Blood & Steel

CONTENTS Prophecy of the midrealmsChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Wilder HawthorneChapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Wilder HawthorneChapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Wilder HawthorneChapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Wilder HawthorneChapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Wilder HawthorneChapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Wilder HawthorneChapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Wilder HawthorneChapter 34Wilder HawthorneChapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Wilder HawthorneChapter 39EpilogueA note from HelenAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorAlso by Helen Scheuerer Copyright © Helen Scheuerer 2023 www.helenscheuerer.com Helen Scheuerer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the publisher. First printing, 2023 Print paperback ISBN 978-1-922903-03-7 Print hardcover ISBN 978-1-922903-04-4 Ebook ISBN 978-1-922903-02-0 Cover design by Maria Spada This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. For my partner in wine and crime, Gary. With you, every day is an adventure. PROPHECY OF THE MIDREALMS In the shadow of a fallen kingdom, in the eye of the storm A daughter of darkness will wield a blade in one hand And rule death with the other When the skies are blackened, in the end of days The Veil will fall. The tide will turn when her blade is drawn. A dawn of fire and blood. CHAPTER ONE Althea Zoltaire’s death had been carved in stone since she was a child. That was how she knew, as she crept through a realm on the brink of darkness, that the world was not ending. Not yet. Lightning split the sky, chased by the crack of thunder. Thea inched along the bluff, savouring the rich scent of the incoming storm, revelling in the chaos it threatened to unleash. She shouldn’t be up here, but she had learnt long ago to take destiny into her own hands. Heart pounding, Thea scoured the rocks for a hiding spot. The meet was due to happen at any moment, here on the black cliffs, hemmed in by jagged mountains and savage seas, where giant waves barrelled through the clouds. An unnerving territory to most, the wild landscapes and the cold, sharp lines of Thezmarr was the only home she’d ever known. She had next to no memories of what had come before she and her sister, Elwren, had been left beneath the maw of the fortress portcullis. Thea turned her attention back to the rendezvous point. There was no sign of them, not a whisper in the wind. With an impatient sigh, she toyed with the fate stone around her neck, running her thumb over the number engraved there, the number she was bound by in this life. Twenty-seven. The age she would die. Just three more years until her death would come to pass; a future she didn’t fear, but resented. For three short years was no time at all for a woman to become what she wanted. A legend. She squinted into the sky, searching for the watery orb of the sun amidst the grey. In a realm cloaked in darkness, it was often hard to tell the hour of the day, but if she was a betting woman, and she generally was, she’d say that the warriors were late. A bad sign to be sure. The skies opened up and the downpour began, turning the ground into a muddy river beneath her boots and another bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating that which lay beyond the lashing waters: the Veil. An enormous wall of impenetrable white mist, reaching for the gods, wrapping the midrealms in its protective embrace. For hundreds of years it had shielded their realm from the monsters, until one day it hadn’t. The thought made Thea check that her most prized – and forbidden – possession, her dagger, was snug in her boot beneath the hem of her trousers as it always was. Hooves suddenly sounded on the rocks and Thea threw herself behind a cluster of brambles, hiding herself in the shadows as two great stallions came into view. Her pulse quickened; her source had been correct. Those gleaming black horses belonged to only one kind of rider. Heavy boots hit the muddied ground with a splash, and low voices danced along the cliff. They were here. The Warswords of Thezmarr. Thea peeked around the rocks, desperate to see the legendary warriors up close. A pair of men strode into the clearing, armed to the teeth, clad in black armour with their totems displayed proudly on their armbands: a steel design of two crossed swords with a third cutting down the middle. Thea’s hand went to her own sleeve absent-mindedly, willing there to be a totem secured there. A Warsword answered to no one but the guild master. Ballads were sung about their power, about how upon completing the Great Rite, they became stronger, faster, more agile than the most formidable men. Some were much rumoured to be immortal. It was said they were not born, but forged with blood and steel. There were only three of them left. Now, two of them stood mere feet away from Thea in the rain. She had been trying for over a year to get this close to them, to get a better sense of what was coming for the midrealms – for she would not be caught unawares when darkness came for them all. She had seen the pair many times before in the Great Hall: Torj the Bear Slayer, the hammer-wielding hero with golden hair who had supposedly fought off two cursed bears in the forests of Tver; and Vernich the Bloodletter, the older warrior who had spilt rivers of enemy blood in the countless battles he’d led, chiefly at the fall of Delmira. The latter looked around the cliff, a deep