The Lure of Fools Read online

  Appropriate for Teens, Intriguing to Adults

  Immortal Works LLC

  1505 Glenrose Drive

  Salt Lake City, Utah 84104

  Tel: (385) 202-0116

  © 2013 - 2019 Jason James King

  http://www.authorjasonking.com/

  Cover Art by Ashley Literski

  http://strangedevotion.wixsite.com/strangedesigns

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For more information email [email protected] or visit http://www.immortal-works.com/contact/

  ISBN 978-1-7339085-2-8 (Paperback)

  AISN B07VLVZGBW (Kindle Edition)

  Contents

  Introduction

  I. The Lure Of Fools

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  II. The Soulless Grave

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  III. The Fork Of Destiny’s Road

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  About the Author

  Immortal

  For Andrea King

  For telling me I was a brilliant writer when I was just getting started

  I miss you Grandma

  The Lure of Fools was my first published novel, and in fact I broke a cardinal rule and pitched it at a writing conference before it was even finished (don’t be like me).

  It was published in 2013 by Curiosity Quills Press to who I am immensely grateful for giving me my big break. Next came The Soulless Grave in 2015 and by Summer of 2017 The Age of the Infinite Trilogy concluded with The Fork of Destiny’s Road.

  However, from its inception, the legend of Shaelar was meant to be written as one work. Problem is, you just can’t publish a 300,000 word fantasy epic as your debut novel (unless you’re Terry Goodkind).

  Now with several published novels, and a lot more name recognition, I feel like I can take the risk and publish The Age of the Infinite as it was meant to be. I hope you enjoy it, and please, please, please leave a review. It’s what keeps authors young…and unnaturally immortal.

  ~Jason James King

  Jove stumbled away from the blaring heat of the inferno, hot wind and stray embers stinging his back. When he was finally far enough from Almott to turn around, he did so, eyes hungrily taking in the scene before him. It was as beautiful as it was terrible. Voracious flames engulfed every house of the small village, creating a spectacular nimbus of orange that lit the night sky. Jove half giggled and half sobbed. The people of Almott had been hospitable and kind to him, despite his ragged appearance and green eyes. Never had Jove known such a charitable welcome as when he had staggered into their village half-dead from exposure. They had loved him and treated him as one of their own until they caught him trying to hide the corpse of a young woman in the loft of Shedrek’s barn. That was when Almott’s collective sentiment toward Jove had shifted to something approaching disdain.

  He reached up and felt the bald patch on his scalp where a tuft of black hair had been ripped free. Shedrek, himself, had hauled Jove by the hair to the village square, where he was beaten and then tied to a post. Jove had tried to explain around a mouth pocketed by broken teeth and filled with blood that he hadn’t meant to hurt the girl. That she had welcomed his advances and their cavorting had only turned violent when she started to feign disinterest.

  Of course, it had been a lie, perhaps true only once in Jove’s life – the first time he killed in the heat of passion. He had been a young man then, his violence confined to secret fantasies and only somewhat accidentally materializing into reality. What was that girl’s name again? He couldn’t remember. There had been so many. So many lovely dolls he’d played with, all of which he had broken.

  Jove winced against a blast of heat released by Almott’s granary falling onto Shedrek’s barn. What happened to me? Jove wondered. The villagers had been enthusiastically decorating the ground at his feet with kindling, Old-Man-Hessop watching with his crackling torch at the ready. That was when Jove had felt it take him, The Hunger. He had no other name for it. A cold emptiness had swept over him, a desperately hollow feeling that concentrated first in his chest before spreading into every limb and digit. At that moment, just as Old-Man-Hessop had made to set his feet aflame, Jove lashed out with something. A translucent tendril of greenish, warped air, like a tentacle, exploded from his chest and plunged directly into the chest of Old-Man-Hessop, who convulsed and dropped to the ground writhing.

