The Sabretooth: Tales from Ridgedale

By CJ Davies

Escaped slave Oric is a sabretooth, a man like tiger. Ridgedale is a land where others of his kind have long been mistreated by men, all he wants now is to forget his horrific past and move forward. He hopes to settle down and earn a living in the remote town of Sandmoor with his friends. But while they aren’t looking for trouble, trouble soon finds them when they become targets of the ruthless criminal gang known as the Red Hoods.

The Sabretooth is the second novel in the Tales from Ridgedale series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pencil
• Release date: Jun 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9789354581373

Book preview

Prologue

The wooden hut was very old and very small, but she didn’t need much room. The island it was hidden away on was small also, half a mile long but less than a third of that wide. Sat in the Emerald sea a mile off the coast the isle could only be reached by foot twice a day when the tides flowed out, it had no name but was part of a group of similar islands known as the Stepping Stones. The place was largely barren but very green, while a few small trees were dotted about here and there, it was mostly heathers and other shrubs, with patches of wildflowers growing seasonally. Hers was the only dwelling here, but Starla had come to like her isolation. It was peaceful here, little stirred on the sandstone rocks, only the occasional bird chirping, and today the air hung close around her shack.

She had to enjoy the solitude while she could as soon, she knew, the day would get a whole lot busier for her, it was a day she had anticipated for quite some time. She didn’t know exactly what to expect but none the less she knew to expect something. And she knew whatever was coming her way would be important, and would help shape the future of the land. The thought filled her with a nervous anticipation.

She had been secluded in the wilderness for some time, most of that time spent waiting for this moment, but also because people didn’t like her for the most part, many were afraid of her. She accepted that. She was wise enough to know that many folk didn’t much like those who were different to the norm. And she was certainly different. A witch they called her, and that was one of the kinder names. But Starla preferred the name Greenseer. She had dabbled in a little sorcery to be sure, but not to any great success, the spells didn’t come easily to her, so she gave it up long ago. But the green sight was where her talent truly lay. She could see events in the future unfold long before they ever did. She had seen small events occur a day or so in the future which she then experienced happen. She had seen events in the years ahead that would shape the nation, and then she lived through those times, she had even seen further ahead than she would actually live long enough to see happen, things that would come to pass in centuries or more to come. Everything she saw she knew would transpire eventually; her visions had never been wrong. If she saw it in her sights, it would happen. She knew with certainty that in a hundred years a man called Leland would sit on the throne for a further ninety-nine. She knew that a truly powerful sorcerer was amassing a powerful army of goblyns faraway over the seas in the west. On a rare occasion she was even given a glimpse of events in the past, like a memory only much more powerful. The sight just came to her, she did nothing to make it happen and she had no choice over what she saw. Most of the time they came in her sleep, but she had daydreams from time to time. Sometimes she would recognise people or places in her sights, but just as often she had no idea who or what would appear. Often it might just be the faintest of glimpse of something, while other times the sight was crystal clear to her. Starla sat now staring intently at her cup with her brown eyes, fixed by the images she pretended appeared in it. She liked the idea of images being in her tea, but they were never there, only ever in her thoughts. She tucked some strands of her short russet brown wavy hair behind her ear. Every once in a while, a bubble would grow in the liquid inside and then pop loudly, which would bring a smile to her rosy face without fail.

The visions were both blessing and a curse to Starla, the gift of the green sight had made people wary of her. For a short while some sought her out wanting to know their own futures, not understanding that her sight didn’t work that way. They would get angry or abusive when she couldn’t help them. Others simply didn’t believe, or want to believe, the things she could see, they called it witchcraft. For these reasons she had spent the last few years largely as a recluse, hiding away from all the doubters.

But today was different, today she was going to Krulacre, a small town a few days walk south east. Starla had never met a great cat, like her they were very reclusive. Once they roamed the lands freely, able to come and go as they pleased, but not since the arrival of man. But she would finally meet one soon. For reasons unknown to her at the moment, all her visions of late had been of a sabretooth. She had no idea who this might be but soon she would. And she would lead a stranger to him, again someone she didn’t know, but it was important that she did so. It was exciting to have a purpose after so long of sitting around, but she was nervous too, the sabretooth was surrounded by turmoil in all her sights. She stood and wrapped a weather-beaten green travelling cloak around herself and gathered her things. It was time.

With butterflies in her stomach, she stepped out into the sunlight to see a figure sat in the grass nearby seemingly waiting for her. The stranger was also wrapped up in a cloak with a hood pulled up high hiding any facial features. Her visions were never wrong she reminded herself, they were both going to find the sabretooth, she needn’t worry about this stranger.

‘Where are we going?’ It asked her softly.

‘Krulacre I think.’ She answered, wondering who this person might be. The figure seemed to ponder this for a while looking around nodding its head a little.

‘We best be going then then.’ It said.

Chapter 1; The Great Cat

Tucked away in the far east of Ridgedale a service had just finished in a small chapel. It was a little wooden structure covered in holly and ivy, it could easily be missed at a casual glance, the moss-covered roof almost blending into the tall pine trees behind it. The only path to its door was the worn grass. It sat at the feet of the Pineridge mountains in a remote area, only a few towns were within walking distance and Rosecoast, the nearest city, was a two day’s travel away on horse.

Titus and his Red Hood gang knew just where the chapel was though, and they arrived at this sanctuary just as it was emptying after service. They had come for the coins. Chapels always had a few coins with folk keen to pay their respects to the ancestors. The common folk paid what little they could, and while this wasn’t a prosperous area, in sticks as it was, people willingly paid none the less. They believed it was important to respect the ancestors and they were a generous type humble around here, also the chaplain’s encouraged it.

