Chapter 1 – Outlaw

Atop an expansive butte in the woodlands of Vaylen, Zel lay unarmed on a white stone slab with a cult leader holding a dagger over his bare chest. And not just any dagger, but Zel’s dagger, his favorite, one of the few things he owned that meant something to him. No one took his dagger. No. One. Zel sneered internally.

The cult’s members gathered before the altar, their arms raised toward the sky, their faces aglow with light from braziers surrounding the perimeter—at least that’s what he envisioned. He had his eyes closed, so there was really no telling. But the heat from the fires warmed his skin, and their voices gave their positions away; they’d joined the leader in chanting to a demon of questionable existence, some idiotic something or other about obtaining power through human sacrifice.

How these fools never once considered the possibility that their oversized “captive” might not be human completely baffled him to the point that he wanted to roll his eyes. But that would give him away and put him at a disadvantage. And, weakest species or not, the Ormans outnumbered him thirty to one at the moment. So, he continued to feign unconsciousness and allowed them to spew their drivel while he mentally communicated with his animals.

Using feelings and impressions unique to his species, he reached out to his owl, Bubo, who circled noiselessly overhead, keeping watch with huge orange eyes. Bubo let him know his sword belt remained unguarded next to the altar’s grotto, and two cult members held their positions at the butte’s only entrance.

At the altar, the chorus of voices grew in volume, their chants brimming with an excited sense of anticipation. Zel opened his eyes into indiscernible slits and looked past the cult leader’s ridiculously oversized horned headpiece—yet another thing that made him want to roll his eyes. Only a few minutes remained before Argas’ blue moon would eclipse Arganna’s pink moon, and the cult would execute their plan. Or, more accurately, execute him. Time to focus.

Closing his eyes, he turned his attention to Esmeralda—Essy—his yellow-eyed death snake, who lay in wait in a tree near the butte’s entrance. With a mental push, he let her know what he wanted. She slithered from the tree to the guards, her thin body covering the distance in a rapid zig-zag motion, barely skimming the surfaces she traversed.

He didn’t have to see it to know how she’d handle the kills, with the strongest poison in all the lands of Terrola and speed imperceptible to human and shifter eyes alike. No, Zel didn’t see her commit the act. But he felt her satisfaction in it when she let him know the deed was done.

With another mental push, he called to Leyal, his enormous dire wolf, beckoning him from the shadows of the forest. The wolf’s emerald eyes emerged within seconds and, at Zel’s command, Leyal and Essy ascended the butte’s steep and jagged slope. Leyal remained at the top to block the exit while Essy continued to the closest cult member. Several swift bites later, she slithered on to the next.

Zel waited.

The enhanced hearing he got from his bond with Bubo told him three fell to Essy’s poison before the chanting faltered. Essy reached a fourth as the murmurs began and, within seconds, men panicked, and chaos ensued. Zel gave his final command, this one to Bubo.

Bubo descended as Zel rose and captured the leader’s hand, holding the dagger in place while he shifted his nose and mouth into that of his wolf, complete with a full set of terrifying teeth and vicious growl. The leader’s eyes grew wide, and his jaw opened as though he intended to scream. But Zel sunk his wolf’s fangs into the man’s neck and ripped out his throat, spraying blood through the air in a dark crimson arc.

There’d be no screams from him.

Zel tossed the bloodied body aside, horned headdress and all, then looked up as Bubo flew overhead, holding his weapon’s belt. Capturing the hilts of both swords, he drew the thin blades from their sheaths before Bubo opened his claws and allowed the belt to fall.

With blistering speed, Zel pivoted and buried his swords into the sides of two cultists, the metal sinking to their spines. He pulled back, dislodging the curved blades with a sucking sound while screams emitted from the mouths of those who’d seen. A slice across their throats put an end to their cries. Two more came at him, their swords raised to strike. He rolled off the altar to fend against their attacks and eliminate any others who came within range.

Bubo swooped down, gouging eyes with lethal talons. Essy sunk her venomous fangs into anyone who remained stationary for more than a second, and Leyal guarded the butte’s exit, tearing apart all who dared attempt escape, ravaging them in his deadly jaws until their bodies flopped like puppets without strings.

When Zel finished with those surrounding him, he scanned the butte. Not a cult member remained standing - though several lingered, wailing and writhing on the ground, clutching their eyes or other wounded body parts.

Eh. They’d murdered multiple females. He’d let them suffer a while longer.

