Chapter Preview: The Black Kingdom

PROLOGUE

"Where the fuck is that pig?” Simun growled.

The farmer stood over the empty pigsty, his eyes scanning over the churned mud as sheets of white lines lashed down all around him. The night had settled quickly with rolling clouds and the promise of a storm, and although the rain offered a kindness to his crops, Simun looked defeated as he stomped back to the farmhouse. The pig would have to wait until the morning.

Inside the farmhouse, the hearth burned low and emitted a gold, wavering glow that flickered against the rough timber walls. The table in the centre of the room had been cleared and scraped clean, the last remnants of a simple supper filling

the bellies of those that did not have the luxury to relax. Food was to be eaten fast, not enjoyed and savoured.

“It’ll only wander further,” Sara exclaimed. “Especially in this weather.”

She stood by the table stacking bowls and clearing what cutlery remained. She was a woman of stern practicality whose face, aged through years of hard work and unrewarded labour, betrayed her relative youth.

“Poor thing must be terrified,” she said worriedly.”

Simun snorted, but not in a dismissive way. It was the ironic sound of a man who knew he’d been losing small battles all his life and had grown too used to accepting loss. He rubbed his hands as if he could knead out the ache in his joints, and then pushed himself up from the chair and crossed the room.

“I’ll find it,” he said. “But that’s tomorrow’s problem.”

Sara sighed.

“Tomorrow it always is,” she replied.

Her demeanour softened as he reached around her and pulled her in close, the familiar weight of his body settling her for a moment. Worry didn’t leave either of them, it never would, but for a brief moment it loosened its grip just enough for them both to enjoy each other’s comforts.

“You’d have me out there soaking in the rain?” Simun asked as he leaned in and kissed her neck.

“I’d have you rolling in the mud if that would draw our bloody pig back,” she laughed.

She turned to him and leaned in. Their kiss was slow and tired, but there was a warmth and honesty in it. They had both long since found that these were the moments that kept them labouring as they did, that wealth and prosperity through this farm was a fool’s hope, but if it kept them honest and together, what else mattered?

Then, the moment was broken.

A noise erupted from outside, cutting through the hammering thuds of the rain and nailed them both to a stillness that took their breath away. They turned toward the window, but could only see the emptiness of black smeared with running water through the windowpane.

“What was…” Sara began.

The noise broke out again, this time louder and more identifiable. It was the cry of their horse, but not one of just warning or fright, but a shrill and hoarse noise that only pain could bring.

“Simun…”

And before he could reply, the dog answered. Barking sharp and frantically, a sound of alarm that had Simun instantly moving for the door.

“Damn bandits,” he snapped. “They can have the pig, but not the horse!”

But then he froze.

The sound of the dog’s barking was cut short with a yelp, and a grim silence rushed back and swallowed the farmhouse.

Simun growled to himself, and grabbed the sword resting against the door. The blade was only a simple farmer’s blade, but it was serviceable enough for most scenarios and helped him win plenty of fights and disputes in the past.

“Don’t,” Sara said as she caught his arm. “Leave it.”

“We only have one horse,” he barked with a wild edge to his voice. “I’ll be damned if I see it robbed from under us.”

He wrenched his arm free, lit a torch at the hearth, and stomped to the door. Sara stood behind him with her mouth half open, unable to voice the words she wanted to say but ultimately knew would be useless. She knew that his mind was made up, and knew what the horse meant to this farm, but she also hated that she all too often knew what followed whenever she saw anger in her husband’s eyes.

Simun stepped out from under the cover of the doorway, and the storm hit him like a brutal slap. Cold water lashed at him, immediately soaking through his shirt as the torch fought to stay alive, its flame straining and spitting out against the downpour. He moved slowly but steadily around the farmhouse, the torch held out and his sword kept low at his side. The yard beyond was a blur of shadow, silver streaks and wet mud, and the world felt infinitely small and claustrophobic - reduced to only the circle of light he carried as the darkness pressed in around him. Still, scaring off a bandit or lowland warg was nothing new to him, and he moved with stealth and confidence. But what he didn’t know, and what he could not have known, was that he had been watched before he even crossed the threshold.

Dark shapes clung to the roofline of the farmhouse, crouched too low and ominously with elongated bodies, pressed flat and shifting silently against the slick wood.

He rounded the corner of the house and found the horse lying on its side in the mud.

“Dammit,” he uttered.

He stepped closer, hoping whatever injury could be remedied – but as he got ever closer, the true nature of the scene began to unfold before him. The horse was indeed laying on its side in the mud, but its belly had also been split open harshly and steam rose from the ruin and up into the air. It’s one leg twitched, a final stubborn reflex of an animal refusing to accept that it was already dead. The smell hit a moment after he took in the sight; a warm stench of iron and gut, fresh and clean but nonetheless repulsive.

“Dear gods.”

As he stepped up to the body, something behind it – a small, hunched figure - darted away and out of the edge of the light. It moved fast, impossibly fast, disappearing back into the black like a shadow refusing to be caught in the sun. Simun staggered back, his shock instantly replaced by something more primal and instinctive. Fear. This was no wolf, lowland warg or thief, but something he didn’t know, and didn’t dare to guess. A flurry of doubt flooded into his mind as he struggled to catch his breath.

Why am I out here?

What was that thing?

This is a mistake. 

Simun turned to run back, but was stopped dead in his tracks as something slammed into his chest. It was heavy, warm and wet, and hurled with enough force to knock him flat off his feet. Both the torch and his sword fell from his hands as his full weight collided into the wet mud with a massive thud and groan. Still, he ignored the pain. Adrenaline was rushing through him, and he knew whatever lurked in the night wasn’t just out for his animals, but now him. For a moment he thought he’d been hit by a man, and he began to beg to himself that’s all it was.

Bandit, please let it be a bandit.

That was, until he saw the shape at his feet in the torchlight. One of his dogs - twisted and mutilated, its head snapped at a broken angle and its mouth hanging open as if it had been trying to bark when it died. It wasn’t a heavy dog, but still required strength to be thrown with such force.

The torch lay in the mud, hissing and fighting the wet and cold of not just the rain, but the mud too… and his sword, lay somewhere out of his reach. Before he could see where it landed, the flame of the torch finally surrendered, and died in a final hiss as darkness finally shrouded him. Only the faint glow from the farmhouse window rendered any light, but it was not enough. Not yet. His eyes would adjust in time, but time is exactly what he didn’t have. Whatever had thrown him off his feet was nearby, and he had to act quick. He blindly reached out for his sword, his fingers scrabbling through mud that was cold, slick and thick. He could not see, could barely breathe, but he could hear. And what he heard coming in toward him, froze him to the core.

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