A Chronicle Of Chaos (The Light And Shadow Chronicles Book 1) | Book by D.M. Cain

Aug 17

Aug 17 A Chronicle Of Chaos (The Light And Shadow Chronicles Book 1)

Book summary

In a world torn by war, Chaos, a warrior of the Children of Light, and Anathema, a demon loyal to the Brotherhood of Shadows, are fierce rivals. As their obsession with defeating each other grows, their paths converge, challenging their loyalties and blurring the lines between Light and Darkness.

Book excerpt from A Chronicle Of Chaos

The cold wind whipped around Anathema, his light brown hair obscuring his vision. Icy drops of drizzle sprayed his delicate human skin. He cursed the need to remain discreet, to trudge so slowly across the land, his weak body labouring over every tiny step. He longed to stretch his wings and burst free from the frustrating confines of his disguise.

In a fit of rebellious anger, he had marched from the Belkeep throne room, hatred and cruelty consuming him with the desire to damage Vincent and Phantom. He needed to let them know that he was not a pawn to use as they desired. He should not be cast aside so easily, a useless commodity, only utilised when no other option was available. He was frenzied with the idea of revenge, consumed by a thirst to inflict pain, but a cold truth gnawed at the pit of his stomach. No matter how much he wanted to teach them both a severe lesson, Vincent and Phantom were his superiors and, as much as he hated to admit it, they were holding his reins. So he defied them in the only way he could—by dismissing the restrictions on his freedom. He had marched across Meraxor, the Brotherhood’s lands, to the demon settlement at Vermidor. Slaughtering a few villagers for fun along the way, he had stormed straight out of the town and into the plains that led to the edge of Meraxor.

The Brotherhood’s towns and villages became sparse and eventually stopped, the flat and open land stretching on, featureless, into the distance. After a while, Anathema came across a thin wire fence marking the border. He knew there would be patrol guards along the fence, but he couldn’t see any. If he did, he could just kill them. Their swords and axes could do no damage to him.

He put one leg through the fence, ducked down and pulled his other leg through. Standing for the first time in the forbidden wilderness, he stopped and took in a deep breath of freedom. This was Karinam, part of the uncharted lands. Neither the Children of Light nor the Brotherhood of Shadow owned this primitive soil. Untouched, unknown, trodden only by natives, hidden in their tiny dwellings. He gave a satisfied grin and trudged on towards the line of trees he could see in the distance, the edge of the Elaki forests.

As the landscape became familiar and repetitive, his mind wandered back to his earlier conversation with Vincent. Resentment rose within his chest again and his human fingers tingled with a longing to destroy. He searched the landscape, eyes scanning the horizon for the first sign of life: a farm, a house, a small hamlet. Anything. For where there was life, there was life to take away, and nothing would pacify his rage right now more than taking a life. He relished the idea of watching consciousness flicker and perish in the eyes of his victim as his hands clenched tighter around a human’s throat. The thought aroused him and he looked more fervently for settlements.

The sun had begun to set and an orange glow like fiery silk was spreading across the evening sky. Anathema’s frail human body began to ache with the fatigue of his tiring journey. As a demon, he didn’t need food or drink. His body never tired. But as a human, he needed a rest and a drink. Lights caught his attention, twinkling in the darkness amongst the first trees. He headed towards them and, as a small village came into view, he considered his options. No flag flew in the courtyard, so it was not Children of Light territory. Nobody would care, or even know, if he unleashed his wings and razed the town into dust. But it might get back to Vincent—he had spies everywhere. And if, by some remote chance, his rash actions alerted the Children of Light to the existence of demons, he’d have to suffer the consequences. He could not risk the transformation here; it was not worth it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun. Torture could be psychological as well as physical.

He wandered up to the village, noting the wooden sign that dangled in the wind: Valdell. How quaint and delicious. A rough, shale path led through the centre of the town, small stone houses lining the road on either side. After putting on his most polite human face, he convinced the man at the gateway to let him through and slowly walked down the street, deciding where his fun should begin. He passed numerous houses with their doors closed and bolted until he found the inn. A lone horse was tethered to a post outside. Anathema pushed on the wooden doors and waltzed into the bar, looking for someone to torment.

Anathema looked around the bar and his grey eyes landed upon a young man seated at the bar, hazy from too many drinks of some kind. He wore dark clothes, suggesting some sort of military affiliation but sported no crest, so he probably wasn’t from the Children of Light or the Brotherhood of Shadow. His strong frame and the way he held his head high betrayed his status as a soldier, but he looked far too drunk to coordinate himself if a fight broke out. The perfect target. With a grin, Anathema sat beside him. The young man frowned but said nothing.

“Barkeep!” Anathema snarled, and the middle-aged man behind the bar cautiously wandered over, keeping his distance as much as he could. “I want one of those.” Anathema flicked his hands in the direction of the man’s drink. The bartender shuffled off to fetch him the liquor, while Anathema turned and stared threateningly at the young man, who resolutely ignored him.

The bartender returned and placed the drink carefully down before him. “That’ll be two embers, sir.”

Anathema stood up from his bar stool, leant across the bar and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. He dragged the man towards him, ignoring his yelps of fear, and let out a low growl. With a stare that terrified the barkeep so much it looked like he could barely control his bodily functions, Anathema let him go. The bartender scurried away, leaving him to his drink.