He ripped a section from one of the dead Ormans’ shirts, then shifted his nose and mouth to human form. He wiped his face with the material as he strolled to the other side of the altar. Tossing the bloodied rag, he retrieved his belt and took his time fastening it, then casually sheathed both swords, and checked the small dagger holster in the back—snug and secure.

The cult leader’s lifeless eyes seemed to follow him as he bent to recover the dagger the bastard had stolen. But he focused his gaze on the blade.

Wrapping his palm around it, he savored the grip’s comfort and took a moment to admire the pearly white Cristalyn stone set into its hilt and the two running wolves that served as its guard. The wolves represented his first bonded animals, the twins, Lanna and Lupa. They’d been gone thirteen years now. But it had been twenty-five since one of his best men gave him the dagger. That was back when he had men, back when he led armies of warriors, before he spent most of his life in the woods with no one but his animals for company. 

He let out a sigh, then stood and tipped the dagger toward the blue moon in their painted and swirling night sky. Thank you, Argas. The warrior God came through for him that night.

Holstering the dagger in a sturdy leather sheath at his ankle, he gave the cult leader one last look. “Demon worship and human sacrifice, eh?” He shook his head. “Asshole.”

Shifting his gaze to the butte’s exit, he met Leyal’s emerald eyes. He sent a mental sense of appreciation for the evening’s efforts, then conveyed his desire for the wolf to search out and eliminate any cult members who’d jumped off the butte and survived the fall. Leyal left, and Bubo landed on the corner of the white stone altar next to him. The owl peered at him and hooted, looking deceptively cute with his bulky, barrel-shaped build and adorable erect ear tufts. He gave Bubo a gentle rub between his feathers before sending him to scout a wide perimeter beyond the butte and into the woodlands to ensure no one escaped.

Next, Essy appeared from behind a dead Orman and slithered her thin eight-foot length up his leg. She coiled around his waist, then made her way over his shoulders, and peered at him from the side. “Hey, girl. Good job tonight.” He gave her a soft pet on the yellow diamond at her crown, the feature that identified her to everyone, human and shifter alike, as the deadliest snake in all the lands of Terrola. She hissed back, then made herself comfortable around his waist as he drew one of his swords and sauntered across the butte.

Time to put these fools out of their misery.

Stopping at each writhing body, he pressed his sword’s tip through their hearts until their cries and whimpers subsided. For the sake and safety of the surrounding villages, he could permit none to live. Even one surviving member could be enough to revive the cult anew and, whether it was a paid job or not, he couldn’t allow that.

He found his medallion of the Trinity, the three Listranian moon gods, on the ground next to the altar and scowled at how carelessly it had been discarded. At least he’d located it though, unlike his leather brigandine, which seemed to have vanished. Perhaps he could find a tunic among the Ormans? He recalled a few inordinately large cult members. Maybe their corpses would prove fruitful as he went through the bodies and removed the eyeteeth of each – an unpleasant task, yes, but proof was required if one wished to get paid.

Rather than a well-built Orman, he had to settle for one who looked like he ate two hogs for breakfast and three for lunch. The man’s tunic, stretched out in the stomach but wide enough to fit his shoulders, would have to do for now. He also took a cloak from one of the men and relieved them all of their coin before leaving them to the animals.

Then he descended the butte. A quick search of the nearby woods turned up his horse along with those the dead brought with them. He released all but his own, a well-bred dapple-gray stallion strong enough to hold his weight. Mounting her, he began the journey to Thalaria to collect his earnings, with Essy coiled around his waist, Leyal trotting next to them, and Bubo flying silently overhead.

Four more days in the woods alone—as always. At least he had his bonded animals to talk to, though he often wished they could talk back.

The days were uneventful outside of an encounter with an ugly black bulbous creature with six spindly legs and eight sets of eyes that were worth a fortune to magic-wielding Myara. The encounter didn’t go well for the creature, and Zel wondered if he’d need a larger purse to hold the payment for killing the cult, along with the coin he’d earn from selling the eyes.

But then, why bother? A lot of good coin did him living in the forest. About all he used it for was to maintain his weapons and armor and patronize taverns and brothels once every few months when he risked venturing into one of Vaylen’s rundown villages or towns.

Flashes of polished limestone buildings and impressive uniforms materialized before his eyes. He shook his head and pursed his lips. Why, Zelstrason? Why? It’s been thirteen years and you hate that place. Listrand betrayed you. Pahan betrayed you. So, Stop. It.

