An elf princess in exile. A pirate with a promise. A war that will unite or destroy them.
Princess Shuka, once a
proud and pampered elf of the Southern Lands, is stranded in the treacherous
Marshes of Mu after a devastating dragon attack. Her world is overturned when
she falls into the clutches of fearsome marsh wights and is rescued by the jaunty
pirate, Captain Rolf Fox.
Rolf vows to restore
Shuka to her father, even though her haughty demeanor taxes his patience. The
challenges escalate after he discovers Shuka’s father has already left her for
dead. Emperor Raglan’s fleet of dragon ships threatens to invade the Marshlands,
and Rolf must organize the defense against this
implacable enemy. With war on the horizon, he is torn between his duty to
his people and his promise to Shuka.
Shuka must swallow her
pride and join forces with the pirate and the barbaric Marshmen to defeat the
enemy invaders before she can sail home. As battle rages and passions ignite,
will they triumph over a relentless enemy or will their differences tear them
apart?
Book 3 in the Oakenwald Chronicles.
See Buy Links at https://www.auroraspringer.org/p/princess-shuka-and-pirate-king.html
Read the first chapters:
Chapter 1
Shuka
fled.
Pulse
thudding in terror, she sprinted toward the barrier of tall sedges on the
fringe of the marshes. Taller than a man, the bullrushes offered concealment
and perhaps safety.
A
gust of wind from the beating wings of the great beast blew a narrow gap in the
wall of rushes.
Her
hood slipped off her head, exposing her veiled face, and her cloak billowed
out. She clutched the folds of her cloak and dashed into the gap. Brushing
aside the tall reeds, she ran along the narrow strip of mud between stretches
of swampy water. The back of her neck itched in anticipation of the hot breath
of the dragon.
Shouts
and cries sounded from behind. A battle?
A
woman shrieked.
Was
that Musa?
Shuka’s
foot slipped in the mud.
She
clutched at a swaying stalk and regained her balance with an effort. Consigning
the fate of her fusspot attendant to a distant part of her mind, she hastened
deeper into the perilous Marshes of Mu. She jumped over a small stream of smelly
brown water and hopped from one clump of reeds to the next.
The
noises of combat faded as she ran. Instead, the wind rustled the dry sedges on
all sides. This gentle susurration did not reassure her. The forest of reeds
might conceal her from an enemy on the ground. But that demonic dragon could
fly.
Cringing
in fear of an attack from above, she skidded to a halt and glanced up. The
gloomy clouds held no winged beast. Or not yet.
She
looked down. Half-sunk in the sticky sludge, her travel boots were soaked and
filthy. She plucked her feet out of the mud, one by one, and hurried
onward.
The
track veered around a murky pool.
Weary
from her unaccustomed run, Shuka slowed and edged along the mud bank. She eyed
the sluggish stream warily. Did evil demons lurk in the depths?
Water
gurgled.
A
hideous creature leaped out of the pool. Half toad and half man with scrawny
limbs, the yellow slimy thing seemed the embodiment of evil.
She
screamed.
A
second toad-man hopped onto the muddy bank.
The
hideous creature dove at her and dug its clawed fingers into her leg.
She
fell.
Pain
flared in the side of her head.
Chapter 2
Rolf
Fox poled his wooden punt along the water channel that meandered toward the
western edge of the Marshes of Mu.
Poggle,
his orange-striped ferret, propped its front paws on the side of the punt and
peered into the reeds. The ferret was invaluable for warning of danger. Its
sensitive nose and ears would register the scent and sound of any prowlers
lurking in the tall grasses.
For
the past week, Rolf had stayed with his Aunt Polly and Uncle Marlin Fisher.
Their homestead lay on the northern border of the marshes by the foothills of
the Gray Mountains. His usual habit was to visit in this season to help his kin
prepare for the stark winter months.
News
of an attack on Ebbasmouth had percolated to the homestead via a trio of
travelers rom Bogstown headed for the mountain trail to Lake Rindlemere. Some
days earlier, a fleet of dragon ships had invaded the harbor of Ebbasmouth.
Enemy soldiers rampaged through the streets, burning houses and killing
townsfolk. The travelers described the exodus of townsfolk fleeing the ruthless
invaders. With the port town held by the enemy, the travelers feared the lower
stretches of the River Ebba were no longer safe from the dragon-prowed ships.
Aunt
Polly had exclaimed in horror, while Uncle Marlin looked grim. They relied on
trade with the townsfolk of Ebbasmouth for anything they could not grow in
their fields or garner in the marshes and the adjacent forest.
Many
of the Marshmen must also be uneasy about the enemy ships in the harbor and the
battle for the town. The entire south coast was vulnerable. The invaders with
their dragon ships threatened the lives and livelihood of Rolf’s people. The
fishermen could not sail in safety, nor could he and his crew ply their less orthodox
trade of assailing defenseless merchants ships.
Aware
of the danger, Rolf abandoned his plan for a month-long visit with his kin and
resolved to rejoin his crew in the coastal marshes. In the morning, he decided
to make a detour to the tiny village of Wallow on Riker’s Creek in the western
marshes. The freshest news of Ebbasmouth could be found at Wallow since the
villagers maintained close connections with the townsfolk.
Poggle’s
nose twitched and the ferret gave a low growl.
A
commotion ahead caught Rolf’s attention.
Such
loud splashes often heralded the scaled water devils or the marsh wights
fighting over their prey. He thrust the long pole into the muddy bottom of the
stream and sent the shallow boat gliding silently toward the noise.
