The Demon of Ever-Dale

By James Fuller

Rising from the ashes of his home in Ever-Dale, Jamus Willms carves a brutal path of vengeance through the land's powerful nobility.

Hatred fueling his journey, Jamus's quest for justice seems to defy even death. With the fires of that fateful night still burning in his mind, each step takes him closer to reclaiming his daughter from the clutches of the Lord: a psychopath who blurs the line between man and monster.

Sofia is forced to watch as her father battles to keep them alive, fighting for their lives at every turn. Slowly, she begins to understand the life they live. If they are to survive until dawn, she too will have to recreate herself.

James Fuller's THE DEMON OF EVER-DALE is a gripping historical thriller set in the 13th century.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jan 4, 2024

Book preview

1

Status Quo

The night was crisp; no breeze tantalized through the ancient forest of cedars. The moon was full and hung proudly at the peak of the heavens, offering its mystical glow to the dark world below. The stars randomly littered the obscurity above—as if someone had poked countless holes through a sheet of black linen. It was a tranquil night by even the hardest of men's standards. But it was lost on one—

A dark, lone figure limped indignantly down the dirt road in almost complete silence; all that gave away his presence was the soft clink from the single spur on his left boot, which could be heard for some distance on this silent night.

The loner wore a dark crimson woolen cloak around his lean shoulders. Most on a chilly night such as this would have it pulled tightly around them, but the loner welcomed the unfavorable sensation on his damaged skin, and his cloak hung open freely. The hood he wore concealed his damaged face and identity with the gloomy shadow it produced.

Most folks were asleep at this late hour, safe in their beds, dreaming sweet dreams of what tomorrow may bring. But not him—he seemed not to need sleep now; hate-fueled his every step, move, and breath. It was a bitter odium that overwhelmed his very essence, mocking his commonly good-natured self, forcing him to forget everything beautiful in the world, everything pure, everything that he had tried to live for. All for nothing—all a disgusting, cruel, twisted joke by the gods—if there were any gods.

The smell of smoke lingered in the air and assured him he was close to the small town of Milton—his first destination. As the burning cedar aroma strengthened in the crisp night air, his body began to pulsate with agony from every wound that riddled his scabbing flesh. Vivid flashes assaulted his mind, his knees weakened, and he slumped to the dusty road—salty tears falling freely as the memories of two nights past tore at his soul…

…They had just returned from the annual fall festival outside Faer-Tri City. It was a full two days’ travel there and two days back. They did it every year. It was his family's only real outing that they could afford. His beautiful wife, Nikki, saved and hid every spare copper she could so they could all go down for three days of the weeklong festival and enjoy themselves to the fullest.

He enjoyed the variety of food and culture that came together. His young daughter, Sofia, and son, Nate, loved the games and rides, while his wife enjoyed browsing all the shops and merchant carts across Faer-Tri. It was the one time a year they all forgot about their lowly status in the world.

He had just fed the horses and put them in their stalls for the night. He emptied the wagon and came in to relish in the days past events with the ones he loved most before they lay down to sleep, only to wake early the next morning back in the reality of their poverty-stricken existence.

His children played in front of the brick hearth with the toys they had gotten at the festival. His wife sliced apples with a sprinkle of cinnamon, a light snack for everyone before bed. Water was boiling over the hearth for spiced taze for them all to share when a firm knock at the door came. It was late, and visitors rarely arrived, if ever, at this time. Jamus opened the door to the tip of a blade, which pressed into his chest, forcing him back toward the middle of the room as several large men entered.

What is the meaning of this? he cried out, trying to keep the mounting fear from his tone. Who are you? He looked back to his family—they were huddled close together, terror radiating from their eyes as his wife tried to keep the children calm.

Jamus Willms—deep down, I believe you know why we're here, the exquisitely dressed man with the sword to his chest replied, five of his companions fanning out through the house while one chubby man stayed by the door. It was a face Jamus knew well—Markel Jones from one town over.

