The Missing Blood Rite Part 5

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?

The black smoke led the Bat, Tear, and two of his warriors to the witch’s den but die before showing the hidden place. They all stood on a street staring down with no sign of where the den could be hidden. The Bat frown looking at the many houses and shops; any one of them could be the den along with the child. He still wasn’t sure who had taken the child, he hoped he would be at the den.

                He glanced over at the ghost of Katheryn and asked, “How many sisters did you have?”

                “There were three of us,” Katheryn said.

                “Are you sure?” He asked.

                “As best as I can be,” Katheryn said.

                “Who was the third?” He question.

                “She is gone,” Katheryn said. “She fleed the city after they took Faye.”

                “Are you sure?” He asked. “This is your son we are talking about here.”

                “It’s why I went to her first after my death,” Katheryn said. “She did not have him.”

                He studies the houses again, looking for any sign, any clue of the witches, but there was nothing. It all looked normal in the bitter winds of the north. He had no idea where to go. He could go back to the cave to gather more elixirs for another spell but it would cost time. Maybe, too much time.

                “By all the old ones,” One of the scouts gasped.

                The Bat turned to face him, seeing the shock written all over his face. “What is the matter?” The Bat asked, and he pointed to a small painted symbol on the door frame. The Bat followed his finger to the black ink in hard shapes in a rune he had never seen.

                “What is it?” The Bat asked, facing Tear seeing the same fear in his eyes.

                “The mark of the White Death,” Tear utter. “What you would call the Lost King.”

                The Bat study the mark once more and then looked at the house under it. He took a deep breath glancing around to see if anyone had been watching them. He didn’t see eyes on them at all. He took a long step forward, heading for the door being followed by the other warriors. None of them saying a word and all of them wishing to rush back home. They flee their homeland to escape the White Death and they had to know sooner or later he would come south. They didn’t know it would be this soon.

                “Do we knock?” Tear asked, looking the Bat up and down.

                “Not my thing,” The Bat said, kicking the door in with enforce to shatter the wood. He raced into the house quickly, followed by the three warriors. They started to spread out into the dark of the house looking for any bodies in the whole building, living or dead but no one was inside.

                The two scouts checked upstairs only to find nothing and then coming back down to group up with their chief standing beside the Bat in the main room. The head scout shook his head no.

                “You got any more magic tricks?” Tear asked.

                The Bat didn’t say a word looking over all the room studying the walls and the paint.

                “Well?” The chief snapped.

                “Don’t need magic,” The Bat said, stepping forward to a wall with a new candle holder on it. He reached out wrapping around the dull, but not dull enough candle holder pulling on it, and then something behind it unlocked. On the other side of the room, a door popped open with everyone looking at it.

                “I’m surprised that worked,” The Bat said, heading for the new door, pushing it open all the way. Behind the door was a staircase leading deep into the darkness, but hints of fire hung on the last step. He glanced back at the warriors who all pulled their short swords free and the Bat let his cape draped over him, hiding his paws going for the throwing knives.

                He started to climb down into the hidden room.

                “I can’t believe she did it,” Katheryn mumble.

                “I don’t want to know,” the Bat said, “but I need to know.”

                “Faye said she got a spellbook from White Death,” Katheryn said, “and she made a deal with him.”

                The Bat’s hellfire eyes glanced at her,” You think the White Death took your son?”

                “Some of his minions might have,” Katheryn said. “After the death of Faye, they would want their book back. They might have always been hunting us.”

                “Great,” the Bat hissed, stepping off of the last step into a large stone room with a few candles burning on the other side. The low light cast long shadows, but nothing moved in the darkness. The Bat took another step forward not taking his eyes off the small boy tied to the chair, sleeping, knocked out, or simply dead.

                “Mjölnir,” Tear snapped, blinding dashing for his son, but the Bat stopped him. “What is the matter with you?”

                “They are,” the Bat said, nodding to the growing shadows in the darkness of the room. Two long bodies stepped out into the light with their faces covered in long hoods, black as the night around them, but with gold hieroglyphics running along the edges. The black rats, with their long thin tails, and thick winter fur pulled out swords like a circle cut in half. They wore armor made from leather or a magical wood but every inch of the armor had been blessed with more hieroglyphics.

                “By the old gods,” the scout behind the Bat gasp and Tear growled at the face of these monsters.

                “Chief Tear,” one of the rats hissed with broken common tongue, “you killed our spy, so we come for your head.” He pointed the odd sword at him.

                “Why did they take my son?” Katheryn asked.

                “To force him to come to them,” The Bat said.

                “Tell the White Death to come to get it himself,” Tear roared darting for the rats.

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.