Okay friends here is for you literary pleasure an excerpt of the first chapter of my book Sign of the Wolf. I hope you enjoy the journey.

 

 

PROLOGUE

It was a peaceful night in the woods. Light from the stars, the moon, and the glow of the trees provided a sense of comfort to any traveler who entered into this part of the forest. Or at least it should have.

A wail pierced the air, in defiance of the calm. A small bundle thrashed and cried from a makeshift bed of leaves and brush. Gently the babe’s mother drew him to her, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“Shh, my little one,” she cooed. “Would it help you fall asleep if I sang you a song?”

The baby quieted down as his mother’s clear voice began a hauntingly sweet lullaby.

“Starlight twinkles, moonlight beams, but glorious is the sun.

All through the night, you will dream, until the day is come.

Fear not the shadows that come your way, be not afraid of death,

For I am with you, to lead your way, poor wanderer, when nothing’s left,

“I’ll be your light in the darkness, in me you can confide,

I am the guide of to the Traveler, trust in the traveler’s guide.

“Lost is the light of the morning, her sorrow has turned her to stone,

Lost is the wandering child, in a world that’s not his own,

Trust in the guide of the Traveler, wherever you may roam,

Trust in the guide of the Traveler, and it will lead you home.

“I’ll be your light in the darkness, in me you can confide,

I am the guide of the Traveler, trust in the traveler’s guide.”

As the last notes of the song faded into the sky, the mother looked down at her sleeping son. He’d managed to free one of his arms from his blankets. She tucked it back in, pressing a kiss to a small birthmark on the chubby pink flesh.

“Good night, my little one,” she whispered as she laid him back down.

Her husband stirred on the other side of her.

“Do you think it was the wind that woke him?” he asked softly.

“I believe so,” the she said, but there was uncertainty in her voice.

Strong arms encircled her and she let herself take comfort in the embrace. They had been running for so long. She wondered if they’d ever be able to rest.

The woman’s husband seemed to know what she was thinking. “We will find a safe place,” he assured her.

She leaned her head back into the crook of his neck. “I hope so,” she sighed.

“We must,” her husband reiterated, “if not for us, then for him.”

The woman didn’t need to see his face to know that he was talking about their son. He was the reason they were running. The reason why they could not stop.

She closed her eyes, and was on the verge of drifting off when a new sound reached her ears. She felt her husband stiffen behind her. Her breath caught in her throat as another howl answered the first. The wolves were coming.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

Two young men guided a large barge down a wide river towards a massive city’s northern entrance. Ships of every size vied for position in the converging customs lines outside the northern entrance of a massive walled city. In the midst of the clogged waterway two young men guided a large barge laden with barrels. Like many of the other boats men on the water that day they wore large brimmed hats to keep off the late summer sun.

“Name and species,” barked a gruff man wearing the red tunic of a Polluxian city peace keeper, as the young men pulled their barge up alongside a short dock.

Fein, the older of the two barge-men, pushed his hat back far so he could meet the guard’s eyes. The peace keeper’s flinch was miniscule, but Fein noticed. He always noticed the winces, the flashes of anger and most of all the fear that crossed a person’s face when their gaze met his for the first time and they saw his silver eyes.

“Fein, of Ralfslanta,” Fein said. “Were-kin.”

A second, smaller, peace keeper wearing a black Castorian tunic that was too large for him, tightened his grip on the barrel of his rifle. Several long cracks ran through the wood grain on the stock of the weapon and it was doubtful that gun could remain in one piece if the man attempted to fire it. Still the gesture made Fein nervous. The last thing he wanted was to draw too much attention.

Fortunately, the gruff man put a steadying hand on the younger man’s shoulder. The edgy guard loosened his grip on his weapon.

“And you?” the gruff guard queried, turning his gaze on the second occupant of the barge.

Fein held his breath as his younger brother’s shaggy head snapped towards the man. “Wahl of Ralfslanta,” the youth replied, his voice cracking, “also were-kin.”

The gruff man tightened his jaw. “And what is your business in the cities today?” he inquired.

