Hell's Tools

[Hells Tools is part of a new trilogy I am writing called "Daggered Heart", Vericon city slums are based on the Victorian London slums. Crits welcome]


PROLOGUE


Vericon City was bleak. Several lamps glowed emitting the only light source on the streets, the moon was covered in a grimy fog whilst shadows haunted the walls and corners of old Vericon City. The cold mist leaked into the basin of the alleyways, a cat slithered along a wetted wall and it dragged its matted fur against the harsh brick and washed itself in a layer of dirt. It sprang from its vantage point and onto the water glazed cobbles. Its eyes flashed yellow in the light as the cat saw a lone man, clothed in black monk’s robes, standing in the middle of the alleyway.

He pulled his clothes tight over his white skin; his coldness was shown as he puffed out frosty mist from his narrow mouth. His long thin head turned and waited for something, looking for any sign of movement.

“Blood!” A voice from nowhere ordered, carrying a masterful tone through, what seemed like, the entire town. A chilling wind blew and wafted the voice from audit. The cloaked man kneeled, his wait was over. He withdrew a silvered dagger and swept it once with his hand, it became bright, bright beyond belief. The alley cat ran from the sight of it back to its lair in the wall, curiously it kept watching.

The man’s eyes matched the glow of the knife as he brought it to his wrists, slashing harshly and allowing his blood to spurt and mangle with the water on the streets. The dagger had stopped glowing, it had been fed, he lowered it then looked around at his blood.

The blood mingled together into a pool then morphed from the ground into a ball, curdling with heat, it released smoke. The man stood and bowed before cowering away. A hand formed over it, immune to the heat, wrinkled and bony with flamboyant diamond rings on each finger. From the hand a tall, gaunt figure appeared, dressed in nothing but rags, much less than the man. Jewels glimmered his bearded, bald reflection. His dry lips spread into a smile as he raised the ball of blood to them, drinking it with several gulps.

“You have done well, Spero” The master hissed in a dark, bellowing voice.
“Only to serve master, only to serve.” Spero bowed smiling, sharing the success with his master.

“It is a shame we must only meet in person through your blood” The master said again pacing around the streets, revealing his bare feet.
“A shame, but an honour,” Spero spoke in a privileged tone.
“Your blood is of no use anymore, however” The master’s voice became even lower, riddled with menace, his eyes became wider. Spero began to tremble and back away.
“Mmmaster?” The master rose from the ground, raised his hand and grasped Spero’s throat. “Mmmaster, what I’ve done for you!” Spero pleaded, tears flooding from his eyes.

“And this is your final task!” The master uttered before closing his grasp around Spero’s throat, bursting his wind pipe and sending blood from it. He threw the servant to one side without any remorse, he took the dagger and wandered into the gloom, heading for water. After minutes the man in monk’s robes opened his eyes and gasped for air.

#

The fog streamed into River Hope, the glowing of the dock lanterns were filtered through the fog’s meshwork and in turn, the water seemed yellow. The banks were chiselled hard away by the ferocious river tide, the choppy waters that carried boats from one side of the humongous river to the other.

A passenger boat was flung from its linear journey as a chilling wind morphed the waters into waves, the wood scarred but would be healed as the growing moss invaded and made its home there. Lichen and dead sea barnacles fed off the wood worm riddled in the old boat, but were soon knocked off by the swaying fisherman, rowing his oar at the side of his river vehicle.

The fisherman squinted through the mist, a quick check for the trained eye to see if any other traveller boats were out, none were so he made another row. He looked at his guest, warily, a tall man in battered clothing, but yet glistening with all the gems south of the river, and bearded (a finely cut beard on a clean chin). His skin was unreal, so pale, so thin and tight.

“Faster!” The guest commanded his voice strong and masterful, it was abrupt and didn’t carry, it didn’t need to because at the call of the master the fisherman exerted more strength into rowing. It was unusual for the fisherman to be ordered by the guest, but this guest, this master seemed to have a unique ability to command. His voice was laced with bloody threats and his eyes with despotic determination: A man not to be crossed.