The powerful liquid stung his tongue, and he clenched his jaw as he gulped down the beverage. Alcohol was another perk of the human world. Below the surface, in the deep fires of Hell, no liquid besides molten lava flowed and the cool, intoxicating freshness of human beverages was a mere fantasy. Anathema was determined to enjoy his time in the human world for as long as it lasted. Empowering himself with alcohol-fuelled confidence, he turned to the man beside him.

The man raised his glass to his lips and took another sip, his elbow jutting out at an angle as he drank. As he lowered his arm, Anathema watched, calculating the exact moment to strike. As soon as the young man was relaxed and unguarded, Anathema jabbed his own elbow out. The man’s drink splattered with a slapping noise onto the oak surface.

The stranger jumped to his feet with a face like thunder.

“What’s your problem?” he shouted.

Anathema smirked and took another sip, pleased with his choice of target: easy to annoy, quick to anger.

“I asked you a question!” the man shouted again, his body tensed and ready to pounce.

Anathema’s skin tingled in anticipation of a fight. Taking a final sip, he put his glass down gently on the bar and stepped down from the stool. He said nothing but eyed the man appreciatively. He was tall and slim with broad shoulders and defined arms. He had the focused stare of a warrior. Anathema gave a sly smile—this boy would be a delight to maim.

The bartender, who had been watching them at a safe distance, considered stepping in to break up their dispute, but it wasn’t worth it. He slowly edged backwards and out of sight, skulking away into his storeroom. There were only two other customers left in the bar, and they rapidly swallowed the rest of their drinks and scurried away, feeling the tension in the air.

Anathema was lithe, with a painfully thin body that moved slowly, deliberately. He slid effortlessly along the ground like a snake, powerfully coiled and ready to strike. His wispy, light hair fell across his face, covering his striking grey eyes as he weighed up his new opponent.

The young man swung first, a well-aimed fist flying through the air with lightning speed. Anathema anticipated the blow and ducked, laughing to himself about the ease with which he avoided the attack. It was the second strike that caught him off guard—a sharp kick, directed at his midriff. The man’s foot connected with force, knocking the breath from Anathema’s body and thrusting him backwards. His opponent smiled, seemingly enjoying the small victory.

Humiliation swept over Anathema. With inhuman speed, he threw himself into battle, launching attacks at him with graceful, fluid movements. His opponent countered every blow, his brow creased with concentration as he parried the attacks, throwing the occasional counter-attack whenever the chance presented itself.

A kick connected with Anathema’s knee and he dropped on to the floor, rolled with the momentum and rose to his feet again in time to launch a powerful punch at the enemy. The punch caught the man square on the jaw and disorientated him. He blinked the blurriness from his eyes and then threw himself at Anathema. Both men were collecting minor injuries as their concentration, their resolution, and their confidence dwindled and they realised that they were evenly matched. They could fight like this all night, but with no weapons, neither man would win.

They broke off from the brawl, panting, nursing injuries, staring suspiciously at each other, afraid to blink lest an attack should catch them unawares.

Anathema stared at the stranger, confused. He was a human, a lower life form, yet he was holding him in a stalemate. Equal strength, equal skill, equal desperation to win. And, for the first time in his long life, Anathema looked at a human with something approaching respect. The young man glared at his aggressor and then strode to the bar and knocked back the remainder of the drink from both his and Anathema’s glasses.

He called the bartender over from the storeroom where he was half hidden, peering out with fear. “Two more drakas!” The man placed the right amount of coins on the bar and greeted the stunned bartender with a grin.

With a nervous shuffle, the bartender fetched two drakas and placed them before him. Taking one in his right hand for himself, the man held the other out, as Anathema tentatively stepped forward and took the liquor from him.

The two men drank their spirits together, in one silent gulp, no communication breaking the air between them. The stranger, who refused to look at Anathema, ordered another two shots, giving the second away again. He slammed the glass down after a bitter swallow and turned, eyes blurry and voice slurred, to look at Anathema. Their gazes met but the man turned away at the sight of Anathema’s unforgiving, steel-cold eyes. This young soldier was tough, and Anathema guessed he didn’t scare easily, but he also knew that his face, even in human form, was enough to unnerve anybody. It was cold, impenetrable, declaring nothing of himself. It put humans on edge, which was exactly why he liked it.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” the young man asked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Anathema murmured, wincing as he swallowed the remainder of his liquor.

“Fair enough.” He didn’t pursue the question. “What brings you here then?”

Anathema hesitated. He couldn’t reveal too much about himself. This was just a human after all. “Problems at home. I’ve not been getting the respect I deserve.”

“So you came to a bar and picked a fight with a stranger?”

Anathema’s eyes narrowed as he tried to judge the level of hostility in the stranger’s voice. It seemed more of a general question than a challenge.

“I thought you’d be an easy target, a quick win.”

The young man laughed, “You picked the wrong person.”

“Clearly,” Anathema conceded and ran his eyes over the man’s dark features, weighing him up. There was strength in him—not just physical vigour but a mental resilience too. Anathema was pleased, despite himself, with finding an enemy he could respect. There was no honour in defeating somebody easily. An equal match was a much greater challenge.

“I'm Anathema,” he said and leaned over to extend a hand to the young man.

His companion hesitated and then shook his hand. “Call me Cay.”