A King Imperiled (Opening of the first chapter)

A King Imperiled

James Douglas of Balvenie. He waddled out the door of the tower that was the royal residence of Edinburgh Castle. In spite of the damp and chill, Balvenie was wearing no cloak.  Sweat dribbled down his round cheeks into the folds of his double chins. He paused, smoothing his black velvet doublet over his belly, blocking the way like a ponderous mountain.

“What are you doing snooping about?” Balvenie asked.

 Patrick Gray pressed his lips together to hold back a sharp retort. “My lord father summoned me.”

“He must have meant you to wait for him at Holyrood Kirk. We have important matters afoot here preparing for the coronation. It’s no place for a whelp.”

Preparing for the coronation, Patrick wondered, but he was not going to ask this man. James Douglas, Earl of Balvenie, was eaten with envy for the power his cousin the Black Douglas had. Everyone said so. Balvanie was a rich holding, but not even a tiny fraction of the holdings of his cousin. He resented that his cousin had had the ear of the king until the king was murdered. He no doubt resented the fact that his cousin would soon be lieutenant general of Scotland, but Patrick saw no reason the man should take out that ire on himself.

Bland faced, Patrick gave a polite nod. It was best to avoid arguments with any of the Douglases, even this one. “No, My Lord, he said he awaited me here. I’d best hie to find him.”

“Do so then,” Balvenie said, passing into the watery morning light.

 Patrick hurried through a long enfilade of stuffy rooms and waves of the scent of moth-herbs, wet wool, and oak smoke from hearth fires. A few people huddled in corners whispering. Rumors must have run like wild fire since the king’s murder. Had the gossips learned that the leader of the assassins, Robert Stewart, would be put to the torture? That he had already implicated his grandfather, the Earl of Atholl, Patrick wondered.

The glances at him were wary. No one went anywhere for the nonce without a hand on their sword. Some nodded to Patrick as he passed but no one spoke.

When Patrick closed the door behind him, the inmost chamber was silent. His father, face haggard, stared into a small fire on the hearth. Without looking up he said, “Patrick. I expected you sooner.”

He sighed under his breath. He had been travelling since yesterday morning from their home at Longforgan and in the saddle for most of the past three weeks riding with the Earl of Angus as they hunted down the men who has assassinated King James. He had stopped at an inn only long enough to change out of clothing that had been rain soaked and mud and dirt splattered to the shoulder.  He hadn’t even eaten since the night before. 

At a table scattered with documents, a flagon of wine, and a lit stand of candles sat James Kennedy, Canon of Dunkeld, youngish, thin, with a short beard and tonsured. He gave Patrick a bleak smile.

Patrick approached the hearth and held out his hands. “I saw Balvenie on my way. He said you’re preparing for the coronation…here? Not in Scone?”

Kennedy motioned to the flagon of wine on the table. “You look fit to fall over from exhaustion, Sir Patrick. Drink whilst we talk.”

Patrick’s father grunted, but with unusual patience for him, folded his hands behind his back and waited as Patrick poured and took a seat.

Kennedy folded his hands atop the pile of documents. He continued, “Of course it is unheard of to have the coronation in Edinburgh. But the Earl of Atholl is still on the loose and Scone is too near his lands. We will take nae chances with the life of our new king.”

Patrick had just taken a drink, so it took a moment for him to swallow and ask, “You cannae think they would make an attempt on the prince’s life?”

“We do.”

The boy was only six. He'd not considered that they'd murder a child. “Aye, I suppose they would have to kill him as well.”

Patrick’s father shrugged, propped an elbow on the mantel, and considered his son like a merchant regarding his wares. At fifty, he was still as lean and fit as he must have been at thirty. He was dressed in his finest doublet of green satin and blue silk. His height and broad shoulders were still impressive and his thick, gray hair gave him gravitas. “So tell me about catching up with Robert Stewart. How went the business?”

Evidently his questions were to be ignored. Patrick sighed again. “As filthy as you’d expect and knee deep in snow for much of the chase. He was abandoned by most of his followers before we caught them. We only gave him a beating, since the queen wanted him alive.”

“Go on,” Kennedy said. As he listened to Patrick recount their long, hard ride through the Highlands led by the Earl of Angus, the churchman’s face creased occasionally into an attentive frown.  When Patrick described riding down Robert Stewart’s party, he leaned forward and tilted his head. He poured a cup of wine and took a sip. When Patrick finished, he said, “After the coronation, Robert will nae last long. He’s being put to the torture and in two days he’ll be beheaded.”

“So they meant to kill young James?” Patrick asked again. “And to make Atholl king?”

“Not to make Atholl king, no, but if the lad were dead and one of his sisters married to Robert Stewart, that would have had the same affect. They would have ruled in her name.”

Patrick’s father cleared his throat. “That will nae happen and our new liege lord shall be kept safe. That’s why I sent for you.”

“Keep him safe? Me? How so?”

“This afternoon wee James will be crowned. He will have a household of his own, gentlemen of the bedchamber, a master of his guard. And the master of the guard will be you.”

“Wait.” Patrick held up both hands and reared back. Since when did his father and Kennedy have the managing of the prince? 

Sample: A King Unchanged, coming next month

For those who have been waiting for it, here is the opening, still unedited, of the sequel to A King Ensnared:

On each side of the path to the high peaked doors of Westminster Abbey, a line of priests stood, swinging censors. They intoned the Venite as the solemn train approached. Wisps of smoky incense were whipped away by the sharp November wind.

The voices of the choir seemed to surge through the open west doors. James clasped his hands behind his back as he paced behind knot of nobles who surrounded the queen as they followed the chariot baring the coffin. King Henry’s long funeral cortege, from Vincennes to Rouen, by sea to Dover and at last to Westminster Abbey in London was finally, after months, coming to an end. He allowed a silent breath of relief to escape his lips. Behind him, Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, was muttering that this could finally be over, and at James's side, his vigilant keeper, Sir William Meryng,  gave a sudden shiver when the wind whipped their cloaks.

