A Soulmate Erased Read online

  A Soulmate Erased

  Book 1 - Heartbeats & War Drums

  by

  Amber Savage

  A Soulmate Erased

  Book 1 - Heartbeats & War Drums

  Copyright © 2020 Amber Savage.

  All rights reserved. Including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Sneak Peek

  About the Author

  Prologue

  A thousand years in the blink of an eye

  Heartbeats and war drums echo the soul

  The threads of history or just a lie

  Is it just an image we can't control?

  Two men at the helm of time

  The root of consequence ever-present

  The pursuit of love and the quest for claim

  The games of kings dictate the peasant

  Valley streams and Highland tradition

  The power of foresight in the heart of the brave

  Trumpets call the archers to arms

  While assassins steal the day

  Chapter 1

  Magnahul sentries stood watch while scouts ascended the ridge under the cover of darkness. They had departed soon after sunset in a race against the imminent rise of a full moon. Darkness was critical to the success of their mission.

  The almost-vertical ascent in snow-covered terrain took them a thousand feet into the heavens and above unexpected developments. Perched amidst the inhospitable grounds they remained, undetected.

  The veil of night presented risk entwined with opportunity. They guarded against one and took advantage of the other.

  This close to the Arctic circle, without the filter of a polluted horizon, moonlit nights took on shades of royalty. From the cobalt tones of the starry sky to the lilac hues of grasslands that ensconced vast areas of snow-covered giant firs, and the black satin of the brackish inlet that pierced the land like a Celtic dagger, the Scottish northwest high above the Atlantic settled in for a long night.

  If it weren't for the grievous tension in the air, it was a glorious night to behold.

  The early fourteenth century was a fork in time for the history of western civilization. It was the cradle of what would unfold over the next millennia and beyond.

  The choices that were made here, the actions that ensued, and the alliances that were forged laid the path for the rest of history. What man did here as a species echoed through time and defined our trajectory.

  We are who we are because of this point in time and this place in space.

  The winds of change had fueled the prospect of war. At the head of the fifty-thousand strong army was Adelstan Magnahul, a warrior for his clan and statesman for all.

  A greater dichotomy in man had never existed - someone who had thrust his dagger into a thousand hearts without hesitation, yet despised war.

  It was evident that he wasn't a coward, but that he preferred a better way.

  He was a true tactician who knew that the efficacy of war lay before the first arrow flew. The threat of war was more formidable than the battle itself and to that extent, Magnahul had built an army greater than anything the British Isles had ever seen.

  The council that called the warriors to arms and dispatched the scouts up Druim Dionadair sat in session as more men prepared for battle outside. Magnahul had three councils over which he presided - religious, trade, and war. Although he never said a word, he always found it curious that the men of God and the men of war had more in common with each other than with the men of trade. Today, the priest and the traders had nothing to contribute.

  Lord Magnahul listened to his advisors in a tent that was divided, almost equal in number, between two factions. Those who lobbied for war immediately were not in possession of their full faculties.

  A dark hand had convinced them that this was in everyone's best interest, and they did their best to convince their lord.

  Those who lobbied for war later presented a greater complexity. Their intentions and methods were suspect. What both sides agreed on unanimously was that war had become inevitable.

  Now or later, it was just a matter of time.

  Crackling fires lit the fifty-man tent that hosted just eleven men seated at the table of the war council. The Magnahul Ridires of the Endecagon have sat themselves at this table for more than two centuries.

  In that time, a descendant of Angus Magnahul had always been present. The man who sat there today was the eighth Magnahul in an unbroken chain of men who stood almost seven feet tall, towering over the minds of his people.

  The great hall was warmed by the flames of three hearths that raged within. These fires had never been extinguished and burned with such ferocity that even the north-coast torrential could not douse it through the fenestra above.

  Rugs of maroon signifying the blood of man that had been spilled over the generations were crisscrossed with streaks of yellow signifying their valor.

  It covered the otherwise dusty earth beneath. The timber pillars that supported the massive tent were adorned with the shields, helmets, and insignia of the Magnahul warriors who had traded their lives for the immortal honor of being remembered in this hall.

  The hawks who saw war as the solution for everything rained fire and brimstone that evening in their prophecy.

  Magnahul understood their position.

  He had been listening to them for fifty years, and while he was not of the same mind as his father's contemporaries, he gave them the respect they deserved.

  After all, each man had served valiantly, contributed much, and sacrificed even more for the clan that bore his name.

  His leadership was not carved in the chest of his foes where his sword found their mark, but in the furnace of his mind that saw laughing children with full bellies in warm homes. War would not allow that. Only prosperity would.

