The Templar's Cross now on Amazon!

Sir Law Kintour has returned from the war in France crippled, broke, and in need of a patron. In desperation, he reluctantly accepts a commission to find a nobleman's runaway wife. He enlists the help of a fellow Scot with whom he escaped after their defeat at the Battle of Verneuil. But his friend is murdered, and Law discovers he has been lied to. As the murders continue to mount, powerful interests come into play. When the Sheriff of Perth considers him a convenient scapegoat, it gives Law no choice but to untangle the lies and find the killer or hang for the murders. 

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Historical Fiction:

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Tax Day Free Fantasy!

Tax Day is painful for most of us, but we have something to take you away from it all: from a variety of authors twelve fantasies are free today on Amazon. Pick one or two or all of them and relax into a fantasy world!

For your reading pleasure:

J. R. Tomlin and C. R. Daems: Blood Duty

Brendan Carroll: The Red Cross of Gold I

MeiLin Miranda: Lovers and Beloveds

Kate Danley: Maggie for Hire

Dave King: Betrovia

Edward W. Robinson: The White Tree

Cate Dean: Last Chance Jack

Colin Taber: Fall of Ossard

Christopher Bunn: Ice and Fire

Matthew Musser: Jadeflies

 Just out from Tristan J. Tarwater: Little Girl Lost

E. Stoops: Corner of a Round Planet





So please download, sit back, relax, and ENJOY!

J. R. Tomlin

Wrai's Main Skill Comes into Play -- Stealing

Reitz pulled his horse up beneath the drooping branches of a stand of big oaks. "Ayla and Patul can go to the inn while I show you the house. We'll be off as soon as you lift the medal," he said.

"Not so fast." Wrai turned his horse to gaze at the town in the darkening shade. "You know where the house is so that means you've been there before."

"Of course. We tried to buy the thing," Patul said. "It's an elderly widow. I hoped that she'd be glad of the gold, but she wouldn't even talk about selling. We wrote to her first and then went to her home."

"All three of you?"

Patul shook his head. "No, I was afraid all three of us showing up with frighten her so I went by myself. Maybe I should have taken Ayla with me. The woman wouldn't let me past the door."

"And you don't suppose she might connect this medal disappearing to the stranger who showed up at her door and just happened to be at the inn when it disappeared?" Wrai turned back to the three and gave them a searing look. "I intend to come out of this little venture alive and with my hands still attached. So I'll give the orders when it comes to stealing."

Reitz cleared his throat and shifted in his saddle. He had the good sense not to argue though.

Patul lifted a pacifying hand. "You're the one who knows this business."

"Good. So you went to her house. What's it like?"

"A sturdy cottage, really. Yard filled with rose bushes. Tidily kept." Patul's eyes narrowed as he thought. "Too tidy for her to do all of the work, I'd say though she seemed a sturdy body. She answered the door herself and I didn't see any sign of anyone else around."

"Any barking? No sign of a dog?"

Patul shook his head again. "Nothing like that."

"And it's a small house, you say?"

"Nothing more than a cottage."

"Most likely she has a girl come in to help occasionally then. Not likely to have a servant live in besides having to feed and clothe them. If she's not rich..." Wrai tilted his head as he considered it. Sounded likely but he'd have to see the place. "No stopping at the inn. Once it's full dark, you'll show me the place and ride through to the other side of town. Find the first stand of trees and keep out of sight until I join you."

"That makes sense." Reitz sounded reluctant, but by now the light had faded enough that Wrai couldn't make out his face. "The moon will be at half tonight."

They dismounted and let the horses crop at the sparse weeds under the trees. Wrai pulled his black jerkin, breeches, and an old worn hat out of a saddlebag to change. A cool breeze came up rustling the branches together, and the moon rose to cast its greenish light over the landscape. They rode at a steady walk up the Whorlton road and through the little town. They passed a couple of townsmen making their way into the local inn; otherwise, the street was still. It was a nice enough town with stone cottages spaced along the street, most with gardens and outhouses. Wrai had ridden through a couple of times on his way to somewhere more profitable.

