Time of the Wolf

By Julie A. D'Arcy

Sent by the Mage Brekan, Keilah, outlawed Princess of Carrum Bahl travels back in time to seek out Radin Hawk, the reincarnation of an ancient warrior king. She is not prepared for the strong feelings she has for him or the feeling of familiarity.

Radin is always game for a good fight, but when the battle risks the woman who reminds him of his lost love he is not sure the price is worth it. But how can he leave her undefended to return to his own time?

They follow Brekan on his quest to defeat Anya the Sorceress Queen and right an ancient wrong. But wonder what he is hiding. Can they trust their feelings and each other or are they just pawns in a larger game?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jan 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509233748

Julie A. D'Arcy

Julie A. D’Arcy lives in North East Victoria Australia with her two spoiled Oriental cats, Keila and Sarsha. She grew up reading the likes of Lord of the Rings, Once and Future King, and every fairy tale she could get her hands on. Later on falling in love with the works of David Gemmell, Terry Brooks, Johanna Lindsey, Rosemary Rodgers, and Barbara Cartland. Her love of both the Fantasy and the Romance genres prompted her to try her hand at writing her own novel and she began writing her first novel in 1995. Her first release, Time of the Wolf, was published in 1999 and went on to win the 1999 Dorothy Parker RIO Award for Women’s fantasy fiction. She was also runner-up in the Australian RWA Ruby Award, the U.S.A, PEARL AWARD, and the SAPPHIRE AWARD. Julie is delighted to say The Wild Rose Press re-released Time of the Wolf again in 2019. It went on to garner 5-star reviews from all reviewers who read it and won the Crowned Heart Award from InD'tail Magazine. More of my novels with Wild Rose Press are: 'The Cross of Tarlis: The Awakening', and 'The Cross of Tarlis: The Reckoning. Both receiving 5 star Awards. 'Whispers Of Yesterday' a Historical Romance, Ghost Paranormal, is to be published in 2023. Julie A. D’Arcy has written eight full-length novels, and four novellas. Julie loves traveling, and has visited the UK, Thailand, and many European countries, and hopes to one day visit the U.S.

Book preview

Lyla.

Prologue

Come sit by the fire lad and warm your bones. The air is chill and the night long when the heavens are without the moons. Here, take a draught of this Upland Fire. It is the finest in the land.

The evening is dull now. My guests have filled themselves with good Highland whiskey and retired to their rooms. You look in need of a cot yourself, and it is to my regret that I have none to spare. For tomorrow the clans meet in celebration of the coming of the Wolf, and on such a day, every tavern within a day’s ride be full to overflowing with any man old enough to hold a tankard and wield a hefty sword.

What is so special about a wolf, you ask?

The Wolf be not an animal, lad, but a warrior the likes of which will never come again. He stood alone amidst a field of ten thousand warriors to fight to save this world. Or so the legend goes.

What was that? Speak up, boy. I am old and my hearing is not as it should be.

Do I not believe in the legend?

Aye. There are stories and there are stories. Some lose something in the telling, others gain. Who can say what truly happened except someone who was really there? And would the stories be truly worth the telling if all the truth were told?

You would prefer the truth. Nay, you would not want to hear it; no listener ever did. They find boredom in truth. They want shining heroes, handsome men—tall and strong—good deeds and fair damsels. There is no room for such things as human frailties and indecision in legend.

Yet still you would hear it?

Perhaps just this once, for in me I feel a need to release that which has been held too long. To once again free it to the air.

Aye, ’tis midnight. A good time for a story. A time for memories. A time for ghosts.

You say I speak as if I was there?

Well, maybe I was, and maybe I wasn’t. What is time but someone else’s dream? There have been many tales told of the man, but let it be said that I know this story as well as any man can. You are sure you wish to hear it?

Aye, we do have all night.

Then settle back, and I shall relate to you the story of the warrior they called the Lord of the Wolves or the Wolf, as it be, the way it truly was. The legend of Radin Hawk.

For some uncanny reason you remind me of him. Same coloring—same eyes. I never have seen eyes that exact color again. The color of the moors in spring; deep blue almost purple.

