Duel With A Demoness (A Huntsman's Fate Book 2) Read online

  Duel With A Demoness

  Huntsman’s Fate: Book 2

  Liam Reese

  Contents

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  Important information…

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  End of Book – Please Read This

  Acknowledgments

  Duel With A Demoness

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  Important information…

  This book, “Duel With A Demoness” is the Second book in the Huntsman’s Fate Series. However, this book and every other book in the series can be read as a stand-alone. Thus, it is not required to read the first book to understand the second (as so on). Each book can be read by itself.

  Prologue

  Porantillia floated in a sea of miserable despair, her seething anger an incandescent flame glittering in the sea of hate she had swam in for millennia. Trapped in a prison even her formidable powers could not help her to escape, the Goddess plotted ways in which she would have her revenge when she finally got out.

  I will devastate thy creations and make thee watch! I will end thee in the slowest manner I can find! Thee will not share the fate of thy father and burn forever but suffer the eternal nothing of death at my hand!

  Her prison, a construct of the Gods themselves, drained Porantillia’s will, thought, and life force until she could barely function but her hatred burned endlessly, supporting and nurturing her as she manipulated the lesser creatures beyond the borders of her prison.

  Eventually, many thousands of centuries after her incarceration, Porantillia had sensed an evil force in the world of humans. Tiernon had proved to be a useful tool in her plan. He had access to numerous lives he could feed to Porantillia and thrilled in sending those lives to her. Ruthless and needlessly cruel, Tiernon had taken direction from the creatures she had sent to twist his mind. Porantillia’s rage had increased when he had been slain.

  The Goddess had watched Besmir’s son born, biding her time until he was old enough, a blink in the time she had existed.

  Now Besmir, as you have chosen to relieve me of my slave, it is thee who can serve me, thee who will free me from my eternal cage and thee who will suffer Hell to do so.

  Chapter One

  Crown Prince Joranas squatted in the middle of a curass bush, the light pink blossoms exuding enough perfume to hide his musky scent. His keen, brown eyes peered out from between the dark green leaves, searching for Ranyeen as she hunted for him. His heart beat faster when he saw her shock of blonde hair pulled back into twin braids by her mother. Ranyeen’s head swung from side to side as she read the little signs his passing had left in the bone dry soil. A bent stem here, the ghost of a footprint there, all would be building a picture in her head revealing his hiding place easily, as they had both been taught.

  Joranas watched, a smile spreading across his face as Ranyeen’s head came up and she sniffed the air, pulling his smell from the bush’s perfume like a bloodhound on a scent. Her dark blue eyes shot to his hiding place as she put all the clues together and a little smile crossed her lips as he watched.

  “Found you!” Ranyeen cried as she walked straight at the bush he hid in.

  Joranas stood up, disturbing a pair of bees collecting nectar, and waded from the middle of the bush towards her. Ranyeen cocked her head to one side and rested one hand on her hip as she watched him struggle free.

  “Took you long enough,” Joranas said, swatting leaves and insects from his clothes.

  “Your mother’s going to have a fit when she sees the state of your clothes,” Ranyeen said, pointing to the rips and stains.

  Joranas shrugged, looking down at the damage. It did not matter how careful he went, how gently he treated the garments she made or bought for him, they always seemed to tear or stain as if some malevolent spirit watched him, waiting for the moment it could destroy his new clothes.

  “Not much I can do now,” he said. “Come on, let’s see what trouble we can get into,” he said with a grin.

  The pair wandered toward the marketplace at the heart of Morantine’s commercial district. Ignored by most of the adults, who contented themselves by bellowing that their wares were the best available at the lowest price, the prince and his best friend went unaccosted. Joranas gave her a little money to buy a pair of fruit pies from one of the stalls. The stall owner glanced at Ranyeen then searched the crowd for Joranas, nodding a little bow when he spotted the prince. He handed the pies to Ranyeen, refusing the money, and smiling at the prince.

  Joranas sighed, knowing the trader had given him the food as he wanted him to tell his father how great it was. Unfortunately the trader did not understand how little his father thought of Joranas’ ten year old opinion. His father did not care what he thought of anything, it seemed, no matter what he did to get his approval.

  Joranas took a bite of the pastry, relishing the flavor and sweetness, the apple and strawberry pie had been lightly spiced and he gobbled it fast, wanting to go back for another. His eyes rolled across to his friend who had only taken a couple of delicate bites of her pie.

  “No,” she said without even having to look at him.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “No you can’t have my pie,” she said bluntly.

  “I’m the prince,” Joranas said, straightening. “You should give it to me,” Joranas flared his nostrils and stared at her.

  Ranyeen looked at her friend, trying to maintain a straight face as she took another bite of her pie, chewing it as she stared into his eyes. She laughed as a grin broke out over his face.