On the final afternoon of the trip, he tied the horse to a tree near a river so he could bathe one last time before reaching the town; he might have to live his life in the forest, but that didn’t mean he had to look or smell like it. Essy slept in his saddlebag while Bubo did the same in the trees, and Leyal joined him, resting on a large flat stone nearby, keeping alert for threats.

The sun poked through the clouds and glistened off the wide, slow-moving river as he entered its chilly waters. Releasing the tie at his crown, he shook out his blue-black hair—the color matched Leyal’s perfectly—and enjoyed the sensation of it scattering over his bare shoulders before immersing himself.

When he rose from the water, he caught sight of his reflection and paused, staring at the scars that marred him. The inside of a panther’s paw filled his vision, its claws extended, ripping into his forehead, both his eyebrows, temple, and cheek. He touched a hand to the side of his face, running his fingers along the indentations. Then the paw faded and his love, Voenna, came into view, her captivating green eyes staring into his, her exquisite lips mouthing the same words they did every time she appeared.

You failed.

He tore his gaze away, then looked to the sky. Arganna, help me. He closed his eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. It took several measured breaths for his heart rate to return to normal. Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his face until he reached the week’s growth of beard. Ugh. Scruffy and unacceptable. It was time to shave, which meant he was going to have to deal with seeing his scars.

Using the short, thin dagger that sat at the back of his sword belt, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand: trimming his growth into a tight beard. The focusing technique worked well, until he had to cut a line into the hair on the right side of his square jaw to match the hairless scar on the left.

Voenna’s green eyes began to materialize again.

 He faltered. The blade slipped, and a red dot formed just above his jawline. Leyal stood and barked, drawing his attention and shattering the vision. He exited the river with haste and silently thanked the God, Arpemal, when Leyal met him at the riverbank and rubbed against his hip. He buried his hand in his wolf’s fur. “Thank you, boy. What would I do without you, eh?” Leyal gave a soft whine in response, not one of distress, but one of understanding, an understanding that could only be shared between a member of the Listra species and their magically bonded strata.

For several minutes, he stood, as though in a daze, nude and dripping at the riverbank, breathing deeply with Leyal’s comforting presence against his leg. A chilly gust of wind swept by, rustling the leaves and giving him a shiver. It pulled him from the daze back into the present. Running a hand over his face, he felt the line of his beard, not as perfect as he’d like. He glanced back at the water and scowled. “Screw it. It’s good enough.”

He dressed in his britches and boots, then put on the misshapen tunic, and donned his weapons and cloak. Pulling at his thick waves, he brought some of them forward. He’d allow his hair to hang loose for the trip into Thalaria as it, along with his hooded cloak, would aid in concealing his face.

When they resumed their journey, he walked the final narrow wooded path next to Leyal, keeping his hand waist-high buried in the fur of his dire wolf’s back. A few hours later, they arrived at the clearing before Thalaria, a town of ten thousand and one of the largest trading ports in the Orman land of Vaylen. He turned and rubbed Leyal behind the ears. “I won’t be gone long.”

Leyal let out something of a grunt—his version of disapproval.

“I know, my boy. I know.” Holding his dire wolf’s face, Zel bent and pressed his forehead to Leyal’s. They remained, forehead to forehead, for several seconds before he pulled away, turned, and mounted his horse. Staring at the town gates in the distance, he heaved a heavy breath, gave the horse a gentle kick, and left Leyal behind in the shadows.

The sun’s afternoon glow bathed the thatch roofs of small wooden shops and houses as he traversed Thalaria’s narrow streets, cobblestoned in some areas, dirt in others. People bustled about buying wares, while vendors organized their stands, and merchants barked at passersby about their latest products. Everything from the stink of excrement and refuse to the aromas of freshly cut gardenias and roasting pork assaulted his heightened sense of smell.

He tried to focus on the more appealing scents.

Following directions given to him, he rode to one of the most expansive properties in Thalaria, one of only two that boasted a stone keep and sizable bailey, though it still paled in comparison to the dwellings in his homeland of Listrand. True to the man’s word, the Lord paid him the agreed-upon healthy sum of one hundred gold. Considering he met the Lord—and accepted the job—on an overgrown dirt road in the middle of Novillage, Vaylen, receiving payment without having to threaten lives or break bones was as pleasant as it was unexpected.

With his coin purse already bursting at its seams, he rode to a seedy area on the opposite side of town and sought out a contact he’d dealt with in the past. The man gave him an acceptable price for the eyes, though Zel could have negotiated for more. But why bother? It wasn’t like he needed coin.

Before he turned to leave, the vendor looked him up and down. “What are ya wearin’ under that cloak there?”

