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Excerpt: The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison

June 13, 2021March 20, 2024torforge

Maia, the youngest, half-goblin son of the Emperor has lived his entire life in exile, distant from the Imperial Court and the deadly intrigue that suffuses it. But when his father and three sons in line for the throne are killed in an “accident,” he has no choice but to take his place as the only surviving rightful heir.

Entirely unschooled in the art of court politics, he has no friends, no advisors, and the sure knowledge that whoever assassinated his father and brothers could make an attempt on his life at any moment.

Surrounded by sycophants eager to curry favor with the naïve new emperor, and overwhelmed by the burdens of his new life, he can trust nobody. Amid the swirl of plots to depose him, offers of arranged marriages, and the specter of the unknown conspirators who lurk in the shadows, he must quickly adjust to life as the Goblin Emperor. All the while, he is alone, and trying to find even a single friend . . . and hoping for the possibility of romance, yet also vigilant against the unseen enemies that threaten him, lest he lose his throne–or his life.

Nominated for the Nebula and Hugo awards, and a World Fantasy Award Finalist, the trade paperback of Katherine Addison’s The Goblin Emperor is on sale now. Check out the stand-alone sequel, The Witness for the Dead, on sale 6/22/210.

1

Maia woke with his cousin’s cold fingers digging into his shoulder.
“Cousin? What . . .” He sat up, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. “What time is it?”

“Get up!” Setheris snarled. “Hurry!”

Obediently, Maia crawled out of bed, clumsy and sleep-sodden. “What’s toward? Is there a fire?”

“Get thy clothes on.” Setheris shoved yesterday’s clothes at him. Maia dropped them, fumbling with the strings of his nightshirt, and Setheris hissed with exasperation as he bent to pick them up. “A messenger from the court. That’s what’s toward.”

“A message from my father?”

“Is’t not what I said? Merciful goddesses, boy, canst do nothing for thyself? Here!” He jerked the nightshirt off, caring neither for the knotted strings nor for Maia’s ears, and shoved his clothes at him again. Maia struggled into drawers, trousers, shirt, and jacket, aware that they were wrinkled and sweat-stained, but unwilling to try Setheris’s ill temper by saying so. Setheris watched grimly by the single candle’s light, his ears flat against his head. Maia could not find his stockings, nor would Setheris give him time to search. “Come along!” he said as soon as Maia had his jacket fastened, and Maia followed him barefoot out of the room, noticing in the stronger light that while Setheris was still properly and fully attired, his face was flushed. So he had not been wakened from sleep by the emperor’s messenger, but only because he had not yet been to bed. Maia hoped uneasily that Setheris had not drunk enough metheglin to mar the glossy perfection of his formal court manners.

Maia ran his hands through his hair, fingers catching on knots in his heavy curls. It would not be the first time one of his father’s messengers had witnessed him as unkempt as a half-witted ragpicker’s child, but that did not help with the miserable midnight imaginings: So, tell us, how looked our son? He reminded himself it was unlikely his father ever asked after him in the first place and tried to keep his chin and ears up as he followed Setheris into the lodge’s small and shabby receiving room.

The messenger was maybe a year or so older than Maia himself, but elegant even in his road-stained leathers. He was clearly full-blooded elvish, as Maia was not; his hair was milkweed-pale, and his eyes the color of rain. He looked from Setheris to Maia and said, “Are you the Archduke Maia Drazhar, only child of Varenechibel the Fourth and Chenelo Drazharan?”

“Yes,” Maia said, bewildered.

And then bewilderment compounded bewilderment, as the messenger deliberately and with perfect dignity prostrated himself on the threadbare rug. “Your Imperial Serenity,” he said.

“Oh, get up, man, and stop babbling!” Setheris said. “We understood that you had messages from the Archduke’s father.”

“Then you understand what we do not,” the messenger said, rising again to his feet, as graceful as a cat. “We bear messages from the Untheileneise Court.”

Maia said hastily, merely to prevent the altercation from escalating, “Please, explain.”

“Your Serenity,” the messenger said. “The airship Wisdom of Choharo crashed yesterday, sometime between sunrise and noon. The Emperor Varenechibel the Fourth, the Prince Nemolis, the Archduke Nazhira, and the Archduke Ciris were all on board. They were returning from the wedding of the Prince of Thu-Athamar.”

“And the Wisdom of Choharo crashed,” Maia said slowly, carefully.

“Yes, Serenity,” said the messenger. “There were no survivors.”

For five pounding heartbeats, the words made no sense. Nothing made sense; nothing had made sense since he had woken with Setheris’s grip hurting his shoulder. And then it was suddenly, pitilessly clear. As if from a very long distance away, he heard his own voice saying, “What caused the crash?”

“Does it matter?” Setheris said.

“Serenity,” said the messenger with a deliberate nod in Maia’s direction. “They do not yet know. But the Lord Chancellor has sent Witnesses, and it is being investigated.”

“Thank you,” said Maia. He knew neither what he felt nor what he ought to feel, but he knew what he ought to do, the next necessary thing. “You said . . . there are messages?”

“Yes, Serenity.” The messenger turned and picked up his dispatch case from where it lay on the side table. There was only one letter within, which the messenger held out. Setheris snatched the letter and broke the seal savagely, as if he still believed the messenger to be lying.

He scanned the paper, his customary frown deepening into a black scowl, then flung it at Maia and stalked from the room. Maia grabbed at it ineffectually as it fluttered to the floor.

The messenger knelt to retrieve it before Maia could and handed it to him without a flicker of expression.

Maia felt his face heating, his ears lowering, but he knew better than to try to explain or apologize for Setheris. He bent his attention to the letter. It was from his father’s Lord Chancellor, Uleris Chavar:

To the Archduke Maia Drazhar, heir to the imperial throne of Ethuveraz, greetings in this hour of greatest grief.

Knowing that Your Imperial Serenity will want all honor and respect paid to your late father and brothers, we have ordered arrangements put in train for a full ceremonial funeral in three days’ time, that is, on the twenty-third instant. We will notify the five principalities, also Your Imperial Serenity’s sister in Ashedro. We have already ordered the courier office to put airships at their disposal, and we have no doubt that they will use all necessary haste to reach the Untheileneise Court in good time for the funeral.

We do not, of course, know what Your Imperial Serenity’s plans may be, but we hold ourself ready to implement them.

With true sorrow and unswerving loyalty,

Uleris Chavar

Maia looked up. The messenger was watching him, as impassive as ever; only the angle of his ears betrayed his interest.

“I . . . we must speak with our cousin,” he said, the constructions of the formal first person awkward and unaccustomed. “Do you . . . that is, you must be tired. Let us summon a manservant to tend to your needs.”

“Your Serenity is very kind,” the messenger said, and if he knew that there were only two menservants in the entire household of Edonomee, he gave no sign.

Maia rang the bell, knowing that birdlike Pelchara would be waiting eagerly for a chance to find out what was happening. Haru, who did all the outside work, was probably still asleep; Haru slept like the dead, and the whole household knew it.

Pelchara popped in, his ears up and his eyes bright and inquisitive. “This gentleman,” Maia said, mortified to realize that he did not know the messenger’s name, “has traveled hard. Please see that he has everything he requires.” He faltered before the thought of explaining the news to Pelchara, mumbled, “I will be with my cousin,” and hurried out.

He could see light under Setheris’s door, and could hear his cousin’s brisk, bristling stride. Let him not have stopped for the metheglin decanter, Maia thought, a brief, hopeless prayer, and tapped on the door.

“Who is’t?” At least he did not sound any drunker than he had a quarter hour ago.

“Maia. May I—?”

The door opened with savage abruptness, and Setheris stood in the opening, glaring. “Well? What chews on thy tail, boy?”

“Cousin,” Maia said, almost whispering, “what must I do?”

“What must thou do?” Setheris snorted laughter. “Thou must be emperor, boy. Must rule all the Elflands and banish thy kindred as thou seest fit. Why com’st thou whining to me of what thou must do?”

“Because I don’t know.”

“Moon-witted hobgoblin,” Setheris said, but it was contempt by reflex; his expression was abstracted.

“Yes, cousin,” Maia said meekly.

After a moment, Setheris’s eyes sharpened again, but this time without the burning anger. “Thou wish’st advice?”

“Yes, cousin.”