Harness rattled and hooves clanked on the stone as massive horses heaved, pulling the heavy cortege bearing the coffin to the high peaked doors of the abbey. Wheels grated with a nerve shivering sound beneath the swell of solemn music. Even in November’s watery sunlight, the silver-gilt effigy atop the coffin shimmered. James craned to glance above. Brilliant ruby and sapphire glass filled the huge windows. The statues of saints set in their niches frowned down upon the long train of nobles who followed the coffin.

Queen Catherine moved rigidly amidst the English royalty, draped in white mourning. The tension between her and the men who would now rule her and the infant king flowed as strongly as the hymns. For a moment, her step faltered and she sagged as she reached the high arched doorway. Joan de Beaufort at her side, also in solemn white mourning garb as well, reached a hand to her elbow. The Duke of Gloucester murmured something to the Queen that James could not make out. A tremble seemed to shake her, but she nodded to her good-brother, and they followed the chariot through the towering doors into the cool darkness of the nave.

The scent of beeswax and incense wrapped him as James followed them in. At least they would be out of the wind though the funeral mass would be long and weary.  When someone barked a complaint when his foot trod on, James turned his head to see Drummond squeezing his way through the press. James raised an eyebrow at his secretary, who he'd not known had returned from his task in Scotland.

Drummond bowed respectfully when he was close, but his eyes darted toward Meryng. "Your Grace," he said in a low voice so as not to disturb the solemnity of the rising chords of the choir. Surrounded by all the bishops of the realm of England, thin and frail Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry Chichele, began to intone the requiem mass. 

"How went your journey?" James asked in an undertone.

"Sire. I knew you would want your letters as soon as I returned." He drew in a breath. "Especially one from one of your close kin, so I decide not to await your return to your chambers--"

James stilled at the surprise of the words. After a long pause, thinking which of his kin might finally decide he was worth their correspondence, he nodded. "You have it on your person?"

At Drummond's quick nod, James moved toward one of the huge columns. In the press of a thousand nobles, it was impossible to have privacy but at least he was out of sight of the alter. "You saw Bishop Wardlaw and the Bishop of Glasgow? Delivered the letters?"

"Aye, Thomas Myrton returned with me for your service at their command, especially to keep in close contact with him and with Bishop Wardlaw."

James held out his hand and Drummond slipped a parchment to him. After glancing quickly around to see that no one was taking note of their quiet conversation, James raised his eyebrows at the seal of the earl of Atholl. Close kin indeed, his half-uncle and full brother to that other murderous uncle, the Duke of Albany, who now moldered in a grave.

Holding it close, James slid his thumb under the seal and turned to the column to discretely read it and jerked in a sharp breath at the words. His uncle would throw his influence behind forcing Murdoch Stewart, now regent of Scotland, into agreeing to negotiations for James's release from captivity. He folded the letter and slipped it into his sleeve. Leaning a shoulder against the thick marble column, he narrowed his eyes and stared through at a through the wall as though to see that faraway uncle. Atholl… the youngest of the brothers. Atholl had sat by while his older brother committed foul murder and then his nephew allowed Scotland to descend into lawless chaos. But he still was not an ally to be scorned.

Meryng cleared his throat. "Is all well, Lord James?"

James gave the knight a bland smile. "Nae, Sir William. Merely greeting my good secretary after his long journey to and frae Scotland."

When Meryng again turned his face to the high altar, Drummond leaned close. "Myrton carries letters to the English asking safe-conduct for Bishop Lauder as well as John Forrester and the Earl of March to come to Pontefract to negotiate terms of your release."

James peered around the column toward the high altar where Joan stood next to the Queen. As the Archbishop began another prayer, Joan looked toward James and their gazes locked. James allowed a smile to touch his lips. He gave a quick nod. She lowered her eyes but she had seen it.

Oh, James would have a word to say about the negotiations. Beaufort could be won to his cause, and his freedom guaranteed. For James had not yet played his best card.

Tamra is warned of onrushing danger - Blood Duty

Tamra's pulse quickened when she glanced over her shoulder at Jessup, who was leaning back against the wall, unsmiling.

Someone who didn't know him so well might mistake that slouch for carelessness rather than a habit to disguise his coiled tension. Outside the inn, a coach had just pulled up, and the driver shouted for the stable boy. Bright afternoon sun poured through the window. She closed the polished oak shutters and the clamor sank to a murmur. She'd given the innkeeper orders they weren't to be bothered.

"A Faragund army?" She frowned. "After all these years of peace? It's hard to take in."

"It's there all right. And killing everyone they get near." He scowled and twitched his shoulders. "That torture stank of some kind of magic, too. Nasty."

She poured two mugs of ale from the pitcher and handed him one. The innkeeper brewed a fine dark one, so she took a slow sip. Anyway, it gave her time to think. Jessup looked a bit scruffy as always, sandy stubble covering his chin. He'd sent her a message at the keep as soon as he'd arrived. Well, of course he did. She felt the heat flush her cheeks. Their eyes locked, and she could almost feel the kiss they hadn't yet shared. It had always been like that with him.

Gods, she missed him when he was gone. But she hadn't expected him to talk war when he came back. Faragunds... She frowned. "You're sure they're marching toward Daggerfell Pass?"

He shrugged and pulled a chair from the table. He sat in it, tilting it back so it touched the wall. "No way to be sure unless I go into the camp and ask that king of theirs. And I saw what happened to the last scout they got hold of."

She sat on the edge of the table, taking another sip of the rich brew. "But?"

"But they were marching in this direction. Not fast. I'm weeks ahead, but they're moving. Burned three villages that I saw. No prisoners." His lips thinned in a grim look. "Just bodies."

She shook her head. "I don't understand that. I grew up on stories of the war. I heard about… oh, torture. Most people lost someone. My father's brother for one. It was bad, but they took prisoners. Traded prisoners… took ransom for them."

Jessup grunted. "That was then."

"I'll have to think about this. Tell my lady mother first." She bit her lip as she calculated how many guards she had and how many she'd need to hold the keep in a siege. Mostly the guards she led were for patrolling the roads, which her mother was charged with by the prince as levy for holding the keep.

