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    Hearts of Gold: Holin and Kale, #1
    Hearts of Gold: Holin and Kale, #1
    Hearts of Gold: Holin and Kale, #1
    Ebook172 pages2 hours

    Hearts of Gold: Holin and Kale, #1

    By Hollis Shiloh

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    About this ebook

    A dragon-slayer. A magician. A forbidden love stronger than all the forces of the kingdom. How can Kale pass up the chance to set things right with the only man he ever loved, no matter the risk? 


    Dragon-slayer Kale has loved Holin all his life. Even before he knew what love was. Certainly before he could admit to it. 

    The boys grew up squabbling, playing, learning to fight dragons together, and exploring their confusing new feelings for each other. 

    But in a world where dragon-slayers and magicians are sworn enemies, fate tore them apart: Holin developed magic. And Kale has never stopped regretting it. 

    Now, after years apart, they accidentally meet in a small inn.… 



    Length: 43,000 words 

    Contains violence (dragon-slaying) 

    Contains sexual content between two men 

    Heat level: Medium 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSpare Words Press
    Release dateNov 24, 2015
    ISBN9781516380701
    Hearts of Gold: Holin and Kale, #1

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      Book preview

      Hearts of Gold - Hollis Shiloh

      Copyright 2013 Hollis Shiloh - Cover design by Spare Words Press - All rights reserved.  Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. - All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental. (3rd edition).

      Hearts of Gold

      by Hollis Shiloh

      The dragon lunged, hissing, claws scrabbling on the hard-packed earth.  Lini whirled and galloped.  Kale crouched low in the saddle, holding his spear, ready.

      The dragon stopped as suddenly as it had lunged, just missing Lini's tail and back hooves.  Kale glanced back. The dragon heaved for breath.  The arrows sticking from its sides trailed blood.  Kale hefted his spear.  He touched the reins, and Lini stopped. 

      This was the last blow before he got out his sword. And he'd used up all his arrows.  It had to be right.  Fly true, he told his spear, over the pounding of his heart.  Kale twisted in the saddle and threw.

      The shaft found its way: a glancing blow to the chest.  Kale winced. The dragon wheeled aside, and the spear clattered to the ground. 

      It roared, foul breath almost visible in the air, and charged again.

      Kale touched his heels to Lini's sides, and she sprang away.  But he could feel the exhaustion in her.  Her heart alone carried them now.  Her strength had faded to a point nearly equal to the wounded dragon's.

      Kale stopped her again, just short of the dragon's lunge, and again she turned, pawing the ground, and snorted, ready.  Kale too was tired of running, and he had no more arrows.  If they didn't spring for the killing blow soon, the dragon would either escape or kill them.

      Around them, the land lay desolate and bare, everything burned by dragon fire.  What had once been a house stood not far away; the clean stretch of level land must've been a field, once.  And nearby, a well.  He would need it desperately, afterwards. 

      If he made it that far.

      Now, Lini, he murmured, and drew his sword.  It sang as he pulled it from its sheath.  And he thought, as he always did at this moment: Holin.  If only—

      He shoved the thought aside ruthlessly.  There was no one to help him now, and never would be.  It was his own fault, too, so he should just get used to it.

      There!  Lini judged her moment and sprang, throwing her whole body, her whole self into the charge.  Kale swung his sword and leaned, holding hard to her saddle, and—

      The dragon snapped, twisting, but it was afraid now, and instead of charging toward them, it sprang back.  Kale's blow tipped its head.  A quick stream of blood showed he'd cut, but only slightly.  Lini whinnied her fierce, dragon-slaying anger, sprang after the dragon, and Kale swung and swung and swung.

      With a sickening chop, he found the neck.  Kale dug his heels in.  Lini sprang away as the dragon's tail began to lash: the death throes.  She ran away and stopped, sides heaving, flesh quivering. 

      Good girl.  He reached down and patted her side, soothing the other half of his team.  Lini was neither a large horse nor a young one, but she had the heart of a lion.