  Jove had watched in astonished wonder as the old man’s face drained of color and his eyes dried before falling from their sockets. He had withered away before Jove, until the man was only a prune-like husk. Immediately, Jove had felt a surge of strength, and, in one fluid motion, he broke the ropes tying him to the wooden post. The surrounding villagers had gaped, their eyes wide with frightened incredulity. As if by instinct, J
ove threw up both of his arms, and multiple tendrils of warped air exploded from his chest, lashing out at them. One took Shedrek in the back. Jove recalled watching in fascination as the burly man quickly withered into what looked like a mummified corpse.

  At this, the rest of the angry mob turned to flee, but Jove had not let them get five paces away before launching out another spread of tendrils, taking each of the fleeing villagers in the back. A chorus of screams kissed his ears before abruptly cutting off as the thirty or so people fell, withered, and died.

  By that time, more of Almott’s citizenry had been roused from sleep by the clamor. Jove had smiled as curious heads poked out of doors and windows, and then, with speed that was more than human, he launched himself at the nearest house and its unwitting spectator.

  What had happened next turned out to be a new thrill for Jove, one that surpassed even the excitement of his sadistic pleasures. He smiled as he vividly recalled feasting upon every living thing in Almott. Not the flesh of his victims, but their very life force, greenish tendrils of energy siphoning away the light in their eyes and giving it to him, making him stronger. And his feast wasn’t confined to people. Animals, plants, and even the very grass at his feet withered before him. By the time Jove was finished, Almott was a ghost town.

  He set the fire that now immolated the town out of habit more than sadism. He had always felt a compulsive need to be thorough in disposing of evidence. In fact, he had planned to burn down Shedrek’s barn once he had hidden the girl’s corpse beneath piles of hay. Now, instead of hiding one corpse, Jove ended up disposing of dozens, the inferno serving as an effective crematorium.

  What had happened to him? Who or what saved him? Not God, he was certain of that. Could it have been the devil? Jove had heard tales of demons claiming humans as their mortal vessels, but he always discounted those stories as superstitious myths to explain away mind-sickness. Jove barked a laugh. He was either mind-sick or possessed, both options equally damning.

  After several minutes of thoughtfully watching Almott burn, Jove turned away and began making for the west road. He wasn’t sure why he chose that direction, but something inside him urged him forward.

  He paused. What of supplies? he thought. I am alone and miles away from the nearest village, Almott excepted. But he wasn’t hungry, or thirsty, or sleepy. In fact, he thought as he began walking again, his step lighter, I feel healthier than I have in months. He shrugged. Just the adrenaline rush of nearly being burned alive invigorated him. But, no, he shook his head, this was different. This sense of physical wellbeing was synthetic, just as energizing as food and rest, but somehow not natural.

  By dawn, Jove was more than twenty miles away from the village he destroyed and still not famished or fatigued. Not natural, he thought.

  The road veered north, but he continued west. After walking some distance from the road, he stopped and surveyed the terrain ahead of him. An expansive forest stood a dozen or so miles in the distance. Sudden anger flared inside of Jove as he gazed upon the forest. No, it was not exactly anger, he decided, but something more akin to disgust. Why did he suddenly hate the forest? The urge to burn the tall aspens down consumed him, and his hand habitually went to his pocket for a tinderbox that was no longer there—he having used all his fire-starters to burn Almott. Unthinking, he glanced back in the direction of the town, though he had long since passed out of viewing distance.

  That’s when Jove saw something that gave him pause: a perfect trail of dead grass behind him, running all the way back from where he left the road. He looked down to his feet and found the grass upon which he stood dried and brown, while all around him it remained healthy and green. He took an experimental step forward and drew in a sharp breath as the patch of meadow withered before his eyes. I’ve changed, he concluded. The power that came over me in Almott changed me.