Zel held the cloak open. The man scowled, then turned to his neighboring merchant. “Hey, give my friend here a deal on one of them tunics ya sell, will ya?” He turned back to Zel and gestured toward his chest. “That one’s embarrassin’.”

The neighboring merchant stood frozen, staring at Zel with wide eyes. Though most Ormans didn’t recognize him as a Listra on sight, those who did usually wanted nothing to do with him. Being non-magical humans, he couldn’t blame them.

“He’s a’ight. His coin’s good as anyone’s, and he won’t hurt ya… long as ya don’t cheat ‘im.”

The man’s endorsement had an impact. A few minutes later, Zel left for Thalaria’s oldest tavern, wearing a new brown tunic with a sewn V-neck collar and a proper fit. While he tied off his horse in the open stable next door, Essy slithered out of his saddlebag and coiled herself around his waist under his clothes. Then he entered the tavern, a wooden structure with thick dark beams and a stone fireplace that took up the entirety of one wall. His mouth watered at the scent of malt and spice and the thought of enjoying a tankard of ale for the first time in months.

Keeping his cloak’s hood up, he settled into the darkest table, one in the far corner. He watched several locals gamble under a twelve-candle iron chandelier, the only bright light in the tavern. And it was good to be around people again, even if only from a distance. There was a satisfaction in it, a fulfillment of sorts he was sure could only be understood by those who lived as he did, isolated from others.

Several hours and tankards of ale later, he opened his mouth to call the barmaid. But she appeared beside him before he could utter a word, deftly took the coin from his hand, and replaced it with a note. The move was smooth, almost artful, and surprising in its simplicity. He turned, tried to glimpse her face, but saw only a cascade of dirty blonde hair and a nicely shaped bottom swaying pleasantly away. Who in Jallah? And where did she learn how to do that? More important, though, was the note.

He scanned the small room, but only a few patrons remained: all Thalarian, none looking out of place.

Opening his palm, he read the note. Meet me behind the tavern, Brother.

Uneasiness washed over him. He scanned the room again. Only Listra warriors would call him “Brother,” warriors who had orders to capture him on sight, alive or dead.

Lowering his head, he closed his eyes and called on Bubo. Bubo made a few passes overhead, but the impression he sent Zel said there was no sign of threat or ambush, nothing out of the ordinary. If it wasn’t an ambush or trap, if it wasn’t Listra warriors there to apprehend him, it might be a warrior brother in trouble.

There was no choice.

He stood, tossed two silver coins on the table, and strode toward the rear exit with a hand on his sword. From a hallway behind the bar, he threw the back door open. No arrows flew in. No blades came swinging. Both good signs.

With vibrant blue eyes, he peered into the darkness. He could shift his eyes into those of his owl to improve his sight, but the bond he shared with Bubo gave him enough night vision that he rarely found it necessary, especially not when Argas’ moon shone full. And, right now, its blue glow bathed the alleyway and the man who stood there, deepening the sapphires of the plush velvet fabrics he wore.

It also glinted off the man’s swords.

Zel stepped out ready to draw his weapon but, from under a hood much like Zel’s own, the man lifted his head. The light hit his face and beamed off a smile that looked like it belonged on the face of an excited child – and Zel’s eyes grew wide. “Fogard!” The elation in his voice matched the excitement on his friend’s face.

They clasped each other’s elbows, bringing each other close with a firm pat on the shoulder, a greeting typical among Listranian warrior brothers.

And they not only looked like warrior brothers in size and strength but, with nearly identical dark hair, blue eyes, and matching golden brown skin, one could mistake them for brothers by blood from a short distance. Upon closer inspection, however, Fogard’s softer, boyish features contrasted with Zel’s weathered, rugged lines. His clean-shaven face and ornate clothes also set him apart.

“It’s so good to see you, Sir!” Fogard said as they disengaged.

“You as well, my brother.” Zel smiled from ear to ear, happier than he’d been to see anyone in more than a decade. “But what are you doing in Thalaria?”

Fogard dropped his chin and looked down.

“Oh no. What did you do, Fo?”

Without raising his head, he met Zels eyes. “The same thing you did, Sir.” His face bore a sheepish grin.

“No. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t help it.” He shrugged.

“What species?”

“Myara. And you’re going to love her, Sir. She’s wonderful. Truly.”

“I’m sure she is.” Fogard’s beaming love-struck eyes certainly said it was so. “But no matter the species, it still means you broke the law. Did Pahan sentence you to death?”