Jamus swallowed hard as he recognized the pampered face of the intruder in front of him. He can't have her—she's just a girl, not even twelve winters old! Jamus bellowed, tears now rimming his eyes.

A snide smile creased the man's powdered face, Lord Carter didn't take kindly to your public refusal at the festival. You humiliated him and forgot your place in this world, Jamus Willms!

She is my daughter. It is my right as her father to give blessing to her suitor when she is of age for it! Jamus snapped back angrily, bitter terror drenching his every word.

The man's lips quivered involuntarily with rage, and he backhanded Jamus. Again, you forget your place, peasant! Lord Carter requires your daughter's company, with or without your consent, and you have no right to deny him!

Over my dead body! Jamus cried defiantly, stepping forward but stopping as the blade pushed him back with enough force to puncture his flesh, and he could feel blood trickle down his chest.

Then you won't be disappointed with tonight's outcome. The man nodded, and two of the brutes grabbed Jamus from behind.

No! Please, by the gods, no! Jamus cried as he was dragged across the room and thrown against the back wall. Both greasy men began raining meaty fists on him. He heard his wife scream and lunged forward out of the barrage of brawny knuckles, but he didn't make it far before he was pinned to the cold wooden floor, where several more fists found his flesh.

Hold him there, the leader ordered them. Let him watch this. This is what happens to those who forget their place in life and disrespect those of high nobility, the leader barked as his men began tearing Nikki's light grey dress open, grabbing and groping at her soft, exposed flesh. She cried and pleaded for them to stop, trying in vain to fight them off, but the act of defiance only heightened their rapacious lust for the sinful crime.

Please, no! Do what you will with me, but leave my family alone, please, I beg you! he bellowed, trying to crawl his way to her.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not overpower the two men holding him. His fingers were already raw from the effort, leaving fresh, bloody marks with each attempt.

Nate pulled his tiny arm free from the sweaty grip of the hulking, dark-haired man holding him and his sister and snatched the dull knife from the table, still slick with apple juices. He charged the men holding down his half-naked mother in a blind, foolish frenzy. The blade sunk deep into the shoulder of a pock-faced attacker. He roared in shock, his fist connecting with Nate's face, shattering the boy's nose. Nate was thrown to the ground by the force of the blow, blood pouring freely from his nose and mouth as he cried out.

You’ll pay for that, you little pissant! hissed the wounded brute as he kicked the boy, sending him sprawling across the floor near the blazing hearth. Another vicious kick forced the boy into the coals, and Nate howled in agony as the flames licked and scorched his skin.

Please stop it. Please stop! Leave him alone, damn you! Jamus wailed, his arms stretched out almost to the point of dislocation, but to no avail. He couldn’t move under the strength of the men. Stop it! Please!

The brute pulled the knife from his shoulder with a grunt and threw it to the floor. He pushed down on the boy with his foot, holding the poor child half in the flames, listening to his wails of anguish. The small cauldron of water was boiling, the smell of the fresh spiced taze emanating from it. With a malicious grin, the man tipped the pot, spilling its blistering contents over Nate. He flailed and screamed even louder for several heartbreaking moments before going sickly still—silent.

NO! Jamus wailed, thrashing violently, pure rage taking him over at the sight of the unspeakable things happening to his wife and son before his very eyes.

Oh no, you don’t, peasant, one of the brutes on top of him barked, grabbing a handful of Jamus’ hair, and slamming his face into the floor several times, blood now oozing from his crooked nose and split lip.

If you want your turn, you better get over here, the powder-faced leader told the thug who stood by the hearth, looking down at his nightmarish dirty work. The man grinned sadistically—his scarred face giving him the look of a fiendish demon as he unfastened his thick leather belt while he walked over to Jamus’ wife.

Time and time again, they raped her, ravaging her repeatedly, licking and biting every inch of her tender flesh—the more she fought, the worse it was. They bruised her with their fists and cut her with their knives until finally, she hadn’t the strength to move, barely able to draw breath as her tear-stained eyes looked helplessly over at her husband. They forced Jamus to watch the whole scene until, finally, they slashed open her throat—her lifeblood soaking into the old wooden floorboards and staining her pale blonde hair crimson.

