I swallowed. ‘Father…’
‘Yes?’ He crossed his arms. Somehow he knew what I was going to say would displease him.
Jeykal moved towards my weapons rack. What was he thinking? I glared at him and then quickly put on a fake smile for Father.
‘I…’ I struggled to get the words out. I feared his anger, but not for my own sake. I feared for my child’s life. ‘I’m with seed and I won’t give it up and—’ I halted the flow of words, waiting for their impact.
Realisation hardened Father’s features. ‘Then I will fetch Gevilka, and she will end the conception.’ His movements were stiff as he uncrossed his arms and turned to leave.
I glanced at Jeykal. He’d moved even closer to the weapons rack, obviously knowing as well as I did that this would end badly.
‘No, Father. This baby will live.’ I put my hand to my stomach. ‘If you force me, Jeykal will tell the tribal leaders that you ordered me to abandon it.
The greatest man in Ruxdor froze, straightened, and turned around. ‘How can you expect to lead with Skelkra’s child? You must bond with him.’
‘Never.’
Father stepped towards me, fingers curling into a fist. A warning spread through my body at the coming violence. ‘Why have you done this to me? Why?’ he shouted.
From the corner of my eye, Jeykal move his hand to an axe.
Father’s question required no answer. He saw my child as a personal attack on him. ‘I would never hurt you,’ I said, a tear sliding down my cheek.
‘Yet here we are again.’ He talked of the pain of losing my mother. His life mate. His everything. I had destroyed his every happiness and brought him no joy through my existence. My birth had ended her life, and blackened his soul.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, my face soaked with tears now.
Father grabbed my shoulders. ‘No son or daughter will be born out of bondage to another. Understand?’
I pushed his hands away, shaking my head.
Father breathed out, his face flushed. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. ‘You disobey me?’
‘Yes,’ I said defying him openly for the first time in my life. The words that came next felt true and honest. ‘I renounce you as my chieftain.’
Father lunged at me, grabbed me by my hair, and pushed my face to the floor. He squeezed my broken arm. Instead of crying out, I focused on the smell of the dry dust and oak that irritated my nostrils. When I didn’t cry out, he hauled me back to my feet, squeezed my neck, and pushed me towards the door.
‘People will see us,’ I cried.
But Father was in a rage so fierce he could produce no words, let alone hear. He slammed me against the wall beside the entranceway. My cheek hit the wall, and then he pulled me back again.
Then, Jeykal’s arms were around his neck from behind. Father staggered backwards, ripping a clump of hair from my head, but I was free. Father snatched a broom handle and swung it at my friend’s head.
‘Jeykal! No! Father!’ I cried at them both, but they ignored me.
Jeykal ducked and darted.
‘Go, Klawdia!’ Jeykal yelled, nodding towards the knapsack I’d packed.
I shook my head, terrified that Father would kill him.
‘Go!’ he cried again, and he snatched an axe from my rack, facing the chieftain.
‘Don’t kill him,’ I said to them both. I picked up my knapsack, strung a bow across my body, and fled my home with no hope of return.
The Story Continues In… Refuge (Book #2 of the Klawdia Series)
Afterword
Bestselling author Kylie J. Colt writes epic fantasy with a psychological twist. By threading common psychological pathologies such as depression into her story lines, she creates deeper, more realistic characters.
Located on the sunny Gold Coast of Australia, she has been writing for three years. Her favourite writers are Kristin Cashore, Robin Hobb, Trudi Canavan and Maria V. Snyder. She has an honours degree in psychology and counselling, enjoys road trips, gaming (Skyrim / Civilisation / Assassin's Creed / Bioshock / Banished), music festivals (electronica), playing pool, meditation, yoga, bushwalking, and gobbles up anything fantasy-related. Her favourite shows include Game of Thrones, Homeland, Dark Mirror, Downton Abbey, X-Files, House of Cards, Hannibal, Trueblood, IT Crowd and anything created by Hayao Miyazaki.
