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First three chapters of Lion of Zarall are available for free. You can read them here on my website, or get it sent to your Kindle, Kobo, Nook, or other e-reader device by joining my newsletter.
He knew it was over when he blinked and stared at the severed hand at his feet.
He had learned to take his time waking up from the Rage. His senses rushed back to him all at once, but he only focused on one at a time. The harsh sunlight glaring off the bloodstained sands. The smell of sweat, leather and death filling his nostrils. The taste of blood and bile, coppery and bitter, lingering on his tongue. His muscles aching with a fatigue that hinted at the ferocity of the battle he could not remember.
The small warehouse was cluttered with rusty cages, crates full of chains, and old furniture. The wind beat against the walls outside and howled through the boarded-up windows, urging Gladwiel to hurry and finalize this business. Autumn had rolled in early, with its miserable weather and destructive storms. If Gladwiel and his men couldn’t return to Kiore before the storm picked up, they would be forced to stay overnight in this filthy place. And that was the last thing Gladwiel wanted.
Olira scrunched the skirt of her dress in her fist.
She hated being here. She hated doing business with the likes of Master Gladwiel. The slave merchant studied everyone with a calculating look, as if they all had slave tattoos on their necks and he was appraising what he could get for them at an auction.
Olira’s father always argued the Domestic Assets Trade Union and men like Master Gladwiel were the source of everything that was wrong with Chinderia. Being here — sitting on this comfortable chair, breathing in the heavily incensed air — made Olira imagine the disappointment she would find on her father’s face if he was still alive.
The slave merchant hated the Mad Lion.
The tavern was located in Swuglus East, a lower-class section of the city of Coldpost. The street stank of vomit and piss. The single-story building was old, its stone walls weathered and cracked, with moss creeping through the mortar. And the regulars of the establishment — including the person whom he was going to meet — were the kinds of people he wouldn’t see out in daylight.
But none of these were the reason he felt antsy as he approached the place. It was the name.
The man with the beast tattoo was afraid of the light.
He had stayed awake all night; lying on his makeshift bed inside the tiny cupboard turned into a room. Darkness cradled him, thick and unyielding, almost tangible. He was never disturbed by it. Darkness was safe. Free men and women always came with their light. They were afraid of it.
That’s why he liked it.
Eddy Rose 