Book One: Mist
Set in 17th century Ireland, in the fabled highland realm of Donegal, Mist begins the saga of the Unpledged.
The story starts in the year 1650 with the fall of England to Cromwell’s armies and the coming of the soulless Lord di Gordeneau to Ireland’s shores. He has come for the Clans’ swords to fight the Royalist rebels, and for their souls to feed the dark secret hidden under his pious black robes. It is a secret that will bring the Under Realms of Hell to Donegal and set in motion a five-thousand year old prophecy.
The Time of Reckoning is a prophecy as old as the highlands. A banfili’s dire warning to the Druid Wizard Maghodian that the Fallen Shaddock would return for the bastard son he stole from them, and that he would use him to destroy the world of men.
Nineteen-year old Bain di Gordeneau does not know that a Fallen’s tainted blood flows through his veins or that he holds the fate of Mankind in his hands. It is a secret his father has kept from him, and one his beloved tutor Reverend Michael’s fears when Bain tells him about the demon that haunts his dreams.
Introduction
Ireland! I weep even as I write the word. In the circle of our lives, Ireland will ever be our beginning and our end. Though the Ireland we knew has long since faded from the world of men, I have but to close my eyes and through sweet memory I am returned to it. I can feel the crisp cut of the wind on my face, smell the sweat of my horse as I ride through the rugged highlands - wild and savage to an Outlander’s eyes, flowing and ever graceful in mine. With every turn of my head, I see rolling hills dotted with clusters of scarlet foxglove, sweeping fields of barley stretching down to a white-capped sea, thickly wooded forests, and slow moving rivers so clear of water a boy could catch his breakfast with but a sweep of his hand. Azure blue skies and star filled nights… those are the memories I keep locked in my heart. And as the final moments of my life slip away, I offer them to you. I will have no need of memories where next I go. The Demon’s taint has overtaken me, soon I will become a wretched beast of the Under Realm, my thoughts no longer my own, my soul a Fallen Angel’s to command. Yet before I am cast into Shadow I would have our story be known. I would not have us be forgotten, for only then will Hell truly take claim of us.
And so with the dip of a raven's quill, I vanish four hundred years. Return us to the year 1650 of Lord when we were proud men of the Highlands, sons of chieftains and common folk bound by our love of the land and our loyalty to its people. Then my blood was noble. I stood son to a Highland King, sole heir to the Oak Throne of Donegal; and as the tip of my quill sweeps across the vellum pages of my journal... I am that man once again.
A young man of twenty at stand upon Castle Donegal’s battlements, with the rise of a new dawn before me and the promise of summer in the air. Long have I awaited its arrival, for with the coming of summer’s harvest moon, I will reach my majority. On the eve of my twenty-first birthday, my father will place a crown of oak leaves upon my head, and I will take stand by his side as a titled Prince of Ireland - ruler of Armgeh, Reum, and Bandalk, sole protector of its lands and of its people. It is a duty I have prepared for all of my life...a duty I fear I will never fulfil. Enraged by the Royalist Uprising, Cromwell’s armies have laid cruel punishment upon us. Our blood now fills the rivers, our bodies feed the earth, our tears darken the skies, and it is a bitter rain that falls, for the infamous Lord di Gordeneau follows in Death’s wake.
Already the black sails of his ships have been spotted on the horizon. In two day's time they will make port in Belfast - the journey to Donegal but a few weeks' hard ride. It will be just long enough for my father to call the Clans to him. It is for them England comes! For the might of the Clans’ swords to use against Cromwell’s enemies, and for the souls of Donegal’s people to feed his Protestant Cause; Bernard di Gordeneau will have them, or he will lay flame upon our lands and sword upon all that I love.
It is a fate my uncle and cousin have already suffered. Condemned for taking part in the rebellion, they were put to the sword as my beloved aunt was forced to watch; their bodies tossed into the sea where she joined them by her own hand. A dagger through the heart. And as I gaze at the sleeping village below, I fear we are soon to join them... I fear the Oak Throne of Donegal will fall.
