In a Wolf's Eyes

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  In a Wolf's Eyes by A. Katie Rose

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1 - The Bloody Wolf

  Chapter 2 - The Blushing Bride

  Chapter 3 - An Accidental Assassination

  Chapter 4 - From Murder to Chaos

  Chapter 5 - Escape Into Hell

  Chapter 6 - Bar

  Chapter 7 - Tros

  Chapter 8 - The Royal Crown Inn

  Chapter 9 - Of Legends and Blood Brothers

  Chapter 10 - Agree to No Longer Disagree

  Chapter 11 - The Formation of a Simple Plan

  Chapter 12 - A Tale of Two Twins

  Chapter 13 - Rain of Fire

  Chapter 14 - Hound of Hell

  Chapter 15 - Theft of a Slave Girl

  In a Wolf’s Eyes

  By A. Katie Rose

  Copyright 2012 by A. Katie Rose

  Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

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

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means 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 ebook 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.

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  In a Wolf’s Eyes

  By A. Katie Rose

  For Lisa

  Almost thirty years ago I told you I’d dedicate my first book to you. And so I shall. You were there at the beginning and read (and cheered, let’s not forget) my first idiotic efforts to write a fantasy novel. Though I think my first attempts at writing sucked rocks, you never felt that way. You loved my writing enough to retain the faith I lacked. Back in those good old days you offered me the care and support I needed to keep trying. You gave me more than encouragement over all these years, more than support, more than the love. You’re my Gold Dust twin, and my best friend.

  I love you, snotface.

  And for Bruce

  I miss you, bro

  Acknowledgments

  I want to take a few moments to say thank you to people who helped me in so many special and profound ways as I created this book.

  Thank you, Ginny Glass, for the fantastic, dynamic, and so very delightful cover art. Your talent exceeded all my hopes and expectations for the jacket of my first novel. You are so very talented, rock on. Thank you, also, all the folks at Untreed Reads whose names I do not know for all the assistance in bringing my creation to life. Maybe one day I can thank you in person.

  I offer my warmest and most heartfelt thanks to Mr. Jay Hartman, Editor-in-Chief of Untreed Reads, for this terrific opportunity. You’re taking a chance on me, and for that I’m indebted.

  To Kevin and Lorraine Williams I wish to show my deepest appreciation for their support and encouragement. You believed in me when I didn’t. I love you, guys.

  And to you, Brienna Schroeder, my simple thanks are not enough. Could never be enough. I despaired when you read this book and said to me, “its good but it needs work.” Those simple words helped take not just this first novel but the entire series in the direction it was truly meant to go. Bouncing ideas off you and getting your feedback helped me in so many ways. I appreciate you, girlfriend. You da bomb, honey.

  Chapter 1

  The Bloody Wolf

  I staggered to my feet, blinking grit from my eyes.

  “Give it up,” my opponent growled. “Stand still and you die quickly.”

  Raising my sword, I sidestepped, balanced on the balls of my feet. Blood seeped down my bare belly and dripped onto the sand of the gladiatorial arena. He circled around me, grinning, his illegal dirk slicked red with my blood. My own sword had yet to mark him, and his confidence grew to match his bulk. Impossibly huge, he was one of the largest slaves to fight in the High King’s own home Grand Arena. His name was Silas, but he liked to style himself as Silas the Savage. As though the title would terrify and unman his opponents before they entered the arena. If any had been terrified and unmanned, I never heard tell of it. I myself was unimpressed after hearing of him and even less so upon seeing him for the first time. Like many gladiators, Silas carried his brains in his muscles and thought himself invincible.

  He wore, like me, a short leather kilt, armored leather boots to the knees and a fighting harness criss-crossing his massive hairy chest. Unlike me, he wore his hair short, with a close-cropped beard. Fierce blue eyes lit his triumphant grin, clearly visible through the sweat and dirt in my eyes. In his home province of Nevalle, in the northern portion of the Federation, he was also a champion. With that title, he carried an ego bigger than he was.

  The rules of the arena were simple: one man, one weapon. He had managed to conceal the dirk inside his left wrist and I was foolish enough to miss it. Many opponents thought that by killing me they not only inherited my title as reigning champion, they might also gain their freedom. The fact that I, reigning champion, was still as much a slave as they never entered their heads. So many have cheated, I learned long ago to assume they all would cheat. That I missed this one caused me to curse myself and bleed into my battle harness.

  He had managed a clever feint that caught me by surprise, quite a feat considering his brain capacity. I saw the blade, too late to stop it, but managed to deflect it enough that the razor-sharp blade stabbed deep, but not into a vital organ. Few, if any, in the stands had seen it, as his sword hilt crashed into my face and knocked me off my feet headfirst into the sand at the same moment.

  Had the arbitrators seen the illegal second blade, they would have stopped the match. Silas would have faced execution by crucifixion posthaste and his owners heavily fined. Hence, I felt surprise that his owners would have dared such an attempt against me, the High King’s own champion. Orders for the dirk had to have come down from on high to pass the many slave handlers and arrive on Silas’s wrist. Unfortunately for me, the wound I took, while not immediately mortal, may yet kill me. Yet, none except me, and the brainless hulk in front of me, knew it.

