logs. Incense, too. The aromas swirled and blended but were overpowered by the more pungent scents of sweat, cooked meat, and recent sex.

The messenger could see some of the big room to the left of the foyer. Clearly designed as a large sitting room, it had been repurposed as a kind of playroom. There were furs and blankets tossed haphazardly onto the floor, tables laden with wine bottles and bowls of fruit, platters of meat glistening with blood and dripping with gravy.

And bodies.

Even with limited access, the messenger could see six or eight bodies amid the furs. It was hard to tell, because everything seemed to be moving in there. Limbs everywhere. Naked flesh on shameless display. He saw breasts and buttocks, pubic hair and erect phalluses, faces flushed to orgasmic scarlet and pale with postcoital lethargy.

It made the messenger very nervous. He was very conscious of how hot it was inside the house, and of how tight his leather pants suddenly seemed to be. He fidgeted, trying not to look like he was looking, and failing utterly.

The servant who let him in was a thin, pale waif with snow-colored hair, eyes the color of polished rubies, and red suck marks on her throat. It was hard to tell if she was fifteen or thirty. The body inside the loose robe she wore gave nothing away. The girl had let him in, told him to wait, and then walked back into the orgy room, untying the robe as she did so. Before it dropped, she paused, looked over her shoulder, and gave the messenger a smile that was sexually appealing but not entirely human.

The messenger forced himself to turn and study the embroidery on a thick tapestry, and then with a start he realized that the benign woodland scene was actually one of savage bestiality, with wolves and bears forcing themselves on young women and men. Once the true nature of the images became apparent, the messenger shrank back from it, appalled and disgusted … and yet unable to turn away.

It’s okay, said a voice. You can look.

The messenger turned to see a young man standing only a few feet away. He hadn’t heard the man approach, or even sensed his presence. And from the way the man grinned, it was clear he enjoyed the effect.

The stranger was tall and lean, with a poet’s ascetic face and full-lipped sensual mouth. His hair was long and loose—a medium brown that was streaked with red and blond natural highlights. It was unusually thick hair, too. As was the mat of chest hair that stretched from collarbone to collarbone and tapered down to vanish beneath the waistline of loose cotton trousers. His arms were very hairy, too, and when he brushed a rebellious strand away from his eyes, the messenger caught a glimpse of wisps of hair on the man’s palms. His eyes were his most striking feature, though—a green so vibrant that they looked false, like emeralds in the eye sockets of a statue.

Excuse me, sir, said the messenger a bit breathlessly. I was ordered by Lord Nespar, chamberlain and advisor to his majesty the Witch-king of—

I know who he is, interrupted the man. He had a lazy quality to his voice and there was a hint of an accent. Not Hakkian, of that the messenger was sure. Something more exotic. Perhaps one of the small city-states in the Waste, that region of wild forests and warring tribes that straddled the southern reaches of the Cathedral Mountains. That voice was cultured but languorous, and the vowels oddly rounded. What does that old fool want?

The messenger fished inside his tunic and produced a letter in a canvas envelope and sealed with heavy wax. I was ordered to give this to either Lord Amarok or Lady Tikaani.

You’re in luck, said the man. I’m Amarok van Kelton. This is my house. Tikaani is my sister. He held out his hand and snapped his fingers. Give that to me.

The messenger bobbed his head and handed over the envelope. The young man took it and studied the thick wax seal and his thick eyebrows