Children of Semyaza Read online

  CHILDREN of SEMYAZA

  BOOK 1 OF THE AMBLER ACCOUNTS

  KEVIN C. NOEL

  Copyright © 2019 Kevin C. Noel

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781797978086

  To Mom, Dad, Kingsley, Kingston, Clementina and Curio

  Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,

  Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.

  William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  EPILOGUE

  Gratitude

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1

  JULY 1410. GRUNWALD.

  Volant was impatient.

  The battle was not won, and their retreat, albeit temporary, was unnecessary. However, he had failed to consider that none of the soldiers under his command were as adequately fortified as he was for warfare. Regardless, he glanced back at the lot of them with disapproving ocher eyes as though they were a hoard of inconvenient stragglers. As far as he was concerned, attrition was their best course of action to ensure a swift and decisive victory.

  Yet there he idly sat on a caparisoned stallion awaiting the Grand Duke’s orders to re-engage the enemy. Absurd, he thought.

  He recalled the night the Grand Duke approached him to fight in the war against the Teutonic Order. “A Kesgaila by my side,” he said, “would prove most profitable an ally.”

  However, Volant Kesgaila’s impatience had little to do with a desire to destroy the Knights of the Cross on behalf of his Lord. His underlying motive was far more personal. Volant was no mere Lithuanian nobleman. He was more than a loyal General in the Grand Duke’s army. Volant followed a more otherworldly path—one he probably would have never followed if not for the death of his parents.

  He was just a boy when it happened, yet he remembered well that grim night spent hidden in a polar pale of animal blood. He remembered watching the villains murder his loving mother and then his noble father. He remembered how they searched and could not find him because they were blinded by the scent of the dead blood he was submerged in.

  He remembered well.

  This childhood memory turned him into the impatient Knight who sat irritably on his steed. He had become a living and breathing legend revered by all who had heard his name and those fortunate to fight under his command. He was a vehement man; a virulent man; a violent man; a volatile man. He was the Elder of Samogitia, Volant Aurimas Kesgaila—often described as the most ruthless warrior in all of Europe—some would argue the whole world—others would go as far as argue that ever lived.

  His reputation crossed the boundaries of the human realm into another world surreptitiously juxtaposed with it. A realm of the Atruman—spawns of the infernal regions. Demons!

  And out there, masquerading as a Knight of the Teutonic Order, was a demon most foul. He was different from the others. He was of a different sort—an unknown sort. Other demons were ugly and frightening at first glance. But on his first encounter with this kind, he realized they were beautiful and in possession of certain seraphic qualities. Traits which made them greater threats because they didn’t seem dangerous at all.

  The first time he heard of the new Atruman menace was almost thirty years earlier. He found a peculiar English Baron in Odessa who had dubbed himself the Spear King due to his prowess with the weapon. Volant did not consider him a priority until his true nature was revealed.

  Apart from certain cannibalistic tendencies, this so-called King possessed great hypnotic power over mortals. Volant’s victory against him seemed doubtful at first, but he overcame all odds. And as the fiend turned into a blazing pyre, he assured Volant that the leader of his kind would avenge him. Yet, Volant was never able to ascertain exactly what his kind was.

  After so many years of searching, he found him once but lost him soon after. He had almost given up his search when a reliable source informed him of his whereabouts. The elusive Atruman chieftain was on the other end of the open field donning the cross emblazoned armor of a Teutonic Knight. And it was a fortuitous coincidence, Volant thought.

  Volant hated the Teutonic Knights for two reasons. First, as a Samogitian whose lands had constantly been invaded by them; and secondly, as a member of the Order of Shimshon. The Teutonic Knights had accused the Order of Shimshon of witchcraft and sorcery and swore to destroy it in their crusade to spread Christianity. Volant was the Master Commander of the Order and he took such an open attack very personally. Aiding in their extinction was a cause he could gladly get behind.

  “Make way for Grand Duke Vytautas,” announced a young panting soldier.

  Looking over his shoulder, Volant noted the crimson ducal hat of the Grand Duke as he rode toward him trailed by several other knights. The Grand Duke signaled for them to stand back as he continued his approach until his own steed stood beside Volant’s.

  Volant bowed his head courteously and looked ahead into the forest.

  “Impatient as always,” said Vytautas. “You still favor an upfront attack?”

  “I do, your Royal Highness,” answered Volant. He was never one to restrain his views on any matter and Vytautas admired him for it—to an extent.

  “It would seem things will go your way, after all. The Teutonic Order has sent us two swords in jest. They say we are stalling out of fear and now our brother, the King of Poland, insists we attack at once.”

  Volant nodded. “We will put an end to them once and for all.”

  “That we will,” responded Vytautas as he rode away. “We attack now!”

  “Finally,” Volant snapped as he pulled on the reins of his stallion. It triumphantly raised its fore-hooves and neighed to indicate its preparedness. With an order, he rode out of the forest with a light cavalry at his disposal and it had become instantly clear to him that the time supposedly wasted organizing the army had proved profitable after all— his fully-rested horse almost flew across the field.