In the moonlight, he could make out the jumbled lines of the slate roofs and a few trees shading the yards. About halfway through the town, Patul made a sound in his throat and nodded toward a cottage. Wrai slid from the saddle and tossed Patul his reins. By the time they had ridden a horse's length past, he was already in the dark recesses of the garden in the deep black shadows under an oak tree.

The scent of sweet damp and old roses clung to the garden air. A tiny glint of light peeked through the closed shutters. He slid around to the rear of the house and squatted within the arch of a vine-covered trellis to watch, tipping his hat to be sure no light would catch his face.

The back door opened, the glimmer of a candle showing a plump wrinkled face. "Out you go, you old rascal," a high wavering voice said. Then the house went dark. A cat nosed at him and he scratched a ragged ear. It purred, winding around his leg. All he needed was a cat following him into the house. He pushed it away, and after a while, it slunk into the night, no doubt to find a rat for its dinner. From a nearby house, the sound of a squalling baby broke the night. Wrai dropped to a knee to make himself more comfortable and flexed his shoulders as they began to cramp.

A drunken voice shouted an oath followed by the sound of wood shattering. "Stupid goat lover."

Another crash followed and the sound of running footsteps. There was a clatter of hobnail boots and a jangle of armor as the watch came running up the way. The torch they carried made wavering shapes in the night. Wrai caught his breath, ducking his head to be sure the shine of his eyes was hidden. Damn, the last thing he needed was the watch to see him lurking.

"Halt!"

A sound of blows and groans followed, then they dragged a dark shape between them back up the road. Breathing a sigh of relief, Wrai waited. The town quieted. An owl hooted. A couple of cats tangled, yowling. After a while, there was nothing but the rustle of the wind in the trees.

Wrai rose and slipped across the narrow space of the yard to the window. He studied the shutters and, as he expected, they were closed by a bar. He could raise it but there was always a chance that would make noise. He frowned. If the door bolted too, he wouldn't have any choice but to chance it. He knelt to examine the lock in the moonlight and smiled. Large and sturdy. Just the kind an old widow would think would protect her treasures. The heavy old thing gave way in a few second.

Cracking open the door, he listened. The house was still until a snorting came from another room. He slipped inside only to find the blasted cat twisted around his ankles, purring at him again. He stopped a stumble with a hand on the wall and silently chuckled. He'd certainly lost his touch in the years since he gave up the trade if a damnable cat could trip him up.

The room smelled of rising dough and herbs and under it the scent of beeswax polish. He reached up to brush his fingers over a bunch of herbs that hung from the rafters. Another snort came from the left side of the house. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he made out the shape of a doorway ahead toward the house front. He would hope that the old body didn't keep her treasures in her bedroom. With the cat determinedly rubbing at his ankles no matter how he shoved it away with a foot, he made his way into the other room.

Here the floor was polished to a glow in moonlight that peeked in through the shutters. Tables swathed in cloths sat everywhere interspersed with spindly chairs. Each table was crowded with pendants and statuettes.

He couldn't help the sigh, and he rolled his eyes. How long in the blazes of Hedrin would it take to go through all these gewgaws? The stupid cat kept rubbing up against him as he eliminated first one table of folderol and then another. On the third, centered in front of the window he saw it, gleaming in a ray of moonlight. He scooped it up and hefted it. Not as heavy as he'd expected. Lighter than the others, but the rune was similar as well as he could see.

The woman gave a snort like she'd been stuck. He froze, heart pounding, but the bed creaked and she settled back to a rhythmic snore. He shook his head at his jumpy nerves. Dumb bastard. Been out of the game too long to be doing this.

Slipping the medal into his tunic, he stood still for a moment to be sure she had settled into a deep slumber before he moved toward the door. She'd miss the thing as soon as she woke. He had no doubt of it, so he strode steadily through the dark streets until he was past the last house. The moon lit the road before him until a bulk of trees rose on the side.

Reitz called out, "Here."