      Sweat poured from Kale, and his sword was slick with blood, blood, dragon's blood.  He dismounted, taking a moment to look around and see if anyone was nearby.  He saw no one. 

      His legs wobbled like half-cooked jelly.  He tugged his water free, drank deeply, then turned to give Lini a drink.  She was a clever horse and managed it.  He stood by her side, one hand resting on the saddle to support himself, and together they watched the dragon's last thrash.  Now it lay still, somehow pitiful in defeat.

      My fifth heart.

      Sighing inwardly, wondering how triumph could make you feel so very low sometimes, he walked toward it.  He hadn't bothered cleaning his sword, because he wasn't done.

      He stood for a moment looking down at the great still form, its deadly teeth, jaws, legs and claws.  A brave one, this dragon.  But then they all were.  Sometimes he had to remind himself how many people and livestock they killed.  Sometimes, he almost wished he could believe they were dreadful, supernatural monsters instead of just another kind of dangerous animal.

      He began the heavy job of hacking into the hot flesh to reach the golden heart.  A smelly, exhausting job.  But he didn't dare wait till he'd rested.  Dragon deaths drew scavengers.  All sorts of scavengers.

      Even breathing through his mouth, he couldn't avoid the smell of dead dragon.  But he was skilled; he cut straight to the heart with as few cuts as possible and found it: the shining gold lump, glowing next to the dragon's heart. 

      One more heart and he would be free. 

      And then perhaps he could find Holin and apologize.  Not that anything could ever truly fix what he had done.  Or rather, hadn't.

      #

      This raw day left a man raw inside.  Lini's head hung lower and lower as she walked into the nearest inhabited town.  Kale straightened his shoulders at the thought of a meal, a bath, a warm bed.  His mouth watered for stew, bread—something other than the slap of stomach wall against stomach wall.

      Victorious dragon-slayer or no, he was worn to the bone, had used up his provisions days ago.  Aside from water and a few leaves and roots he'd salvaged, and the single rabbit he'd caught, he'd gone hungry the last two days.  Now in the less-barren land where the trees weren't burned and the grass singed, he didn't stop to hunt, but rode toward town.

      He'd sloshed well water over himself, taking off the worst of the dragon-blood, but its smell still permeated every inch of him.  In his sack, the dragon-heart rested, washed and wrapped carefully in leather. 

      In another little sack clinked the dragon teeth he'd harvested last of all, when he was almost too tired to stand.  They weren't as sharp and valuable as some: it had been a rather aged dragon.  These larger teeth were dulled with use, more for grinding that piercing.  People bought them to look at, not to make tools. 

      The leather of dragons and the flesh had no use, except to be burned in a giant bonfire.  The townsfolk would stand back, covering their noses, and afterwards work the ash into the soil, renewal and payment for ruined crops and homes, all they would get.  Life must go on.  And if you didn't burn the dragon, the rotting smell could eventually draw another dragon. 

      He led Lini, for she was too tired to carry him.  It had taken all their strength to defeat the dragon, and now they were each on their last legs, victorious but worn to bone.

      The village squatted small and tawdry and grubby in the valley past rocky fields struggling to support their thin crops, but it looked like paradise after dragon-scorched land.  He spotted the inn and tugged gently on Lini's lead.

      Come on, girl, almost there, he murmured, stumbling a little in his exhaustion.  The rest of the way—how long it seemed, now that he was nearly there—he struggled simply to put one foot in front of the other.

      No people flooded into the street as they entered the town; either they were a singularly jaded town, or they didn't recognize him as a dragon-slayer.  He was glad enough of it; too tired and weary to appreciate any jostling or applause.  Anonymity suited him better today.

      Ahead, he saw the tiny inn, headed toward it. 

      When he reached it, he found a large, runny-nosed, sullen-looking lad took care of the horses, and so was obliged to wait and watch and assure himself first of all that he was not a half-wit or cruel.  Lini needed tender care at present.

      And so did Kale.  When he was finally walking into the inn carrying his bag, he was obliged to catch himself against the doorway to fight off a wave of dizziness. 

