A Monster Inside Read online

  A Monster Inside

  The Undying Prince Book 1

  Baron Blackwell

  Copyright © 2018 Baron Blackwell

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9781980561910

  To my father,

  an eidolon amongst the dark

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  Prologue

  The Celestial Dragon fell through the cloudless sky. Imprisoned in a sphere of rock and ice, it streaked across the snow-edged peaks of the mountains, above the blackened battlements of an ancient fortress. The sky shuddered in its wake and even more chunks of the dragon’s prison broke apart and burned. Throughout its endless journey, it had dreamed of liquid flames, flames hotter than magma, running down its scales, pooling at its claws, and it hungered—always it hungered. For the taste of blood, for the feel of its teeth tearing through flesh.

  The entity descended, incinerating the crowns of stalwart pine trees. It struck the earth, liquefying dirt, wood, and living things into molten slag and ash, splintering countless branches, and skidding a crater into the ground. The Celestial Dragon roared; pain flared like the sun, bloomed within its thick metallic chest plating.

  Overhead, strong winds flung dark boiling plumes about, made holes in the impact clouds, and rays of sunlight glittered off of the dragon’s gold and ebony scales webbed with tiny cracks. Its skull throbbed, pressed into the dirt, and its limp wings cried out in pain. A massive bone jutted from the wound in its chest, gushing scarlet liquid that caught fire the instant it touched the air.

  A lightless world opened before it, luring away its consciousness, enticing it, pulling it deeper into slumber. A gush of water ran along its claws from an underground stream, and it sagged further into the ground. It slipped deeper. . . .

  Its nose twitched; the wind brought a wealth of information. A tree burning. Ash swirling. The sweet aroma of fat, delicious creatures. Fresh blood drying.

  The Celestial Dragon’s eyes snapped open. A cavernous hole opened up inside it—its stomach ached and its metallic-like scales shuddered in need. A need so powerful it could shatter its iron bones.

  The voices of tiny flesh-things moved in its direction and memories bubbled to the surface. Memories of it and its kin growing fat as they devoured all those things that soared and slipped and stalked through the lush interior of a now dead world. It clamped the damp earth and froze, focusing on the feast to come. Soon it would begin to quiet the torment at its core. It would dine on blood and flesh. It would rip, and it would claw.

  Part One:

  A Broken Circle

  Chapter 1

  A Cultivator is composed of three aspects: the first he displays to the world, the second he shows to his family, and the last he reveals only to himself.

  — ASBJÖRN MAKI, PERSONAL JOURNAL

  The golden, dragon-hilted longsword in Asbjörn’s dark hand felt like a block of ice. Despite the sun blazing overhead, the large inner courtyard was cold enough to make him shiver, and only years of practice kept his teeth from chattering. The chill had nothing to do with the wind blowing down from the snow-covered peaks of the Rin Mountains and everything to do with the prana being siphoned from the air. His white robe offered no protection, and neither did Hjörtur’s black stone ramparts and walls. The former stronghold of the Sorcerer-Kings was both ponderous and ancient, but it could not shield him from what was already inside.

  Pudgy Baron Sophus stood across from Asbjörn, the source of the sudden chill. Clothed in a red robe that was frayed at the edges, he clutched a longsword in his sweaty hands while perspiration dripped down his chin. Like most people on the island of Daði, he was shades lighter than Asbjörn.

  “What is your range?” Asbjörn asked.

  Sophus licked his lips. “Two hundred meters, or thereabout.” He kept his gaze firmly directed at the dirt, glancing up every couple seconds. Much too timid for one so large.

  Asbjörn nodded. A range of two hundred meters was nothing to scoff at, but it could not compare to his own range of five hundred meters. Then again, few Fallnir Menn—or Cultivators, as they called themselves this side of the Howling Sea—had a range so great. The larger one’s range, the more prana they could ensnare to reach into the Abyss and power their Esoteric Techniques. “And your level of cultivation?”