Well, where shall I start? I suppose the beginning is as good as any… ’Twas a time long ago…

…a time of sorcery and myth. When legends were forged and magick flowed in the land like water. Men were real men, and women more beautiful than the first rose of spring. And under a younger sun, Dros-Delnor still stood. The mightiest castle in the realm…

Chapter One

The Realm of Tarlis

The Gods’ Year 801 A.T.

After the World Toppled

Red clouds streaked an ashen sky, black crows circled, and steel clashed on steel. Screams rent the air, drowning out the crash of the waves issuing from Black Beach. Men sweated and men died.

Radin Hawk, Prince of the Wolfhead, calmly stepped to one side and backhanded his sword across his opponent’s throat. The man’s blade dropped from his hand. He grasped his bloodied neck and fell face forward into the muddy foreshore.

A Gaskin ran from his left, Radin leapt and kicked out with both feet, he landed at an awkward angle, but managed to roll and draw his dagger. He punched it through the warrior’s eye, killing him instantly.

He gained his feet and scanned the killing fields for his next opponent, spying the one he sought.

Dracmar, King of the Gaskins, looked up from the body he had just dispatched, and pulled his sword from the man’s innards. A chilling smile sliding across his scarred face. Slowly and methodically he hacked and slashed, knocking men aside as he cut a swathe toward Radin.

A vision of a younger, Dracmar, barely a man, accompanying his father to the Upland castle two decades ago to sign a pact flashed through his memory. The Gaskin Prince had been tall and lanky, but twenty summers had seen his frame thicken, and his height take on a few extra inches. Now, a mountain of a man, with red hair braided at the sides, dressed in a bearskin vest and a horned, conical shaped helm, rushed toward him.

He took a deep breath and waited.

Dracmar charged, sword raised. He met the challenge, blocking his blade. His sword slid the length of Dracmar’s and knocked it to the side.

The Gaskin King stood back, a garish scar ran brow to lip, pulling his mouth into a permanent scowl. So we meet again, Uplander whelp. Let us see if you have your father’s strength in battle. I hear he is so addled now he can no longer wipe his ass, let alone fight.

A murderous light entered Radin’s eyes. You are dead already for what you have done to my people. There is no need to posture further.

Threats only tend to bore me, whelp. Put your sword to the test, and we shall see who is victor this day!

His sword flashed above Dracmar’s head, and the giant ducked.

You bastard scum! Dracmar’s teeth flashed. He lunged, and the tip of his blade ran across Radin’s shoulder.

The prince steadied, and regarded the Gaskin King with hard eyes, wiping the blood from his forearm. You have struck first blood, Gaskin. But it shall be your last.

He drove forward and opened a gash down Dracma’s other cheek.

Dracmar hissed and leapt back, his ice-blue eyes wide with pain. You will die for that.

Now who is threatening? He brought his blade down in an arc and it cut into Dracmar’s side.

The Gaskin fought back with a savage return that skimmed across Radin’s thigh. He leapt aside at Dracmar’s next swing and felt the draft from the blow.

His hands tightened on the hilt of his sword and he pushed forward.

Dracmar checked his next rush as Radin stooped smoothly and slid his throwing knife from his boot, offering that blade as well. They circled each other, their blades weaving, kissing, and tapping lightly, each seeking an opening, oblivious to the battle raging around them. It was as if all others knew to leave them be. This one conquest could turn the tide of the war.

King against prince. Gaskin against Uplander. He knew victory must be his. Not only were his people depending on him, but all Tarlis. Should the Gaskins triumph and break the shores many would die this day and in the bloody months to come. There would be no second place, only life or death.

Dracmar charged.

Radin barred the blow then lunged.

Dracmar deflected the blade. Steel sang and trilled on steel and time ceased to exist.

Radin blocked and sliced open Dracmar’s forearm.

The Gaskin responded by leaping at Radin with speed belying his bulk. The prince punched through his defense and cut into the man’s bull-like chest. Spinning on his heel he swung his sword around to slice across Dracmar’s upper thigh.

