The Unforgiven

by A. Katie Rose

  The Unforgiven

  Other Books by A. Katie Rose

  The Saga of the Black Wolf series

  In a Wolf’s Eyes, Book One

  Catch a Wolf, Book Two

  Prince Wolf, Book Three

  Available Fall, 2015

  Under the Wolf’s Shadow, Book Four

  The Unforgiven

  A. Katie Rose

  The Unforgiven

  Copyright © 2015 by A. Katie Rose

  House Anderson Publishing

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover Copyright by Nadine *Lady Akyashaa* Ewing and A. Katie Rose

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (House Anderson Publishing) or the author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any mean in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-0-9904275-5-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9904275-4-4

  For Bruce, deartháir mór

  Because we, all of us, need to be forgiven

  tá mé chomh mór sin i ngrá leat,

  Acknowledgments

  A writer, no matter how talented, he or she is, can create a great book without the aid of outside influences. From cover artists to editors to proofreaders to those folks who read and can assist an author in the smallest, and most important, of ways.

  I must offer a very special thanks to Cheyenne Khoury for her insightful and incredibly helpful suggestions when I felt at a loss for words as well as inspiration. One day, Cheyenne, you’ll never fear to have someone read your work.

  Of course, an editor knows best. Thank you, Shawnee Bilbrey, for editing this novel and aiding in its construction. I can thank you a thousand times and it will never be enough. You’re a great friend as well as my editor. I hope you’ll be there, in both capacities, always.

  Without a great cover, a book is lost. In an incredible stroke of luck, I commissioned Nadine Ewing, aka Lady Akyashaa, to produce the cover art for The Unforgiven. Her amazing talent is a rare opportunity for me, and I am both grateful and proud she agreed to craft it.

  And I must add a special thanks to all my friends and associates who offer me nothing except encouragement in all my writing efforts. You make all of this work so worthwhile.

  Contents

  Chapter 1: Irrefutable Charges

  Chapter 2: By the King’s Command

  Chapter 3: A Broken Code

  Chapter 4: Princess Yummy

  Chapter 5: She Who Hears

  Chapter 6: Tangled Webs of Deception

  Chapter 7: All the Fires of Hell

  Chapter 8: By Magic and Damnation

  Chapter 9: When a Plan Comes Together

  Chapter 10: Dra’agor

  Chapter 11: Unfinished Business

  Chapter 12: Child of Destiny

  Chapter 13: Blind To All Else

  Chapter 14: By Dawn’s Evil Light

  Epilogue

  The Unforgiven

  From the north the red will rise,

  Under her wings grace shall fall.

  Seek ye the child of innocence,

  The holy defender, the chosen of the light,

  Of purity born, of blood she seeks.

  By north and by south,

  Brothers not of blood, but of bond, bear the flame,

  Under the dark and the light, the shadow will rise.

  Three cycles shall pass

  From the dark side of the moon.

  By fire and steel, magic falters,

  Kissed by fate, by fate answered

  When the moon and the sun

  Are joined as one,

  From tears of strife, from the bitter ashes,

  From sorrow and from rage

  That what was once parted

  Shall again be one.

  CHAPTER 1

  Irrefutable Charges

  Cursing, the two brainless hulks dragged me from the tavern.

  “Don’t ever come back!” the innkeeper, Tamil, shouted from its dark, inner depths.

  His high-pitched, annoying, nasal voice failed to succumb to the noises of the early morning traffic and the sound of my own boots dragged across the cobbles. Not even the heavy, labored breathing of the hulks drowned out his obnoxious tirade, even when the doors closed behind us. Tamil owned the loudest set of lungs in the district.

  You think I’ll ever want to? I half-thought. My brainwaves malfunctioned, shorted out, and created a vacuous state of euphoria combined with an impressive hangover. I saw little save blinding early morning sunlight. The strong ale and mead I drank the night before churned in my belly, and my head ached like a log recently split by an axe. The nasty sickness in my gut quite effectively incapacitated my instinctive urge to fight back. Between them, I’d no more will power or ability to remember my own name much less prevent my immediate eviction from The Horse’s Ass.

