Heart of a Huntsman Read online

  Heart Of A Huntsman

  Huntsman’s Fate: Book 1

  Liam Reese

  Contents

  Get Your FREE Liam Reese Book

  Important information…

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  End of Book 1 – Please Read This

  Acknowledgments

  Heart Of A Huntsman

  Get Your FREE Liam Reese Book

  Get your free prequel to the Huntsman’s Fate Series sent straight to your email inbox. Just click here.

  Important information…

  This book, “Heart Of A Huntsman” is the First book in the Huntsman’s Fate Series. However, this book and every other book in the series can be read as a stand-alone. Thus, it is not required to read the first book to understand the second (as so on). Each book can be read by itself.

  Prologue

  Duke Moncarthy looked down from his horse at the scene of utter devastation. Pure chance had led his hunting party this far from his keep, where they had encountered the raiding party. His keen eyes had picked out the marauding band of mounted men attacking the caravan train on land under his jurisdiction. Grimly, he drew the sword of Anthorat, the legendary blade gifted to him by his brother, the king.

  “Guards on me!” he bellowed, digging his heels into the gleaming flanks of his midnight charger. “Attack!” he added as the horse thundered forward.

  At fifty paces, one of the murderers turned − sensing their approach − and called a warning to the rest of the raiding party. Rather than turning to flee, as Moncarthy expected, the attackers faced the duke’s small force with determination and drew their weapons.

  Duke Moncarthy met the lead marauder, sending his blade swinging at the man’s neck. Sharp as a flint knife and heavy to boot, the sword of Anthorat separated the attacker’s head from his body in a bloody spray. A fan of black hair flew out as his head sailed off into the oncoming raiders. Unaware its head had gone, the raider’s body rode on for a few seconds before slumping in its saddle and falling from its horse.

  The Duke’s small force found itself heavily outnumbered, each of the duke’s men facing three of the raiders. However, Duke Moncarthy, having seen that the raiders targeted women and children, became filled with blood rage and transmitted his anger to his blade. The sword of Anthorat sang as Moncarthy killed five, six, then seven of the attackers in rapid succession. A few of his guardsmen followed, slashing at the dark-haired men and trading blows.

  Duke Moncarthy watched as a pair of the raiders brutally murdered a woman and child in one of the caravans, her scream ending in an agonized gurgle. Blocked by men, there was nothing he could do to save her, and with their mission apparently complete, the attackers shouted their retreat.

  Moncarthy gave chase. His black horse easily outpaced the raiders’ mounts, and he plunged the sword of Anthorat into the neck of one of the fleeing men. Unfortunately, the dead man fell sideways, fouling Moncarthy’s horse, and it slowed, panting heavily. The duke watched as the remaining three killers raced away. Turning, he trotted back towards the dead, broken caravans and terrified horses.

  “Report,” he said, sliding from the saddle.

  “Twenty-three dead, Your Grace,” Gwakon, his head guard reported, snapping to attention. “All appear to be native families with small children apart from one wagon. They had the appearance of Gazluthians, from across the Wide Green Sea. We killed seventeen attackers but they managed to exterminate everyone in the caravans.”

  “So foreign raiders killed the entire caravan to eliminate a single family of their own people?” Moncarthy said, shaking his head.

  “So it would seem, Your Grace.”

  “Burn the raiders and bury the others,” Moncarthy ordered shortly. “Which family do you believe was the target?”

  “Here, Your Grace.”

  Moncarthy approached the smashed remains of the wagon. Blood had already soaked into the dry wood, drawing gory patterns in the grain. Six wounds pierced a man sprawled across the harness attaching the wagon to the horses. Sightless eyes pleaded at the unforgiving sky, his long, black hair trailing in the dusty tracks. One weapon had entered his chest, piercing the padded jacket he wore and ending up in his heart. Another lower blow had hemorrhaged several feet of his intestines, and Moncarthy could only imagine how much pain he had died in. Reaching down, he closed the poor man’s eyes.

  In the darker interior he found the form of a woman. Moncarthy stepped up into the tiny living space, his large frame nearly filling it and blocking out what little light penetrated. His sharp dagger made quick work of the cloth covering the mobile home, flooding it with light. Personal items had been scattered everywhere; plates, bowls, cutlery, foodstuffs, clothing and a small quantity of gold covered the floorboards.

  The woman had been beautiful, Moncarthy noted. Flawless pale skin supported by exquisite bone structure had been horribly marred by a sword thrust to her mouth. Moncarthy’s palms tingled at the sight of the awful wound, but he forced himself to crouch and close her dark brown eyes.

  That was when he heard the infant scream. Radiating from beneath the woman, came the sound of life, muffled but easily identifiable as a baby’s cry.

  “The gods be praised,” the duke muttered. “To me!”

  As guards clambered into the small space, Moncarthy grabbed the woman, hauling her corpse aside. Beneath her, soaked with his mother’s dying blood, lay a chubby-faced baby. His pale skin and dark hair marked him as the child of the dead couple, and Moncarthy picked him gently up, cradling him and cooing gently.