Wrai vaulted into the saddle and handed the piece over to Patul with a grimace. What business did he or these mages have stealing from some old widow? Faceless Goddess help him, this wasn't a night he'd be proud of. He'd take money from someone who risked it, and he'd rolled more than a few honey-fat noblemen. But curse him if he could see a reason why rich mages should be stealing from some old biddy.

Pah. She was probably a mean old shrew who kicked puppies. He shrugged but still frowned.

"Let's get out of here." He glared at Patul and jerked the reins of his horse.

"Wait," Reitz said. Hoofbeats clattered in the distance accompanied by the clatter of harness.

Bollocks. Surely, the woman hadn't found her loss so soon. Ayla sucked in her breath, and he laid a hand on her arm. "Shhh..."

Militia cantered the road, the low light glinting off their armor and weapons. The lord's banner snapped as one held it aloft.

Wrai's breath caught in his chest. A coincidence? Normal patrol? They'd seen several on their way, but it wasn't a risk he cared to roll on.

--------------------------------------

Laying the Odds is only $2.99 at Amazon.

Andrew Discovers the Terrible Price of Defeat: Freedom's Sword

CHAPTER SIX

The morning dawned with a muggy heaviness. Sweat gathered under the iron bracelets on Andrew's wrists, stinging in the open sores they'd rubbed. A length of chain no more than two feet in length ran between the irons on his ankles. His hair, dank and matted, hung in his eyes. At full daylight, with fifty other prisoners, he was herded towards the rutted dirt road by a handful of mounted men-at-arms. His hands got clammy and cold as he wondered where they were being taken through the shadowy pinewoods. He pictured the piles of bodies after the battle and someone dragging Brian by the feet leaving a crimson track in the dirt. His stomach turned and he gagged.

This was the first time he and his father had been moved since they were taken prisoner. His father... the earls of Atholl and Buchan... and two hundred or so of their men... the ones who hadn't died in the fighting.

Back bruised black and stiff from the blow he'd taken, stripped of his armor, clad in a penitent's rough brown sackcloth, Andrew awaited the will of the conquering English king. Until now, the only change had been when Sir William Douglas, taken prisoner after the slaughter of the city of Berwick-upon-Tweed, had been added to their number.

A grassy hill opened before them and in the center stood Strachthro Church. Prodded by the pikes, he tramped toward the gray stone building, exchanging puzzled glances with the other men. Manacles rattling, he climbed the steps. His father stumbled over the chains on his ankles, and Andrew grabbed his arm.

Inside, a man-at-arms used the butt of his pike to jostle Andrew against the cold stone of the wall. As his father was pushed back, he gave Andrew a dazed look. His father had not been clear-headed since the blow that had split open his scalp in the battle. Blackened blood matted his streaky blond hair. None of the prisoners made a sound as they were shoved against the walls.

From outside came the sound of clanking armor and stamping, snorting horses. The doors were thrown open and a shaft of July sun made a golden carpet across the polished floor.

A huge bay destrier tossed its head as its rider, gray-haired and heavy jowled, dressed in steel armor etched with gold, rode through the doorway. Iron-shod hooves struck sparks, scoring the granite. Bareheaded, he rode. His helm with its golden coronet hung from his saddle. Hoof falls, clanging, echoed from the narrow walls and high-beamed ceiling as King Edward of England rode up the length of the church to the very altar steps, not glancing once at the prisoners lined up on the side.

Sweet Jesu... Andrew's heart pounded.

Behind the horseman strutted a fat man with a ponderous belly in shining half-armor over velvet hose and tunic. Then strode in men in armor covered with emblazoned surcoats, three dozen at least. The crests of Warrenne, Aymer de Valence, the Bishop of Durham, Percy, and Gloucester he recognized. The rest were strange to him, lesser lords and knights of England no doubt.

At the end of the tail of armored men strolled a blond man, shining armor under a sable cloak, broad shouldered and comely--Robert the Bruce, the younger, who had only months before inherited the earldom of Carrick. Though the Bruce was three years his elder, he'd been a friend once when they'd both been squires. No more. Andrew glared, but the Bruce stared down at his feet.

