Beast: The world of Prydain, fantasy romance, #1

By AJ Adams

Falsely accused, Wynne is determined to clear her name. However, a trip to petition the Steward at Brighthelme turns disastrous when the Beasts, fearsome warriors from the frozen north, raze the city. When Wynne is carried away, she's determined to regain her freedom but Rune, her captor, has other ideas.

Beast is set in Prydain, an imaginary place that combines Anglo-Saxon England with Medieval England, the Teutonic Kingdom and the Viking Age.

 

For Mature Audiences. This is a graphic, lusty fantasy. It's darker than the usual AJ Adams but it is a Happily Ever After.

 

Beast is the first of the Prydain series but it can be read as a standalone. It is a complete story, no cliffhangers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201660901

AJ Adams

AJ Adams writes twisted love stories set in the violent world of the Cartel, Camorra, Belial's MC and Prydain. All AJ Adams novels are self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - but it would be awesome if you did. If you enjoy these novels and want to stalk, please know that AJ is the pen name for Ellen Whyte. Ellen married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. When she's not writing, she's cooking and pandering to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.

Book preview

About Beast

Beast is set in Prydain , an imaginary place that combines Anglo-Saxon England with Medieval England, the Teutonic Kingdom and the Viking Age. As such, there are fortified cities, Guilds, slaves, lots of different gods, and forests filled with wolves, bears, and possibly elves. To really mess things up, I’ve given the players muskets. Also, everyone in Prydain speaks the same language.

So when you read this, please suspend your disbelief and enjoy the story for what it is: a fantasy.

Chapter One

P lease, I need to see the Guild Steward. I was speaking as nicely as I could, but the doorman wasn’t letting me in. I have important business.

You’re not on the list, girl.

Girl. Not good. I was wearing my best clothes, the black skirt I’d made for feast days and my mother’s treasure: an embroidered tunic made of white linen with a lace collar. I’d brushed my hair till it shone, but it was so short that it stood up in short spikes. I looked as if I were wearing a flaming halo, I hoped, and not like a red-haired freak. As it wasn’t impressing the man, I batted my eyes at him. Green, in case you’re curious.

Are you a Citizen? The doorkeeper was suspicious. I don’t recognise you.

I am Wynne of the Vale. True. I was here to deliver honey for my uncle a few weeks ago. Citizen Algar of the Vale? And we’d not mention that I wasn’t a Citizen. Citizen Harold, the Guild Steward, knows me. Meaning I’d met him once, for less than a minute, but hopefully knowing his name would get me points.

The Vale? I guess that explains it. I thought you people only came here for high market days.

Is the Steward in town? He’s not away on a trade mission, is he?

The doorman looked me up and down, and shrugged. He’s at the docks. The Steward’s depository is next to the silk warehouse. You can’t miss it.

So I went to the docks. I trudged through the streets, wondering if I’d done the right thing. By leaving the farm without permission, I was in trouble. If the Steward would see me, he could clear my name, and it would be okay. But if he wouldn’t—

I didn’t want to think about it. My back was aching; it was purely imaginary because it had been a month since the whipping, so the cuts had healed. My hair was growing back, too. I still looked weird, but if anyone asked, I’d say it had to be cut off when I had a fever. Yes, sometimes I lie. Awful, isn’t it? But telling the truth doesn’t get you anywhere. My back taught me that.

Hey you! A drunken Citizen was reeling towards me. Want to earn your supper?

Terrific. He thought I was a whore, just like everyone else. A cheap one, too, who would barter an up-against-the-wall for a bowl of mutton stew. I would’ve ignored him, but he barred my way.

You’re mistaken. I spoke quite politely but with some ice. Let me pass.

He made a grab for me. Just one kiss!

I leaned in and kneed him in the balls. He went down with a gasp, a very satisfying sound of pain. I know, I’m not a nice girl. That’s the problem, really. That’s why I had walked ten miles from the Vale to Brighthelme, and it was why I was chasing the Steward.

My mum’s family have farmed in the Vale since the gods lifted the earth out of the sea. They’re strictly homebodies, leaving the farm only on high market days, twice a year. Me, I’m different. Twenty years ago, when mum was just fourteen years old, Brighthelme had a dispute with Caern. There was a battle and Brighthelme lost. The winners emptied the warehouses, and while rampaging they also took in the Vale. They carried away the horses and cows, and they also took Mum.

That’s how it is in Prydain. The nine cities, Caern and Llanfaes in the south, King’s Cross and Haven in the north, Brighthelme and Midway in the west, and Volgard, Rashelm and Tanweld in the east have been battling each other forever. In the last ten years there have been fifteen disputes. The actual cities are fortified by walls so they survive and eventually pick themselves up again, but the ordinary people like the farmers in the Vale who have no defences really suffer.

Mum was sold to a Caern tavern owner, and luckily for her, he didn’t collar or brand her. Unluckily, he shared her with his friends and wasn’t above making some extra copper if a customer took a fancy to her. I was born, father uncertain, some years after.

As you might expect, I grew up knowing how to take care of myself. I was a slave, or a thrall as they call it in Caern, working night and day, often hungry, but at least I wasn’t sold to men. Mum kept me safe by persuading our owner that I should be looked on as an investment.

She’s a beauty, Mum pointed out. Copper hair and emerald eyes!

Yes, yes! Our owner was guzzling wine and gnawing on roast boar, the greedy pig, and not really listening. She’ll fetch a few coins.

A virgin of her age is worthless, but at sixteen you could get silver penny for her, maybe even more! She was a good talker, Mum, and as our owner had seldom seen a silver penny, never mind held one, it worked.

