First Chapter Friday - Helsgaard's Heroine

As promised... The first chapter of the first book of the Helsgaard Chronicles... Helsgaard's Heroine. If any of the words aren't clear, feel free to click on the Rosetta Stone button.

Note: This is a copy & paste from the manuscript and not the formatted novel.

Streets of Ravnborg

The Sweet Flavor of Muck on the Tongue.

With the precision of a master thief, Lozen slipped the lockpick from her sleeve, its slender blade glinting faintly in the moonlight. The tool danced in her hands, coaxing the stubborn lock with a silent, methodical rhythm as the city’s murmur faded into the stillness of night. A soft click signaled her success, and she swiftly pocketed the prize—only to freeze as a vice clamped onto her left shoulder. She was wrenched around to confront a towering figure with blonde hair and blue eyes that were as hard as flint. The Ravnsríki Raven, embossed on his worn leather armor, caught the dim light and marked him unmistakably as a guard.

Fear surged through her veins—she had never been seized like this. The sudden pressure of his grip was nothing like the rough tussles with drunken fools who tried to take advantage of her in the taverns, nothing like the scuffles she’d won with sharp elbows and quick fists. She locked eyes with the man towering over her, his jaw a rigid line of authority, his narrowed gaze brimming with suspicion.

“Caught you red-handed, little thief,” he growled, his words reflecting his upbringing in a disadvantaged part of society. “And you has a bow—and black pants and cloak? Looks like I gots the Shadow Archer! The King has a big bounty on you.”

Lozen struggled to remain composed as her heart pounded in her throat and eardrums. The stench of human and animal waste in the streets made her want to vomit. She feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

The guard’s scrutiny intensified. His gaze swept over her, taking in her delicate features and seeing the tips of her pointed ears peeking out from her hair under her black hood. “You look... interesting. Like an Aelf, but too short and too thick.”

Lozen’s breath hitched. Her Aelfinn heritage was revealed, a dangerous secret in a kingdom at war with the Aelfs. Once a haven of anonymity, the marketplace now felt like a trap, the encroaching shadows closing in.

He continued, “Short, stocky, red hair like a Dwarf? Wait, that makes you—”

“—Don’t!” she warned.

“A Dwaelf!” he said, referring to her mixed heritage.

The word “Dwaelf” rolled off his tongue with casual venom, a slur that dredged up the emotional weight from the prejudice Lozen had carried since her pre-teen years in Aeldoria. The insult twisted in her gut like a blade, igniting a blaze of fury that coursed through her veins. Her blood burned hot, her vision sharpening with the singular clarity of rage.

She flattened her right fist. Muscles readied. Furious! Anger! Strike!!!

But he was no novice. With a sharp snap of his left arm, he deflected her attack, his speed throwing her off balance. Before she could recover, his fingers clamped around her wrist—controlled, unyielding. In an instant, the fight shifted. His skill wasn’t just impressive; it was dominating.

He drove his foot behind her left leg and shoved. She went down hard, crashing onto her back, his weight slamming into her as he landed on his knees, straddling her. The impact crushed the air from her lungs, leaving her gasping.

Her stomach churned under the pressure of his weight.

She thrashed, clawed, and fought.

But he was faster. He lifted just enough to twist her arm, flipping her onto her stomach. A blaze of agony seared her joint as he wrenched her arm behind her back. Her face slammed into the slimy cobblestones, the taste of piss and animal filth immediately coating her lips. He pressed down hard on the back of her neck, grinding her mouth into the muck. The sudden, wretched taste of feces triggered a dry heave that convulsed her body, and she spat desperately to clear her mouth.

“Feisty one, aren’t you?” he chuckled.

Lozen strained against his grip, every muscle locked in defiance, but he didn’t budge. Fear, anger, and the crushing weight of confinement tangled inside her, trapping the energy she couldn’t unleash.

The guard pulled back her hood with a rough tug, revealing her Aelfinn ears, a pinkish face dotted with some freckles, red hair, and a stocky build inherited from her Dwarfinn father. He was surprised. “A real Dwaelf! Here, in Ravnborg?”

“Tharnak!” she spat. The word a curse in her mouth, and her chest heaved with fury. “Don’t call me that.”

“An Aelf in the capital city would be a concern, given the ongoing war with Aeldoria. Suspicious. The King put three Óðinn Merks bounty on the Shadow Archer, and RIOS made it six Merks if the archer is a Dwaelf. Three more Óðinn Merks will buy mamma some clothes and a new bed—one of those fluffy kind like the Jarls have.”

“Like I care? Let me go!”

He hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “Didn’t mean no offense, little thief,” he mumbled, releasing his grip, standing, and stepping back. As she rolled over and sat up, he offered her a hand and pulled her to her feet.

“We were told to look out for a Dwaelf, but no one ever seen one.”

“Really. Stop calling me that.”

Lozen straightened up, her anger fading and giving way to curiosity. This guard was different. He hadn’t drawn a weapon or called for help, but still held her wrist. She hoped she could get out of this situation.

“Why does RIOS want you so bad?” He asked.

“What is RIOS?”

“Royal Invest—no, Royal Inter—no, Royal—I dunno Service. A nest of spy-shit, stinking all the way to Hel. We don’t ask—we just stays clear. Why are you here?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Her eyes locked with the guard’s. Should she trust him—reveal her secrets to a stranger? But something lingered in his eyes, empathy, that she couldn’t ignore. Her whispering voice carried the burden of a lifetime of rejection. “I’m here because I was exiled from Aeldoria.”

“Exiled? Kicked out? But why? You’re so young.”

Lozen spat on the ground, taking a harsh breath. “Fine, you want the story? They judged me. Said I was some half-breed piece of shit—a Dwaelf. A stain on their pure bloodlines! They kicked me out.”

“Go on,” he said, pushing her.

“I ended up living in the forest, then scrapping on the streets of Skjaldarhöfn and finally Ravnborg, just trying to find a decent score. An Elder told me about Helsgaard Keep—said they take anyone, no matter who you are. Never left, just trying to make a life.”

“Here’s the deal. You’re mine.” He grabbed her just above the right elbow with a vice-like grip, his thumb searching for the nerve bundle, causing extreme pain to the joint and sending a shock down her lower arm. “And I’m taking you to RIOS. Six Óðinn Merks!”

“Ow! That was rude!”

“Jus’ makin‘ sure we stay together.” The guard’s grip was iron on her wrist, dragging her through Ravnborg’s filth.

Lozen staggered once, twice, boots sliding in muck, bile sharp at the back of her throat. He hauled her into a narrow side street where the city noise thinned and shadows thickened.

“Hold still,” he muttered.

She coiled to strike.

He didn’t draw steel, instead, he twisted her arm to inflict a shot of pain. He rapped his knuckles on a blank stone beside a low, unmarked door.

A glass orb the size of a fist flared to life inside the wall. A face resolved in the glow—hard, sleepless eyes, no patience to spare.

“What do you want?” the orb said, the voice flat and disembodied.

The guard shoved Lozen half a step forward. “Shadow Archer. She has a bow, ears and all.”

“Turn her head so we can see her ears.”

He reached to turn her head, but she ducked away.

“Don’t touch!” she snapped, presenting her ear to the orb, muck drying on her cheek like war paint.

The eyes in the glass studied her. “Name.”

“Lozen,” she said. “From nowhere you’d like.”

A pause. “You’ve been busy, Shadow Archer, Lozen-from-nowhere.”

The guard squeezed her arm, angling for his bounty. “Six Óðinn Merks. Dwaelf bonus.”

Lozen’s teeth bared. “Call me that again and I’ll take your tongue.”

The man in the orb almost smiled. “Good. We prefer bite. Here’s the offer. You walk free tonight. At dawn you go west. Helsgaard Keep. You belong to the King. Do what we tell you, when we tell you. You don’t show?” His gaze cooled. “We name you oathbreaker. Double bounty. The kind of hunt that ends with fights over who mounts your ears on a tavern wall.”

Silence thickened.

Lozen weighed the filth under her feet, the iron grip on her wrist, the noose in every alley. West meant a chance. Here meant a dungeon and an intimate relationship with a sadist.

“Terms?” she asked.

“Take the coin. Walk out that gate. Be at Helsgaard within the half-moon. You will be contacted after arrival. That’s all.”

A drawer in the stone slid open with a wooden scrape. Gold flashed.

The guard snatched up six Merks; one remained, waiting.

Lozen looked at it—looked longer—then took it. It felt heavy. She looked at the image of the Norðrlönd god Óðin.

“Done,” the orb said. “We’ll know if you run.”

The glass went dark.

The guard released her. For a heartbeat they just stood there.

“Gate’s that way,” he said roughly. “Don’t make me feel stupid for not dragging you to the King.”

Lozen wiped her mouth with the damp rag, spat the last of Ravnborg’s taste onto the stones, and walked.

Unter Ravnborg waited with its crooked roofs and kinder shadows. Tomorrow she’d turn stolen goods into food and a pack. After that—the red rock on the western ridge. Helsgaard.