The river bank was approached, and the boat stopped. The fisherman limped from his stand and out of his old boat, the guest from his standing position. The guest, master, looked out far and wide from the river bank and drew the dagger he had captured some three days ago. “When the dagger’s power is unlocked, it craves blood,” The master uttered with eyes filled with passion.

Lightning could not beat the master for speed, for in a flash the master had slashed the dagger across the fisherman’s arms, it glowed with a blinding white light once blood trickled from its tip. The master pointed the dagger at the boat, a disk of light sliced through the air and blew the boat into smithereens out of the water. The fisherman, cradling his arm, knelt before his smashed boat, his livelihood.

“And when I, Masus, the first Death Mage, meet life… I destroy it.” He raised the dagger and pointed to the fisherman, crying and kneeling before hell itself, he begged for mercy, Masus showed none. He flicked the dagger once and another disk left it, it made contact with the fisherman and through blue flames he has disintegrated to dust.

“Hell’s tools come at a price dear man.” Masus uttered a word in an unrecognisable tongue and from the pile of dust a blue flame rose to Masus’ hand, he picked it up with his forefinger and thumb and hooked the flame to his heavy necklace, it turned into a blue gemstone like the several hundred already there, a sick trophy for a twisted servant of Hell. Mascus walked, barefoot into the noble farms of Vericon.

I really liked this but, I guess this means you aren't going to continue: The Boatman.
It's a shame but it seems like this story is equally interesting. Once again I love your villan he is chilling and merciless. Just like every villan should be. Now, I can't wait to meet the hero of the story. Continue I say!

The Boatman may pop up a little later, I just need another project so I can rustle up some more ideas for The Boatman, The Boatman may even be a part of the Daggered Heart Trilogy, another book perhaps.

Thanks for the feedback, I always enjoy creating and writing my antagonist, my protagonists take a little more work.

I loved it.

It showed real depth, not just the usuall stuff, but one thing, lots of it was confusing and overdescribed, you used too many complicated words that just got in the way of the flow.

my opinion : 7/10

^ this is good by my standards^

Yeah, someone else said about the confusion, I'll be sure to comb out any anti-flow on edit. Thankyou for the comment, It is a really confidence boost when people like my work.

The alley cat ran from the sight of it back to its lair on the wall, curiously it kept watching.

Wouldn't this be 'back to its lair in the wall' as in there was a hole in a wall where the cat hides?

“A shame, but an honour,” Hood spoke in a privileged tone.

Hud.

but were soon knocked off by the swaying fisherman, rowing his ore at the side of his river vehicle.

Oar

“Faster!” The guest commanded his voice strong and masterful, it was abrupt and didn’t carry, it didn’t need to because at the call of the master the fisherman exerted more strength into rowing. It was unusual for the fisherman to be ordered by the guest, but this guest, this master seemed to have a unique ability to command. His voice was laced with bloody threats and his eyes with despotic determination: A man not to be crossed.

I like this description of Masus, it also keeps him in your memory as a sort of leader type person who creates authority as soon as he is mentioned.

“And when I, Masus, the first Death Mage, meet life… I destroy it.” Masus raised the dagger and pointed to the fisherman, crying and kneeling before hell itself, he begged for mercy, Masus showed none. Masus flicked the dagger once and another disk left it, it made contact with the fisherman and through blue flames he has disintegrated to dust.

Mentioning his name too often gets a little annoying at times, you can just use 'he' instead.

Was the second part of the story on the same night as the first part or three days later ('...drew the dagger he had captured some three days ago...')?

I like the setting of the City and since you mentioned it being like the Victorian slums of London I can easily guess what it looks like, I'm not too sure I like the villian character as much as I liked the Boatman, he seems to me like every other villian in books/movies and it'll be great to see how you can make him different (if possible).

Thanks for the review, No I dont like Masus as much as The Boatman either but the Boatman wasnt really the villain of the story, Isabel was the villain of "The Boatman".

Ill be working on Masus a little more later on, I am still debating whether to have him as the villain all throughout the story of maybe have another death mage come along later. Im still figuring out the whole plot of Hell's Tools however ( I have a strange way of working which involves writing a first chapter or prologue then starting the story)

I have my protagonist now and his simple backstory, I also have my "man in monk's robes"(Hud) fleshed out. I have ever so slightly altered the prologue and the monk doesnt die now. Ill post the edited verson up in a minute. I also have changed the monks name to "Spero" which means Hope in latin.

