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eBook Category: Fantasy
eBook Description: War has come to the Border. The young and growing Lucian empire faces the ancient and magical lands of the Moghan, and the Borderlands are their chosen battleground. Fighting his own mixed heritage, denied and denying his birthright, Tornin comes of age making war on his own people. In the uneasy peace that follows, as he loses all human connection, he becomes something both more and less than human. To survive, Tornin must face two questions: What is a soul in need of redemption? And what is the price of salvation?

eBook Publisher: The Fiction Works, Published: http://www.fictionworks.com, 2004
Fictionwise Release Date: July 2004

4 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [646 KB], eReader (PDB) [194 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [179 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [156 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [191 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [208 KB], hiebook (KML) [418 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [246 KB], iSilo (PDB) [146 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [182 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [228 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [240 KB]
Words: 56179
Reading time: 160-224 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

"Loren's style of writing sets a new standard, bringing a new intelligence to the world of short stories."--Amazon Editorial Reviews

Tornin paused at the top of a rise, looking down into a small hollow. He could see a tremble of movement. He smiled slightly to himself as he considered the available approaches. Tornin decided abruptly and edged downward, deliberately closing himself off from sensing the stag. Since he hunted for pleasure as well as meat, honor demanded he lose his other advantages if he would go so far that he would take the advantage of a weapon. At least that's what his uncle would have told him.

Tornin's stealth, a composite of a sharp sense of balance, keen reflexes, and an intimate knowledge of the territory of his family estate, made him seem more a ghostly apparition than a large young man. Even without the senses of his spirit, the deer didn't stand a chance.

Tornin had already begun to taste the venison when hoofbeats reverberated through the hollow. He snarled despairingly as he saw the form of the stag briefly silhouetted against the evening rays of the sun. Then, with a thump, the stag vanished.

Tornin took tension off the bowstring as he crossed to the other side of the hollow in quick, long steps, holding the arrow loosely in his left hand. The road wound like a dusty ribbon in and out of the folds of earth covering this part of the estate. Unless the horseman rode like a madman he would not appear on the road visible from the other side of the hollow until after Tornin had reached it. Tornin had himself ridden that road often and knew its dangers well.

He pushed his way through the underbrush in shock as again the sound of retreating hoofbeats came to him. Tornin managed to come into a clear space only in time to gape at the backside of a pale, sweaty horse running at a flat gallop. The horse vanished from sight before he caught any glimpse of the rider.

Tornin shook his head at the man's careless haste and leaned back against a tree. Growing curiosity swallowed his irritation at the loss of the game. There would be other hunts, but such reckless speed was rare even in the cities, much less out here in the Border estates. He wondered if the rider had something to do with the presence of the king in Easthold.

Even someone as far removed from the seats of power as the son of a Border lord knew that the presence of the king of Lucia this close to the Moghan domain after the recent territorial squabbles meant more than rebuilding the winter palace. The king had established the garrison, but he wanted to remain to keep an eye out for any signs of Moghan manipulation. Faris, Tornin's tutor in the physical side of the Haman as well as his master in the ways of power, had refused to talk about it

Tornin's mother's man, Faris, had come with her from the Moghan side of the Border strip and, like her, carried Moghan blood in his veins. The remaining family would probably have been killed off or exiled had it not been for several incidents. Tornin's father had died fighting for Lucia in a fray too small to be called a battle, and his father's brother had always been a man renowned for personal honor--though he had chosen to ally himself with Lucian over Border and Moghan ties. In any event, the title and the estate had passed out of normal succession to Tornin's father's brother, Caitrin, the present Lord Earl of Lontrain.

Caitrin bent willingly to the will of the king, seeing in him the best future of the Border, but Tornin felt more happy for his uncle than dismayed at the loss of his birthright. He didn't want to have to swear fealty to the man who had brought his father to his death, and Tornin had always loved and admired Caitrin.

Another set of hoofbeats churning down the same road interrupted Tornin's thoughts. He pulled himself away from the tree with a start and looked down to see five cloaked and hooded horsemen ride into view. The cloaks did not obscure the heavy armor and weapons they wore. They rode at only a slightly more cautious pace than the first rider, and pulled up in the road while the lead rider bent to study the tracks. He straightened abruptly, looked up, stared directly at Tornin's position in the trees, then barked a quick command to the last and smallest rider. The other four spurred their horses down the road, but the last horseman swung up the incline and drove his horse through the undergrowth.