  With a quick shake of my head, I cleared my vision. The crowds in the stands cheered and stomped their feet at my movement, screaming lustily. Most waved small banners carrying the emblem of their favorite: the White Lion of the High King, or the dark red Stallion of Nevalle. Far more Lions than Stallions fluttered amidst the cheering fans.

  A few booed. No doubt, I thought dryly, from those who presumed to wager against me: the High King’s own personal slave, the reigning champion and the current hot favorite. Few in the Federation were foolish enough to bet against me. I sent the noise to the back of my head where it belonged, not letting the screams, cheers or yells distract me from business.

  “I hear they call you The Wolf,” Silas said. He eyed me up and down, his grin widening. “I mistook you for a whelp still at his dam’s tit.”

  He laughed at his own jest, a dry hoarse laugh that held only arrogance.

  Without taking my eyes from him, I worked saliva into my dry mouth, bent and spat blood and grit to the arena floor.

  His eyes narrowed. “I’ll tear you limb from limb, whelp,” he rumbled.

  You talk too much, I thought. A pity no one had whipped his
handlers for allowing him his voice while fighting. Talking wasted energy and took one’s mind off the business of killing and survival. Had I the inclination, I could have had his intestines around his throat before he finished his sentence.

  He charged, fast, his sword raised high to strike at my head, his dirk in his left hand carried low, still concealed from most in the stands. I’m sure he hoped to catch me between the two blades. Rather than meet his rush or parry his sword, I fell back and dropped to the sand. His forward momentum brought him down, where my feet caught him in the gut. I kicked out, sending Silas through the air, harmlessly over me, to land, hard, on his back. Judging by his gasps, I suspected I knocked the wind from him.

  While Silas struggled to both get to his feet and get his wind back, I looked to my handlers. Cephas, my Slave Master, gestured subtly, a quick hand movement, instructing me to carry on. I could have killed Silas as he floundered up, helpless and coughing. Had I done so I faced a whipping for not putting on a better show. The fans in the stands wanted a good fight, not a fight that ended within the first round. Timing was everything for a champion. Thus, I couldn’t kill him too soon. If I took too long to kill him, later I’d be whipped for cowardice.

  Yet, I knew I would have to kill him before my own strength ran out. The straps of my battle harness thus far kept the lips of my wound together and limited the bleeding. I still bled, however, internally. The creeping weakness told me so. My own impending death did not disturb me much. I needed to win first.

  Silas the Savage got his wind back and charged, his sword lifted to hack and kill. His own Slave Master was most likely signaling him to end the fight quickly, unwilling to risk a defeat. Bigger and stronger than me, he had as much skill and experience as I did. Without his brains entering the equation, the odds were nearly even. Like me, his slave’s collar bore encrusted jewels. The Duke of Nevalle, Lionel’s chief political opponent, owned Silas. No doubt, the Duke intended a subtle insult, a social victory over the High King, by killing me. If I killed Silas instead, the Duke not only lost face, but may also lose his own head. That was, if Lionel was feeling cranky.

  Rather than meet his charge, I ducked and pivoted in the same motion. His weight carried him past, his sword missing me completely. My own sword slashed deep into his thigh. He fell with a guttural groan. The crowd roared.

  I gave him a moment, then kicked him full in the face as he started to rise. He fell flat on his back, cursing through the blood filling his mouth. I could kick him all day long as long as I didn’t kill him. I needed to kill him, but held back on the impulse. Past his struggling body, I saw Cephas make another quick gesture, one that both congratulated me and gave me permission to kill.

  Silas spat blood and broken teeth, now fully enraged as a bull in rut and parted from his harem. This time I met his rush with my own. We hacked at each other, Silas wasting valuable energy and concentration by swearing while I merely focused on not letting him slaughter me.

  My greater speed in thrusting past his guard began to annoy him at last. He lashed out with his boot and connected solidly with my groin. Definitely bad form, but it comes with the territory.

  The crowd screamed in protest as red fire lanced from my groin, sending my lower body into an inferno. My breath caught on a curse, choking, as the agony spread. Before I could stagger out of reach, his sword pierced my belly, deep.

  I twisted away, off his blade before he could drive it in deeper. This was getting out of hand, I thought. He would kill me before I could kill him, and I would have to face the gods of my ancestors defeated, shamed. If a stupid savage, with no more intelligence than the average marble statue, skewered me, it would haunt my soul in the afterlife. I would have to finish him before he finished me.

  Blocking another savage slash, I danced out of reach. I spun my sword in a tight twirl, making the steel whistle as though it had a life of its own. Few could spin a sword as I could, though many tried to imitate the technique. Its shrill sound unnerved many of my opponents, creating a mind filled with unease or panic, and making them easy prey for The Wolf. Silas had not the wits to be unnerved.

  He followed me, his sword swinging hard and fast. I caught it on my own heavy blade and turned it, but for the first time his strength overcame mine and I could only slow, not entirely deflect, the strike aimed to kill. His cross guard caught me a glancing blow above my left ear. Head ringing, I fell flat on my back. Grinning, he turned away in triumph. Yelling and cheering, the crowd saw what he did not: my struggles to rise once more. From the candle of his eye, he saw me and turned. He sneered.