  “It was worth a try,” he said, nudging her. “Come on.”

  Joranas led her past his house, the building his father had chosen years before as an alternative to the main palace. Joranas looked up at the immense complex of disused buildings, the forbidden ruins as irresistible as a narcotic. Every stone seemed to call to him, every door a portal to endless adventures he was banned from having.

  “Well, well, if it’s not the little prince and his wench,” a voice cried.

  It belonged to a stocky lad of around twelve. He was surrounded by younger children who looked up to him as if he was some kind of messiah. Crallan had taken an instant dislike to Joranas as soon as the young prince had started venturing out of his house and Joranas had no real idea why.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Ranyeen said, tugging the sleeve of his stained, white shirt.

  “Yes, little prince, listen to your wife and leave,” Crallan said in a mocking tone.

  Joranas looked around, searching for any of the guards or other of his father’s staff. Seeing none he grinned, stepping across to Crallan.

  “Got your group of little children as usual,” he observed. “
I suppose you’re at a similar age in here, after all,” Joranas tapped the side of his head.

  Crallan’s face darkened and his own eyes scanned the area behind the prince for any adults that might intervene.

  “We’re all on our own,” Crallan spat. “No one to come and help you,” he grinned at the older boy.

  Pain exploded in his face as Crallan smashed his fist into Joranas’ nose. He doubled over as tears blurred his eyes. A ringing sound, like someone rubbing their finger around the rim of a glass, came to his ears and nausea flooded his mouth with saliva.

  “Leave him alone!” Ranyeen screamed, throwing herself in between the two.

  Crallan brought his hand up as if to strike Ranyeen, too, but her piercing glare stopped him in his tracks and he allowed his arm to fall.

  “You should be careful,” Ranyeen warned Crallan. “He might decide to use his magic on you.”

  Crallan’s eyes widened at the threat and he paled as a pair of the younger children slid behind his larger frame. The stocky boy took a step back when Joranas straightened, blood beginning to crust on his lip and his teeth bared in a snarl.

  “Y-You wouldn’t do that,” the bigger boy said. “The King would...”

  “What?” Joranas demanded in a pain filled voice. “What would my father do?”

  Crallan swallowed as Joranas approached him, a menacing expression in his wild eyes.

  “What could he do if I burned you to a pile of ash?”

  Crallan’s face looked more like tallow than skin. Beads of waxy sweat broke out on his forehead and he looked more scared than anyone Joranas had ever seen. A savage joy rose up in Joranas’ chest at the sight and he grinned. In an attempt to save face Crallan swore at Joranas, spitting as many unkind, graphic, ugly words at him as he could think of.

  Joranas laughed, sneering at the other boy until he turned his attention to Ranyeen.

  “I do not understand why you associate with that,” Crallan said, pointing at the girl. “Yellow haired freak...”

  Joranas bellowed a wordless shout of rage, launching himself at the bigger boy, fists flying. Crallan stepped back in shock as this suddenly savage animal hammered into him, punching relentlessly as he screamed.

  Joranas’ rage gave his arms the fuel needed to sustain a few good punches to Crallan but his madness meant they landed in soft areas and did little damage. By the time he had exhausted himself and stepped back, panting, Crallan had only one painful area on his right cheek. He barely felt anything from the other punches, the pain already fading. It had been the pure, animal savagery that gave the older boy pause. That almost insane violence combined with the thought the young prince might actually burn him alive was enough to make Crallan back off.

  Joranas watched him retreat but felt no sense of victory. Rather, he felt robbed of the opportunity to have beaten Crallan to a pulp. With the adrenaline draining from his system Joranas turned to Ranyeen with his head down.

  “You all right?” he asked sullenly.

  “I’m always alright when I’m with you,” Ranyeen said, a little smile playing about her lips.

  “Why did you tell him I was going to use magic on him?” Joranas asked as they plodded through the cobbled streets of Morantine. “You know I can’t do that kind of thing.”

  “But Crallan doesn’t,” Ranyeen said quietly. “Did you see his face?” she giggled.

  “I see it again,” Joranas said pointing at the backside of an ox that was straining to relieve itself in the street.

  His heart leapt when she laughed, the musical sound washing his dark feelings away.

  “We’ll always be friends, won’t we?” Joranas asked in a quiet voice.

  Ranyeen took his hand as they made their way back through the gathered people, squeezing his fingers gently.

  “Always,” she said.

  King Besmir Fringor regarded the Corbondrasi ambassador with amusement he did not allow to show. Like all Corbondrasi, Ru Tarn was covered in brightly colored plumage, her feathers clinging to her feminine figure like a cloak. Were she human, Besmir thought she might be attractive, with wide hips, slim waist and large breasts. Her pink and peach feathers, however, muted all this in his eyes, turning the Corbondrasi into a creature from one of the books he read in the orphanage of his youth. Coral eyebrows framed lavender eyes that radiated both mirth and intelligence, however, and Besmir knew his every word would be committed to her memory.