The leader strolled over to Jamus, his carelessly powdered face streaked with sweat, his henchmen lifting his battered form so he could look at him. My Lord offered you a better life for your daughter’s hand. You refused—you had no right, filth! He slapped Jamus hard, his jeweled ring biting into Jamus' face. Now look around. Look what you have done to your family Jamus Willms. Was it worth it? He pointed to Nate’s body, still burning in the hearth, his skin blackening and cracked, then to his wife’s abused corpse.

You did that to her, you know? You. You and your stubbornness, your foolish pride. Who are you to think you have a choice? A great man offers you and your family a chance at something better, and you throw it in his face. Now, look at what your choice has brought you, Jamus Willms!

The leader wiped the blood from his hand on a rag as he walked over to Nikki’s body and looked down with a grin, admiring his work. I would suggest whatever god you pray to, you pray now, Jamus Willms. With that, he nodded to his men, and they began their assault on Jamus again.

Take her to the carriage. My Lord will be pleased to see her again, the leader told the man who still held the terrified girl—she was trying to bury her face in her hands. And for you, Markel, as promised for your services. He handed the plump man who stood watch by the door a bulging pouch of coins.

Thank you, sir, Markel stuttered, taking one last look at the horrific scene he had helped create.

The last man knocked over the burning oil lamps as they left the house. The flames quickly spread, consuming the dry, old wood that made up the cottage. Within minutes, the raging fire gutted the small building—the supports gave out, and the wreckage crumbled in on itself.

No one in the small village had dared come out of their homes to go to Jamus’ family's aid, fearing what might happen to them if they did—.

—Jamus’ inconsolable sobs stirred him from his dark memory. He was lying on the cold earth, curled up. He pulled himself to his feet with great effort. He wiped the stinging tears from his face, cringing as he tore away bits of burnt skin and scab as he did so. But the pain only refueled him as he continued to walk towards the town of Milton. Toward the first to suffer his wrath of vengeance—

2

Envious Parasite

Light wafts of cedar smoke cascaded from the high brick chimney, lingering in the cold night air around the affluent house, a house ill-gotten and undeserved. Jamus wondered how many had fallen victim to Markel Jones and his perfidious ways to build such a splendid place. How many individuals had been murdered so that he may profit off it somehow? How many families were broken or abducted? There had always been rumors, but Jamus wasn’t a man who paid attention to such talk. A fool he had been. Had he been warier of this man, things may have been different—

Markel Jones had convincingly happened upon them. It had been their last night at the Fall Festival. They had just finished the day’s activities and were returning to their wagon, which they used as their campsite.

Evening Jamus, Nikki, Markel said, stopping them with a misleading smile. A pleasure to see you two and your beautiful children here again this year.

Jamus didn’t care much for Markel—he had been trying to court Nikki at the same time as Jamus had been. Markel had tried to use his status and money to win Nikki over. Jamus knew without a doubt that the men who had beaten him down one evening had been working for Markel. It was a warning to Jamus to scare him away. It had almost worked too.

Evening to you, Mr. Jones, Jamus replied, not wanting to be rude for the sake of his children, but his stern look wasn’t lost on Markel—though if he cared, it did not show.

So, I heard a rumor that Lord Carter has asked for your Sofia’s hand—that must be very exciting for you, he said, his smirk revealing that he knew the truth.

Yes, he did— Nikki replied, her tone wary but polite.

But we politely refused his offer. Sofia has yet to see her twelfth winter. She is nowhere near the age for such things, Jamus cut in coldly.

"Ah yes, I guess that is a little young for marriage, even to a powerful Lord, Markel replied, emphasizing powerful with a hand gesture. And, of course, a father would know best." He said the last part with a casual look towards Jamus, though his eyes darted back to Nikki. Yearning glistened in those malicious brown eyes and caused a filthy smirk on those thin lips.

