Den of Stars
Are you willing to gamble with your life?Some debts can’t be repaid. The Gambler’s Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons can’t be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answer…they should be dead.Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him – jeopardising all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain.Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misu’s was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star.Who will win? Who will survive? Who will the odds favour?
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Some debts canât be repaid.
The Gamblerâs Den lies in ruins, its staff scattered across the Sand Sea, all but a memory of the minds of its past patrons. But when the Morning Star appears, ruled by a mysterious figure known only as the Hare, the comparisons canât be helped. Who is this larger-than-life character? Why do the showgirls wear masks? What are they hiding? The answerâ¦they should be dead.
Franco and Misu were safe only in their anonymity, but with Franco gone Misu must find him â jeopardizing all they have built. In order to save the man she trusts Misu must put her faith in the villain.
Wilheim does not forget disobedience lightly, and Misuâs was a great betrayal, so now he will call in his debt, and his revenge on the staff of the Morning Star.
Den of Stars
Christopher Byford
ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES
Contents
CHRISTOPHER BYFORD
was born in 1980 in Wellingborough, England. He learnt to walk whilst holding on to a golden retriever and fondly remembers the days of BMX bikes and conker matches. He left college to suffer as an IT Manager for a small multinational before, in his words, escaping to Gloucester. After working for some large tech companies he seized the opportunity to become a full-time author. It was the best thing heâs ever done.
In the last few years Chris has penned various tales, DEN OF SHADOWS being his most prominent.
Away from literary things, his interests include all things VW Campervans, gardening, photography, astronomy and chicken keeping.
He finds talking about himself in the third person rather pedantic and could murder a cold pint of cider right about now.
Den of Stars was born from mystery and intrigue. Itâs only fair that this theme extends to those who I wish to thank. Instead of being named here on a page thatâs almost certain to be skipped, I ensured their contribution was acknowledged in a different manner. I approached these individuals and asked them for their input to be included â maybe the name of a product, maybe a turn of phrase, maybe one of these things, maybe both and more.
I leave it up to you to find out.
Naturally I am indebted to Hannah and all those at HQ, whose tireless pursuits have brought what you are reading now into existence. Helena managed to buff the tale into something presentable and has my undying thanks.
And of course, to you.
To all those who have used their second chance and done well by it
For my wife Emma and our son Abel
It was traditional for funerals in Surenth to begin before the dawn.
The dead may not have minded the high temperatures that the region was well known for, but for those still living, it was an uncomfortable burden to endure. Nobody wanted to watch loved ones be buried in the stifling midday heat, so it was just before the sun cracked that the funeral procession began to march.
As the morning stars straddled the sky, threatened by the pale glow of the sun watching from the horizon, the city of Windberg stopped what it was doing. Stallholders slowed setting up their wares for the dayâs trading, their attention now ensnared elsewhere. Some shopkeepers kept their signs set to closed with the intention of keeping them so for the day out of respect for the dead. Even the deckhands for the sand ships, busy loading and unloading the large imposing vehicles at the docks, slowed their work on account of the noise that lingered in the still morning air.
Those who intended to attend the proceedings were already prepared, congregating on street corners, appropriately dressed and aware of the planned route. Others who woke to the commotion wearily watched from their windows.
There was music playing, a rallying cry for those familiar with the deceased and his work. The band consisted of brass instruments primarily, accompanied by the beat of drums and the high melodies of clarinets. Each attendee was dressed in formal beige-coloured suits, unjacketed with white shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. The music, though loud enough to be heard over the morningâs bustle, remained intimate in style to coax further mourners to the mass.
Every street the procession passed, more joined the collective. They each did so for their own reasons, a number doing so out of morbid curiosity rather than a desire to pay their respects. A trumpet blared a melody, the drums keeping a slow pom-pom-pom in time, relaxed and effortless.
Leading the route a brilliant black coach, adorned with golden accents, was drawn by a quartet of equally brilliant black horses with complementary gilded decoration on their straps and tugs. The interior was hidden with curtains, as were its occupants, who never parted the fabric to take stock of how many followed nor how close they were to their destination.