"Telling her is your problem," Jessup said with a curl of his lip. "I don't curry favor with ladies and lordlings."

She gave a quick laugh. "You're more likely to insult them. No. I'll take care of that; you're right. But what about the prince? He needs to know."

Jessup set down his empty mug and let the front legs of the chair thump on the floor. "I came to tell you, not the prince. But all right. I'll report to the palace in Madrian. I'll be back afterwards. Shouldn't take more than two days. If they want to yap about it, they can do it without me." He uncoiled from the chair.

Enough of this. Tamra couldn't think straight when all she wanted to do was kiss the blasted man, so she set her mug down. One step, and she had her hand on his chest.

"About time," he said, voice gruff. He wrapped a hand around her blond braid, bending her head back as his mouth came down on hers.

Their mouths melded, and her blood hammered in her ears. Her body melted from internal fire. He moaned softly as his mouth went to her neck, kissing and nipping. She caressed the back of his neck and took a shuddering breath. This wasn't the place or the time, but it had been too long. As she pulled out of his arms, he rubbed his finger, callous- rough from his bow, along her chin. "Was that all I came back to, Captain?"

"Did you want more?" She grinned a little. "For a scout who never says when he'll be back, you expect a lot."

"Do I?" He grinned.

"Egotistical man." She ran her eyes over him hungrily. "Don't you ever shave?"

"I may—when I get back. And we'll talk. That fealty of yours..."

She kissed him quick and hard to shut him up. "Not now. But hurry back." She strolled out to lean against the wall of the whitewashed tavern as Jessup rode away.

His description of what he had seen on the other side of the mountains had her sufficiently distracted that she barely nodded at the stable boy as she tossed him a coin and mounted. Her horse cantered towards Wayfare Keep and its own stable with a bare twitch of the reins. Tamra looked across the valley with its mixed stands of pine and aspen, past the knot of lime-washed cottages with wood shingle roofs and the patchwork gardens and open fields where goats grazed. Above them on a stark crag rose the massive structure of gray stone keep. The trade road from the nearby mines to Madrian passed under its shadow.

A peasant in brown homespun stopped his goats beside the road. "Fine morning, Cap'n Tamra," he said as she passed.

She nodded and managed a smile. Tales of burned villages and soldiers trampled under the hooves of cavalry charges ran through her mind. She shuddered and shook off her imaginings. Reality was enough to deal with.

In the keep bailey, a bustling wagon train was delivering goods. Mule drivers shouted, and the smell of damp wool and leather mingled with that of animal dung underfoot. Tamra scanned and saw her older brother, Garris, neatly built with brown hair so dark it was almost black, across the bailey yard with his head bent as he talked to the merchant. Sharniz, the white-haired and wizened wagon-train master, was probably doing his best to diddle a few more coins for the goods out of Garris.

Tamra stepped close to one of the guards at the gate, a sturdy girl only recently recruited from one of the nearby farms, eager to escape marriage and farm drudgery. "Go find Farren for me. Tell him to attend me here straight away." As the girl dashed away, Tamra pushed her way through the jumble of workers unloading the wagons. She nodded to the merchant with a smile.

"Think you can beat him out of a few extra coins, Master Sharniz?"

The old man grunted and scowled. "That doesn't happen, Captain. He's a hard man, he is. Takes after his lady mother."

Tamra could happily disagree that her brother was hard, but that was hardly a subject for a merchant's ears.

Garris scraped a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. "I think we're through . I'll have your payment for you shortly."

Tamra grabbed Garris's elbow. "I need to talk to you—now," she said, keeping her voice low enough so that no one else could hear her over the clatter around them.

He gave her a puzzled half-smile. "Something wrong?"

She pointed with her chin towards the steps that led into the keep and led him in that direction until they were away from the crowd. "I just got some…" She frowned. "…some alarming news from Jessup. He was past the mountains. He says the Faragund army is on the move."

Garris gaped at her for a moment, speechless. "By the Light! On the move to where?" He blinked. "That's a stupid question. He couldn't know that. Did he have a guess though?"

"This direction, he says. It doesn't make much sense to me, any of it. He said they're killing prisoners—torturing them. I don't know what to think."

"But you trust his word on it."

"You know I do."

He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the stone steps where they stood as though they might tell him something. Finally, he sighed. "Mother has to know about this."

"It'll come better from you."

"But you're the one Jessup told."

Tamra met his eyes. "Since when did she listen to what I tell her?"

Garris looked as though he'd rather deny it but couldn't. He made an unhappy sound in his throat. "You're right. I'll tell her."

She put a hand on his arm. "Thanks, Garris. I knew I could count on you."

Garris shook his head. "Wish I knew what to think. Perhaps I should be glad that Lizza is gone."

She gave his arm a squeeze. He'd been like a lost puppy ever since his wife of a year had left to visit her family in the city of Rishard on the far side of the imperial capitol. "She's well away from any fighting, Garris. There's no way they'll ever get that far."

He nodded unhappily. Seeing her lieutenant wending his way through the drovers towards them, Tamra said, "I'll go over the list of our weapon stores with Farren. I want to make sure we're ready if it comes to a siege."

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Blood Duty is available on Amazon for Kindle and Smashwords in various formats for only $2.99.

Blood Duty - Chapter One

A scream echoed through the valley. Jessup stood in the copse of trees, barely breathing as he watched the camp of the Faragund army below teeming with movement. He pressed back against a tree. In the dense shadows of the forest, he would be impossible to spot. The scene down showed him what a bad idea being captured would be.

The wind brought the sound of the mages chanting. One of the scouts from Ilkasar hanged, bound by his hands from a tall stake, feet dangling a hand span above the ground. The muscles of Jessup's jaw knotted, but saving the man in the middle of an army that stretched nearly to the horizon wasn't a possibility.

