Wrangler

by Hondo Jinx

  “And you lived. You are clearly a good man to have as a friend and a very bad man to have as an enemy.”

  Braddock nodded. “That’s where some of my ammo went. Those boys don’t die easy, do they?”

  “Unfortunately, no. In spring, the centaurs will return, looking for slaves. I have heard tales of your red-haired woman. The market is buzzing. High prices are being offered. Astronomical prices. The centaurs will come looking for her. They will send many slavers.”

  “Then yes, I must visit Black Harbor and speak with your sorceress.”

  Red Eyes lifted his cup. “Her name is Jazeen. Like all magic users, she is… eccentric. And frequently elusive. But she and I have history. I can almost guarantee Jazeen will see you and at least consider your request.”

  “I appreciate it. Excuse me for a second.”

  Braddock went to his saddle bag, grabbed a few things, and returned to the table.

  “Would these buy ammunition?” Braddock asked, dropping onto the table several of the heavy golden coins he had won in the subterranean chamber.

  “Hmm,” Red Eyes said, picking up one of the thick coins. He studied both sides, whiskers twitching. “These are ancient. Perhaps two thousand years old. Wrap them individually. They are in wonderful condition and worth more as relics than measures of gold.”

  “Will do.”

  “To answer your question, yes, likely they would. A few pieces of ammunition, anyway. But only a fool speaks for a sorceress, so I can’t guarantee these will sway her to do your bidding.”

  “Understood. What do you think about this?” Braddock handed him the orange gem with the little woman frozen inside.

  “Hmm,” Red Eyes said again, smiling as he examined the flame-colored gem. “Someone trapped a tiny woman inside this stone. A human woman, I believe.”

  “Could Jazeen free her?”

  “Could she? Yes, for a price. Would she, however? I won’t hazard to say. Judging by the tiny woman’s purple robes, she is also a sorceress. Jazeen might be unwilling to free another sorceress, especially a human sorceress. But again, only a fool speaks for a sorceress. You will have to ask her yourself in Black Harbor.”

  “I will.”

  “Unless, of course, you would like to sell me the stone. As I said, I am a collector of curiosities, and this is very curious indeed. I would pay you enough to buy a good amount of ammunition.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll hold onto her. I believe in nothing if not freedom. I won’t sell a person.”

  “Even a tiny, frozen person you’ve never met?”

  Braddock laughed. “That’s right. I’m a stickler for liberty.”

  “A true frontiersman,” Red Eyes said with a smile. “I respect that. But remember, friend, before you hire anyone to free this miniature sorceress, that someone went to great trouble to have her frozen in the first place.”

  Braddock nodded. “You have a point.”

  “Yes, I do. Who knows who this woman is? Who knows what she did to get herself locked away? Was she a quarrelsome wife? A hated mistress? The most powerful sorceress of her age? A politically disadvantageous court advisor? A dreaded necromancer? We cannot know. But one thing is for certain.”

  Red Eyes tapped the gem. “This is no peasant girl. Freeing her will undoubtedly change your life… for better or for worse.”

  They talked a bit longer and went back outside into the unseasonably warm day.

  Outside the enclosure beside the Wrangler City sign, Ragget and what looked like half of the rat folk were gathered in a nervous-looking huddle waiting for them.

  “Begging your pardon, Lord Red Eyes,” Ragget said sheepishly, “we thank you for coming to rescue us—”

  “But you’re wondering if I would mind terribly if you stayed on with Lord Braddock rather than returning to Black Harbor?” Red Eyes guessed, eyes twinkling.

  Ragget and the others nodded, unable to meet their benefactor’s red eyes.

  “All of you?”

  More nodding.

  “And what of the others?”

  “They’re excited to return with you, sir.”

  Red Eyes chuckled and slapped Braddock’s shoulder. “Your views on liberty appear to be contagious, frontiersman. Will you have them?”

