The Moroi Hunters Read online

  THE SKELETAL THRONE I:

  THE MOROI HUNTERS

  A

  Novel

  By

  A.R.R. Ash

  Copyright 2018 by A.R.R. Ash

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover Art and Design by Matthew Myslinski

  Maps by A.R.R. Ash

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—places, or events is purely coincidental.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The First Godling by A.R.R. Ash. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the content of the forthcoming edition.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  Table of Contents

  Map: The North

  Part I

  Day 1: Night

  Day 1: Light

  Day 2: Night

  Day 2: Light

  Day 3: Night

  Day 4: Night

  Day 5: Night

  Day 5: Light

  Day 6: Night

  Day 7: Light

  Day 8: Night

  Day 8: Light

  Day 9: Night

  Day 11: Night

  Day 11: Light

  Day 13: Night

  Day 33: Night

  Day 38: Light

  Day 39: Night

  Part II

  Day 8: Light to Day 9: Night

  Day 9: Light

  Day 10: Light

  Day 11: Light

  Day 12: Night

  Day 12: Light

  Day 13: Night

  Day 13: Light

  Day 14: Night

  Map: Human Hinterlands

  Part III

  Day 14: Light

  Day 15: Night

  Day 15: Light

  Day 16: Night

  Day 16: Light

  Day 17: Night

  Day 18: Night

  Day 18: Light

  Day 19: Night

  Day 19: Light

  Day 20: Night

  Day 20: Light

  Day 21: Night

  Day 21: Light

  Day 22: Night

  Day 22: Light

  Day 23: Night

  Day 23: Light

  Day 24: Night

  Day 24: Light

  Day 25: Night

  Day 25: Light

  Day 26: Night

  Day 26: Light

  Day 27: Night

  Day 27: Light

  Day 28: Night

  Day 31: Light

  Day 33: Light

  Day 35: Night

  Day 36: Night

  Day 36: Light to Day 38: Night

  Day 38: Light

  Day 39: Night

  Part IV

  Day 39: Light

  Dramatis Personæ, Majoris et Minoris

  Personal Message from A.R.R. Ash

  Excerpt—The First Godling

  Map: The North

  Note: Safe houses and waystations not shown.

  Part I

  Day 1: Night

  They ran.

  Although they gasped for breath, although their legs ached and numbed, although sweat streamed into their eyes and stung the maze of open scratches on their bodies, although blood and pus excreted from the blisters upon their feet, they ran.

  Every twilit shadow concealed the possibility of death. Every sound suggested a probable threat. Every silence was the prelude to attack. They ran.

  So intent upon their flight were the two humans, they took no notice that the singing of day birds ceased and the serenade of nocturnal songbirds had begun. Even when the grasping spines and probing thorns of brambles tugged at their grimy, threadbare rags and opened afresh wounds upon their bodies, they did not slow.

  How long had they run? How far had they run? How far had they to go? They knew only that rumors spoke of others of their kind, free beyond the forest. Among those free humans, they would finally know solace.

  The verdant canopy grew thicker, obstructing what light remained from the crescent moon. The deepening gloom only compelled them faster, despite their exhaustion, for the hunters came in the night.

  A rock underfoot turned his ankle; with a grunt of pain, he fell upon the forest floor. She stopped, uncertain whether to help or continue her flight. He clutched his already swelling ankle. Although she could not clearly see his eyes, his countenance was a mask of pain and his breath was ragged as he silently raised a pleading hand toward her. As if that hand swept away all indecision, without a word, she ran.

  His terrified, truncated shriek only momentarily distracted her from her own plight before spurring her onward. She fought the urge to succumb, to end the fear and allow her body a moment’s rest before it was torn apart. Yet she ran, her chest heaving as her heart struggled to keep pace.

  A stone struck behind her ear, sending her to a heap upon the ground. She was quickly set upon by several pairs of hands. Her vision was blurry and her mind hazy from the blow. These were not the hunters, for she still lived. Through the darkness and her clouded vision, she discerned others standing nearby, observing.

  The hands probed her and turned her over upon her stomach. She heard harsh, uncaring, but fearful voices:

  “She’s marked.”

  “They’ve tracked her here.”

  “Leave her.”

  “She’s already dead.”

  “Remove the mark and let us be gone.”

  “You heard the scream; they are upon us.”

  “No time.”

  A weight descended upon her back as someone straddled her. A male voice commanded, “Be still,” before he spread her arms and pinned them beneath his knees, roughly shoved a cloth into her mouth, and held her head immobile. She screamed into the cloth as the edge of a blade bit into her left shoulder, just below a pattern of raised scars. The pain shot to the tips of her fingers and toes; her muscles clenched in response; she screamed and writhed but could not free herself. Only under the unpitying mastery of the hunters had she known such agony.

  Abruptly, another male slid a blade into the base of the young woman’s neck, instantly silencing her screams; her body jerked once, then fell still.

  “She is gone, and so must we.” The second male retracted the dagger.