Jessup felt fairly sure it was the Faragund king who stood before the prisoner. Five mages, covered from head to foot in flowing black robes, stood in a semi-circle near the king. The king was of no great height, but massively muscled with a vast chest and arms. His biceps bulged from his gold brocade vest which caught the bright sunlight. He wore no armor, but a gold scimitar hung from his belt. The man's blond hair flowed below his shoulders in a mass of braids. On each side of his face, scars ran from mouth to hairline. A long blond mustache drooped from corners of his mouth.

He raised a long ceremonial dagger and plunged it into the scout's arm. The man screamed. Blood gushed, and one of the mages rushed forward to catch the liquid in a bowl that glinted golden in the sunlight. For the entire day Jessup had watched the scout being bled. The ground below him was black with it. At first they had simply let the blood drip into the dirt while the prisoner had refused to scream. Now his head drooped, and he hardly seemed alive. With each slash, they poured blood onto the nearby stone altar.

Jessup stared past the camp into the thick oak forest to the east where giant trees reached toward the sky and a gentle dark settled between the columns of their trunks. He sucked in a deep breath to slow the pounding of his heart. He had seen horrors, from the day his own people had been slaughtered, but watching this twisted his guts.

Jessup forced his eyes back to the Faragund camp. The altar he recognized as one to the God Kanandra, but he wasn't sure what magic they were powering with their magic. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Khyle would want word of their movements, though. From the number of bodies decorating the camp, Jessup doubted that any of Khyle's scouts had escaped. The emperor's spymaster would be frantic for news. He had told Jessup that he feared the Faragund had gained enough power to attack the Ilkasar Empire again.

It had been twenty years since their last attack had failed, and the Faragund army was wiped out by the Ilkasar's Sharenta mages and the Ilkasar Imperial Army. The hatred between the Faragund god, Kanandra, and his twin, the Goddess Urthus, whom the Ilkasar worshipped, mirrored the hatred between their followers. Stories still circulated about the fierceness of the fighting. There were few families who hadn't lost someone to the Faragund.

One of the mages turned to the king and seemed to speak. The sound of the chanting changed, becoming softer but more insistent. Jessup shuddered. He had no magic but even he could feel the surge of power as the chants grew demanding. He sucked in his breath as the king plunged the dagger to the hilt into the scout's chest. Jessup gritted his teeth.

The mages' chanting again changed, growing faster and faster. Smoke swirled around the altar. The king ripped into the dead scout's chest with the dagger and jerked and sawed before pulling out the dripping heart. Jessup thought he removed other parts, but the king blocked his view of what was happening. The king turned to a smoking cauldron and raised both arms over his head. Blood ran in rivulets down his arms as the mages chanted on and on, getting louder with every heartbeat.

A roar from the smoke ripped the air. The chanting stopped. Smoke from the altar drifted on the breeze.

The king stood, motionless, watching the altar. He turned and struck one of the mages across the face, knocking the man to the ground. The conjuration, whatever it was supposed to do, hadn't made the king happy.

Jessup backed up a pace and slipped through the deep shadows under the copse's tall spruce trees. Time to put some space between him and this camp. His dun was tied just inside the edge of the woods on the other side of the slope. As he jerked the reins loose from the branch where they were looped, he heard a snap behind him.

He whirled, drawing his sword to find himself looking into the face of a Faragund warrior, the tip of the man's scimitar swinging toward him. Jessup met it with his own in a clash of metal. Their blades caught fast. Jessup leaned in with all his strength. The Faragund spat in his face. Jessup smiled. The warrior twisted his blade down Jessup's, leaving a line of blood dripping down his arm. They broke apart and moved in a circle, blades low and ready. The warrior brought his scimitar up to slice downward; in less than a breath Jessup dodged to the side, bringing a sweeping backhand cut to hack through the man's neck. Blood gushed as the warrior fell.

Jessup leapt onto his horse and jabbed his heels to its flanks. Taking word of this to Khyle would repay an old debt. But the Faragund army was a long march from Ilkasar. He had plenty of time to get there and something more important to take care of first—

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#SampleSunday Laying the Odds Ch 2

The by-blow.

Those words stung for a long time. The fact was he hadn’t gone hungry, not much anyway. His mother had a beautiful voice. She’d joined a new company of players and they’d traveled from city to city. When that one went under, they’d joined another. But a singer’s voice doesn’t last forever or her looks.

Five years later, she’d led him back one more time after she caught him cutting a purse to buy food, and she slapped him so hard his ears rang. This time they really had gone hungry.

He'd wandered around the study and admired the tapestries, the sheen of the polished furniture, and then the tall cabinet with beautiful silver pieces on the shelves, his eyes drawn to that medal.

His father didn’t even say a word. He stood at the door while two of his men grabbed Wrai and his mother and dragged them out the door. The two of them landed on the gravel walkway in front of the stone steps. The door slammed and the bar thudded into place.

He hadn’t meant to go back. If he’d been a little older— But a fourteen-year-old boy... He’d been riding in horse races and had already taken to gambling. He lifted what he could get his hands on. It was never enough. Not enough so his mother ever had enough to eat or an apothecary when she got sick, coughing up blood. After she died, a panicked run from an inn when someone spotted him cheating left him with a black eye, a broken rib and everything he owned left behind.

He arrived in Krelton two days later, dirty, hurting and desperate. And there was his father’s house, so he went to the door and knocked. What had he expected? Not hugs and a welcome, but maybe a meal and a place to sleep for the night in the stable. He told the doorman who he was, and the man went to get the master. Wrai combed his hair with his fingers, tried to slick it back and straightened his torn shirt. His heart hammered with nerves.

He looked up to see his father step into the doorway with a hound at his heels, running a quirt through his fingers. An ugly smile curved his lips.

"I told you and that whore mother of yours not to come back," his father said.

Anger flushed through him like fire, but he stamped on it. "She’s dead. Listen, if you’d just help me get a start. Not much and I won’t bother you again. I promise." He cursed himself when he heard the pleading in his voice.

"This is all you’ll get and worse if you ever come here again." His father lunged and the quirt flicked at Wrai’s face.

Wrai yelped as the lash cut his eyelid, and he stumbled back. The gash burned. He ducked his head and brought up his arm so the next blow slashed across his hand. His father cursed and swung again but Wrai ran.

