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Volume One of a blistering new
Sword & Sorcery series
The Wolf Who Would be King.

When a young thief attempts a robbery at the
Royal Palace he gets more than he bargained for -
a meeting with the King!  But this is no average
King, he was once a thief himself.

And so begins the saga of a young Northern
barbarian’s first  encounter with the
ancient civilisation of Adelphis.
Of the danger that lurks beneath the
sophisticated veneer.
Of conspiracy and unholy sorcery.
And of how a lone wolf becomes leader of
the biggest pack of thieves in town!

Classic pulp S&S in the spirit
of Robert E Howard

Available in paperback and PDF / Epub download  



       The young thief slid through the open window and, unhooking the grapple from the ledge, wound the rope swiftly up behind him. He glanced outside but all was quiet, save for the distant whisper of the sea and a soft night breeze that carried the scent of jasmine up from the garden below. As he was returning the rope to his backpack, the soft chink of harness and a low cough alerted him to the approach of  Palace Guard.  The youth moved quickly into a darkened alcove as two armoured figures strolled slowly by, talking softly as they went. Fortunately for the thief these weren’t the elite Talons but older City Guard nearing retirement age, given easy duties to see out their service.
       The thief waited until the corridor was quiet once more then, with a quick glance at the rough map he’d prepared earlier, set off with slow, silent tread towards the Royal Chambers. The time spent wooing one of the Palace maids had not been wasted and had been far from unpleasant, a most agreeable way to prepare for tonight’s excursion.
      The youth was tall and lithe, his long blonde hair restrained by a plain cloth headband. He wore a simple dark blue tunic, breeches and sandals, carrying nothing except a dagger and the pack slung over his shoulders. Two turns, another check of the map and he found himself outside the large door of what should be one of the Royal treasure rooms.
      Holding his breath, he tried the handle and gently pushed the door. It moved to his touch, the door was unlocked, swinging silently open on oiled hinges. The room interior was dark and the youth paused to allow his eyes to adjust from the soft torchlight of the corridor. Then, keeping his movements careful and deliberate, he crept forward, closing the door behind him. He almost immediately froze, some sixth sense warning of him of impending danger; was there was a slight smell of burning, perhaps? But nothing moved, the room was still.

      He crouched and, reaching into his pack, brought out a flint and candle, lighting it after a couple of strikes. Holding the candle aloft, he looked around, taking a sharp intake of breath as he noticed two things. The first was the light reflecting back from a heap of jewels in an open, wooden chest. The second was the figure of a man, half hidden in the shadows. No features were visible, just the vague outline of a wide shouldered frame. A gruff voice spoke with a lilting accent.
     “And who might you be, boy?”
      Quick as a flash, the thief responded. “My name is Laertes, I’m a serving boy. It’s my first day here, I got lost in the corridors.”

     There was a low rumble of laughter from the dark.
      “Bel’s balls, you are no serving boy. You are a thief!”
     The youth shifted nervously, hand automatically seeking the hilt of his dagger.
      “Are you a thief also, then, come to steal the Royal gems?”
 The figure moved forward into the dim light, the youth gasped and his hand dropped away from the dagger. The powerfully built man wore a plain but finely tailored, knee length white tunic. At his belted waist was a poniard in an ornate green sheath. Cold, grey eyes regarded the thief from a scarred face, framed by long, dark hair and silver-shot beard.
      “I’m no thief, boy. I’m the King.”


With a snarl Llorc covered the last gap in a mighty leap then, drawing his sword, dropped from rooftop to awning to ground. Charging forward like a mad bull, he hit the group around the door like a hurricane. His first stroke bit into a Militia man’s neck, the return swipe cut another deep in the back, then his thrust caught a third under the chin as the man turned to face the new threat. A gout of bright scarlet glistened in the torch glow as the man went down, choking on his own blood.
 The rest of the group turned to face Llorc. Without pause he hurled himself into them.
           It was not as reckless a move as it seemed, in amongst the group Llorc had the advantage of a target rich environment. By contrast, his enemies got in each other’s way and none could get a clear swing at him. The leather armour absorbed many cuts and slices, while Llorc’s sword weaved an ever-moving web of steel; a thrust into a belly, a vicious upward cut that took off a hand at the wrist, followed by a flick across the eyes of another attacker. Within seconds he had disabled several of the men and at a command from the red headed warrior, the Milita fell back.  

            Llorc took advantage of the pause to shake the blood from his sword and wipe the sweat from his eyes. Another shout from Redhair and Llorc heard many footsteps approaching from behind. No matter, if he was to die, at least it would be in battle, fighting to his very last breath. A savage smile played upon his face and the blood pounded in his ears. A song of old heroes rang in his ears as he pointed his sword at Redhair and prepared for a death charge…