Watchman's Quest Read online

  Craig Askham

  Watchman's Quest

  Portal Hunter Chronicles: Book 1

  First published by White Lite Publishing 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Craig Askham

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Craig Askham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Craig Askham has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

  First edition

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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  Contents

  Dedication

  Newsletter Sign-Up

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  A Message From The Author

  Demon Quest: The Blurb

  Demon Quest: An Excerpt

  Demon Quest: Buy It Now

  Dedication

  For my wife, who has never read any of my books and probably never will.

  For all she knows, I’m rubbish. But she supports me anyway.

  And for my kids, Joshua and Jake, who are too young to read my books.

  One day, though, we’ll write them together…

  Newsletter Sign-Up

  Welcome to Vangura. Stillwater sent you via the portal, I presume? If not, please ignore what I just said about portals and the like. What a load of old nonsense, right? You may have just wandered in here by mistake. In which case, welcome anyway. Just pull up a chair by the fire, and I’ll send someone over with a few shots of feijen to take the edge off. Leave your sword under the table, if you like, but keep it within easy reach; it’ll get lively in here later, so I’m giving you fair warning…

  Right, where was I? Ah yes, I’ll whisper it, just in case. Portals.

  You liked what you saw, I take it? Was it the cover? Or the blurb? Maybe you just devour anything to do with portal fantasy? Well, whatever route you took to get here, I’m grateful. I’m hoping this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, and I’d love to get to know you.

  Click here to sign up for my newsletter, and I’ll tell you a bit more about myself. How I found my way to Vangura, and what my future plans are for the series. I’d love to hear more about you, as well.

  Also, I’ll send you free stuff. Books, short stories, promos from authors like myself, and anything else I think you might like. There’ll definitely be early access to new releases, and opportunities to become beta readers and/or join my ARC team. Most importantly, there’ll be bonus content that only you, as a subscriber, will be able to access. Like Demon Hunter: Fall of the Asger Juhl. It’s not for sale anywhere, but you can have it for free. Because I’m nice.

  But hey, I might be getting ahead of myself here. You might not be ready to commit yet, and that’s fine. After all, you’ve not even read the book yet, right? Don’t worry; I’ll link to that newsletter sign-up at the end, as well. Just in case.

  In the meantime, please enjoy the story. Hopefully you’re warmed up by now, and haven’t fallen asleep in front of the fire. Get some feijen down you, that’s my advice. Don’t know what feijen is yet? That’s ok, you’ll learn. It’s pretty popular around here (hint - it burns ALL the way down).

  Please drink responsibly, of course, and remember my warning; this place is starting to get busy, and some of the newbies look pretty rough, so I really would keep that sword of yours within easy reach…

  One

  The tavern was rowdy, that much Givrok Ironshoulder could tell before they even walked through the door. Both moons were out in force, but the streets in this part of town were narrow enough to keep most of their light at bay. Thatch-roofed buildings stretched along both sides of the street, first and second floors leaning so far over their ground floors that they almost formed an arch. Ironshoulder halted outside The Chirping Cricket, just as the door swung open and a group of revellers spilled out onto the cobbles. The lamplighter responsible for the area hadn’t turned up yet, which made the sudden sliver of light from the tavern seem like bright sunlight. Squinting at the laughing group, he looked above their heads for the telltale names that would identify them as gamers to his augmented vision. Dragos Toader appeared above the doorframe in blue, seemingly hovering in front of the varnished wood but actually only visible to the Stillwater agent thanks to the contact lenses that were already starting to irritate his eyes. Underneath the gamer’s name, in darker blue, was his real name. Jackson Hartwell. It didn’t ring any bells to Ironshoulder, so he stepped to the side and let them all past. Rurhol Heavyfinger followed suit, eyes also drifting above the man’s head as if he’d spotted something of interest on the doorframe. If the gamer hadn’t been so drunk, he might have turned his head to find out what the fuss was about. But, to be fair, he was very drunk. So were his friends, none of whom registered names so had to be locals. Neither Ironshoulder nor Heavyfinger gave them the time of day; Ironshoulder just reached for the door before it slammed closed again, and stepped over the threshold.

  “Wirio’s Balls.” Rowdy didn’t do the place justice, apparently. A group of minstrels were performing somewhere out of view, although their chorus was currently being drowned out by the slightly-less-than-polished rendition of over a hundred alcohol-qualified bards, who were stamping their feet and launching ale over the sides of their swinging tankards as they tried to outdo one another in earnest. Ironshoulder felt his head start bobbing, and grinned behind him at Heavyfinger. “Reminds me of the mess hall back in Germany, except we were slaughtering Aerosmith, not this Bilbo Baggins bullshit.”

  Heavyfinger shouldered a squat Shadziri out of the way, and leaned close enough to spit in Ironshoulder’s ear as he yelled above the din.

  “Can’t hear a bloody word you’re saying.”

  “Never mind.”

