Reading Samples
The Wolf and The Hawk
Chapter 1: Comes the Wolf
The frost on the grass was just thawed enough to be slick and Ryone took full advantage as she pressed her attack. Mud flew and grass uprooted as she dug in a heel and pushed off, driving the butt of her axe directly into Scran’s belly.
The berserker doubled over and huffed. Behind him Aesra laughed. Ryone had time to shoot Aesra a cocky smile before Scran was upright and fighting-ready again. He cut an impressive figure, all bulging muscle and wild, black hair sticking out in tufts and short braids. Steam billowed from his lips like smoke, and he grinned. Ryone took an involuntary step back. If her friend and sparring partner was grinning, it meant he was up to something. She knew better than to think of berserkers as mindless brutes.
She braced for his charge, her own powerful muscles bunching. Ryone was typical of the warrior women of the Vyrn tribe. Nomads and fighters, they migrated yearly and took what they wanted from the land and occasionally from the people whose farms they passed. But it wasn’t their hunting or raiding abilities they were known for. The legends said the Vyrn were born of the wilds. Perhaps they stepped out of the mist or burst from the earth. The powerful horses they bred were cousins of the kelpie that lived in the bogs. The fearsome berserkers were sons and daughters of war gods. With her pale skin, straight, black, hair, and tall build, Ryone fit right in among her people. Only her tattoos made her stand apart from berserkers Aesra and Scran. Tattoos that marked Ryone as the Wolf of her people, her clan’s battle leader.
Scran crouched as if to charge, eyes glinting, but instead he dodged backwards, darting towards Aesra. She bounced on the balls of her feet, a mad grin on her features.
“Shite!” Ryone snarled, realizing too late what was happening. She tried to charge in, but it was her turn to slip on the wet grass. She nearly pitched forward. She plunged the blade of her axe into the half-frozen turf to stay upright, just in time to see Scran clap hands with Aesra. The female berserker took her companion’s place. She was fresh, not steaming with rapidly cooling sweat. Her hair was back in neat war braids, and she had chosen a staff as her practice weapon. The rules they fought by dictated that they must use either wooden weapons or only the portions of their own weapons which were nonlethal. Ryone yanked her blade free, spraying dirt before her and wishing she’d selected a wooden weapon instead.
Aesra struck like a snake, whipping the staff against Ryone’s knuckles. Ryone hissed, yanked her axe back, and re-centered. She squared up and prepared to defend. Aesra’s style was different from Scran’s so Ryone would need to adjust.
“Hey, Wolf.” Scran had parked himself on a tree stump to watch the fight.
“I really don’t need your chatter right now,” Ryone growled. Some of her hair had come loose from her battle braids and threatened to fall in her eyes.
Scran chuckled and examined his fingernails, which Ryone knew must be every bit as split and filthy as her own. “Didn’t your father have something he wanted to talk to you about today?”
Ryone grunted in annoyance, then darted in for an experimental attack. Aesra was skilled with a great sword, so she wielded her staff clumsily, holding it at one end as one would a huge blade. Ryone anticipated the next oncoming blow, dodged, and hooked the underside of her axe blade on the staff. She stepped in and brought her arm up to grab her axe handle, locking the staff in the crook of her elbow and against her axe. With a wicked grin of her own, she twisted and yanked. The staff jerked from Aesra’s grip. It whipped free and spun off into the grass. Ryone looked up, panting and victorious. Her bicep would bruise, but victory was hers. A few other warriors sparring nearby paused to shout praise to their Wolf.
Aesra raised both, calloused, hands. “All right, all right.” She huffed. “My plot to get Scran to distract you clearly didn’t work.”
“And it’s cheating.” Ryone panted, cutting a glare in Scran’s direction.
“I needed all the help I could get when you’ve got your war axe and all I have is a lousy pole. And you know as well as I that true battle isn’t quiet.” Aesra planted her hands on her hips.
“So?” Scran leaned forward.
