Please enjoy the totally raw and unedited start of Blood of the Crown--Book Six
Moonlight mocked the night, scattering silver light over the forest floor and across the open path, pulling the shadows over the ground. Cursing his foolishness, the young man ran on silent steps. At his back, he could hear the thrumming of hooves, the riders who would round the curve of the path in only moments. If they saw him… he lengthened his stride, panic creeping under his skin. They couldn’t see him. He couldn’t consider what might happen if they gained ground on him. He needed to run, to reach the safety of the hovel ahead.
Voices now, the sounds nearer. Too late. The rundown shack ahead was too far. Spinning, he dove aside, between the towering boughs of trees and into the shadows. Gritting his teeth, he turned to stare up the path. The young man held his breath and watched the horsemen cantered in into sight along the path that led toward the distant lights of the city and castle. Heart in his throat, his hand moved instinctively to close over the daggers inside his tunic, his breath catching behind his ribs. One of the men had slowed, his hand reaching to pulled back his hood. The sight of his face, the scars shining paling across his skin, made the younger man’s heart freeze in fear. Pale and empty eyes, eyes that might have belonged to a corpse, raked the night-draped shadows of the forest. His heavy knuckles tightened on the reins of his horse, his brow knitting.
Pressing himself against the tree nearest, the young man watched, waited. Though both carried swords, neither word the livery of guards—the grey and bronze. Instead, their garb was dark, their leather armor stained nearly black. They weren’t sodliers, he was certain. But who or what they were, he couldn’t be sure. Every instinct in his chest screamed at him to run, to flee. Danger. They were danger and that was all that mattered. But he couldn’t run, couldn’t move without giving himself away. Biting down on the inside ofh is cheek, the young man waited, posed to draw his daggers, to fight.
“What?” His companion reined his horse in, sounding aggravated. Turning his horse, the light of the moon caught on his auburn beard, visible beneath the shadow of his cowl.
“I heard something,” the first man murmured, his voice low, growling, and as emotionless as the pale eyes. The young man froze as the gaze raked the place he hid.
Concealed in his cloak and the dark, it took all of the young man’s self-control to draw the blades. If they moved toward him, he wanted the daggers in his hands. But to draw them now, in the still and the night… the sound and the moon’s traitorous light would be to give himself away. He bit down harder on the inside of his cheek and cursed his own foolishness. He’d known better than to risk departing under the full moon but after so many years living as a rogue, the temptation of the spring night had been too much. To taste the near freedom of the night, to wonder without restraint, without rules… he pressed his lips thin. How foolish he had been to think of this as freedom. This wasn’t freedom. This was a stupid chance at getting captured again and—
“Come now, Harcan, we can’t go chasing shadows. Likely you heard a dog or fox. There’s nothing here,” the second man snapped. “Now, come on. We have our orders.”
The first man nodded but didn’t move as his companion started up the trail again, riding west, away from the castle. Instead, Harcan’s eyes moved along the cover of trees, lips pressing into a line. From beneath his hood, the young man in the darkness saw the slender lines of scars catch the moon’s light. His fingers tightened over his daggers, waiting, watching…
Until next time!
CJR Isely
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