For a thousand years my forefathers have stood High King to the northern Clans. Not a legacy passed down from father to son, but an honor earned by the courage of our hearts and the strength of our swords. Never has Clan MacAuliffe been defeated in battle! Never has our flag been lowered from Castle Donegal’s battlements! And as it takes fly in a flow of emerald green silk and steel crossed swords above my head, I am reminded of it once again. England comes! And in one voice we will meet them: “We are Highlanders! The blood of the ancient Druids flows through our veins, the breath of Ireland fills our lungs, and if we are to die then we will do so with a sword of Irish steel in our hands and honor in our hearts… and naught even God can take that from us!”.
Darkness answers my cries. A fast moving storm that strikes with unGodly speed, vanishing the morning sun from the sky, casting a shadow over Donegal that sends a cold chill up my spine. And then I hear it! The raucous cries of crows heralding Death's ignoble arrival, and with a sinking heart I know that the Devil's Fist has come for us.
It is here the Unpledged’s story begins, with an Irish morn dark with crows and the coming of England’s army. And with them, the man who is the true author of our tale, for without his sacrifice the Unpledged would be food for worms and there would be no story to tell. So with that said, I hand my quill to him. You can trust his words, for a Brother of Vendome can tell no lies, and follow him carefully, for the road we embark upon is long, laid out by the Devil himself. I promise we will meet again upon it, but until then think well of me, for though I stand before you now a wretched beast of the Under Realm, once upon a long ago time I stood son to a Highland King and a noble Prince of Ireland.
Book Two: Shadow
In Shadow four hundred years have passed and the mist-covered hills of Donegal have been replaced with the shadowlands of the Under Realms of Hell. It is a hellish kingdom divided between the three remaining Fallen Angels: Shaddock, Proteus and Gabriel who rule their domains like feudal lords and where the Dead serve their every whim. Behind the black gates of Shaddock’s fortress collared Thralls are branded with his standard while Reapers harvest the essence from Wraiths to feed Demon Overlords and use their ashes to build Killoween’s walls. It is a world of hopelessness and despair, and Shaddock is its master.
One of the seven Fallen Angels to take up dominion in Hell, Shaddock is an immortal with the power of the gods at his fingertips, and all the forces of Evil at his command. Since the Breaking of the Universe he has waged an endless game against his Fallen counterparts to gain dominion over the Under Realms, and there is nothing he will not do or anyone he will not sacrifice to gain his victory, including his own son.
Unchanged by time, the Unpledged are still young men of the highlands. Cursed by the Fallen’s blood that gives them godlike strengths and immortal life, only the Fairie Star branded onto their arms and the bonds of brotherhood keep them from falling. But always Shaddock seeks to break them, and Bain knows it is just a matter of time before he takes claim of their souls. Their only hope is to find a LockSmith who can open one of the seven Doors leading into the Upper Realms of Heaven. They must find her before Shaddock does or he will use her to gain access to the Book of Names that will give him dominion over Heaven and Hell.
With the help of a leprechaun and his faithful puca, and a bit of fairie gold they wage a war of deception against the Fallen, but nothing in the Under Realm is as it appears, and no one can be trusted… not even themselves.
Chapter One- The Abyss
Night fell hard on L.A.’s warehouse district. The moon closed its eye to the graveyard of bunker like buildings and the stars turned away from the narrow alleyways, leaving the darkness of the night and the foul creatures that sought its comforts. Shadows were the first to arrive. Rising up around halogen streetlights that cast a ghostly glow upon all they touched. Cavorting like hellish imps, they slipped around bolted buildings that hovered like tombstones above them.
At night the warehouse district was their playground. A dark world where dark pleasures can be found, and the private club hidden behind its bunkered walls made avail those pleasures to all.