“So?” Ryone raised an eyebrow at him. She hefted the blade of her axe and began picking clumps of clay and dirt free from its keen surface. “So what?”
Scran re-braided a hunk of his beard. “That thing about your father wasn’t just a ploy to stop you from roundly beating poor Aesra, here. He does want to talk to you, right? What do you think that’s about?”
“I can’t imagine there’s much to it.” Aesra strode past Ryone to retrieve her fallen staff.
Ryone hesitated. The last teeth of winter were falling away. Any moment new grass would replace the brown and frozen stuff. It would make sense that her father would want to go over plans for the clan’s movements with her and some of her siblings. His leaders. Yet this felt different. Her father never summoned them but would bellow across the camp if he wanted their attention. Hearing from others that he wanted to talk was unsettling.
“Whatever it is, it’s my duty as Wolf to obey.” She shrugged, putting aside her worry. Whatever he asked, she could handle it.
“Right.” Scran pushed to his feet. “Well, it looks like you can find out right now.”
Ryone turned to see a massive figure making his way towards the three friends. As he crested the rise with the sun behind him, he looked more like a part of the hill than a man. Smoke from the camp’s breakfast fires behind him added to the effect. The chief of the Vyrn, master of the wilds, death that struck like lighting strode to meet his daughter. He was the prime example of his people: tattooed, thick-limbed, and impressively tall. Yet his eyes could be gentle, and Ryone had seen him return a baby bird that had fallen from its nest.
“There you are, my Wolf. I might have known you’d be out here honing your skills.” He looked over Ryone’s shoulder and nodded to Aesra and Scran. “I’m glad the pair of you are here as well.”
“What’s going on, Da?” Ryone asked, cocking a hip and resting a hand on it. She hated dancing around a point almost as much as her father did. “Are we taking the clan on a different migration path than we planned this year? Through Geddy territory maybe? The elders are predicting a long spring and a hot summer so Ged would be advantageous.”
The chief made a “hmmming” sound and pursed his lips before hooking his thumbs into his broad belt. He rocked back on his heels.
“Da, what?” Ryone frowned at her father’s uncharacteristic pause. “Are we crossing the river territory? Passing close to Thraa land?”
He cleared his throat. “Funny you should mention Ged.”
“It’s to be Geddy territory then.” Ryone nodded. Ged’s king was old and inattentive but kept a sizable peasant army, which could be trouble. “I’ll begin forming the packs immediately. We’ll have plenty of time to train before we move out for the year.”
“The old king of Ged has died,” her father said.
Both Ryone’s eyebrows rose and behind her Scran made a surprised sound.
“That’ll make things interesting,” said Aesra.
“Indeed.” The chief squared his massive shoulders, his fur-lined cloak shifting over bare arms. He planted a hand heavily on Ryone’s shoulder. Her first instinct was to duck away and take a fighting stance. You could never be certain with her father when a simple gesture was about to turn into battle training. “The Geddy have a new king.” He paused, drawing in a slow breath. Ryone wanted to shout for him to get on with it, but a Wolf didn’t shout at their chief. He dipped his head. “I have been in contact.”
“With the new king of Ged?” It wasn’t unheard of for the Vyrn to converse with the leaders of the various kingdoms they crossed in their migrations, but they had never communed much with Ged.
“Aye. Or rather, with his father. Ged’s got a young king and as such he’s in need of . . .” He hesitated. “. . . a bit of help.” He locked eyes with Ryone. “He’s asked if one of my daughters might not suit as a bride. I’m sending you.”
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Boots
A Puss in Boots Retelling
Part 1
The Shades
The first time Princess Joanna encountered the Shades she was eleven years old.
Joanna stood on the cushioned seat of her father’s carriage, her body half out the window, black curls tangling in the wind. Her dark eyes shone with eagerness as the powerful horses charged up the country road.
The guards laughed and waved at her as they rode alongside. She stared jealously at the swords strapped to their saddles.
