-------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Atlantic Bridge/Liquid Silver Books www.liquidsilverbooks.com Copyright ©2004 Rae Monet First Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint ofAtlanticBridge , June, 2004 -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Published by Liquid Silver Books, Imprint ofAtlanticBridge Publishing,10509 Sedgegrass Dr,Indianapolis ,Indiana . Copyright 2004, Rae Monet. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the authors. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. Prologue December 12,England 1281 AD, TheForest of the Dean Day of the Raid Arrruuuuuuu. The deep, haunting howl of the wolf's mate sent a shiver creeping down Peter Corbet's spine. His head snapped up and his nostrils flared with the smell of death. Peter cursed the fact that wolves mated for life, for he knew he would never forget that pained howl, or the fear it raised inside him. Peter's bloodstained dagger lay dripping at his side as he surveyed the village for his next prey. The muscles of his arm burned with the ache of use. His fisted hand released the wolf he had just killed, carelessly tossing the body to the ground. It landed in a bloody mass of fur on top of the small, dark-haired boy, who'd joined his protector's fate. Peter looked down at the pair and shook his head. “The killer of wolves,” that's what King Edward's people called him. Peter watched the panicked scramble of the villagers around him. Now, he was more than a killer of wolves, Peter thought. What he had done today was a much greater atrocity. * * * * Devastated, Leena swayed gently back and forth, shivering, her knees resting hard against the damp earth. She was beyond caring that the mud stained the edge of her skirt, that it scraped the bottom of her knees. Her skin touched the same dirt that absorbed the blood of her people. The ground remained unyielding to the Wolf Warriors who fell, landing heavily on its soil, gasping their last breath. Those warriors would never rise again, Leena feared, and their deaths had not been peaceful. Bile backed up in her throat, and she held cold hands over her ears—the noise of the surrounding battle was deafening. She was so frightened she could barely catch her breath. Someone attempted to bring her to her feet. Insistent hands pulled, a voice desperately called to her, yet the unrelenting voice and hands were muted to her. Dimly Leena realized that shock was absorbing all rational thought. She felt defeated. After desperately searching for her son, she had been unsuccessful in finding him, and the loss had taken its toll upon her weary body. "We must depart, Leena. The time is now. The English soldiers are too many against our few. Gather the boy!” Jarod's strained voice finally penetrated Leena's grief-stricken mind. "I cannot." Leena lifted her eyes as the tall, dark-haired warrior fell to his knees before her. Fierce for sure, bare-chested, beautifully crafted, his finely toned muscles flexed in harmony with his movements, his chest heaving from his recent exertion. Red painted lines ran in unison, adorning his face and arms. His striking blue eyes stood out in contrast to the crimson. Cuts covered his strong body, the darker red of his blood mixing in symmetry with that of his war paint. He was her husband, one of their finest Solarian Wolf Warriors, and he was battle weary, for the Solarians had been defeated. Leena met her husband's gaze. Her hands trembled and reached to soothe his face at the reaction she knew was yet to come. * * * * Jarod watched with guarded fear as tears streamed down his wife's face, cleaving a clean line in the soot and dirt covering her skin. He sensed her response and his entire body tensed. Misery and shock shadowed his mate's eyes. "I cannot sense our son. I cannot find him. I am afraid he has fallen. I have searched for hours. I fear it is hopeless.” Her voice sounded small amongst the roar of nearby battle cries. The panic Jarod felt matched what he saw on his wife's face, and when his forehead fell forward against hers, he dared to pray. He craved his own death over the likelihood of losing his only son to the slaughter King Edward I had wrought upon them. But lose him they most assuredly had, if she was unable to sense the boy. Raising his head toward the heavens, Jarod let out one long cry of anguish for his son. He knew his yell would be the only sign of grieving he could afford this day, for he had another child to save. Attempting to regain his calm and not succumb to his terror, Jarod lowered his head, then squared his shoulders with resolve. He gently placed his hand on his wife's stomach, on the growing life within her womb. He knew what had to be done. "We must depart, or much more will be lost. I will leave Karma to search. I'll return when you are to safety." Jarod could hear the fighting drawing closer to them. His head swung around to scan, causing his black hair to fall into his eyes. He batted it away in frustration. "Leena, we must leave!” The finality in Jarod's voice made his wife cry out in anguish. She nodded and attempted to rise, only to sink back down with obvious fatigue. Seeing her difficulty, he stood, and stooping down, swept his beautiful, exhausted wife into his arms. He had lost one son to the battle this day. He was determined he would not lose his wife and unborn child. Turning his head, he surveyed the massacre of his people and their wolf protectors. Karma, his own wolf, waited faithfully by his side. Jarod, with a quick jerk of his head and a silent command, alerted the huge gray silver-eyed wolf. Stay, Karma. Search for my boy. The wolf backed up, acknowledging his master's order with a single bark before he turned and raced off through the still-raging battle. Jarod realized Karma would search for what he might never find and in doing so perhaps lose his life in the course. His heart ached with the possibility that he was might be sending his devoted protector to his death. This needless battle had raged beyond the skills of the Solarian Wolf Warriors, there were over a hundred healthy English soldiers to each warrior—warriors that were strong, yet small in number. John de Reincolt, their clan leader, had called a retreat to save the families, specifically the children. The last of the mightiest Warriors were holding the line, albeit, not for long. Jarod moved easily forward, the weight of his wife slight. He took the first steps out of the chaos, but toward what? Toward a new life with future peace? He prayed for it to be so. As he and his wife escaped, he vowed to return. He would never stop searching for his son. Chapter One 30 years later Scotland 1311 AD Roan stared at the blood oozing from the wound where an English sword had cut his arm. As he and his friend, Ian, backed toward the bottom of the rocky cliffs, Roan knew they were trapped like a couple of wolves caught in a snare. In front of them stood an array of furious English soldiers. Well fed, well rested, well armed—they advanced. Both Roan and Ian were ill-equipped and barely had time to draw their weapons before they were attacked. Roan chastised himself for leaving his armor at the castle, not wanting to be weighed down with the heavy gear during this mission. That problem seemed small—compared to what they were now facing. As the sweat from his brow dripped into his eyes, Roan swiped at his forehead in aggravation. He growled at the situation he and Ian had gotten themselves into. Both he and Ian were seasoned warriors. They had fought this battle savagely. But now they were outnumbered, and in this situation even the most skilled fighter would be cut down. "Throw down your weapons, you Scottish dogs, or we will kill you where you stand." The troop backed them against the solid wall of rock. Roan did a quick assessment of their situation. Both he and Ian were panting, their chests rising and falling rapidly in their visible fatigue. Blood trickled from various cuts on both their bodies as a result of the battle that had already ended the lives of five of the English soldiers. Unfortunately, an additional ten healthy soldiers remained. This was bad. "Ahh, Roan, I have a hard time believin’ that we'd be cut down like this after all the fightin’ we've done and survived.” Ian's Irish brogue was filled with irritation. "I agree.” Roan knew his English accent was in complete contrast to his Irish friend's. "I'm thinkin’ they won't be believin’ ya if ya tell them yer the Wolf-or show them yer mark." "I fear you are correct.” Roan raised his blood stained sword in front of him, anticipating an attack. "Fools! We are not Scottish!” Roan yelled out to the leader. “We are English. We were traveling to town for w...
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