Excerpt from RYDAN; first book in the Son of No Man Series
Releasing Aug 15, 2021
Tohmas looked at the door to the house. He would have to duck to get through its smoothed stone arch.
"I could walk in there," he mused.
"Yes, princes cannot be refused entry," Vallant allowed. He pursed his lips, stretching his mustache. "But you'd not be making a good impression with your uncles."
Uncles. He had to remember that these men were his relatives.
The older man walked away and joined the ranks of the protectors that had spread out behind Tohmas in a defensive semi-circle. Most dismounted and stood by their steeds to better fill the space.
Carsh, mounted beside him, snorted like Bashuran, his half-laugh truncated. "Bah, dohn madder."
"It matters," Tohmas corrected gently. "We play this by their rules for now."
"Yadda, yadda," Carsh grumbled. He took a surreptitious glance around. A handful of protectors stood at the ready just out of earshot. Not only was Tohmas still wearing his weapons; he was also accompanied by his prime protector, Carsh. None of the men had any reason to fret over his well-being.
But the protectors were from his father's reign—they hardly knew or trusted Carsh. They accepted the Rydan as a superb fighter, but no one seemed entirely positive where his loyalties lay.
"Why naw chief?" Carsh complained.
"They don't have a chief, but it amounts to the same thing. Princes are just leaders with a fancy title."
"Be bedda ta Chief."
"If they had a single chief," Tohmas replied, "they'd be unified." He left that thought hanging for the Rydan. Espar was divided into princedoms, each ruled by a prince who had his own allies and enemies. It was confusing, but it was also why he had been sent north, as Carsh knew. So long as the Esparans did not see the danger, they were vulnerable.
The trick was to never let them realize it.
"Your accent is getting worse, Carsh," Tohmas said. "That bastardization of Esparan and Rydan is—"
"Bedda fun!" Carsh finished with another sharp-toothed grin. His voice dropped quickly into a hush. "We be trustin' tem, brudda?" The Rydan was uneasy—Carsh tended to dance on his feet when he was nervous—but Tohmas did not believe the anxiety was founded.
A more immediate concern was the choice of title.
"Do not call me that," Tohmas whispered back.
Carsh's long hands came up. "I be forgedin'. I be careful," he promised, but his rolled eyes and half-smile said he was not, by any means, apologizing for the slip.
Movement at the farmhouse caught Tohmas' attention. The protector messenger had returned.
"This way, Prince Tohmas," the man invited, sweeping his arm in a grandiose gesture to indicate the path from the yard to the thick door.
"Only your prime protector should attend. We will wait here for you, my Prince," Vallant said with a wry smile. Two of the protectors took up posts within the yard, joining the Clandac and Solta soldiers flawlessly.
As if we trust each other. Good for appearances.
Tohmas dismounted from Justice and, checking his weapons once more, passed through the gate. Carsh followed in his shadow, bone knife in hand.
The room beyond the low doorway was hot, a large fire blazing in the hearth. Several fresh logs had been added; the night was young for the occupants. Atop the mantle, three tankards stood in a row, so worn by handling that their engraved crests had lost all relief. Dried herbs and flowers hung low from the rafters.
Sound would not travel far in this space.
Two men stood from their seats as Tohmas entered, leaving their own tankards on the pitted table. One was older than even Vallant, with white-blond hair and beard. His features were angled and stark, like a statue given life. The second man was shorter than the statue by only a few fingers, leaving him tall enough to see over Honest Justice's withers. Although he was bulky, the man, blond-haired and blue-eyed like any Esparan, looked fatherly.
They matched their protectors outside: Prince Dragal, the great statue, wore blue and gold. Prince Sol, Dragal's younger brother, wore his red and blacks.
Behind each man, trapped against the wall in the small space, stood the princes' prime protectors. Dragal's was a brute of equal height and thick muscle who had a sword on each side of his belt and a scar cutting through his mustache. The other prime protector, two heads shorter than any of the room's occupants, wore no armor. His loose, red robes embossed with black billowed around him as if to hide the man's pot belly and disproportionately thin arms. The rope on his shoulder was still the green and black of a prime protector, but it had been pinned to the sleeve instead of tied in place around armor straps.
He unnerved Tohmas. The invisible weight of magic, unseen and unfathomable, hovered around the squirrelly man.
Tohmas straightened to his full height, his head touching the lowest-hanging dried lavender. He was younger than Prince Sol by at least two decades, but he would not let that undermine his position. They would think him inexperienced, and that was necessary, but he would not allow them to intimidate him.