“Joanna, please come inside. We're getting near Carabas Castle.”
A hand at Joanna's elbow pulled her back through the window. She plopped onto the seat beside Lyall, her personal bodyguard. The boy was the same age as she and looked as nervous as a bird to be in such a small space with the king. He perched on his seat, hands clasped in his lap, not even looking out the window.
Joanna pursed her lips at her father who pulled her down before he snapped the window shut. “Why shouldn't I look at Carabas Castle? It's on our land, isn't it?”
“It's on The Ogre's land.” The king said, rubbing his bearded chin. He was giving Joanna that look she was coming to know as a what am I going to do with you? Look. “We should probably take this off the tour route, but the people in Strant village love to see us ride through.”
“You brought me out here, why can't I look at the Castle?” She folded her arms and leaned her head against the carriage side, catching a glimpse of passing sky and trees through the window. The smell of growing things and good earth filtered enticingly in past the glass.
“Because I know you. One look at that place and you'll be forming wild schemes to liberate it. The captain of the guard has a job to do besides listening to a young princess's wild ideas.”
“They're not wild ideas.” Joanna huffed, fogging the glass. “They're sound military tactics.”
Her father's expression changed to an indulgent smile and the carriage came to a halt. The smile vanished. “Why have we stopped?”
“Sire, something's not right!” One of the guards riding outside called. Joanna couldn't miss the urgency in his tone.
“Stay inside.” Joanna's father put his hand on her knee before pushing out of the carriage. She knew he didn't mean for her to see him draw his sword, but she saw.
Joanna whipped around to face Lyall whose freckles stood out like pocks on his milky cheeks. His pale eyes were too-wide. “Do you have your sword?” She asked.
“Yes.” He shot her a warning look as he reached for his hip. She'd taken his blade from him before on occasion, but Joanna didn't demand it now. She was distracted by the shouts of men and whinnies of horses. “Shades!” she whispered urgently, pulling both herself and Lyall to the floor of the carriage. “Draw your sword!” she commanded.
“I can't fight Shades!” Lyall spluttered, his voice breaking. He drew his sword just the same. He was a gangling boy, all too-long arms and legs as he fumbled clumsily with the weapon, trying not to strike the princess or himself. More yells outside, more horses screaming. Joanna heard her father's voice, shouting orders. Someone cried out in pain. She clenched her fists, fire raging inside her. If she was allowed to fight she could help. She could at least instruct the men as Father was.
Something heavy – a person? – hit the side of the carriage. Joanna gritted her teeth as she jostled into Lyall.
The window above Joanna broke and showered her in shards like glittering sand. She yelped, but managed to contain a louder scream. While Lyall looked terrified Joanna's heart raged with excitement alongside the fear.
The Ogre's minion crept in through the shattered window. Its body was long and stretched, like a shadow cast at dusk. This Shade was full bodied and so black she almost couldn't see through it. It held the vague shape of a man, with slender arms and sharp, grasping hands slithering down the inside of the carriage door towards them. It's eyes were twin holes, shining with the light from behind it. For the moment there was no mouth.
“Call for your father!” Lyall ordered, pushing himself in front of, and slightly atop, Joanna, brandishing his short-sword in trembling hands.
Before Joanna could open her mouth to yell, a sound that would surely have every guard and the king himself converging on the carriage door, the Shade slashed with its hand. Lyall had begun his training, but no amount of practicing with his father in a dusty field could have prepared him for this situation. He yelped as the Shade's claws, which looked as solid as smoke, but were actually keen as steel, sliced deep into his arm. His sword clattered to the glass strewn floor.
Joanna didn't think. She scrambled for the blade. Glass cut her knuckles as she scooped it up, shifted her body around the struggling Lyall, and thrust with everything she had. “RRRRAAAAAAAIIIIIIII!” She startled herself with her own battle cry, but it was effective. She drove her borrowed sword into the Shade's chest where it met with a faint resistance like tearing fabric. Teeth bared, hands slick with her own blood, Princess Joanna wrenched the sword upward, ripping the Shade from nape to the top of its head.