((Paragraphing a little messed up but here it is))

CHAPTER 1

The bullet soared past Raptor’s cheek, slicing his flesh slightly; a speck of blood splashed in his eye. He tore his shirt as he slumped behind a wall, panting and sweating heavily. He tilted his cap before swinging with energy over the wall and sending a bullet straight back from his rifle.

Raptor felt the Noble sceptre at his side, smooth to the touch and grand to the eye: His livelihood. Raptor ducked again to avoid another onslaught of firing, his opponent stopped to reload, Raptor swung over and stared his enemy in the eye, a fat guard in a soldiers dress, he backed away. Raptor, with his last bullet, fired. Missed.
“Blast!” Raptor roared before swinging his rifle over his shoulder and running from the sound of fresh bullet’s ricocheting against one of Raptor’s many “hiding walls”.

Raptor’s feet pounded on the tarred roads of Vericon city, when the opponent had the advantage, the key was to run, run like your life depended on it and hope that one would nestle in haven soon.

Dashing around a corner, he breathed a deep sigh of relief only to turn and find two barrels at Point Blanc to the forehead. Raptor backed away, his lip quivered, eyes focused on the success of the guard’s face. Raptor felt himself being pushed backwards, a great fear welled up inside of him, a fear of dying, leaving his wife and three children at home, penniless. He had only one goal, to sell the stolen sceptre for a pretty penny, only a sin would feed mouths in Vericon.
“Pass me the item,” Bellowed the guard holding out a stubby hand. It was clear to Raptor the guard rarely used a gun, the guard’s nerves matched his own, quickly Raptor learned that the tables had turned. He was in a position to bargain, although the metal against his head felt hotter by the second.

“Come now, lets not act like fools,” Raptor pleaded, trying to put his simple words in a witty tone.
The butt of the gun soon hit Raptor’s arm, sending his arm into a spasm, tearing some flesh on the point end of the sceptre. The guard was about to snatch for it when he stopped, frozen and isolated, not moving at all. Every fibre of the guards being seemed to be transfixed to the very spot he stood on.

Raptor took a moment to overcome his panting like a scared school girl to realise that the man had stopped his parry. He flicked open his eyes and saw the man had stopped. Sliding away he gripped the sceptre tight and left the cornered position he was in for the safe open of the streets.

His head often turned back to check the guard wasn’t following, his thoughts soon stumbled on the fact it must have been some planetary alignment. He pushed the ordeal aside and found shade. He took the sceptre and unravelled it from its parcelled form.

“Interesting…” He murmured to himself as his hand stroked the pole leading up to a point, on the other end a shield. Raptor peered for moments trying to make out the image on the shield, failing through unintelligence he smiled at his catch. The joy of thieving was the artefact at the end, and of course, the bundle of money he would get for a sweet treasure such as this.
“The monastery will have it!” He pondered thinking of all the artefacts he sold there before, and of the many silver coins he got in return, after all, Raptor was only a man.

Packing the sceptre away in a parcel of rags, Raptor took a look at his rife, scratched from climbing over the wire fencing of the Noble house, he spat on it and tried to glean a polished surface, the scars wouldn’t heal.
He sought ammunition, if his wife caught him firing a gun, his gun would not be the only thing with scratches. He chuckled as he pictured his wife scowling at him.

He skulked into the shop he knew so well, musty with gun powder, the air bad with old Mister Piffle smoking his greasy head off behind the shop counter.

Guns of all kinds surrounded Raptor as he looked in awe at weapons he would never be able to afford no matter how many sceptres he traded at the monastery.

“Yes?” Grunted Piffle, slightly taken aback Raptor cleared his throat, “Bullets, for this?” He held up his gun, not knowing the name or brand, although he used his rifle almost every day and it was a great hobby Raptor’s trap was that he took no interest in anything other than using it, practical and simple, what was the need to know the model as long as it fired at a man and hindered him?