He had run as far and fast as he could, the sound of barking coming behind. He’d never told the tale to anyone. He still woke up in a cold sweat sometimes trying to figure out why it haunted him so. He rubbed the scar at the corner of his eye.

Shrugging away the memory, he opened his eyes and eased through the hallway, one hand on a wall. His soft soles were silent on floorboards. The next door was the study. The house was near black but he’d been in the dark long enough that he could make out faint shapes.

Inside the room, he slipped along the wall, feeling his way so as not to stumble over anything. Even after these years, the layout of the room hadn’t changed. He put his hand on the cabinet.

He knew what he’d take. He’d known from the second the innkeeper read the notice. That medal etched in the shape of a rune. He’d never seen a rune like it. His mother had drummed his letters into him. This was something different. There had been times in those first days after seeing it when it had spun through his dreams.

For a second his hand trembled, tempted to grab the whole lot. He owed the piece of dung—for his mother choking on her own blood as she died, for the scar beside his eye, for the old lady he’d knocked over for her few pence in the next town. And for the years he’d woken, sweating, wondering what was wrong with him that his father hated him. He shrugged. He’d take the one piece. It might not even be noticed for a while.

He ran his hand over the cabinet, searching for the medal in the dark. Not the platter, heavy silver. Not the vase, or the spoons, or the wine flagon. Where was it? Surely, it was still here. He sighed with relief when his hand fell on the stand that held it, pushed behind a tall vase. He ran a finger over the deeply incised marking. Yes, that was it. He tucked it into a pocket.

Every muscle in his body was tense from feeling his way in the dark. He slipped back the way he came. The sky in the east was lighter by the time he refastened the latch. He smiled and pictured his father’s fury when he discovered his loss.

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Laying the Odds, co-authored with C. R. Daems, is my new fantasy adventure available at Smashwords and Amazon. It is reduced from $2.99 to 99 Cents for June only in honor of Reader Appreciation Month.

Also please check out my historical novels set in medieval Scotland. Freedom's Sword is available on Amazon and Smashwords. A Kingdom's Cost is also available on Amazon and Smashwords.

Freedom's Sword -- Beginning of Chapter Four

Caitrina shook her head. Donnchadh said they had gone north and a little east along the pine forest. He pointed to the North Star, faint in the black velvet sky. She rubbed her arms, covered with goose bumps, as they trudged. Even in April, the night air was chill. But how far east had they come? How far did they have yet to go to reach Avoch Castle?

A trumpet called somewhere behind them and she froze. It came again. She grabbed Donnchadh's arm. He pulled her, running, towards a dark mass of thick brambles down slope that extended over the next rise. She stretched her leg to keep up. They pushed their way into the scratchy branches and sank down. Panting and heart hammering, she squeezed his hand. It grew silent again except for an owl hooting in the darkness.

"They won't see us in here," Donnchadh said, "but they might hear us. It's noisy pushing our way through."

"If we tried to stay in the brambles, it would take a long time, too." She listened. The horns, whatever they had meant, had stopped. "I think we have to take the risk."

They neared the top of the next rise and crouched to listen, keeping a nervous eye out for searchers. The English could come very close before they saw them in the dark. The night was silent so they kept going, pushing their way through the dense thicket, arms and legs stinging with welts from the thorns.

Caitrina stopped. A lighter area opened ahead in the moonlight--the road. She pointed, and Donnchadh motioned for them to lie down. Caitrina pointed again at a dense clump of gorse, thick enough to hide her. "Stay here," she whispered.

He grabbed for her hand but she was already creeping forward. From flat on the ground, she could see very little, just the dark night and the ground in front of her. After a few damp, tiring yards of crawling, she glanced back to see how far she'd come. Donnchadh's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. She went on.

She was sure she was near the road when she heard the beat of horses coming at a fast walk. She trembled, wanting to jump up and run. But if she did, of a certainty, they would see her. Don't move. Don't move. Donnchadh's eyes had shined in the dark, so she forced herself to stare at the layers of leaves on the ground. The horses came from her left. They were so close they almost seemed to ride right over her; the ground shook.

Her whole body shuddered with terror, but they kept going. Once the pounding hoof beats had passed, she dared a quick glance. They disappeared before she could count the dark shapes--at least ten or twelve of them. The hoof beats died away. She took a deep breath and crept into the spicy-smelling clump of gorse. She parted the spiky leaves and even in the moonlight, the road was scarred with hoof marks. Why were they riding east? Away from Edirdovar Castle? It wasn't enough to attack Avoch, surely. Were they looking for her?

She strained through to see along the road as far as she could without getting out in the open. Nothing. She jumped at a touch on her arm and gave a faint squeak.

"They're ahead of us now," she whispered and her stomach rumbled loudly.

Donnchadh gave her a weak grin. "Glad it didn't do that before."

Together, they crept away from the road and made their way through the firs. She had gotten blisters on the bottoms of both of her feet so she took off her shoes. The dirt and damp needles made a soft cushion underfoot. She needed to piss, but didn't want to tell Donnchadh. She couldn't make water while he watched. Finally, though she couldn't hold it any more and her belly ached from it, so he turned his back while she squatted.

The horizon was hidden by the fir trees, but slowly the sky turned from gray to blue. Caitrina stumbled over a root she hadn't seen and grabbed a trunk, the bark rough under her hand. "I don't think I can walk much more."

"We'll look for a place when it gets light. No way we'll make it to Avoch today, I don't think."

Caitrina nodded and kept her eyes on her feet trying not to stumble, putting one bare foot in front of another. Her stomach ached with emptiness. It had been a long time since the berries. Once she stumbled over a rock and landed hard on her knees.

Donnchadh gave her a hand to boost her erect. "Not much longer. We'll rest during the day and go on when it gets dark." They found a tumbled cairn grown over with brambles. He made a tunnel into it and pulled the bushes close so they were hidden. Caitrina was sure she wouldn’t sleep but the last thing she remembered was cradling her head in her arms and then Donnchadh gave her shoulder a shake.