“Come in,” Setheris said, and Maia entered his cousin’s bedchamber for the first time.

It was as austere as Setheris himself—no mementoes of the Untheileneise Court, no luxuries. Setheris waved Maia to the only chair and himself sat on the bed. “Thou’rt right, boy. The wolves are waiting to devour thee. Hast thou the letter?”

“Yes, cousin.” Maia handed Setheris the letter, now rather crumpled and the worse for wear. Setheris read it, frowning again, but this time his ears were cocked thoughtfully. When he had finished, he folded the letter neatly, his long white fingers smoothing the creases. “He presumes much, does Uleris.”

“He does?” And then, realizing: “Dost know him?”

“We were enemies for many years,” Setheris said, shrugging it aside. “And I see he has not changed.”

“What mean’st thou?”

“Uleris has no reason to love thee, boy.”

“He says he’s loyal.”

“Yes. But loyal to what? Not to thee, for thou art merely the last and least favored child of his dead master, who wished thee not on the throne, as well thou know’st. Use thy wits, boy—an thou hast any.”

“What do you mean?”

“Merciful goddesses, grant me patience,” Setheris said ostentatiously to the ceiling. “Consider, boy. Thou art emperor. What must thou do first?”

“Cousin, this is not the time for riddles.”

“And it is not a riddle I pose thee.” Setheris shut his mouth and glared at him, and after a moment, Maia realized.

“The coronation.”

“Ha!” Setheris brought his hands together sharply, making Maia jump. “Exactly. So why, I ask thee, does thy coronation not figure largely in Uleris’s plans or, indeed, at all?”

“The funeral—”

“No! Thou think’st as a child, not as an emperor. The dead are dead, and they care not for the honor Uleris prates of, as well he knows. It is the living power that must concern thee, as it concerns him.”

“But . . .”

“Think, boy,” Setheris said, leaning forward, his cold eyes alight with fervor. “If thou art capable—if thou hast ever thought before in thy life—think. Thou com’st to the Untheileneise Court, the funeral is held. What then?”

“I speak to . . . oh.”

“Thou seest.”

“Yes.” Better than Setheris might care to realize, for it was at his

cousin’s hands that Maia had learned this particular lesson; by waiting, he put himself in the position of a supplicant to Chavar, and supplicants could always be denied. “Then what must I do?”

Setheris said, “Thou must countermand Uleris. Meaning that thou must reach the Untheileneise Court before he has time to entrench himself.”

“But how can I?” It took most of a week to reach the court from Edonomee.

“Airship,” Setheris said as if it were obvious.

Maia’s stomach knotted. “I couldn’t.”

“Thou must. Or thou shalt be a puppet dancing at the end of Uleris’s strings, and to a tune of his choosing. And thy nineteenth birthday may very well see thee dead.”

Maia bowed his head. “Yes, cousin.”

“The airship that brought Chavar’s lapdog here can take us back. They’ll be waiting for him. Now, go. Make thyself fit to be seen.”

“Yes, cousin,” Maia said, and did not contest Setheris’s assumption that he would be traveling to the court with the new emperor.

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Excerpts

Excerpt: A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine

January 31, 2021March 20, 2024torforge4 Comments

Missed the 2020 Hugo Award-winning A Memory Called Empire when it came out? There’s still time to get in a read before this year’s A Desolation Called Peace! Get started with an exciting sneak peek from Book 1 today!

“A Memory Called Empire perfectly balances action and intrigue with matters of empire and identity. All around brilliant space opera, I absolutely love it.”—Ann Leckie, author of Ancillary Justice

Ambassador Mahit Dzmare arrives in the center of the multi-system Teixcalaanli Empire only to discover that her predecessor, the previous ambassador from their small but fiercely independent mining Station, has died. But no one will admit that his death wasn’t an accident—or that Mahit might be next to die, during a time of political instability in the highest echelons of the imperial court.

Now, Mahit must discover who is behind the murder, rescue herself, and save her Station from Teixcalaan’s unceasing expansion—all while navigating an alien culture that is all too seductive, engaging in intrigues of her own, and hiding a deadly technological secret—one that might spell the end of her Station and her way of life—or rescue it from annihilation.

Excerpt

She was lying on the ground, her cheek wet in the spilled water. The air roiled with thick, acrid smoke and shouting in Teixcalaanli. Part of the table—or part of the wall, some heavy immobilizing marble—had come down on her hip and pinned her with a radiating spike of pain when she tried to move. She could only see a partial visual arc—there were chair legs and debris blocking her—but in that arc was fire.

She knew the Teixcalaanli word for “explosion,” a centerpiece of military poetry, usually adorned with adjectives like “shattering” or “fire-flowered,” but now she learned, by extrapolation from the shouting, the one for “bomb.” It was a short word. You could scream it very loudly. She figured it out because it was the word people were screaming when they weren’t screaming “help.”

She couldn’t see Three Seagrass anywhere.

Wetness dripped onto her face, as wet as the spilled water but from the other side. Dripped and collected and spilled over the hollow of her temple and across her cheek and her eye and was red, was blood. Mahit turned her head, arched her neck. The blood flowed downward, toward her mouth, and she clamped her lips shut.

It was coming from Fifteen Engine, collapsed back into his chair, the front of his shirt—the front of his torso—torn open and away, his throat studded with shrapnel. His face was pristine, the eyes open and glassily staring. The bomb must have been close. To his right, from the angle of the pieces she could see.

Yskandr, I’m sorry, she thought. No matter how much she dis-liked Fifteen Engine—and she had been developing a very direct and powerful dislike, just a moment ago—he was someone who had been Yskandr’s. She was Yskandr enough to feel a displaced sort of grief. A missed opportunity. Something she hadn’t safeguarded well enough.

A pair of knees in smoke-scorched cream trousers appeared in front of her nose, and then Three Seagrass was wiping the blood off her face with her palms.

“I would really like you to be alive,” Three Seagrass said. It was hard for Mahit to hear her over the shouting, and even the shouting was being drowned out by a rising electric hum, like the air itself was being ionized.

“You’re in luck,” Mahit said. Her voice worked fine. Her jaw worked fine. There was blood in her mouth now, despite Three Seagrass’s efforts to smear it away.

“Great,” said Three Seagrass. “Fantastic! Reporting your death to the Emperor would be incredibly embarrassing and possi- bly end my career and also I think I’d be upset—are you going to die if I move the piece of the wall that’s fallen on you, I am not an ixplanatl, I don’t understand anything about non-ritual exsanguination except not to pull arrows out of people’s veins and I learned that from a really bad theatrical adaptation of The Secret History of the Emperors—”

“Three Seagrass, you’re hysterical.”

“Yes,” said Three Seagrass, “I know,” and shoved whatever was pinning Mahit to the ground off of her hip. The release of pressure was a new kind of pain. The hum in the air was growing louder, the space between Three Seagrass’s body and her own beginning to shade a delicate and terrifying blue, like twilight approaching. The marble restaurant floor had lit up with a tracery of aware circuits, all blue, all glowing, coloring the air with light. Mahit thought of nuclear core spills, how they flashed blue as they cooked flesh; thought of what she’d read of lightning cascading out of the sky. If it was ionized air they were already dead. She struggled up on her elbows, lunged for Three Seagrass’s arm, and catching it, hauled herself to sitting.

“What’s wrong with the air?”

“A bomb went off,” Three Seagrass said. “The restaurant is on fire, what do you think is wrong with the air?”

“It’s blue!”

“That’s the City noticing—”

A section of the restaurant’s roof shuddered and fell, ear-shatteringly loud. Three Seagrass and Mahit ducked simultaneously, pressed forehead to shoulder.

“We have to get out of here,” Mahit said. “That might not have been the only bomb.” The word was easy to say, round on her lips. She wondered if Yskandr had ever said it.

Three Seagrass pulled her to her feet. “Has this happened to you before?”

“No!” Mahit said. “Never.” The last time there had been a bomb on Lsel was before she was born. The saboteurs— revolutionaries, they’d called themselves, but they’d been saboteurs—had brought the vacuum in when their incendiaries exploded. They’d been spaced, afterward, and the whole line of their imagos cut off: thirteen generations of engineering knowledge lost with the oldest of them. The Station didn’t keep people who were willing to expose innocents to space. If an imago-line could be corrupted like that, it wasn’t worth preserving.