With a heavy sigh Piffle grabbed a box and thrust it along the counter, holding out his hand for money. “Err… one sec’” Raptor searched diligently for any coin in his pockets, it struck him that he had none, a million excuses ran through his mind for what to tell Piffle, his current face seething with impatience.

“How about that!” Piffle roared pointing to the sceptre swaying at Raptor’s side. Knowing that the sceptre was worth twenty times more than the ammunition Raptor thought up a compromise.

“But sir, this is the finest gold, perhaps a cutting would do?” Raptor withdrew his knife, not waiting for his answer and cut a crescent through the sceptre handing him the chunk, it was a more than fair deal but Raptor had nothing else to bargain and did not want to fall at the hands of a man whose job is to make guns.

Nothing else was said as Piffle returned to his piping position of idleness. Raptor scooped up the ammunition and left the shop, another nervous sweat brought on. He loaded the barrel of his gun whilst running home to be in time for supper, the moon was rising and there was nothing worse than the punishment of stale bread and water from an angry, but lovable wife.

After minutes the man in monk’s robes opened his eyes and gasped for air.

Just say Spero otherwise it looks a little long winded.

He flicked the dagger once and another disk left it, it made contact with the fisherman and through blue flames he has disintegrated to dust.

'.. he was...'

Raptor felt the Noble sceptre at his side, smooth to the touch and grand to the eye: His livelihood. Raptor ducked again to avoid another onslaught of firing, his opponent stopped to reload, Raptor swung over and stared his enemy in the eye, a fat guard in a soldiers dress, he backed away. Raptor, with his last bullet, fired. Missed.
“Blast!” Raptor roared before swinging his rifle over his shoulder and running from the sound of fresh bullet’s ricocheting against one of Raptor’s many “hiding walls”.

This part seems more modern that the time of Masus (guns, bullet,etc) and don't use Rator's name too often.

...the tarred roads of Vericon city...

Vericon City

“Pass me the item,” Bellowed the guard holding out a stubby hand.

Wouldn't the guard be a little rude here? Saying 'pass' makes it seem as if he was Raptor's friend, maybe if it was 'give' (more demanding) would be better?

slightly taken aback Raptor cleared his throat, “Bullets, for this?” He held up his gun, not knowing the name or brand, although he used his rifle almost every day and it was a great hobby Raptor’s trap was that he took no interest in anything other than using it, practical and simple, what was the need to know the model as long as it fired at a man and hindered him?

This part should be in a new paragraph.

“But sir, this is the finest gold, perhaps a cutting would do?” Raptor withdrew his knife, not waiting for his answer and cut a crescent through the sceptre handing him the chunk,

Would gold cut that easily with a knife?

To me it seems time has moved on in Vericon City, the first part kept its historical way but the second part was much more advanced, but it still kept me interested (weird choice of names for a start). Write more and the most important part is to stop repeating Raptor's name as the reader is aware of who you are actually talking about.

Thanks for the crit, Ill be sure to clean up my grammar and try and linearise(is that a word? LOL!) the time zone, they are supposed to be in sort of a Georgian/Victorian parrellel(SP?) era, i need to make that more apparent in the prologue.

Right, what do you think of the characters of Masus and Raptor, do you feel they are interesting, do you care about what happens to them?

EDIT: What POV is the prologue in? - its a question that I know the answer to but I want you to guess to see if I have written it correctly.

Yes, linearise is a read word.

If I had to chose between the two I would say Raptor, most of the time I like the villians but there is not much about either characters that set them apart from other characters. If you write more then I'll be able to say if I change my mind or not but I like the name Piffle. XD

Its in thrid person all the way through.

Sorry I meant Whose point of view, as in which character.

Yes, later on Masus background will come into light and hopefully I can change your mind. I always have a hard time with the protagonist, I thought maybe to play on the ignorance/idiotic idea with Raptor.

It changes from the monk, to the boatman and then to Masus?

LOL! Yes it does, the Prologue needs to be rewritten actually as before I plotted the story the prologue was already there.