  Braddock looked at the petitioning rat folk. He saw twenty-some men, women, and children, all of their faces shining with hope. “Gladly.”

  “Well, that decides it then,” Red Eyes said. “You folks are free to stay if you like.”

  Ragget and the others cheered and offered their heartfelt thanks.

  Red Eyes breathed deeply and panned his gaze across the vast meadow. “Can’t say I blame you. If I were a young man, this would appeal to me, too. Congratulations.” He gestured to the sign, which someone had driven into the ground alongside the stakes marking the future road. “You are now citizens of Wrangler City.”

  The sign had been fine as a lighthearted joke of sorts, but Braddock winced inwardly, hearing this city-dwelling world traveler say the name aloud. “That sign wasn’t my idea. Nor was the name. I don’t reckon we’ll ever have much of a town here, let alone a city.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Red Eyes said. “You and I will establish trade. Plant the seeds I brought you. My outposts will need food. Tilly’s wine will buy a lot more than nails.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “As your community grows, more people will come here. Some will come to build, others to destroy. I suspect one of your more difficult tasks will be telling those two types apart.”

  Braddock nodded, reckoning Red Eyes was right.

  “Many others will come looking for help,” Red Eyes said.

  “Monster girls,” Braddock said.

  “Not just monster girls. Others will come begging sanctuary, too. These are disruptive times. And the more you build, the more people will come.”

  “Guess we’d better get busy building, then.”

  “Your name is already spreading, Braddock. On the river miles south of here, I heard a song about you.”

  “A song? About me?”

  “Yes. A sad, sweet song. Very sad, very sweet. We heard it while passing the river hag’s trading post. Hearing it, I ordered the men to hold us steady until the singer finished.”

  The others nodded reverently, their eyes misty with memory.

  “The wicked old hag undoubtedly uses the singer to lure customers,” Red Eyes said. “She came out and tried to sweet talk us into buying something. But after all these years on the river, I know better than to trust a hag no matter how sweetly she talks.

  “But we were mesmerized. We anchored there for a spell, listening, our hearts breaking. What was that song called, Japen?”

  “She called the song Six Kisses, sir.”

  “Six Kisses,” Red eyes echoed. “That’s right. Most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. Soulful, haunting, heartbreaking. Much like the singer herself. Japen, how did the song go?”

  “Save my kisses, Jed Braddock,” the young rat man sang in a high, clear voice, “Six kisses, my love…”

  “Yes,” Red Eyes said, clapping. “That’s it. Keep singing, man, keep singing.”

  “Wait,” Braddock said, sudden heat flooding him. “The singer. Tell me about the singer.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Red Eyes said. “Stunning, actually, if you don’t mind blue skin, and why would you? A poor water nymph in shackles, enslaved by the river hag. But what’s the matter, Braddock? You look like you’re set to run the king’s own blockade. Do know this water nymph?”

  Thank you for reading Wrangler!

  Braddock’s adventures continue in Wrangler 2. You can see the cover and buy the book here.

  If you enjoyed Wrangler, please be a friend and leave a review. When you leave a review, even a short one, you just bought my family dinner, because Amazon will show the book to more people. Thanks for your time and help.

  If you’d like to know how I discovered harem lit and why I write what I
write, keep reading. This book includes a 1500-word author’s note where I talk about Wild Wastes, the shortcomings of traditional publishing, and my brother getting stabbed with a hunting knife.

  Want more? Get your barbaric ass on my mailing list.

  Also, check out the Harem Lit Facebook group, where fans of the genre hang out and talk books. I look forward to meeting you there.

  Until then, keep your powder dry, your blades sharp, and your eyes on the far horizon.

  Author’s Note

  Hello, fellow savage.

  I wish we were having this conversation over a couple of cold beers, but sadly, that isn’t possible, so with no further ado, here’s how I started writing harem adventure stories.

  I grew up in the country. Not Texas, as many readers assume, but Appalachia.