Yes, I do. It was nice to see you again, Markel, but we must be getting back, Jamus countered bitterly, wanting nothing more than to be away before he gave the wrong impression to his children.

Ah yes, I am sorry to have kept you, he replied smugly. Tomorrow night, I insist you and your family dine with me at my table. Again, his words were posed to Nikki.

I am afraid we will have to refuse, Mr. Jones. We will be heading home on the morrow at first light, Nikki replied, trying to be friendly. Jamus needs to be back to work, helping Marcus with the crop before the frost comes.

Such a shame, but alas, I wish your journey home to Ever-Dale be swift and safe. Markel bowed politely and left, a swagger in his gait—

Yes, Markel had tried to bait them. Had they stayed the extra night, Jamus was sure something would have happened there. Not that it mattered. It had happened anyway.

Jamus stared into the house through a small side window. Markel Jones sat at a large silver-laden desk. It was an elaborately designed desk carved throughout its front and sides with fierce ancient warriors clad in strange mystical armor and weapons, fighting demons and beasts from other worlds.

Jamus could feel the rage-driven creature within him begging to be released. His breathing picked up, no longer shallow and jagged but deep and staggering, leaving a misty film outside the window, fogging his view of his target. A malicious grin quivered uncontrollably and spread across his scabbed lips. His burnt hands trembled almost unbearably at the anticipation of his revenge on his much-hated rival.

A quick movement reflected off the window behind him, stirring him from his twisted contemplation. With reflexes that belied his body’s current state, he spun to the side as the axe blade cleaved into the ground where he had been a moment before.

The stableman tore the doubled-bladed wood axe out of the stiff ground and stood ready, looking at the late-night prowler outside his master’s house. Who are you? What do you want here? the man hissed, his grip tightening on the well-worn axe handle.

They stood silently for several long heartbeats before the stableman realized he wouldn’t get his answers. He came forward, axe held high for another massive killing blow, but Jamus was ready and stepped in to meet the foolish man. Before the man could bring the weapon down rapidly enough to gather a solid force of momentum, Jamus’ hands grabbed the axe handle, stopping it abruptly.

The man’s eyes went wide with panic as he tried to free his weapon from the midnight enemy. They struggled to dominate the axe. The stableman was firm from his years of hard labor, but Jamus’ bitter rage was more potent. The double-bladed axe pointed a fierce blade toward each of their faces, and the hood of Jamus’ cloak fell back, revealing his disfigured, cruel features. The man’s eyes went wide with dismay, and for a moment, his attention was elsewhere; this enraged Jamus even more.

A snarl twisted across Jamus’ lips, causing several scabs to crack and ooze. With a mighty shove, enriched with un-contained fury, the axe blade buried itself into the stableman’s skull. Blood and gore spurted across Jamus’ face and ragged clothes as he pulled the axe from its new, fleshy sheath. The body crumpled in a heap to the cold earth.

Jamus’ breathing intensified with the pulsing adrenaline now coursing through him. He pulled his hood back over his head, went to the bloodied axe, then to the window. He stared down at the man’s corpse. A light vapor expelled off the warm blood that spilled onto the manicured grass. The small ruckus hadn’t even caught Markel Jones' attention, the ignorant bastard!

Jamus walked to the grand house's back door, dragging the double-bladed wood axe behind him. With two violent swings, the axe broke through the center of the thick oak doors, half tearing them from their iron hinges.

Jamus pushed his way through the wreckage, dragging the axe behind him, the eerie scraping of the heavy blade on the polished hardwood floors echoing through the house along with the sharp clink of his spurred boot.

A commotion to the side proved that Markel had heard him this time; there was nowhere to go but the exit that Jamus was walking toward. A vicious grin formed as he rounded the corner. He was trapped.

Who in the hell are you? Markel Jones bellowed out, fear gripping his tone as he saw the dark hooded figure blocking the only doorway from his office. But all that came in response to his question were deep trembling breaths from the ragged bloodstained figure. Do you know who I am? Markel screamed out.

