Young Writers Society

Some time ago in YWS 1 I posted a new project, Hells Tools. Well Im reposting it from Chapter 1 as I have slightly edited and restructured. Thtere are 17 chapters and in total 17 000 words now but I will post a chapter at a time.

Crits will be returned to all those who comment.

enjoy....

-------------------------

CHAPTER 1

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 Spero 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 crumbled 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. Masus walked, barefoot into the noble farms of Vericon.