The Heartstone Chronicles: Windchaser

Prologue

It tilted its head as though sniffing the air, slinking gracefully sideways like a prowling cat before leaping again. Arius darted into the daemon’s path and slashed his blade upwards; now as the sword cut into its chest, the daemon howled. It tumbled to the ground hard and rolled to its back, legs kicking frantically as its torn chest pumped noxious smoke into the night. In response to the billowing vapour Arius drew up his threft, covering the lower half of his face with the mesh-like mask. He watched the scrabbling daemon carefully, poised to react. Fight or flight would come next – but how much fight did it have left?

Moon shadows danced across the creature’s flesh, glinting where the dull, grey-green light caught an oozing drip of moisture. It became suddenly still and Arius narrowed his eyes. When had playing dead ever worked? He lowered his shadowsteel broadsword, the blade folding in on itself until a strip of shadow no thicker than a foil disappeared beneath his sleeve. ‘Lie there then,’ he whispered. ‘I shall burn you instead.’

He unclasped one of the small, square compartments on his utility-belt, but even as his fingertips brushed the cold glass orb within, instinct erupted inside him. Before the daemon had regained its feet, Arius was stalking towards it, the shadowblade back in his hand – but the beast twisted in its rise and raced away, its long legs driving at the dirty ground. He retracted his blade, threw back the right drape of his greatcoat and snatched the windcannon from the holster on his thigh. Arm extended and braced, he sighted down the flat barrel, thumbed the converter and squeezed the trigger embedded in the weapon’s grip. Bucking in his hand, the cannon whirred, spitting out a bolt of white-hot air that cut the night cleanly, tearing a coil of shimmering wind in its path.

The daemon’s back exploded, the force of the impact pushing its torso over its galloping legs and driving its head into the dirt. It lay twitching and squealing, less than two metres from the shadowed trees that surrounded the orchard. A moment longer and it might have escaped.

Holstering his windcannon, Arius came abreast of the fiend and his blade slid free, whistling down. The head bounced twice, spewing black steam. He reached into his greatcoat to produce a small rounded prism, which he held above the daemon’s corpse, dragging into its crystalline depths every wisp of daemonic essence. When the prism was sated, the withered, semi-tangible husk that had housed the daemon’s soul for two days began to desiccate and harden, crumbling like sand. The wind took it, scattering it into the night, leaving only a dark, greasy smear upon the grass. A smaller stain a yard away marked the ground where its head had lain.

The darkness of the night sky was deepening with the coming rain, and a cool wind whistled out from the sanctuary of the trees, cutting a flickering scar through the dead grass. The breeze carried with it a voice and Arius spun, blade once more at the ready.

‘Neatly done, Captain, though one would have expected a cleaner kill.’

Facing the newcomer, Arius retracted his shadowsteel weapon and tossed the prism. ‘They are faster than they look, Your Grace,’ he replied.

Eldebart Gennen caught the device deftly, raising it to his single, ochre-coloured eye for a closer inspection. ‘A hunter-daemon, was it not?

‘Aye, it was a kolarant. I found its Hellspring at the northern edge of Venhim.’

‘And went out of your way to track it, despite the urgency of my summons? As thorough as always.’

Arius shook his head. ‘Not particularly. I merely herded it here and trammelled it between myself and the river.’ He watched as Lord Gennen continued to examine the device, turning it this way and that in his three-fingered hand. His cyclopean race – the dru’un – were naturally shorter than humans, their arms elongated, frames slight. This one’s skin was the colour of burnished copper, his one-eyed visage mostly concealed by a heavy black beard.