It was different on a planet. The blue air was breathable, even if it tasted like smoke. Three Seagrass had hold of her elbow and they were walking out into Plaza Central Nine, where the sky was still the same impossible color, as if nothing had gone wrong.

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Excerpts

Excerpt: A Conjuring of Assassins

February 1, 2020April 8, 2024torforge

A Conjuring of Assassins is Cate Glass’s second adventure with the Chimera team, a ragtag crew who use their forbidden magic for the good of the kingdom.

Romy and her three partners in crime—a sword master, a silversmith, and her thieving brother—have embraced their roles as the Shadow Lord’s agents, using their forbidden magic to accomplish tasks his other spies cannot.

Now, the Shadow Lord needs them to infiltrate the home of the Mercediaran Ambassador and prevent him from obtaining information that would lead to all-out war with Cantagna’s most dangerous enemy.

To succeed, they will have to resurrect long-buried secrets, partner with old enemies, and once again rely on the very magics that could get them sentenced to death.

A Conjuring of Assassins arrives this month. Please enjoy the following excerpt.

Chapter 1

YEAR 988 OF THE NEW MILLENNIUM MONTH OF FOGS—SUMMER QUARTER DAY EARLY AFTERNOON

The air in the noisy alehouse blurred with more than greasy smoke. The slim, pearl-handled dagger laid out on the plank table shimmered around its edges. And it wasn’t simply the thump of boots or the raucous rattle of the tabor that made the world quiver. Something wasn’t right.

The dagger certainly wasn’t right. I wasn’t right. An important answer sat at the tip of my tongue, so very close … but I couldn’t even recall the question.

“Enough is enough,” said the black-eyed youth sitting across the table from me. “She can’t do it.”

I knew the youth. His new red shirt was made of— Why couldn’t I remember?

“Pull her out.” The big man seated next to the youth was almost invisible in the shadowed corner of the bench.

“Out of what?” I snapped behind my teeth. I kept my voice down, even though the Quarter Day holidaymakers made it near impossible to hear anything. “What are you talking about?”

Lady Fortune’s dam, what was wrong with me?

The youth reached across the table and grabbed my wrist. “Guess you have to try again another day, Romy. Some of us have things to do. Like eat.”

In the instant he spoke that name, the entirety of my identity—name, parentage, occupation, reasons for being in this nasty place—sloughed away like a false skin. As it was.

My true name was Romy. Sorceress. Scribe. Once a very expensive whore. A woman who had, over her five-and-twenty years, acquired a broad education in culture, languages, history, art, politics, pain, fear, self-control, and the habits of wealthy Cantagnans. Of late, a confidential agent employed by the Shadow Lord of Cantagna. An incompetent sorceress who couldn’t release herself from her own spellwork.

“By the Sisters! How many trials does that make?”

“I’m thinking a hundred,” said my brother Neri with an annoying smirk. He shot up from his seat and shoved the pearl-handled dagger toward me. “I believe I’ve just enough time for a bowl of rabbit pie before I head for the Duck’s Bone. Fesci’s backside will boil if I’m late for my shift.”

He vanished into the smoke and noise.

Shivering with the aftermath of magic-working, I closed my fingers about the dagger’s cool hilt and thumped the heel of my fist on my aching head. I’d been certain the elegant little weapon I’d owned for more than a decade, a reminder of both the worst and the best years of my life, could enable me to remember my own damnable name.

My particular variety of Dragonis’s taint allowed me to impersonate whomever I chose to be. When I invoked my magic, my body did not change. I remained a dark-eyed woman of moderate height, shaped in ways both men and women named comely. It was the magic that laid a mask over me, making me believe I was the other so completely that the Shadow Lord himself, who knew me as intimately as any human could know another, had not recognized me when I stood before him. It was a formidable and most useful talent—with the one drawback. Once I left Romy behind, only someone speaking my true name while touching my skin could get me back to her. Wholly impractical.

“You needs must ink the hints on your ass, lady scribe, so’s when you go topsy-turvy you can find yourself again,” said the man in the corner.

Someone opened the alehouse door, letting in the mid-afternoon glare. The dueling scar that creased my companion’s left cheek from brow to unruly black beard gleamed faintly red in a stray sunbeam. He planted his boots on the bench, settled lower in the corner, and clapped his shabby, flat-brimmed hat entirely over his face, as if ready for a nap.

Placidio di Vasil was a professional duelist, Neri’s swordmaster, and my tutor in the field of combat. He made me run up cliffs, slam fists and feet into the heavy leather bolsters that hung in the deserted warehouse where we trained, and wield a variety of blades with more general effectiveness than the defensive knifework I’d learned as a girl. Placidio was a demon-tainted sorcerer, as well, and a man I trusted with our lives.

“How will the Chimera ever be an effective partnership if I must have a minder every time I do an impersonation?”

He gave no answer. Probably because there was none. But this was his problem as much as my own. My partners and I were poised on the brink of our second dangerous venture in as many months, and if my magic was to be at all useful, I had to be able to disentangle myself from it.

“I was closer this time,” I said, propping my chin on my fist. “The world went blurry, and I wasn’t thinking as Monette the cloth merchant’s daughter anymore. Certain, I wasn’t thinking of you as my father. But I wasn’t thinking as me, either.”

I’d hoped that using the magic among strangers, instead of in my house or our training ground, would force me to keep Romy closer to the surface. One magic sniffer pointing a finger at me could get us all dead.

My plan had worked. Just not well enough.

“If you require a parent for your next practice session, get Dumond to play him. None’d b’lieve a spiff dandy like me old enough to sire a witchy female like you…” The slurred jibe faded into heavy breathing.

Placidio’s somnolence was not to be mistaken for sleep. I’d come to think he never truly slept, which explained, in part, why he sucked down enough wine, ale, and mead in a day to supply a small village. Despite his duelist’s fitness and his modest age of four-and-thirty, old wounds and old griefs weighed heavy on him.

“If I can immerse myself deep enough in an impersonation to believe you to be my father, Segno di Vasil, and then get myself out again, it will give an inestimable boost to my confidence. Besides, Dumond shudders at the thought of masquerades.”

A scheme of impersonation and forgery to foil a threat to Cantagna’s peace had brought the four of us together—Placidio, Dumond the metalsmith, my brother Neri, and me, demon-tainted sorcerers all—and given us the rare satisfaction of using our talents for a cause other than preserving our own lives. We called ourselves the Chimera, a fantastical beast of many parts, the impossible made flesh.

Like giddy fools, we had taken on another such worthy effort within a day of finishing the first. It should be simple enough—find a dangerous document and destroy it. The prisoner who had hidden the document was being transported to Cantagna. We were awaiting only the Shadow Lord’s signal that he had arrived.

Unlike me, our employer was not disturbed by his multiplicity of names. He was equally comfortable as il Padroné, benevolent patron of the arts and advocate for the rule of law, and the Shadow Lord, the ruthless manipulator whose will was crossed only with peril. Both were true aspects of the man born Alessandro di Gallanos, the wealthiest and most powerful man in wealthy, powerful Cantagna. For nine years I had called him Sandro.

“Maybe I won’t need to use my magic at all in the new venture,” I said. “Getting inside a prison cell is more up Dumond’s alley—or Neri’s. I wonder—”

Neri emerged from the crowd like a thunderclap from a clear sky. “Swordmaster, someone’s come looking for you!”

A scrawny fellow with wispy red hair, peeling skin, and bad teeth shoved Neri aside and slapped a dirty woven badge on the table. The stink of sour flesh and moldy garlic wafted from him.

“Placidio di Vasil, I bring answer for the insulting challenge you threw at my uncle yesternight in front of twenty witnesses. My own self will stand for him at Bawds Field in one hour. Be there or be deemed coward forever more.”

“What?” Placidio threw off his hat and snatched up the badge. “Come back here, Buto! Does your uncle know about this?”

Placidio’s outrage could have been heard clear up to the Piazza Livello at the heart and height of the city. But the scrawny man had already vanished through the silenced crowd.

“Damnable idiot. An hour?” Placidio scraped fingers through his matted hair.

“You challenged someone for yourself!” Neri gawped after the man. “Who is it? What did he do?”

