Dimwater's Demons
Dimwater’s Demons
By
Sam Ferguson
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Dimwater’s Demons
Copyright © 2016 by Sam Ferguson
Published by Dragon Scale Publishing
All Rights Reserved
For Y.C.T. & F.T.
Other Books by Sam Ferguson
The Sorceress of Aspenwood Series
Dimwater’s Dagger
Other Dragons Scale Books:
Kingdom of Denall
The Annals of Esparia
Feberik Orres pulled short on the reins and his horse slowed to a lazy pace. A servant was out front of the manor, chopping wood and tossing it onto a careless pile. As Feberik approached, another two servants emerged from the manor and grabbed wood, stacking it into their arms and hustling it inside.
Feberik’s horse nickered and the servants looked up at him curiously.
“The master isn’t seeing visitors today,” one of them called out.
Feberik smiled and slid off his horse. He was an imposing young man by any measure. Wide shoulders, a barrel-like chest, arms thicker than most men’s legs, and a voice deep and stern enough to wake the dead during normal conversation. Even without his sword, he likely would have scared the three servants up close, but as it was, the large claymore was currently resting in a harness upon his meaty back, the handle sticking up a few inches over his head and the point dangling just above his ankles. The servants kept glancing from Feberik’s chest to the sword over his back, not sure where the threat was going to come from.
“You know who I am?” Feberik asked in his thunderous voice.
One of the servants dropped his armload of wood and dashed into the manor. The other two stayed in place.
The servant with the axe, a younger man with a decent build and thick arms, though nowhere near as thick as Feberik’s, tossed the axe down and moved to stand in front of Feberik.
“The master isn’t entertaining any visitors. He’s in mourning.”
Feberik looked up to the window of the southern parlor, a room he had been in only the summer before to discuss Kyra’s dowry. Now he saw it filled with people. Men and women were mixing about in the room, and appeared to be drinking and making themselves merry with a bit of dancing as well.
The large man turned and looked over at the stables. There were many extra horses there today, and it appeared as though at least one coach was parked around the back of the building, for Feberik could see one of the oversized wheels from where he stood.
“I didn’t realize mourning went hand in hand with parties,” Feberik said sourly.
“My master won’t tolerate an intrusion,” the servant said as he reached up and placed a hand on Feberik’s chest.
Feberik felt a sweltering heat rise up through his neck and head. His fists clenched, almost involuntarily. For weeks the man had debated whether to come to Caspen Manor. He had wanted to wait for the appropriate amount of time before paying a visit to Kyra’s father, even convincing the administration at Kuldiga Academy to allow Kyra to continue living at the school through the summer term on good faith until Lord Caspen, still her legal guardian, was out of mourning and in the right frame of mind to make proper, legal arrangements for her year-round accommodations. Now he felt the fool for caring enough about the worm to worry about timing.
Though the academy had sent over the necessary paperwork three times to formalize the decision to make Kyra a ward of the school since the day Lord Caspen had verbally disowned Kyra as his child, the man had never returned the signed documents. Now Feberik was here both as a representative of the school, tasked with getting the necessary signatures, and as a man who had a personal contract to settle with Lord Caspen. By the terms of the betrothal contract that had been agreed to the last time Feberik was here at the manor, he already had legal standing as an in-law, until such time as Lord Caspen might dissolve the contract and formally disown Kyra. Feberik intended to do what he could today to convince Lord Caspen that he had acted rashly that day in the headmaster’s office, using the leverage of his own agreement with the man to convince him to fulfill his obligations. Now he felt his own temper beginning to get the better of him.
Feberik reached out in one swift move with his left arm. He yanked the servant forward and off to the side to land in the dirt. The young man crashed into the ground and pushed up, shaking the dust from his face.
“I’m going inside,” Feberik said. He had only to eye the last remaining servant to dissolve any resolution that man may have had to fight. The servant dropped his armload of wood and backed away, holding his hands up in the air.
“Don’t want any trouble,” the servant said quickly.
