Lakebridge: Spring (Supernatural Horror Literary Fiction)



  Lakebridge

  Spring

  by

  Natasha Troop

  Text copyright © 2010 by Natasha Troop

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Red Frog Publishing a division of Red Frog Media

  Visit our website at https://www.redfrogpublishing.com

  Discover other titles by Natasha Troop at https://www.lakebridgecycle.com

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN 1-461-12250-3

  For Marni

  x∞+1

  Acknowledgements

  Marni – There would be no book without you. It would still be a thought somewhere in my mind of something I should do, but I never got around to. You are my heart, my soul and my greatest joy. I only know love because of you.

  Becca – Aside from Marni, there is no one person who is as responsible for this book seeing the light of day. Thank you so much for pushing me and never letting me forget that this needed to get done.

  Stephan – Thanks for doing what you do and being an amazing friend.

  Sally & Harvey – Thanks for watching the kids while I wrote.

  Eliot – You remind me that we should always ask what is possible rather than thinking about what is not.

  Rebecca – Yours is my most special and treasured of all magics.

  Gabi – Thanks for taking care of the things that needed taking care of while I was more focused on this. You are, indeed, privileged.

  Greg Mose – Thanks for inspiring me to write, get my book out in the world and for your wise counsel on this.

  Colin Dickey – Yours was a needed voice at a critical point. Thank you for your observations and advice.

  Spring

  "Everything is blooming most recklessly. If it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night."

  ~Rainer Maria Rilke

  CHAPTERS

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  I

  The Silver Knight paused for a moment and listened for the tell-tale thumping that signaled the enemy had reached the bridge. It was hard to describe the enemy. It was simply Evil clad in pitch black armor. Light lost its way near the foul being and, in the darkness of the bridge, it was only the clatter of his horse’s hooves that gave notice of his presence there. The sharp metallic ring that came when the steed’s metal shoes collided with structure nails was not present, so the Silver Knight continued on through the morning mist of the forest towards the bridge.

  He thought to himself that it was this time of year he loved best. Some preferred the autumn when the leaves turned to yellow and rust. But it was this new time, this green season that gave life to his worn-out soul. The very mist around him turned green from the light through the leaves and he did not mind that his view was limited to the few feet in front of him. It was the beauty of all that he stood for and all that the enemy despised. He no longer kept count of how many springs had passed since his first encounter with the dark knight, but with the turning of each passing year, it was only in this season that he felt everything might be right with the world.

  Summer heated the mist to humid and slowed his quest with its lazy crawl towards darkness. Autumn seemed a fair time, but underneath the cool days and happy festivals it held death in its grasp and death was his enemy’s accomplice. Winter was no time for war. It chilled his shining silver armor to a frozen shell and kept his thoughts unclear with its frigid blinding whiteness.

  Unbuckling his great silver axe from his back, he saw that the green light even gave his weapon a pale aura of life that its purpose so often had denied. He had forged it himself in the workshop that was all his father had left behind before his own enemy, an eastern lord who wore the device of the burning red sun upon his shield, defeated him on the field of battle. There was nothing dishonorable in his death and the Silver Knight held no ill will for the man who had left him an orphan. It was an honorable battle and his father respected and admired his opponent for both his own bravery and that of his people who lived and fought with a passion born of fierce belief in their gods and mighty loyalty to their kings. His father always said he would gladly fight with such men if given the chance. The Silver Knight wished he had a few such men with him this day. His father always warned him to be careful of wishes. They were full of promise but held no prize. A good weapon, his father said, would serve him thousands of times before a wish happened to come true. He could not wish the enemy undone. But a blow from his great halberd, born of skill and longing, forged and sharpened hard in the cold of winter and imbued with a touch of magic, could grant him a victory long sought.

  He hefted his weapon one last time to test its balance and, hoped that it would part Lord Stansbury as it did the thick fog. As he began again towards the bridge, he noticed a moose in the mist and thought it a good sign.