The Gaskin King grunted. His scarred face flushed and beaded with sweat. He retreated a pace, then another, and stumbled over a body lying prone behind him. He righted himself and hacked savagely at the air above Radin’s head, his wounds leaking blood.

With a reckless lunge, a fierce mask of hate marring his face, the fight turned in Dracmar’s favor as he hammered continuous, unrelenting blows down on Radin’s head, driving him back to the forest’s edge.

Radin’s injuries were beginning to take their toll on his defenses. His sword arm ached, blood flowed from the gash in his shoulder and the laceration above his knee with each blow striking his sword. Each time Dracmar’s blade crossed his, a scorching fire burned his wounds.

Then the unconceivable happened. His sword caught in Dracmar’s and flung from his hand. His remaining strength deserted him. His arms fell limp and his legs buckled beneath him. He stumbled backward over a dead comrade, grappling for his sword but Dracmar’s sword came down to rest lightly against his throat before he gained purchase.

Dracmar laughed softly.

A flock of gulls screeched overhead, and he shifted his gaze from Radin to glance up.

A breath too long.

His foot connected with Dracmar’s groin.

Dracmar cried out and doubled over, his sword dropping to the ground. Summoning his strength and powering a punch into Dracmar’s jaw, he sent the Gaskin sprawling backward. Radin scooped up his knife and leaned over the other man, their faces inches apart.

This is for my people you have murdered. He drove the dagger deeper into Dracmar’s gut. And this is so you and your kind never grace our shores again. The blade twisted savagely. May your dark gods have no mercy on your worthless soul. He came to his feet, grabbed up his broadsword and brought it down on Dracmar’s neck in one even sweep. The Gaskin’s head rolled, and his ice-blue eyes shot open, his lips moved as if making to speak, then his eyes glazed over.

A roar went up and Radin glanced around. The whole of the two armies ceased their fighting. Dracmar’s helm had fallen away as his head toppled to the side. He bent, grasped a fist full of the dead king’s bright red hair, and raised the head into the air. For Tarlis!

His men took up the chant and as he watched, one by one the Gaskins turned to flee. His general shouted to regroup and pursue them, but the prince called them back. Let them be. They go for their ships. It will be many moons before a Gaskin graces our shores again. They now have no king and Dracma had no heirs. They will be warring among themselves for many summers to come.

****

Two summers later…

Damp sand clung to her feet, and although considered swift where she came from, she knew nothing could outrun a horse at full gallop.

Cries of her pursuers echoed in her ears. Her chest burned. The thunder of the surf and the dull thudding of horses’ hooves spurred her on.

Gulping a breath, she scanned the cliffs hoping to find that which she sought. Surely the one the mage promised, would come.

Keilah glimpsed a man high on the bluff—tall and powerfully built, hair the color of dark fire against the gilded clouds of dawn. What was he doing? Why did he not hurl himself down the incline and save her?

Her foot caught. She sprawled to the gritty earth, crawled to her feet, and stumbled again.

A weight like a bull fell upon her shoulders, and black sand rushed up to slap her in the face.

Her captor rolled her over and straddled her body. Features from a nightmare filled her vision: piercing black eyes, and a face streaked with crimson and blue, running in vertical lines forehead to chin—matted, straw-like hair like a lion’s mane stuck out from his head.

Where was her savior? The one she had come for—the hope of her people. Keilah pounded at the man’s chest and struggled to see over her captor’s shoulder. Her heart plunged. Gone. She opened her mouth to scream and a massive fist exploded into her jaw, casting her into a world black and silent.

****

Bremus, leader of the Simirian raiders, dragged his comrade from the woman’s body and landed him a vicious kick to the gut. Idiot!

His comrade rolled to the side and clutched his stomach. What was that for?

What yer think?

Stripe-face leaned over and flicked Keilah’s skirts to her thighs. I thought to fuck her first. See for yer self. These legs stretch all the way to Elysium.

Bremus cuffed him across the face. Our orders were firm, dung-wit. The woman is not to be spoiled, and I risk my neck for no bitch. He drew his dagger and held it at the other man’s throat. She will fetch more at the market intact.