Feberik marched to the front steps leading up to the wide porch. No sooner had he stepped upon the first stair than the front doors opened and a trio of armed spearmen emerged, with the first servant right behind them.
“That’s him! That’s him!” The servant was already closing the door behind the guards as he pointed Feberik out to them.
“The master isn’t seeing visitors today,” the first guard said as they formed a line in front of the door and stamped their spears upon the porch.
“What about his daughter’s fiancé?” Feberik asked as he continued up the stairs. He sized up the guards. They were not knights. By the looks of their simple chainmail sleeves sticking out from under their tan tunics they were nothing more than mercenaries hired on by Lord Caspen. Caspen Manor had never been large enough to warrant a standing army before, nor had Feberik ever seen any guards on the premises.
The middle guard was the largest, but even he was nowhere near as large as Feberik, except in height. The other two were several inches under six feet, and Feberik was confident he could convince all three of them to let him in easily enough. At that moment, a small voice entered his mind and asked if it was the right thing to do. He knew he
could
force his way in, but
should
he?
Fate helped him decide when one of the guests opened the window to the parlor off to the left. Feberik looked over just as a busty woman with too much rouge on her cheeks leaned out and shouted at the guards.
“Trounce that louse! Go on, let’s have us a show!” She was waving a drink in her hand. A man leaned out behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist and smiling blissfully at Feberik.
“I’ve got five gold on the guards,” the man called out.
Out from the window came the boisterous laughter and music from inside the parlor.
That was it. Feberik’s rage boiled beyond what he could control.
He stormed up the steps and socked the middle guard dead in the nose. The man flew back, blood trailing out of his nose and mouth, and crashed into the door before sliding down to his rump.
The guard on the right leveled his spear, but Feberik was not only strong and large, he was fast. With blinding speed, his right arm shot out and he seized the spear, pulling it out and causing the guard to stumble. Then he reached out with his left so he had both hands on the weapon. He spun mightily and the guard sailed out over the steps and fell to the ground in a heap.
The last guard rushed in, but Feberik spun out of the way, stuck the spear he was holding down in front of the guard’s feet, and let gravity handle the rest. The third guard tripped and flailed wildly before slamming into his comrade at the bottom of the steps. The two connected first with their heads, and they both hardly moved afterwards.
Feberik then turned back around to face the first guard, who was sliding up the door as his legs pushed him back upright.
“You can’t go in,” the guard said dopily, the strength gone from his voice.
Feberik tossed the spear aside and launched a massive front kick that connected with the guard’s chest and blasted him through the front door.
He could hear people screaming and shouting as he entered the manor. His boots thumped heavily upon the marble floor as his anger propelled him down the short hall to the left and into the parlor.
Most of the people inside the room cowered against the walls. The women screamed and shouted at him, but Feberik locked his eyes on Lord Caspen and moved steadily toward him.
A large man stepped in front of Feberik and swung his fist.
Feberik blocked it, snaked his hand around the back of the attacker’s neck, and then pulled in as he gave the man a heavy head-butt that dropped him to the floor.
A second man drew a dirk and rushed forward, screaming and shouting obscenities.
Feberik grabbed him and tossed him out through a closed window like a rag doll.
No one else dared move.
Lord Caspen cowered in the corner near the hearth, sitting upon a cushy chair with a woman in a green dress sitting in his lap. The woman was obviously too frozen with fear to think of moving. Her lower lip quivered and the glass in her hand trembled violently as she looked up with wide, brown eyes.
Feberik reached down and grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her up before shoving her away.
“Everyone out,” Feberik ordered. “Party’s over.”
No one argued with him. The guests all scrambled out of the parlor and ran down the hallway, some of the more drunken guests tripping and falling in the hallway as they screamed and shouted from all the excitement.
“Now, Feberik, don’t do anything stupid,” Lord Caspen said.
