This is the first chapter of one of my works in progress – Golden Rain and the Lady of Inspiration.

It’s a prequel to the Noramgaell Saga, set a few decades before Divine Prey.

Chapter 1

Riven winced as he woke, his head pounding from last night’s attempt to find oblivion. He’d found it. He groaned as he rolled onto his back, a shard of broken pottery digging into him. Squinting into the day’s brightness, he made out a sliver of blue sky above the two buildings he lay between as he tried to figure out where he’d ended up. An alley behind the Boiled Dragon Inn, he guessed. Boxes of food scraps and broken pottery from the previous week’s trading were piled around him, waiting to be removed.

The Boiled Dragon was the cheapest, nastiest place he’d yet found in this small merchant city. The ale had been even cheaper than the décor. At least it had been devoid of anyone he knew.

The alley stank from piss and rotting food scraps, which was probably a good thing as people were more likely to stay away. There were no beggars among the faspane clans at least. Beggars quickly found themselves ’employed’ in the mines or fields, generally with a slave collar around their neck after being sold at auction. Thieves met a similar fate if they were lucky. Crime was low.

His sword and dagger remained on his belt along with his coin pouch, although it was considerably emptier now. He vaguely remembered buying more than one round for some newfound friends, though he couldn’t remember who they were or what might have happened to them. They hadn’t stolen his purse, at least.

People feared a Blade Master for good reason, even a drunk one. Still, he had more gold hidden in his clothes than the coin pouch could hold, and that only held drinking money of the two least valuable coins available. Slaves and beggars, both coins made of copper, the beggars slightly bigger and worth twice as much. They were good for spending on cheap ale or a quick meal, but little else.

He staggered to his feet and had to put a hand against the wall to stop himself falling again. When the vertigo passed he realised his bladder was full and took a long piss against a wooden wall before picking his way around detritus and out of the alley.

The day was far too bright and hot already, the sun beating down on his dark hair and making him feel even hotter. He walked for about five minutes to the local well where he dropped the bucket and bought up fresh water, cool and clear. He drank as much as he could and poured the rest over his head, then did the whole process again. Several people watched him, most taking a wide berth thanks to the stink he carried, or perhaps his weapons, and some openly showed their distaste.

Some warrior he was. Couldn’t even hold his drink. But then, he’d never been able to. Made for a cheap night in tavern though.

Feeling slightly better thanks to the water and impromptu bath, Riven noticed his jaw hurt. It felt bruised, like he’d been hit. He vaguely remembered an argument with someone over a spilled ale, but he guessed he must have won the fight because he wasn’t dead. That, or he’d collapsed, hit his head on the way down, and been dumped out back. More likely.

He sat down, putting his back against the well’s stone wall and closed his eyes. He must have dozed off because a kick to his boot woke him. The sun was definitely higher when he opened his eyes and squinted.

“Hello betrothed,” said a familiar voice. His insides, if they hadn’t already been rolling, got worse.

Riven grimaced before forcing a smile he didn’t feel. His fiancé Vellam stood before him, distain on her face as she glared down. Her two bodyguards stood a few yards away, a dejected looking slave girl between them, her ragged appearance and general scrawniness suggesting she’d been mistreated for a long time. Her whole life, probably. “I see your pilgrimage is going well. You’ve almost left town. You’re close to the edge of it, at least.” She glanced around. “The disgusting part of it, at least.”

“My pilgrimage was doing fine until just now,” he muttered. He should have stood up to greet her properly, but he didn’t trust his stomach to put up with that much effort.

Her lips pursed in mockery of a smile that did not touch her eyes. She’d understood the barb very well. “I bought you a present for your journey, dearest,” Vellam said. “Bring her over.”

Raven’s head protested as he glanced in the direction Vellam indicated. Her two bodyguards shoved the girl forward hard enough to make her stumble.

Riven glared at them. “I don’t need or want another slave. I have two with me already.” He only had them because his mother insisted.

“But darling, how could you refuse a gift from your beloved?”

He sighed. Perhaps he could sell the slave girl. He glanced her way. Small and scarred, malnutrition gave the girl’s face a hollow look, but it wasn’t the neglect that tightened his fist in anger. The tips of her ears had been cut off, imitating a human’s, and a reasonably fresh brand scarred her right cheek, the skin still red and angry. It looked like it was only a few months old, perhaps only recently healed enough to have lost its scabs.

The brand itself looked like it might have been a house sigil used to mark human slaves, but it had been applied badly, probably slipping along her skin as she flinched in pain. It had blurred the brand, making a mess of her face. Her right eye drooped slightly from the tight skin pulling down on it.

Ribbon glanced at Vellam, or Venom as he preferred to think of her, her expression bemused and vindictive. This time when she smiled it was genuine. “Do you like her?” Vellam asked. “She’s quite the beauty, isn’t she? I couldn’t have bought an ale any cheaper.”

Riven’s eyes returned to the slave, his anger growing. What kind of honourless master or mistress would do that to a slave? “Go get your money back,” he said. “I don’t trade in abused slaves.” He was disgusted she would even think the girl’s situation was funny. What kind of a woman had he been betrothed to? The slave girl looked like she was barely hours away from dropping dead as it was.