  “Besmir,” he mumbled, reading the child’s name from his embroidered blankets. “You are safe now, young Besmir.”

  White-hot pain exploded in Besmir’s face as Nikros’ fist smashed into his nose. His ears rang from the blow, tears springing from his eyes as he fell back. Nikros stood over his fallen opponent, an easy victory as he was twice Besmir’s size. The other boys from the orphanage crowding around them, baying for his blood.

  Although Besmir could neither see nor hear much, he lashed out with his foot, the stamping action landing a blow against Nikros’ knee. The older boy screamed as the joint bent sideways, cracking loudly as it gave out. Nikros crashed to the ground like a felled tree, clutching his shattered knee and moaning insults at Besmir.

  The younger boy sat up, wiped blood from his mouth and spat on the ground at the feet of the other boys.

  “Look what you’ve done!” one on-looker cried.

  “Nikros, are you alright?” another asked in a panicked voice.

  “Of course not!” Nikros snapped. “He’s busted my knee. Kill the Pashaq!”

  Besmir ignored the insult, having heard it his entire life. In truth, he was nothing like the shaggy, savage, cave-dwelling beasts of that name. Staggering to his feet, he turned to face the first boy to approach him, snarling like an animal and baring his bloodied teeth. Shocked at the image, the other boy hesitated, backing away.

  “Break it up now!” Master Winlore bellowed across the yard. “Break it up, I say!”

/>   Round and red-faced, he stormed across to the group who started to melt away from the two injured boys. He carried a stick that had nothing to do with aiding him in walking and everything to do with punishment. He swished it menacingly before him, scything the air to clear it of boys. One, not fast enough to dodge the stick, ended up with a pink stripe across his shoulders, a scream ripping from his throat as he fell to the ground.

  Winlore shook his head, grey curls flapping around his ears when he finally reached the pair. His porcine eyes squinted as he took in the sight of Nikros on the floor. The sight of a blood-covered Besmir beside him plowed deep furrows on his brow.

  “I might have known it would have been something to do with you, boy,” he growled. “It’s always something to do with you!”

  “I’m sorry I’m the target of these bullies,” Besmir said. “Perhaps if you did your job, rather than ogling the cook’s daughter, both my nose and Nikros' knee wouldn’t be wounded.” Besmir wore an expression of complete defiance.

  The color drained from Master Winlore’s chubby face as if someone had pulled a bung in his neck. His jowls wobbled with the rage that shook his entire body and his lips shrank to thin lines.

  “How dare you speak to me like that?” he demanded in a hiss. “Who do you think you are?”

  His whisper turned into a bellow and he raised his stick, preparing to whip it down across Besmir’s face. Besmir stared back at him, his twelve year old face judgmental and angry. Winlore paused before he started his attack, seeing the expression of a much older soul in the boy’s face.

  “Get to the nurse!” he snapped, pointing with his stick. “Now!”

  Besmir glared at him for a few seconds more but stomped off when he raised his stick again.

  The orphanage’s nurse, Reileen, gave Besmir her usual look of despair and disapproval mixed with a little pity. Besmir hated it.

  “Again, Besmir?” she asked with a tone of resignation. “Really?”

  “It’s not as if I start these fights,” Besmir explained. “I don’t go looking to get beaten up.”

  “I know, lad. I know.”

  Besmir watched as the only mother he had ever known dipped a soft rag into some hot water and started to clean the blood from his face. Despite the mild pain that flared with each wipe, Besmir felt warmth spread in his chest. Plain, with a kind, round face, Reileen could have easily been his mother. She had darker hair than other Tyrington residents, a close match for his own black locks. Her skin was suntanned and freckled where his was pale, but there could be any number of reasons for that, Besmir thought. Round and padded, she was perfect for the infrequent hugs she gave out as part of her caring process.

  “Why do they hate me so much?” Besmir asked in a small voice.

  Reileen sighed, resting her hand on his shoulder and running one finger gently up and down his neck.

  “Oh love,” she started. “Children have any number of reasons to hate each other. They pick up on any silly little thing and make fun of it. You, with your black hair and pale skin, make a really easy target, and the younger ones get led by the older ones.” Besmir looked at the floor, shuffling his feet. “And of course,” she added, making Besmir look hopefully into her eyes, “they’re all incredibly, fatally, ridiculously…stupid.”

  A smile split Besmir’s face, turning into a grin, and then he began to laugh. Relief-filled tears rolled down his cheeks as Reileen took him up in a big hug and made everything alright again.

  Hours later, Besmir stood before Duke Moncarthy, Winlore and Reileen. Nikros had limped in with the aid of a crude crutch and been allowed to sit in the duke’s presence due to his injury.