Who’s to know if she is or she isn’t? Stripe-face, scowled at the knife, pushed it from his face, and clambered to his feet.

The One would know. She is all powerful, remember! Probably watching us right now, so stop yer whining and help me throw the trollop over the back of me ’orse. The wench has caused enough trouble. The sooner I collect me share of the gold and get back through the gate the better. Time Portals—pah! He spat on the ground. Can’t hold with sorcery.

What of the warrior?

Bremus peered up at the third raider, still astride his horse, then ran his gaze over the ridge. I see no warrior.

"There was a man on the cliffs, before Stripe-face brought down the girl. Big he was. Tall as an oak.

Well, he isn’t there now, and as far as we’re concerned, he never was. Bremus searched his comrade’s faces. Right?

The men mumbled their assent, showing several blackened teeth.

Bremus bent, hefted the girl into his arms, and tossed her face down over the wide shoulders of his war-horse. He mounted and kneed the destrier in a half circle, pointing its head in a south-westerly direction, gave the Simirian war cry, and set his horse to a gallop down the beach, his comrades in pursuit.

****

Radin drove his heels into the flanks of his destrier and charged across the top of the sheer precipice, crumbling black shale beneath the horse’s hooves. He could see no way down.

As a prince of the realm he felt honor-bound to save the woman on the beach. But above all, he was angry that the blue painted raiders considered such force necessary on a woman, no matter what her station in life. Even an escaped slave—which surely, she was—did not deserve the treatment she had received for escaping her captors. And he hated slavery.

He spied a path in the distance. It seemed so far away. His frustration mounted as he realized, by the time he reached the beach, the woman and raiders would be gone.

Gaining the path, he had to tread carefully. The steep incline covered with fine shale, slid beneath his horse’s hooves, and made for a treacherous descent. After wasted moments he picked his way down the steep embankment to the beach and urged Farlow to where he had witnessed the woman’s capture.

He had guessed right she and the raiders were gone.

Radin cursed and dismounted to search for a sign. The tracks pointed south-west along the coast.

He remounted and pushed his horse to a full gallop.

As the sky streaked orange and gray, he entered the gates of Del-Gross and guided his horse down the busy street toward the wharf. He had lost the tracks of the raiders on a bed of rock at the end of the beach. He could do naught else for the woman, yet thoughts of her kept plaguing his mind. She was nothing to him.

However, her ebony hair flowing around her face and shoulders and her scarcely covered breasts, had imprinted themselves on his mind. And those thoughts now gave way to introspection on the circumstances leading up to the present events and a conversation concerning another woman. A woman he had never met. A woman who would be his wife.

All his problems had begun two moons back, when his father called him to his study for an impromptu meeting.

In the morning you will ride to Del-Gross to meet with your bride, Urik, King of the Wolfhead, advised Radin.

He had stared at his father impassively, feeling his reaction to the news that his future bride had already been chosen was virtually undetectable. Except perhaps for the slight clenching of his fingers around the stem of his earthen goblet. As a bastard son, he had endured many years of practice concealing his emotions. In fact, he became so skilled in the matter he knew most people considered he harbored no strong feelings at all, apart from his father who understood him better than most.

So, Radin, do you say nothing?

You know my thoughts on marrying again.

You must think of your people. The Wolfhead must survive.

It seems the matter is already settled then. Though the lady’s name may be of some assistance if I am to seek her.

Urik reddened and glanced into a dark corner of the tower room. Aldamere, perhaps you could explain to my son.

A man in maroon robes and a cowl to match stepped into the light of the single narrow window.

We know neither her name, nor where she hails from. The man ran a hand over his freshly shaven jaw. The rest of his face lost in shadow. Only that she will arrive by ship on the day of the two full moons. It has been foretold….

He gave a half laugh. Foretold. How can you listen to this drivel, father? This man is a charlatan. None of his predictions thus far have come true.

The King of the Wolves hesitated. Well…that is not entirely true, Son. Aldamere is a great Seer. Did he not foretell the attack of the Gaskins? Were we not able to prepare for their coming and deflect their plan to overrun Tarlis?"