Professional duelists fought other people’s battles. Only the stupid ones risked injury by fighting for free—for themselves—or so Placidio always claimed.

“One wrong, cursed, confusticated word.” He slammed his hat back on his head and shoved the table away, trapping me on my own bench. “Another lesson for you two. Never exchange insults with a pox-raddled moron in the middle of a card game.”

The tapgirl yanked another bung, and like a spark near nitre powder, it reignited the clamor of drinkers and the whistle and rattle of the musicians.

“Another match?” I said, in quiet frustration. “We could get the Shadow Lord’s signal at any moment. And no referees, I’m guessing.”

“Told you before, lady scribe, my matches are naught for you to worry on. But if it eases you, the only difficulty here is how not to kill this maggot.”

“But for someone unsavory like this fellow, you need a second. A witness, at least,” said Neri, bolder than I in the face of Placidio’s unyielding personal boundaries … or at the backside of them. Placidio was already three steps from the table.

Neri persisted. “No time to fetch a neutral.”

Placidio whirled around, his cinder-gray eyes picking at Neri. After a moment, he spoke grudgingly. “Witness, aye. That could be useful. Mostly it would do you good to see how an overeager idiot like Buto conducts himself, lest you start thinking you’ve learned enough from your lessons. But you are not my second. I alone do the talking. You will stay where I tell you—at the split-trunk nettle tree west of the path from the prison. Well hid. Neither toe nor eyelash to be seen. And you stay exactly there till the end.”

Placidio didn’t need to add what dire consequence would follow disobedience. Nonetheless, Neri hurried after him like a hound after its hunter. As he had abandoned his bowl of rabbit pie, I was not inordinately surprised when he darted back to the table before reaching the door to the street.

“Romy, talk to Fesci for me. Tell her I’ve dueling business with Placidio and will be late. She always fusses over him, so she won’t be all bent when I get there.”

He didn’t linger to finish the pie, nor to hear my answer. He knew he’d get a lecture.

Neri had come a long way from the angry, ignorant youth who used his magic to steal three rubies, getting our family exiled and the two of us very nearly executed. But he was still rash and headstrong, and forever assumed one or the other of the Chimera would pull him out of the fire if he danced too close.

Since the dawn of the world, the First Law of Creation had mandated death for anyone tainted with the monster Dragonis’s magic, lest they use their fiendish talents to set the beast free to wreak the world’s end. The earth’s shudders that flattened villages, and the mountains’ yearly spews of ash, smoke, and scalding rock, provided clear reminders of the malignancy imprisoned beneath the Costa Drago. But whether one believed or not—and after nine years’ immersion in history, reason, and philosophy I was skeptical—the First Law made no distinction between those who worked magic and those corrupted by association with it. A careless mistake could pose a real and mortal danger to Placidio, Dumond and his family, and me, as well as to Neri himself.

I shoved the table back to its place and set out for Bawds Field. When Neri saw I’d not done his bidding, he could decide for himself if he wanted to risk a reckoning with Taverner Fesci.

Bawds Field, shielded from public view by the bleak bulk of the prison, a few nettle trees, and a tall bordering scrub of firethorn and prickly juniper, was often used for grudge fights, including duels not registered with the referees who maintained the city’s professional Dueling List. The place had gotten its name back when Cantagna was governed by a hereditary grand duc instead of our elected Sestorale. The nobleman had taken a young wife who was horrified to learn that bawdy houses were legal in her husband’s demesne. Even worse, the grand duc required their prices stay low as a way to make whores accessible to every citizen who desired to partake of their services.

The ducessa must have had the charms of a goddess, a will of forged steel, and no conscience to speak of, as within a month of the noble marriage, every bawd, pimp, whore, and catamite in Cantagna had been marched into a wasteland behind the Pillars Prison and hanged. Tutors at the Moon House had used that story to remind us students how fortunate we were that not only were we not criminals, but that our beauty and skills would command a price that only someone like a grand duc—or a wealthy banker—could afford. At age ten, I had not felt comforted.

In the center of the pounded dirt and gravel, the scrawny man called Buto donned a mail shirt. Two equally disreputable comrades marked out a large, slightly lopsided circle with stones and bits of rubble, planting sticks in the ground at four quarter points.

Placidio stood to one side in his dueling leathers, hands clasped behind his back, his favored dueling sword at his side. His relaxed but wary posture should be intimidating to anyone who had ever watched him fight.

And Neri? I stood between the twin trunks of the giant nettle tree on the west side of the field—exactly where Placidio had told Neri to hide. Neri wasn’t there. Nor was he out of sight. His red shirt shone like a signal flag from a thicket on the opposite side of the field.

Using the path behind the scrub, I headed for Neri.

“You are familiar with Cantagna’s Code Duello, young Buto?” Placidio’s booming query drew me to a gap in the stand of firethorn.

I’d never watched one of Placidio’s duels. For one, I saw enough of his skills when I trained with him. For another, I assumed he had reasons for saying so little of when, where, or whom he was fighting; his privacies were very important to him. And, in truth, it made good sense for Placidio, Dumond, and Neri and me to keep our non-Chimera lives separate.

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Excerpts

Sneak Peek: Otaku by Chris Kluwe

January 17, 2020March 20, 2024torforge2 Comments

Otaku is the debut novel from former NFL player and tech enthusiast Chris Kluwe, with a story reminiscent of Ready Player One and Ender’s Game.

Ditchtown.

A city of skyscrapers, built atop the drowned bones of old Miami. A prison of steel, filled with unbelievers. A dumping ground for strays, runaways, and malcontents.

Within these towering monoliths, Ashley Akachi is a young woman trying her best to cope with a brother who’s slipping away, a mother who’s already gone, and angry young men who want her put in her place. Ditchtown, however, is not the only world Ash inhabits.

Within Infinite Game, a virtual world requiring physical perfection, Ash is Ashura the Terrible, leader of the Sunjewel Warriors, loved, feared, and watched by millions across the globe. Haptic chambers, known as hapspheres, translate their every move in the real to the digital—and the Sunjewel Warriors’ feats are legendary.

However, Ash is about to stumble upon a deadly conspiracy that will set her worlds crashing together, and in the real world, you only get to die once…

Otaku will be available on March 3, 2020. Please enjoy the following excerpt.

(a Smile like an Open Grave)

“Dragon!”

Wind screams the word with an accompanying burst of gunfire, and my head snaps over to the left. The hulking shape in the center of the room, what I thought might be rockfall or a golemtrap, is slowly unfurling a huge pair of wings, delicate purple veins undulating against the leathery skin. A long neck stretches up into the air, tapered scales running its entire length, and perched atop is the dragon’s death-cold stare. Malevolent red eyes glitter beneath thickly armored brows, and a crown of horns sweeps back from the top of its head. It opens its mouth, revealing two sets of meter-long serrated teeth, and roars, blasting sound at us like a riot suppressor.

“What do we do? What do we do?” Kiro squawks in alarm, his breath labored. It sounds like he’s hyperventilating.

“Stay relaxed. Scatter and ground it.” My voice is calm, but only from years of training. Inside, my heart feels like it’s going to burst through my chest. It’s incredibly rare to encounter a dragon, and the wipe rate against them is close to ninety percent. We’ve only fought one once before, and that was carefully planned out over an entire month. Even then, if it hadn’t been for Brand working miracles in support, we would’ve failed.

Nothing you can do now, except fight your way through. Just another encounter.

I sprint to the right, keeping away from the magma vents and maintaining my distance from the giant wyrm. Adrenaline surges, the old fight or flight instinct kicking into gear, and I flip my assault rifle up, thumbing off the safety. I focus on my sights and loose a chattering series of shots on the run, aiming for the dragon’s wings. Several impact the worm-like veins, but only open small holes—our tech weapons still weakened by the rules of Everdark. Not good. If we don’t keep the beast from getting airborne, we have no chance. We learned that the hard way last time.

“Kiro! Ranged buff, now!”

An orange glow suffuses the air around my tactical rifle, but it’s fitful and weak, like a sputtering fire. I curse under my breath—Kiro isn’t maintaining his forms properly, lessening the effect of the spell, which means I can’t afford to miss. I slide to a halt, snug the stock up to my shoulder and cheek, the movement second nature by now, and take a deep breath. Slowly exhale, pause, then gently squeeze the trigger.

