Excerpt: The Sons of the King

Brelan reached the top of the hill before the sun's rays painted and filled the the grey pre-dawn light. The mountains stood above him, Castle Rulta sat below, her hewn walls blending and merging with the cold rocky face of the hills. The morning was cold, and the autumnal chill invaded deeper as the paths climbed higher.

His horse snorted and swayed beneath him and pawed the path. Their breath rose visible for an instant, curling and wisping in thin spirals before it vanished in the sunlight.

“Come on, then.”

He squeezed his thighs together and the horse snorted again and pushed forward, ears flicking forward and back and pricking high. His hooves beat a ringing rhythm against the rocks and stones of the path and his legs strained against gravity and his own weight until sweat dampened the black hairs and they reflected the rising yellow sun with a dim glow.

His sword clinked and clattered at his back. His horse's harnessing rattled and rang and sang. The world spread out below him. Hills and fields grew into steppes and forests. Roads crossed them, connected them, and as the sun rose higher he could see small figures of farmers and herdsmen as they went about their business and their tasks.

The mountain was cold. Jagged. Alive. Her air filled his lungs, bit at the ends of his fingers and his feet and made him feel alive. His eyes watered and stung as freedom flowed and broke against his face. His saddlebags were packed and full. His mount was strong, eager. Freedom was his. Academic learning gave way before more physical needs and the bloodthirsty demands and threats of the northern bandits.