A man stands resolved. Dysart, clan Bloodhammer, has returned to the island of Volgunther to purge it of the evil called Salamandrus. He has given his tongue, so that he may speak no contracts. He has given his manhood, so that he may not know his power as a man. He has given his mind, so that no God may take pity upon him.
Wielding the forbidden power of Sang Daemanus, Dysart imbibes the blood of Daemons to cast his spells, to grow his strength, to fuel his powers, but will he be able to stave off the bloodlust before the evils upon the island claim him?
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Prologue- The expedition
There was a time when man was powerful, and hungering for more power, he set his wizard’s gaze to search for the unknown. A forgotten king learned of an island. It was said no one had ever been there, but that was not the truth.
Before man was powerful, Daemons ruled by flame. Whether it was divine providence from above, the steely determination of heroes, or the Daemons’ hubris, they were defeated, driven deep, deep underground.
Time passed. Man flourished. It was forgotten that a Daemon cannot die, and so the residents of an island grew reckless as all those with an insatiable thirst for power do. They stole deep beneath their proliferous kingdom. There, they found flame. The flame beckoned, and the flame promised, but fire devours all.
When the haughty king sent his men on an expedition to that island, his men discovered evidence that it had been very much inhabited. Though no sign of battle was evident, whole forests were cut down, homes sat in disrepair, and ominous clouds covered the skies, but still the expedition trekked forth in search of power for their king.
Every turn held great trepidations for both the soldiers and those brave men whose purpose it was to find the unknown source of power. Starting with an errant bolt of lightning destroying their only vessel, evil quickly reared its head, matters grew out of hand.
The sun set never to rise again. Vile monsters came forth from shadow and feasted on human flesh. The very air poisoned the voyagers’ souls, and when they pressed beyond the domain of the sealed, they, too, found Daemons.
It is unclear whether or not any of the king’s men survived, but what is known, is that a great wizard begot of great wizards sealed the Daemons away as had been done ages prior. For a time, immense destruction was averted. On the island, the worst of dangers subsided, yet disasters lurked behind darkened recesses.
Like men who hunger for power, Daemons hunger, but theirs is a fierce hunger. From a sealed tomb, one Daemon continued to beckon. It continued to prod at the souls of good men. Good will alone does not stay evil, and even good men fall to bad judgment.
A progression of tribulations accosted those left upon the island. Some settled in as there was no alternative, no escape. It was an awful life, but any attempt at sailing away was met with an untimely demise.
The horrid living conditions broke the spirits of men and even twisted some into monstrous creatures. Thirsting for more power, the Daemon sought out and away from the island by ways of hellish rituals. Upon satiating its hunger, it beckoned once more.
Long before the expedition, one good man was promised a power from blood. Seeking vengeance on those whom had done him ill will, he accepted. The practice of Sang Daemanus came to be.
While only men may undergo this ritual, and the power is nearly without limit, most falter at the very mention. Men brave enough to attempt the ritual normally go mad within days. The indomitable are the sole successors to Sang Daemanus, but they are twisted creatures. Often, they do not return alone.
Only now has it come pass that it was this abominable power which the Council of Five had discovered. It was unfortunate that these wizards, advisors to the king who sent the expedition—though cunning—lacked the practical knowledge required to assuage the soul from evil provocation.
Now, deep beneath the island of
despair, the wizards seek only reprisal. A broken kingdom is ruled by fear and
hatred. The Daemon calls, and the Daemon burns.
Chapter One- Dark shores
Dysart coughed uncontrollably as he attempted to spew salty water from his lungs. The tide forced him into the rocky shore. Having had no choice but to strip himself of armor after his sloop shattered, he incurred several scrapes. His fresh wounds ravaged by the sea had turned sore before even setting foot on the forsaken island. On hands and knees he looked back at the floating debris, but remnants of his escape vessel. What a beginning.
He rolled onto his back—legs still lapped by waves—and with a push of errant, gray braids from his face, he saw the glittering of stars. Was it not day a moment prior? His thoughts gave way to anxiety. Flopping onto his side, he heaved the remaining water from his lungs. Then, he heard something in the darkness.
The sound was rapid, repetitive, like hooves. With eyes darting, he glossed over the surroundings for movement. There were freshly cut tree trunks, a cabin in the distance, a worn path through rocky hills. A twitch of the ears accompanied realization. Bare feet!
Forcing himself to a knee, he whipped his head to the left. A glimpse of a figure clad in raggedy, dark clothing demanded attention. The rabid attacker hissed and delivered a rising kick into Dysart’s flank. A snap followed by the vacuum of wind from lungs ensued. Gasps escaped his mouth while the assailant—frothing at the lips—latched gnarled fingers round his throat.
The two tussled—Dysart coming to his knees, and the rabid man thrashing all about. He brought both forearms from his lap into the attacker’s elbows. The man did not buckle, so Dysart struck both palms into his opponent’s emaciated chest, and the two fell into water. In the sea, they rolled over sharp rocks. The man came to hold Dysart’s face beneath the waves. He scrambled for a stone as salt water rushed into his sinuses.
Once fingers grasped a rough stone, a powerful swing of the rude weapon connected against the wild man’s skull. He fell into the water. Dysart burst forth, secured the man’s throat with his right arm and beat him in the head until there was nothing left. The sea washed away most of the blood, but a glance at his hands revealed not all of it departed.
Taking a breath, he dropped the rock in the water then sniffed his hands. This one was corrupted…that sulfuric scent, pungent. What a waste. He stumbled onto the rocky shore—the restless sea crashing waves behind him—and scanned the dark horizon for the cabin, and then he moved on; bare feet trudging over cold stones. A chill on the night wind brushed over his wet form.
Breathing from his mouth, he was forced to stumble onwards. Adrenaline wore off quickly, and the pain in his flank mounted with each step. He wrapped arms round his torso. Before long, he was shivering uncontrollably.
Roughly hewn logs barely illuminated in the moonless night were close. Another hiss erupted. A man rose from behind an old stump. With arms spread out to the sides, the wild man crashed over the damp soil. Dysart steadied himself for another fight.
Within seconds, the twisted man set upon him. Dysart gripped the wiry creature’s jaw and tossed the assailant through the air. Wasting no time, he pounced; repeated blows unleashed a flat, hacking sound. The scrambling man writhed beneath Dysart’s weight. Then, he bit him, drawing blood from torn flesh. Dysart howled from the separation of his meat from bone. Falling onto his rear, he glared at the man with widened eyes. The grotesque enemy stood quickly before thrusting a knee into Dysart’s chin.
Three sounds swiftly cut through the wind. Each one stopped abruptly with a reverberating thwang. Both Dysart and the wild man held firm. Three arrows protruded from the creature’s chest. He slumped to his knees, so Dysart broke off an arrow, stretched the man’s neck then stuck the splintered shaft into his throat. A gurgle escaped. A trickle of blood spilled from the wound. Death rattled. Dysart sighed. A rough beginning.