  Annoyed I hadn’t paid him for a night’s stay, even on the floor beside the hearth, that greedy bastard Tamil ordered his bully boys to toss me out. As though I hadn’t earned a night’s lodging with all the rounds I bought for his regulars. With the ease they might toss a bag of garbage, Tamil’s bouncers flung me headlong from the tavern’s front porch and into the street. I rolled three times, skinning my arms, chest and nose before fetching up against the rear wheel of a passing wagon.

  The wheel’s spokes smacked the back of my head in quick succession at the same time the driver’s curse spilled into my ears. He spat, and his nasty tobacco, along with his spittle, struck my shoulder. “Get oudda way, bleeding wanker.”

  The wagon passed on. Without its questionable support, I fell flat into something cold and wet. Opening my eyes didn’t help much. I witnessed little save whirling stars and flashing lights. The pain from my injuries hadn’t yet bypassed the liquor. I knew they would, however. As I’d passed out cold in the tavern’s corner amid the half-gnawed bones, nasty straw and the tavern hound’s shit sometime around midnight, I knew the alcohol would soon free me from its clutches.

  Not much past dawn, I guessed, half-rising, peering about. I squinted into the piercing rays, and shut my eyes against the awful glare. The stars still spun, and my head with them, but the flashing colors had wandered away. Things improved, such as they were. I sat up carefully, stiffly, running my tongue over my teeth. All accounted for and wearing their usual fuzzy sweaters. Did I sleep with my jaws open? My mouth tasted as though Tamil’s fat tabby used it for a litter box. I sighed, and thought, that’s scarcely new.

  I ran my hands down my shirt, wiping them dry of the piss wetting them. I wiped my fingers streaked the cold, aromatic urine of some delightful creature down my shirt, then hesitated. Whoa. Something isn’t right, hold on. My fingers encountered clammy skin, not dirty cotton. What’s wrong with this picture?

  I glanced down. My shirt wasn’t there. I gazed down at my own bare and dirty chest, pronounced ribcage, and the new streaks of malodorous piss and filth my fingers traced downward. Hello? I’d no shirt to wipe my fingers on.

  Dammit. Who stole my shirt?

  I cast about, half-thinking to find it there in the horse or cow or camel piss I sat in, but no go. No shirt. Who in the name of hell would
steal my only shirt? I know I wore it when I passed out, er, fell asleep. Maybe Tamil’s bum stole it. He forever eyed me with envy and a sort of covetous greed. But – my shirt? Please!

  I tossed my stringy black hair from my eyes with my dripping and reeking right hand. It might help if I could see straight, I thought, trying to regain some semblance of normalcy. I peered about, bleary-eyed, before glancing downward. At least I wore my britches. Safe, at least, from too many outraged stares and scornful sniffs. Encompassed in frayed brown homespun stained with too much drink and not enough food, at least some parts of me remained decently covered. I still owned my boots, though they prayed for a resoling. Had I tried, I could count my every rib. I didn’t bother.

  Dirty, my pale skin exactly matched the color of a fish’s belly. My chest appeared almost piebald, white with patches of black grime. I sighed, my head spinning like a wicked imp. I seriously needed a bath and a tan, in that order. Wishing heartily for the bath, I leaned on my right hand, my left rising to assist my equilibrium onto a new path of self-discovery.

  As I floundered, trying to rise with little balance and zero ability, I fell backward, on my ass. My already stained breeches soaked up some critter’s pit stop with rapid enjoyment. My nose wrinkled, offended, as the early morning sun suddenly vanished. I sank back down. On my butt with the damp cobbles, I grimaced. Oh, great. Whoever stole my shirt now stole the sun. My morning started out just dandy: tossed from my comfortable bed with no shirt and now no sunshine – gods help us all.