Titus rode up on his big jet-black stallion, surrounded by eleven of his band, they numbered less than the congregation, but only just. They were all armed with either swords or spears and all had bows. Titus himself carried a great sword, broad and sharp, in certain light its steel almost seemed red. With some fifty members all told, the gang was a violent group of ravagers and thugs. They were known by the menacing red and black armour they wore, and the red hooded cloaks that barely concealed it. They were ferociously proud of their terrifying reputation and were answerable to no one, they were a law unto themselves. Titus threw back his hood to reveal his warpaint, demanding whatever coin the chapel had. The chaplain refused, but Titus was insistent. He would rob the coin just as he claimed the chaplain had robbed the folk here, the hoods didn’t believe in the ancestors. They believed in violence, no one had been known to reason with them. The chaplain protested, but after a nod from Titus, several arrows threw him backwards. Everyone else tried to flee, but none escaped, they were slaughtered by the gang, while Titus watched on with cruel smile.

Nineteen men, women and children killed. There was only six silver coins to be found in the chapel.

......

Oric was a Sabretooth. To his knowledge he was the only one. Back on Crosstree rock, where his kin the great cats could be found, he was shunned. Not because of what he was, but because of what had happened to him years before. He was once a slave, captured by man and forced to serve them. The great cat race was proud and strong and ancient. They had prowled these lands long before man had set foot on them. That was why his people snubbed him now. They despised the fact that man had spread its settlements so far and so fast, and that many of their kind were enslaved in the process. Man denied it claiming the stories of slavery were false tales, but a few cats escaped to tell of their captivity. Oric was one of these lucky ones. But the very fact that he was slave in the first place upset his people. They thought he should have been stronger, resisted harder, fled sooner. When he did finally escape to the lands of his kin he was welcomed and cared for, but only for a short while, soon the fact that he was beaten and abused and forced to serve man made most of his peers see him as weak. And for a great cat there is no greater shame than that. He had survived a horrible past. Not only that, but he had also helped others escape from that life too. And his kind saw him is weak? He didn’t need his kind then he told himself.

He walked like a man, he could talk as man did, though he was quiet by nature. He was tall, bigger than most men, but not as broad as most other tigers. But he wasn’t just any tiger, he was a sabretooth. His fur was the colour of sand, flecked with white. His large blue eyes were keen, his teeth white and his long deadly looking fangs imposing. Without trying he looked fierce. And though he could be ferocious, he wasn’t, his temper was cool, his thoughts always measured. He was unlike most great cats in that respect. He was happy to leave the rock behind for the most part, it grew tiresome being looked down upon. At first it was exciting to be there, great cats of all kinds there to meet. Lions, tigers, leopards and more all friendly, all eager to meet him, but it didn’t last. And then there was her, his lioness. The only one on Crosstree Rock he would truly miss. She was the only one he would have stayed for, the one he would have put up with the pity and shame for. But it wasn’t to be.

Sandmoor, on the east coast of Ridgedale offered him opportunities he hoped, at the very least it was a fresh start. It was a prospering town; it sat on the Cerise sea which provided many men good living fishing. It was close to three quarries one of which was providing the stone to expand the capital. Two of the quarries were only recently established and men had quickly flooded to the town to find work, soon bars and markets had followed suit. One of his old friends, a cat who unlike most still talked to him, ran one of these bars. Atticus was a tiger, also broad and tall, and he too wasn’t like most of his peers, great cats were born to be hunters and warriors not to tend bar. Until he found his way, Atticus had offered to help Oric out in any way he could, firstly by offering him work.

He was initially hesitant about being alongside man in a town, he saw men as captors. With one exception, Oric had never met a man who treated or even looked at him as an equal. He knew not all men were the same and Atticus had told him there was no slavers in this town, and as the great cats now looked down on him he may as well give the place a try he thought, there was nothing to lose. He had very little with him, he didn’t own much in the way of possessions, just some clothes and supplies in a sack over one shoulder. And over the other he carried a beautiful long sword he took from his captor the day he broke loose. That and the scabbard and baldric that held it over his shoulder were the only things he treasured. The baldric was crafted by his lioness, it was deep red leather with thick black stitches, the scabbard too, perhaps not the most beautiful item ever made but it fit over his sword like a glove. And she had made it, it was all he had of her now.

Finally, Sandmoor came into view from over the ridge, he had been walking for a week at a casual pace. At night he slept under hedges and trees and he prayed for it to stay dry. He had packed enough food for his journey, mostly hard bread, salted ham and cheese. He added berries that he picked on the way. He had hoped to spot a deer or the like on his trek, then he would have eaten better, but it wasn’t to be, the journey had been quiet. His clothes bore the stains of his long walk, his dark blue pants were messier than he would have liked, his black boots caked with more mud. Along with most of his kind he took a certain pride in his appearance, being clean and looking presentable was important to him.

Even from afar Oric could see Sandmoor looked busy, Atticus had warned him it would be. Most towns in Ridgedale were walled, a relic of the nation’s many wars in the recent past, only a few cities in the land had stone walls, wood was standard for the towns and villages. But Sandmoor was different, as a new boom town and the fact that it was largely on the sea, walls were deemed unnecessary. And quite unlike many dreary, weather beaten fishing towns, Sandmoor was new and colourful, part town, part quarry camp, a wild mixture of brightly painted wooden storefronts and half-finished stone buildings rimmed by clusters of tents and shanties. All perched by the gulf of Tula with a magnificent view of the sea one side and the blue grey Pineridge mountains beyond to the west. During the day Sandmoor was a bustling place with