((Again, the manuscript format paragraph style doesnt like the forums. PLease excuse untidy paragraphs))



Raptor sidled across the dead farm he and his wife owned, he cringed at the smell of horse manure from the next farm. Opening the gate of the front lawn he saw his house, once a great farmhouse, now a run down cottage.
He straightened himself up and started to make up excuses for his lateness, he didn’t want his wife worrying about him, it would only put him off going on further sinful excursions, besides Raptor didn’t want the bother of explaining the whole story to his wife, he just wanted to eat, then sleep.

“GET IN!” A woman’s screech sounded from the doors, there Raptor’s wife stood, with a stern glance and masterful point inside.
”Come now darling, lets not fall out.”
“FALL OUT! I’ve had tea on the table hours!” Raptor glowed pink as a few farm workers peered over the hedgerows to look what was going on, he slid past his wife and into the stone kitchen, he slammed his sceptre on the table and uncoiled it from its wrapper.

“Good things take time, my sweet,” Raptor tried to charm his wife, she just returned with another stern look. She looked at it and huffed, Raptor could see by her eyes she was going to find something wrong with it. She slammed a boiled stew in front of him as she took a long glance at the sceptre.

“Looks like witchery to me,” She snapped again pouring mead into Raptor’s flask. He took it to his lips and gulped the soft foam, he sighed in relief, he hadn’t drank all day. This is what coming home is all about, he thought as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sweet chill of the mead. He turned to his wife again, still with a disgruntled look. He knew deep down that she just missed him, after the first few minutes she would soften up, although a superstitious woman she knew that everything Raptor brought in was for the good of the children. She sat down beside him, and smiled weakly.

Raptor beamed at her, slightly cheekily because he was proud of such a great steal. “Pure gold.” Raptor nodded his head to the sceptre again. “That’ll do for some cloth’s for the kids.”

“I want it out of the house tonight!” She hissed at him sipping from her mug of tea. “I wont have cursed items under my house.” As she said this Raptor nearly choked on his mead, after all the work she still wanted him to sell on the same day. He looked at her innocently, asking for a break.

“Don’t look at me like that mister,” She pointed at him like a mother. “There’s no pudding until you can shift this junk!”
“JUNK!” Shrilled Raptor, putting his mead down. He was about to argue but didn’t want to wake the children, his wife had made up her mind, and that was the end of the story. She pulled up her grey petticoat and hovered to the stove pouring herself another mug of tea.

A yawn came from the door, a little girl, Raptor’s first born. Raptor took her in his arms and placed her on his lap.
“Hello,” He said stroking her hair, “What have you been up to today?” He didn’t expect an answer, she was a mute, never spoke since her birth. Raptor kissed her head lovingly, taking her hand he lead her back to bed.

Two other girls lay in the bed, his other daughters. He tucked her in. “Night night.” His soft voice drifted over his sleeping daughter. He got up and went back into the kitchen to his wife.

“Been using that rifle again?” She twittered. Raptor didn’t answer, it would only worry her if he did, he slung his rifle over his back again and took the sceptre from the table. His horse, Hood, stood outside and whinnied at his soft stroke. He mounted him and kicked off across the many farms towards the Monastery, the horse had white fur across its hind, a trademark that he never played to when he thieved.

#
Hood neighed sharply and refused all commands as the monastery was approached. The chime of singing monks echoed through the crop fields however an eerie mist crept around the old building, something that Hood was aware of. Raptor hushed him by talking to him softly. He too shivered, everything seemed so cold. The monastery stain glass shimmered in the gloss of the moon making it look almost spectral to the uninitiated eye.

Raptor approached with little caution, he had been here many times and, maybe in ignorance felt no fear of the place. He went through the side door and followed the path to his trade partner’s room, right, then left, up the stairs and across the balcony.
“Excuse me?” The pompous voice of Father Eebrus pulsed through the corridor. Cringing, Raptor turned and forged a simple smile.

“Yes, I’m here to err… confess.” Almost wickedly a smile slashed across Eebruss face.
“Then come with me, I am always available.”
“In fact, no, I need to get home.” Without glancing back he quickly walked from the Prior and hid in a dark corridor, he wiped away the sweat on his forehead, he must have sounded pathetic, he nearly blew the scheme he had worked to hard to make with one of the Brothers here. He watched intimately in the shadows until the Prior had walked passed, he waited seconds before a two-way conversation was heard.