Yes, and what of the death of my wife on that same day! He hurled his goblet into the blazing heart of the fire in an unaccustomed display of temper. The pottery shattered, and the flames flared high, fed by the potent highland brew. He rounded on his father. You may listen to the ravings of this madman all you wish but do not expect me to do the same. He flung his cloak around his shoulders and strode for the door. I’ll be in the north woods if you need me. He reached for the latch. I have an urgent need to hunt.

His father heaved from his chair. If you leave this room, you shall no longer be my son.

He stopped at his father’s abrupt tone yet did not turn.

Your cousin Cullum would be happy to step into your boots. I need only say the word.

He is not of the direct line.

There can be an exception.

He spun to face his father, his top lip curling to a sneer. My men would rather die than follow Cullum. He is a conceited boar.

Urik lowered his bulk into his high-backed chair, his gaze never leaving Radin’s. Over the years his father had lost his warrior physique, but his wit was still as keen as the day he had taken the throne. It is your decision, Radin, but think on it clearly. Lend your ear to Aldamere’s words, or tomorrow you ride from this castle without a deehma in your pouch. His father’s tone held a note of finality. However, his tone softened as he spoke again You have only to sire a son and you need not touch the woman again.

So he listened, and here he stood now on the wharf overlooking the harbor of Del-Gross, with the thick stink of fish flooding his nostrils and the cries of gulls in his ears as they squabbled at the edge of the pier over the choicest tidbits of offal. He had been so lost in his musings he had arrived at the harbor without conscious thought. Of the woman on the beach he had seen no sign, but perhaps it was for the best. He had more important business to pursue.

Clouds formed on the horizon like black birds of prey in a sky streaked the color of blood. Soon night would fall and still no ship had docked.

What ye be looking for, laddie?

Radin studied the old seaman who stopped beside him. A gaunt face, his hair salt white, and a stump where his right leg had been.

A ship was expected.

The old sailor shook his head. A bad business that, laddie. ’Tis said it was taken by the pirates. Damned scavengers of the sea. A murderin’ bunch they be. Had a run in with them meself back a few years or two. Was lucky to get away with only one leg missin’. Walked us off a plank, they did, with sharks all around. Most of me mates perished, but I was lucky to hook onto a piece of flotsam from me old ship and escape. A trader picked me up. ’Tis sorry I am, but if ye be expectin’ anyone on that ship, lad. I wouldn’t be holdin’ me breath.

The old mariner threw him a last look of pity and limped onward along the wharf, the thump of his peg leg hanging in the air. He watched him until he was out of sight, then peered at the horizon, considering his options. Return without his bride and be disowned or wait a few more days and see if the galleon had been delayed. He decided to stay. He needed a new horse, anyway. Farlow was getting on in years, and the old fellow deserved his retirement. He turned and trudged up the hill toward the Waterfront Tavern. He had a prearranged meeting with his liege man and was already late.

****

He pushed open the tavern door and stepped inside. A din of sound slammed into him like a battle-axe. Ducking a well-aimed fist, he leapt forward and hammered two hard jabs into the offender’s face. The man dropped like a sack of grain. He glanced around. He spied Mace at the center of the room, hammering left and right, a grin like a dog eating guts painted on his ugly face. Mace had a visage even his mother would disown.

He watched his friend land a jab to the chin of a man twice his size, duck, and crawl through his legs, then come up behind him and boot the man headlong into three others. They toppled onto a table where dice was being played and knocked the lot to the dirt-packed floor.

Mace’s knack for trouble was legendary; it appeared to follow him wherever he went. But god’s teeth, with the disappointments of the day, Radin decided he was just in the mood for crunching a few heads himself. He advanced on the five men surrounding his friend and tapped the largest on the shoulder. The giant turned to find a fist exploding into his nose.

The man displayed his broken teeth in a grin and wiped the blood running from his nose onto his shirt cuff. All right then, matey. If that’s the way of it. Let’s see what you ’ave. I was trying to break up the fight, but seein’ as you are so keen, I’ll go a round or two with you.