You can sign up for her newsletter to receive news about new releases and giveaways. KJ Colt Newsletter Sign-Up
Or, alternatively, visit her website at: KJ Colt Fantasy Fiction Website
Or Join her Guild on Facebook: The Guild
K. J. Colt Books
The Klawdia Series
Bear Heart, Book #1 (Released)
Refuge, Book #2 (Released)
Savage, Book #3 (Coming 2015)
Book #4 (Coming 2015)
There will be 8 books in this series.
The Healers of Meligna Series.
Concealed Power (The Healers of Meligna, Book #1) Released. (FREE EVERYWHERE)
Blood Healing (The Healers of Meligna, Book #2) Released.
Blood Sacrifice (The Healers of Meligna, Book #3) Released.
Forsaken Power (The Healers of Meligna, Book #4) Coming this month!
Unnamed (The Healers of Meligna, Book #5) Coming November, 2016! Concluding Book.
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POISON - A FATE’S FORSAKEN PREQUEL
Shae Ford
Chapter I
Olivia
A BLACK VEIL CLOAKED THE Grandforest. It hung from the under edges of the trees and draped thickly over the bare earthen bottom of the woods.
Swears hissed through the undergrowth as the pines creaked furiously overhead. A company of soldiers stood back-to-back in a blackened grove. There were delicate blue shields embroidered upon the tops of their sleeves; their blue eyes flicked worriedly through the slits in their iron helmets.
The darkness warred fiercely with the light cast from soldiers’ torches. It pressed firmly against the outskirts of the glow, snapped into the gaps left by the sputtering flames — the night taunted them with whispered moans.
Moments ago, the whole forest had been rife with screams and the clang of steel. The blood that clung to the soldiers’ tunics had been warm — it’d glistened in the torchlight. But now the gore was dried. The bright red that’d once stained their swords had wilted into the deepest black.
The battle was over.
A thick man marched into the middle of the huddled clump of soldiers, startling them to attention. “We’ve fought them off, lads — but there’s work to be done!” he bellowed in a rumbling voice. “Bury the dead, heal the wounded. Move anyone who’s been numbed out of harm’s way. Step to it!”
“Yes, Lord Basset!”
His command seemed to jolt the soldiers from their fear: they sheathed their bloodied swords and began to move through the bodies that were scattered across the grove.
Most of them were the mangled corpses of small, dark-skinned people with bones adorning their flesh. They wore animal hides for clothing. Some had human skulls hanging from cords around their necks. Their makeshift camp had been so carefully woven into the undergrowth that it was hardly visible: the soldiers had to venture deep into the shelters in order to cast the shadows from their maws.
They piled the dark-skinned corpses in the middle of camp, tossing them away as they found them. Some of the bodies were those of the soldiers’ companions — and they were set aside to be buried.
But a good number of the soldiers who appeared to be dead actually weren’t. They lay still as corpses, their chests and throats peppered with tiny, colored darts. Their eyes twitched to follow their companions, but they seemed unable to move or speak.
Basset crouched before one of the younger men and smiled hard at the panic in his eyes. “It’s just a bit of bandit poison, lad — nothing to worry about. You’ll be back on your feet by midday tomorrow.”
/> A wild laugh drew Basset’s eyes away from the young soldier and to the edge of the grove, where the mouth of a large lake glittered in the starlight.
The shadowed figure of a man stood out against the water. He was tall and slender; the light from the torch in his hand revealed the sides of his hair to be tinged with gray. Though his head was turned half away, a hardened corner of his mouth was just visible as he stared at the thing clutched in his other hand.
It was a bandit woman. She dangled from the man’s hand by her throat. Her legs kicked uselessly; her fingernails scraped across his wrist in a panic. But though a dark stream oozed from his gashes, he didn’t let go.
Basset winced at the sound of crunching bone and frowned as the woman’s body went still. The man tossed her corpse into the undergrowth as if she weighed no more than an empty sack. Then he turned to hold his torch over the bushes, revealing a full half of his smile.
