Son of Cayn Read online

  Son of Cayn

  Book One of The Cayn Trilogy

  By

  Jason McDonald, Alan Isom, & Stormy McDonald

  PUBLISHED BY: New Mythology Press

  Copyright © 2018 Jason McDonald, Alan Isom, & Stormy McDonald

  All Rights Reserved

  * * * * *

  Discover other titles by Chris Kennedy Publishing

  and get the free story “Shattered Crucible” at:

  https://chriskennedypublishing.com

  * * * * *

  Cover Design by Lee Dunning

  * * * * *

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  * * * * *

  Dedication

  To my step dad, for opening my eyes to a world of opportunity.

  --Jason

  To my father for doing things right and introducing me to J.R.R. Tolkien and his fabulous works.

  --Alan

  To my Dad: a teller of tales, a bringer of laughs, and the greatest teacher a daughter could have.

  --Stormy

  * * * * *

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I

  The Interview (October 11)

  Encounters (October 11)

  Xandor and Chert (October 12)

  Meet the Teamsters (October 12)

  The Watchers (October 12)

  Leaving Pazard’zhik (October 13)

  Ambush (October 13)

  Stamboliyski (October 13)

  The Church of Tsarevets (October 14)

  Grendel (October 16)

  Defeating the Mountain (October 17)

  Dobrovnitsa (October 18)

  Jasper (October 19)

  Marko’s Escape (October 20)

  Valevataya Mehana (October 21)

  Part II

  The Great Wall—Leaving Trakya (October 22)

  The Haunted Wood (October 22)

  The Kiss of Death (October 22)

  The Bison (October 23)

  Sachin (October 23)

  The Bunker (October 23)

  On Three (October 23)

  “Come Inside My Tent” (October 23)

  The Anak’im (October 24)

  Ambush (October 24)

  San Sebek-Wy (October 24)

  Captured (October 25)

  Gregori’s Trap (October 25)

  The Enemy (October 25)

  Excerpt from Book Two of The Cayn Trilogy:

  Excerpt from Book One of The War for Dominance Trilogy:

  Excerpt from Book One of The Milesian Accords:

  * * * * *

  Prologue

  Upper Pazard’zhik, Capital City of Trakya (August 3)

  Feral eyes appeared out of the flickering shadows. Their depths reflected the tendrils of fire that played along the bead-board ceiling of the study. Time seemed to slow as the paint on the underside of the tongue-and-groove planks bubbled and peeled.

  “I can save you,” whispered a hollow voice from the darkest of shadows.

  Baroness Aleksandra Madasgorski Krakova stared into those eyes, her rage and frustration making her reckless, and yelled, “Did you do this!? Did you set fire to my house!?”

  “I only do what my master requires,” the voice replied smoothly.

  Fists clenched at her sides, the Baroness stood in the center of the room, dressed in an elegant, wine-colored gown made from the finest silk, a gown intended for only the most extravagant occasions, such as tonight—before it had all come crashing down around her.

  A portion of the ceiling collapsed, and flames erupted in the corner of the study, blasting waves of heat into the room. The fire quickly found new fuel in the rosewood bookshelves as it trailed down the wall. Burning light streamed in from the gaping hole above, revealing the conflagration that was the second floor.

  Baroness Krakova felt detached from the world around her. Even though the fire roared all about her, it seemed muted compared to the people she heard screaming in violent agony outside her room. Many of the screams trailed out the front door, while others simply choked off. Perhaps the flames had taken them, or maybe they had succumbed to the smoke.

  One of those screams could have even been her husband, Boris.

  It had all happened so fast. Earlier that evening, the Baroness had met her husband as he ascended from the basement. He had just come from checking on the wretched souls collected for tonight’s ceremony, the ones to be sacrificed, and making certain all the preparations were in order. His eyes had gleamed with a rare excitement. Soon their guests would arrive and amongst them the members of their dark circle. It was perfect. Using the party as an excuse to gather, none would have suspected the dark magicks performed beneath their feet.

  The night’s workings would have sealed the fate of the Trakyans, she seethed, but somehow the Kral had discovered their plans and sent in his agents. That damnable Marcus had marched through her doorway with the militsiya as if he was orchestrating a raid in a common bordello. He directed his men to search everywhere, upstairs and down.

  “Let no one escape,” she had heard him command.

  Shortly thereafter, the basement door had burst open. Men, women, and children, all filthy and ragged, had rushed forth through her beautiful home. With military efficiency, the Kral’s men had ushered them out the front door. The rank stench of their unwashed bodies still filled her nostrils.

  Her full lips trembled with emotion as she gazed around her, the air shimmering as if she were the victim of some strange mirage. Her books, her desk, her paintings—everything she had collected over the years—were all ablaze. She stared hard into the heart of the shadows. Had it started the fire as a distraction to save her?