The whole room fell to silence.

The tavern keeper, Drakmah, grabbed up a heavy club he kept tucked beneath his bench, and stepped out to confront the two. If there is going to be a fight, ’tis going to be done right. Out the back, next notch of a time candle.

Done! agreed the two in unison, as they focused on each other with cold hostility.

****

The giant, Kravis, slumped down onto a bench at a corner table and called to one of his comrades. Who is this man who dares to challenge me?

Some fool prince from the Uplands.

Kravis threw back his head and laughed. That explains his stupidity. No man who has seen me fight would willingly climb into the ropes with the champion of Glen-Dorrach."

Mace hearing enough, ducked in and out of the assembled crowd, taking bets and laying stakes. Having heard the man’s identity, he found the situation too good an opportunity to pass up.

Radin caught his gaze and signaled him over. All right, what trouble are you embroiling me in this time? He grinned.

Mace met his grin with one of his own. A couple of bets ’tis all. With their money on the champion, we should make a killing.

Champion?

The one whose nose you broke is the Dorrachian Champion.

He thumped a hand to his head. By the gods, man, how do you get me into these scrapes?

Mace shrugged. At least the odds are good. How much coin are you carrying?

He emptied out his pockets and handed the pouch to Mace. There should be five hundred gold there. He laughed shortly. Bet it all. I may as well get what I can out of this, as I have no other choice.

Bets laid, Radin and Mace faced each other across a battered wooden table, each holding an earthen mug of Vagarian Red. Fire to the blood of an ordinary man, to an Uplander, a touch of home. Used to the strong spirits brewed in the Uplands the red was nothing compared to the brew distilled from golden corn and fermented potatoes that could heat your bones on a cold night like a brick from the fiery Abyss.

So, did you find your woman? Mace asked, lowering his tankard to wipe the fire from his lips.

Radin placed his mug on the table and stared into the brew. The ship was taken by corsairs.

Mace released a breath. Your father will not be happy. What will you do?

Wait a few days to see what I can learn, then start for home. But I cannot help wondering what she would have been like. If what Aldamere said was true, she was going to change the course of my life. She must have been something special.

You never told me. What did he say?

Radin laughed shortly. How did it go? Ah yes: ‘It is imperative that you take the woman to wife, as the whole of the clan’s continuance relies on it.’ He downed the last of his spirits and hailed a serving wench to fetch another. Have you ever heard such ramblings?

Mace opened his mouth to speak, but the maid arrived putting paid to anything he might have said. She eyed Radin saucily, and he gave her a handsome smile and tucked a coin down the bodice of her simple cotton blouse. She was a pretty lass, with corn-colored hair and eyes as blue as forget-me-nots, but he waved her away with a promise he would see her that evening. Perhaps, Mace conjectured, if she had a friend the journey might not be a waste after all.

He spoke breaking his thoughts. What was the brawl over this time?

One of them called me ugly.

He eyed Mace critically. With his shock of unruly blonde hair, a too wide a mouth, a large nose, one golden eye and the other covered with a black leather patch, Mace waited for the verdict.

Well, you are. He laughed. But it’s never bothered you before.

’Tis all right coming from a friend, but from a stranger ’tis different. He fingered the leather brace of black pearl-handled knives running across his chest. If we had been somewhere else but a public place, they would have tasted the lick of these little beauties.

He was an expert hand with a knife, having proved himself on numerous occasions. What he lacked in height and looks had been made up for in other ways. He had become skilled with a dagger, establishing himself as a valuable ally to the Wolf Prince. Mace poured himself another mug of the red and looked across at his liege. How did Elena take to you coming here to find a bride? I think she thought that position would be hers.

Elena and I understand each other. The woman feels no more for me than I for her. I bed her, and she likes it and that is all there is to be had. He gave a twisted smile. Anyway, the last time I saw her, Cullum was presenting her with a white-stone necklace. I think she and my cousin will suit exceptionally well, they are both cut from the same cloth.

Mace laughed shortly. He always did covet what was yours.

