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    The Demon: An eShort Story
    The Demon: An eShort Story
    The Demon: An eShort Story
    Ebook50 pages58 minutes

    The Demon: An eShort Story

    By Douglas Nicholas

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    About this ebook

    Mixing history, fantasy, and legend, The Demon is an exclusive e-short story from acclaimed novelist Douglas Nicholas, perfect for fans of Game of Thrones.

    In England’s wild North Country, the men of Blanchefontaine, led by the castellan Sir Balthasar, must hunt an unearthly creature that stalks the nearby woods. But all is not as it seems…
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAtria/Emily Bestler Books
    Release dateMar 18, 2014
    ISBN9781476782874
    Author

    Douglas Nicholas

    Douglas Nicholas is an award-winning poet, whose work has appeared in numerous poetry journals, and the author of four previous books, including Something Red and Iron Rose, a collection of poems inspired by New York City. He lives in New York’s Hudson Valley with his wife Theresa and Yorkshire terrier Tristan.

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      Book preview

      The Demon - Douglas Nicholas

      Title Page

      ROGER CONSIDERED his next move warily. His friend and opponent, Olivier, had all but surrounded Roger’s king, and the man-at-arms had little hope of victory.

      They sat in a window seat, high in the east wall of Castle Blanchefontaine’s keep. Outside the window, its shutters open to the crisp air and dark-gold sunlight of autumn, the view was unobstructed: the cliff on which the castle perched fell away to a steep forested slope ending far below at the little river Derwent. Olivier leaned on one hand, looking over the treetops, sniffing the spiced air appreciatively.

      Surrender, brother, he said. ’Tis checkmate in three moves.

      They were playing with wooden pieces carved from light and dark wood. The chessmen were not so elegant as the elephant-ivory set with which Sir Jehan, Sieur de Blanchefontaine, played—nor even his second-best set of deer bone—but they were well carved, the pieces smooth with the oils of long handling, and the board was neatly ruled, the dark squares stained with walnut juice.

      Ah, fie! Roger sat back. What is it I ought to have done?

      Chess was one of the castle’s favorite pastimes, and Olivier was one of its best practitioners, and Roger was weary of losing to his Lucinda—hence the chess lesson.

      Four moves ago— began Olivier, but then he stopped and cocked his head. A heavy tread was heard on the winding stair; a moment later the tapestry that closed off the entrance to the turret stairway was unceremoniously whipped aside and through the narrow archway, filling it entirely, came the grim form of Sir Balthasar, the mareschal and castellan of Blanchefontaine. This autumn, with Sir Jehan away at court in London, Sir Balthasar answered only to Lady Isabeau, Sir Jehan’s wife. Otherwise he had sole command of military affairs at the castle: defense of the castle itself and maintaining the law throughout the fields, forests, and villages of Sir Jehan’s manor.

      A tall man, Sir Balthasar, barrel-chested and dense with muscle. His face, with the scars gained in a life of combat, darkly ruddy and heavy-boned, bore its usual expression of dour irascibility; his black eyes glittered under shelving brow ridges. The castellan was one of the most feared knights in the North Country, powerful of body and so proficient at slaughter that even the warlike Scots avoided Blanchefontaine lands on the strength of his name.

      He strode up to the window seat, the planks of the corridor floor booming beneath his weight. The two men-at-arms stood as a mark of respect. Sir Balthasar tossed a bundle of cloth to the window ledge.

      Put those on over your gambesons: you’re to be wagoners. Wear your daggers, but put your swords beneath the wagon seat, he said in his grinding bass. Come to the bailey. Today we go hunting a demon. He made to turn away, then turned back. He scowled at the chessboard as though he bore it ill will. He turned to Roger. You play the brown pieces?

      Roger nodded.

      I thought it might be you; you’re worse at chess than you are with horses. Give over—it’s mate in three moves. Go kiss Lucinda farewell, then to the bailey. Do not tarry.

      He strode away, and Olivier picked up the bundle: hooded cloaks to wear over their usual garb. He tossed one to Roger, and they started down.

      "Mark me, this is because of that whoreson

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