  Heavyfinger looked away, rubbing the stubble on his jaw for the umpteenth time that day as he followed the Shadziri’s convoluted path to the bar, ducking gracefully under outstretched arms and weaving like a squat, bearded ballet dancer. Ironshoulder wondered how his comrade even had any hair left to rub, such was the frequency of the other man’s habit. In quieter environments, the rasping sound of skin on bristle was like sandpaper on wood. Here, thankfully, it was swallowed whole by the din. Still annoying, though, he realised.

  “Big Watch presence in here tonight!” Heavyfinger shouted, having noted the success of the Shadziri’s mission for drinks despite his diminutive stature in relationship to almost every other reveller in the room. His attention had now been caught by a large group of City Watchmen gathered in the corner by the unused fireplace. Seven or eight of them, all
in their dark uniforms, nursing tankards of barely touched ale and clearly still on duty. One of them, a slip of a man with black hair scraped into a harsh ponytail, had noticed their arrival and was looking over with a bored expression on his angular face. Even from his spot not far from the door, and separated by a whole room of swaying patrons, that look made the hair stand up on the back of Givrok Ironshoulder’s neck. Maybe it was something to do with the pencil-thin goatee that made him look more sinister than he actually was, or maybe it was the look of knowing that the casual glance implied, but the Stillwater agent had long ago learned never to ignore the foreboding caused by those standing-up hairs. Thankfully, their view of each other was suddenly blocked by a serving wench as she sidled into view with a tray of drinks.

  “Evening, boys,” she hollered, using her free hand to brush a red lock of hair behind her ear. “Saw you come in, knew the thought of fighting your way to the bar wouldn’t sit too well with you.”

  “Thanks, Nisha.” Heavyfinger winked at her, and reached for his customary goblet of mead. Ironshoulder smiled, picked up his shot of feijen and knocked it back in one shot, then screwed his face up and slammed the tiny glass back down on Nisha’s tray. She shook her head in disapproval the whole time, and was still doing it after he’d picked up his ale and she’d moved off in the direction of the tables. He placed a hand on Heavyfinger’s shoulder, and nudged him behind a group of fishermen who still faintly reeked of their wares, out of view of the nosey Watchman.

  “We’re going to need to stay on our toes tonight, Rurhol,” he said, leaning in and speaking just loudly enough for the other man to hear. They switched positions, with the slightly smaller man leaning in to make himself heard this time. Ironshoulder flinched, waiting for the spit to land on his earlobe.

  “You should probably lay off that horrible pisswater then, Givrok. I don’t want to be carrying you out of here. Again.”

  Ironshoulder bit back a retort about remembering things a little differently, and instead took a step back and craned his neck to look over the fishermen. Vanguran names flashed up on the coarsely-plastered walls, overlapping each other and impossible to read as they bobbed up and down in time with the dancing heads they belonged to.

  “Lot of gamers here tonight,” he said, leaning in again. Heavyfinger merely nodded, already tired of how hard it was just to have a conversation in here. Ironshoulder held his tankard to his lips for an extended period, but only took a sip of the bitter brew inside it. Sighing appreciatively, he jerked his head in the direction of the bar. “Let’s circulate,” he mouthed, and received another nod.

  The song finished to a round of rapturous applause and foot stamping that was ironically more in time than it had been during the ditty. Ironshoulder added his boot to the appreciation, and threw in a manly cheer for good measure. He was one of the tallest in the room, and his raised voice carried weight behind it. Those in his immediate vicinity turned to identify the owner of such an impressively-lunged bellow, stupid grins on their faces until they saw the slab of granite that masqueraded as his jaw, and the dinner plate hands that made his tankard look the size of a child’s cup. Then they quickly turned away again, wide-eyed and slightly more sober than they had been five seconds ago, hoping they’d done nothing to attract his attention.

  “Stop scaring people, you big oaf!” Heavyfinger yelled in his ear, and he reached up to wipe away the saliva that followed. He wasn’t really one to talk considering he was only marginally smaller than the big oaf himself, and almost as impressively square-jawed. Heavyfinger didn’t see himself as the archetypal soldier he unavoidably was, though. Whereas Ironfinger was happy to play the role of GI Joe, complete with buzzcut and snarl, Rurhol Heavyfinger saw himself as more of a ninja spy. Sleek, streamlined and silent; able to disappear into the background at a moment’s notice. Unobtrusive and forgettable, but also handsome and debonair. The big oaf was deluding himself, of course. Ironshoulder knew the pair of them looked like walking tree trunks; it was the reason the ponytailed Watchman had noticed them the second they’d walked into The Chirping Cricket..