  Jove took two more steps, both causing the grass beneath his feet to wither and die. He looked up and spotted a thicket of trees less than a hundred yards away. He trotted toward them, slowed to a stop, and laid a hand on the nearest aspen. The green leaves dressing its branches began to change colors and fall to the ground. A shower of brittle leaves trickled like raindrops until every branch was utterly naked and the tree grey with death. His hand dropped to his side, and he stared at it as though it had touched the face of God.

  “I am death,” Jove whispered. “I am death,” he repeated, this time a little louder. He barked a harsh laugh and turned to look at the forest on the horizon. The trees within the woods were much taller than those of the thicket – taller, older, and arrogant in their upward struggle from the ground. That’s when Jove realized what so offended him about the forest. All that greenery and growth represented life, and, if he were death, then naturally life would offend him. All life.

  Jove began to laugh. He was a fool. He didn’t need flint and steel to destroy the forest, he could kill the woods and everything living there simply with a touch.

  He was death.

  Jekaran just barely evaded Mull’s latest attempt to grab him. Although he was athletic and no stranger to wrestling, the tall and burly Mull moved deceptively quickly. Jekaran needed to dodge and shuffle to avoid being seized. If Mull caught him, he knew he would have little chance of escaping the man’s bear-like arms. His only chance was to keep moving and wait for an opening to strike.

  Jekaran scrubbed the back of his wrist over his forehead to wipe sweat-soaked strands of black hair out of his eyes. He stumbled as he danced away from his opponent, falling into a roll and then springing up again on Mull’s left flank. That’s when he finally saw his opening. Without thinking, he threw himself forward, just as Mull turned to face him, and ducked under a swing of a beefy arm before barreling into him and grabbing him around the waist. The forward momentum carried the two of them to the ground at which point Mull shouted “Not fair!” and began to cry.

  Jekaran dropped next to him, his shoulders heaving as he caught his breath. He patted the larger boy’s back sympathetically. “It’s all right,” he soothed. “You just about got me with that death grip of yours.”

  Mull’s face changed from dejection to delight. “I’ll get you next time, Jek!”

  Jekaran laughed as he leapt to his feet and shot a hand down to help Mull rise. Although Mull was nineteen, three years older than Jekaran, his child-like mind remained trapped forever at an eight-year-old’s capacity. And, like a child, he bounced back and forth across the continuum of emotion very quickly.

  Mull dried his tears with the back of a dusty wrist. “We’ll wrestle when you get back?” he asked, his tone searching for reassurance.

  “Of course!” Jekaran clapped the boy-man on the back. “You know, Vestus says that we might be traveling all the way to the sea this year.”

  “Really?” Mull grinned.

  Jekaran nodded. “And, if we do, I promise to bring something back for you.”

  “A shark?”

  Jekaran laughed. “I don’t know if I could manage that. I was thinking something more along the lines of some pretty shells.”

  “Well, if you see a shark, catch it!” he admonished.

  “I’ll give it my best.” Jekaran laughed again.

  “Jekaran!” an irritated voice called.

  “You’re in trouble,” Mull warned.

  Jekaran turned to see a short, young woman enter the small meadow where he and Mull had been wrestling. Her black, shoulder-length hair and large blue eyes contrasted the dirty apron covering a grey, utilitarian dress. She rushed toward them in long, purposeful strides, her hands balled into fists at her sides, a look of fury coloring her face a deep red.

  “You’re right, Mull. Maely never uses my full name unless she’s mad at me.”

  Mull nodded, but said nothing.

  “JEKARAN!” Maely shouted as she walked up to him, poking him in the chest with her index finger. “I have been looking everywhere for you two!”

  Jekaran rubbed away the painful remnants of her
jabbing finger. “Sorry, Mae. He found out that I was going and I had to settle him down.”

  Maely’s expression softened. “The Thatcher’s brat, Loemis, told him. He hardly slept last night after hearing about it.”

  “Which explains why you’re in such a foul mood,” Jekaran chuckled, and she punched him square in the stomach. He doubled over, half laughing, half groaning. She hit him harder than he had expected.