  “Too late!” came a frantic cry from the side.

  The hunters descended upon the group, and the sound of terror replaced the music of songbirds.

  *****

  Queen Shayala stared over the parapet atop Castle Ky’lor’s western tower. She was a tall, dark-skinned strigoi, whose commanding presence and hard, yet sinuous, form and features spoke to both sensuality and ferocity. Her oval eyes were pupilless black orbs that seemed to blaze with ebon fire, and her deep purple hair fell free to her mid-back. She wore nothing save a large, gold-and-amethyst necklace, a dozen golden bracelets upon each arm, and several golden circlets around each ankle.

  Although a clement breeze stirred her hair, she could not feel its balm upon her skin. With few exceptions—most notably, silver, sunlight, and the touch of other ruža vlajna—she, like all her kind, did not experience external sensations, whether the frigid embrace of falling snow or the baking heat of the deep desert.

  She was strigoi, the urbane among the ruža vlajna—superior in sophistication and reason over the bestial moroi and the feral nosferatu. And master over the human chattel.

&nbs
p; She surveyed her Court—Court Shayala. Although her vision was inhumanly acute, even her position atop the soaring tower, under the light of the moon and its countless scintillating companions, could not reveal the vastness of her Court. All animal calls were faint, near the fringes of the grassy plain surrounding the castle, for no beast, whether upon wing or paw or hoof, would near such a congregation of strigoi.

  Northward, beyond the gray-green shrubland and foothills, were the Northern Inland Mountains that marked the northmost border of the Court. Here, where once sat the Courts of Lynar and Nassum, was the richest silver mine yet discovered in the North as well as a productive quarry of granite. To the east ran the Accord River, marking the border with Court H’shu. Through the centuries of rule under King H’shu and Shayala’s predecessor, King Thyse, the two Courts had known overt peace but incessant scheming—a state that existed into the present.

  The Southern Inland Mountains marked the southmost border of her Court. Distributed periodically along the stone-paved roads crisscrossing the realm were safe houses and waystations for those strigoi who found themselves exposed when the sky began to lighten. To the west, the heavily forested extent of the Court was demarcated by the Pale River, beyond which was hinterland: home to tribes of feral humans.

  Turning from the view, Shayala imagined the plight of the two humans released into those thick, western forests and tracked through magical runes branded upon them in hope they would lead her hunters to more of the humans. The air had grown chill, and the wind shifted, though she took no notice other than the stirring of her hair.

  Shayala was not given to introspection; she preferred action but, considering her coming trials, could excuse herself some self-reflection. Some within her Court were poised to move against her, but they looked only to their own stations; her vision encompassed so much more. She now approached the crux of her reign; decades of planning would come to fruition, and she would emerge stronger—if she survived.

  One did not attain the throne, and one certainly did not keep it, through timidity. Power was for those willing to do what was necessary to claim it and maintain it. This was her opportunity to prove herself the worthy successor of King Thyse. She would be forced to commit atrocities, and she would be hated—even more so than she had already earned—by those of power and title and wealth. Yet, few would realize the necessity of her course. She did not want for strength of arms or will or strategy—those were her assets. No, her crucible, her greatest challenge, would be to suppress her nature and sublimate her disdain for the feral humans into something else. Although she would gladly take up arms and face a host of enemies, the need for temperance and tolerance could undo her.

  Steeling herself for her upcoming ordeal, Shayala shunted all doubt to the little-used and rarely visited cellar of her mind. As she descended the stairs into the tower, her only thought was on the inevitability of her victory.

  *****

  Three strigoi, unclad and exhibiting varying levels of vexation, sat at an oaken table in a windowless stone room within Castle Volroy, the seat of the County of Volroy, within Court Shayala. Two brazen bowls, each holding a small heap of gleeds, were set upon the table and provided ample light for their sensitive eyes. Adorning the walls were fading, fraying tapestries of exquisite detail depicting epic battles between armies of strigoi. One depicted the aftermath of a battle: a line of staked strigoi who, extending from a rising sun, were in various stages of combustion. The one nearest the sun was but a pile of ash, the next engulfed in a pillar of fire, the next outlined in flame.

  To the right of each attendee, through an aperture in the table, emerged the head and neck of a living human, whose tongue had been neatly sliced out. Facing the center of the table, the humans were held in place by wooden clamps beneath. Their heavy breaths came in quick, frightened gasps. The shivering from their tatter-covered bodies sent creaking vibrations through the wood.

  A male strigoi entered and settled his tall, thin frame into a seat at the head of the table. Despite his tardiness, the arrival’s thoughtful countenance was unruffled, and his pupilless, liquid blue eyes quickly scanned those present. He greeted the others by decreasing rank. “Countess Sashal. Count Volroy. Baron Hyr.”

  Only Sashal acknowledged his greeting, and that with only a nod.

  “At last you arrive, Corvyne,” Count Volroy huffed, his gray eyes menacing. Although his cheeks could not ruddy, his normally impatient visage was contorted into a study of irritability.