  “First Stöðin, Second Stratum.” Sophus’s eyes twinkled with a hint of pride. “I. . . .” he started, less confident now. “I hope to earn the right to become a Viscount during this year’s Grand Assessment . . . or at the very least win title to some land. Prince Erik already gave me permission to travel with his entourage. So you will be seeing more of me I’m afraid.”

  For the ten-thousandth time, Asbjörn marveled at the strangeness of Vindurian society. Everything was upside down compared to what he had grown up with on the Mainland. Here, Cultivators were more than just walking volcanoes. Here, they ruled as kings and nobles.

  “Proceed.” Asbjörn lifted his longsword and slid his legs apart, turning sideways. A charcoal-colored, dragon-hilted shortsword also hung from the sash tied around his waist.

  “Don’t you want to ensnare—”

  “There is no need. Proceed.”

  Sophus took deep breath, then shouted, “The Red Rose Blooms.”

  A warning. The name of an Esoteric Sword Technique. Asbjörn appreciated the sentiment behind the act; this was a friendly exchange of pointers after all.

  Sophus whirled his longsword, jabbing it in Asbjörn’s direction. A rosebud, the size of a fist, blossomed into reality mere inches from the tip of the blade. It shot forward, roaring, glowing crimson with opening petals made of fire, warping the air with its searing heat. Asbjörn thrust his blade into the heart of the Esoteric Creation and turned it. The flames splintered into shards of ivory light, then shattered into progressively smaller pieces until they vanished.

  Asbjörn peered at Sophus over the edge of his blade. The Baron gazed at the dragon-hilted longsword and greed flashed through his blue eyes. Like the shortsword at Asbjörn’s side, it was made of Tár Guðs, a precious metal valued for both its ability to amplify a Cultivator’s power and its ability to render their Esoteric Creations null. Few but princes and kings could afford to own such a blade. Much less two.

  “Again!” Asbjörn smiled, but the hold on his rage began to weaken. It was always there, just below the surface, seething, bubbling, ready to explode forth at a moment’s notice. There was a time when it was not this way, a time before his soul was stained with blood.

  “My Lords,” a woman said.

  Asbjörn and Sophus lowered their weapons and turned. A liveried woman regarded them, pale hands folded in front of her dress.

  She curtsied. “Pardon me. Baron Sophus, the Viscount requires your attention.”

  “But—” Sophus began.

  Asbjörn forestalled him with a raised hand. “It’s all right, go. We will pick up where we left off tomorrow.” Sophus’s eyes grew unfocused, and his head tilted back; Asbjörn’s hand tightened on his longsword. “Sophus . . . are you well?”

  Sophus blinked, eyes growing clear again. He nodded and put away his blade, falling in behind the servant. The woman led the Baron away and almost tripped on a rock in her haste. Asbjörn did not blame her for her terror; Sophus’s behavior worried him just as much. Use of the Abyss was hard on the minds of Cultivators.

  “Now that was anticlimactic,” said a voice.

  Asbjörn fought back a groan and turned.

  Ypse, a short, stocky, middle-aged man with a red and black beard and yellow eyes, sat at a small wo
oden table some meters away. He wore a bright green coat that partly hid the ornate slave collar around his neck. Smiling, he waved Asbjörn over. “Join me for a drink, would you?”

  Asbjörn approached Ypse reluctantly. Two towering soldiers loomed behind the Sorcerer’s chair. They were more prison wardens than guards, dressed in conical helmets and golden surcoats over plate-and-mail armor, with longswords at their sides. The black flame on their surcoats marked them as Punishers, an order of soldiers tasked with safeguarding the Sorcerers that Vindur kept as slaves.

  Ypse poured himself a bowl of wine. “I was surprised to see you out here. I thought you would be out hunting with the Prince.” He gestured to the unoccupied chair. “Sit.” He leaned back against his cushioned chair and stared at Asbjörn with an air of arrogance.

  Asbjörn narrowed his white, bushy brows and took a seat. He disliked the way Ypse always appeared to be smiling at him, as if the Sorcerer knew something he did not. He fought against the indoctrination of his upbringing for Prince Erik’s sake. Yet in his heart of hearts, he knew he would always despise Sorcerers and their ilk. They had almost destroyed the world. The Third Apocalypse and the monstrosities that now plagued every nation could all be laid at their feet. They should all be killed at birth, as they were on the Mainland. Every last one of them.