The bland-faced king of England pulled the warhorse up and in a half circle. It dropped a steaming plop of shit on the floor. His fleshy companion took a place, straddle-legged, at his stirrup, and the rest ranged on either side of the steps. The Bruce hung back near the doorway, frowning.

King Edward raised a hand. "Bring him in."

A chill went through Andrew at more clanking sounds from outside. Now they'd find out why they had been hustled to the church. Nearby, Sir William Douglas gave a low growl, his dark face flushed.

The first through the door was a man-at-arms, well-turned out in iron-studded leather, a sergeant perhaps. Over his shoulder ran a rope he grasped in both hands.

The rope led to a noose about King John de Balliol's neck; his shoulders slumped. Andrew dragged in a ragged breath, too horrified to move. His king. Bareheaded, King John was in a red velvet tunic and hose, but the sun shone off his cloth-of-gold tabard with the rampant lion of Scotland worked in rubies, dazzling the eye. On each side walked another guard.

King John lurched forward as the man-at-arms jerked on the rope. The shackles that bound his feet clamored. He stumbled, grasping something to his chest. One of the guards caught a shoulder and shoved him upright.

As John de Balliol, King of the Scots, shuffled into the middle of the church, the men around King Edward watched in silence. Andrew's father gave a cry, "Your grace!" No one else spoke. The man at King Edward's stirrup spat on the floor. Well to the side, Robert de Bruce looked once towards King John, his lip lifting into a sneer before he looked down once more.

King John continued his clanking way towards the mounted Edward of England. In King John's hands were the Royal Regalia of Scotland, the crown and the scepter.

The great warhorse stamped as the regally clad man stopped a stride away. King John craned his neck to stare upwards. Edward's blue glance swept the watchers before he lowered it to the man in chains before him.

King John made a choked sound and cleared his throat. "My Lord."

Edward's teeth bared in a grin. "Past time you remembered it." He glanced at his nearest companion. "Cressingham, see you to it."

The man at King Edward's stirrup stepped forward, his silver half-armor catching the light. He bowed towards King Edward before turning to the Scots king.

"John de Balliol, traitor. Miscreant." Cressinghim's rich voice was ragged with unveiled scorn. "I charge you in the name of the dread Lord Edward, King of England, of Wales and of Ireland, Duke of Normandy and Guyenne and Lord Paramount of Scotland. I charge you with refusing his commands, renouncing your allegiance to your liege lord and raising arms against him in rebellion."

The man he addressed continued to stare silently upward at the English king.

"You have dealt openly with King Edward's enemies and consorted with traitors. In all things, you have failed in the submission due him. You have led astray the realm that our king, in his generosity, granted you."

At last, John de Balliol, white-faced, turned his head to gaze at Cressingham. "Granted me? A throne that was mine by right?"

Robert de Bruce coughed. His hot eyes stared at Balliol, and Andrew sucked in a breath. How much has that hatred cost?

"Continue," King Edward barked.

Cressingham took an angry step toward Balliol and thrust out a finger, jowls trembling. "You will say these words after me. Before these witnesses who were traitors with you. At your king's command."

Wildly, Andrew shoved away from the wall. With a shoulder, he rammed into the guard, hurling him out of the way. "No!" He stumbled on the shackles he'd forgotten. "You have no right." He shook off a hand grasping his arm as he stared into John de Balliol's face. "You can't!"

A shadow moved. He sensed an upswept movement, a weapon swinging. There was barely time for a dodge to the side and a half turn. The smash came on his shoulder with shattering pain and he groaned. Saw another blow coming.

He ducked under the pike's butt, but it caught his head. He was flat on the cold floor. A kick to the side of his head knocked him dizzy. Thoughts scattered and flew. They used their boots on arms, legs, stomach, and back. He curled up, arms over his head. A warm trickle ran down his face and dripped onto the stone.

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Freedom's Sword is available for only $2.99 at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords in eBook form and in paperback for $8.99 on Amazon.

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."