Mind you, keep an eye on her, the fat-guts grumbled. I don’t want some cheap Volgard thrall taking what’s mine!

Although I knew I was safe for a few years, being a tavern slave meant I saw men at their worst. I was afraid of what was to come, but I hid my fear. When you’re owned, body and soul, pride is the only thing you can keep.

I thought I was doomed, forced to be a slave for life, but Mum had different ideas. We’re running away, she whispered. We’ll go to the Vale. My brother Algar will take us in.

What’s his tavern like? It was the only life I’d known. 

He’s a farmer.

Is he kind?

Not particularly. Mum was always honest with me. But two fields in that farm are mine, so we’ll have a place. She was smiling. You’ll be a Citizen, Wynne. Independent, with your own land.

That’s how it is in Prydain. If you have land, you can become a Citizen.

We’ll go home, Mum sighed. We’ll be free.

If they catch us—

I had seen the floggings, you see, the ones they give to slaves who rebel or try to run, and they horrified me. 

We won’t get caught. 

We planned our escape carefully, taking a year to find out what roads to take, and then, finally, we were scraping together a secret stash of food and making new soles for our shoes. But just as we were set to go, Caern got into a dispute with Llanfaes. They’re a tough bunch, the Llanfaes men, mercenaries mostly, and Caern got creamed.

I would’ve rejoiced, because I hated them all, but the mercenaries came to the tavern, and Mum got killed, right alongside our owner.

I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t, not even seven years later. Let’s just say that she died, and I ran. I made it to the Vale, marching for three weeks, with Caern survivors making for Brighthelme, and fighting off anyone who came near me with teeth, claws, stones and whatever else I could find.

My family took me in, not from love but out of guilt, I think. I didn’t care what they thought, as long as I got a home. But it wasn’t easy. Children born to slaves are automatically property of their owner, but as mum had been a Citizen and was captured, the law gave me a break. I could become a Citizen but I had to work for seven years to prove myself.

We’ll sponsor you, Uncle Algar intoned. While you prove your worthiness, you can learn how to take of the property you’ll inherit. Start by feeding the chickens and cleaning out the stables.

Without Citizenship you can’t own land, so I did what I had to do. I’d cleaned, cooked and poured drinks in the tavern, and being at my family’s beck and call meant I did that and looked after the bees, the chickens, the vegetable garden and a million other things, too.

As Uncle Algar’s wife had died in childbirth, and his three daughters had moved away, it was just him and Cousin Bryce. It was lonely with no other women to talk to, but as I was finally free, I didn’t care. Knowing my body was my own was sheer bliss, and so I worked hard and kept my eye on the prize—Citizenship—and my own fields and independence. As a bonus, I was turning into a rather good farmer.

But then, on the last high market trip to Brighthelme, everything had gone spectacularly wrong. Uncle Algar had a bad cold and Cousin Bryce caught it, too. As we had a huge order for honey, I’d been sent to Brighthelme to complete the sale, meaning I had to deliver it to the Steward and get a receipt.

It had gone horribly wrong, and my Citizenship and my land, my one stab at freedom, had vanished. I was doomed to be my family’s drudge, a fate almost as bad as slavery, unless the Steward stepped in. So there I was, crossing the town, and mentally rehearsing for the millionth time what I’d say.

The second I entered the docks, I knew something was wrong. It’s where the warehouses and the market are, so it’s usually busy with Guild people counting their money, making money, and figuring out how to get even more money. The Guilds set prices, and they’re wicked about estimating how much effort it takes to manage a bee hive or keep foxes out of the henhouse, so I’m not a fan.

As I said, usually the place is thronged with activity, but this time the warehouses were quiet, and some looked closed. Also, there was tension in the air. I could smell it. I turned a corner, making my way to the Steward’s depository, and then I stopped.

There was a ship in the harbour, long, lean and built for the ocean, totally unlike the small wide flat bottomed Citizens’ boats that trawled cargo up and down the coast. As I looked at the monster ship, there was a huge crack. It sounded like an explosion. Then the ship went up in flames.

It was horrific, watching it burn, but as I stood there, riveted, there was a scream behind me. Then another scream, and another. There was a roar, and then the Steward’s depository went up in flames. I turned and ran—straight into chaos. People were spilling out of buildings, panicking at the sight of the fire and the sound of screaming. Doormen and guards disappeared, leaving the place to burn. 

And burn it did. I was surrounded by buildings in flames, uncertain where to go. The screaming was everywhere, coming from the blazing buildings and the streets beyond. I tried to go back to the water, hoping to find a way around the fires. 

As I ran into a lane that wasn’t belching smoke, I ground to a halt. A group of Guildsmen were wielding swords against giants, who were slashing away with long knives—wicked blades patterned with snakes.

The swords should’ve won easily, having longer reach, but the giants whirled their knives in front of them in vicious arcs, blocking the swords, shattering them even, and stabbing home.

There was something else, too. Guildsmen dress in full cut silk and velvet to show off their wealth, Citizens wear wool and linen because it’s rich but practical, and from what I could see, the giants wore leather leggings and tight-fitting woollen tunics because it meant they could fight.

The giants moved freely, whereas the Guildsmen were hampered by floating material. One Guildsman went down because a giant caught up his velvet cloak and tossed it over his head before casually disembowelling him.

The fight was brutal. The giants were kicking, punching, and head-butting as well as stabbing, slashing and cutting off hands, arms and any appendage that came within range. The Guildsmen couldn’t get near them; all they could do was die.

Looking beyond them, I could see it was total carnage. There were bodies in the street, crushed and bleeding. Screams erupted from blazing windows, from burning carts, from everywhere. The knives flashed, and the last Guildsman went down.

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