It made no sound but fell away, the two halves of its body flapping like a torn flag as its limbs lost purchase and it slid from sight.
Princess Joanna stood amidst the broken glass, gasping fierce breaths between bared teeth like a wild creature. She looked the part with her hair frizzing around her face and blood streaming down her hands onto her pale blue dress. Lyall, crouched on the floor holding his bleeding arm, looked up at her with mingled amazement and concern.
Inwardly she was aflame as she had never been before. No monsters were going to hurt her friends. Her people. Not now, not ever.
Later, much later, when she was back home in the palace, cleaned, dried, and bandaged, she strode up to the king and announced: “Father, I wish to have a sword tutor. Beginning immediately.”
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Adventurer Mage
Chapter 1
The Library
Maeve tucked herself behind the densely packed shelves, relishing the coolness of the marble floor through the thin soles of her shoes. The kitchens awaited like a dragon’s den below, but what happy luck to find the library unlocked and unoccupied. She slipped into the darkness and imagined she transformed into a shadow herself, the way some mages could.
She ran her fingers across the spines as though she petted a living creature and entertained the idea of pulling one of the ancient tomes free and memorizing a few phrases, just to spite the masters. Not that she understood whatever language the magic books were written in, but perhaps that didn’t matter.
She paused, fingers poised over a volume. Even in the dimness she could see that the pages were yellowed. The air smelled of age and forbidden promise. Just resting her fingers on this book could get her whipped. She flexed her shoulders, imagining the blow of the lash adding fresh scars to her already impressive collection.
Should she feel a spark of magic when her skin touched the paper? Nothing came. Her sleeve rode up, exposing the brand on the inside of her pale wrist. Sighing she withdrew her hand, tugging her sleeve back into place, unable to bring herself to pull the book free.
Imagine, a serving maid with magic. The masters would lose their minds. It was a sweet thought, like the hint of honey in bitter tea.
A clatter from the door froze her in place. All her muscles coiled, and she was ready to bolt, or at least throw herself to the floor.
“In here!” A man’s urgent voice echoed. Moments later his voice was accompanied by the rattle of the library doors pushing open. The gleam of a candle bobbed into view.
Maeve forced her body to move, ducking further behind her bookshelf. Breathing was so difficult that she wondered if it were possible to drown on dry land. She couldn’t swallow. You just had to hide in the library didn’t you? Couldn’t have hidden in the privy like a normal person?
Maeve’s eyes flicked from the person with the candle to the open door. At least she had a decent view between the books, and in a less terrifying situation her curiosity would have been piqued.
Two more figures appeared, and she recognized them. The young lords Thomas and Reynold, sons of the household. This realization helped her identify the third, holding the candle. Not a servant, but the youngest brother, teenaged Sydney. His already pale face was even milkier in the light of the candle. If the brothers found her here it could go extremely badly and Maeve shuddered in spite of herself.
“There! The table!” Thomas ordered.
Maeve squinted. There was a fourth man draped between the elder brothers. They held him upright by his arms. What are you up to? Maeve gnawed the inside of her lips. They were all still too close to the door for her to make a try for freedom. At least she was getting her breathing under control.
The two men hustled the third onto a large table, shunting aside papers and quills without a thought.
They don’t have to clean it up. Maeve leaned forward, knees against the shelf, and she studied what she could see of the man on the table. He must have been injured but was still conscious. He raised a tentative hand but was ignored by the brothers.
“What do we do?” squeaked Sydney. His candle flame quivered as his hand shook.
“Mother would have a fit if she found out we brought him in like this.” Reynold ignored his younger sibling.
“Mother won’t find out, will she?” Snapped Thomas. He grabbed Sydney’s hand, moving the light closer. “Have you got it, Valentine?”