-----------------

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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Saturday 6 July through Monday 8 July, I am offering review copies of Blood Duty FREE for download from Smashwords. You will find Blood Duty here in most formats and use Coupon # PB77C at the checkout screen.

#SampleSunday Chapter 1 of Laying the Odds

CHAPTER ONE

Wrai propped his boots on the rungs of the chair opposite him and took a deep drink of his ale, mentally cursing being stuck in this cesspit of a town. Why Krelton of all town in the four dukedoms of Ardalak?

The storm seemed to have kept most of the locals at home. Two workmen in homespun slumped wearily at a table. A merchant with a sword-carrying guard at this elbow stood at the bar talking to the innkeeper. Outside, the inn’s sign banged in the wind.

The horse fair at Rystar started in two days and he wouldn’t make it in time. A storm had left ruts and potholes deep enough to swallow a horse. The post-coach he was traveling in had hit one full tilt. When the axle shattered, it threw the coach tumbling. Wrai and the driver had walked away with only a few bruises, but the smith would take days to repair the damage.

Wrai wouldn’t make the profit he’d expected. Bollocks, he’d counted on that gold. He couldn't take care of Amalie when he was traveling all the time, having to duck out when someone decided he'd won a little too often. A gambling house he’d been eyeing would be perfect, if he could find the money. His stomach coiled at the thought of something happening to his daughter while he was gone as it had to her mother.

Wrai banged his mug down on the table. The innkeeper lifted his head to stare, so Wrai nodded to the man and leaned back again. No one else paid him any mind.

He slipped his fingers under his shirt and into his money pouch to slide over the ten silver pfennigs and, reassuringly heavy, five gold marks. They would have been more than enough for a stake at the tables at the fair. He could make up the loss if he went to Crestholm for one of the high-roller games. For that, he’d need more gold marks. It wasn’t close to enough. He still had a purse of base pfennigs upstairs to cover his room. But going to Crestholm now meant breaking a promise. He'd written Amalie that that he'd be there in two week.

She'd never have reason to think her father didn't care. Not like his. He frowned and took another sip of the dark, sharp ale.

The rattle of harness, voices, and the stamp of hooves from outside made him twitch. The door banged open, the wind jerking it to thud against the wall.

Water dripped from a thickset man’s hair and drooping moustache. He pushed the door closed against the rain blowing in.

"Wet night out," the innkeeper said as he reached for a mug.

"That it is," the newcomer said. "I’ll need rooms for me and my friends." His worn leather scabbard was scarred with use and his sleeve bulged. Definitely a strong-arm of some kind.

Wrai sat unmoving. Middling height, neatly built, dark hair and eyes, thin moustache, he blended into the background. No one would notice him. He twitched with an inward smile. Well, a woman might. Amalie’s mother had.

The door opened quietly this time as a ginger-haired man dressed in leather and linen came in. Perhaps the first was this one’s guard but strange to come in first and leave his client outside. Ginger-hair held the door open for a girl. She darted in out of the wet, dripping water from her brown split-skirt gown, hair in a knot at the nape of her neck.

"Only two rooms available." The innkeeper shrugged. "Only other one’s taken."

"That’ll do. One for the lady. My friend and I’ll share the other."

"Have him send up mulled wine to both rooms," Ginger-hair said. "We’re all chilled through with the wet."

The guard-dog handed over a folded parchment and dropped a coin into the innkeeper’s hand.

"And post this. Tomorrow we’ll need a parlor for the day."

The innkeeper yelled for a boy to show the newcomers up. As they climbed the stairs, the innkeeper unfolded the parchment. The merchant strained across the bar to see what it was.

Curiosity pricked at Wrai’s nerves but he wasn’t about to call attention to himself by going over.

"What is it?" the merchant said.

The innkeeper held the paper out at arms length and squinted at it, lips moving as he read. "It’s a notice to put up. Says he’s a merchant who wants to buy jewelry from before the dukedom was formed." He frowned as he peered at it. "Says he’ll pay good prices and be buying tomorrow all day."