Around
a shallow curve, the water channel flowed into a pool of deeper water. Two
wights were jostling over a long brown object lying on the mud bank. Two
strides farther along the bank, a third wight tossed a swath of red cloth over
its shoulder and plunged into the stream. A vee of ripples marked its rapid
passage underwater.
Rolf
narrowed his eyes to focus on the object of the wights’ dispute. The brown body
was not, as he had initially supposed, one of the water beasts. A slim brown
arm drooped into the water. Some unwary person lay unconscious or dead, trapped
under the squabbling wights.
Poggle
uttered an angry hiss.
Rolf
hated the wights’ predilection for human meat. Tempering a flare of rage, he gripped
the weapon in his hands. He swung his pole at the wights, knocking one wight
into the water. Reversing the direction of his swing, he slammed the second
wight backwards onto the mud bank.
They
must not escape and fetch their entire lodge to assault his boat.
Rolf
rotated the pole down into the water and shoved the boat toward the wight. In
one smooth motion, he drew his sword from its sheath and jumped onto the bank.
The
wight thrust the sharpened tip of its spear stick at him.
Dodging
aside, Rolf stabbed the maneater in its foul heart.
It
sank to the ground.
Poggle
squeaked.
Alerted
by the ferret, Rolf spun around.
The
first wight leaped out of the water. Claws extended, it dove at his legs.
Rolf
slashed his sword into the wight’s neck.
Blood
spurted. Its claws slipped off his leather-clad legs.
Twisting
the blade, Rolf hurled the wight onto its back.
He
stood, catching his breath and surveying the remains of the skirmish. Two dead
wights and a slim brown corpse.
The
third wight had vanished. No bubbles marked its underwater passage.
No
matter. He could slip away well before the wight summoned its lodge mates for a
fresh attack.
But
first, he ought to remove the corpse.
Sharing
his impulse, Poggle scampered to the body. The ferret nosed the limp arm and
gave an uncertain mew.
Rolf
crouched by the half-clad body. The wights had torn off the outer garments,
leaving only a long undershirt. Its original color disguised by the mud, the
wet undershirt clung to the slim torso and thighs. A woman, judging by the
rounded contours of the chest. As he watched, her chest rose and fell in shallow
breaths and the woman uttered a tiny moan. She still lived.
He
wiped off a layer of gooey mud to examine her face. Under the mud, he
discovered the face of a young woman with a dusky complexion and long black
hair tied in a braid. The delicate elegance of her features shone through the
layer of grime. He had never seen such an attractive face. Her beauty far
outshone the loveliness of his youthful betrothed, a girl long dead at the
hands of the wights.
Astonished
by his discovery, he pulled his hand away and sat on his heels. Questions swirled
through his mind. Who was she? Where had she come from? And how had she been
caught by the wights? Had she wandered unwarily into the marshes? Or had the
wights grown bold enough to raid her home? Her dark features suggested she was
not a native of this region, however, the port of Ebbasmouth attracted many
foreign traders. The unfortunate woman might have traveled on a merchant ship
from a distant land.
The
port town lay some miles to the south and west. According to his recent news,
many townsfolk had fled from their homes to escape the invaders. Refugees might
travel up the Ebba to seek shelter in the Rindle villages, or perhaps hide in
Trogsden, if the trolls were amenable to their presence in the caves. This
woman might have fled with those frightened refugees.
Poggle
chittered a sharp reminder.
They
were alone in dangerous territory and should decamp swiftly ere the wights
regrouped.
Acknowledging
the warning, Rolf patted the animal. He gathered the woman’s slight body in his
arms and jumped onto his punt.
The
ferret leaped into the prow, resuming his station as watch guard.
On a quick examination, Rolf found no bleeding wounds. He wrapped the woman in a blanket and laid her gently on the
bottom of the boat. A flash of blue on her wrist caught his attention. Partly
concealed by the long sleeve of her chemise, a gold bracelet around her wrist
bore a shiny blue stone. Why had the wights not stolen the bracelet along with
her clothes? Surely they must have seen the gleaming jewel.
He
peered closer. The sky-blue stone held curving white lines like wave crests or
thin streaks of cloud. Did the azure stone hold a magic spell to repel the
wights? He placed a cautious fingertip on the rounded edge. The tiny buzz,
although not repellent, convinced him of its power.
He
shook his head. Such wizardry was beyond his ken. He might learn more when the
woman awoke.
Picking
up the pole, he pushed off downstream in the opposite direction to the fleeing
wight.
Where
should he go? The unconscious woman would need proper clothing, and likely she
would benefit from a healer. Few people lived in the marshes. His kinsfolk,
Polly and Marlin and their children, were the nearest inhabitants. The Fishers’
stockaded homestead was proof against the marsh wights and other predators.
They would be surprised to see him again so soon. He had bade them farewell at
daybreak and poled southwest
toward the village of Wallow.
He
shrugged. No problem. The Fishers would welcome him and whomever he brought.
They had spare clothes and Aunt Polly was a notable herbwife. He thrust the
pole into the mud at the bottom of the stream and angled the punt into the side
channel leading north.
As
he poled toward the dwelling of his kinsfolk, he pondered the mystery of the
lovely woman lying in his punt. Once she woke, he might learn where she came
from. He felt honor-bound to restore her to her family if possible. Elsewise,
he could leave her in the care of the kindly Fishers.