      The lintel hung low, and the insides of the inn were dark and smoky—but here was warmth and the smell of food.  He made it the rest of the way indoors and plopped himself onto a rough wooden bench.  Across the room, he was aware of a shadow in the corner move, and rise, and become a man.  His gaze followed with the wariness of a warrior; but the shadowy man slipped away upstairs.

      Kale applied himself heartily to the bread, ale, and stew a young woman supplied, even sparing the energy to give her a smile.  The inn might be smoky, the stable crude, but the fare was simple and reviving.  He ate heartily, keeping his bag between his feet.  At the end of his meal, Kale felt like a new man.

      The innkeeper politely requested payment for his meal and whether he intended to stay the night—far more politely than he would've asked anyone except a nobleman or a soldier.  Kale's sword was, perhaps, a bit intimidating by his side.

      I'll stay here.  Silver clinked as he dropped it into the innkeeper's hand, and watched that man's expression change from cautious to relaxed. 

      He weighed the coin in his hand. Ah, but that may be a problem, sir.  All my beds are already full.  You may share, of course, but—

      Fine.  I'll share.  He hadn't enough money on him to want to pay the extra, no doubt exorbitant bribe to have one of the other guests leave.  As bad as highwaymen, some of these innkeepers!  Besides, Kale was too tired to care whether he slept in a palace or on a cold floor.

      And how about a bath? he asked.  How much will that cost?

      The man hesitated.  I-I'm afraid my daughter already drew a bath tonight.  We haven't time to heat fresh water.  You can bathe in the morning.

      Or I could reuse your daughter's water.  How much?  Kale frowned.  He was being so very coy.

      Ah—you misunderstand me.  That was my daughter what served you.  She does the bath-drawing too.  It was for another man what just rode into town.  You can reuse it before we slosh it onto the garden, if you want.  I'll not charge you extra—except for the use of soap and towel, he amended quickly.

      Kale hesitated and then nodded grudgingly.  Even dirty water was better than nothing, when he felt as grimy as this.  The cold well water had sloshed away only some of the top level of filth and hadn't reached the deep-down grit, sweat, and blood.  It seemed odd for the man not to charge him, but his nervous air might have been caused by fear of Kale's sword.  Not that he would ever attack an innkeeper, but the man couldn't know that.

      Handing over another payment for soap, towel, and half a bed, Kale rose wearily and followed the man into the kitchen.

      A large wooden tub crouched there like a toad, the water still faintly steaming.  The room was lit only by the kitchen fire, banked low.  Herbs and onions hung from the walls, and the kitchen still smelled of stew.  When the man left him alone, Kale dropped his sack and lost no time in stripping down and lowering himself into the water.  It wasn't clear, but it wasn't mud either, and it was still nearly hot.

      He closed his eyes and drifted.

      Steam rose gently to his nose, mixed with the smell of onion, stew, soap, and sweat.  His own and someone else's. A wave of nostalgia washed over him.  He took a deep breath, fighting back the feeling of his throat closing up.  He must be more tired than he thought.  His heart ached within a hard, frozen core: the one part of him that had never quite stopped feeling, never quite stopped hurting over Holin.

      Two boys, running through the meadow, grass blades whipping their bare ankles as they smashed wooden swords against each other.  Inevitably, one hurt the other more than intended, and their battles degenerated into fist-fights, rolling in the grass, grunting, punching till honor was satisfied. 

      If he got angry enough, he used to try to make Holin cry.  Because Holin would cry over an injured sparrow or a beautiful sunset, he thought he should cry if he hurt. But when he was in pain, Holin's face went white and his lips thin, and he wouldn't cry or cry out no matter how much he hurt.

      Kale was heavier, but Holin was faster and a vicious fighter; their battles nearly always ended in draws.  Sometimes their anger didn't waste itself completely in battle, and they stayed sullen and angry over dinner, refusing to look at one another.  He remembered the way Holin held his chin high, his eyes blank, as if Kale couldn't still see the pain and offended pride behind them. 

      He remembered the smell of Holin's soft/hard body and damp hair, in his arms afterwards in the narrow

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