The merchant took a sip of his wine. "Never seen anything that old. Wonder how he’ll tell?"

The innkeeper gave a broad shrug before turning to draw two flagons of wine from a cask and set them to mulling. "Wouldn’t mind getting in on to something like that if I knew where to find it. Must be profitable if he’s paying well." The merchant scowled into his mug. "Maybe one of the nobles hereabout, but they wouldn’t likely part with family pieces."

Wrai drained his mug. He knew of a noble who of a certainty had antiquities. A smile twisted his mouth. He’d been near the man three times in his life, but he was willing to wager a good deal some of his pieces were from before the Crestholm dukedom was founded. And he didn’t wager—not without being sure he would win.

The tricky part would be laying hands on the piece. When he’d walked past the house on the way to the inn the night before, it had been dark except for a tiny slant of light from an upstairs back window. That would have been a servant’s room. If the Faceless Goddess favored Wrai, the owner was out of town. The profit might make up for missing the fair. It might even give him the gold to buy that gambling hall. Getting it at the cost of someone who owed him made it that much sweeter.

He headed for the stairs and no one so much as turned their head. In his room, he pulled back the shutters. The rain still pelted, splattering into puddles. The streets would be quiet. If he was right that the house was empty, he could have a profitable night. Should he take the risk? He flexed his hands, a chill of nerves going through him.

He’d mostly given up thieving after Amalie was born. Every city took a hand for thieving, a few took both. The worst you got for weighting the dice in a game of Hazard was a flogging. But, no one ever won at the table if they didn’t lay the stakes. This was too good a gamble to pass up. He swapped his leather and homespun for his black tunic and breeches and pulled on his black gloves.

Time to collect a debt long past due.

The rain had quieted to a drizzle by the time he jumped from the window into the dark horse yard. The air smelled of earth and wet leaves. He slogged through the muddy street. The village was dark except for once when the quarter moon found a gap in the rain clouds. Past a street lined with ramshackle wooden huts, he came to the larger brick houses near the market square. Set back from the road, most had cypress-dotted lawns. A shaft of light shown through shutters of a manse and a couple left, talking and laughing as a torch carrier lit their way. Wrai stopped under a dripping tree to wait and then strolled through the dark keeping an eye out for guards or stray merrymakers.

His heart sped up with a thrill he had missed. The risk was better than new summerwine.

The manse he was seeking stood above the market square at the top of a hill. Heavy shutters barred the tall front windows and the hickory front door had heavy a heavy bar. He slipped through the trees of the lawn toward the back. In the shadow of an oak, he studied the house with its kitchen, scullery and back garden. He’d gambled in enough fancy manses to know how they were set up. Even with the master gone, a junior maid was probably huddled in the kitchen beside the dying warmth of the hearth. In the garret, a senior servant or two might have been left to see to the house while the master was gone. He didn’t want in the garret anyway, and he’d circle around to avoid the kitchen.

The master’s study took up one side of the front of the house. He padded across the wet grass to one of the forward windows. Running a finger over the joint of the shutter, he sucked in a breath. That latch was a heavy one. But he needed money, and he liked the idea of getting it from his father. He touched the scar at the corner of his eye. Oh, yes, he liked that idea.

He needed a window he could work at for a while so he eased around the house until he found one hidden by two heavy bushes. He pulled a long metal pick out of his boot's seam. It slid through slit, and the latch didn’t take as long as he’d thought it might. Easing the window up, he strained to detect any sound. The drizzle sputtered softly.

No noise came from inside the dark house. He climbed through into a hallway and stood still letting his eyes adjust. The house smelled of wax and fine leather just the same as when he'd been here before. He closed his eyes for a minute to let them get used to the deeper darkness inside.

His mother had dragged him the first two times. He’d been past his seventh solstice. She’d scrubbed him until he stung and dressed him in his least worn clothes. That was after the players she had been performing with had turned up its toes. He’d heard her crying every night, and she cursed all the way to the manse under her breath. She’d never said anything about his father before, but on the way, she said every bad word Wrai’d ever had his mouth washed out for saying. A servant showed her into the study, him in tow, his hand firmly in hers. He gaped at the colorful pictures in the wall hangings. In a polished case, silver urns shone and a medal as large as a man's hand etched with a deep figure of the Goddess surrounded by a strange twisted mark dangled.