Walk the narrow alleyway in the broad of day and the Abyss would not be found. Stalk it in the dead of night and it would lead you to the nightclub’s steel doors. Clever camouflage or artful ruse, no one dared to ask nor did they ask questions of the Abyss’s proprietor, a man known only as Virgil. To some the name conjured images of the Devil, others of a blessed Saint; the two agreeing on naught but one thing that he was aptly named. Like Dante’s guide into Hell, Virgil was their guide to untold pleasures.
An invitation to participate in the evening’s frivolities was a coveted prize many killed to possess. Virgil chose his clients carefully and with great discretion. The black envelope delivered by Ravens at the stroke of midnight; a drop of the bearer’s blood needed to open its waxen seal. The vellum pressed card had a single line penned in Virgil’s flowing blood. Abandon all hope yea who enter here.
And, they did.
Limousines lined the streets in front of the Abyss. Their tinted windows dark and steamy as the rich and the beautiful waited for Hell to throw open its doors. Twenty feet tall, each door a slab of black iron engraved with sinful promise: Lust bared her breasts boldly, Envy watched Greed count his gold, Sloth and Gluttony made decadent meal. But, while the world’s elite waited for Wrath and Pride to ring out the midnight hour, at the rear of the nightclub a different clientele waited. One that needed no invitation other then the glow of hellfire in their eyes and a Fallen Angel’s mark upon their souls.
The hidden cameras above the steel enforced doors made ready as Death’s Gong struck out the midnight hour. The first strike sounded like thunder through the air, the second shattered the darkness, and the third saw a silver Aston Martin shoot out in a flash of lightning from the night sky.
The cameras laser eyes turned to the car parked in the alleyway; the doors thrown open, and both driver and passenger lie face down on the pavement. Both men were young, no older than twenty and very attractive. The taller of the two had the refined looks of a European aristocrat with tousled bronze hair, moss green eyes, and chiseled chin; features that complimented the corded muscles that strained under his shirt. His companion had the mark of the Black Irish stamped onto his handsome face with piercing twilight colored eyes that hovered on the edge of night.
Bain staggered to his feet avoiding the pool of vomit. “Need a hand?”
“Do you have one?” Drake retorted.
“Two actually.” Bain pulled him onto his feet.
“This suit cost me a damn fortune!” Drake shouted as he wiped the vomit from his pants and jacket. “I’ll be taking it out of Rolfe and Quinn’s hide. Them two rotter’s lied straight to me face.”
“Tell it to the rotter’s yourself!” Bain said as he tossed a small disc over to Drake. “And try to keep the shouting to a minimum. Virgil’s got eyes on us.”
Drake gave the disc a hard twist and instantly Quinn and Connor appeared before them; the holographic images so real they could hear the cameras swivel in their chambers. The wild young men stood fresh-faced and shorn of braids. Connor the more handsome with sandy color hair and deep set blue eyes, and Quinn with his boy next-door good looks and easy smile. Both dressed in jeans, white t-shirts, and had wolfish grins on their faces and a feral like look in their eyes.
“How’d it go?” Quinn asked Drake.
“This is how!” Drake shouted, pointing to the pool of vomit. “That’s me dinner yer looking at yeah bleeding rotter’s!”
“Actually its dimensional dysplasia. The Cloak must have fried out on the jump. Rolfe won’t be liking that much.”
“Rolfe won’t be liking it! I’ve just had me guts ripped out.”
“Yeah look right enough tah me. So what’s the occasion anyways?”
Bain shot Drake a dark look.
“Virgil’s holding a table for us,” Drake said.
“Yeah we heard yeah two had a bit of fun when we were gone.” Connor grinned. “Sorry I wasn’t there tah lend yeah a hand.”
“Be glad you weren’t,” Bain replied. “So, how’d it go?” A tiny flick of his hand warned Connor that Virgil had ears and eyes on them.
“It was cold, and you know how Aidan hates the cold. But we got what we needed.”
“Good. Tell Shea to leave the porch light on for us.”
