Chapter 1 The Hound

The only thing keeping the northern cold from sinking into Kaelen’s bones was the heat of the two naked women riding on top of him.

The mattress was nothing but a lumpy sack of moldy straw that creaked and shifted with every thrust he made. The room reeked of old beer, cheap rosewater, and days of unwashed bodies, but Kaelen didn’t give a damn. He never did. He gripped the women with rough, calloused hands, their skin flushed and slick under his fingers, and used them the same way he used everything else in this miserable life, to drown out the voices in his head.

With a low gutteral growl, he finished, his heavy body tensing for a moment before he shoved them off of him. The pleasure was already gone from his face, replaced by that dead, empty look he wore like a second skin.

The blonde on his left traced a finger along the long scar running from his collarbone down his ribs. “Stay a little longer, Hound,” she purred. “The night is still young, and it’s freezing cold out there.”

Kaelen didn’t even glance at her. He swung his legs off the bed and stood, his towering six-foot-five silhouette completely consuming the tiny room. Scars crisscrossed his back like a map of every brutal fight he’d survived.

“Get out,” he muttered, voice like gravel.

The brunette’s seductive smile twisted into a scowl. “We gave you what you wanted. Least you could do is show a little courtesy.”

He ignored her, pulling on his rough linen shirt, then buckling his leather bracers. His fingers moved with practiced precision as he strapped the heavy steel dagger to his thigh. Finally, he threw his dark cloak over his shoulders, the fabric settling across his broad frame.

When they still didn’t move, he walked to the door, yanked it open, and jerked his thumb toward the hallway. His eyes.. cold, golden, and utterly empty, said the rest. The women grabbed their scattered clothes and hurried past him without another word.

Kaelen spat on the floorboards. “Crazy wenches.”

~

Down in the main room of The Fjord Tavern, the usual racket of drunken laughter and clinking tankards died down the second Kaelen’s heavy boots hit the top of the stairs.

A heavy silence rolled through the crowd. Heads turned away. Hands drifted toward weapons. Near the hearth, a woman with two small children took one look at him and went white. She snatched the kids by their collars and dragged them behind her skirts like he was death itself come walking.

Kaelen didn’t care. He was Kaelen the Hound. The most feared bounty hunter Eldervale had ever known. Mercy was something he had buried in the frozen dirt of his homeland over a decade ago.

He crossed the room and stopped at a heavy oak table in the darkest corner. Three local wine merchants were counting coins there. The moment his shadow fell over them, they scrambled up so fast one man knocked his stool over. They snatched their silver and practically ran to the other side of the tavern.

Kaelen dropped into the chair, propped his boots on the table, and struck a match on his thumb to light his pipe. He drew on the bitter smoke and watched the room through the haze. They feared him, and that was exactly how he kept himself alive.

The tavern master’s wife, Helga, approached with a tray. Her hands shook so badly the wooden cups rattled.

“What… what can I get you, Hound?” she asked, eyes glued to the floorboards.

“Bottle of your strongest black gin,” he growled. “Keep ‘em coming.”

She brought it quickly. Kaelen drank deep, the harsh burn doing nothing to ease the constant ache in his joints. He kept drinking until the pitcher was empty, his mind wandering back to the empty state of his leather coin pouch. Winter had been brutal, and his last bounty had bled out before he could deliver the man alive. His payment was cut in half.

When Helga came back to clear the empty pitcher, Kaelen leaned back, pipe clenched between his teeth.

“I’ll settle the tab next time I pass through,” he said to her.

Helga stopped dead in her tracks. Her face hardened, for a second, desperation briefly overriding her fear of him. “Hound, please… my husband’s sick. The winter taxes are due. We can’t give drinks on credit. Not even to you. You have to pay up now.”

Kaelen slowly lowered his boots. The table creaked under his weight as he rose, towering over her. He leaned in close, close enough that she could smell the gin on his breath, the scar on his lip twisting into a sinister snarl.

“You calling me a liar and a thief, woman?” he whispered, voice low and venomous.

Helga stumbled back, her eyes wide with terror, then turned and fled into the kitchen like a scared rabbit.

Kaelen scoffed and sat back down, draining the last drops from the bottle. He didn’t give a damn about her sick husband or her taxes. In Eldervale, the strong took what they wanted. The weak paid for it.

The silence in the tavern grew thicker.

Then the kitchen door slammed open. Helga stepped out, pointing a trembling finger straight at him. Behind her came three massive brutes. The tavern’s hired muscle. Thick-necked, built like oxen, carrying heavy clubs and iron-headed cleavers.

“There he is!” Helga cried. “He refuses to pay his bit and threatened me! Teach him some manners!”

The biggest one, a bald bastard with a broken nose, spat on the floor and cracked his knuckles. “You might be the big man out there in the wilds, Hound, but in here you’re just another deadbeat. Pay up now, or we carry you out in pieces.”

Kaelen stayed seated. He didn’t even take the pipe from his mouth. He just looked at the three of them, a dark glint of amusement in his golden eyes, and blew a slow plume of smoke their way.

“You three think you’re getting paid enough to die tonight?”