Chattering barks fill the air, and my bullets slam home, tracers filling the air with bright flashes. Three of the veins I aimed for wink out, spurts of purple blood falling to the rocks below. The dragon’s right wing goes limp and ragged, unable to maintain its structural integrity. Short bursts of gunfire from the other side of the room indicate Wind and Slend following my lead, efficient as always, trusting that I can handle my side on my own. After playing for this long together, it’s almost like we can read each other’s minds. The other wing shudders and falls. Kiro cowers near one of the back walls, fumbling at the safety on his gun with one hand while trying to maintain the complicated finger motions for the spell with his other. He’s not doing a great job of accomplishing either. At his feet, his anchoring staff lies forgotten.

The dragon screams in rage, rearing up on two hind legs, thrashing its now-useless wings and sending the mist roiling. A spiked tail comes whipping across the ground, and I vault it with one hand, slapping the pebbled skin to give myself a boost over the top of its mass. Jagged tail spines whistle past my body, but I chose my gap carefully, and I land unscathed on the other side. Suddenly, the beast draws in a huge breath, chest expanding out like a balloon. Scales glow cherry red across the front of its torso.

We have ten seconds before someone gets incinerated. Another fact learned the hard way.

“Regroup at Kiro and get ready to group shield,” I yell, integrated comm channel sending my words to the others. The tail comes slashing back in my direction, and this time I tumble underneath. A spike snags my rifle strap, sending the weapon spinning away across the floor, but I use the change in momentum to roll upright and back to my feet.

Thank goodness the quick release clip worked properly, otherwise I’d be a red smear on the rocks right now.

I dash over to Kiro, huddling fearfully near a vent, the ironsights on his rifle bobbing through a shaky figure eight. He’s panting in sharp gasps, hyperventilating, hindbrain instincts exerting control. I slap him across the face.

“Kiro! Drop your gun and get ready to shield! We’ll support, but you’ve gotta initiate it!”

“I . . . it’s . . . dragon . . .” His rifle drops back against his chest and he kneels for his staff, clutching it like he’s going to be sick.

Wind and Slend run up next to me, breathing slightly heavier than normal. Slend reloads her rifle, grabbing an armor-piercing magazine from her ammo pocket and slotting it home with smooth, economical motions. Wind pulls a belt of grenades out of one of her pouches, like a magician’s trick, and straps them around her waist. She looks away from the dragon and groans, seeing the whimpering form of Kiro huddled on the ground.

“Dammit, Ash, I told you he was gonna be trouble. We’re gonna wipe for sure, and on a dragon, too. What a useless waste of time. This could’ve made us rich.”

“Shut it, Wind. He’ll come through for us. You’ll see.” I grab Kiro’s forearms, trying to get him to look at me. “Kiro. I know this is pretty heavy for your first encounter, but you have to raise a shield. Otherwise, we’re toast. We have about . . .” I quickly glance at the enraged dragon. “. . . three seconds before we’re charcoal. C’mon. I know you can do this. Focus, just like we practiced.”

A moment of silence fills the cavern, the dragon’s steam whistle intake of breath suddenly gone. I look over again, seeing the tiniest wisps of flame starting to leak out of the corners of its mouth, and swear. My hands move, seemingly of their own accord, starting the motions of a barrier, but it’s pointless. I don’t have enough specialization in applied defensive magic to keep us safe if I’m the spell anchor, and Kiro’s staff isn’t attuned to me. Wind sighs dramatically.

“Fucking newbies . . .”

A broad hand brushes me aside, interrupting my cast.

“No. I . . . I can do this. I can.”

Kiro steps in front of us, then slams his staff into the ground. A minor shockwave ripples out, tiny dust waves undulating across the floor. His hands blur into motion, creating the impossibly complex forms required to initiate a max level group shield spell, the now-unsupported staff floating gently above the ground, a solid pillar of brightening green runes crawling along its length.

“Get in support positions!” My voice is halfway between a yell and a cheer.

Good job, Kiro. I knew you could do it.

Wind and Slend take positions to either side. I run behind Kiro, completing the diamond formation, and prepare for impact. Above us, a massive fireball descends.

Kiro finishes the final hand gesture and crosses his wrists in front of him. We all copy him, bracing one foot behind our bodies. Beams of light flash from us to the staff, and then a shimmering blue wall flashes into existence, between us and the descending torrent of flame. A millisecond later, it hits like a crashing tsunami.

Raw force slams into my arms, the sheer power of the dragon’s fire eliciting an involuntary grunt. Straining, I push back against the brutal pressure, keeping my section of the shield firm. My shoulders and core muscles quiver beneath the stress, and I scream out in defiance.

Magic in the Game is reflected by three elements—physical dexterity to create the proper forms; raw strength proportional to the level of the spell being cast; and the force of will to endure the pain for as long as it takes. A max rank shield spell will withstand anything, as long as our flesh doesn’t give way. If it does, if we fail to hold the appropriate form against the requisite burden, then the spell crumples, along with our bodies. In situations where a max rank shield spell is required, that means a wipe.

In front of me, the other three push out as well, muscles bulging. Tears are leaking from the corners of Kiro’s eyes. As the anchor, he’s bearing the brunt of the attack, an onslaught of crushing weight trying to smear him into the ground, and if we weren’t sharing the load, the dragonflame would’ve breached the shield almost instantly. Even the strongest Gamer in the world isn’t strong enough to withstand close to a ton of pressure.

Incandescent heat spreads across the pale blue of our barrier, a half-dome covering our braced forms. Rock melts and flows in a circle around us, but the shield stays intact, keeping us safe in our tiny island. Sweat pours from my brow, but I ignore it. If I didn’t want to push myself, I would’ve stayed in Candyland. Finally, mercifully, the fire ends, the smothering weight falling away.

“Wind, Slend, draw its attention. I’m going for the tail. Kiro, move! Don’t stand in the fire!”

We split apart once more, Kiro narrowly avoiding a magma eruption at his feet by diving out of the way. Hissing superheated rock shoots into the air behind him, a deadly fountain barely missing his leather boots. It cools and solidifies into a new layer on the ground. I shake my head at his narrow escape.

You gotta pay attention to environmentals, Kiro. That’s how most parties wipe.

I notice glowing cracks beneath my feet and sidestep a magma eruption of my own, then turn my attention back to the dragon.

The creature is fully mobile now—twenty tons of murderous muscle atop four dextrous limbs, each equipped with an opposable digit and talons the size of a scimitar. Of course there’s also the prehensile tail covered in needle tipped spines, and the flamethrower system in its throat. Dragons don’t mess around. Murderous red eyes track my movements, singling me out as the most dangerous target.

I dodge a casual swipe from its claws, waiting for Slend and Wind to get into position. Once they distract it, I should have a free run at the tail. Killing a dragon is a matter of taking away its weapons, one at a time, in a very specific order—wings, tail, claws, throat; gradually wearing it down until all threats are neutralized, with no room for error.

Slend bellows at the creature, taunting it to attack her, and it spins in place, surprisingly agile for such a large beast. She waves her axe at it, drawing its attention. To her side, I can see Wind pull the pin on a flashbang from her grenade belt. The flashbang won’t really hurt the dragon, but it’ll confuse it for the bare moment I need to sever the nerves at the base of its tail. My blade slides into my hand naturally as breathing, the worn leather grip comforting in my palm. It’s nothing special, just a fifty centimeter piece of metal designed to cut what I want it to cut, but the sharpened steel is an extension of myself, a familiarity earned from years of practice.

Slend blocks a claw swipe, using her axe to beat the scaled mass of the dragon’s paw to the side. Behind her, Wind cocks her arm back and throws the flashbang, alert for the opening. The dragon smiles like an open grave.

My eyes narrow. Dragons don’t normally . . .

Shit.

“It’s a dev! We’re being featured!”

Glowing golden runes appear on the walls, cutting away the steam and turning the cavern into a massive arena. Fast paced music bursts into the air, heavy on the guitar riffs and choral melodies, a thrumming bass line syncopating like a heartbeat. Another rune, this one electric blue, appears above the dragon’s head—the sigil of whichever dev has taken over the program that normally runs the monster’s reactions. In this case, the twisting lines let me know that it’s Hammer. I grimace. He and I have history, and he’s been itching to take me down.

