The Demon of Ever-Dale

Book summary

In "The Demon of Ever-Dale," Jamus Willms embarks on a relentless quest for vengeance against the land's nobility after the destruction of his home. Driven by hatred and the need to rescue his daughter from a monstrous lord, Jamus fights a brutal battle for survival in a gripping 13th-century historical thriller.

Excerpt from The Demon of Ever-Dale

The night was crisp; no breeze tantalized through the ancient forest of cedars. The moon was full and hung proudly at the peak of the heavens, offering its mystical glow to the dark world below. The stars randomly littered the obscurity above—as if someone had poked countless holes through a sheet of black linen. It was a tranquil night by even the hardest of men's standards. But it was lost on one—

A dark, lone figure limped indignantly down the dirt road in almost complete silence; all that gave away his presence was the soft clink from the single spur on his left boot, which could be heard for some distance on this silent night.

The loner wore a dark crimson woolen cloak around his lean shoulders. Most on a chilly night such as this would have it pulled tightly around them, but the loner welcomed the unfavorable sensation on his damaged skin, and his cloak hung open freely. The hood he wore concealed his damaged face and identity with the gloomy shadow it produced.

Most folks were asleep at this late hour, safe in their beds, dreaming sweet dreams of what tomorrow may bring. But not him—he seemed not to need sleep now; hate-fueled his every step, move, and breath. It was a bitter odium that overwhelmed his very essence, mocking his commonly good-natured self, forcing him to forget everything beautiful in the world, everything pure, everything that he had tried to live for. All for nothing—all a disgusting, cruel, twisted joke by the gods—if there were any gods.

The smell of smoke lingered in the air and assured him he was close to the small town of Milton—his first destination. As the burning cedar aroma strengthened in the crisp night air, his body began to pulsate with agony from every wound that riddled his scabbing flesh. Vivid flashes assaulted his mind, his knees weakened, and he slumped to the dusty road—salty tears falling freely as the memories of two nights past tore at his soul…

***

…They had just returned from the annual fall festival outside Faer-Tri City. It was a full two days’ travel there and two days back. They did it every year. It was his family's only real outing that they could afford. His beautiful wife, Nikki, saved and hid every spare copper she could so they could all go down for three days of the weeklong festival and enjoy themselves to the fullest.

He enjoyed the variety of food and culture that came together. His young daughter, Sofia, and son, Nate, loved the games and rides, while his wife enjoyed browsing all the shops and merchant carts across Faer-Tri. It was the one time a year they all forgot about their lowly status in the world.

He had just fed the horses and put them in their stalls for the night. He emptied the wagon and came in to relish in the days past events with the ones he loved most before they lay down to sleep, only to wake early the next morning back in the reality of their poverty-stricken existence.

His children played in front of the brick hearth with the toys they had gotten at the festival. His wife sliced apples with a sprinkle of cinnamon, a light snack for everyone before bed. Water was boiling over the hearth for spiced taze for them all to share when a firm knock at the door came. It was late, and visitors rarely arrived, if ever, at this time. Jamus opened the door to the tip of a blade, which pressed into his chest, forcing him back toward the middle of the room as several large men entered.

"What is the meaning of this?" he cried out, trying to keep the mounting fear from his tone. "Who are you?" He looked back to his family—they were huddled close together, terror radiating from their eyes as his wife tried to keep the children calm.

"Jamus Willms—deep down, I believe you know why we're here," the exquisitely dressed man with the sword to his chest replied, five of his companions fanning out through the house while one chubby man stayed by the door. It was a face Jamus knew well—Markel Jones from one town over.

Jamus swallowed hard as he recognized the pampered face of the intruder in front of him. "He can't have her—she's just a girl, not even twelve winters old!" Jamus bellowed, tears now rimming his eyes.

A snide smile creased the man's powdered face, "Lord Carter didn't take kindly to your public refusal at the festival. You humiliated him and forgot your place in this world, Jamus Willms!"

"She is my daughter. It is my right as her father to give blessing to her suitor when she is of age for it!" Jamus snapped back angrily, bitter terror drenching his every word.

The man's lips quivered involuntarily with rage, and he backhanded Jamus. "Again, you forget your place, peasant! Lord Carter requires your daughter's company, with or without your consent, and you have no right to deny him!"

"Over my dead body!" Jamus cried defiantly, stepping forward but stopping as the blade pushed him back with enough force to puncture his flesh, and he could feel blood trickle down his chest.

"Then you won't be disappointed with tonight's outcome." The man nodded, and two of the brutes grabbed Jamus from behind.

"No! Please, by the gods, no!" Jamus cried as he was dragged across the room and thrown against the back wall. Both greasy men began raining meaty fists on him. He heard his wife scream and lunged forward out of the barrage of brawny knuckles, but he didn't make it far before he was pinned to the cold wooden floor, where several more fists found his flesh.

