Warriors to Witches!

Hi – as the title suggests, big change this week. Sticking my neck out, posted the cover of my imminent addition to Amazon Kindle as well as an excerpt from one of its four scary stories. Have wanted to do this for months – I find cross-genre-ing keeps my mind sharp and the adventures varied, though leaving it to weekends only – sandwiched between writing attacks on Empress Gold.  The swing from Africa to a spooky Old England has proved enlightening and refreshing. The writing, as always, is as good as it gets; short, but never boring, a concise and interesting read before bedtime, or to ease the morning grind between home and work. And the price is fair – less than a pound for ten thousand hard won, entertaining words. So here’s a piece of Feeders, my half-hour-horror quartet – enjoy the extract. Now back to work on Empress Gold...

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... Scarf-like, the drizzle wrapped about his neck; Moresby shivered, for the cold had come upon him as a curse. The sounds that came from the dark were neither animal nor human, but somewhere in between. It was then he felt the first, tiny insects of dread scuttle beneath his shirt. He reached for the sword and with the heavy blade unsheathed, forced himself to step inside the hovel.

‘Show yourself, Device and keep your witches’ spells for the judge at Lancaster.’

‘There’ll be no judge, squire Moresby and forewarned you are.’ Like glass on steel, Device’s voice keened through the darkness. ‘What you do this day will not go unrewarded. Look to the boy, Moresby, or have you left him there alone with that horse o’ yours! See the beast, Moresby! Black as Satan’s eyes for is it not so that you yerself ‘as named him Lucifer!’

With a ventriloquist’s skill she flung her voice back and forth across the room; behind and then in front – from the floor and up inside the soot-covered eaves above his head; that of a girl then that of the harridan. From a deep, bell-like bass to an effeminate, reedy tremble, winsome then fey her voice wavered.

‘Look to the boy, Moresby.’ Now the voice of a man, but deep and hideous – that of Satan himself it echoed about the room. ‘What mortal fool would stand alone in the company of Abaddon and Barghest?’

‘Save your tricks for the children, Device. Your witches’ voices hold no threat for me.’

‘Not so for the lad!’ Now the voice of a girl, without substance, flimsy as the mist and fine rain it flew about his ears.

 The hag has been marked by the devil, the boy had told him, and it was then that Moresby felt the grasping, leaden hands of superstition drag at his legs; when he heard the cry, he spun on his heels and ran outside.

The lad’s eyes were wide open, those that had glimpsed beyond the edge of hell itself. The stallion stood over him; its great neck arched – the veins along its throat were black snakes beneath the skin, the beast’s eyes blacker than a Pendle night. An inch behind his left ear, the boy’s skull had been stove in. Moresby swung the sword underhanded; the sound it made was that of a falcon’s wings at a full stoop, less than an inch from the stallion’s throat.

Like an addict freed of the opiate’s veil the stallion quietened and stepped away. Now, with soft eyes it watched its master cover the terrible wound with the boy’s own cape – the animal’s breathing steadied – the evil had left it...

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