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Cover art (c) Jenny Dixon 2005
ISBN 1-58608-370-8
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Ry, r’uban (prince) of Ror q’Trall, discovers the A’tril (clan outcast) Sahra psychically bonded with the unicorn he planned to capture. He needs the stallion to win the Cyril, a race that determines a clan’s placement among its peers. Without proper placement a clan is subject to raids and Ry is determined to protect his own.

Sahra needs the unicorn’s magic to abolish the antiquated practices of clansmen that produce nothing but fatality and devastation. The determined adversaries find themselves battling not just opposing quests but a blazing love that threatens to consume their hearts and destroy their world.

Rating: Explicit sex and adult language.

UNICORN QUEST

By

Ellen Fisher
And
Angelica Hart

© copyright February 2005, Ellen Fisher and Angelica Hart
Cover Art by Jenny Dixon, © copyright February 2005
ISBN 1-58608-370-8
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

Ry Trall had been walking for days. First across the savannah, grass waving gently in the breeze, with the awareness of being stalked by the lions, their lithe bodies parting the grasses almost silently, the black spotted silver hides camouflaging them. He would never have known they were there but for their rank odor. Then into the foothills, where trees grew thick and lush, drinking greedily of the snowmelt that gushed from the mountains. Now, at last, he had reached the rocky, steep canyons that surrounded the valley he sought.

It had taken him a long time to ascend the rocks, always checking above him, aware that a pride of black mountain cats might take advantage of a momentary distraction and leap upon him from above. But at last, his hands bleeding and sore, his robes torn, he reached the rim of the canyon and found a vantage point. Squinting against the bright sunlight, he gazed out over the valley carpeted with lush blue grass. And then he saw them, grazing indolently. The herd he’d risked his life to find.

The lead stallion, a glorious ebony steed, lifted his finely shaped head and sniffed the air. Ry watched, puzzled, knowing the animal couldn’t smell him. Not from this distance. Perhaps there was another predator in the valley.

Abruptly the black stallion whinnied an alarm, then exploded into a gallop. His mares raced behind him, their foals close by their sides.

A movement caught Ry’s eye. A rope of the light but unbreakable substance known as chi’nyr whizzed through the air, settling around the lead stallion’s neck and bringing him to a halt so abruptly that he cartwheeled and slammed into the ground. Ry hissed through his teeth, distressed to see the magnificent animal fall so hard.

The stallion couldn’t be hurt. Not now. Not after he’d risked everything to find him.

He started down the steep path into the valley, skidding and slipping on loose stones.

* * * *

Sahra approached the great black stallion. He had scrambled to his feet and now stood glaring at her, his eyes showing white around the edges, his ribs expanding and contracting like bellows, his razor-sharp hooves pawing the ground nervously. Had he been an ordinary horse, she would not have dared to approach him until he was tied more securely. But he was no ordinary horse, and she knew he would not hurt her.

She held out her hand. "It’s all right," she said softly.

He threw up his head and snorted, unconvinced.

She walked toward him, slowly but with great confidence, until she was within an arm’s length of him. Then she reached out and placed a hand against his satin skin, gleaming in the sunlight.

He shied briefly, but calmed almost instantly as she poured every ounce of psychic energy she possessed into reassuring him. It seemed like a long time to her, but within moments he was nibbling delicately at the zua fruit in her palm.

"And now," she said, rubbing his velvet muzzle affectionately, "I’m going to ride you."

"I don’t think so."

At the unexpected voice, Sahra’s head whipped around. Standing behind her was a very tall man, his dark, shoulder-length hair whipping in the wind. A golden weapon gleamed in his hand. A weapon pointed in her direction.

His crimson robes indicated his clan. He was of the Ror q’Trall.

The Clan of Blood.