The light was already waning in the clear spring sky and the world was turning gray. The brambles ended at the edge of a fir wood. Donnchadh grumbled that it would be hard to find their way under branches that hid the stars, but there wasn't a choice so they kept to the fragrant firs and climbed up a long brae. He led them down the other side and up the next gentle rise.

Caitrina sniffed. "I smell wood smoke."

Donnchadh pointed towards flickering light off to the right. Her stomach was so empty she felt sick and Donnchadh looked longingly towards the light.

"Maybe it's a croft," he said. "I don't have no siller to buy anything. Do you?"

"No." She worried at her lip with her teeth. "They could tell us how far to Avoch though and if they've seen riders. And maybe they'd spare an oat bannock if we ask."

Donnchadh frowned and shook his head. "But what if the riders stopped there?"

"I hadn't thought of that." She twisted her fingers together. "We better be careful."

They kept going in the dimming light that turned into twilight. Where the trees thinned, they slipped from bush to bush. Every few steps they stopped to listen. The light ahead was bright when she heard a horse snort and a man's voice. The smoky smell got stronger.

Donnchadh put his mouth against her ear. "You wait here."

She wanted to protest against being left but was afraid to with the English so near, so she sat down next to some thick brambles as he crept on his belly. Her stomach ached with hunger, but it couldn't be that far to Avoch. The once she had been there, it hadn't been a long a ride by road. She clasped her arms around her bent knees, shivering a little in the cooling night air. They could get there without food, she was sure, even walking. Then Donnchadh was creeping toward her. He shook his head and his lips were pressed so tight they were pale.

"What is it?"

"The riders that passed--they're there." His voice was choked sounding. "They've--they've killed the crofter--his family. The bodies..." He heaved and bent as he coughed up a string of bile. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and she waited, heart pounding. "They're just lying there in the dirt. Like--like old rags or--" His voice broke, and he stopped, choking back a sob. She had a sudden vision of Edirdovar Castle--her sister and mother and all the people she knew...

She pressed her hand to her mouth as Donnchadh sucked in gusty breaths through clinched teeth. He looked up, cheeks wet. "They didn't have a chance."

Sample Sunday

I've never taken part before but I'll chime in this week with the first chapter of Wings of Evil:

Chapter One

Ostono: Stonecross

Liada hummed as she turned the corner onto Lansee Road towards home. The betrothal party had been fun. There had been baskets of sweets. She and her friends had danced and laughed. There had even been punch with a hint of wine in it. This was the first of the friends her own age to get betrothed. Liada wondered who would be next.

"See you later, Liada," Zeph called to her from in front of his house.

She looked over her shoulder and waved to him. "Oof!" she gasped and bounced off a man's pot-belly.

"Watch out," the man snapped. "Best go another way. Priests are after someone down there."

She pushed past him. It couldn't be at the inn. That was still four blocks away. Besides, the priests wouldn't be after anyone there.

In the middle of the next block, three priests stood in front of a dirty-gray wood shingled house, their red robes covered by a white surcoat with a red cross on the breast.

Liada edged closer to the small crowd of people gathered on the corner. A woman grasped her arm. "Stay back. They have a Quag with them."

"Merchant Dmitar, the Priests of Roganista demand you open the door," the tall, thin priest shouted, his robe with the silver trim of a senior. "You have been accused of plotting with the First Ones against the people of Ostono."

"I've never even seen a First One." The voice from behind the door quaked. "Merchant Kristis wants my business, so he tells lies about me. What proof did he give?"

"He said your wife knows. She will give us proof."

"She is here. Ask her."

"We will question her at the temple where you will not be able to coerce her."

"No!"

"Alazizfaysal!" The silver-robed priest shouted, and a foot-long Quag became visible, floating above his head. "The door, Alaziz."

Fire shot from the ugly flying creature and engulfed the door. The Quag, covered with brown mottled scales, was no bigger than a large crow. A second blast of power tore the door from its frame and it flew into the house.

The two junior priests ran into the house. There was a crash and shouting.

Liada pressed her hand to her mouth. She'd heard stories about what the priests did to people who aided First Ones, but she'd never seen it before.

A priest dragged a woman out the door and shoved her face first into the dirt. Another priest yanked a man by a chain looped around his neck. Another yank of the chain made him fall onto his knees. He pulled desperately at the chain, his clothes torn and singed.

"Tell us, woman, how many First Ones is your husband helping? Who else is helping them?"

"None. No one!"

"Alaziz." The Quag zipped into the house. A second later, flames crackled around the doorway. The roof began to smoke and then the whole house burst into flames. The Quag whizzed back out and hovered above the senior priest's head.

The priest turned to the crowd. He raised his arms above his head for silence. "Alaziz found a First One and killed it." He motioned to the younger priests. "Take them to the temple. They will tell us where the rest are and what destruction they are planning against the people of Ostono." He turned back to the crowd. "Today, we have saved you from the First Ones, as is our sacred duty."

The woman who had grabbed Liada's arm snorted. "They may have saved us, but you can be sure we'll never see poor Dmitar alive again."

Heart thudding, Liada watched until the priests had dragged their prisoners around the far corner. Then she ran for the Hideaway Inn and home. She burst through the door and hurried into the Tavern. "Pa!"

He put a foaming tankard of ale in front of a customer and smiled at her. "What's all the excitement?"

He wouldn't be happy to frighten the customers so she went close and told him in a low voice what had happened. His brows drew together in a worried look, and he put an arm around her shoulder to hug her. "Thank Goddess Anu, you're all right."

* * *

Liada carefully placed a basket of eggs on the wooden table. Perhaps her mother wouldn't notice that she was late with her chores this morning. She had been sleepy after last night's party and then she had spent more time than she should making up a story about a strange land with flying sea dragons than gathering eggs to be used for the inn's cooking.

Her mother looked up from kneading the huge lump of dough. Flour covered her white dress, arms, and face. The white cap she always wore while cooking saved her hair. Her figure was round but solid. She booked no nonsense from anyone and could stare down the toughest men. "Liada, hurry. You're late. Get into the garden and finish your chores."

