The Missing Blood Rite Part 1

Artful Goldenears didn’t ask to become a hero, known as the Bat, but now he has to help a ghost save her children, can he do it in time?

Written by: The Traveling Bard Age Tomb

The Twin City of York East

In the year of our Lord 1432,

 

Tear Bearskull frown at the sight of the city surrounded by the wall like a clock, and at the center of the city stood the tall tower casting its shadow down, much like the ticking hand of a clock. He watched the heavy smoke from the stone building hover over the houses and shops wishing to all the Blood gods he never came this far south. He couldn’t see the sister city of York to the west except for the tips of the tower, but he knew it sat over the hill.

                Either way, he hated the cities.

                He and his Clan were born in the Thundering Mountains were life had become hard but made them strong. A hard life, his father, the Chief, would often say, makes strong squirrels, an easy life makes weak ones. We are the Mountains, born of the Blood gods, here only the weak die.

                And yet, the Clans had been forced south by the growing darkness. The Mountains, along with the Blood gods no longer wanted them. They were cast out into the world which the only place they could head was to the Realm. Where all the weak ones lived.

                He frowns even deeper at the sight of the city, the wall, and the cowards. He prayed nightly for the Blood gods to destroy this city, but at least nothing had happened to the place. His Clan along with all the others, have been forced to live within the walls.

                The Emperor to the far south, a place Tear would never dare to go, had sent word that all the Clans were welcome into the Realm with open arms, but he hadn’t stepped into the city. The squirrels of York might have open the gate for them but they hated their every step.

                “Chief,” Horde said, coming out of the snowstorm. Tear didn’t glance over to the large squirrel with thick brown and white fur. Horde like all those in the Clans, was powerful in his body, feed by the Blood gods to be tall and strong. His might was greater than all except when it came to Tear. Tear stood a head taller than his Warlord, with deep black fur, and long scars along his face. Each of them wore golden rings in their ears for every battle won and Tear had many rings.

                He missed those battles. The smell of snow under his boots bleeding red with his fallen foes. The other Clan dead by the warriors of Tear’s Clan, killing off their gods and goddesses of those dead squirrels. He missed those days went they were younger.

                “What is it?” Tear barked with the wind kicking against him.

                “Everything is ready,” Horde said, stepping beside him looking over the city.

                “What have we become?” Tear asked, with the wind almost devouring his words. “We have lost our honor.”

                “We had no choice,” Horde said.

                “Wouldn’t have death been better than all of this?” Tear asked, sweeping his paw over the city.

                “I don’t know,” Horde said. “All I know is I follow you, here or in death.”

                Tear nodded.

                “But those shadows never fought us head to head,” Horde reminded him. “They would come in the long nights cutting our throats while we slept, which no way to die.”

                Tear took in a deep cold breath putting his paw on his Warlord’s shoulder. “You are right my old friend. Let’s get this over with.”

                Horde nodded, turning on his heels following his Lord back over the hill where a war band stood, twelve strong, each one of them a trusted warrior. They all had fought, bleed, and killed beside Tear in many battles but none of them were happy about the matter at paw. They all stood with their sword in their paws frowning deeply at Tear.

                He walked up to them, watching the circle break as he approached. There at the center of the group kneel a Blood witch, tied and gagged. The old witch stared with rage up at Tear when he stopped in front of her. He removed the gagged as she spat on his boots.

                “You, Faye Toothsliver, have been charged with betraying your Clan,” Tear said calmly holding his rage behind the words. “You took children of our blood for you wicked spells and for this, you shall be put to death.”

                “Give me the Blood Rite,” Faye ordered.

                “I shall not,” Tear growled. “Your soul will roam the mountains forever, dumb and deaf.”

                “Give me the Blood Rite,” she said again,” or you will come to pay for it. I will find the Lost King, and I will get him to send his dea ---“

                Horde gagged her again as she fought back against the rope. “Not wise to let a witch speak to you for too long.”

                Tear agreed. “Your name will be no more, Faye Toothsliver. None shall speak from this day on. Your name is dead to us.”

                She mumbles something under the gag staring up at him hard. All the rage and death in her eyes fell over him but he cared not. He took the battle-ax from Horde, raising it above his head, and she never looked away from him, even as her head rolled in the snow. The war band took the body far into the mountains tossing it down a cliff never to be found. While some others took the head far to the east to the waters of the Black Dragon Sea, and before they tossed it into the water, the witch’s eyes turn to stare deep into their souls.

                One of the squirrels snarled at the demon, tossing the bloody head into the water.

Tear went back to his Clan being held in encamps of the city to find his wife dead. Her had throat had been cut while she slept, but the worse of the horrors was Tear could not find his son anywhere in his tent. The boy had been taken.

Author's Note

If you had made it this far, then I appreciate it, and before you start to tear my work apart (which doesn’t bother me too much), let me explain something. The most common critique I see is about my spelling and grammar. It is an understandable critique, and I do not blame you for pointing it out. After all, spelling and grammar are the tools in which we use to craft our work, like a paintbrush or a chisel. The artist must know how to use these tools well, but like an artist who has a tremble in their hand's somethings will never be perfect.
My tremble in my hand is caused by my dyslexia. It is something, no matter how much I learn, study, or work on, it will never go away. It is the reason you will find a good bit of spelling and grammar mistakes in my work. I ask you to keep this fact in my when you are about to write your critique.
Also, I feel the need to point this out, this website is like a journal for me. A messy journal I used to work out problems in my stories or to simply warm up before digging into my novels. I do not hire an editor for the work here. I do not spend hours and days pouring over these stories to make them perfect, that energy is saved for the project I plan on taking to market. Everything on this website is my world-building exercises or sketches for other projects.
I do hope you enjoy my work, but this website is not a publishing house for me, and it shouldn’t be for you either. Something to keep in mind as you write your critique.