Beneath the Voltoy

By Shawna Hunter

It's a cruel and unforgiving world. Warlords rule, selfishness reigns, and dark things whisper in the secret places. Into this world steps an abandoned girl.

Defiant before fate, she crawls into the shadow. There she finds the impossible...a friend. Yet evil things stalk her and caring is a weakness she can ill afford.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingston Publishing Company
• Release date: Jan 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781645334828

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Copyright

Beneath the Voltoy is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

BENEATH THE VOLTOY: A NOVEL

Copyright © 2023 by Shawna Hunter

All rights reserved.

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Published by Kingston Publishing Company

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Table of Contents

Copyright

Table of Contents

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Extras

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

1

Married? How could they possibly think that I would consent to be married to some random old man that Father picked out for me? Let alone one of Father’s friends! The pig was more than twice my age. Unacceptable, simply unacceptable. The idea of cooking his meals and sweeping his floors until he got drunk enough to forget that he saw me swaddled in my crib makes my stomach churn. So, there is only one option for me, the road. The only question is, which road?

Lysia is out of the question. The Shadow of the Voltoy had conquered that wretched city some months ago. Any young maiden traveling there would quickly find herself in nothing but gold chains and body oils, at the mercy of every soldier who happened to take a fancy to her glistening body. Trading one lecherous old bastard for a group of tribesmen half his age and with even less morality does not strike me as an appealing bargain. Admittedly, if I could guarantee that I would only be allowed to see the famed slave girls and not join their ranks, I might have considered it. No, I’ll save those fantasies for lonely nights. The waking world is never so much fun. Lysia is a conquered city, one rebellion away from being put to the sword. There is no way I’m going there.

The sea ports and plains are my other options, but they too are lacking in appeal. Trampled by the horse lord tribes or carted off by pirates to be entertainment in the bowels of their ships? This world disgusts me some days. Is there not one place where a young woman can be free from cocks and swords seeking to penetrate her? Well, there is one place. A domain of witches and dark things, where none but the boldest or most desperate dare travel. Every child has heard the stories. Yes, when I look at myself, I can’t help but admit that desperate describes my state perfectly. So, I suppose the warnings are as much an advertisement. The dark forests that stretch to the foothills of the Voltoy mountains. The setting for many a tale of lost travelers and narrow escapes from strange horrors. Where better to hide from my father’s plans than in the haunted backyard of the most feared tribe in all the lands?

If I am to be honest, I do not expect to survive long. A simple peasant girl in not but a white tunic with a rope for a belt. My earthen brown hair tied back from my eyes by a thin strip of cotton and my body more boyish than womanly, thanks to years of work on my father’s farm. Perhaps that is why I’d had no suitors until the decrepit age of eighteen? Surely some boy would be stupid enough to ask for the hand of a girl who’d made her disgust for men obvious, had I had some graces that appeal to his sex. Lacking those, thank all the gods, I’d had no one express interest, save my betrothed. A man who might as well have been my uncle, and who’s interest stemmed purely from being too vile to find a proper wife, after his first had died in childbirth. I can still hear my father’s words as I trudge along my lonely path, telling me that I was lucky to have someone, even him, express an interest. What loving parent would tell his girl to accept such a fate with gratitude?

The road has not been a pleasant place, but I’ve been kept going by the bile in my throat. Sleeping by day in ditches and tall grasses lest I be spotted, traveling by night when only bandits are about. To my credit, I’ve made it three days without being spotted by a soul. Of course, that has also meant that my meager rations are spent, and my water skin is filled with fetid water. The hunger, I’ve started thinking, will soon see me grazing the field like a cow. Perhaps, should I be seen behaving thus, some passing family might toss me some coins out of pity. That, or some rutting bull might attempt to cross breed with me. I still recall the horror of observing how the bulls went about such things back on the farm. I’d wept into mother’s apron for days; certain our poor milk cow would die after such treatment. The thought often flashes through my mind when hunger compels me to look back on my proposed marriage.

There is no going back. Even if I tried, even if hunger and exhaustion brought on such madness in me, my father would not allow me in. He’d beat me and send me away, disowned for so insulting his friend. My future, I am certain, lies ahead in the darkness. So, I lie here—holding my growling stomach and watching the sun lazily sink from the sky. Soon I’ll have to rise and continue my trudge towards the dark forest. Perhaps there I can find a stream with fish, or some mushrooms on trees. A savage feast, but a feast nonetheless. I could even build a fire and make a stew. I’ve always been good at small crafts. Forming a pot out of creek-side clay should be no problem. The fantasy seems to invade my waking senses. I can almost smell such a meal. No, wait, I can… I can smell it! Sitting up, it takes but a moment to spot the wagon.

The old mare that pulls it has seen better days. Used up by the needs of its master, it seems almost relieved for a chance to just stand still. Its concerns ignored by the man who studies the wagon it pulls. The front left wheel has broken. The weight now too great to be moved without support. From where I spy them, I can see the wagon shifting. A flickering light within reveals the outline of three women. They don’t notice me in the brush, as the smell of their food draws me close, but I can tell that they have left the repairs to the husband and father while they focus on their own tasks within. How foolish, had they gotten off their lazy asses then they might be moving sooner rather than later. As it is, they may be stuck on the road at night, at the mercy of any who might happen upon them.

"You see Freida? The Earthen pot does not burn, and it directs the heat