“I think I’ve found something that might interest you, Basset,” he called.
“What is it, Chancellor Tristan?” Basset said as he approached.
Tristan didn’t reply. He nodded into the bushes, the full power of his wicked grin fixed very firmly upon something that crouched inside.
It was a little girl.
She was perhaps no older than eight, with skin that was sun-scored but not nearly as dark as the bandits’. There were leaves tangled amongst her curls — curls that flowed in messy waves of gold and brown. Her dress was made of animal skins and delicate bone hooks adorned her ears.
Basset leaned closer, but she kept her face buried very deeply in her arms. Her knees were pulled tight against her chest. There was a small bunch of flowers clutched in one of her tiny hands.
Though she stayed remarkably still, faint gasps emanated from the crooks of her arms. Lines creased Basset’s face at the noise of her sobbing; his thick hands balled into fists. “What is she, chancellor?”
“I got a good look at her eyes a moment ago. I think she may be one of ours,” Tristan said smoothly. He thrust his torch in a sputtering arc over the bushes, but the little girl never flinched. “And I thought, as Lady Basset was so distraught over not being able to have children, you might want to take her in. If not, we’ll simply burn her alongside the others — nobody would be able to tell the difference once they’re all charred. It’s not as if the seas needs another orphan —”
“I’ll take her,” Basset said firmly.
Tristan shrugged. “Very well. See to it that she stays out of trouble, will you?”
“Yes, chancellor.”
It was only after Tristan strode out of earshot that Basset turned back to the little girl. He dropped on his knees before her, tried to bring his face in close. After a moment, he reached out and rested one of his thick hands atop her head.
Her crying stopped immediately.
“What’s your name, child?” he whispered.
Slowly, her head came up. Her face was filthy, coated with grime from the woods. The tracks left by her tears showed clearly through the dirt. Her eyes were bloodshot and still wet from her sorrow. But though the whites burned red, the blues at their middle were as cold and furious as ice.
“Olivia,” she said, in a voice that held no trace of her tears. “My name is Olivia.”
Chapter II
The Poison
“GAH! FATE, IT’S HEAVY,” CARLTON swore.
Olivia watched as the old stablehand struggled to lift the man-sized sack across his shoulders, her fists clenched tightly. Carlton’s bumbling annoyed her to no end. She would’ve liked nothing better than to knock him aside and do it herself, but she shouldn’t have to. This work should’ve been simple enough for a stablehand.
Then again, perhaps that was giving Carlton too much credit.
“Quit trying to lift with your arms. Put your legs under it,” she hissed.
Carlton shifted beneath the sack. A fresh string of curses slid from between his teeth as he struggled to heft it over the cart’s lip. Just when it looked as if he might actually get the top half inside, the sack’s contents shifted.
The whole thing tipped over his shoulder and landed with a fleshy thud upon the ground.
“Of all the confounded, tidal — ow!” Carlton leapt back when Olivia slapped him hard across the stubble. His dim blue eyes widened at her glare. “I’m — I’m trying, m’lady. Honest, I am!”
“Try harder,” Olivia hissed, “or I’ll tell His Lordship what happened to the old stables.”
A red mark bloomed where she’d struck him, but the rest of Carlton’s skin turned a ghostly pale. He stumbled under the force of her gaze, muttering something that was a mix of apologies and curses as he went.
It was a secret she’d been holding rather closely over Carlton’s head for several long years. The old stablehand was a drunkard. He hid it well — guzzling a few bottles here or there on nights when he knew his services wouldn’t be needed. But on one particularly stormy evening, and after a couple of rounds of Lord Basset’s finest liquors, Carlton had accidentally knocked one of the stable’s lanterns off its hook.
The flames had spread quickly across the hay and devoured the weatherworn doors. They’d climbed to the straw roof and ate until the beams collapsed — crushing all of Lord Basset’s prized steeds beneath a mound of blazing rubble.
