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    Old Knucklebone
    Old Knucklebone
    Old Knucklebone
    Ebook84 pages1 hour

    Old Knucklebone

    By P. J. Atwater

    ()

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    About this ebook

    “There will be murder in your village. Murder, before the first storm’s end in winter!”
    In a nameless inn,
    In a nameless village,
    A nameless evil awakens.
    The unspoken history of a house beset by tragedy has come alive. To defend their home, the inhabitants will have to piece together the long-dead and strange events surrounding a missing child, a bloody slaughter, and the hanging of a murderer.
    They will need help.
    A man rides into town: a warrior, a scholar, a philosopher, a politician. A stranger brought the curse – can a stranger be relied upon to break it?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWorld Castle Publishing, LLC
    Release dateJul 23, 2024
    ISBN9798891262218
    Old Knucklebone
    Author

    P. J. Atwater

    P. J. Atwater lives with his wife and three children in Southern California, where he works as an education specialist. He holds a B. A. Degree in English Literature, and spends his free time in his private library with works of history, philosophy, and classic literature.

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      Book preview

      Old Knucklebone - P. J. Atwater

      Old Knucklebone

      by

      P.J. Atwater

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      WCP Logo 7

      World Castle Publishing, LLC

      Pensacola, Florida

      Copyright © 2024 P. J. Atwater

      Smashwords Edition

      Paperback ISBN: 9798891262201

      eBook ISBN: 9798891262218

      First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, July 23, 2024

      http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

      Smashwords Licensing Notes

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

      Cover: Jenna Augustine Atwater

      Editor: Karen Fuller

      Chapter 1

      Wintry night had settled over the inn. Through the great hall’s squat window, stars shone — some clear, some rimed in frosty halos, winking through black-velvet wisps of floating cloud. The window was of rare glass, and its latticed pane was flecked with a sparse melt of snowflakes: tiny, irresolute pioneers who perished upon contact with the hall’s meager glow. A hearth dominated the main floor, and logs crackled dutifully in the widow Mladena’s stove in back, bringing the smell of savory cakes and lamb from the kitchen; yet even with the hearth and a myriad of lamps and candles, the hall seemed dim tonight, the rafters low, the freeze a mere breath away, so that the three gamblers at one table sat hunched with their elbows around their drinks and their cloaks on their backs. They spoke in murmurs, as though fearful that drowning out the snap of the hearth would too douse its warmth, and when the door opened on the whistling night, they bunched themselves tighter into their cloaks.

      Grimka, the old hunter, squealed a chair to an empty space at the table, eliciting a wince from the others. The widow, knowing what he liked, brought hot wine with his lamb and placed it before him. He thanked her, and he blessed her. She went back to her kitchen, knowing she’d be paid before he was done.

      Grimka breathed heavily, rubbing his doeskin gloves against his elbows. You might be fooled into thinking you could still see his breath in the fire’s hazy glow. Brushing slush from his hard, furred shoulders, he looked to his fellows.

      By Knarus, aren’t there any logs on the fire? he said. Ton, won’t you move your chair and let an old man put his back to the hearth a minute?

      Ton grunted and scooted his seat over.

      With a grateful mutter, the hunter shifted into the space. The fire dried the sleet but did not reach his frame through his wolfskin cloak. He took off his gloves and pulled his plate close. The meat scalded his fingertips and palate but warmed his belly. He took it all with gratitude. Across the room, his eyes fell upon the totem that hung over the doorframe: a dagger-sized replica of a fat southern sword, pointed down as if poised to thrust on the head of every guest passing through. Crafted from a single piece of iron, it was the emblem of some foreign god brought by a traveler at a time no one remembered. Why Mladena kept it there in place of the traditional Tribefather or her family gods, Grimka did not know and had never asked.

      The inn was old and nameless. The family who built it had gone long ago; some said they had perished, though few in the small village would speak openly of such things. The second story sported four private rooms, half of which were occupied by regular boarders: men with no families but with fortune enough to live out their days. Half of the ground floor was occupied by the great hall facing the kitchen; stout wooden walls divided the other half into smaller parlors, which could be filled with cots brought in from the barn. A massive, round stone hearth sat at the intersection of these partitions. It was the very heart of the inn, facing into every room. Each face had copper shutters, so the warmth could be directed into any room at will.

      The quaint furnishings, the must of old varnish mingling with Mladena’s soaps, and the tinge of cooking and smoke, usually soothed Grimka. He often joked that the widow’s house was the only place to keep him, for everything in it was old but fit and well cared for. But tonight, it felt a little less like home.

      The dice clunked across the table. They rattled against the wooden side of Mordek’s cup. Ton groaned, and Yvorr grinned. Grimka paid no attention. Wiping wine from his beard, setting his cup down, he cast his gaze about the hall.

      But where is Venslas? He asked.

      Ton scooped the dice into his hand. Draining the last of his wine, he shook a few drops out of his cup and rattled the dice inside—a gesture, the woodcutter claimed, that brought luck when he was down. He’s packing his things, Ton said absently. Moving on.

      Grimka was shocked. Moving on?

      Ton threw the dice. They came out with a spatter on the stained wood boards. He looked at them and grimaced. So he says. He passed the dice to Grimka.

      He’s lived here ages, said Grimka. He threw the dice, barely noting his roll, and passed them left to Yvorr. What does he want to leave for? If Grimka was old, then Mladena’s favorite tenant was venerable—too ancient to pull up stakes.

      Venslas says the air here has changed, Yvorr answered. He cast a throw, sucked his teeth in cautious satisfaction, and passed the stones to his left. With a shudder, Grimka pulled the wolfskin tight about his chest. Normally, he’d shed the cloak and coat

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