Releasing Aug 15, 2021
Tohmas looked at the door to the house. He would have to duck to get through its smoothed stone arch.
"I could walk in there," he mused.
"Yes, princes cannot be refused entry," Vallant allowed. He pursed his lips, stretching his mustache. "But you'd not be making a good impression with your uncles."
Uncles. He had to remember that these men were his relatives.
The older man walked away and joined the ranks of the protectors that had spread out behind Tohmas in a defensive semi-circle. Most dismounted and stood by their steeds to better fill the space.
Carsh, mounted beside him, snorted like Bashuran, his half-laugh truncated. "Bah, dohn madder."
"It matters," Tohmas corrected gently. "We play this by their rules for now."
"Yadda, yadda," Carsh grumbled. He took a surreptitious glance around. A handful of protectors stood at the ready just out of earshot. Not only was Tohmas still wearing his weapons; he was also accompanied by his prime protector, Carsh. None of the men had any reason to fret over his well-being.
But the protectors were from his father's reign—they hardly knew or trusted Carsh. They accepted the Rydan as a superb fighter, but no one seemed entirely positive where his loyalties lay.
"Why naw chief?" Carsh complained.
"They don't have a chief, but it amounts to the same thing. Princes are just leaders with a fancy title."
"Be bedda ta Chief."
"If they had a single chief," Tohmas replied, "they'd be unified." He left that thought hanging for the Rydan. Espar was divided into princedoms, each ruled by a prince who had his own allies and enemies. It was confusing, but it was also why he had been sent north, as Carsh knew. So long as the Esparans did not see the danger, they were vulnerable.
The trick was to never let them realize it.
"Your accent is getting worse, Carsh," Tohmas said. "That bastardization of Esparan and Rydan is—"
"Bedda fun!" Carsh finished with another sharp-toothed grin. His voice dropped quickly into a hush. "We be trustin' tem, brudda?" The Rydan was uneasy—Carsh tended to dance on his feet when he was nervous—but Tohmas did not believe the anxiety was founded.
A more immediate concern was the choice of title.
"Do not call me that," Tohmas whispered back.
Carsh's long hands came up. "I be forgedin'. I be careful," he promised, but his rolled eyes and half-smile said he was not, by any means, apologizing for the slip.
Movement at the farmhouse caught Tohmas' attention. The protector messenger had returned.
"This way, Prince Tohmas," the man invited, sweeping his arm in a grandiose gesture to indicate the path from the yard to the thick door.
"Only your prime protector should attend. We will wait here for you, my Prince," Vallant said with a wry smile. Two of the protectors took up posts within the yard, joining the Clandac and Solta soldiers flawlessly.
As if we trust each other. Good for appearances.
Tohmas dismounted from Justice and, checking his weapons once more, passed through the gate. Carsh followed in his shadow, bone knife in hand.
The room beyond the low doorway was hot, a large fire blazing in the hearth. Several fresh logs had been added; the night was young for the occupants. Atop the mantle, three tankards stood in a row, so worn by handling that their engraved crests had lost all relief. Dried herbs and flowers hung low from the rafters.
Sound would not travel far in this space.
Two men stood from their seats as Tohmas entered, leaving their own tankards on the pitted table. One was older than even Vallant, with white-blond hair and beard. His features were angled and stark, like a statue given life. The second man was shorter than the statue by only a few fingers, leaving him tall enough to see over Honest Justice's withers. Although he was bulky, the man, blond-haired and blue-eyed like any Esparan, looked fatherly.
They matched their protectors outside: Prince Dragal, the great statue, wore blue and gold. Prince Sol, Dragal's younger brother, wore his red and blacks.
Behind each man, trapped against the wall in the small space, stood the princes' prime protectors. Dragal's was a brute of equal height and thick muscle who had a sword on each side of his belt and a scar cutting through his mustache. The other prime protector, two heads shorter than any of the room's occupants, wore no armor. His loose, red robes embossed with black billowed around him as if to hide the man's pot belly and disproportionately thin arms. The rope on his shoulder was still the green and black of a prime protector, but it had been pinned to the sleeve instead of tied in place around armor straps.
He unnerved Tohmas. The invisible weight of magic, unseen and unfathomable, hovered around the squirrelly man.
Tohmas straightened to his full height, his head touching the lowest-hanging dried lavender. He was younger than Prince Sol by at least two decades, but he would not let that undermine his position. They would think him inexperienced, and that was necessary, but he would not allow them to intimidate him.
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