  Some considered fire to be a holy rite, one that purged evil. This fire was born of evil—and she swore only evil would come of it.

  With a sharp gasp, Baroness Krakova swayed to one side and pressed a hand to her chest. Sutekh, her dark god, was here. She felt him reach up from hell and snatch away her husband’s soul. A searing pain coursed through her body, as though the dark god had ripped out her heart as well. All that remained to her was an empty void.

  The shadow’s eyes remained steady, watching her intently, but she avoided looking directly into them a second time. She’d had plenty of practice over the years. Each time she looked into its eyes, the demon enjoyed reminding her of her coming-of-age gift. She shuddered despite the heat. The Baroness dared not speak the demon’s true name though she had known it since birth.

  Out in the street, the militsiya shouted orders, and someone called her name. Hopefully, Marcus thought she was already dead—like her husband. Regaining her composure, she shouted, “I will have my revenge, demon!”

  A terrible, twisted form emerged from the shadows, its very existence a mockery of creation, and it came for the Baroness with open arms. “Come with me, and we will have our revenge together. Let us finish what your husband started.”

  She hesitated, weighing her limited options. With one last look around her ruined study, the Baroness stepped into the demon’s embrace. The two vanished just as the ceiling collapsed. Flames geyse
red into the night sky as the house tumbled in upon itself, debris burying the basement as though the house still had something to hide.

  * * *

  Somewhere on the White River (August 22)

  An old fisherman stood at the bow of his small flat-bottomed boat. Holding the net between his teeth and with both his gnarled hands, he twisted and released it in one swift motion. The net unfurled and hit the water with a soft splash.

  After waiting a few moments for the net to sink to the bottom of the river, he hauled it back up using the thin line tied at his wrist. Small panfish wiggled within its confines, throwing sparkles of water this way and that. The old fisherman grabbed the net and emptied the few fish onto the deck, where they flopped wildly.

  Glancing at them, he counted four large enough to eat; the others were too small, so he stooped down and threw them back into the river. The fisherman carefully checked his net for tangles and snags before standing up. Once satisfied, he clenched the edge of the net between his teeth and made to cast again.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted a dark shape gliding through the early morning fog. Curious, he lowered his net and watched the cog float past. Buzzards with bald, scaly, blood-colored heads perched on the yardarm. A gentle breeze swept past him, heavy with the scent of death.

  Something akin to fear crept up the fisherman’s spine. He had lived on the banks of the river his entire life and never seen a sight like this one. Putting down his net, the old fisherman hauled up his anchor. Taking a seat on the bench, he reached for his oar and aimed toward the small cargo vessel.

  “Ahoy!” the old man called out. No response.

  As he approached, he studied the cog carefully. The fisherman noted with interest that it rode low in the water, a signal it was still laden with cargo. Suspicious, he looked around to see if anyone was watching. Taking his anchor line, he tossed the anchor and let it catch the rail of the riverboat like a grapnel. With a strength that belied his age, he hauled himself the short distance onto the deck.

  Once on board, he found himself surrounded by clusters of buzzards. The large, black birds splayed their wings to hide their meal. The old man kicked at one and sent it scurrying. What lay beneath caused him to quickly turn his head and avert his eyes, but the image of the ghastly corpse stayed with him.

  Retching over the side, the old man lost his breakfast. With an ungainly, hopping lope, a buzzard dashed across the deck toward another rotten morsel, exposing two more bloated corpses. Collecting himself, the fisherman cautiously approached the bodies and knelt beside the one wearing what looked like the remnants of a captain’s uniform.

  The vultures had pecked away most of the flesh, but for some reason had avoided the captain’s arm. Searching closer, he saw the captain held something clenched in his fist. He reached down and pried open the captain’s stiff fingers, expecting to find a glint of gold or silver. Instead, he found something wrapped inside a wad of wax paper. The old fisherman stared in confusion when he unwrapped it. In the dead captain’s hand was a plain bar of gray soap.

  * * * * *

  Part I

  The Interview (October 11)

  A line of warriors stretched out the wide gate into the muddy street and around the corner. Some wore plain leathers, while others wore hodgepodge pieces of armor mounted to boiled leather or rusted chain backing. They all carried weapons, most scuffed and scarred from frequent use.

  “Excuse me.” All eyes turned toward the voice.

  Whistling, the newcomer used his bulk to forge his way through the line of men. Once past, he stopped and studied the stone wall surrounding the compound. Certain that he had the right place, he proceeded toward the front of the line.

  Ignoring the grumbles and hostile stares, he walked up to the gatekeeper, who pointed him toward the nearby postern door where a primitive sign, written in Trakyan, read “Кук вход.”[1] Underneath, a crude arrow pointed inside.

  Thanking him, the rotund man cast a quick glance back toward the line of warriors and smiled before disappearing inside.

  Passing through the main hall, the acrid smell of burnt beans and smoke gave evidence to the caliber of cooks who had responded to the job position so far. At the far end, the man found an open door that led to a small office.

