Security for hire, p.1
Security for Hire, page 1
SECURITY FOR HIRE
VALERIE STONEHOLD™
BOOK ONE
RENÉE JAGGÉR
MICHAEL ANDERLE
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LMBPN® Publishing
2375 E. Tropicana Avenue, Suite 8-305
Las Vegas, Nevada 89119 USA
Version 1.00, March 2024
ebook ISBN: 979-8-88878-842-4
Print ISBN: 979-8-88878-843-1
THE SECURITY FOR HIRE TEAM
Thanks to the Beta Readers
Kelly O’Donnell, Rachel Beckford, Mary Morris
Thanks to the JIT Readers
Wendy L Bonell
Dave Hicks
Peter Manis
Dorothy Lloyd
Diane L. Smith
Paul Westman
Christopher Gilliard
Jan Hunnicutt
Editor
The SkyFyre Editing Team
CONTENTS
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
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Author Notes Renée Jaggér
Books from Renée
Books By Michael Anderle
Connect with the authors
CHAPTER ONE
Val Stonehold dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. The tawny skin came away streaked with red, and she tasted metal.
She spat blood. “Are you guys sure you want to piss me off?”
The bartender gloomily retrieved a helmet with horns from under the bar, planted it on his head, and went back to polishing glasses.
Three dwarves grinned at Val from the wreckage of wooden barstools.
“You’re outnumbered, Eiravel,” the sturdiest one pointed out.
Val’s leather armguards creaked as her forearms flexed, hands curling into fists. “I’m amazed you can do the math, Durgan.”
Durgan’s shaggy salt-and-pepper brows drew together over the malevolent gleam of his eyes. “Get her,” he growled.
His henchmen—Brok was the one whose beard was done in two braids. Rurik had a greasy mohawk—launched at Val. She caught a whiff of their boozy breath as Brok swung a wild haymaker in her general direction. Her armguard collided with his meaty elbow as she swatted the blow away and planted her knee in his belly, doubling him over. Rurik was marginally quicker on the uptake and went for Val’s knees in a flying tackle. She delivered a kick to his sternum that sent him flying backward, scattering the intact barstools in all directions.
“Stay down, boys,” Val suggested.
Durgan plucked a hefty club off its strap at his hip. Rurik scooped himself off the floor, and Brok raised his fists, wheezing.
Val sighed. “All I wanted was to have a pint in peace.”
It wasn’t really true. The pint, yes. Outside, the Iron Hills sweltered in the heat of a West Avalonian summer, and it was a back-breaking morning in the smithy after Sleipnir showed up for shoes, as he randomly did.
Peace, though? Peace wasn’t a thing for Eiravel Stonehold. She could choose between loneliness and brawling. After nailing eight shoes onto the massive hooves of a magic stallion who did whatever he wanted, Val would gladly have opted for loneliness today.
Durgan, Brok, and Rurik didn’t give her that option. They’d strutted into the Forge, the only tavern in town, a few minutes ago, looking for trouble. Val was the obvious target. She’d been cool about it until they tipped her beer into her lap. Even then, she was pretty sure Durgan’s finger wasn’t broken.
“Then you shouldn’t have slammed your tankard down on my hand, bitch,” Durgan spat.
“Dude, it’s only bruised. Can you relax before one of us gets hurt?” Val shook a lock of her silver-blue hair out of her face.
Durgan snarled and charged, his cronies by his side. Val swiped Rurik’s feet out from under him with a swift kick to the ankles. When Brok tripped over him and sprawled at her feet, she brought her hobnailed boot down on his hand with a satisfying crunch that made him squeal like a pig.
The club swished toward Val’s ribs with bone-breaking force, but she threw out an arm, and the blow thudded harmlessly on her leather vambrace. Her eyes met Durgan’s, and he shrank back.
Be the bigger person, Eiravel. Her father’s words rippled through her mind, and her anger flared. That was the whole problem. She was the bigger person.
Durgan pulled the club back and launched it toward her ribs. It wasn’t like he could reach higher. Val ignored the blow and slammed both hands into his shoulders, throwing him back hard enough that the club flew out of his hand. Durgan crashed to the floor on his back and skidded, sending tables flying. He slammed into the wall with a force that cracked the wooden planks.
“What’s the matter, boys?” Val demanded as her opponents struggled to their feet. “Can’t take out a single dwarf on her own?”
Durgan’s incoherent rage spewed from his mouth in a bull-like bellow. He charged, head down and fists clenched, and this time, Val wasn’t quick enough. She sidestepped, but Durgan’s outstretched arms caught her around the thighs, taking her feet out from under her.
Val crashed to the floor, the impact knocking air from her lungs. Her head hit the stained, smelly wood, but her arms were free. Her hands found Durgan’s throat and wrapped around it, rewarding her with a strangled yelp. His stubby fingers raked her face but found a lock of her hair, then clenched shut.
“No!” Val croaked.