“I can’t, dearest,” Vellam said. “She cost less than the price of a meal peasant’s meal, and I wouldn’t be able to sell her for even that. If you don’t want her, simply drop her into a pile of trash. I doubt she’ll live long anyway.”

“I don’t need another slave. Take her back.”

Vellam smiled once again, the wicked humour growing, assuming her expression wasn’t a lie. “Apparently she was turned in three times. She’d have been sent to the mines tomorrow without me.”

The abused slave girl was so skinny she looked like she hadn’t been fed in a week. He returned his attention to Vellam. “I don’t care what you paid for her,” he said. “Keep her as your own servant if you must, but I don’t want her.”

Vellam shook her head in mock disappointment. “Then give her to Tempest. I’m sure she’s got enough meat on her to make him a good meal.” She threw Riven a small Idol of Marnier du Shae, Goddess of Healing.

He barely snatched it out of the air before it hit his face. “What’s this for?” he asked with distaste, staring at the beautifully carved and intricate statue, perhaps three inches tall. It depicted the Goddess in a flowing dress, her expression benevolent. There were traces of paint in the crevices. It had to have come from a human to be hit beautiful. Anything carved by a faspane would have depicted her as a gargoyle, or worse.

Vellam glanced at the slave girl, who hadn’t spoken nor looked like she’d even considered it. “The girl’s idol-bound. She must have really pissed her former master off. Take her on your pilgrimage when you eventually get around to it, or leave here to fend for herself. I don’t care.”

With that, Vellam turned and walked away, leaving him with the slave girl and the idol which prevented her from running away. He didn’t know any magic himself, but the slave girl wouldn’t be able to touch or carry her idol without experiencing excruciating pain, and wouldn’t be able to move more than a few miles from the statue at most. Perhaps as little as one mile.

Riven sighed as Vellam and her guards disappeared from sight. The slave stood with her little hands clasped together, eyes downcast, and shoulders slumped. She seemed to be and trying not to move, probably in case he hit her. That angered him all over again. He hated abuse, and had once had a stable hand whipped after whipping a horse. He hadn’t done it again.

The girl couldn’t be more than about seventeen or eighteen, though she looked like a child thanks to her size. All the fight beaten out of her years ago as far as he could tell. Riven stood and walked away without giving her an order, hoping the girl would wander off while he looked for another Tavern. Perhaps he could trade her for an ale.

He noticed the girl following him at a short distance, silent on bare feet. He turned. “You’re free,” he said. “I don’t want you.” He reached into his coin pouch and threw her a few slaves and a beggar, none of which she caught. The coins hit the pavers at her feet after bouncing against her skinny chest. “Buy yourself something to eat, and then look for work. You don’t want to end up a slave again.” He almost threw her the idol, but remembered she couldn’t touch it anyway. He considered it for a moment, finally resolving to leave it in a safe place for her, so at least she’d have plenty of the town to roam in.

He turned and left her there, hoping she’d make more use of her freedom than he’d find uses for her if he kept her.

Glancing around he realised there would be few taverns open at this time, but he intended to find one anyway. He had to wait another day or two in this crappy town anyway before he could go, and didn’t intend to remain here while sober. He’d only been here for a few days, but there seemed to be more taverns then people. It was perfect for a person who wanted to forget his mistakes.

It took him nearly an hour to find an open tavern on the outskirts of town, though it was little better the Boiled Dragon. The town itself stood on the edge of the desert, something of a trading post between the humans to the south and vast faspane plans and mountains from here to the north, east and west. Trade between the races was always problematic, but in the deep desert where there was no cover for an ambush, traders would often meet each other, their caravans loaded with goods, and they would do business. Greed was enough for both races to ignore their hatreds for each other. The traders would then return north or south depending on whether they were human or faspane, each loaded with exotic goods and food.

He debated entering the tavern for a breakfast ale. He should probably return to his own lodgings to wash up and start the drinking with less of a stink on him.

The slave girl he’s almost entirely forgot about timidly approached him. “Master,” she asked in a voice that belied the ugliness of her scarred and gaunt features. “Shall I follow you inside so I may best serve you, or wait outside where I’ll be less underfoot?” she asked. Her shift so old and dirty it was almost rags, and far too small for her. It barely reached her thighs. It may have once been yellow, but now it was grey and stained. She had no other clothes no shoes, and carried nothing else.

“You’re free,” he said. “Go wherever you wish.” His head still pounding and more than a little annoyed she’d followed him, he decided he needed an ale more than he needed the slave girl. She’d only him down and cause problems on his pilgrimage. He’d also have to take more food to feed her. He removed her idol from a pocket, no longer interested in putting it somewhere safe for her. “I give you your freedom,” he said. He threw the Idol across the street and into an alley. “Enjoy it, or find another master to care for you.” She’d probably been instructed by Vellam to spy on him.

He entered the tavern.

If you like this, you might like Divine Prey.