Carlton had managed to escape, of course. The reek of burnt flesh had cloaked the stench of liquor; the fumes from the smoke had been the perfect explanation for his bloodshot eyes. When he claimed that a bolt of lightning had caused the fire, Lord Basset believed him … but Olivia had known the truth.
She’d seen the whole thing. And rather than try to staunch the flames, she’d seized the opportunity to gain a loyal servant. She would never tell Lord Basset the truth about what had become of the old stables — provided Carlton shut his mouth and did exactly as she said.
Years had passed since the stables burned. Olivia was no longer a child, but a young woman of eighteen. Now as she paced inside the new stables, she met the rolling eyes of Lord Basset’s replacement beasts.
Their hot breath blasted from their nostrils; their manes whipped across their muscled necks as they backed into the depths of their stalls. Carlton might not have known what was inside the sack … but the horses certainly did.
“Hurry up,” she snapped.
Carlton was stooped beneath the sack once more. He seemed to be pushing with everything — even his neck. His grunts became muffled as he shoved his face against it, no doubt trying to add the strength of his squashed nose to the effort.
If Olivia had to watch him struggle for another moment, she would shove him aside. Instead, she paced to the stable door and glared up the road.
Lord Basset ruled over Greenblood — a large island to the south and west of the chancellor’s castle, ringed by a number of smaller island villages. His ports were a useful waypoint between Whitebone Desert and the High Seas: the narrow, dangerous tracks of ocean that ran between the islands made for the perfect defense against pirates. The chancellor’s gold-laden vessels would often rest in the safety of Greenblood while Lord Basset scattered their wealth among a few smaller, less-assuming ships.
Basset Manor lay perhaps half a mile beyond the stables, perched upon a slight hill. Each of its three stories was lit up, every window glowing yellow. Their guests weren’t allowed in half of the rooms, but Lord Basset still insisted that the hearths be lit.
Black outlines of a crowd of people moved all along the lower level, their bodies twirling to the song of a violin. Lord Basset had once told her that the people of the High Seas loved to dance nearly as much as they loved to bargain — though as Olivia grew, she came to understand that it was actually the deception they enjoyed.
A bargain and a dance were alike in their lies: both made promises that neither had the power to fulfill. No two people ever walked away completely satisfied by a bargain anymore than they did a dance. Instead, they left hungry and sore — ravished by their losses as mu
ch as un-sated desire.
Though sometimes a dance ended in something far worse than a compromise. Sometimes, what little shred of satisfaction there was to be gained was entirely one-sided.
Olivia shifted her weight and winced as her muscles pulled against a sore place on her rump. Why did men have to be such grasping, fumbling idiots? Did they truly think it was a clever thing, using the dance to distract from where their hands traveled?
Her last partner had actually the audacity to ask her to wed him — all while keeping a very firm grip on her backside. But instead of ordering him to stop, she’d donned her mask: the cool smile she forced herself to wear as men made their clumsy advances, the arch of her neck that encouraged their eyes to rove.
She’d found that men were much easier to deal with when they were … distracted.
“It’s — it’s too heavy, m’lady!” Carlton grunted, his knobby legs trembling beneath the sack. “My back’s all but given out —”
“Lift it in there, or I swear by Fate that I’ll see you hanged,” Olivia snarled. “When the last of the life’s been squeezed out of you, I’ll have Lord Basset string your carcass up for the crows to feast on, you worthless …”
The crunch of footsteps behind her sent Olivia whirling back to the door. She strode out as if she had her mind on other things and walked straight into the shadowy figure that’d been heading for the stables.
“Lord Basset! Oh, you startled me,” she gasped as he caught her by the elbows.
Lord Basset kept his beard combed and curled on either side of his nose, bent like a tabby’s whiskers. He also had hands like a bear — and he propped her up easily. “Steady on, my darling,” he chortled as he righted her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you — but you’ve begun to be missed. The other lords keep asking where my ward’s run off to. I’m not sure I can hold them back much longer.”
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 254