Durgan yanked. She felt the tug but no pain. Then silicone slid over her scalp.
The dwarf twisted free of her grasp and rolled to his feet. Val scrambled to her knees, breathless, and stared up at him as he held her beautiful wig aloft like a trophy. His nose was wrinkled with disgust. On her knees, Val was almost his height.
“Beast,” he growled. “You’re no dwarf.”
Redness crept into the corners of her vision and drenched her muscles with fierce heat. Val felt the change seep into her cells.
“Now you’ve pissed me off,” she snarled, her voice unnaturally guttural.
Brok and Rurik backed away, but Durgan tossed her wig aside and raised a fist to swing a right hook. He didn’t get the chance. Val was on her feet in a split second, her fingers wrapped around the grubby leather of his jerkin. She raised his squirming body above her head with a roar that stung her throat.
Brok and Rurik turned tail and bolted, but Val wouldn’t let them off that easy. With an simple flex of her shoulders, she threw Durgan across the room, arms flailing. He collided with his cronies so hard that they all crashed through the door and sprawled in the yard outside in a messy heap of limbs.
Breathing hard, Val fought the urge to go after them and stomp them into a pulp. She flexed her fingers and stood still until the rage subsided. Then she stomped back to the bar, righted a stool with a flick of her boot’s heavy toe, and flopped onto it. Her legs sprawled everywhere, and she tucked them uncomfortably under her stool, her knees jammed against the bar. She had to slouch to rest her elbows on the stained wood.
Val picked up the tankard Durgan had tipped onto its side and slammed it on the bar. “Another!”
The bartender removed his horned helmet and folded his brawny arms. “I think you’ve had enough, Eiravel.”
“Bullshit. I’d taken two gulps when those assholes came in,” Val snapped. She fished her card out of the pocket of her jerkin and smacked it on the bar. “I’ll pay for the one Durgan spilled. Get me another.”
The bartender stared at her, not moving. Eilif Forgespark was considered tall for a dwarf. His head reached Val’s ribs. Sitting, he was taller than her, and his thick white mustache drooped with disapproval.
“Look what you’ve done to this place,” he growled.
His gesture encompassed most of the tavern, which wasn’t hard. The Forge was a smoky little space no bigger than the Stoneholds’ cottage. The bar separated a cluttered selection of grimy tables and wobbly chairs from the hefty barrels of home-brewed beer that lined the back wall.
Its windows were grubby, and the thatched roof retained the s tench of pipe smoke and stale beer. The three dwarves lay groaning in the cobbled yard, and barstools and tables were littered across the earthen floor.
“Fine. I’ll pick up the chairs and tables,” Val muttered angrily. “Pour me another drink.”
“You can’t keep doing this, Eiravel.” Eilif shook his head, the iron beads in his mustache swaying. “Every time you step into this tavern, you cause some kind of shit.”
“You saw what happened,” Val protested. “I didn’t start it.”
“You start it by being here.” Eilif retrieved her tankard and put it in the concrete sink behind the bar. “Go home.”
Val went to run a hand through her hair. Her fingers slid across her smooth scalp, and a flush warmed her cheeks. She stumbled to her feet, retrieved her wig from where it lay on a table, and pulled it on. A glance at the dirty window told her that her poor wig would never be the same.
She straightened the silver-blue hair over her shoulders as well as she could and turned to Eilif. “You know this isn’t right.”
“It’s the way it is. Go home,” Eilif repeated.
Val’s fists curled, but her rage was now a tepid puddle of shame in her chest. “Fine.”
She stomped out of the tavern, ducking to fit through the doorway, and stepped over the groaning pile in the yard. Shaggy ponies studied her with trepidation from the stalls that surrounded the space as she strode across it.
“Don’t worry,” she muttered. “I know I’m too big for you.”
Val set off down the dirt road on foot, dodging ruts carved by magically powered minecarts. She lumbered between stone walls that only reached her hip and towered over thatched longhouses with wisps of woodsmoke rising from their chimneys. It was hard to pretend not to see the way that kids playing in the clean-swept front yards stared at her as she went past.
Yeah, I’m huge. I’ve been huge all my life. Deal with it, Val grumbled inwardly.
She halted at the crossroads at the top of the hill and helplessly stared at the village that sprawled around her. The Iron Hills spread in every direction, strewn with gravel and boulders, faded grass straggling over the gentle slopes. Shaggy goats and herds of ponies grazed outside the stone walls that enclosed small villages on each hilltop. To the east, the hills ended in a mountainside that climbed steeply skyward and ended in an imposing cliff banded in different colors of rock.
A heavy boom shook the ground. None of the animals reacted, nor did the kids, who were muttering about giants behind their enviably hairy little hands. Only Val turned to the west to gaze at the huge, low building that sprawled over the unnaturally flat ground at the center of the Iron Hills. Black smoke rose from its fat chimneys, and extractor fans spun on its tin roof, catching the sun.
Even Central Mine was too low for Val to walk upright under its rafters.
