Dreamwalker

By K.A. M'Lady

In a time when legends ruled ~

Deep in the heart of the Kelljek Mountains the Wolf People of Elnorn follow the ways of Odin – living and dying by the sword.

An untried warrior king must find truth in the darkness ~

Gararic – warrior and ruler wages war against the dark arts of the Black Witch, Dianaria and finds he must battle for more than just his people’s freedom. Will he find the truth he seeks on the sweet taste of her lips or will treachery destroy him and his people?

To be set free, one only needs to dream ~

A Dreamwalker by birth, Dianaria knows her fate and her future lies with the warrior king. Can love conquer the shadows of betrayal and hate?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mojocastle Press
• Release date: Mar 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781601812056

Book preview

http://www.mojocastle.com/

Also By K.A. M’Lady

Get Lucky

Song of the Wolf

Realm Book One: To Tell of Darkness

Realm Book Two: Shadow Slave

Realm Book Three: Illuminated Death

Faith Savage, Demon Huntress Series

Ramshackle Castle: Bent Poetry and Other Altered Verse

Rational Animals

A Walk in the Black Forest

Vranthian Vampires Series

Dedication:

To my love - whose strong hand in mine supports me, whose steps continue to walk beside me and forever fights the darkness by my side. Thank you for sharing in my dreams.

Chapter One

Like a minion of Odin’s army, Gararic stood at the edge of the Kelljek Mountains, watching in silence. The swirling mist capped the dark stone summit. Like the Great Ash in the center of the forest, he stood tall and imposing, fierce and mysterious as the dark mountains themselves. In his oneness with the night, he appeared mystical and threatening, like the Witch’s dark army that was spread out over the valley before him.

With calculating eyes that were the color of the sky on the brightest day in summer, he methodically took in the surrounding landscape, the chill winter air coursing through his veins.

Winter had settled deep on the land of the wolf, where ice and snow capped the mountains. The lakes and streams now lay still beneath the frozen surface of ice-clogged waterways. The winds howled like the great grey wolf on the prowl, barking its warnings to the heavens.

This was the land where his people gathered. It was the land of the Setting Moon. The land of the wise ones who had traveled this way before them. It now belonged to their descendants, who lived and hunted in the valleys and glens below.

The ancients had passed from this life to the next in the hallowed grounds near the Great Ash in the middle of this very forest. They had lived and died so that this would be their history. And yet, in the crisp, cold night of late December, while he dreamt, Gararic’s vision was filled with a death army on the march.

Worry and anger coiled in his blood like a viper of deceit. His bones hummed with uncertainty, and a grey haze spread through his dreams, filling the valley with the pallor of death.

The screams of the dying echoed in the hills and all around him. While he watched in horror, the army of the Black Witch attacked the innocent and unsuspecting people in the valley below. Unable to stop them, they tore through the village like death dealers, leaving a trail of blood and carnage in their wake.

This was not the way of life he had envisioned. It was not how he wanted to take over as a ruler to the Wolf People. Unable to hold back his anger, a scream erupted from deep within his soul. Gararic tore down the mountainside, drawing his sword as he ran.

Filled with fury, he ran until his legs burned, until he passed where the Tree of Life stood in the center of the forest, its limbs bent, wilting from the weight of the world, as if it too were dying.

Everywhere he stepped, the ground ran red in a river of blood. It seeped into his boots, and into the roots and bark of the tree. The dark crimson became exposed in each vein of wood and every life line of every leaf.

The death of his brethren burned through his soul. Passing the dead and the wounded that lay scattered about the forest, he could feel their blood on his hands. It splashed his clothes with every step he took.

Gararic tore through the field maniacally. No! Stop! Brothers, I implore you! Stop! See what you do here? You are killing the tree! You are killing the Tree of Life!

Men paused in mid-swing of their swords, each arc of axe suspended, to stare at the crazy warrior running through the center of the battlefield. His black hair was flowing in the wind like a banner, his sword raised to the heavens like a salute to Odin.

They looked on at the man with the dark visage of a god come to life, as he called out for order and peace.

Look what you do here. He pointed towards where the tree stood stripped of life, rotting and dying in the field.

Gararic stood in the field’s center, covered in the blood of his brothers. Death surrounded him, and a cold empty ache filled his soul. Then he watched, transfixed, while the landscape shimmered in a golden haze. Before he could speak, or understand what was transpiring, the field of death disappeared in a ripple of light. The suffering ceased to fill the land and echo across the valley. It faded away like a cold blast from the north would steal across exposed flesh.

Gararic shivered while a myriad of emotions tore through him like a piercing of the flesh. The senselessness of his people’s dying tore through his soul, and a scream of angst exploded from within. His voice rang out like a cry to the gods. Great Odin, I beseech you!

He fell to his knees, sword clenched in his hands. Hanging his head low to the ground, his long dark hair sweeping the field, he closed his eyes tightly against the onslaught of misery and pain that tore through him.