Voice on the Wind (The Outcast Royal Book 2) Read online

  Voice on the Wind

  The Outcast Royal™ Series Book 02

  Aaron D. Schneider

  Michael Anderle

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

  Copyright © 2021 LMBPN Publishing

  Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

  A Michael Anderle Production

  LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  LMBPN Publishing

  PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy

  Las Vegas, NV 89109

  Version 1.00, August 2021

  ebook ISBN: 978-1-64971-992-8

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64971-993-5

  The Voice on the Wind Team

  Thanks to our Beta Team:

  Kelly O’Donnell, John Ashmore, Rachel Beckford

  Thanks to our JIT Team:

  Zacc Pelter

  Dorothy Lloyd

  Diane L. Smith

  Dave Hicks

  Jackey Hankard-Brodie

  Jeff Goode

  Paul Westman

  If we’ve missed anyone, please let us know!

  Editor

  SkyHunter Editing Team

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes - Aaron Schneider

  Author Notes - Michael Anderle

  Acknowledgments

  Connect with The Authors

  Other Books by Aaron Schneider

  Books By Michael Anderle

  We are dirt, we are alone

  You know we're far from sober!

  We are fake, we are afraid

  You know it’s far from over

  ~ “Ugly,” The Exies

  And on the pedestal, these words appear:

  My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

  Look on my Works…

  ~ “Ozymandias,” Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Masks

  She had blue skin,

  And so did he.

  He kept it hid

  And so did she.

  They searched for blue

  Their whole life through,

  Then passed right by—

  And never knew.

  ~ Everything on It, Shel Silverstein

  This book is dedicated to my second daughter and quite possibly the sharpest wit I know. You came into this world demanding to be heard, to be seen, and to be known and praise God, I've been part of all three from the very beginning. Lightning and sass in a pint-sized bottle doesn’t begin to touch it, but I don’t know anyone who’s quicker to care about things that matter or to speak up for what’s right. Poppa Bear was thinking of you in this one and hopes you find it worthy of a creature so fearfully and wonderfully made.

  Prologue

  Although it was only mid-autumn, winter seized Lorlu’s Girdle with frosty fingers and left many to look grimly toward lean and hungry times, none more so than those who dwelt beneath the boughs of the Wooden Cord.

  Lorlu’s Girdle—or simply the Girdle to anyone familiar with the area—was a sparse region filled with those folk hardy enough to dwell without king or prince and their subsequent protection. The lands were no stranger to violence and predators, both man and beast.

  All this applied doubly to the strangling woods called the Wooden Cord that stretched like a constricting snake across the Girdle. Those who journeyed across this stretch of land that separated the rest of the East from the Norling Steppes were largely obliged to fend for themselves. Only walled hamlets and fortified trading posts offered anything remotely resembling succor or aid, and these were few and far between with dismally limited resources.

  An odd pair of travelers astride a single dappled gray mare approached one of these fortified trading posts.

  They cantered up the path and noted the half-dozen horses corralled in a pen too small for so many beasts before they drew up alongside the structure of thick timber and roughly hewn stone. The first to dismount was a towering woman in armor, whose action the mare greeted with a grateful chuff. She held the horse’s reins in one hand and used the other to assist the second passenger from the saddle, a young dwarf just growing into his dark beard.

  “Let’s be quick,” she said, her voice slightly muffled behind the mail skirt that hung around the edges of her helm.

  “I hope they have what we need.” Her companion grunted as he took the reins from her. “I don’t think anyone got any sleep last night on account of his screams.”

  She nodded and busied herself in careful scrutiny of their surroundings while the Wain Dwarf used one of the beast charms of his people to give instructions to the mare.

  The forest had been cut away from the trading post enough that those who launched arrows or other projectiles from the windows or balconies would have fifty to seventy-five yards of open ground in which to fire at their foe. Beyond this killzone, the woods of the Girdle held many open avenues, not nearly so narrow and tight as one might find in the pined regions of the Reach, much less the green hell of the Scadian jungles. There was little reason for anyone in the trading post to be taken by surprise if they set a watch, but a quick study of the structure seemed to suggest that no watch had been set. Not even an inquisitive eye glanced at them from any of the shuttered windows.

  If it hadn’t been for the horses and the thin curl of smoke rising from the stone chimney, she might have thought it abandoned.

  “Come on,” she said to the dwarf as she moved to ascend the plank steps to the heavy timber door. “Let’s do this.”