  “My apologies, Your Lordship,” Corvyne responded with mock deference.

  “Is our time less valuable than yours, castellan?” With an edge to his voice, Volroy persisted, “We are, of course, all subject to the whim of the royal lackey.”

  “My duties at the castle fully occupy my time,” Corvyne responded in his most diplomatic tone, “and I could not leave without some pretense to explain my absence. But I am here, now, Count Volroy. What of the others? Earl Othor, Earlress Ralyr, Baroness Alorn?”

  Volroy drummed his fingers, each adorned with a jeweled ring, upon the table. “We could not have too many of title unavailable at once, as it would draw suspicion. The countess and I shall ensure they are apprised of all they need to know.”

  Corvyne nodded. “A wise precaution.”

  Volroy was not certain whether he detected sarcasm within Corvyne’s agreement. Before he could further reproach the castellan, Corvyne said, “With your permission, Your Lordship, we can commence our business.”

  Corvyne interpreted Volroy’s ensuing grunt as assent. “As Count Volroy rightly points out, time is of the utmost import. However, the strike cannot occur within the confines of the castle. Her personal guards as well as the castle guards are ever present. Queen Shayala must be drawn out.”

  “Can some simpler means not be found? Perhaps an assassin in her chamber?” Baron Hyr inquired, raising his head from sampling the neck of the human before him. His white eyes shone like beacons among his fiery red hair and bloodied chin.

  In the momentary silence after the question, the human’s pained sniffling filled the chamber like a soothing melody to the strigoi.

  “Your Lordship,” Corvyne began, some exasperation creeping into his voice, “no assassin will ever reach her. No, on some pretense we will induce Her Majesty to tour her Court. The assassins will strike upon the road, posing as agents of King H’shu.”

  “When will the strike occur?” Hyr asked. “Her popularity has grown with the recent overthrow of Courts Lynar and Nassum. For the good of the Court, we must act before she becomes too powerful and her position secure.”

  “The timing cannot be forced, Your Lordship,” Corvyne explained in a reasonable tone. “Doing so guarantees failure. Nevertheless, we will act as soon as it is prudent.”

  “This is no hunt of moroi or even feral humans,” Countess Sashal offered. “This prey is far more cunning and surrounded by fanatical soldiers.” The blue-gray eyes of the lithe, lavishly jewelried strigoi appeared as gems below arched brows, and her slate hair was as lustrous as flowing metal.

  “Quite true, Your Lordship.” Corvyne nodded his long, thin head in thanks to the countess.

  “The elevation of that lowborn is an affront to every noble of the Court,” Volroy said, every word imbued with undisguised loathing. “The commoners admire her base origin, and they esteem her for the strength shown by her foreign conquests. A move of—”

  “Yes, Your Lordship,” Sashal interjected. “We are well aware you still harbor animus over your descent when Nassum fell.”

  Volroy glared at her for a long moment. Choosing not to be baited, he finished, “If it were known how her inept rule has led to a shortage of potable humans, she would be rightly despised.”

  “Yet the extent of the problem cannot be revealed, as that would lead to panic and rebellion,” Countess Sashal replied, absently adjusting a golden vambrace. Etched upon that vambrace was her insigne of a raven perched upon the lower tip of a crescent moon, an arrow in its
beak.

  “Can we escape implication?” Baron Hyr asked before again feasting upon his specimen. As Hyr gripped the human’s oily hair, the captive began to pant and shake with such madness that his terror spread to the other humans.

  A sharp snapping of vertebrae and the ragged tearing of skin sounded as Hyr’s sudden, vicious swipe sent the human’s head rolling across the table to land upon the stone floor with a cracking thud. Blood spurted from the stump in a scarlet fountain and pooled upon the lacquered wood of the tabletop. The other three humans began to tremble violently, grunting in inarticulate horror.

  The violence provoked no objection from the other strigoi, though Sashal offered the wry comment: “Perhaps the humans are fortunate their food need not be alive.”

  Count Volroy made a noise, equal parts grunt and scoff, at the suggestion that any aspect of humanity could be preferable to true life. “Quiet!” he yelled at the humans. “Or you all will suffer the same.” The humans ceased grunting and clenched their eyes, though they could not completely still their shaking bodies.

  “Ah, yes, well.” Corvyne attempted to bring the discussion back to its previous track. “His Lordship asked if we can ‘escape implication.’ There is always some risk of discovery in conspiracy.” To nettle the baron, he added, “If we are implicated, your only recourse will be to take up residence among the feral humans.”

  Hyr waved a hand in sharp dismissal. “I have no intention of abiding among chattel.”

  “And who will organize the attack?” Volroy asked.

  “His Grace has entrusted that task to me,” Corvyne said, eliciting a harrumph from Baron Hyr.

  “Folly!” Volroy exclaimed. “Entrust you with such a delicate operation? Absurd!”

  “Corvyne is capable and competent,” Sashal insisted.