  My eyes not quite working correctly, I squinted, trying to see past the crap in my eyes. I swiped half-heartedly at my blood seeping into the right one with my balancing left hand. The urine’s salt stung something chronic, but my gesture helped. In a manner of speaking, that was. My sight stilled blurred, but if I looked downward, I saw grey cobbles, red stains and my boots. Feet, must stand on. Get them flat, get them under you and stand, you alcoholic nimrod. Hop it.

  In preparation for rising, I turned first my shoulder, then my neck, and – froze. A very peculiar object stood on the brown cobbles, slightly in front and to my right. Large dark and black, it seemed hauntingly familiar. Wait, give me a second, I know what that is.

  A black hoof.

  Glossy, immaculate, attached to a black pastern. Hooves travelled in pairs. Where one found one, one might find two. I slewed around, my damp black hair falling across my eyes. Aha! Just where I expected it, another black hoof stood on the cobbles to my left. Save your applause, folks, I know, I’m a genius.

  But what’s attached to the hooves?

  Um –

  You’re in trouble, mate.

  Craning my neck, I lifted my face, my reeking hair obligingly sliding from my questionable vision. I blinked rapidly, swiped my hand across my eyes again. This time, I cleared some haze and blood from my eyes. Yet, the great, abominable shape remained indistinct. Backlit by the sun, it peered down at me, surrounded by a bright halo of light. Long hair framed a dark face with hooded, shadowed eyes. Like a great shaggy demon from the depths of hell, it stared at me as though plotting how best to steal my soul. A blast from the past spoke up, its voice deep and humorous –

  “Hello, Van.”

  I wilted, flopping like a wet sack onto my back as though I no longer had a backbone. My useless hands fell limp to my hips and I shut my eyes. My spine’s qualifications never entered the equation, but that was beside the point. I thought not to hear that deep voice ever again. I ran from it, hid from it; I survived in the shadows and rejoiced in its absence.

  However, despite my best efforts, that melodic yet quirky lilt haunted my restless sleep over the last two years. No night but passed with that same voice overriding the alcohol in my blood. It never asked anything save the same question, over and over –

  “Are you ready?”

  Never, I tried to answer.

  Yet, my blood leaped forward and saluted. Yes. Yes, I am.

  Are you effing kidding me? How in the name of all the gods did he find me here, in the kingdom’s arsehole? I know I covered my tracks, for who in the name of hell would search for me in the city’s nastiest pisspot? I ask you! Surely all my dues have been paid? I wanted to scream.

  I shut my eyes, but he shifted his feet slightly and permitted the sun’s entire light to blaze in all its glory into my face. I winced at its piercing agony, the spears lancing my eyes and my head, my belly roiling in protest. I scrubbed my hands over my face, feeling the growth of at least three days on my jaws.

  “Still trying to drown your sorrows, I see.”

  I lowered my hands enough to squint up. “Can’t,” I replied around my thick tongue. “Little bleeders know how to swim.”

  “Imagine that.”

  Though I tried not to slur my words, I knew they sounded as though I newly woke from a heavy binge. I did, but let’s not tell him that. “What’re you doing here? Please don’t say you’re just in the neighborhood. I know better.”

  “Get him up.”

  Hooves clopped on brick cobbles behind me, striking sparks in my sensitive hearing. Strong hands lifted me, raising my once inert body, standing me, within reason, on my feet. Had their hands not kept me upright, I’d no doubt collapse back into the dirt and piss. Which was worse? Lying in the gutter or facing one’s best and oldest friend?

  I shook off their hands and, had I a shirt, might’ve straightened it. As it was, I squared my shoulders and flung my hair from my face. Dignity scattered to the four winds, I could at least appear as though I faced him on even ground. Sticking my thumbs in my belt, I drew a deep, steadying breath and locked eyes with him.

  “How’d you find me?”