  He scuttled to catch up and reached the last step as her fist thumped on the door. After the sound of rough voices and some jostling, a slat fitted into the door slid open. Bloodshot eyes glowered from the darkness within and met the armored women’s gaze.

  “What do you want?”

  The visitor’s eyes, like copper taken fresh from the forge, flashed within the orbits of her helm.

  “Is this still a trading post?” she asked and her tone made it clear she was losing interest.

  Hushed voices neither she nor the dwarf could make out spoke quickly, but they did catch glimpses of faces appearing behind the shudders. The owner of the eyes at the door was about to say something when a stronger, clearer voice forestalled her.

  “You’d best open the door, me thinkz.”

  The warrior woman drew back at the words spoken in a thick northern accent.

  “Brekah?” she asked in a low tone, almost to herself.

&
nbsp; “Who’s Brekah?” The dwarf at her side looked both curious and concerned.

  “How does she know you?” the one at the door asked and turned his head so those without had a clear view of one ragged ear. If she were to guess, the man had been indentured in Narlish and had torn the servants’ bar out a few years earlier.

  As surreptitiously as she could, she slid her hand to the head of the ax at her belt.

  “Open the door before she kicks it in,” Brekah instructed sharply. “It would be better open as friends than broken as enemies, me thinkz.”

  There were quite a few profane and crude mumbles in response to the instruction but despite these, the door swung open and the familiar voice called out in welcome.

  “Welcome, Ax-Wed, my old friend. It has been some time since we are seeing each other, me thinkz.”

  The dwarf peered into the smoky dimness of the trading post and then at the woman beside him.

  “You didn’t mention anything about friends in the Girdle,” he said softly.

  “Because I don’t have any,” she answered quietly before she strode inside.

  The front room of the trading post was fairly typical with a wide space filled with tables where supplies and tools had been laid out. In the center of this display area stood Brekah with five hard-eyed men at his back. Beyond the front room was a seating area at the hearth with a ladder up to the loft, as well as a walled-off corner to create a smaller room whose door stood slightly ajar.

  “You are looking for something particular, me thinkz,” the gaunt-faced mercenary said with one of his skeletal grins. “How can we be helping?”

  She let her gaze rove the room and noted a few askance tables and numerous dark stains on both the floor and furniture before she met Brekah’s eye.

  “Since when were you a trader?” she asked, one hand still on the ax at her belt.

  He laughed warmly and when the others joined in behind him, they sounded like hyenas giggling over a carcass.

  “Not trader as such but working with merchants,” he explained with a sweep of his hand. “Guards watching post while merchant away getting more supplies. But we can still be helping you, me thinkz.”

  The mercenary detached himself from the leering group behind him and moved forward to place both his hands on a table where sacks of feed were laid out.

  “What you needing?”

  The young dwarf’s emerald-eyed gaze darted from Ax-Wed to Brekah. He sensed the tension growing in the smoky air like the first tremors of a storm, cleared his throat roughly, and drew the mercenary’s eye toward him.

  “I need a few things for a sick friend,” he said and ignored the leering stares of the men behind the man. “Garlic—preferably fresh—mashafic honey, and cloves. Do you have these?”

  Brekah scratched his stubbled chin and gestured to one of the men behind him.

  “Srecko, take the young master to the back room,” he instructed. “There are some stores there he could use, me thinkz.”

  Srecko, the youngest of the group with barely more than a dusting of whiskers on his pimpled chin, opened his mouth to protest but at a sharp look from the mercenary, he shuffled toward the room in the corner of the structure.

  The dwarf looked at his companion, who nodded while she kept Brekah and the rest of his men in her field of vision.

  “Quickly, Durra,” she said under her breath.

  The young dwarf nodded and hurried to follow. He didn’t bother to hide the fact that he gave the company a wide berth.

  Both younglings stepped into the back room and left the former comrades to stand opposite each other, their gazes locked and expressions flat.

  “How long have you been holed up here?” Ax-Wed asked, her gaze unflinching.

  “The winter,” Brekah replied, his voice much colder.

  She nodded and broke the stare for a quick survey of the goods spread on the tables.

  “I’m surprised you left this much intact,” she said. “Or are these what you took from those who’ve come since the thaw?”

  He shook his head while the men behind him exchanged nervous glances that rapidly degenerated to snarling glares.