  Upon reaching the battlefield, he noticed the banner of the Polish allies and rushed in to aid them. With a raise of his hand, one of his men raised the Zadora flag high to announce his arrival. The Teutonic Knights in battle recognized the fire-breathing lion of the Kesgailos coat of arms too well and were instantly cautious.

  Their caution would not help them, however. With a swing of his sword, three enemy soldiers would fall. It was soon apparent that the indomitable Elder of Samogitia was on the battleground and morale was high again.

  Less than an hour into battle, an ambitious Hungarian archer had shot an arrow at Volant. As the speeding projectile almost reached the nape of his neck, its trajectory was mysteriously altered and struck his horse’s neck instead. Volant jumped off the horse as it fell—a short partnership had ended abruptly. But no matter how short, the black stallion would be avenged by its last rider.

  The horror-stricken archer gaped at Volant. He knew it was impossible. How could he have missed? He was certain his aim was true. “What witchery is this?” he asked. Meanwhile, Volant retrieved the arrow from his fallen comrade’s neck and threw it effortlessly and with unerring accuracy toward his would-be killer. The force behind the throw se
nt the arrow through the archer’s throat.

  Like Achilles and his Myrmidons, Volant and the combined armies of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and the Kingdom of Poland were fiercer than ever.

  After a decisive victory, Volant watched as Vytautas had dozens of Teutonic knights executed. What a shame, he thought as he turned his back on his fallen foes. He had never seen so many dead Knights before.

  Despite the win, he was irritated. Most of his time was spent seeking out a demon and he came up with nothing. This almost made him wonder if the potency of the Magirev’s sorcery, which had aided him for so many years, had finally worn off.

  Then, in a flashing second, Volant noted a dark presence in the distance with his mind’s eye. It felt as though nails were scratching his back leaving behind a cold pain. He couldn’t determine at once where exactly the feeling had come from but was determined to find out. “Fetch me a horse!” His command was open to anyone who heard. Shortly after, a young squire had brought a grey stallion and Volant rode on with no apparent destination. He depended wholly on the unexplainable sensation for navigation.

  Reaching an abandoned village, he dropped his long sword—it was ill-suited for his upcoming duel. He needed something more…fitting. He unsheathed two custom made wakizashi short swords from scabbards that hung x shaped on his back. They were the minacious Blood Cravers.

  Hidden in the shadows, Jekuthiel studied his hunter. He chuckled quietly as everything he had heard about Volant was confirmed instantly. His bravado; his speed; and, most notably, his prodigious use of the Knoxian Heightening Spell. He had heard rumors of the spell’s physical effects, and the most apparent effect was a constant alteration in the eye color of its conjurer. Jekuthiel was sure Volant’s eyes were bright brown on the battlefield.

  His eyes were as green as Burma jades at that moment.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ he thought, ‘green?’ The green-eyed stage of the spell was the most unattainable one! It signified the highest stage of the enchantment and was deadly to any mortal who ever dared conjure it. How was Volant still alive? He chuckled softly. Obviously, his age and training had contributed to his mastery of the unbeatable spell. Yet, despite his many talents, Volant was still human. His grayish hair was indicative of his mortality—spell or no spell.

  Volant heard a snapping sound he recognized all too well. Someone had just shot an arrow his way. He turned to face it and blocked it effortlessly with his sword. He smirked as he realized he was in the right place.

  Thoroughly impressed, Jekuthiel stepped out into the light. His black armor was unlike anything the Teutonic Knights wore on the battlefield. He pulled back the strands of raven black hair from his face to reveal his cobalt blue eyes. His teeth, seen through his widened grin, were extraordinarily white. He was tall with chiseled features. He wasn’t normal at all—he was perfect.

  “Well, well,” he spoke in a perfect Samogitian dialect as he walked up to Volant. “Finally, we meet again after all these years, Volant Kesgaila.”

  Volant was not surprised by the sound of his language coming from the Atruman—he was too alert to let such things distract him. “Jekuthiel Roth, the years have been kind to you,” he said. “We never got around to you telling me what kind of infernal creature you are.”

  Jekuthiel roared with laughter. “You’ll know soon enough, old friend,” he assured. He examined the spry noble in admiration. ‘He’s perfect for me’ he thought. “Doesn’t this life tire you, Volant? A life of killing Atrumans without reprieve.”

  “It is its own reward.”

  Jekuthiel smirked. “Even the part where everyone you’ve ever cared for dies at the hands of the very things you dedicate your life to killing? That must be exasperating. One would think the death of your parents would have been enough to…”

  Impulsively, Volant rushed toward Jekuthiel as fast as he could with his Blood Cravers aimed at his neck. A clean slice would suffice—that was how the Spear King fell. The enchanted Shimshonite metals the Blood Cravers were forged from could slay any Atruman.

  Unfazed, Jekuthiel snatched the short-swords and kicked his attacker’s chest, sending him landing on several empty barrels and benches which shattered upon impact. Although dazed by the sudden blow and Jekuthiel’s light speed maneuver, Volant had begun to get back on his feet when he was unexpectedly pinned down by his own blades which were thrust into his shoulders.

