Feral

By T.B. Schmid

Sometimes tales flow down from the mountain peaks like the snow-fed streams that bleed down their boney flanks. Strange beasts. Stranger men. Stories spun in the glow of highlander watch fires to pass the time swell and strengthen - every retelling a new tributary – until the tale becomes a legend. But sometimes, the legends are real...

A well-traveled, resourceful warrior leads a formidable sorceress with a dark, conflicted past through a remote wilderness he once called home. When they run afoul of a dangerously unstable patrol commander as a brutal winter storm closes in, they find themselves caught between their pursuer and something far more sinister.

'Feral' is a gripping tale of adventure, horror and suspense set in the epic fantasy world of Ruine. Its rich, diverse characters are caught up in a storm of swords, sorcery, madness...and an ancient evil that even the hard-bitten mountain clans fear above all else.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.B. Schmid
• Release date: Nov 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311352859

T.B. Schmid

T.B. Schmid lives in upstate New York with his wife, two children, and two Norwegian Elk Hounds. He and author R.Wade Hodges formed Lions of the Empire in 2014 to promote their collaborative "Fate's Crucible" series. Book One, entitled "Beyond the Burning Sea" was released on 9/20/16, and there are at least two additional books in production. "Feral" was his first published work.

Book preview

FERAL

By TB Schmid

Copyright 2014 Timothy B. Schmid

Published by Lions of the Empire @ Smashwords

Visit us at: https://www.facebook.com/lionsoftheempire

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

About the Author

Upcoming Work

Hunger…fear…rage…these things all beasts must feel.

It is love that allows man to rise above his innate ferocity

– and it is love that calls him to unleash it.

Prologue

"…and as she danced, a spinning tempest of lust, passion, and power, fiercely beautiful, every eye in the room upon her, something deep within him answered. His blood pounded to the cadence of drums and clapping hands, to the rhythm of strange instruments. The haze of khafkaa smoke, heady drink and perfume began to lift, replaced by a drug far more urgent,

far more powerful.

So strange that he had found her here, in a land that until now had held nothing but hate and fear for him…"

Chapter 1

Mhiisonj watched the fragile vapor of her last breath slip away into the frigid mountain air, where everything was brittle and strange.

Then she drew the next and stifled a curse.

She was becoming frustrated with Tchicatta. He’d been pushing her hard throughout the day, and both the ride and the cold – which at first she’d found exhilarating – were wearing on her. When they had reached the trading post earlier that afternoon, she had slid from her saddle in relief, anticipating that this was their destination and she could at least warm herself by a fire (or, at this point, she thought that IN one might not be such a bad thing). Instead, to her bitter disappointment, he had merely procured a packhorse and some more provisions, then held a lengthy discussion with the brute who ran the place – a conversation made longer still because the sod couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. The look in the man's eyes went beyond desire; their dark gleam of contempt also promised violence, reminding her how far away from home she really was.

Mhiisonj shuddered and brought her head up with a start; her companion had shouted and urged his mount into a canter. She gritted her teeth, biting back the pitiful groan rising in her throat, and drove her heels into her bay’s flanks.

They were on a well-worn track, wide enough for two horses to ride abreast, the packed snow providing decent footing as they wound their way up the side of the mountain. It had been a fairly moderate incline until they reached the hunting lodge; since then, however, it had become much steeper and she wondered how high they had actually climbed. She had been disappointed at the lack of view as well; it seemed that the path they followed was constantly running behind ridges, huge boulders or scraggly trees, so that she had little sense of the breadth of the range around them. But that was about to change.

Ahead, Tchicatta rounded a turn and he and the trailing packhorse were momentarily lost from view. She felt a small twinge of panic. It was dusk and the deepening gloom painted the surrounding landscape in threatening shadow, so that unknown creatures – strange northern daemons of her mind’s eye – seemed to cling to the broken hillsides or lurk behind the hardscrabble trees. What must be the final rays of Ruine's second sun splashed across the rocky hill opposite where he’d ridden through, so she urged her horse towards the light. As she rounded the turn, the walls of the small canyon they’d been traveling through all afternoon fell away, and the setting sun welcomed her to a sight that would have given the gods pause.

She was on a broad flat shelf of snowpack, painted a soft gold with tinges of pink and soft purple shadows. About twenty paces away, a stone dais squatted, surrounded on all four sides by well worn stairs; it looked to be the ruins of an altar of some kind. Tchicatta sat astride his horse atop the dais, silhouetted against the sunset, partially turned back towards her. She could not see his face for the glare, but she could feel him watching her, no doubt relishing her reaction.

Out beyond him was empty, glittering air, as if the plateau they were on was perched on the back of some great bird. A fine dusting of snow had been caught up in a breeze and swirled about playfully, sparking bits of golden fire as it danced in the day’s last light. As she approached the dais and guided her horse up the stairs, she gave a startled gasp.

They were perhaps ten strides away from the edge of a precipice; beyond, impossibly far away, the full might and splendor of the Havernesse Mountain range rose starkly against the gossamer wash of orange, pink and purple sky. Two peaks stood tallest. From the leftmost one, a long scarf of snow, blown from its lonely pinnacle, trailed sideways – as if the mountain were reaching for the departing suns, the final outstretched hand of a lover’s farewell embrace. Mhiisonj sat transfixed, all of her discomfort and frustration melting away, her frigid toes and fingers and aching muscles forgotten. This was not the somber, dreary country her pitiless masters had told her of – it was harsh, yes, and its people had no love for her or her kind – but it held a proud, majestic, raw beauty that made her heart ache.

I have been alone for so long, she thought. A child of two worlds yet somehow an orphan of both.