  “Aren’t you dead yet?”

  Like a great cat he pounced, the sunlight glancing off his blade poised to slash and kill. Still on my knees, I lunged aside, rolling. He missed. Still bent to strike my form on the ground, he awkwardly tried to regain his balance. I uncoiled from my crouch and struck with all my speed, training, instinct.

  I buried my sword to the hilt in his broad chest.

  Shock filled his pale blue eyes as they stared into mine for a brief moment. I forcibly swallowed pity and regret that always accompanied the death of an adversary, for neither of us ever had a choice in the matter. I struck true, into his living beating heart. He died within a moment, collapsing boneless at my feet.

  The stands went wild as I planted my foot on the corpse and yanked my sword free. Pampered, rich and spoiled, the citizens craved what the High King willingly provided. As a race, the Khalidians loved war and violence. Founded on this heinous attribute, the great Federation advanced her borders slowly, methodically, with every generation. When the countries to conquer ran out, the war-loving people turned on each other. Thus, a few hundred years ago the Arena Games began.

  In the not so distant past, angry mobs have rioted when not provided their violent entertainment, creating their own sports in the streets. Like a tidal wave, screaming hordes have cut down troops and innocent civilians alike, set fires in the capital city of Soudan and looted at will before either gradually subsiding or forcibly cut down. Killing was what these Khalidians wanted and killing was exactly what the High King gave them. The High Kings knew their people well. They loved bloodshed, violence and death. Each succeeding monarch gave it to them, in war on his neighbors and the conquest of new and sometimes distant lands. He provided in the Arena, in the blood sports, in the Games. Prisoners, criminals, slaves: all sent into the sands of the arena to face gladiators like Silas and me, or wild animals like lions, tigers or packs of starving, savage dogs.

  Like his ancestors before him, Lionel cleverly kept the people yelling for blood…the blood of slaves, of prisoners, of animals, of criminals and of gladiators. They sought the spilling of an ocean of gore, yet not a drop of the purple blood of High Kings. It kept the violent citizens in the arena, not in the streets where they might conspire, then rise against him. The people gambled all they owned: coin, property, sometimes even their very souls, on the Games. We gladiators were not always the main event. Trapdoors on the floor of the arena released the tigers, the lions, the savage packs of wild dogs, blood-maddened bulls with sweeping horns, all pitted against unarmed prisoners or slaves. The Games included not just executions of the hapless or the criminal, but also melees of war captives forced to fight other prisoners. All the day long, the carnage kept the bloodthirsty citizens right where His Majesty wanted them.

  Blood kept them spending money, to line his royal coffers, and kept the people where he could watch them. The rich grew poor, the poor poorer. Like his sires, Lionel found no end of slaves and prisoners to fill the arenas in the wars to expand his vast Federation. He cast far and wide to bring in exotic creatures from distant lands to kill or be killed in the Great Arena. Any event he might create to tempt the masses into spending all they had. The banners purchased at the gates, the government-owned strings of betting shops, the tokens that allowed the spectators into the Great Arena itself all made Lionel a very wealthy and an extremely powerful man.

  Covered in blood an
d bleeding, my sword dripping gore, I walked to my master’s pavilion in the stands. About ten rods from the pavilion, I stopped, lifting my sword high. About twelve thousand pairs of eyes watched me, half of what the Grand Arena could hold. The stomps, cheers, screams and whistles were nearly deafening. As I stood close enough to the stands, a rain of flower petals showered down from the more enthusiastic fans. They loved me, for I was their own, their favorite, their champion. I had never failed them, never failed to kill, never showed weakness or mercy. To them, I was everything the Federation represented: supreme, savage and a winner.

  I swallowed my disgust, swallowed the insane urge to laugh in their jubilant faces, swallowed the horror of what I they forced me to do. Once more, I hid the rage, the daemon, I felt deep within my soul. Only the current knowledge that I would never have to kill for sport again kept me from screaming my fury into their shocked faces.

  Expected to play to their lusty sensibilities, I waved my sword in triumph. I turned, giving all the chance to see their victor in his glory. The crowd went wild, their applause deafening. For the last time I saluted my master: my arms crossed over my chest, sword hilt in hand, and bowed low. I looked for him beneath the royal banners, and saw him: the frail, yet clever old man who owned me. Welcome to the glamorous, evil, virulent court of His Royal Majesty, Lionel Wilhelm, the Fourth of his name.

  As was his wont, he paid scant attention to what occurred in the arena in front of his eyes. For him, the political arena and its cutthroat intrigues held him captivated. Yet, as I stood at parade rest and watched with a slave’s carefully blank expression, I saw this day, at least, he was not intriguing. Rather, he was busy arguing with his son and heir apparent, Crown Prince Broughton, seated on his right. Nicknamed Prince Brutal by his enemies, and some friends, he stared toward me unseeingly, his expression red and furious as his sire yelled over the noise of the crowd in his ear. Violent, impassioned gestures accompanied his words. I doubted even those nearest him could hear what he said.