  “You slew the Spear King.” Jekuthiel had knelt by his supine body and fiddled with the hilt of the blades like a fascinated child. “A human has never killed one of us before.” He had begun to casually push the blades deeper. “Not even with the aid of ability enhancing magic.”

  Volant tried to mask his pain as he asked through gritted teeth: “What are you?”

  Looking down at his incapacitated captive, Jekuthiel felt a sudden surge of energy from within. It was a feeling beyond feeling; an emotion greater than love and stronger than hate. It was the realization that he was staring down at a part of him. It was the realization that they were part of the Oneness in Terraincardia. It was the realization that he could not kill this man.

  “The Spear King is dead and the Cruorem Diabolus needs a replacement. You, my dear Volant, have proven yourself worthy of such an honor.”

  “I’ll never become one of you!” Volant spat as he gurgled blood. It seemed the kick to the chest had done more damage than he could have imagined. His eyes were pale yellow now.

  Jekuthiel bent down until their noses met. “Usually, a choice is given to humans. A choice between death and something more than life. But I know your type, Volant. You would rather die. So, I’m going to have to resort to an alternate—more persuasive—method.” The corners of Jekuthiel’s lips broadened into a grin. “I cannot kill you, but you’re dangerous to us alive. The only reasonable choice for me is to rob you of your instinct to kill my kind and redirect it toward other things. I shall rob you of your free will, My Lord and it won’t be pretty.”

  KIEV

  Esme Adler watched on as her apprentice, Midori, carefully selected weapons from the arsenal for their upcoming assignment. Their orders were to eliminate a pack of Lycanthropes terrorizing a small village in Gdansk. ‘Why Gdansk?’ She thought. ‘Why not somewhere in France, like Versailles? An opportunity for work and a holiday.’ But she could not complain openly—she wouldn’t dare. The Order gave her the assignment and she wasn’t the type to contravene its orders—unlike her unbending nephew, Volant.

  Sometimes she regretted bringing him up into the Order. He was just a child consumed by hatred. His hatred made him strong. His strength made him victorious. His victories made him complacent. And Shimshonites could not afford to be complacent. Yet, despite his flaws, he had gotten very far. He was no longer the rebellious and angry boy she had trained—he was the Master Commander of the Order of Shimshon—second only to the Grand Master of the Order.

  Volant had become her superior.

  Midori was done packing and balanced a battle-axe on her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking of Volant,” said Esme. “I wish he were here with us. The mere mention of his name would have scared the Lycanthropes stiff.”

  Midori blushed a little at the sound of her idol’s name. “The Master is preoccupied,” she said.

  “When is he not?” Esme smirked as she stood. On their way to the door the two of them felt an unusual surge of heat in the small room. This was followed by a huge explosion at the center of the workshop. A bright blue flame had erupted from the furnace and settled on a wooden table.

  The two warrior-ladies had taken cover and prepared themselves for a fight when Esme recognized the flame and almost immediately knew who was teleporting into her shop. The intensity of the flame indicated that the traveler was coming from afar—possibly another country. Employing skydust in such a manner was extremely dangerous and she knew of only one person who’d be mad enough to attempt it. He was also mad enough to use highest level of the legendary Knoxian heightening spell.

 
Volant.

  As the fire and its accompanying heat gradually diminished spontaneously, Esme began to make out her nephew’s bluish profile. She had gotten up, prepared to give him a scolding which she knew he wouldn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to, when she noticed something was a bit off about him. He lay on the table bleeding from both shoulders and his abdomen.

  “Oh my God,” she gasped as she ran toward his motionless body. “Volant, what has happened to you?”

  “He…he did something,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What? Who did what?” she asked. As strong as Volant might have been in his youth, age had gradually caught up with him and she feared injuries such as the ones he had would prove fatal.

  “I’ve…I’ve been infected,” he finally said in a strained whisper.

  Esme’s eyes widened in shock. As she looked back at her apprentice, the message was clear. Midori ran over to a shelf and pulled out a box containing several multicolored vials.

  “What was it?” asked Midori hurriedly. “What kind of demon was it?” She had to know. If she was going to stop him from dying and turning into the thing that infected him, she had to know.

  Once, when Volant was seventeen, he was bitten by an undead. Esme was able to help him then because she knew what infected him. She didn’t know now—her mind raced. “Volant, what was it? Midori needs to know so she can help!” she pleaded.

  Volant shook his head slowly. Jekuthiel had never mentioned what he was. And even if he did, he would not have remembered. All he could see were red bolts of pain.

  Esme examined the gaping wounds on his shoulder. “Did it do this? Is this where you were infected?”

  “The… the Cravers.” Volant was beginning to slip in and out of consciousness.

  “What of this?” she asked pointing at the one on his abdomen. “Is this where it…?”

  “He was different… didn’t need to bite… didn’t need to wound…only…only…”