Of all the top tier devs in Infinite Game, Hammer’s the best, and he hates letting players win. Especially with an audience. Judging by the runes on the walls, there’s at least a million viewers tuning in for the showdown. We must be the first guild to make it this far after the new patch, and I’m sure GameCore has been hyping this on the global ’Net since we started the run. I’ve been running my personal stream, of course, but that’s a drop in the ocean compared to the attention GameCore commands. Ashura vs. Hammer, come one come all, get your tickets at the door. I know without looking that a jade green sigil is floating over my head, the swirling frozen explosion of my guild tag. The SunJewel Warriors.

Fighting devs is always a risky proposition, because they never react like the normally programmed responses in an encounter. It can be a lot of fun in social events, because then you really feel like you’re interacting with living beings, but in the combat events it creates a dangerous unpredictability. Even worse, devs are the ones who design program behaviors, so they know the best way to subvert everything a player’s learned about a specific encounter. The good ones have a nasty habit of studying previous strats the leaderboard groups use, so they’re prepared to counter everything we normally do. The best ones, like Hammer, have an uncanny ability to get inside a non-human skin, and make it do something unexpected.

Lightning quick, Hammer flicks his tail and bats the grenade directly back at Wind, causing it to detonate in front of her face, a move no dragon’s ever pulled before. Stunned, she falls to her knees, hands blindly groping through the air. Ignoring Slend’s taunts, the dragon swipes Wind with an open palm, slamming her furred body into the cavern wall in a cloud of dust and flying rocks, then grinds its taloned hand in a circular motion against the wall. A bloodied pile of meat slowly slides to the floor, the once agile fox now roadkill.

“Fucker! That hurt! Fucking fuck, I hate fighting devs. Watch the tail, Ash.” I hurdle the whipping tail once again, Wind’s high-pitched voice sounding in my head like the voice of a disembodied phantom. Which, essentially, is what she now is.

Dying during an encounter ghosts a player for as long as the encounter persists—able to relay information to teammates, but unable to physically interact with anything. Some games fade the screen to black and mute communications, so the dead player can’t call anything out, but in Infinite Game, the devs figure if you lose somebody in endgame, you’re going to need all the help you can get.

I dodge a crushing stomp from one of the dragon’s back legs and flick my blade out, aiming for the tendon controlling its foot. Metal sinks in deep, but not enough to fully sever the iron-like tissue. It’s enough to injure that foot, though, and Hammer roars in fury. I spend the next several seconds weaving between claws and tail whips, contorting my body through impossible poses—katas learned from Mom long ago, practiced religiously every day, like dryburb prayer sessions. Hammer’s head darts down away from me, adder-quick, and magma erupts in the background. More runes appear, the music increasing in volume.

“Slend, try and get it off me!”

“Can’t, boss. Got et. Fucker’s fast.”

“. . . Shit. What’s Kiro doing?” I backflip over the tail, slicing through scales and nerves in a blurring strike. The last third goes limp, but I’m not close enough to get the upper nerve clusters that control the whole length of the tail. Hammer roars and spins again, trying to impale me with concentrated lances of flame from the dragon’s mouth. I quickly dodge, bobbing and weaving across the rocky floor, molten puddles congealing behind me.

“. . . I’m dead too.” Kiro’s voice is glum. “Was trying to shield Slend, and I forgot to watch the floor. Magma eruption.”

“Fucking newbies,” Wind says, exasperated. “Well, Ash, looks like you get to one vee one a dragon. Something that’s literally impossible. Have fun with that. Oh, and there’s only about five million people watching now, so you’re doubly fucked. Hammer’s gonna get paid.”

“Great,” I groan.

“Why don’t you just bail, Ash?” Kiro asks softly. “You’ll only drop a couple places. It’s a lot safer than trying to take a dev. Besides, there’s no way you can beat a dragon by yourself.”

“The hell I’m running from a fight, Kiro, and the hell I’m letting Mikelas’ group of boardshits win this season,” I snarl. “Not gonna happen. Don’t distract me.”

A petulant sigh is his only response.

In front of me, Hammer rears up, planning to flatten me beneath the dragon’s bulk, and I sprint forward, aiming between its massive hind legs. His shadow starts descending, and I push my muscles even harder, hoping I don’t tear a hamstring. Luckily, my body accedes to my demands, and I dart out from beneath the crushing weight, blade flickering from side to side. This time, I get both tendons cleanly, crippling Hammer’s movement. The dragon’s torso comes crashing down, causing the ground to shake.

Without breaking stride, I plant my sword in the side of Hammer’s tail, and use it to swing myself on top of his armored hindquarters, searching for the weak juncture between plates. A quick thrust and twist, and the rest of the tail goes limp. Hammer bellows, shaking his body, throwing me off, but I convert my fall into a dive and spring upright, spinning to face the angry beast rolling around on the floor. Even more runes pop into existence, the walls now almost completely covered with curving glyphs. The music increases in intensity.

“Just another encounter,” I whisper, heart thudding in my chest in time with the mantra. “Just another encounter.”

Wind lets out a low whistle. “Holy shit, Ash. Not only did you outrun a bodyslam, you turned it into a tail crit. You should’ve been dead, there.”

“‘Aten’t dead yet,’” I mutter, thinking of one of my few heroines. “What’s it look like damage-wise?”

“Closer to even,” Wind responds, her voice rising with excitement. “Mobility’s gone, bleeding heavy from the wings. Flame breath’s still in play, but you should be able to dodge that.” Her voice goes even higher. “No one’s ever soloed a dragon before. Especially not one controlled by a dev. The viewrate is skyrocketing. You pull this off, and we’re rich. Fuck, we’re already rich from the split, even if you wipe.”

“It’s not over,” I say, spinning my blade absentmindedly. “That was the easy part. Hammer wants to get paid, too. He’s gonna back himself into the exit and make me come to him. It’s what I would do.”

As I say the words, Hammer does exactly that, pushing the wounded rear of the dragon into a notch in the cavern walls, talons digging deep furrows in the cooled lava floor. He props his head on his front legs, like a dog resting on a carpet, and stares at me. Waiting. A grin snakes across the crocodile face, revealing long yellow teeth stained with blood, and a pointed tongue licks scaly lips.

“Feeling lonely, Ashura?” The dragon’s voice sounds like crumbling bone, Hammer relishing the moment, playing to the crowd. “It’s only half your progression if you give up now. You’ll still be top three, top five at worst. Save yourself the humiliation of a full wipe. It’s the smart thing to do.”

“And let you knock us out of first? Go back to Candyland, Hammer. That’s more your pace.”

I know how to play to the crowd too. More glyphs burn into existence, news of the encounter viraling across the ’Net like a plague, socials close to crashing under the commentary.

“Besides, when I kill you, we’ll clinch the ladder for this season. Dragons are worth triple, not even counting the dev bonus.”

“When you kill me, Ashura?”

Hammer laughs, long and low. My mind races, trying to think of a viable strategy against a monster twenty times my size. I have a vortex grenade in my inventory, but that’ll kill me just as quickly as Hammer in an enclosed space like this, and we don’t get the win if the entire party’s dead. My rifle’s too far away to reach cleanly, and Hammer will be expecting that. I still have my blade, trusty tool for so long, but—

“Ash! Look out!”

“Don’t distract her, newbie!”

Kiro’s voice is shrill in my head, Wind’s admonition slightly less piercing, but I’m already moving, deeply ingrained instincts slamming my body into motion.

Smoldering orange-yellow cracks appear beneath the back third of the room, centered where I was just standing. Magma vents shriek and hiss, belching more hot rock into the air, and I leap forward, desperately trying to clear the edge of the fractured lines. My feet barely make it out of the danger zone before a full third of the room explodes into lava, massive geysers shooting from the floor. Heat sears my back—nothing damaging, but uncomfortable all the same.

Diving forward, I tumble once, then push off the ground with my right foot and arm, cartwheeling to the left. A taloned hand slams into the space I just vacated, cratering the rock again and again, always a bare instant behind. I manage to get a couple attacks in on Hammer’s paws, but the shallow cuts don’t do much more than irritate him. Finally, I create enough room to back out of the threat space directly in front of the dragon.