  My dad worked blue collar in a factory and was the best outdoorsman I’ve ever known. My mother stayed home with us kids and stretched every penny, which was good, since we didn’t have many.

  We lived largely off the land. Mom canned a thousand quarts every year, and we went through several bushels of potatoes over the winter. One of my many jobs was sprouting those potatoes, which we stored in wooden crates in the basement.

  Like many country people, we were “land rich and cash poor.” Dad built our fifty-foot rancher between shifts at the factory. It sat on five acres, one of which was dedicated garden space. We also grew apples and raised for the neighbors, who paid us in beef when they slaughtered in the spring.

  Mostly, though, we hunted and fished. Deer, turkeys, rabbits, squirrels, grouse, pheasants, bass, crappies, walleyes, bullheads, trout, pike… the list goes on and on. It is impossible for me to explain how much our life centered around hunting and fishing.

  Which all goes some distance in explaining why I write what I write.

  A few other things factor in, too.

  Where I grew up, everybody fought. All. The. Time.

  In elementary school, we fought for fun. We tossed knuckles at our houses, on the schoolyard, at the roller rink, anywhere, anytime. Someone always had a split lip, bloody nose, or black eye. But again—and this might seem strange to anyone raised outside the culture—it really was fun.

  Fighting got more serious in middle school. The stakes were higher. People got hurt and the fun pretty much evaporated.

  In high school, fights became deadly serious. People got seriously hurt.

  My brother, eighteen at the time, came home late one Saturday night covered in blood and told me he had just killed the toughest guy in town, this dude in his twenties. They got into it behind the tents at the carnival. It was a knock down, drag out fight until my brother got the upper hand, locked him up, and kept hitting him with elbows until he was sure he wouldn’t get up again.

  Luckily, my brother was wrong about killing him. The guy survived.

  Exactly one week later, my brother came home bloody again. He’d been in another fight, this one outside a bar and against another full-grown man. My brother won, dropping the guy with an uppercut in the opening flurry, but the guy stabbed him in the leg with a serrated hunting knife.

  Here’s the kicker: the two fights were totally unrelated.

  Luckily, I started boxing at thirteen or fourteen, and that largely lifted me out of the fight culture. I had nothing to prove, walked with confidence, and made sure, when I did get into a fight, that I handled it in a way that removed my name from the consideration of others.

  Which freed me to concentrate on the things I really loved: hunting, fishing, hiking around, reading, and playing Dungeons & Dragons.

  I started with comic books, then progressed to Jack London, Conan, Louis L’Amour, Robert Adams, Robert Heinlein, Frederic Pohl, Clifford Simak, John Norman, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Stephen King, Richard Laymon, Elmore Leonard, and many others, mostly in sci fi, fantasy, adventure, crime, and horror.

  Weekends, my best friend and I played D&D. Our sessions started Friday nights after I got out of washing dishes at the Elks Club, a job I started at the ripe old age of 14 and kept all the way through high school, and stretched to dawn, only to kick off again the next day around noon. We would see to our chores and other obligations then jump back in for another all-night gaming session then picked up again on Sunday during whatever time we could wrangle.

  Fast forward to adulthood. I’m a husband, a father, and a dog owner. I still have a garden, and I still read a lot, though a lot of my reading is now listening. Audiobooks rule.

  A few years ago, I stumbled across a crazy-sounding audiobook called Wild Wastes by some guy named Randi Darren and narrated by Andrea Parsneau.

  I gave Wild Wastes a shot—and wow… after a lifetime of reading speculative fiction and a fair amount of erotica, I had found my drug of choice.

  From Randi Darren, I moved on to Michael-Scott Earle, Jan Stryvant, Will Arand, and Daniel Schinhofen.

  Historically speaking, I was always an omnivorous reader. I read nonfiction, fiction, kids’ books, thrillers, mysteries, and all those other things I’ve already mentioned… but after Wild Wastes, I became obsessed. For a long stretch, I would only read harem lit.