Wahl looked like he was about to say something, but Fein cut him off, “We have pitch to sell from the sherwoods.” Fein gestured towards a collection of barrels standing on the deck covered by a piece of tattered canvas.

“Show us,” the smaller guard stammered, speaking for the first time.

The brothers pulled back the cloth from the top of the barrel closest to the guard’s station. Together they tipped it just enough for the guards to see the contents. The viscous liquid nearly reached the rim of its container.

“Very well,” the little guard said with more confidence. He signaled for the brothers to move on.

Fein released the breath he had been holding and relaxed his grip on his pole as the barge floated past the towering gate and into the city itself, or rather cities. On the western bank of the river was the city of Castor, its orderly streets divided into six concentric districts; on the eastern bank, the city of Pollux was a chaos of buildings and activity. They were two cities that were so drastically opposite, yet were encompassed by the same wall.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Wahl gaped, his eyes wide with wonder.

“The Twin Cities are quite impressive,” Fein agreed.

Fein listened as Wahl gushed about all the colors and the finery that the people wore. He was so excited that Fein had to remind him that they still had to steer the barge. Wahl dipped his pole into the water once more, but his eyes stayed glued to the shore and Fein could see the wistful expression that crossed his youthful face.

In a way Fein envied his brother’s naiveté. Although the same vista was spread out before him, what Fein saw was vastly different. The market was merely a facade, an elaborate attempt to make the people of the city and anyone who visited believe that they were prospering. Despite there being a myriad of booths, goods were spread thinly so that merchants appeared to have more than they actually did.

The shoppers too were a part of the show. Although they walked around like they had cash to spare, spending time examining different wares, most only purchased the bare essentials. After each transaction customers walked away clutching their purchases close to them, afraid of losing their prizes.

Even the clothing was a part of the act. At first glance the brightly colored fabrics spoke of refinement and wealth, but underneath were Dirty hems, tattered cuffs, and bright embroidery employed by clever seamstresses to cover repaired rips and tears. The clothes, like the shoppers, were relics from a more prosperous time, ghosts of the past trying to dispel the harshness of the reality they lived in.

The young man saw all of this, and more. He had been to cities all over Alysphidel; each was more or less the same. Fein knew that beyond the market’s streets was a growing wave of impoverishment. On one side of town families crowded into ramshackle houses, counting themselves lucky that they would not have to join the poor wretches in the alleyways that had been evicted from their homes. On the other side of town, the upper crust still lived in their estates, too proud to give up their charade of wealth. Even though their precious manors had fallen into disrepair, they would rather sell every piece of furniture and trinket they owned than give up their lands. This was often exactly what they did, selling their possessions to the few officials left in the city who were still rich; wealth they only had by ingratiating themselves to Bledri, the self proclaimed king of Alysphidel.

Bledri. Fein’s lip curled just thinking about him.

Fein knew very well the reason the silent guard had acted so strangely when he’d proclaimed his species. The werewolves had never had the best relationship with the other races that inhabited Alysphidel. Now that a wolf sat on the throne, everyone was afraid of them. Fein had to admit they had reason to fear.

The Wolf Ruler’s touch seemed to be everywhere, an infection that had been allowed to fester for far too long. Even in these cities, which were still supposedly free ports, the king’s banner hung: black with three rust red crescents slashed by four claw marks. The banner served as a reminder that nothing was beyond the Wolf King’s grasp, and how far the wolves had come from their humble beginnings.

For years the wolves had kept to themselves in the remoteness of Ralfslansta. Though they were technically subjects to the king of Alysphidel, the crown had rarely acknowledged the wolves existence. They were a backwards and barbaric clan species, and spent most of their time fighting amongst themselves. They were no threat to Alysphidel, so they were left to wallow in their inhospitable swamps and treacherous mountains.

Perhaps if King Riordan had paid more attention to the wolves, things would have been different. Perhaps Bledri would never have been able to take control of his own clan through dubious means. Perhaps he would have never united the clans and become their wolf ruler. Perhaps Wolves’ Night would never have happened. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

It was senseless going over what might have been. Wolves’ Night did happen; the royal family was gone, and Bledri had held an iron-like grip on the country for more years than Fein had been alive. He couldn’t even imagine what Alysphidel had been like before the wolves.