  “There comes the point when a boy must step into the wilderness on his own,” Asbjörn said after a moment. “It’s how he becomes a man.”

  Ypse snorted, yellow eyes alight with mischief. “You sound like a father talking about his much-beloved son.” He tugged at the end of his beard.

  “You’re different today. You seem. . . .” Asbjörn tilted his head to the side.

  “Cheerful?” Ypse asked. “Is that the word you were searching for?”

  “Sure, let’s go with that.”

  Ypse laughed and took a sip of his wine. “I am in a good mood. I suppose that I’m even celebrating, but don’t ask what because it’s a secret. Can I ask you a question?”

  Asbjörn gave a short nod.

  “Are we friends?”

  Asbjörn poured himself a bowl of wine and remembered his promise to Erik. “Yes.” No. “I think we are.” I would sooner be friends with a dead goat.

  Ypse smiled. “Good. Good. I think this too is worthy of celebration. A thousand years after the Third Breaking of the World, a Cultivator and a Sorcerer are friends. The Eternal Father’s ways are truly marvelous, are they not?” He raised his bowl to Asbjörn in tribute and drank.

  The muscles in Asbjörn’s jaw twitched. Breathe. He’s not insulting you on purpose. He took a single sip of his wine and set the bowl back onto the table. Are you sure?

  A roar shook the firmament and earth. Startled, Asbjörn looked up and saw a comet sailing overhead, trailed by luminous gas. He leaped to his feet. His pulse quickened as he watched the fiery ball descend, deaf to the shouts and screams ringing out around him.

  “It’s headed for the forest, I think,” Ypse yelled, inches from Asbjörn’s right ear.

  Asbjörn took two quick steps back, his skin crawling with Ypse in such proximity. He exhaled, one with the air that poured out of his nostrils. The flesh forgotten, he became the earth beneath his feet, he became the sound of the leaves rustling on the branches of the oak tree. He was a net cast out in every direction, entrapping the globes of prana that lay scattered through the world like a downpour of fiery droplets.

  Pain blazed in Asbjörn, and inwardly he cried out. Fire seared his mind as he reached the limits of his range. Breathless, he struggled to draw his consciousness back inward, reeling in all the prana he had ensnared. Light filled him. Mingled waves of fire and prana rushed into his inner void where they formed his Ethereal Body. It was almost an exact copy of his physical frame, sitting cross-legged, flesh leaking white light, surrounded by a transparent shield.

  He drifted through his inner void, calling to the Abyss, a realm of chaos and discord, where the Eternal Father had imprisoned the Dark One and the Death Gods during the First Age. He sought the Four Aspects—Earth, Water, Fire, and Air—to power his Esoteric Sword Techniques.

  It was like a whisper at the edge of his hearing, a half-remembered tune. The song of the Abyss came to him, the dread voices of a million wailing souls. It floated below him in his inner void, a massive roiling vortex of glittering gold and green, with blue and red echoes. The shield around him rippled like the surface of a clear pond.

  Well, a voice in his head said, it’s happening again, isn’t it?

  No, he told it. He will be fine. I trained him myself.

  Laughter.

  Ypse stumbled back, shivering, teeth chattering from all the prana siphoned from the air. “What are you—”

  Asbjörn bent his knees and thrust his longsword into the air. Furious jets of air exploded beneath his sandals, launching him upward. The eruption blew Ypse off his feet and flung the table into the two armored soldiers, smashing wood against metal. Panicked shouts turned into groans of pain.

  Uncertainty and anxiety worked their way around Asbjörn’s heart, pulsing and tightening with every palpitation the higher he climbed. Not fear at what he had done, but fear at where the comet might land. Fear for Erik.