  It wasn’t just the harem aspect that hooked me. These books starred kickass protagonists who knew how to swagger. There was lots of action, too. And the whole genre, which was literally coming to life week to week as I read new releases, felt so refreshingly unapologetic. I could tell the authors were grooving on their stories, having a blast, and not worrying about the arthritic restrictions of traditional publishers.

  These books were big and bold and fearless. Fun from cover to cover.

  I was hooked.

  So were a lot of other people. And that was part of the fun, too. There was a dizzying energy to the harem lit genre in those days, a sense that thousands of readers were grooving just as hard as the authors. It was like we had all found our tribe at last, and these awesome writers were pumping out killer stories just for us.

  Reading the reviews and interacting with other readers on Facebook was nothing short of euphoric. We were all so excited to have found this genre, and we had a blast discussing the books online.

  I had always loved writing, but traditional publishing didn’t want the stuff that truly interested me.

  Wild Wastes, Black Friday, Tamer… these books woke me up, opened new possibilities, and in a sense gave me permission to write what I had always wanted to write. That might sound weird, but it’s true. These books and the readers’ responses to them convinced me that my crazy ideas weren’t merely the violent, primitive, hyper-masculine, perverted fantasies of someone who didn’t belong in a bookstore, letting one filling its shelves.

  I started to think that maybe, just maybe, people might even want to read them.

  So I wrote a book called Dan the Barbarian, and more people liked it than I ever could have hoped for.

  Fast forward nearly two years, and I am now the author of eleven harem lit books and number twelve, Wrangler 2, is in the works. I am not the most talented harem lit writer, and I am definitely not the fastest, but I write every word myself and have earned the reputation of a writer who works hard, produces regularly, creates strong male protagonists, and finishes every series.

  That works for me.

  And thanks to readers like you, I am able to feed and house my family by telling exactly the stories I want to tell.

  It still feels crazy, but Will Arand / Randi Darren, Andrea Parsneau, Michael-Scott Earle, John Van Stry / Jan Stryvant, and Daniel Schinhofen are now friends, as are a number of other excellent harem writers who came along later, including Mike Truk, Aaron Crash, and Cebelius. Ceb’s even been to my house. He’s good people, if you’re wondering.

  Another dream come true: Andrea Parsneau, whose voice lured me into the genre, now narrates my audiobooks. Sometimes, I think I might be the luckiest guy in the world.

  And the icing on the cake? Connecting with hundreds of readers through Facebook and email. I never could have anticipated how muc
h fun it would be to interact with readers. Many have become friends. That’s nothing short of magical.

  So I’ll wrap up this meandering note with a note of thanks.

  Thank you for reading my books, getting in touch, being cool, and especially writing reviews on Amazon, which more than anything else allows me not only to keep writing but to keep writing what I want to write. That is a blessing during an age where traditional publishing does not want strong, male protagonists, let alone strong males who build harems.

  So again, thank you.

  I look forward to writing more stories. I hope you’ll continue to read and enjoy them and that one day, preferably over a couple of cold beers, our paths will cross, and we will part as friends.

  Take care.

  Hondo

  About the Author

  Hi, I’m Hondo, an Amazon top 100 bestselling author of adventure fiction. To date, I’ve published 11 harem lit novels including aspects of fantasy, Westerns, science fiction, humor, and horror.

  When I’m not writing, I enjoy hiking, shooting, boxing, chess, and most of all, spending time with my wife and our young daughter. My dog, a border collie with two different colored eyes, tags along on walks and tends to sleep at my feet as I write.

  It’s a good life, and I’m grateful for it.

  To get in touch or learn more, drop by my website at www.hondojinx.com.

  Also by Hondo Jinx

  Wrangler

  Wrangler 2

  Power Mage

  Power Mage 2

  Power Mage 3

  Power Mage 4

  Power Mage 5

  Power Mage 6

  Dan the Barbarian

  Dan the Adventurer

  Dan the Destroyer

  Dan the Warlord