  Taking another pull on his ale, Ironshoulder started moving. Someone immediately knocked into him and sent frothy liquid on a meandering path down his chin, clunking the pewter rim into his forehead for good measure. It didn’t matter; drinking and walking in a busy tavern was inevitably going to lead to spillages. He simply lowered the tankard and wiped his face with the back of his hand, then gave that hand a lick. Heavyfinger nudged him just as he took another mouthful and this time, as he repeated the process of wiping and licking, he allowed it to matter just a little. His comrade snickered, fully aware of his timing, and then pointed in the direction of a particularly rowdy group of gamers not far from the Watchmen. Ironshoulder flicked his eyes casually over their names, and nodded his agreement before changing course and heading in their direction.

  There were five of them in this particular group, and perhaps another five or six similarly-sized groups elsewhere in the tavern. The Chirping Cricket was popular amongst gamers; the landlord kept an orderly house, and dealt promptly with troublemakers using his wooden cosh. This made it an attractive proposition for those looking to integrate themselves into their early Vanguran adventures with less of the danger associated with some of the rougher establishments. Added to this, it was a nice-looking place; cracked wooden beams and wrought iron chandeliers up above, with sawdust-covered flagstones underfoot and large fireplaces that crackled and roared when the weather outside called for it. Glass bottles of various shapes, sizes and colours lined shelves along the walls, and it was one of these bottles that a particularly drunk-looking gamer had managed to appropriate by balancing precariously on one of the sturdy tables and reaching almost beyond the limits of his balance. He was holding it aloft in both hands, shaking it like a bottle of champagne he was about to spray over his friends. Before Ironshoulder and Heavyfinger made it over to them, the ponytailed Watchman darted over with cudgel raised, bringing it down on the wooden table top mere inches from the idiot’s leather boot. The idiot’s friends paused momentarily in their laughter and then, as one, pointed up at him and jeered. The Watchman jabbed angrily at the floor, and the gamer bowed gracefully before complying. Ironshoulder felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked around to discover the source.

  It was one of the guides, although his name was a mystery without glancing above the man’s head and reading it. Most men would try to do so subtly, so as not to cause offence by revealing they had no idea who the other person was, but Ironshoulder wasn’t most men and the concept of polite manners sometimes passed him by.

  “Greetings, Pej Vahdat.” He pronounced the as he thought it should be, Pej Var-dat.

  “Greetings, Givrok Ironshoulder,” the other man replied, taking advantage of the brief lull between songs to be able to speak in an almost normal tone. He was medium height, or rather tiny stood next to Ironshoulder, with a dark complexion and shiny black hair so clean-looking that he might have stepped straight from a dandruff shampoo holo-commercial. He was dressed in the only possible garb he could be in order for an Asian man to fit in on the world of Vangura, and that was as a wealthy Rakeshi merchant. He played the part well, from the linen scarf loosely wrapped several times around his neck, to the dusty robes and soft walking boots that looked more like dirty bandages. “Pronounced Pay V’dar, by the way, but I get that a lot.”

  Ironshoulder nodded, the correction already erased from his memory.

  “What can we do for you, Pej?” He repeated his original pronunciation and Vahdat nodded, acknowledging the rebuke with a faint smile of acceptance. Ironshoulder noted it, and felt a rare moment of guilt. Pay V’dar. He retrieved the pronunciation from his mental trashcan.

  “I’m responsible for these idiots,” he said, jerking a finger over his shoulder at the young gamers who had now clumped together to form a circle with their arms around each other, and were jumping up and down like they were at a rock concert. The minstrels hadn’t
actually started their next song, but that seemed nothing more than a minor detail. Ironshoulder rolled his eyes, and Vahdat saw him doing it. “I don’t want to look, do I?”

  “Not really, Pej.” He made sure to pronounce the other man’s name correctly this time. “They’re going to need to calm themselves down a little bit, though.”

  “Understood. More City Watch in here than usual, I’ll probably move them on somewhere else, just to be on the safe side.”

  Ironshoulder nodded, and gave him what was meant to be a friendly clap on the shoulder but caused the smaller man to wince.

  “Good chat, Pej. You meet any resistance from them, you make sure to tell them myself and Rurhol Heavyfinger over here will start cracking some heads together.”

  “They’ll do as they’re told, don’t you worry about that. This isn’t my first rodeo, you know?”

  Ironshoulder rolled his eyes, and thought about berating the guide for his use of the word rodeo. Nobody in this tavern was speaking English; the trackers embedded in all gamers’ arms contained nano-translators that allowed them to speak the local language which, in this case, was Aneiri. The Aneiri, though, had no word for rodeo. To any local listening, a random foreign word had just been thrown into their otherwise fluent conversation. It was the kind of error expected of gamers but, as a Stillwater operative, Pej should have known better than to make such a rookie mistake. Ironshoulder opened his mouth, and then clamped it shut again, straight away. Truth was, he didn’t want to be that guy. The one who picked up others on their grammar and spelling mistakes. After all, he wasn’t exactly a professor of language himself. Besides, Pej was playing a Rakeshi, so his Aneiri probably wouldn’t be perfect anyway. Rodeo probably just sound like a Rakeshi replacement for a word he simply didn’t know in Aneiri. Right?