Liada hurried out. She knelt between the rows of vegetables pulling weeds and gathering carrots and onions, putting them in separate buckets. Her story needed an evil wizard to be the dragon's enemy. The weeds would eventually rot to become fertilizer for the garden. And her mother would use the vegetables to make today's meals for the inn's customers.

Humming as she worked, near the end of the garden beside the pine woods, she spotted a green spiky-leafed weed with a large yellow and red flower, petals spread like the fingers of a hand. She sat back on her heels admiring the flower, not wanting to pull it, and lowered her face to capture its scent. The flower smelled faintly like lilies.

A bug lay nestled in the flower asleep. She laughed. Liada didn't really like bugs, mainly because her pest of a little brother Tybes did, but this bug was different. It looked like a beautiful dragonfly with delicate wings but without the big eyes. The wings had a lavender tint and the tiny body seemed to have arms and legs.

Liada leaned closer. It looked like a tiny girl no more than six inches high with silver hair flowing around her shoulders. Liada sat stunned. After several minutes staring, she realized it hadn't moved. Was it…she dead? Liada gently eased her hand under the tiny creature to pick it up. It was warm but limp and didn't react to her touch. She took the cap she wore when cooking out of her pocket and wrapped the creature in it. Then she carried it gently to the barn where their two cows and twenty chickens lived. Early each morning, Liada milked the cows and gathered eggs as part of her chores.

Carefully, she set the creature down in a pile of hay. What is it?. But whatever it was, she should keep it secret.

Magic was banned in all three empires. Being caught with one of the magical First Ones meant a dungeon cell for the rest of your life. The priests of Roganista along with their Quag enforced the law. She'd seen the proof of that yesterday. She didn't think this could be a First One, but whatever it was, she would be in trouble if anyone knew about it.

What now? How can I help it? Perhaps she could feed it. That might help. Pulling a hair from her head, she dipped it into a bucket that still had a few drops of milk at the bottom. She touched it to the creature’s mouth. She couldn't be sure, but she hoped some made it in. She tried several more times then quit afraid she might overdo it. Carefully folding the creature's wings, she wrapped it in a clean cloth, added some chicken feathers, and tucked it inside her dress to warm it.

"Please Goddess Anu, don't let it die. Let it live to fly free," she prayed. Liada rarely prayed. Her prayers never seemed to be answered, but it couldn't hurt. Maybe the goddess of healing would have mercy on the little…creature.

"Liada, where are you with those vegetables?" her mother shouted from the kitchen door of the inn. "Bring them in here and help me with the cooking."

***

"Liada, how is the stew coming?" Liada's mother asked, smiling with approval.

"It’s been cooking for an hour. It looks fine, Ma."

"Do you think our customers might like the taste?" The smile disappeared but her lip twitched anyway.

"Yes. I followed Aunt Shara's recipe." Liada raised the small parchment covered with her aunt’s wispy handwriting. She liked learning to cook, but it could be boring especially when all she did was follow a recipe. I’d rather see new places, meet interesting people, and discover strange creatures. She made sure her restlessness didn't show on her face.

"You need to test it. Anyone can follow a recipe. That doesn't mean it will be the same. The meat, potatoes, onions, carrots, and herbs, will be different. Even the water can change the taste." Her mother dipped a spoon into the stews and sipped it. "Here, try it."

Liada sipped the broth. "It's bland," she said uncertainly.

"Yes, it is. It needs a pinch or two of salt, a pinch of peppercorns, a little more garlic, and maybe thyme. But be careful with the garlic, not everyone likes it too strong." Her mother collected the ingredients and put them on the table next to Liada. "Now I want you to add these a pinch at a time. Keep tasting it until it tastes right to you."

"But, Ma—-" Seeing the stubborn set on her mother's mouth, she began adding, then testing. After several minutes, it tasted much better so she raised the spoon to her mother who took a sip.

"Very good. You have created your first Shara Stew. Cooking is about creating interesting and tasty meals. If you just copy recipes, you'll never be a good cook."

Liada nodded. She had enough of the kitchen and wanted to go—anywhere else.

"Now go help your brother with his sums and your sister with her reading."

Anywhere except to tutor her brother and sister. "Ma—-"

Her mother glared at her.

"Yes, Ma." Tybes and Kesti would be outside, probably in the little yard between the cottage they shared with their parents and the vegetable garden. The small cottage was attached to her parent's inn, the Hideaway. The cottage had five rooms, a family room with a large hearth, sturdy wooden table and chairs, a storage room, and three bedrooms. One for her parents, another for her brother Tybes, and a third she shared with her sister Kesti, who was the youngest. She couldn't win. If she had been a boy, she would have had to share with Tybes. She wasn't sure which would have been worse. Tybes was four years younger and seemed to like everything she hated: bugs of every kind, climbing and rough housing, and grubbing in the dirt. And Kesti just wanted to play with her dolls.

Since her mother and father insisted they all learn, Liada had to oversee their lessons. It wasn’t fair, but it would do no good to tell mother and father that. They just asked her who ever told her life was fair.

Sure enough, Tybes dangled by his legs up in the big oak tree next to the cottage. And Kesti muttered to herself as she played with her two rag dolls.

"Time for lessons," Liada said. "Get inside."

Kesti looked at her but her face got that mulish look that made her face look like ma's.

"Not going to," Tybes said and threw an acorn at her. A good thing for him it just bounced off her foot.

"If you make me come up, I’ll swat you a good one. I mean it." She did too. Why did he think she liked this any better than he did? She must have sounded as grumpy as she felt because he dropped to the ground. She ignored the way he stuck his tongue out at her as she grabbed Kesti by the hand and led them inside. Tybes whined to go outside to be with his friends and sulked through his lessons. Kesti had an endless supply of questions most of which involved a present for her name day next week.

After two hours, Liada was ready to scream. It felt like trying to turn mud into stew. She would be glad when they no longer needed lessons and were old enough to help her with the chores.

