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 Odin’s Merks bounty on the Shadow Archer, and RIOS made it six Merks if the archer is a Dwaelf. Three more Odin’s 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-skitr, 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 skitr—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 Odin’s Merks!”

“Ow! That was rude!”

“Jus’ makin‘ sure we stays together.” The guard’s grip was iron on her arm, 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, street muck drying on her cheek and chin 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, Lozen-from-nowhere, Shadow Archer.”

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

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

The man in the orb almost smiled. “Nice! 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.” His gaze cooled. “ You don’t show? We name you Skaldvárr—oathbreaker. Double bounty. The kind of hunt that ends with fights over who wears your pointed ears around their neck.”

Silence thickened.

Lozen weighed the filth under her feet, the iron grip on her arm, 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 Nordlund god Odin.

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

The ball went dark.

The guard with the vice grip released her. For a heartbeat they just stood there, looking at each other.

“Gate’s that way,” he said roughly. “Don’t make me regret bringing you here.”

She wiped her mouth with the damp rag, spat the last of Ravnborg’s taste onto the stones, and watched as he walked away.

“Good luck, kid,” he called over his shoulder.

Lozen stopped, confusion clouding her face. After a few paces, he yelled, his voice booming through the alley. “Hey! Come back! Halt! In the name of the King!”

Shouting as he ran down the empty streets, Lozen’s eyes widened in disbelief. Realization dawned on her—this was the deal she had signed up for. The guard did his part and got paid. She got paid and now it was her turn. With a rush of adrenaline, she dashed around the corner and pressed up against the wall.

“Halt! Come back!” echoed through the streets.

The main gate, her gateway to freedom, was ahead. Gratitude washed over her for being given a new chance in life.

She grinned. The guard was too busy focusing on his bounty to notice that he’d left her with everything she’d stolen. Ravnborg’s shadows stretched behind her, but beyond lay Unter-Ravnborg—the dark streets where patrols feared to tread. Tomorrow, she’d buy a new pack, supplies, sell the stolen goods and find a moneychanger to break the Odin’s Merk. Then—Helsgaard—the red rock fortress on the western ridge. A new future. A place where she can stop hiding and finally call home.

A Note to the Reader (or the Uninitiated)

Forget the hearth fire and the hero's journey. You are about to step into the Helsgaard Chronicles, a saga forged in ash, blood, and the black, cynical humor of a twenty-year military scar.

This isn't a book; it's a butcher’s floor, and you're the next one in line.

Within these pages—stretching through Helsgaard’s Heroine, Helsgaard’s Fury, and the rest—you'll find the grim truth of a world populated by warriors, witches, dragons, necromancers and the monsters men make of themselves. It is a world of dark, visceral power, where the only thing cheaper than a life is a promise.

We deal in violence ranging from petty, soul-crushing degradation to the wet work of battle. Swearing is in the tradition of the Old Norse—so, yes, you'll be exposed to the coarseness of warriors. There is also cost and consequences for the cold reality of child abandonment.

Still clinging to fairytales? Bless your soft, unscarred heart.

You won't find kindly wizards, noble swords, or damsels in distress. Here, the damsels are the ones causing the distress. This isn't heroes versus villains—it's raw politics, cold betrayal, and the taste of mud in your mouth. Peace is bought with the last thread of hope you dared to keep.

DO NOT CONTINUE IF:

You like your sieges tidy. Expect tactical maneuvers, ambushes, and one-on-one melée fights.

You prefer your battles clean. Swords stick in ribs, shields splinter, limbs scatter, and heads roll. Don't look for a neat cut; this is a desperate, ugly mess.

You squirm at a slow, ugly death, the bite of a corrosive, sarcastic joke, or the brutal, inescapable consequences of child abandonment.

Your version of 'roughing it' involves a campfire and a sing-along.

If you crave torchlit keeps, scarred Rangers, and a half-Aelf girl with a blue blade and a red-hot temper—then welcome. You’re twisted enough to survive.

A full glossary is provided for those too soft to infer, but frankly, if you need a Rosetta Stone to decipher a little Old Norse, you’re already behind.

Now, pack your armor. Pour a strong drink. When it all goes to Hel, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I honestly don't care.