“Not bad,” Hammer says conversationally, “but how long can you keep it up? Your body has to be getting tired. Wipe timer’s counting down, too.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. Another lava eruption behind me punctuates his statement. It’s closer than the previous one, lessening the amount of available maneuvering area, and more are on the way. Devs don’t let you dick around in an encounter forever. My sides ache from oxygen debt, my muscles are on fire, and the whole chamber is going to be full of boiling magma pretty soon. I have to end this quickly, but how . . . ?

Hammer yawns, exposing the wet pinkness of the dragon’s throat.

“Looks like I win this one, Ashura. A pity. You’ve been worthy prey.”

That’s when it hits me. The passageway leading in—of course. No one’s tried it before, because it’s a horrible idea, but it makes sense within the Game’s logic. There’re always clues to the encounter, for those who pay attention, and there’s always more than one way to win. Successfully pulling it off, though, is going to require some finesse, and no small amount of luck.

Time to play Jonah. The gummies are gonna love this.

“Slend,” I subvocalize on our private channel. “When the dragon ate you, where were you positioned?”

“Underneath chest. Claws don’t reach. Uses mouth.”

“Perfect. Any tells when it came down?”

“Black eyes. Shark eyes.”

“Got it. Kiro?”

“Yeah?”

“Be quiet. Don’t distract me.”

Another angry huff.

Lava erupts again, bare centimeters from my spine. Time to move. Above and around, the cavern walls are almost pure gold, glyphs covering us in a dome of brilliance, millions upon millions ignoring whatever grips them in the real, instead watching me in the spotlight. The twinge of nerves and adrenaline hitting my stomach is like the purest high in the world, banishing all sensation of pain. If I make this work . . .

I reverse the sword’s grip in my hand, setting the blade back along the length of my forearm, dull side in, chisel point almost touching my elbow. A lone stringed instrument sustains a high note, the entire cavern seeming to hold its breath. My hamstrings and calves tense, muscles coiling, and then, almost unthinkingly, I’m in motion, feet gliding over the rocky ground. My mind falls into the dreamlike state of full combat, at one with my body, reactions coming before my brain even has time to craft a response.

Hammer attacks, swiping with one clawed hand, but he’s not fast enough to do more than ruffle my hair with the wind of its passing, talons brushing past my face scant millimeters away. I continue my sprint, then roll to the side, avoiding a swing from his other hand. That one passes by my feet, slicing a thin layer from the bottom of one boot, a sliver of my sole. I plant my left foot and push myself back upright, running directly toward the copper-green chest of the dragon, momentarily left open by Hammer’s lunging sweeps. Lava bursts behind me, but it’s a distant thunder in my ears. Flame lances blast the ground, cratering explosions nearly lighting me on fire, but the shifting movement pattern I’ve adopted helps me avoid a direct hit.

It’s like running a hundred meter sprint through hell.

The last lance explodes behind me, and I stagger to a halt directly beneath the dragon’s chest, breathing hard. A towering head stares down at me, nearly twenty meters up, swaying back and forth on a supple neck. With a sudden rush, scaly arms slam down behind me, blocking off any retreat. Hammer chuckles.

“Impressive, but now there’s nowhere left to run, is there?”

Blood spattered lips peel back to reveal stained fangs once more.

“I will relish this moment. The mighty Ashura, finally brought low, your reign atop the leaderboards ended. Any last words?”

I smile tiredly, adrenaline high gone, lactic acid burning my legs and arms, cramps threatening to seize my limbs, but my blade steady in my hand.

“Yeah. Eat me, Hammer.”

Double rows of teeth shine in the blinding light of glyphs surrounding us.

“With pleasure.”

A nictating membrane slides over the dragon’s eyes, turning them the dead black of a burnt out viewscreen. I summon up the last of my reserves, willing my body to obey me one last time, fighting through the toxic byproducts of my own muscles.

“Ash!”

Kiro’s voice sounds in my head simultaneously with the dragon’s strike, but I can only focus on one thing right now, and it has to be the descending maw. Time slows, the gaping mouth growing larger and larger in my field of vision. I suck in a deep breath, lungs pressed to bursting against my chest. Right before the rows of teeth seem ready to close on my upper body, I jump, arms extended above me, pushing with every ounce of strength I possess, my own lips pressed tight.

The warm wetness of the dragon’s throat engulfs me, closing around my body like a fleshy glove, pressing in from all directions. I feel teeth snap beneath my feet, but Hammer is too slow. With a snarl, I plunge my sword into his ridged gullet and pull myself deeper into the fetid tunnel.

Hot air swirls around me, the noxious fumes stinging my eyes, but I keep going, stabbing the blade in again and again, kicking my feet for purchase, holding my breath to avoid being poisoned. Acid burns along my exposed flesh, corrosive digestive juices breaking down my skin, but I wall the pain away. I can feel the dragon spasm and shake, Hammer frantically trying to dislodge me from his throat, but I go deeper, worming my way forward. Frozen breath hammers my lungs, carbon dioxide starting to build up to dangerous levels, and finally I feel an opening in front of my outstretched hand. Silently, I thank the hours spent learning the anatomy of creatures that live only in imagination.

Not much time left before you suffocate. Stomach’s in front, which means the heart should be . . . there.

Two quick cuts, my blade’s keen edge slicing an opening in the striated esophagus lining, and I reach through to feel the pulsating wetness of the dragon’s heart, a thickly muscled mass almost as big as a child. Another slash opens it up, hot blood gushing out in torrential spurts. The sword’s handle grows slick in my hands, Hammer’s thrashing death rattles nearly jarring it loose, but the comforting grip doesn’t fail. It never has.

I keep cutting and pushing my way forward, metal sliding through muscle, then fat, then finally skin, oxygen deprivation spots flashing against my eyelids, and suddenly I’m sliding wetly from a slit in the dragon’s belly—a shockingly violent birth.

The brimstone air of the cavern fills my lungs. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. Sobbing, laughing, shuddering, I stagger to my feet and howl victory at the overwhelming glyphic light, brandishing my sword like a talisman, dragon blood streaming down my arms and face, bathing my body in a gory shroud. I am scalded, burnt, not quite whole, yet wholly alive. Magma explodes around me, triumphant horns making the very air shake, and though I can’t hear the roar behind the glyphs, I know that it’s there nonetheless.

Just another encounter.

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Excerpts

Excerpt: Song of the Risen God by R. A. Salvatore

November 11, 2019March 19, 2024torforge

Song of the Risen God is the climatic conclusion to the thrilling Coven Trilogy from New York Times bestselling author, R. A. Salvatore.

War has come to Fireach Speur.

The once forgotten Xoconai empire has declared war upon the humans west of the mountains, and their first target are the people of Loch Beag. Lead by the peerless general, Tzatzini, all that stands in the way of the God Emperor’s grasp of power is Aoelyn, Talmadge, and their few remaining allies.

But not all hope is lost. Far away from Fireach Speuer, an ancient tomb is uncovered by Brother Thaddeus of the Abellican Church. Within it is the power to stop the onslaught of coming empire and, possibly, reshape the very world itself.

Song of the Risen God will be available on January 28. Please enjoy the following excerpt.

The March of Light

The summer sun blazed off the golden domes of the recovered xoconai city. The work continued, but most of the repairs were nearing completion and the sheer beauty of the place had been restored.

Tuolonatl stood down by the lake and the new docks being built on the eastern side of the mountain fissure, looking across the wide waters, contemplating the best ways to move her large army. They needed to march soon, she knew, for more and more warriors kept streaming in over the peaks of Tzatzini, the great mountain that shadowed the valley and city of Otontotomi. The lake could supply this burgeoning place, but the xoconai were running out of room.

Tuolonatl had learned enough of the immediate region about the lake and the rivers running from it to know that the hot sun would not hinder their passage. Once that area had been a great and barren desert and summer travel would have been difficult, but no more.

The question, of course, was where and how far? What conquests awaited them, what resistance might they find? Even Pixquicauh, with his divination, even Scathmizzane himself, in those rare moments when he appeared among them, offered little insight beyond the immediate area.

So Tuolonatl was pleased indeed that morning when word came to her that Ataquixt, her prime scout, had at last returned.

He came right down to the docks to meet with her, and the two rowed out onto the lake in a small boat to privately discuss his findings.

“We will find weeks of empty travel,” he told her. “Lands untamed and mostly uninhabited, with more goblins than the human children of Cizinfozza. But not enough of either to slow us.”