  “I’m having difficulty, Master Winlore,” Moncarthy said, “in understanding whether your problem is with what young Besmir here said,” he fixed the youth with a stern, withering look, “or the accuracy of his statement.”

  Hope filled Besmir’s chest when he heard the large man speaking.

  Is the duke really on my side?

  “Well, I mean, Your Grace… I...” Winlore blustered, reddening.

  “Master Winlore,” Moncarthy spoke over the other man. “As patron and provider for this orphanage, I am less than impressed with your service. After speaking to Nurse Reileen regarding these two boys, I have come to understand you allow Nikros to attack Besmir whenever the mood takes him.”

  Winlore opened his mouth as if to speak, but the duke stared at him. “Silence!” he bellowed. “I feel a certain...affinity towards Besmir, as it was I who found the lad, and I will not countenance him being bullied. I expect you to perform your duties without exception, and keeping the boys from beating seven bells from each other is one of them.” He sighed. “Should I hear, from anyone, that you have shirked your responsibilities again, I will have no recompense but to allow you to leave my service.”

  Winlore paled and shrank under the duke’s scrutiny, trying to make himself invisible. Moncarthy turned his attention to the other boy.

  “Nikros, believe it or not, I was once a boy myself, and I got up to some of the high jinks you boys get to here. Picking on someone because they’re different makes you look small, weak, and ultimately reduces you in the eyes of others, despite what they might think of you now. Understand?”

  Nikros stared at the older man in wide-eyed terror, his awe at being spoken to by the king’s brother plain on his face. All the boy could manage in response was a slow nod.

  “And Besmir.” The duke turned his attention to the other boy. “You know you have favor in my eyes, but do not think to leverage this. Master Winlore remains the head of this establishment and should always be your first point of contact in case of difficulties.”

  “Yes, sir,” Besmir said.

  He’ll just go on ignoring me and letting it happen, though.

  “Get on with it, you worthless gnark!”

  The shout echoed through the trees, reaching Besmir’s ears as he cut the intestines from a deer the hunting party he had been sent to work with had killed.

  “And make sure to clear the guts out this time,” the same voice called. “We need them to make bowstrings and the like.”

  Besmir ran the deer’s intestines through his hands, squeezing its partially digested food from either end. Blood covered his fingers along with much less pleasant substances. He hurled the excrement into the trees and looped the empty guts up to dry on a branch. His back ached, his stomach rumbled with hunger and he knew his situation was not about to improve. Taking the tiny knife he had been allowed, he began to skin the deer, scraping the fat from the skin before hanging that from a different tree.

  Introna stalked back into the clearing, muttering and cursing that everything Besmir had done was wrong. From keeping the fire lit to how he had hung the intestines, nothing was right.

  “Go fetch firewood,” Introna barked. “Then refill the water buckets. When you’re done with that, gut and clean these rabbits we’re going to eat tonight. Be quick about it!”

  Besmir trotted off into the forest, losing himself among the trees before the sinewy hunter could think of anything else for him to do.

  Life was harder now than it ever had been when he was in the orphanage. While the hunters did nothing to physically hurt him, their gruff indifference and often complete ignorance of him was just as painful.

  Besmir bundled branches and logs of varying sizes as he contemplated his life. Wandering around in a half daze, he completely failed to notice the crallcat that watched him intently. His consideration of the events that led up to this moment was violently cut short when the beast exploded from the shadows and smashed him to the leafy floor.

  A row of teeth gleamed dully back at his wide eyes, saliva dripping from the sharp tips. Folds of muscular tongue writhed in the cave of her mouth as the crallcat pinned Besmir to the forest floor with both front paws. Panic robbed him of breath and sense as the cat’s fetid breath puffed over his face and the stench of rotting meat filled his nostrils. A low, growling hiss erup
ted from her throat, threatening and fury-filled. Her eyes narrowed, the fur on her face wrinkling as she bared her teeth once more.

  With the specter of imminent and painful death on him, Besmir felt an odd calm wash over his psyche − a casual acceptance of his fate.

  If this is my lot in life, if this is how it was meant to end, then so be it.

  Besmir’s body relaxed, his breathing slowed and his heart stopped trying to jump from his chest.

  “Come on then,” he said gently to the cat. “End it.”

  The female crallcat tilted her head to one side as if listening to his words. Her own breathing settled a little and she stepped from his shoulders, letting Besmir sit up. With slow, deliberate movements, Besmir silently rose, putting his back to a tree.

  He watched in awe as the crallcat paced back and forth in the small clearing, casting the occasional glance at him as if unsure as to what he was or what to do with him. Never in his short life had Besmir seen such a magnificent beast, and pressure grew in his chest at being able to see her so close.

  Abruptly the cat sat her hindquarters down, facing Besmir, and grunted.

  Is she trying to talk to me?

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, feeling awkwardly self-conscious at talking to an animal.

  The cat grunted again, grumbling as she swung her head from side to side. Besmir smiled in wonder and fascination when the realization hit that she was trying to communicate with him somehow.