“There is an idiot in our midst,” Bumbled Eebrus, “Check the entrances and ensure that his horse is disposed of, I wont have him poisoning my monastery.” Another voice gave words of obedience.

The thought of Hood being “disposed of” flashed across his mind, in an instant his instinct was to run back. Then he steadied in mid step and realised it was a one way ticket to being caught, and jailed.

He carried on, he slipped past a few praying monks, keeping his gun close. As he saw them he thought how out-dated the sun religion was. Worshippers of the sun were often ridiculed, and here, modern monks devoted their lives to it. A beaming golden sun emblem came into view, with four flames coming from it. Within seconds the view had gone and he carried on his root, he went up the flight of stairs and came to a stone balcony.

The balcony overlooked all the Noble lands and houses, and, his exhausted farm a little further away. Raptor pinpointed the exact house he stole the sceptre from and smiled, still pleased with his self. Urgency met him as the Prior’s voice came from the bottom of the steps.

He turned back and saw his large shadow against the wall, he ran to the end wall of the balcony and tried to remember how the hell to get into the secret chamber of the monastery. He began to crack under the pressure as sweat dripped from his brow. His lip quivered in spasm as the Prior’s footsteps echoed through the night.

He pulled out a loose brick from the wall, seeing a hole in the cement he pushed at it and the wall opened. He went in and slammed it to as the Prior swung open the balcony entrance.

It took a while but Raptor caught his breath. He turned around to see a small room, laden with all sorts of fascinating objects, half of them his own steals. A poker table with cards and burning cigars was in the middle with an unrobed monk behind it. He was dressed in gentlemen wear: A tight suit with a tie separating a watch and a pen in the opposite pocket. Around his neck was a thick cast.

“Broken bone, Spero?” Laughed Raptor sitting on the opposite chair and taking a cigar from the packet strewn across the table. The man was old, older than he remembered from the last visit a few months ago, his face streamed with crinkles and his hair was slowly greying. He smiled and spoke hoarsely, “It’s a long story!”

Raptor raised an eyebrow, he didn’t question him further, not that he wasn’t curious but because the tale would involve all sorts of dramatised acting and enthusiasm, something that Raptor couldn’t be bothered with. The agenda was to sell, quickly.
“What have you for me today then?” Spero heaved out of his chair eagerly. Raptor smiled and brought the sceptre from the parcel showing it to him. He looked up expecting a gleam in his eyes but only found a look of horror. Spero backed away.
“What’s wrong? Its pure gold, finest ther--”
“—silence! Get rid of it, dump it in the river hope, burn it, I don’t want it.”
Raptor stood up, slightly offended, after all the trouble he had gone through to get it, he desired a more respectful response from his old friend. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” Raptor’s voice was rising slightly, however keeping an innocent respect.
“Burn it I say!”
“No, if you don’t want it, the market will offer just as much.” Raptor said packing and readying his leave.

“That’s not possible, ill buy it.” Spero leapt forward putting his hand on Raptors, raptor felt a cold fear in them. “Ill buy it to destroy it, its not going anywhere else, its evil!”
Raptor turned around, he yearned for more information about it, why was it so horrible?
“Where did you get it?” Came another abrupt question from Spero, he began pacing.
“I stole it of course from a Noble House!”
“It’s even worse than I thought!”
“What’s worse?” Questioned Raptor, but no response came. Spero shot a glance at the sceptre again and saw a cut in it.
“YOU CUT IT!”
“I had to pay for gun ammu—“
“—Piffle’s Place?” Spero went for his monk’s cloak and put it on, raising his hood. Raptor wrapped away the sceptre and was ready to follow him. Another brick was removed from another wall and it led down another flight of stairs to the lawns outside.
“We’ll go to your farm, there are too many ears here, I’ll discuss a price there and then we can pay old Piffle a visit to get that other piece.” Still in complete confusion Raptor went down the steps and waited, not knowing this part of the monastery he thought best to let Spero lead the way. Raptor, in one last attempt spoke to Spero, “What’s so special about the sceptre?”
“That sceptre, literally, is a tool of hell!”