Val turned away, and her eye caught a movement. She stopped and squinted at the winding road that led to the Iron Hills from the main pass through the Spine.
Outsiders? It wasn’t often they came here. It wasn’t a top tourist attraction for wealthy Avalonians, unlike Fernwood Deep on the other side of the mountains. However, the two paras walking up the road toward her clearly weren’t from around here.
For one thing, they weren’t dwarves. They were even taller than Val, which gave her a swift kick of excitement. For another, they hadn’t been on that road ten minutes ago. They must have either flown or portaled in.
It hardly mattered how they had gotten here or what they wanted. This is an opportunity to talk to somebody who doesn’t know what I am.
Val smoothed her ruined wig as best she could. “Good afternoon!” she called and instantly felt stupid. Who even said that? “Hi” would have worked better, but it was too late.
The taller, more muscular of the two raised a hand. “Hi!”
Yeah, like that, Val chided herself.
It took a few moments before the paras reached her, during which Val took the opportunity to appreciate every inch of the taller one. He looked like he belonged in one of the trashy orc movies her father loved—the ones where the guy never wore a shirt. His white toga left little to the imagination, revealing pecs and shoulders that bulged under sand-gold skin, and his jaw and temples were sharply chiseled. Val’s practiced eye could tell that his honey-blond hair was a wig, but the peerless blue of his eyes was real.
“Excuse me, madam.” The bony bald para by his side squared his skinny shoulders. His voice was a nasal whine. “Are you Miss Stonehold?”
A wisp of smoke escaped his mouth as he spoke, revealing his species. Dragons, Val realized.
“I am.” Val folded her arms. “Who are you?”
“My name is Livius, and this is Axl.” The skinny dragon gestured at his statuesque companion, who gave Val the goofiest grin she’d ever seen. “We are emissaries from the Eternity Throne.” He raised his chin as he said it, eyes gleaming with pride.
“Oh, I get it. You’ve found the wrong Miss Stonehold.” Val pointed across the hills. “You’re looking for Viscountess Milda Stonehold, my aunt. She’s in Ironforge Bastion behind Central Mine.”
Axl shook his head. “Nope, she said Eiravel. Definitely Eiravel.”
“She?” Val wondered. Her shoulders sagged, and she ran a hand over her face, her excitement waning. As usual, this was about a dwarf who was more dwarven than she was.
“Look, I’m telling you this is a mistake. The Eternity Throne doesn’t send me letters. I’m nobody.” Val shrugged. “They’ll sort it out at the bastion.” She turned to go.
“Please, miss,” Axl begged. “Hear us out.”
“We have been ordered to deliver this to you.” Livius brandished a scroll tied with a silver ribbon and sealed with the crest of the Eternity Throne.
“We take our duties very seriously,” Axl added, puffing out his chest as if that were necessary.
Val stifled a groan. “Look, you’d better talk to my father. I don’t know anything about this, but maybe he does.”
“Very well.” Livius gestured. “Lead the way, Miss Stonehold.”
Val shoved her hands into the pockets of her jerkin and strode up the mountain path, hoping the dragons could keep up. The distant blast and rumble of iron ore being drawn from the ground beneath her feet was unceasing, but she tuned it out as she followed the bumpy track that wound its way between the boulders. The dragons trailed behind, wisely silent. Val wasn’t in the mood for talking, and her lower lip had begun to throb.
A few minutes later, the sound of home drifted down the mountainside: the clang of a hammer on an anvil.
“Nearly there,” Val growled.
“Look!” Axl squealed. “A butterfly!”
“Axl, focus,” Livius snapped.
They rounded a large boulder streaked with iron ore and ruby quartz, and Val felt the tension bleed from her shoulders. Her home was carved into the mountain, part cave, part stone house. Grass grew on the roof, supporting three dairy goats and an overweight pig with tiny white wings. The facade was dwarf-made, the rock roughly hewn by magic instead of tools. On the right, the little-used front door slumbered beneath a curtain of morning glories that almost obscured the entrance. No one had trimmed them for years.
“Cute pig,” Axl commented.
“Thanks. She’s useless,” Val grumbled.
The smithy’s wooden door, broad enough to admit a heavy carriage or an armored vehicle, was wide open on the building’s left. A forge fire roared within, sending a plume of white smoke toward the sky.
Two anvils stood side by side in the smithy. Frode Stonehold worked at the one on the right. His back was turned to Val, his tawny skin bare except for the straps of the leather apron that was tied in the small of his back. Huge, knotted muscles rippled in his back and shoulders as he swung the hammer over the anvil. His rough linen shorts were undyed and ended in boots like hers, but several sizes smaller and not custom-made and ordered from Avalon Town.
“Dad!” Val shouted.
Frode didn’t react. He kept swinging the hammer, each motion making his thick gray hair, held in a leather tie on top of his head, bob back and forth.
The dragons waited in patient silence.
The old man gets deafer every day. “Dad!” Val bellowed.