Chapter Two

After a rubdown by a bull-chested bathhouse attendant, a long soak, the blood scrubbed away, and the cut above his eye sewn Radin realized his face had fared far better than expected from the fight. His nose was still in place, and his cheeks had only a slight bruising. His body ached like a herd of galloping warhorses had trampled him, but apart from that he was fine.

The boxing match had been hard fought and had gone longer than anticipated, Kravis being a worthy opponent indeed. If it had not been for a lucky right, things could have ended a lot differently. However, Mace, had been right on one score. The odds were excellent. He won five thousand in gold.

He waited for Mace to collect their winnings and they stepped from the village bathhouse. Dusk settled in streaks of fire over the mountains and shadows had begun to lengthen around the fringes of the town.

He hoped to inquire about the galleon on which his bride was supposed to arrive but realized the task would have to wait for the morrow.

The marketplace was a hive of activity with hawkers plying their wares, laughing children, and squawking, squealing livestock. The smell of fetid vegetation and open sewage running parallel with the narrow streets, lay heavy in the air.

Heading toward the outskirts of town, he felt pleasure for the first time that day. He had completed a deal with a horse trader that now saw him the proud owner of an exquisite Elisian thoroughbred. The gray stood eighteen hands high, with a strong back, and the lines of a champion. The horse would bear him well and sire many fine colts next spring for his herd.

He had taken to breeding horses several seasons ago, experimenting with the tall, strong destriers of the mountains and the finer lines of the Elisian thoroughbreds. He hoped to be able to develop a horse that not only had speed and fine lines, but also the stamina and strength to carry a man wearing full armor into battle.

They neared the city gates where his attention was drawn to the sound of bidding rising over the more common street noises. A large crowd consisting of mostly men gathered on the fringes of the market square. Curious, he called a young lad to his side, tossed him a coin, and told him to watch his horses. He promised another coin on his return, then pushed his way through the crowd, followed closely by Mace. The assembly allowed him to pass. Men cursed and women smiled, yet none dared bar the way of a man of such bearing.

At the front of the crowd the prince stopped, surprised to see the reason for the congregation was not a horse auction, as he had surmised, but a sight he had never wished to witness—the trafficking of human flesh.

He scowled as a young boy of around fifteen summers was led onto a rough wooden platform. He was tall and well proportioned, with strange silver eyes, shoulder-length white-blonde hair, and slightly pointed ears. An elf, or half-elf. He was stripped to the waist and wore only a soiled white loincloth. His skin glistened pale gold beneath the sun’s dying rays.

A bald, stocky man with bushy brows moved in front of the boy and pushed back his head, pulling open his jaw to reveal his teeth. Radin’s fist bunched. It was apparent the lad had been whipped, the lash having cut deep welts onto his chest and back. Forced to parade up and down on a makeshift wooden platform, the boy lowered his head, refusing to look into the eyes of the people observing him with less pity than they would a lame horse. The auctioneer ground out a command, and the lad’s head snapped up. He glared directly into Radin’s face. His eyes were as brilliant as the stars and burned with hate.

The youngster swung away and spat into the face of the ugly man at his side. The guard countered with a blow delivered to the head with such ferocity that it knocked the lad from his feet.

He reached for his sword and stepped forward, but a firm hand held him back. He glanced down to encounter Mace’s one yellow eye peering at him in warning. Leave it, Radin. They will brook no interference.

The auction began, loud and fast, each word spat out crisp, clear, and precise. Twenty pieces of gold. Do I hear twenty for this fine lad? His back is strong, his muscle hard. He’ll make a fine worker for your farm, sir. He pointed to a thin man in a maroon tunic and a green liripipe coiled and worn about his neck. The man bid ten.

The price went to twenty gold pieces, then forty. The boy with the strange silver eyes was finally purchased by a heavy-set, bejeweled matron with a leer on her face. Her man led the boy from the platform. The life had gone out of his eyes.

The next poor devils were old and appeared sickly. They were sold for ten silver pieces each.

Now, I have a jewel of exquisite beauty, shouted the auctioneer, his