Tornin's training took over. He had the bow up and an arrow nocked before the rider had approached to within twenty feet. When the other had reached that distance and had no brush around him to obscure a shot, Torin called out to him in a casual voice. "That's far enough."

The rider stopped the horse, giving Tornin time to look both over. A small, wide-chested roan, it had the clean lines of a burly little Border horse. Tornin remembered the relative size of the other horses and smiled at the thought of one of the large Lucian thoroughbreds on rough terrain like this. Small wonder the others had stayed on the road.

A sudden movement brought Tornin's wandering attention back to the rider as he threw off his shrouding cloak. The heavy black armor and multiple weapon sheaths tugged at Tornin's attention, but he had eyes only for the rearing white horse on the rider's black surcoat and the black wolf's head worn on the left shoulder against the blazing white patch. Tornin let the bowstring slacken as a hollow feeling crept into his belly. The man in armor chuckled and slid off his horse. "I knew that you were a rebel, Torn, but I never thought that you'd go so far as to shoot a king's man, and an old friend at that."

Tornin relaxed as he recognized the rider's voice. He slid the arrow back into his thigh quiver and shouldered his bow reflexively despite his own surprise. He laughed in a deliberate effort to hide his surprise. "Well, Cally, I never expected to find you working as a wolfshead. I didn't think you were all that faithful to the king."

Cally unbuckled his helm, and lifted it free of his head to reveal tousled brown hair and the frowning face of a young man of an age with Tornin. "I was never a traitor..."

Tornin held up one hand. "I never accused you of that. But you, even more than I, blamed the king for what he did to the Border."

Cally nodded. "True. But I've found an alternative which allows me to fulfill my duty to the Border without having to swear to the king himself."

Tornin frowned. "But I thought..."

Cally shook his head. "Lord Scaon of Northolm remade the wolfshead regiment. The bodyguard of the king wears only the white horse now, not the wolfshead. The wolfshead company swears only to Lord Scaon himself. Each man must be landless, but his rank, while a wolfshead, is that of a personal emissary of the king himself. You see, Lord Scaon has sworn himself to the person of the king instead of through the land as tradition demands. The wolfsheads, serving Lord Scaon, serve the king. But they serve only through Lord Scaon, and Lord Scaon has been given personal charge of all matters of high justice in the kingdom. Particularly treason."

Tornin leaned back against the tree trunk and considered the reference to Lord Scaon. He had heard his uncle speak of the man in less than favorable terms. Scaon had surfaced and wormed his way into favor with the king about midway through the Border disputes. That would have been about the time the king of Lucia realized he was only dealing with a part of the ancient lands known collectively as Moghan. But even that didn't explain the amount of power the new Lord Scaon had been able to gather around himself in such a short time.

Cally had the right of it about one thing, Tornin mused. It did provide a perfect opportunity for utilizing the younger sons of Borderlords with no inheritance prospects who had questions of honor when it came to personal service for the king. In retrospect Tornin saw this could very well be the reason for such supposed power. Obviously the independence of Lord Scaon would be a useful illusion. "That explains the rumors of the new activities of the wolfshead guard."

Cally nodded enthusiastically. "We serve now as an elite force, specifically empowered to root out Moghan influences and other treasonous activities." He suddenly stopped. "Damn, I've stayed talking with you too long. I was only supposed to make sure you weren't our quarry before following after. I'll have to ride hard now to catch them."

Tornin stepped forward as Cally swung himself up into the saddle. Cally shook his head and turned his horse. "Can't talk any more. But if you want to get together again, come out to Easthold one of these days, visit the summer palace, and look me up. It's been too long since we've had a chance to relax and talk about the old days."

Tornin watched as Cally settled his black helm back into place and rode down to the road and vanished at a full gallop. He looked around at the rim of the sun disappearing behind the not-so-distant mountains and sighed. He would catch all hell for arriving home as late as he clearly would. He closed his eyes briefly before heading back into the brush. The sooner he reached the manor, the sooner his lecture would be over.