"Hold him there," the leader ordered them. "Let him watch this. This is what happens to those who forget their place in life and disrespect those of high nobility," the leader barked as his men began tearing Nikki's light grey dress open, grabbing and groping at her soft, exposed flesh. She cried and pleaded for them to stop, trying in vain to fight them off, but the act of defiance only heightened their rapacious lust for the sinful crime.

"Please, no! Do what you will with me, but leave my family alone, please, I beg you!" he bellowed, trying to crawl his way to her.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not overpower the two men holding him. His fingers were already raw from the effort, leaving fresh, bloody marks with each attempt.

Nate pulled his tiny arm free from the sweaty grip of the hulking, dark-haired man holding him and his sister and snatched the dull knife from the table, still slick with apple juices. He charged the men holding down his half-naked mother in a blind, foolish frenzy. The blade sunk deep into the shoulder of a pock-faced attacker. He roared in shock, his fist connecting with Nate's face, shattering the boy's nose. Nate was thrown to the ground by the force of the blow, blood pouring freely from his nose and mouth as he cried out.

"You’ll pay for that, you little pissant!” hissed the wounded brute as he kicked the boy, sending him sprawling across the floor near the blazing hearth. Another vicious kick forced the boy into the coals, and Nate howled in agony as the flames licked and scorched his skin.

“Please stop it. Please stop! Leave him alone, damn you!” Jamus wailed, his arms stretched out almost to the point of dislocation, but to no avail. He couldn’t move under the strength of the men. “Stop it! Please!”

The brute pulled the knife from his shoulder with a grunt and threw it to the floor. He pushed down on the boy with his foot, holding the poor child half in the flames, listening to his wails of anguish. The small cauldron of water was boiling, the smell of the fresh spiced taze emanating from it. With a malicious grin, the man tipped the pot, spilling its blistering contents over Nate. He flailed and screamed even louder for several heartbreaking moments before going sickly still—silent.

“NO!” Jamus wailed, thrashing violently, pure rage taking him over at the sight of the unspeakable things happening to his wife and son before his very eyes.

“Oh no, you don’t, peasant,” one of the brutes on top of him barked, grabbing a handful of Jamus’ hair, and slamming his face into the floor several times, blood now oozing from his crooked nose and split lip.

“If you want your turn, you better get over here,” the powder-faced leader told the thug who stood by the hearth, looking down at his nightmarish dirty work. The man grinned sadistically—his scarred face giving him the look of a fiendish demon as he unfastened his thick leather belt while he walked over to Jamus’ wife.

Time and time again, they raped her, ravaging her repeatedly, licking and biting every inch of her tender flesh—the more she fought, the worse it was. They bruised her with their fists and cut her with their knives until finally, she hadn’t the strength to move, barely able to draw breath as her tear-stained eyes looked helplessly over at her husband. They forced Jamus to watch the whole scene until, finally, they slashed open her throat—her lifeblood soaking into the old wooden floorboards and staining her pale blonde hair crimson.

The leader strolled over to Jamus, his carelessly powdered face streaked with sweat, his henchmen lifting his battered form so he could look at him. “My Lord offered you a better life for your daughter’s hand. You refused—you had no right, filth!” He slapped Jamus hard, his jeweled ring biting into Jamus' face. “Now look around. Look what you have done to your family Jamus Willms. Was it worth it?” He pointed to Nate’s body, still burning in the hearth, his skin blackening and cracked, then to his wife’s abused corpse.

“You did that to her, you know? You. You and your stubbornness, your foolish pride. Who are you to think you have a choice? A great man offers you and your family a chance at something better, and you throw it in his face. Now, look at what your choice has brought you, Jamus Willms!”

The leader wiped the blood from his hand on a rag as he walked over to Nikki’s body and looked down with a grin, admiring his work. “I would suggest whatever god you pray to, you pray now, Jamus Willms.” With that, he nodded to his men, and they began their assault on Jamus again.

“Take her to the carriage. My Lord will be pleased to see her again,” the leader told the man who still held the terrified girl—she was trying to bury her face in her hands. “And for you, Markel, as promised for your services.” He handed the plump man who stood watch by the door a bulging pouch of coins.

“Thank you, sir,” Markel stuttered, taking one last look at the horrific scene he had helped create.

The last man knocked over the burning oil lamps as they left the house. The flames quickly spread, consuming the dry, old wood that made up the cottage. Within minutes, the raging fire gutted the small building—the supports gave out, and the wreckage crumbled in on itself.

No one in the small village had dared come out of their homes to go to Jamus’ family's aid, fearing what might happen to them if they did—.