“Will do,” Connor promised.
“And give our regards to the Ferryman… It’s been a while.” Quinn added, ending the hologram.
Drake groaned in misery. “I’m a dead man walking.”
“If we don’t get this done you’ll be wishing you were dead,” Bain said, slamming the car door. He set the alarm, even though it wasn’t necessary.
Only a fool would steal from Virgil, a dead fool! The Abyss was his private domain, and once you stepped through its doors you played by his rules, and Virgil was old school. An ‘eye for an eye’ was his motto, and pity the hand that stole from him or wielded a blade. He was not a merciful man, nor was he incautious.
They stood before the steel enforced doors with their arms stretched out to their sides.
The cameras turned eyes to them.
Where Virgil’s human patrons passed through security scanners at the front of the nightclub, at the rear his less-than-human patrons passed a different kind of test.
Laser sharp beams of white light shot out from the cameras cutting through skin and bone to the essence lurking within. Only the branded Star on their arms kept the light from turning the soulless black color of the Under Realm, instead it turned the murky color of Limbo; the eternal void stretching between Heaven and Hell that had served as the Unpledged’s prison for over four hundred years.
The steel doors slid open, and the Ferryman appeared.
He was the mythical bearer of souls across the river Styx and for the price of a gold coin their guide into the underworld of the Abyss. The very sight of him could make a demon tremble, and for good reason, for the Ferryman was Death itself. A cloaked figure draped in darkness; his black robes woven from the sorrows of all those poor souls who lacked a coin to pay his fee. For the lack of a gold danake the Dead were forced to wander the shores of Limbo for a hundred year’s time until the Ferryman returned to carry them to Hell. Their sorrow was his fee, and all paid it heavily.
The Ferryman spoke no words; the long arched sickle spoke for him. His skeletal hand reached out to them.
Drake begrudgingly handed him two gold coins. “Use to be yeah could get into a club with a fiver and a handshake. What’s it gonna be next, a pound of flesh?”
The moment the coins vanished under the Ferryman’s robes the sickle took on a golden glow indicating that the fee had been paid in full. The Ferryman motioned with his sickle for them to follow him through the doors and inside a dimly lit corridor carved out of volcanic rock.
The steel doors closed silently behind them.
“What yeah think he’s got hidden under ‘em robes?” Drake whispered to Bain.
A warning bell sounded in Bain’s head. “Don’t even think about it!”
“I wasn’t!” Drake lied.
“I know when you’re lying,” Bain reminded him.
“You know of all your spidy like abilities I hate that one the most. A mate should be able to cop a lie once in a while.”
“Well this isn’t one of those times.”
The air began to thicken. The steamy heat caused the tunnel’s rock walls to drip with sweat. The tunnel came to end at an arched door with hieroglyphics etched above its threshold. It was an ancient language only the Ferryman could read, and a Fallen’s bastard. Though the Fallen’s blood in Bain’s veins was diluted, the language of the Dead posed little challenge for him.
Bain read the markings. “Lay aside hope and take up sorrow. Embrace grief for there will be no more tomorrows. The long of night is now upon you.”
Each time he read those words they left him feeling bereft. Today was no exception. Cold dread filled him as he entered the Abyss.
In addition to the Unpledged Saga, I have also started on two other stories that also take place in the Heaven and Hell world, Eala's Tale and The Waterpoets Daughter.
EALA'S TALE
Introduction- Dark Love
It was an ill-fated love from the start. For he was born to darkness and I was born to light, and I knew there would come a time when dusky moments spent in each other’s arms would no longer satisfy. The sacrifice would be mine, for though Evil can love with all the passions of the gods, it is a selfish love bound to mortal flesh and lust. And so I waited, and when I felt the child quicken in my womb, I knew Time had come.
I have chosen an obsidian dagger forged in the fiery bowels of the Misty Mountains by a Druid wizard’s hand, the shard of glass taken from a fallen star and so believed to be Heaven sent. As I hold it to my breast, I pray it proves true, for my love’s fury will be terrible when he learned of my betrayal, and his retribution swift.