You can’t just break into my house. There will be consequences, you know. You’re as good as dead! Do you hear me? DEAD!"

A deep, haunting laugh expelled from the poignant figure in front of him as he dragged the bloodied axe forward. Slamming it in front of him with a solid thud, several pieces of gore spattering the tanned carpet. Horror flashed across Markel’s face at the sight of the bloodied axe, but he quickly tried to regain his composure. What’s so funny, damn it! Who are you?

Dead—you think death scares me now? The figure laughed again, and his hood fell back, exposing his gruesome features and causing Markel to gasp in horror. You’ve already tried to kill me once before—looks like I’m not wanted on the other side yet! Jamus hissed. But I assure you, I will see you on your way there!

By the gods, Jamus, you’re alive! Markel cried out in dismay. But how? I saw them kill you. No one could have survived that.

And you watched them butcher my family! Rape, my wife! Steal my daughter! Burn my son alive! Jamus hissed, taking several steps forward, hoisting the axe up into his hands, his grip so tight his knuckles were long past white.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that, Jamus! I swear it to you, Markel stuttered as Jamus took several more steps forward. You have to believe me. I would never have agreed to that. They were just supposed to take your daughter, I swear it!

Vivid flashes erupted through Jamus’ mind—the carnage, the brutality, the blood, the screams—Like I’m going to believe you, you piece of shit!

It’s true, Jamus. I would never have bestowed that upon your family. You, yes, your family, no— Markel replied, his voice calming slightly as his eyes shifted over Jamus’ shoulder and back. I loved Nikki more than anything. She should have been mine! Not yours, you never deserved her—your kids should have been from my loins! Not the loins of some poor dirt farmer! But what was done is done, and now it’s time for you to join them!

Jamus followed Markel’s gaze and spotted the reason for his newfound confidence. With rage-induced swiftness, he swung around—the axe blade arcing wide and slashed through the servant’s midsection, spraying blood across the wall. The man dropped his knife to the floor, his eyes wide with terror and unexpected pain. His hands frantically tried to keep his entrails within him, to no avail, as they spilled out onto the once clean, carpeted floor. Jamus heaved the axe and swept it down, catching the man in the collarbone and severing his chest cavity.

Sharp, sudden pain in his side alerted him to the danger behind him. His elbow swung back, crushing Markel’s nose flat to his face and causing him to stumble around, leaving his small dagger buried in Jamus’ side.

Blood streamed down Markel’s broken face onto his luxurious, ill-gotten fineries. We can talk about this! I will pay you! More gold than your whole town would make in a lifetime! Please, don’t do this, Jamus! You can start again; find a new wife with that kind of fortune. Have a bunch of kids, raise them right, feed them well, he pleaded pathetically as he backstepped. The cold, bitter stare that loomed at him assured him no begging or pleading would save his life.

Make it quick! Markel bellowed out as tears streamed down his pathetic face.

You wish— Jamus replied, swinging the axe blade low and chopping through the blubbering man’s right leg.

Flashes of Nikki battered Jamus’ mind, and he brought the axe down again. What he hit, he didn’t know, but it sliced through flesh and bone, and the faint screams that penetrated his murky world assured him it was well placed. His victim's cries soon mingled with his wife's screams in his mind. Her terrified face assaulted his thoughts as it twisted in agony. Her eyes burned into his soul as she stared at him helplessly, begging and pleading with him to help as the men ravaged her. She had called him for help, but he couldn’t get to her. He had failed her—in the time she had needed him the most, and he had failed.

Horrifying screams could be heard inside Markel’s house for what seemed like forever. But no one was around or awake to hear the suffering that wallowed out into the night air.

Finally, the blood-drenched wood axe slipped from Jamus’ hands to the blood-soaked floor. He sank to his knees, unable to stand any longer. His hand reached down to the small dagger in his side; thick, dark blood oozed out slowly. He gripped the handle while tears streamed down his face—not because of the pain of the steel, but because he hadn’t been able to avenge his family fully and save his poor Sofia. He had failed his family—again.