  Asbjörn’s Esoteric Sword Technique, Grasshopper of the Stars, took him skyward. His ears rang, and his old bones ached until his velocity stalled, and he formed an invisible platform under his feet with a simple working of Air. Sixty meters above the ground, white robe flapping in the icy breeze, the whole of Hjörtur spread out below him. The ancient architecture that usually dwarfed him looked like a child’s plaything from the air. Huge square banners etched with the symbol of the Royal House of Ito, a red and a blue phoenix joined in a circle, whipped in the wind atop of the towers and battlements below.

  The comet pierced the forest at the foot of the mountain range, spewing chunks of charred wood, flame, and soot into the air. The sky shook with a light thud, the fury too distant to be truly felt. Asbjörn’s breath caught in his throat.

  Eternal Father, please protect him!

  ■■■

  Erik Ito, the third son of King Vilhelm, stumbled, sandaled feet trudging across what sounded like shattered glass. At first, he could not see. When he finally could, he stared in shock at the ebony-and-gold-scaled dragon, with eyes of solid black encircled by a band of yellow. The size of a small mountain, the monster swatted at the two black-coated men who danced around its feet, slashing it with swords. White whiskers hung from the dragon’s elongated jaw like long withered branches, and bright red blood spilled from the glittering bone protruding from its chest. Each scarlet drop caught fire the moment it met the air.

  Where am I? But it all came rushing back a second later: the hunting party he led into the Northern Reaches, their battle with the Jade Spider, and his decision to investigate the crash site of the comet. I should have stayed in bed. I should have spent the day trying to fix things with Hanna. It was too late for that now, he could see that. Perhaps it would always be too late.

  He glanced down at the longsword in his hand. His flesh was inflamed and blistered. Hundreds of cuts riddled his once elegant green robe from the shards of glass embedded in his skin. He knew of every little slash as a hairline fracture on the outside of his inner void. They burned, but the pain was a distant thing compared to the prominence of the massive vortex churning beneath his Ethereal Body. Wounds like the ones on his body could kill, or leave him a husk of what he had once been, but it did not matter. Not now.

  Erik hung balanced on a knife’s edge, between the boundary of the known and the unknown, two paths opening before him: run or fight. If he continued to battle, defeat was almost a certainty. All but two of his warriors were now dead. Every instinct urged him to flee.

  I’m sorry.

  Erik did not understand who the apology was directed to, but he would not run. He would not. Asbjörn always said he was too headstrong and impulsive, yet that was not it. He understood the consequence of his
actions, not in every case, but certainly in this one.

  Back in Vetur, the capital city of Vindur, he spent years cultivating the image of a playboy to help protect himself from his brothers’ plots. His exile to the citadel of Hjörtur was a chance to change people’s ideas about him, a necessary step in his plan to ascend to the throne. But it was more than that. He was afraid . . . afraid that if he ran now, that none of it would have been an act. That everything they whispered about him would be true. He would rather die than have that be the case.

  A wave of renewed energy surged into Erik’s limbs. He firmed his wobbly legs and raised his longsword into the air. Muted sounds came roaring back along with the stench of the white smoke swirling around the crater. He ducked, narrowly avoiding the severed head flying toward him. A shower of crimson droplets splattered the back of his neck and hair.

  His longsword flicked and twirled in his hand, and a single flow of the Aspect of Air rose from the Abyss, rendered obedient by his Tár Guðs blade. The liquid-prana splashing around his Ethereal Body burned to power an Esoteric Sword Technique, further draining his reservoir. Creation fought back against what was being done, but he persevered, performing Leaves on the Breeze. A dozen invisible, razor sharp leaves made of Air wavered in and out of existence, then solidified, whistling toward the dragon. They slammed harmlessly against the creature’s scales, and it ripped apart the last black-coated man.

  “Of course, I’m not strong enough,” Erik laughed, blood leaking from the nicks on his face. The monster turned toward him, black and gold eyes radiating menace. His legs trembled. Fear crawled down his throat and into his chest. But that doesn’t matter, I will not die cowering like a child. I will not!

  Erik dropped to his knees and slammed his longsword into the earth, draining every last drop of prana he had within, attacking with The Earth Entwines. Illusory vines of Earth erupted from the dirt, wrapping themselves around the dragon, flickering like candlelight.