All Fein knew were cities clogged with the poor and displaced farmers who had not been able to pay the Wolf King’s taxes or had foolishly believed the early lies that Bledri had spread of business opportunities in the city if they sold their farms to the king. Like all of the Wolf’s promises, it had been an empty one and had only served to line the king’s own pockets.

Now the only way people knew how to survive was to turn a blind eye to the misfortunes around them and become a part of a never ending charade. Fein knew that this predicament could not last.

Fein’s grip tightened on his pole. This was the real reason that he and Wahl had come to Pollux that day, to find men willing to fight against the tyrant. It was time for the façade to end.

“Ahoy, there!” called a middle-aged man at the end of the first series of docks.

Fein smiled. “Ahoy yourself!” he called back.

Over the past few months many men had pledged themselves to the rebel cause, but none of them were quite like the man who waited for Fein and his brother. Latrón Durant had the smooth tongue of a serpent, the vanity of a peacock, and the cleverness of a fox. Fein tossed the man a line and with the ease of a practiced sailor, he secured it with an intricate knot. When he was done he wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with a lace handkerchief.

“Latrón,” Fein greeted the man casually, “how’s the market today?”

“I expect that you won’t leave disappointed,” Latrón replied, his voice tinged with a nasally accent.

“Good,” Fein said, leaping easily onto the pier.

Latrón had been Fein’s contact at Pollux for the last few months and thus far had proven to be one of the best recruiters that the resistance had. With his fashionable jackets, and trim goatee, he looked more like a merchant than a soldier, which Fein supposed he probably was. Fein had never bothered to ask what the man did for a living. It hardly seemed important; what mattered was what he did for the resistance, and in that area no one could question his merits.

“How was your journey?” Latrón asked as he gave Wahl a hand out of the boat.

“Brilliant!” Wahl exclaimed a little too enthusiastically.

“Good, good,” Latrón laughed. “I’m assuming since you look so much like Fein here, you must be Wahl.”

“I am,” Wahl confirmed.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Latrón said cordially. “I’ve heard so much about you. Now, am I right to assume this is your first time in the Twin Cities?”

Wahl nodded.

“Well then,” Latrón said, “I’ll have to show you around once your brother and I are finished with our business. There’s a merchant here who sells the best Fetuan curries in town, maybe we’ll get a couple of bowls.”

Wahl was practically drooling at the mention of curry; being part Fetuan themselves, both Fein and Wahl had a fondness for the spicy dish. “I’d like that very much,” Wahl finally stammered, remembering his manners.

Latrón’s smile broadened. “Of course you would, and I would too.” Latrón extended his hand once more to the youth who clumsily shook it. “Until then my friend, adieu.”

The well-dressed man turned on his heel and started to walk away. Fein gave Wahl some last minute instructions about where to set up shop before hurrying after the departing figure. Fein would have to hope that for once Wahl would do the responsible thing and stay with the shop rather than wander around the market. With curry nearby, that might be too much to hope for.

“Nice young man,” Latrón concluded as Fein caught up to him. “A bit over exuberant perhaps, but nice.”

“Yeah,” Fein murmured. “He has a lot to learn, but I think being the shop man on this trip will be good for him.”

“Is that how you started?” Latrón asked.

“Something like that,” Fein replied.

The truth was, up until a few months ago it would have been Fein setting up the decoy shop in a town market while a resistance officer, usually his own father, scoured the village for new recruits. In those days the resistance was lucky if they could get two or three men to join their cause. Six months ago things had changed. The number of recruits had tripled, and the single camp had been split in two. A few months later a third camp had been created, and Fein found himself promoted to the rank of captain.

“So,” Fein ventured, “where are we meeting your friends today?”

Latrón carelessly picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “The Gilded Knight,” he said casually.

Fein nodded, it was one of their preferred meeting places. “And how many men are we expecting?” Fein asked.

Latrón smiled. “Now, why spoil the surprise?”

Fein shook his head. “Why do I even bother asking? Alright, lead on.”