  Inside, a slim teenager with a shock of black hair stood next to a half-empty bucket of water. Next to him, a large-boned, balding man with leathery skin sat at a small table, hunched over a long supply list. Small, precise checks appeared beside most of the items.

  “Jasper Thredd from Tydway,” the man from outside announced as he strode in.

  “What do you want?” the older man replied tiredly, never looking up.

  “I’m here for the cook position.”

  “Already filled. Thanks for coming,” he said dismissively, still not looking up from his task.

  Jasper glanced back toward the main hall and made a show of sniffing the air. Taking his pipe from a pocket in his tunic, he filled the bowl with tobacco and lit it with a small match. The sweet smell cut through the burnt stench and cleansed the air, leaving behind a faint aroma of wintergreen.

  “Are you sure?” Jasper asked, clenching the pipe between his teeth. “I have some experience with jerky and beans and a lot of other road grub.”

  The youth stepped forward with an open smile. “I sure hope you can cook better than that last person.”

  Groaning, the older man ruffled the list as he set the papers aside and studied this new applicant. The man before him had a youthful, clean-shaven face framed by shoulder-length brown hair that was still a little damp. From the way he wore his clothes, it was hard to tell if he was obese or just really large. Two belts wrapped around his light gray tunic: one of wide leather, the other a thin belt that held a brown leather sporran decorated with Gallic scrollwork. He had a ring for each finger. Most were plain bands of silver; however, one consisted of intertwined bands of onyx and hematite, and another bore arcane symbols.

  His eyes lingering on the odd rings, the older man held out his hand to take Jasper’s letter of introduction. After reading over it briefly, he said, “Tydway—you’re a long way from home.”

  “Yes, sir. I am,” Jasper replied.

  “Name’s Dragahn,” the caravan chief said returning the letter. Nodding his head toward the teenager, he said, “and that’s Lucky.”

  “Where are we going?” Jasper asked.

  “East. Beyond the Stena,” Dragahn replied. “What can you cook?”

  “How much time do I have?” Jasper asked. He closed his eyes and answered his own question. “If I were you, I’d want someone who could whip up a hearty meal within fifteen to twenty minutes—thirty tops. I’m not sure how long it takes you to get everything stowed away after a long ride, but no one wants to wait on a meal. Am I right?” Jasper said with a big smile, patting his stomach.

  “Sure, whatever,” Dragahn replied. “Lucky, take him to the larder and let him cook the brisket.”

  “The brisket? You sure?” Lucky asked.

  “It’ll be alright, kid,” Jasper said. “Trust me.”

  The youth led Jasper outside to the earthen courtyard, where immediately the smell of horse sweat assailed them. Squatting in the far corner, an impressive, timber barn framed in the shape of an ‘A’ was abuzz with activity. Workers moved about, walking large draft horses, carrying bales of hay, getting everything ready for the long ride ahead.

  To their left, the line of men at the main gate wound around and disappeared into a much smaller office building on the opposite side of the yard.

  Lucky turned right, and they passed in front of a large, single-story warehouse that shared a common wall with the main hall. Just outside the warehouse door, workers prepared several long wooden crates for travel. Bars of soap, wrapped in wax paper, sat on pallets, waiting to be packed into the straw-filled crates. Once a worker finished filling a crate, he nailed it shut and carried it inside the warehouse, where it was loaded onto a wagon.r />
  Jasper followed Lucky across the yard, half-listening as the boy leapt from subject to subject. “I’m Yosif; most people just call me Lucky ... Only been with the company for a couple of months ... came down from the mountains hoping to see some action ... I like to gamble sometimes ... guess that’s why I like this job ... yeah, that last trip was a mess ... we lost our cook ... everyone expected me to learn ... and then the chief came down with food poisoning ... man, was that gross ... then everyone got sick ... everyone says I’m lucky ‘cause I didn’t get sacked ... name stuck, and now that’s what everyone calls me.”

  Lucky finally stopped talking when they reached the larder, a small, standalone shed along the back wall of the compound nestled between the stable yard and the warehouse. Pulling the key from his pouch, the teen unlocked the door and opened it.

  Inside, slabs of smoked brisket and bacon hung from the rafters beside strips of jerky and strings of dried fruits and vegetables. Cyrillic marks on the barrels and bags clearly identified what was inside—items like potatoes, beans, flour, and corn meal. Everything was ready for travel at a moment’s notice. Beside the barrel of flour, Jasper found several crates of fresh chicken eggs. So, with some sliced bacon, a few eggs, and a potato, he headed toward the door.

  “That’s not what the chief asked you to cook.”

  “Can’t properly cook brisket in fifteen to twenty minutes. It would take at least three to four hours to properly prepare it,” he explained simply. “And hey, if I don’t burn the water, I’ll at least do a better job than your last cook.”