In the silvery light of a solstice moon I stand in a circle of stones that reach up to the Upper Realms of Heaven, on a hilltop that looks out over the rugged highlands I have walked all the days of my life. And with one hand resting upon my unborn son... I drive the dagger through my heart.
There I die. A death of mortal flesh only! My body seen lying in a pool of blood shrouded in moonlight as I am taken into the stones. The Stones of Anara are both my prison and my sanctuary. Behind their walls I am protected from my lover’s wrath, but until the Time of Reckoning I am bound to them. For five thousand years I will stand in their obsidian embrace, my soul revived every time a solstice moon takes rise, the last of my magic used to carve the banfili’s prophecy onto their faces.
It is the banfili who revealed Shaddock’s true identity to me, for a seer does not see the world through mortal eyes. They are blind to it, and so they see all. And would that I had done the same, for until that moment I’d believed my lover to be the traveling bard he claimed to be. But I was deceived! Seduced by his great beauty and his charms, and the stories that had flowed like honey from his flawless lips, and a lover’s touch I can still feel upon my skin and in my heart.
An ill-fated love born of deception! The child in my womb to be used as a pawn in the endless games Hell wages against Heaven, and that I cannot allow. And so in the darkness of these stones I will wait until the prophecy is fulfilled. I will cry out with joy when my son is reborn again, and I will weep when the Mist Riders bind themselves in blood and brotherhood to him. And I will praise the goddess when the Lost Man is found.
They are Maghodian’s chosen! It is his magic that will keep the Highlands safe until my son returns, and I am his daughter. Eala! Moon Priestess of the night goddess Luna, lover to a Fallen Angel of the Under Realms of Hell.
THE WATER-POET'S DAUGHTER
Introduction
“Tell me about yourself.”
“I have already told you all you need to know.”
“You told me your name... tell me about your family.
“As you wish. My father was a water poet. A man who could catch the rain in his hands, and toss it back in a weave of words that would make the heavens weep…a man who could unlock the secrets imprisoned in a teardrop, and pull the stories from the seas. My mother was a reader of the sands, and all that lies buried beneath them. I am my mother’s daughter. Do you wish me to read the sands for you Templar?”
“What will it cost me?”
“Everything…and nothing.”
“You speak in riddles demon!”
“And, you like a fool. I can feel your desire through the sands you lay bleeding upon. The heat of your rage! You have been betrayed. Left to die in the desert, and yet when I offer you the answers you seek…you make barter like a fishmonger’s wife. And, I am no demon.”
“What are you then?”
“I told you. I am the water poet’s daughter…a reader of the sands.”
“You’re a girl.”
“And, you a boy pretending to be a knight! I know you wear your master’s robes…carry his sword in your hands. Croicroga is its name. The blade of Gwynendad, Prince of Moeria, heir to the Oak Throne of Argoneh.”
“How do you know that?”
“All who die upon the sands are known to me. Your fire! It burns low. The jackals will come if you do not keep it well lit.”
“Look around you. There is naught to burn but sand.”
“Your horse. His bones will fuel your fire for many hours. His flesh will nourish you, and his blood will slacken your thirst. That is the way of the desert. It is expected.”
“Duendal has been with me since boyhood. I would rather die than lay hand upon him. ”
“As you wish. But, when you die, the jackals will take him. They will gut him where he stands, strip the flesh from his bones, and suck the marrow from them…and he will die in agony instead of honor.”
“Not if I give him to you. He’s yours! Just promise me you won’t leave him to the desert.”
“You would sacrifice your life for his?”
“He’s my friend.”
“Then it appears we have reached an accord. Your horse for my services.”
“That’s it?”
“He is a fine horse, and like I said…I’m not a demon.”
“It’s hard to tell underneath all those veils. They’re made of sand aren’t they?”
“Yes."