Lord of Rage

“Stop!”

Breena turned to see a hideous creature, one created from evil. Its eight legs, gleaming with razors and dripping with the blood of her people, sped toward her. It would get them all if she didn’t do something to distract it.

“You must walk now, Gavin.”

“But I want you to carry me,” he protested.

“Princess,” the monster called to her, baring its fangs. She realized the revolting beast was focused solely on her. Would do anything to get her, including killing her cousin.

“Go!” she screamed, pushing Gavin into Rolfe’s side, and slammed the door shut.

“Breena,” she heard her little cousin cry. But then she heard a comforting click as Rolfe slid the dead bolt from the inside. Relief made her legs shake. Taking a deep breath, she turned. The monster was almost at her side. Like her mother, this creature wielded magic, except it harnessed the dark powers that came only from corrupting life-sustaining blood.

It shoved her against the wall, one of its razor-adorned legs trapping her in place. It tugged at the handle, but the door didn’t budge. “No matter. They can’t hide in there forever.” Then it looked over at her. Its eyes were cold. She’d never seen eyes so full of … nothingness. It chilled her.

A smile, if one could even call it that, pulled at its upper lip. “Come. The master will want to see you.”

It grabbed her arm, and she sucked in a breath as one of the razors pierced her skin. Her captor dragged her to the staircase where the fighting still waged. Only the crash of sword against sword was already fading as it pulled her down to the great hall. The agonized moans of the injured and dying mingled with the terrified weeping of the captured. Then she spotted her parents on the dais where they held court, chained to their thrones. A mocking humiliation.

Anger began to grow in her chest, chasing away the fear. Her father lay slumped where he once ruled proudly. Blood ran down his cheek and pooled at his feet. So much blood. Too much blood. A sob tore from her throat, and she yanked her arm from her captor’s grasp. She couldn’t let him die like that. Not her father, who ruled with justice, who loved his people.

The blow came from behind. It knocked her to the floor, the cold stone of the hearth cutting her forehead. Blackness began to move across her vision, and she blinked to try to clear it and the pain. She met her father’s gaze. He didn’t have much longer to live. Breena forced herself to look at her mother. Her beautiful mother with the striking silver hair, now stained red from the blood she’d shed.

Her parents reached for each other, and the gesture comforted her. They’d die together. Dark brown eyes flashed across her mind. Her dream warrior would fight these creatures who practiced blood magic. He’d die trying to save, to avenge. She wished he were here now.

“No!” called a man, his tone cold. He had a voice that sounded like death.

Breena knew without having to be told that the man, or something that had once been a man, who raced toward her parents was the Blood Sorcerer. A legend. A rumor. Tall and skeletal, this was the creature mothers warned of; he took those foolish to leave the safety of Elden and turned them evil.

Something potent swirled between her parents’ outstretched hands. They weren’t reaching for each other as she’d first thought, they were rallying their powers. Breena reached for the timepiece, her fingers worrying into the sword and shield decorating the front. How ironic, when what she really needed was a sword and shield.

And a man who could wield that sword.

Her timepiece began to warm and glow against her skin. A wave of magic shuddered through her entire body, and Breena no longer felt the sting from the cut of her temple or the coldness of the hard stone beneath her body.

Breena’s last thought was of her warrior.

Chapter 1

A furore libera nos, Domine! Deliver us from the fury, O Lord!

Ten Years Ago

Osborn’s fingers tightened around the smooth handle of his spear. He’d spent countless hours peeling away the bark and sanding the rough wood until it felt easy in his hand. His legs shook in anticipation as he sat at the campfire, watching the logs turn orange and the smoke rise to the stars. His last night as a child. Tomorrow he’d follow the path his father—and his father’s father and the generations of his forebearers—had once all walked since the beginning of the beginning. Tomorrow he’d meet the final challenge. Tomorrow he’d become a man or he’d die.

“You must sleep,” his father told him.

Osborn glanced up. Even in the dimness of the firelight he could recognize the tension bracketing his father’s eyes. Tomorrow he’d either join his father as a warrior or his father would be burying another son.

“I’m not tired,” he admitted.

With a nod, his father joined him on the ground, the fire warming the chill night air. “Neither could I that night.”

Osborn’s eyes narrowed. Even though he’d asked a dozen times about his father’s Bärenjagd, he’d said little. A father’s task was to prepare his son for the fight, but what to expect, how to feel … that battle was left for each boy to face alone. On his own terms. It defined the warrior he’d become.

If he lived.

An abrupt shake to his shoulder awoke Osborn in the morning. Somehow he’d fallen into a deep sleep. “It’s time.”

The fire had died, and he resisted the urge to pull his pelt around him tighter. Then he remembered.

It was now.

A smile tugged at his father’s lower lip when he saw the suddenness of Osborn’s actions. In a flash of movement he was dressed, bedroll secured and spear in hand.

“It’s time,” he announced to his father, repeating the words he’d been given.

They were eye-to-eye now, and still Osborn would grow taller. Later tonight he’d be returning a man, welcomed to take his place among the warriors.

His father nodded. “I will tell you what my father told me, and I suspect his father and the fathers before him. What you must do now, you do alone. Leave your aleskin here, and take no food. Nothing but your weapon. Be brave, but above all, be honorable.”

“How will you know when it is done?” he asked.

“I will know. Now go.”

Osborne turned on his heel, and trekked silently though the brush as his father had first taught him so many years ago. One of his many lessons. Last night they’d slept on the outskirts of the sacred bear lands. Now was the time he must cross over.

With a deep breath he stepped onto the sacred land, reveling in the unexpected thrust of power that pounded into his body. The surge swelled in his chest, then grew, infusing his limbs, his fingers. With new energy, he gripped his spear and began to run. Running faster than he’d ever run before, he followed that tug of power, trusting his instincts.

Time lost meaning as he ran. He never grew tired, even as the sun continued to rise in the sky. His vision narrowed, and the heavy tang of musk scented the air. Bear musk.

The time was now.

Every muscle, every sense, tightened. Instinct again told him to turn his head, and then he saw it.

The bear was a giant. Towering more than two feet above Osborn, its fierce claws curved, its dark brown fur pulled tight over taut muscles. Osborn met the fearsome creature’s eyes. Again something powerful slammed into him, and his muscles locked. His body froze.

The bear growled at him, a thunderous sound that made the earth beneath his feet rumble. Osborn felt his eyes widen, but he still could not move.

The time was now.

Osborn forced his fingers to shift, his arm to relax. Then, with a flowing arc he’d practiced alongside his father hundreds of times, he sent his spear soaring. The sound of its sharpened tip whizzed through the air. The animal roared when Osborn’s weapon sank into his chest. Blood darkened its coat.

With a guttural cry, Osborn sprinted to where the bear had stumbled to the ground, pawing at the wood lodged inside its body. The animal went wild as Osborn neared, striking toward him with those killer claws. A wave of fear shuddered down his spine. The rusty, salty scent of blood hit his nostrils. The breathy, angered groaning of the bear made Osborn shake his head, trying to clear the sound. The bear rolled to its feet, once more towering above him, and close. So close.

He steeled his resolve. He was to be a warrior. A brave one. Osborn reached for the spear. One weapon was all a boy was allowed to take. The bear swiped at him, his claws ripping through the cloth of his shirt, tearing the skin of his bicep. With a mighty blow, the animal sent Osborn to the ground, the air knocked out of his lungs by the force.

Forget the pain. Forget the blood. Forget the fear.