The Missing Blood Rite Part 2

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

Artful Goldenears tapped the stone of the curved hearth, wondering where the smoke had gone. There was no chime built into the hearth of the underground cave, but hours ago, there had been a warm fire burning in it. Artful raised a golden eyebrow touching the solidness of the stone. He sighed, stepping back from the hearth, looking for a sign of the rune, causing the smoke not to fill the cave.

                The cave was closed to a home than anything else he had been in over the years. The hearth sat against the wall of a room, which was lined with books from all the ages, and a massive table sitting in the middle of the room. A suit of red and black armor with longhorns stood lifeless next to the hearth, and where normally, in the cave’s Artful had started to call home, this room had all four walls. Most of the time, one of the walls was missing opening to the large cave the Bat had built his homes in.

                For some reason, this cave had been sealed off on all sides.

                “I don’t see one,” Artful grumble to the sword sitting at the head of the table. The Sword of Death stolen by the original Bat, Mason Coldshiled, giving him immortality until the quest Artful went on with him changed everything. They had to track down a demon to save the Realm, along with Artful adopted children, and stop this evil. They did it, of course, but it had a high cost, Mason’s life. And yet, the squirrel who lived for lifetimes had been more than ready to go home to the AllFather.

                He passed the sword to Artful along with the armor of the Bat and the duty of the hero.

                He glanced back at the sword, “There had to be one.” He pointed at the stone. “The smoke has to be going somewhere.” He put his paw under his chin, shaking his head.

                The quest of the Bat, a hero of legend to keep the Realm safe from evil, wasn’t outside the realm of Artful’s own duties. He was counted among a warrior class of monks called the Sword Saint. The Saint's sole duty in the Realm was to travel the land, bring the Good Word to all, and righting wrongs where they are needed. They carried a Saint staff, a twist wood strength by magic long forgotten, and at the end of the wood was a blade made from Ulfberht steel. The steel crafted by the same magic as the wood making it unbreakable and equally as lost to time.

                The staff sat against the door of the room behind the sword.

                Artful sighed, taking a small red stone from a bowl on the table. He rapped against the stone table tossing it into the hearth before it blew into a fireball. The flaming stone landed in the hearth, racing the fire over the wood as if the wood might get up and run away before it was too late. The fire pushed waves of heat outside the cold room with Artful studying the smoke tumbling upward going … nowhere, but somewhere.

                “This isn’t right,” Artful told the sword. “I’m tired of not understanding this magic.” He narrowed his golden eyes watching the fire and smoke. “I will finger this out.” He pointed at the fire. “I will.”

                And yet, there had been so much magic he was found in the caves he didn’t understand. He had been traveling around the Realm finding cave after cave Mason had built fully supplied with anything he needed, expect food. There had been too many without food in them forcing Artful to get himself.

                “All right, all right,” Artful said, stepping over to the sword and picking it up to put on his belt. “I need to go for a walk.” Along with getting some goods for the next few days. He didn’t plan on staying in the Twin City of York East for too long, but he still needed to eat. “Mostly, so I don’t start singing to you,” he glanced down at the sword.

                He made it to the door, grabbing the staff he had to carry for the rest of his life. Every Saint died with their staff in their paws after they were buried, the staff would be pass to other Saint. He stared at the dark twist wood wondering how many other Saints held this staff before him. He could travel south to Whispering Oaks going to the Oak’s Library to find out about the staff, but -

                “Food first,” he said with his stomach roaring in agreement.

                He wrapped a thick winter cloak over his Royal Blue cloak, which had seen too many days out in the weather. A Sword Saint was meant to be always on the road moving from city to town back to the city looking for anyone who needed them. Traveling had been a way life for Artful, for all the Saints, but as of late, he didn’t like being in the cities.

                One of the untold side effects of carrying the sword, outside of the slow-growing hellfire red bleeding into his eyes. Red Mason had all the time Artful knew him, and his red burn very bright. Artful hoped it would never happen to him, and yet, it was happening. The eyes, he guessed, allowed him to see the dead. Those poor souls who didn’t want to cross over or couldn’t cross over. The cities were filled with these ghosts, the never-ending dead, always wanting to come up to Artful to talk to him.

                Like the tall lady-squirrel standing in the stairs leading up to street level, she sat on the steps looking down at Artful, watching him climb up. He got a few steps from her and stopped.

                “What can I do for you?” Artful asked.

                “You can see me?” the squirrel asked, rising quickly.

                “I can, I can,” Artful nodded, holding out his paw. “What is the matter?”

                “They took my son,” she cried, trying to grab him, but her paws went right through him. “They took him.”

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.