But maybe even by then, she would be gone. There had to be more to life than milking cows, gardening, and teaching Tybes his sums, if only she could figure out how to find it.

* * *

Liada woke early. The thunk thunk of her mother's big knife came from the kitchen, and her father grunted as he brought up a barrel of ale from the cellar. Kesti was still asleep. Liada dressed quietly and tiptoed out of their room. Tybes would stay in bed all day if no one rousted him. In the barn, she dipped more milk into the small creature's mouth and rewrapped it in fresh feathers. She wondered if it looked better or worse but couldn't tell. It still didn't move. Well, she had done what she could. She had fed it—she hoped—and kept it warm. She collected some eggs, milked the cow, and headed for the kitchen to help her ma.

* * *

That night she returned to the barn, safe from prying eyes. She fed the tiny creature and spent time examining it. Only dim light filtered in so she found it hard to make out what it looked like. It was a little longer than her hand and light as a feather. Its body appeared exactly like a tiny human.

She wished she could keep it but that wouldn’t be fair, like making it a slave and keeping it in chains. Besides, how would she keep it a secret? That night she stared for hours into the dark instead of going to sleep. Her mind ran wild with magic and exotic adventures with her strange creature.

Another five days passed. Liada fed it and kept it warm, determined to nurse it back to health. It remained warm so it must be alive even though it didn't move. On the sixth night as she returned from the kitchen, tiny lights danced around the garden blinking on and off. The bugs left trails of light as they whirled in circles and flew in darting patterns. A fiery cerebration performed just for her. She clapped even though they wouldn't understand or care. As she walked toward the barn, the lightening bugs followed. Just maybe they did appreciate an audience.

When she pushed the barn door open, the fireflies swarmed inside. Her heart jumped. The bugs couldn't hurt her, but bugs don’t follow people. They flew around the shed, past the cow, to the chickens, and at last to where the little creature lay. They circled it and two landed while three hovered nearby. The two that landed seemed to help the creature sit up. Liada backed against the rough wooden wall. What was going on? After a while, the bugs flew out of the shed and disappeared in the night.

The creature stretched and lay back down. Liada gasped and ran to look at it. It was awake! She wiped her cheeks dry. She hadn't realized she was crying with joy.

She wrapped it and gently tucked it into the hay. When she did, it shifted around snuggling deeper into the covering. It was the best moment of her life. In the dark of her bedroom, she lay awake most of the night. The light creatures had danced and flown—just for her!

The next several days whizzed bye. Liada could hardly keep her mind on her cooking lessons with her ma, chores, or lessons with Tybes and Kesti. Whenever she found a few minutes, she sneaked out to the barn to check on the creature. Wonderful days. Each night the bugs returned to dance and visit and the little creature seemed more active.

Finally one night, it stood and launched itself into the air. It swooped around the barn, returning to hover above Liada's shoulder. She felt a touch on her ear. It tickled.

"I'm a Sprite, one of the First Ones. My name is Talibaprimitivasaltheasaria, which loosely translated means 'A Seeker of knowledge, first born, queen of my circle, healer, and wanderer.' You may call me Tali. It's easier," the little creature said in a squeaky voice.

Liada's heart was thumping in her chest. "You can talk…and I can understand you…Tali."

"We are gifted with an understanding of all human languages." Sparkling laughter tinkled from Tali. "My Circle and I owe you much for looking after me. I would have ceased to exist if not for you. The Quag attack left me near death. I was lucky to get away. With the Quag so close, my circle couldn't help. For your help, I will grant you one wish if it is in my power to do so."

"You’ve already granted my wish to see a magical creature. I’ll remember you forever. Anyway, you should thank Goddess Anu. I’ll find some way to thank her for answering my prayers."

"Granted," Tali said.

"I didn't make a wish, did I?"

"You long for a life with magical creatures. But be careful what you wish for, young one. Having me for a companion will be dangerous. The priests of Roganista will imprison or kill you if they discover you keep a First One. They hunt and kill us—and any who befriend us."

"Are you evil…Tali?" Liada asked. Whether evil or not the answer would be the same–no. But she had to ask.

"In the long pass, we did evil things, which all of the First Ones regret except the Quag."

"But aren’t the Quag First Ones?" Liada had always been told the Quag were the pure and true First Ones. The others were evil monsters that hated the true First Ones.

"The Quag were created at the same time as the First Ones, but the Quag were deformed and jealous of those who were not. They hated us. But they were few in number and couldn’t challenge us. When the wars started, the Sprites aligned with the Ostono Empire, the Firebirds with Gorlack, and the Seadragons with the Sporish Empire. Many of us were killed. After the wars, we still fought each other. Now the Quag out number us. And they have the support of the priests and people of the three empires."

Liada sat down, feeling sick to her stomach. "Hunted by everyone?"

"Perhaps you want to take your wish back?"

"Can I?" The little sprite the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It seemed too honest about its past to be evil. But how could she endanger her family?

"You can't take a granted wish back, but—" The creature hovered in the air and looked into her face. "I can't repay you by causing your death. If you want me to leave—then I will."

A life of adventure with a magical creature! Her dreams come to life. How could she send Tali away? Liada chewed her lip thoughtfully. "I'd love to have you stay with me. It's something I've always imagined. But I couldn't keep you in bondage for a day, much less for always."

"I will not be in bondage since I linger of my own free will. My circle stays because I do. I said you could have one wish, and I will gladly grant it."

"But so many years. A few hours or a few days would be enough," Liada said.

"Those years you speak of are, to us, but seconds."

Liada frowned at the idea. "How old are you?"

"I was created when the continent Nilord was formed and will be here until it is no more. Unless I am destroyed by the Quag."

Liada sat stunned. They lived forever. They were more magical then even she could think up in her imaginary adventures. "Do you have magical powers?"

"All the First Born are invisible unless we choose to be seen. We can fly and are pure energy although you see us as having shapes. Sprites have the power to heal and to bring lighting to the ground."

Liada pressed her hand to her mouth to contain a gasp. These were the powers of the gods.