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When Women Were Warriors Book I: The Warrior's Path

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This is Book I of the trilogy, When Women Were Warriors. Yes, it's the complete book.  

Caution: The trilogy is all one long story, and Books II and III will cost you $9.99 each unless you download them from a torrent site. Please don't do that. Writers have to eat too.

The other two books of the trilogy are: 

When Women Were Warriors Book II A Journey of the Heart 

When Women Were Warriors Book III A Hero's Tale

Copyright © 2008 by Catherine M. Wilson. All rights reserved. 

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted herein are the product of the author's imagination and do not represent any actual persons, living or dead.

Published by Shield Maiden Press, P.O. Box 963, Boulder Creek, CA, 95006-0963

Visit our website at www.shieldmaidenpress.com

License Note: Thank you for downloading this ebook at the introductory price of 99 cents, or possibly free, if you found our free download site. If you enjoy this book, please show your appreciation of the author's work by purchasing the rest of the trilogy. Books II and III are available from Amazon.com and from many other ebookstores in multiple formats.

 

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All the women of my family had gone to war. My mother’s sisters, older than she, fought in the service of the Lady Abicel in the last war against the northern tribes. Their mother served the Lady’s mother in wars told of in grandmothers’ tales. As far back as our line was remembered, our family and hers stood side by side.

My mother too had served the Lady. Too young to bear arms in the last war, from within the palisade where she trained to take her place among the warriors, she heard the clash of arms and the screams of the dying outside the walls. She witnessed her three sisters carried lifeless from the battlefield, leaving her, the youngest, to be her mother’s heir. By the time she became a warrior, the tribes had made an uneasy peace, a peace that so far remained unbroken.

Now my turn had come. In early springtime, when I was just sixteen, my mother took me to the house where she had won her shield so many years before. The Lady Abicel, long dead, had left her house and lands, along with her authority, to her only daughter, Merin. More than ties of custom, the closest ties of friendship bound my mother and the Lady Merin. Together they trained in the use of arms. Together they were made warriors. They remained shield friends, though my mother took a husband and returned to her mother’s house. As my mother had been bound to the service of the Lady Abicel, so would I be bound to the Lady Merin’s service.

On the day I left home, before I set foot across the threshold, my mother made me a present of new shoes. She put on her oldest pair, her journey shoes that had been from home and back again so many times they knew the way. I had meant to be mindful of my first step out the door, but when I turned to leave my little sister with some words of wise advice, I tripped over the stone doorstop and stumbled out into the bright day.

“Dazzle the eye of trouble,” said my mother, to turn bad luck aside.

From the place where our footpath joined the road we took a last look back. My mother waved and blew a farewell kiss to my sister standing in the doorway. I waved too, though my thoughts were flying far ahead of me down the road to Merin’s house.

The first day of our journey took us through country I knew well. My feet had worn smooth every footpath through the pastures where we grazed our sheep. By midmorning of the second day we had left the world I knew behind. We walked through gentler hills than ours, through meadows bright with new grass where red cattle grazed. We never went hungry or lacked a place to spend the night. As we had cared for travelers who came to our door, so our neighbors cared for us. Every evening we sat by the hearth fire of a stranger. Even after so many years, their faces sometimes come to me in dreams.

On the fifth day, at midmorning, we crested the last hill, and the valley that is the heart of Merin’s land lay before us. The river that watered it appeared so tranquil from a distance that I suspected my mother of exaggeration when she warned me of its treachery, of whirlpools and swift currents that would sweep the feet out from under the unwary. Flowing from north to south, it meandered past fields still winter-brown but shimmering with the green promise of a new year. While the part of me that was still a child already missed my home, the person I would become drew me into this new place.

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