  “We were hired by post-keeper to guard all three of his posts for the winter,” he insisted and ignored the growing irritation of those behind him. “We did so and even lost two men while fighting off Bone-men and brigands. That is earning our keep, me thinkz.”

  She looked at the stains on the floor.

  “But when payday came,” she said evenly, “he refused to pay what he promised.”

  Brekah shook his head and his mouth twisted in disapproval.

  “Says he gives silver wage for each man but not the dead.” He sighed heavily. “Some not taking this so well, me thinkz.”

  Ax-Wed studied the men behind her old comrade in arms and wondered which of them had lost his temper and killed the post-keeper. As her gaze swept over them, all met her scrutiny with defiance and bared badly-kept teeth. The last mercenary she looked at—the one with the torn ear who must have manned the door—had curled his mouth into an ugly smirk and settled one hand on the dirk handle at his belt.

  “What are we waiting for, Brekah?” the doorman demanded and slid his blade free slowly. “If she knows all this, there’s only one thing left to do.”

  Brekah gave Ax-Wed a knowing look before he turned to the men behind him.

  “You are, of course, meaning let them have what they need and letting them go?” he asked innocently. “Would be wrong to even charge them, me thinkz.”

  The response from the four men was a chorus of growled curses.

  “I knew you were soft,” the challenger snapped and tugged a hatchet from his belt as he pointed with his dirk. “You didn’t have the stomach to kill that worm of a miser and now you don’t have the stomach to kill a nosey woman and her pet runt.”

  Her old comrade squared his shoulders and moved one hand to the sword at his belt.

  “If you were knowing this, you would have tried to kill me much sooner, me thinkz,” the tall northerner replied before he took one measured step back. “But if Dejan Backstabber is so brave, let him fight Ax-Wed.”

  Dejan’s compatriots voiced their support for this idea, either with encouragement for the man or slurs against the warrior woman. She now had her namesake in hand and seemed to be waiting, her face inscrutable behind her helm and aventail. The mercenary slid his gaze insolently from head to toe over the towering, armored figure and his lips peeled into a hungry smile.

  “I’m gonna break you and then I’m gonna take you,” he threatened deep in his throat as he began to stalk forward around the table between them. “And before I’m done, you’ll be beggin—”

  The movement was so swift and so simple that he never saw it coming. Ax-Wed lunged one foot forward while she thrust to meet him with the horn of her ax-blade. The hard point slid home and burst his left eye. With a scream, the mercenary turned brigand staggered back and dropped both hatchet and dirk to paw at his marred socket.

  “Dirty whore!”

  “Cheater!”

  “Snake!”

  The condemnation flew so fast that she barely had time to laugh at the childishness of the angry declarations before Brekah’s voice cut through the whining cries.

  “You boys best help him, me thinkz.”

  Like hounds loosed from their kennel, the other three sprang toward her as they yanked weapons from their belts. The boldest of the three vaulted onto a table and swung a repurposed sickle in a downward arc for an impaling swing, while his compatriots veered to either side to encircle her.

  Ax-Wed leaned back to let the strike pass an inch from the front of her helm before she swept the man’s legs out from under him with an ax stroke. The wretch’s shins parted with a wet snap before the grinning edge of Thulian sylver and he tumbled back with a wail.

  The warrior woman whirled to face the brigand on her left, blocked a heavy chop of his maul with the haft of her ax, and drove him back a step. T
he stout man set his feet and tried to shove in return, but rather than match him muscle for muscle, she slid to the right past the table and swiveled to deliver a powerful elbow to his jaw.

  She tried to come about with a quick stroke across the back of his neck, but the other attacker was coming in fast and low. A sharp pivot brought her ax into a low warding stance and the Thulian caught the flail swing before it could shatter her knee. The force of the blow trembled up her arm and she gave ground before another looped swing toward her hip and a third toward her head.

  In the back of her mind, she knew she would run into a table or the wall eventually but the determined assault and the crowded confines of the room left her few options. Another wild swipe made her shuffle back again. The man with the maul was recovering and wiped the blood from his jaw that now hung at an odd angle. She was about to be assailed on multiple sides and that was a distinct change in her odds she couldn’t allow.

  An opportunity presented itself when she ducked another blow and her attacker leaned his weight over his toes. With no room for a proper swing, she thrust the ax past the forward foot and immediately yanked back. The unbalanced flail-wielder toppled with a surprised shout and before he could even position one hand to push himself up, the grinning ax parted his face from crown to teeth.