Contents
Strife & Valor
Title Page
Copyright Info
Epigraph
1
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Author Bio
A DARK FANTASY HAREM ADVENTURE
BY
REGINA WATTS
PUBLISHED BY PAINTED BLIND PUBLISHING
PO BOX 35, ASHLAND, OR 97520
Burningsoul Book II: Strife & Valor
© 2021 Regina Watts
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the express written consent of Regina Watts.
Text: Regina Watts
Cover & Typesetting: M. F. Sullivan
http://www.hrhdegenetrix.com
http://www.paintedblindpublishing.com
publicity@paintedblindpublishing.com
This novel is a work of fiction, along with its characters, locations, and events, and all fictional persons depicted within it are of the real American age of consent. Any resemblance to known persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
WELTYR: Now bridle your steed,
Valiant warrior maiden!
A frenzied fight
Is about to be unleashed.
Let Brynhildr storm to battle;
Let her secure victory for the Wotsung!
Let Hunding lie
Where he falls;
He’s no good to me in the Valor Hall.
So get ready for war,
Ride fast into battle!
BRYNHILDR: Hojotoho! Hojotoho! Heiaha! Heiaha!
—A common tongue translation of an ancient song of Weltyr,
interpreted in the time of Rorke Burningsoul
BRANWEN’S HERO
BRANWEN’S RESCUE CAME second-nature to me. It would have been that way for anyone I found in peril, but from the first second I glimpsed those familiar gold curls framing her bright green eyes, my body launched into motion. The misshapen bandits around us hissed and drew arms, but Strife was already hot in my hand. I dove into the fray, my as heart gladdened by the sound of Indra’s crossbow as by the clinking of Odile’s dagger.
And what of Valeria? I wondered about her battle prowess as I ducked a swinging flail. This new angle permitted me to drive the point of my broadsword up into the diabolical centaur’s spider abdomen. Just as the ichor of its insides splattered upon the cavern floor, my limbs chilled with the strange kiss of a cool breeze that made no sense in the subterranean Nightlands.
A quick inspection revealed phantom armor had enrobed my body. It appeared as though tendrils of smoke had furled around me to produce a set of plate mail. This armor, despite its semi-transparent appearance, did a better job of protecting me from the dart shot by a nearby bandit than would have my tunic alone. Before I dealt with the shooter, I followed the magical fog that unfurled from my back like the spectral threads of an invisible loom.
The spools from which they unwound were the fingertip of Valeria. The elegant Materna of the durrow people emitted this magical energy from her hands even without the ring she had sacrificed to save my life.
The sight of her naked fingertip irked me. I turned, hefting Strife just in time to parry the scimitar of a scurrying coward who had hoped to overtake me while my gaze was diverted. The fools did not know I had only just done battle with a spirit-thief, the sorcerer Al-listux, and that I was in no mood to trifle with feral thieves of the Nightlands. While the force of Strife’s parry snapped the scimitar in twain, the misshapen’s eyes widened in horror. The continued force of my blade introduced him to Oppenhir as the greenish vital fluid of the spider-centaur splattered out across the floor. This ichor reminded me, for a flash, of the acidic spirit-thief blood that got me into all this mess. Those squid-headed demons were owed my thanks, in a way, yet I loved them no more for it, I confess.
It was true I had not spent very long in slavery, and that I had consented to it: I had honored the word sworn to Odile and Indra when they revived me from that first battle in the den of the spirit-thieves. But Weltyr—Praise the One True Light!—was the one who guided me to and saw me through those shadows, and brought me out on the other side not just to freedom, but rewards. I had Valeria’s love, and Odile and Indra’s affection, too.
And now, I had the opportunity to forgive Branwen.
“Rorke,” cried the most agonizing of those three party members who betrayed me in the spirit-thief den. The beautiful high elf struggled against the spider webbing in which she’d been encased, going on with a gasp, “Thank Anroa! Oh, I’m so relieved to see you still alive—”
That forgiveness my god challenged me to produce was going to be a tall order. I looked at her somewhat coldly in spite of just how mutual that relief was, then turned to catch the arm of a bandit with Strife’s steel edge.
“After the way you left things between us last time,” I told Branwen without looking at her, “I never thought I’d hear you say a thing like that.”
While the howling bandit stumbled back from the blow and I jerked Strife out of his arm, the elf’s great blue eyes filled with tears. Still wiggling in her bonds, she cried out when Odile first hurried to her with the dagger; then, as the dark elf rogue made short work of tearing open the spider-webbing around the captive druid, Branwen’s expression of fear faded to one of surprise.
“I’m sorry for what I did to you back in the spirit-thief den,” cried Branwen.
By then, I was too busy to respond. I raised my arm and caught a sword’s blow against the hard fog of Valeria’s spirit armor. As the phantom gauntlet rattled with the energy, I thrust Strife forward and pierced the bandit’s humanoid gut. He howled in pain to be disemboweled, falling back upon the earth while Indra at last took down the misshapen who had been blowing cruelly-tipped poison darts to little avail. At the impact of her bolts, the shooter screamed and gripped his wounded arm. His eyes, though lacking pupils as were these eyes of all