  Despite her alien form and odd manner of speech, the king found he liked Ru Tarn’s company, her insights and quick wit matched his own, even if she did say very few words.

  Arlonius Motcall was a completely different story. Hailing from Waraval, an ancient nation bordering to the east, he was as obscenely superior as the rest of his race, a fact both Besmir and Ru Tarn played on endlessly. At six feet in height, Motcall was one of the largest men in the room, his stocky, muscular frame just beginning to run to fat in his later years. His dark brown hair and neatly trimmed beard were now shot through with gray hairs lending him an almost distinguished air that gelled perfectly with his obscene manner.

  “As I was saying, your Majesty,” Motcall said in his deep voice. “My King’s most gracious offer can only stand for so many hours awaiting your signature. If you truly value the future of Gazluth, you should reach for your quill immediately in order to allow the denizens of Waraval to enlighten your little country.”

  Besmir glanced at Ru Tarn. The Corbondrasi widened her lavender eyes a little, offering a sarcastic glance at Motcall.

  “Well, I really am grateful for the offer, Arlonius,” Besmir said, “and please relay my apologies to King Penolan but, as this agreement pretty much gives your country exclusive access to my eastern border and offers nothing in return, I don’t think it’s the best deal for us.”

  Besmir held out the parchment to Motcall who took it with a grunt. His displeasure showing.

  “I have been king here for ten years, you know?” Besmir added. “You’re the first ambassador from Waraval and you’ve only just arrived. What makes you think I’m going to grant any kind of exclusivity to a kingdom that happily ignored its neighbor for almost a decade?”

  “My King did not wish to interfere in the internal politics of Gazluth,” Motcall said evasively.

  “Ah, I see,” Besmir said sarcastically. “So the internal politics, which were basically my people starving, couldn’t be interfered in, but now we’re beginning to make some headway into bringing this country back from the precipice of death,” Besmir leaned forward in his chair. “Now Waraval can interfere?”

  Motcall reddened but in anger rather than embarrassment, he adjusted the heavy green and gold robes he wore with a hand garnished with gold rings.

  “My generous King simply wishes the best for his simple neighbor and is prepared to help in any way he can to enlighten the people here to the sophisticated ways we enjoy in Waraval.”

  Besmir sighed.

  “I’m getting sick of this,” he spat. “A decade ago, when we needed aid, you were nowhere to be seen. The Corbondrasi sent help as did the Ninse, both neighboring countries and both without any expectation of repayment or boon.” Besmir looked at the ambassadors from both countries, nodding to them in gratitude.

  Ru Tarn bowed, spreading her arms in a mocking display she muted with a massive grin while the squat ambassador from Ninse raised his goblet in salute. Motcall watched the display with barely concealed malice, his pale yellow eyes narrowing as he stared at Besmir.

  “Any kingdom unwilling to adopt the enlightened example Waraval sets must surely suffer as a result,” he said.

  “Well that’s just a risk we’re going to have to take,” Besmir said dismissively.

  He managed to keep the smile from his face as the Waravalian ambassador gathered his robes and made his exit, leaving a ghost of perfumed air to mark his leaving.

  “Seems a bit put out,” Xosux Duntur, the Ninsian ambassador, observed dryly.

  At just five feet tall, the
Ninsian sat on a chair he had provided as those already in the conference hall had been uncomfortably large for him. His goblet had been filled several times already despite the early hour, although he seemed none the worse for wear. Besmir had wondered if what he sipped almost constantly at was not alcoholic at all until Duntur had offered him some, the little man guffawing when Besmir had spluttered, coughing from the heat.

  “How will I ever get to sleep?” Besmir asked sarcastically as he wafted the heavy perfume from his nose. “Why he feels the need to wear so much of that...” he flapped his hands. “Stuff...is beyond me,” he added.

  “He not wash,” Ru Tarn said, her high voice sounding almost as bird like as her plumage made her look.

  Besmir grinned at her comment. The Corbondrasi ambassador said little, mainly due to the difficulties most Corbondrasi had speaking Gazluthian. Besmir had toyed with the possibility of learning Corbondrasi but had horribly insulted several members of Ru Tarn’s family in the process and they had both decided it was a bad idea.

  “Although it is not my place to say anything,” Duntur said in a speculative voice, “it might just be worth having him watched,” the small man gestured to the door through which Motcall had stomped.

  “We are,” Besmir said casually. “Checking his missives and eavesdropping on all his private conversations,” he smirked. “Like we do to all the visiting dignitaries.”