The wounded man on the table squirmed in pain. None of the lordlings would be of use to him on that front. They hadn’t a whiff of healing magic between them. Maeve thought she heard the man called Valentine let out a little groan. Poor fellow. What had he done to be in the pitiable position of only having the brothers to help him?
“Do you have it?” Thomas reiterated, leaning over Valentine to look him in the eye.
Sydney and his candle also drew closer and Maeve got a glimpse of Valentine in profile. Curly brown hair, a pale face with a slightly upturned nose. He’d look the part of a mage, even without his fine coat, which draped down the side of the table, and his pocket watch chain gleaming. She was about to dismiss him and focus on the brothers again, when his eyes flicked in her direction. The candlelight caught them just right, and Maeve was certain he had spotted her. She’d have to make a dash for the door.
She leaned onto the balls of her feet.
Rather than pointing her out, Valentine’s head lolled back the other way. He spoke, his voice raspy though there was strength behind it.
“I have it. Don’t worry. You think I got this playing games?” He raised his other hand which Maeve guessed must have been pressed to the wound on his side. Blood glistened on his fingers.
“What do we do, Tom?” Sydney asked in a shaking voice. The candle wax dribbled down onto his hand, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“If he’s got the amulet, we patch him up and take him to the party,” Thomas answered coldly.
“This amulet?” Valentine pulled something from an inner pocket of his long coat. It glinted gold and ruby in the anemic light.
Maeve curled her lip. As if the brothers needed more magical Focuses. No doubt they’d be using this one to harass the staff later. She ground her teeth and checked the door again. The brothers were all distracted by the offering, and she was about to spring to life when the stranger’s eyes were on her again. She sensed them first, like she was being watched by a fox. She didn’t dare move, pinioned by his gaze. He blinked slowly. Was that a sign that he wasn’t going to turn her in?
His eyes darted to the door, then back to her face. A question.
Her breath hitched and she nodded tightly. It was barely a movement, but he saw it. His lips drew into a thin line, and she wasn’t certain, but she thought he winked.
Could she trust him? He was a mage, just like the other lords, and a stranger. She didn’t have time to puzzle over it. He gave her one last look, then he arched his back and cried out in pain.
Maeve startled, then realized it was her cue. All three brothers’ attention was entirely distracted, and she was waffling like an idiot. She darted for the door and slid into the light of the wide corridor. By some impossible mercy the passage was empty, and she sprinted to the nearest servants’ door.
Safe at last she stopped, back pressed to the wall, catching her breath. Don’t do anything like that again, you colossal idiot, she admonished herself as she tidied her skirt and apron with shaking hands.
Once she had collected herself she headed down into the hateful darkness below the house. Though her mind was still caught by a pair of clever eyes.
The heat was like a physical barrier as Maeve descended. Every fiber of her ached to retreat again, perhaps to the gardens or the outdoor privy as she should have done in the first place.
“Where under the Skies have you been?” Lucy grabbed Maeve the moment her feet landed on the final step.
Her fellow maid snatched Maeve from her intended path and yanked her down the dimly lit, old-stone tunnel. Into the maze of passages below Bryard House. Lucy pulled Maeve into the room they shared. She was shorter than Maeve, which was impressive considering Maeve’s unremarkable stature, so she stood on tiptoe to plant a stained mobcap atop Maeve’s head.
“Put your hair away! Cook is already furious with you!” She leaned to glance around Maeve at the open door, then back up into her fellow’s face. Her thick brows knit. “You do this intentionally.”
“Yes.” Maeve distractedly tucked loose strands of her dark brown braid up into her cap. Life would be so much easier if the female servants were allowed to cut their hair.
Lucy groaned between gritted teeth. “Well, when the housekeeper has you whipped, leave me out of it.”
“I always do.”
“Why do I bother?” Lucy asked the ceiling before she stood back to look Maeve up and down.
“I know I’m in trouble.” Maeve gave her best, boldest grin. “But that’s a problem for tonight.”