  Malik’an’lakna’ra, Lord Captain Commander of the King’s Weksan’Atan Forces, folded his arms across his massive chest. A tiny smile rose to his deep eyes and no further. “I’ve kept tabs on you.”

  Sobriety took a firm hold on my runaway wits at last. I’ll need every damn one of them right now, I thought, as I summoned the shards of my dignity. Though I stank of shit, piss and last night’s sorrow, I straightened my spine. Dirty, bleeding, I summoned all my willpower to remain upright and sober. I am of the Einion’nalad Clan, I reminded myself. My blood is as good, as pure, as any here. I wear the black scars on my cheeks, the marks of the Clan. I am worthy.

  At least, once, not so long ago, I was. Now? Big question mark.

  I glanced up into my once-upon-a-time friend’s face and set my hands on my hips.

  “I ask again: what do you want?”

  Malik’s lip curled. “His Majesty commands you.”

  “I don’t work for him anymore.”

  “You’re an officer in his Atan.”

  “Oh, right. His Majesty’s Secret Police. But if it’s a secret, why does everyone know about it?”

  “Blabbermouths.”

  “I never said a word.”

  “Never said you did.” Malik tried for a smile but failed. His stern façade wasn’t conducive for humor or smiling. Too military, too disciplined, for the common proclivities of life. “You’re an Atan. You’d know better.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m retired, remember?”

  Malik sighed. “Once an Atan, always an Atan.”

  “Don’t quote scripture to me, bro,” I snapped.

  His heavy brow lifted. “Bro, is it? So you remember your old ties, after all.”

  From his polished black hooves to the top of his head, Malik stood taller than an average man by several hands. A Centaur of the highest order, Malik descended from the Old Blood, the Malana’akana. From his hips up, Malik appeared fully human. Broad chest, flat belly, his biceps bulged under their arm bands of beaten silver. The black headband across his brow not only held back his wealth of shoulder-length black hair, but the multi-rayed star badge on the silk proclaimed his high rank in His Majesty’s service. Battle harness crisscrossed his huge chest, as his sword hung in its leather sheath across his back and dangled over his equine withers. Silver steel cuffs protected
his wrists from his bowstring; his quiver of bristling arrows hung from his belt over his massive horse shoulders. The hilt of a slim dagger hung in its sheath in his harness, ready to hand. As black as his hooves, his stallion’s jet coat gleamed under the new sun’s rays; his thick black tail swept across his hocks, voicing the annoyance his expression carefully hid.

  A collar of beaten gold around his bull-neck proclaimed him royal. Malik descended from Centaur kings of old, who claimed kinship with the gods themselves. Still, he bent his great knee, bowed his royal head, to the human King. As did most everyone else in Bryn’Cairdha.

  Except me.

  I sighed in my turn. “Tell your boys to back off.”

  Malik tossed his head. Instantly, the Centaurs under Malik’s command retreated, abandoned me, and stalked into line with their brothers. There, behind Malik in classic military formation, they stood at parade rest. Arms behind their backs, eyes blank and facing forward, their front hooves stood shoulder width apart. Swords hung at precise angles, leather harness polished to a sheen, long hair under their brow-bands curled onto their bared human shoulders. Military discipline at its finest. I tried to forget how I once stood as they did.

  Beyond them, Malik’s troop of cavalry disrupted the new morning’s commerce by standing silent in the street, thereby forcing wagons, carriages, foot and horse traffic, mule-skinners, traders, and the local whores and vagabonds to move around their silent horses. The King’s banner floated on the early summer breeze, tickling its silk and set it to dancing like a Faery-child. Heads swiveled in my direction. Horse, mule and ox traffic slowed as the onlookers gaped. The King’s own royal Atani forces arrested a common drunk. I didn’t need to hear their whispers: He must have murdered someone. Surely he’ll hang. Let’s attend the execution, wot? I’ll bring the ale, you bring your sister.

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I need you,” Malik replied simply. “You were, and always will be, the best.”