"You want your own son to go hungry?" his mother said, her face drawn tight.

The man shrugged and rang for a servant to show her out. "Don’t come back with the by-blow."

The by-blow.

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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.

Why Battles Are Like Sex

All right, maybe not exactly. But I write about them the same way. I got a funny look from someone the other day when I said that, so I'm going to explain the similarities.

First -- non-sex related unless you have different tastes than me, but who knows *grin* -- and this applies to sword fights or just describing warriors and knights in general, don't get tied up in what I once saw an editor call "weapon porn". I am a heck of a lot more interested in what the armour and weapons are called than 99% of my readers. I know the name, weight and capabilities of every piece. So should you, but don't necessarily list it. They really just want to see what it does, not hear its name. But do get the capabilities of the weapons right, please. Please. Swords did not weight 30 pounds, and it was not a matter of the heavier the better. Most weigh less than 3 pounds. 6 pounds is about tops for a functional sword that is not for ceremonial use only.

Swords cut. They do not crush.

Know all that to make the scene authentic but don't burble it all out and bore your poor reader to death--or on to another novel.

(Possibly that is more like a sex scene than I thought. Don't list all the body parts either!)

Now on to the sex part:

1. The senses do not stop working during battle or during sex. Battle is noisy and smelly. Things touch; things taste. The coppery taste of blood in your mouth. The tickle or sting of sweat trickling down your sides. The shit from dead horses and men. The senses put the reader there in either type of scene. Don't leave them out.

3. Battle and sex are both drippy. There are a lot of fluids. Blood in the mouth, on your hands, in your face. Sweat dripping. Horses lather and bleed. Mud squelches under your feet. Important stuff. I'll leave the sex dripping to you. *grin*

4. Don't announce orgasms OR winning the battle. In a battle, no one holds up a sign and shouts, "it's all over". Battles take a long time, sometimes all day, and even when you've won, the fighting rarely stops with that. There are enemies to be hunted down or an escape to be made. Or you're a prisoner wondering who of your friends survived. From your spot in the battle, you may not even know whether you've won or lost. There's a good chance you won't just like you don't necessarily know... *chuckles*

5. It is ALL in the feelings. Exactly where you put the feet or how the sword was swung doesn't mean a thing any more than how "Part A goes into Slot B". What matters are the emotions and reactions. There can be all kinds of feeling in battle. Cool calculation as you figure out how the enemy will react to what you do. Or you might be totally lost in the moment, seeing nothing but the next swing of the sword and the next victim ridden down. It may be fear and terror. It may be elation. But it is the feelings that count! If you don't know that about sex... well, I don't know what to tell you.

6. You had better feel it yourself. You notice I describe it as though it is happening to you. If your sex scenes don't arouse you, they probably have a problem. If you don't feel your own battle scenes, then you probably need to get more inside your character.

So that's why I think they're the same. Kind of. But I do try to be alive and unbloodied after sex. My characters can't necessarily say the same after battle, because I try to always have them at risk. And that's another essential point. If there is no risk to your characters, is there really any point in writing the scene? Just another thing to think about.

My own novel, Freedom's Sword, is based on the life of Scotland's hero, Andrew de Moray. You can find it at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Smashwords.

Artist for Warrior's Duty Cover Art

More news from the novel front -- the one being published, not the one I'm working on.

The publisher is actually allowing me (Swimming Kangroo Books are super-nice people to work with) to pick the artist and forwarded me links to four artist's galleries. Very exciting! This is at least close to the last step.

I picked out an artist named Jeff Ward who does some very nice work. I'm assuming the publisher will agree since they asked.

Woohoo! I will finally have cover art to post!

I'm going to post a longer portion of the first chapter as a sample so you can get a better idea of what Warrior's Duty is about.