Feberik struck out with a back-handed slap across Lord Caspen’s face. Whether it was the force of the blow, or the sheer panic that had seized Lord Caspen, Feberik didn’t know, but the man lost consciousness right there in the chair, along with his ability to hold his bladder.
Feberik turned and helped usher the last of the guests out, literally tossing two of the drunken men out onto the front porch, and then went back to the parlor, closing the door to the room behind himself. He went to the couch, which was pushed up against the wall with the windows, and picked up the piece of furniture to place it back where it had been the last time he was in the home. He looked through the windows to see that carriages and horses were filing out along the main road, and then he sat down and waited for Lord Caspen to wake up.
In the hour he sat there, he helped himself to a snifter of brandy to try and calm his nerves. Mad as he was, he knew he was already likely in trouble. He only hoped that his status as in-law would be sufficient justification for a certain amount of…liberty to be taken inside of this home.
As the nobleman began to wake up, he mumbled a few things. Something about a woman named Geraldine, and a few things that threatened to stoke the fires in Feberik’s soul. However, not everything the nobleman jabbered about in his unconscious state drew ire from the hulking man. Lord Caspen also mentioned something about dark creatures in the woods, and appeared genuinely afraid of them as his body shook and he thrashed about.
It was during a particularly violent episode that Lord Caspen woke, screaming in horror and calling out for help. The nobleman then seemed to recover, wiping a hand over his face and taking in a few breaths. When the man’s hand slid down his face and touched upon his reddened jaw, his eyes flicked up and about the room, wide and filled with fear. The orbs fell upon his guest as Feberik took his last drink from the snifter before tossing the glass down at Lord Caspen’s feet, shattering it to pieces.
“What do you want?” Lord Caspen asked as he tried to sink back into the chair and melt away.
Feberik stood and picked up the couch with one hand, setting it just a couple of feet away from Lord Caspen before sitting down and leaning forward, glaring into the nobleman’s eyes. Lord Caspen’s color drained from his face and small beads of sweat formed upon his brow.
“I didn’t know,” Lord Caspen said. “I had no way of knowing she wasn’t mine! You have to believe me. I would never have dishonored you—”
“Dishonored me?” Feberik echoed as he narrowed his eyes on Lord Caspen. “You think that is why I am here?”
Lord Caspen shrugged, pulling his legs up and hugging them into his chest. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? Guards! Guards! HELP!”
Feberik sighed and leaned back, shifting his large claymore so it wouldn’t be in his way. “I came to discuss Kyra’s support, and her dowry.” He produced the school papers from a pocket inside his vest and waved them at Lord Caspen.
Lord Caspen nodded quickly. “Of course. The wedding is off! I understand. Keep the dowry. I’ll sign the dissolution papers. No harm done.”
Feberik reached up and scratched the corner of his mouth with his left hand. “Shut up,” he said calmly.
The words may as well have been daggers, for Lord Caspen ceased breathing and sat helplessly, terrified.
“These are not papers to dissolve our contract. I came to tell you that I still intend to marry Kyra once she becomes of age. I’ve come to get your signature on Kyra’s school papers, and to convince you to abandon this ridiculous notion of disowning her.”
“You…what?” Lord Caspen said. His brow drew in close and he narrowed his eyes on Feberik. “But why? Wouldn’t that dishonor the Orres family?”
Feberik leaned forward and grabbed a fistful of Lord Caspen’s shirt, pulling the man in close. “I do not need lessons in honor from a man who is gallivanting around with whores and drunkards instead of mourning for his departed wife. That isn’t even mentioning the fact that you have abandoned your daughter.”
“She isn’t mine!” Lord Caspen squeaked.
“You raised her for fourteen years as though she were. That makes her yours. You have no right to punish her for something that isn’t her fault.” Feberik rose from his seat, picking up Lord Caspen and holding him above the urine-stained chair. “I was going to come to convince you to return to Kuldiga Academy. Your daughter is in pain. She has lost everything she has ever loved. I was hoping you would have a heart large enough to swallow your pride and help her.”