Mhiisonj was Vanha, what Tchicatta's people called 'godkin'. Sometime in the past, an ancestor of hers had lain with one of the Young Gods and conceived a male child, who she'd been told was her great-grandfather. There were thousands of other Vanha scattered across the face of Ruine, and many of them held positions of authority and power, particularly if they were direct descendents or within whom the immortals' blood and traits ran strong. In some regions, however, the relationship between mortals, gods and their mixed-blood descendants was confusing, especially where superstition and primitive customs distorted the truth, providing fertile ground for distrust and even outright hostility. Valheim – this far northern region her lover called home – was one such place.

Such animosity was something she had grappled with all of her life, ever since leaving her own native island of Khiigongo. It was the largest land mass in the god-made archipelago of Shanthaal, and its people lived in harmony with one of the immortals: Shan, Father of Storms and Master of the Seas, who had raised each of the seven islands from the sea floor himself. He had also raised the skirts of many a willing mortal lass, including her great-great-grandmother, so it was not surprising that the people of Khiigongo and the surrounding isles embraced the Vanha. Life among Shanthaal's tall cliffs, gleaming cities and bustling ports had been good for the short time she had lived there, until circumstances and choices she tried not to dwell on led her down darker roads.

She felt Tchicatta staring at her and turned to look at him. Deep within her, the faintest breath of air slipped beneath the heavy door to the cell behind, and a hairline crack shot through the dark shackles that imprisoned her spirit.

So beautiful…I – I had no idea, she said softly.

I know. He smiled at her in response, searched her gaze for a moment, and then turned to look out over the landscape. His voice was distant.

There is much you do not know about me, Song... much we do not know about each other. He turned back towards her again, his voice growing stronger.

It is good that you've come home with me, to learn some of the pieces of my life's puzzle. Perhaps it will help you make more sense of your own. As the sun dipped below the range, he made a clicking noise and tugged on the reins, trotting over to collect their pack horse before turning his mount back towards the trail.

Come. There is a cave in the ice where we will make camp for the night. It is not far, but we do not want to be out here when the light fades.

His subtle warning dispelled the effects of the previous moment and the cold and discomfort returned to remind her of their long voyage. Though she tried hard to keep an open mind and think of sharing warm furs with her lover, she was having some difficulty getting past the cave part. With one last glance at the evening sky – now a luminous orange laced with thready purple clouds – she guided her horse around to follow him.

He led them back into the cut at a brisk trot, but to her relief, they emerged into a wide valley after a relatively short ride. Overhead, the sky washed from fading orange into a deep, royal blue. Several stars appeared, glittering icily, harbingers of the brilliant display to come. To their left, a sheer wall of ice ran straight up into the gloom. To their right, the valley was shaped like a huge bowl, with another cut on the far side, leading deeper into the mountains. At this point it was just a dark ribbon of shadow from Mhiisonj’s perspective, but as she looked, she thought she saw movement near the ravine opening, as though some of the larger shadows on the far wall of the valley were somehow shifting.

Her horse whinnied and sidestepped nervously, ears pricked and nostrils flaring. She reached a gloved hand to pat its neck soothingly. When she glanced across the valley again, only the unyielding ice wall on the far side stared back through the gathering night.

At the sound of the animal’s agitation, Tchicatta reined his own horse in and slid quickly from his saddle. He dropped to one knee and placed his free hand to the ground, palm flat. His head was bent as if listening or concentrating, and after several heartbeats, he nodded to himself, then stood. As he walked back to collect her reins so that he could help her calm her mount, he kept his gaze outward, scanning the valley and occasionally lifting his chin slightly. She had seen him do this before and was fascinated by it; he was literally scenting after something, like some predatory animal. His steps were light and his posture relaxed, but she could see the worried furrow of his brow and the set in his jaw and she began to share in her horse’s agitation.

What is it? she whispered. What is this place?

He glanced at her, hearing the concern in her voice, and smiled reassuringly.

"Do not be afraid, Song. It is most likely a white bear or perhaps your horse smells an ice vosk's den nearby. Nothing the two of us couldn’t handle."

He took the reins from her and led both horses along the cliff face in the direction they had been heading. Besides, it is either too late or too early for anything else of concern, he added cryptically.

She shivered involuntarily and folded her arms against the chill, but kept her voice warm as she playfully chided him – deciding if she could pretend to be relaxed and unafraid, perhaps she could ignore her apprehension.

You have not answered my question, ‘Catta. You think that I am too soft and afraid for your mysterious country?

He glanced back over his shoulder, grinning mischievously. Aye, Song. You are deliciously soft – in all the right places. But too afraid? He shook his head, his black topknot flipping back and forth. No. Fear of the unknown is another form of wisdom – only a fool charges blindly into a dark cave. He paused and looked back at her. And after what little I know of your past, I will never question your courage.

He began walking again, answering her original question over his shoulder, "My people call it Can'al Groeth, The Valley of Giants."

Are there Arys here? she asked nervously, using the term she knew some of the immortals preferred to describe themselves. She looked out at the darkening valley, back towards the gap in the wall where she had thought she’d seen movement. The snow and ice glowed aqua-marine in the deepening night, but all was still in the brittle air.

He chuckled. Aye, Fjorvin stalks these mountains when he grows restless, but this place was named for giants of another kind –

He stopped suddenly. Ah! We are here.

The cliff wall they had been following was broken by a small opening, barely large enough to lead a horse through. She eyed it dubiously, imagining the cold, dark hole that must lay behind it. Tchicatta read her expression and laughed again. He handed her both sets of reins, then removed a torch and a small pouch from one of the saddlebags on the pack horse.

"Patience! Do not be