“I left Listrand before he could. But still, the hunt has been dispatched. And I saw you and couldn’t believe it. I thought maybe you could help us. We need to escape and get further south before they arrive. Can you help?”

He looked from side to side. “We’re too exposed here. Follow me.”

Zel led Fogard behind shabby houses and shops, noiselessly traversing Thalaria’s narrow back alleys until the smell of sea salt and gutted fish filled the air. Turning a corner, they arrived at the docks where oared vessels moored next to dozens of wooden ships with towering masts that reached toward the many colors of Terrola’s night sky. They descended stone steps that led to one of the dock platforms, then headed to the pitch-black darkness of an alcove under a stone bridge. In an automatic gesture, Zel put his hand up, giving the signal to halt.

He turned to Fogard. “I have to hood you for the rest of our journey.”

Fogard cocked his head.

“The entrance to the place we’re going is secret and I’m bound to keep it so. I can get you in, but I’m not permitted to let you know the way.”

“Ah.”

Zel grabbed a hood from a hidden compartment under the bridge, then placed it over Fogard’s head and guided him through an archway concealed by thick creeping greenery. They walked through a maze of hallways, twisting and turning repeatedly before reaching a steep stairway. At the bottom stood two menacing men on either side of an arched door set into a frame of rough, gray stones. Light from torches glinted off their swords and daggers, and enough dirt and grime enhanced the lines in their skin that Zel would have bet his bulging coin purse neither had seen a washtub in a month. The stench that assailed his nostrils as they approached served as a further assurance; he’d probably win that bet.

The bald man on the right nodded. “Zeltam.”

Zel nodded in return. “For the freedom of the kill.”

The man grunted. “You can enter, but who’s this?”

“A friend. I’m sponsoring him.”

“Sponsorin’, eh?” His gruff voice held a distinct note of disapproval. He scowled as he appraised Fogard. “I gotta see his face in case I need to kill him later.”

Zel lifted the hood from Fogard’s head, and Fogard was greeted by the burly man’s face just a little too close to his. But, to his credit, he didn’t flinch.

“Can you keep your mouth shut, asshole?” barked the man at Fogard.

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

“You’d fuckin’ better.” He sneered in Fogard’s face before turning back to Zel. “You understand this asshole is your responsibility?”

“I do, and I trust this asshole with my life.”

“Hmph.” The guard pursed his lips. “I hope you’re right about him… for your sake.” He opened the door, then motioned for them to enter the torch-lit cave on the other side.

At the guard’s invitation, Zel and Fogard stepped into Thalaria’s coastal cave network, a natural system of underground tunnels and caverns appropriated by the local criminal contingent. The heavy door closed and left them in a torch-lit chamber filled with rock formations that drooped from the ceiling and flowstone that covered the walls. A small waterfall gurgled to their left and a wide, dimly lit tunnel descended into darkness on their right.

Zel turned and rested his hands on Fogard’s shoulders. “Gods, Brother, let me look at you.” No words could convey how good it was to see his old friend. “Good form. Wide as a mammoth.” He gave Fogard’s arms a couple of firm pats. “Been training hard?”

“Fighting more like it.”

“Fighting who?”

“Palloran.”

“Gods no. Again?”

Fogard nodded. “Nothing serious yet, but yeah, they started testing our defenses again a few months back.”

Zel pursed his lips. He may not consider Listrand home anymore, but he didn’t like them being under attack. It put their incredibly sparse female population at risk and their species couldn’t afford to lose any Listra females, not even one.

“What’s that look?” Fogard peered at him. “Don’t you go finding some stupid reason to feel guilty about this.”

Zel opened his mouth to deny the accusation, but Fogard raised a hand to stop him. “You decimated them so badly it took more than a decade for them to rebuild and come after us again. No one else could have done that. No one.”

“Not me. We. I didn’t do it alone.”

“You’re too modest, Commander.”

“And I’m no longer your commander, or anyone’s commander.”

“Pfft. You’ll always be my commander. And you should know I’m far from the only one who feels that way.”

“Please. It’s been years.”

“So? There are hordes of warriors still loyal to you.”

Zel shook his head.

“I’m serious. And I hate to be the one to tell you this, Sir, but you need to go back.”

“What?” His brows scrunched. “Have you gone mad? You have a hunt from Listrand on your tail, and you’re telling me to go back?”

“I am.”

“Why in the name of the Holy Trinity would I ever go back to Listrand?”

“To become Laspet and rule, of course.”

Zel rolled his eyes, turned, and began walking. “You have gone mad.”