  He fought when he had to and vanquished his enemies every time, but it was never his first choice. While the council had grown to respect his decision, it was, after all, a war council. Asking them to not consider war, would be akin to asking the heart to not beat.

  The peace that settled on the land did not balance on the tip of a sword but rather the foresight of the wise men in Adelstan Magnahul's trade council. When given a chance, greed can balance aggression. The clans across the ridge, beyond the lake, and across the cove had set up their own economic councils and the desire for wealth through trade overcame the desire for blood.

  By dividing the labor and balancing the specialization, each clan prospered.

  All that had come to a halt today. The drums of war had grown too loud to ignore.

  The war council elders felt that peace had been maintained by unnatural means. It had been designed by Magnahul himself when he replaced his father at the head
of the clan fifty years ago.

  They had opposed the idea and secretly attributed it to the inexperience of the boy-leader or the possibility that he was a coward.

  He was neither.

  The gift that no one recognized was the boy's tactical prowess. Over the fifty years since his ascension, he had led the clans, his and his enemy's, to prosperity beyond their wildest notion.

  The population had grown, alliances had been forged, prosperity had become a way of life. His path to peace was paved by mutual prosperity instead of mutual destruction.

  Secretly, he harbored the desire to bring all the clans under one flag, defined by the cold seas in the north and the channel that divided the Gauls and the English in the south.

  Magnahul was the embodiment of gravity. It seemed like the clouds, waters, and rocks parted in his presence while mere mortals did his bidding. Physically, he stood six and a half feet tall and was as thick as an oak tree. That visual heft was eclipsed by his intelligence and his accomplishments. His crimson beard, braided into double barrels, tamed every strand on his face that had been beaten, but had not succumbed, to gashes in combat and hard winters in the open.

  Rarely did sound pass the guards at his lips. But when they did, they fell with the gravity of a command not the pleasantry of a request. Adelstan's fiber was not to be misunderstood.

  He was not malicious, but he showed no signs of pity. He was not selfish, but always ambitious.

  His foresight resulted in a bay full of birlinns - ninety-two in total, with another eighteen in the docks at various stages of completion. Each birlinn was built with a central mast forty feet tall and supported a square sail.

  It could be powered by wind, or by the 32 oarsmen that sat below deck.

  Magnahul had made sure the full complement was cycled through the decks with three hours of rowing for each man on board. Each ship was designed to carry one hundred men with no canons, or thirty canons with minimum complement.

  The birlinns, in warship configuration, allowed his men to circle the island faster than any of the other clan's skimmers or vessels. He could sail up behind any ship that sailed the northern sea and compel its surrender or sink it.

  The choice was theirs.

  The only time he had done this was when they had a fleet of thirty ships, more than twenty years earlier. Magnahul and chased and sunk twelve vessels who do not heed the Highlander's warning.

  As much as they were Highlanders, their marine skills were far superior to the Normans in Gaul, with whom they shared a common ancestry or the Welsh and English in the south.

  The land they occupied was a fertile valley surrounded on three sides by a horseshoe ridge. The northern ridge, Druim Dionadair stood on top of vertical cliffs.

  Along the ridge that circled Anderhal Bay were small garrisons with well-stocked supplies. They dominated the high ground that towered over the northern valleys and the highlands in the east. They formed the second line of defense against marauders.

  The first line of defense was the hundreds of spies that roamed the countryside and lodged with criminals and bandits. Anyone one who planned an attack on Anderhal Bay would be met with the garrisons on the ridges. No army had ever penetrated the defenses of the Magnahuls in thirty years, no one had tried in twenty.

  Until now.

  Chapter 2

  The suave and lean-built Rylen Hagan expertly navigated his brand-new Giraldi Avian across the busy sky avenue.

  He was on his way to the camel races on the outskirts of town. The power controls still had a lot more travel and he was already weaving in and out of traffic as recklessly as he could.

  It was no fun for him to fly in straight lines. It was better to zig and zag in heavy traffic.

  The Giraldi Avian had just hit the market. It was the Lamborghini of the twenty-fifth century. Stylish, fast, and bold. The current state of the art model was fitted with an advanced gravity matrix for better altitude control and powerful magnapropulsion for speed and acceleration.

  Rylen Hagan was one of the first in the city to get it. In fact, Giraldi Automotive insisted on it.

  Having the best time pilot driving one of their cars was a powerful statement. The trip from home to the race track would ordinarily take over an hour, but Rylen left late to give himself an excuse to push his Avian to the limits.

  Sky avenues had eliminated the undulating and curvy roads that previous generations had been used to when driving on old fashioned wheels.