At least I have exacted some vengeance. He mused as he stared down at the carnage that had once been Markel Jones. There was little to identify the fat man now, which pleased Jamus.

Jamus pushed the oil lamp from the nearby desk to the floor, and it exploded into flames. He gripped the blade handle and tried to pull it free, but the knife didn’t budge. Jamus tried again but still couldn’t remove the dagger, he was too weak, and his vision blurred and wavered as blackness consumed him, and he hit the floor—

3

Unwelcomed Savior

C ome on, papa. We’re gonna be late! Nate cried, pulling on Jamus’ hand hard and leading him through the never-ending crowd.

Hold on, little man. Jamus laughed. If we don’t wait for your mother and sister, we’ll never hear the end of it.

But they’re always so slow! Nate whined as he slowed his young, eager pace.

We’re coming; we’re coming, Nikki called to them from behind.

Come on, mama. I’m gonna be late! Nate cried again.

Not on my watch, little man. Jamus hoisted his son onto his shoulders and then turned back to Nikki and Sofia. They are calling the names. I will see you there, Jamus told them and took off through the crowd at a steady pace.

They had made it just in time as Nate’s name was called for qualification in the annual children’s lawn dart competition, an event Nate had entered every year since he could stand. The entrance fee was a full copper coin for his age group, but silver was the prize if he could place in the top three. The year before, he had placed fourth and had still come home with a large supply of spiced taze for the family. This year, he was confident he could place in the top three and had the family’s full support.

The children lined up at their provided markers, and the crowd fanned out around the playing area, parents and friends pushing their way to the inner circle to get the best view of their children.

We didn’t miss anything, did we? Nikki asked as she found Jamus.

No, they are just about to start, Jamus replied, picking his daughter up and resting her on his shoulders so she could see better.

I won second place, dad. Did you see it? I won second place! Nate bellowed gleefully.

We saw! Jamus replied, his voice full of pride as he reached down to pick up his son. When his hands touched the boy, pain erupted through his hands as if he had dipped his hands in scolding water.

What is it, daddy? the boy asked, confused, his features beginning to contort as his flesh began peeling and blistering as unseen flames consumed him.

Jamus’ eyes burst open, and he rolled over, retching until all that came was painful dry heaves. Gasping for air, he tried to calm himself, his eyes finally adjusting to see the yellow and crimson vomit on the floor. His heart began racing as he rolled out of the hard cot he found himself in, then doubled over as agony laced his entire body.

It’s okay. Calm yourself, a soft voice told him. You are safe here.

Jamus looked up and saw a short, chubby, dark-haired woman looking down at him, worry creasing her middle-aged features. What happened? he whispered angrily. Where am I?

Here, let me help you back onto the cot, and I will explain, the woman replied, reaching down to help him.

Jamus slapped her hands away. I do not need your help, damn it! he hissed back, trying to pull himself back to the dusty cot.

Well, you sure needed help getting out of Markel’s burning house after you butchered him and two of his servants, she shot back in a quick retort.

I didn’t need your damn help! Jamus yelled back, collapsing to the floor, unable to pull himself back onto the cot, —nor did I want it.

I have a hard time believing you wanted to just die there on the floor with that bastard's knife in your side, she countered.

You know nothing of what I wanted! Jamus screamed hoarsely, hiding his head in his battered arms to muffle his sobs. There was a long awkward silence before, finally, the woman spoke again.

You are in my cottage, not far from the smoldering ruins where you killed Markel, she began, slowly drawing Jamus from his arms. I watched from the stairwell as you forced your way into the house, dragging with you Miller's wood axe—you gutted poor Tomas as he snuck up behind you and then— she stopped, horror glazing her eyes as she recalled the memory. —then you butchered Markel as if demons possessed you.

Jamus looked up at her from the cold floor. "Why did you