  The paths had to follow terrain which allowed drivers to feel the exhilaration of speed on narrow and windy roads. Rylen had driven on one of those during one of his trails back to the 21st century.

  In fact, he had had so much fun that he caused a four-car accident that altered a significant chunk of the future and there was a lot of clean up to deal with there too.

  Did he learn his lesson? Obviously not.

  That would not be Rylen Hagan. His seniors kept an eye on him, not to discipline him, but to make sure they could contain any of his catastrophes should they occur. They were covering their hides from their superiors. The politics of cover-up suited Hagan well.

  He was a lady's man, but no one could ever accuse him of being a flirt. That was not his style.

  He was intelligent and it was obvious in his choice of words. He didn't have to speak obsequiously or con his way into an engagement for a Saturday night.

  He was a man's man - in full control of his destiny and the women of all shapes and sizes could pick up on his confidence a mile away. He possessed every room he walked into, and every ear within audible distance of his calm baritone voice hung to every syllable that chimed, like poetry from a sage.

  Intelligence and style were not his problems. Ability and achievement came in spades.

  Rylen Hagan just had no ability, nor need for discipline. He flew by the seat of his pants and had the guts to back it up. His mistakes were unforced errors that pushed him to learn and created problems for him to solve. He was too smart for his own good.

  That was all true until he met Clarissa. Clarissa was the calming force that didn't smother him, but acted like a damper - just enough to put him on the right direction without killing his spirit.

  There was something about the way they met. It was almost magical. There was something even more about the way he felt when he met - like they were meant for each other and that it was destiny.

  No woman alive had ever transmitted or evoked that kind of vibe in him.

  Within a year of meeting, he had proposed. Her "Yes" had arrived even before he had finished the question. Hagan presented her with a Zarcionian Sapphire, mined from the dark side of the moon as an engagement ring.

  It was the hardest material in the solar system, and she never took it off. They would be married within five years after he had won the Nobel. He was building another time machine and was certain it would land him the coveted honor.

  After he proposed, his usual antics evaporated. Hagan made his jumps without incident and was back on track for his promotions. The superiors he reported to reveled in the favorable turn of events. His intelligence had met direction and he was on an upward trajectory. He attributed the fulfillment in his life and the peace that he was experiencing to her account.

  In short order, five years were up. His pod was coming to conclusion, and there were rumors abound that he was going to be nominated the coming year for the Nobel. Their plans to wed were also picking up steam and things couldn't be better.

  Chapter 3

  Magnahul listened to the advice of his council with great interest. He seemed to be looking for the right tone and the perfect words that would push him over the line and declare war. Those who knew him, though, knew better. Instead of wanting to be convinced, Magnahul was looking for the traitor.

  The Magnahul clan had sworn an absolute allegiance. An oath to follow and obey the decision of the leader. It had not been broken in a thousand years. It was the tie that bound them to each other and the secret to the
success of the clan.

  This was not a democracy.

  The Highlanders did not like democracies. They had heard what it did to their distant kin in the south.

  All the men who were advocating war behind the scenes had stepped back from making any vociferous push during the meeting. They were not making a full stand but pushed from the sidelines.

  Plausible deniability for treason is a good reason to not give full-throated support for the outcome one promotes.

  Instead, a behind-the-scenes campaign had been in the works since spring. The men who were calling for war now did so on moral and security platforms - no doubt convinced by the snakes in the grass. It was the perfect assault on the council.

  Scouting parties from the south arrived and entered the council's tent. They brought word that ships from Glasgow had been spotted entering Loch Linnhe and straight into Anderhal Bay.

  They would pass Galanncoe in less than a day. The banner they flew carried the pole-ax, the insignia of the Anstruthers. By the following daybreak, they would be on attack footing.

  "How many?" Magnahul asked, quietly.

  "Fifteen, m'lord. All under the same banner."

  He turned his sights to the council members who were now ready to lay their lives for the clan.

  Magnahul had set his sights on the pallid and gaunt Flyster Kendric. A man with thinning silver hair and a beard that was as scarce as his skin was pale.

  He had never experienced the hilt of a sword in battle but saw the profits in war painted by the blood of others. More importantly, he could envision the value his wealth could bring against the backdrop of widespread poverty.

  Kendric owned the foundry. Forging iron ballast boxes for warships was more profitable than milling stew pots and carpenters' hammers.

  There was another benefit. His feeble state would mean that he could abstain from the battlefield while Magnahul would be on the front lines. If Adelstan didn't return from battle, Kendric's wealth and influence would catapult him into the chair Magnahul sat on.