“Or to make the journey worth the trouble,” Tuolonatl finished.

“The fleeing humans made it,” said Ataquixt. “I followed them all the way to a small village. I think it was a celebration, where the humans who hunt these wilderness lands come together before the season begins in full.”

“How many?”

“Around an equal number to the hundred refugees from this land.”

“We will not need much of an army, then,” said the woman. “We could hard ride a group of mundunugu and take the place swiftly.”

“I moved beyond that small village,” Ataquixt said. “I found high ground that I could survey, further to the east.”

Tuolonatl cocked her head and stared him expectantly. She could tell from his voice that he was saving the best news for last.

“I saw the lights of other villages across the plains and along the lower foothills of more mountains,” the scout explained. “More and more villages further and further to the east.”

“Enough to sustain an army of a hundred thousand?”

“I cannot say, and because I cannot speak the language of these humans, I cannot know if my suspicion is correct, but I believe that the true nations of the humans lie even further to the east, and what I saw was much like Skithivale and Hashenvalley, or Romaja to the south.”

Tuolonatl leaned back in the boat, digesting that. North of the great cities of Tonoloya lay the northern valleys Ataquixt had just referenced. These were the northern borderlands of Tonoloya, full of independent-minded xoconai who held allegiance to Scathmizzane and to one or another of the city sovereigns nearest their regions only for practical purposes. They were farmers and hunters and vintners and needed the trade with the greater cities.

Romaja, to the south, was even wilder and less populated, and with fewer interactions with the southern sovereigns of Tonoloya. Why should the humans be any different in their social constructs, she wondered? In every kingdom, every nation, every group, there were always some who preferred the less tamed lands, who sought space above convenience, and who preferred the dangers of the wilderness to the suffocating rules of the tamed lands.

“You did not see the eastern sea?” she asked.

“I saw mountains in the south, running east beyond my sight,” Ataquixt answered. “Great and tall mountains, as tall as Tzatzini and more. My journey to the east, like that of the refugees I pursued, was mostly on the waterways, and the water flowed swiftly, with few falls or rapids. An easy journey with my cuetzpali hunting for me, may Scathmizzane forever bless that fine mount. The journey back was more difficult and took me twice as long—nearly six weeks of riding, dawn to dusk.”

“A thousand miles?

“Half again, and I do not believe that I was anywhere near the eastern sea. The boundaries of the land beyond Tonoloya are immense, my leader. Vast lands.”

Tuolonatl sighed and rubbed her face, not thrilled at all by the report. Moving an army through civilized lands was far easier than across the wilderness, even if every week brought battles. How could she feed an army the size of the one leaving Otontotomi without fields of grain and cities with huge storerooms to conquer along the way?

“It would seem that the children of Scathmizzane and the children of Cizinfozza were separated by more than the mountain wall of Teotl Tenamitl,” she said.

“The rumored great cities of them, if they exist, then yes,” Ataquixt agreed.

Tuolonatl looked to the west, to the towering mountain range the xoconai called Teotl Tenamitl, God’s Parapet. She had thought that range the dividing line of the world, with the xoconai to the west, the humans to the east, and while that might be true, she had never imagined that those lands to the east were so much larger than the basin of Tonoloya, a strip of fertile land from the mountains to the western sea that was only a few hundred miles of ground east to west, and perhaps thrice that north to south. How many Tonoloya-sized journeys would they have to undertake before they even looked upon the rumored great cities of the humans?

“We must go to the great pyramid and tell this to Pixquicauh,” she told Ataquixt. “Let us hope that he has the ear of Scathmizzane this day, that we can find guidance. I would not lose the whole of the summer in empty wilderness.”

“Will we even march?” the scout dared to ask.

That had Tuolonatl looking to the east, the seemingly endless east. She nodded her head, though. Whatever surprises the land beyond the conquered plateau might hold, whatever trials they might face in their long journey, whatever years might pass in their conquests, she understood the will of Scathmizzane.

The god would see the sun rise over his kingdom from the beaches of the eastern sea and would see it set behind his kingdom from the beaches of the western sea.

Of that, she had no doubt.

“He is still providing valuable information?” Tuolonatl asked High Priest Pixquicauh, when she caught up to him on a high balcony in the main temple of Otontotomi. She had expected that, by this point, Pixquicauh would have executed the human she had captured on the mountainside, but there he was, in a chamber below them in this very temple, hanging from his hooks in front of a golden mirror. Curiously, the room was filled with other augurs, all staring into mirrors of their own.

“He has no valuable information for us,” Pixquicauh said. “His knowledge of any lands beyond this plateau is weaker than our own. It would seem that he and these other Cizinfozza spawn typically spent the entirety of their lives in their miserable little villages. This one, Egard, though the nephew of a chieftain—”

“Chieftain?” Tuolonatl interrupted.

“A sovereign of his tribe,” the augur explained. “This one knew the northwestern face of the mountain and the few villages immediately beneath it, along the lake. Nothing more. He had never seen the desert that is now a lake from anywhere but the high peaks of Tzatzini.”

“Yet he lives.”

“Because he does possess one thing of value to us: he speaks the language of the humans.”

“These humans,” Tuolonatl replied. “I am slow to believe that the language found here in this place is common throughout the lands to the east.”

“Why?”

Tuolonatl couldn’t see much expression in Pixquicauh’s face, of course, since most of it was covered by an embedded skull, but she was fairly sure that her remark had shaken the augur.

“My scout has returned from his travels behind the escaping humans.”

“Only now? More than two months?”

“More than a thousand miles of wilderness each way, and even the lands he came upon were full of no more than small and scattered villages. It is a vast world east of us, high priest.”

Pixquicauh nodded slowly, digesting the information, and Tuolonatl recognized the same doubts within him as she had known when Ataquixt had reported to her. How were they going to march an army of a hundred thousand warriors, perhaps even more, across thousands of miles of wilderness?

“You have learned the language of the humans from this one?” she asked at length.

Pixquicauh nodded. “Much of it. It is easy with the mirrors.”

Tuolonatl didn’t hide her confusion.

“His mirror reflects to the others,” the augur explained. “When they look into their mirrors, they look into the mind of Egard, where his every thought is translated to them. In but a few lessons, every one of them will speak enough of the human language to interrogate a child of Cizinfozza.”

“I should like to learn this language.”

“Of course.” He gave her a sly look, a grin under the skull’s teeth, and narrowed clever eyes behind the empty bone sockets. “If the God King orders it of me.”

“And where is the Glorious Gold?” Tuolonatl asked. “I have seen neither Scathmizzane nor his dragon in many days.”

“He will come forth soon. Otontotomi is nearly to its full shining beauty. He is up on the mountain with the other humans. I know not why, or what is so important to him up there, but I share this warning with you: bring no harm to the human women dancing about the crystal obelisk. I thought to bring one in to question, as I have done with this wretch, but the God King would not hear of it. He needs them—all of them.”

“Xoconai females will not suffice?”

The high priest shrugged. “We will march soon, of course,” he told her. “The lands to the east might be vast, but there is no amount of ground that will save the children of Cizinfozza. We will reach the eastern sea.”

“I would like to learn their language before that march,” Tuolonatl pressed.

Again, the augur shrugged and grinned.

“A tactical necessity,” the warrior woman insisted. “I do not think the God King will be pleased to have his army delayed because his high priest was afraid to make an easy decision.”

That took the smile from his face, she saw, and was glad.

“They are nearly done this day,” he said grumpily. “I will have a mirror in there for you tomorrow.”

“And one for Ataquixt,” she instructed. “If my most skilled and trusted scout is versed in the human tongue, he will be far more valuable to us all.”

A hard stare took a long time to turn into an agreeing nod, but it came at length, and Tuolonatl left the great temple feeling that she had won that round.

More than a week passed before Tuolonatl glimpsed the God King again. Scathmizzane, in giant form, rode his dragon Kithkukulikhan down from the great mountain Tzatzini, across the city, and down to the docks in the east, where Tuolonatl had gone with Pixquicauh at the old augur’s bidding.

The dragon settled down in the water—it had been a lake monster for many generations before Loch Beag had been drained—and Scathmizzane shrank down to the size of a large xoconai as the beast swam for the dock, moving close enough for the God King to easily step onto the wharf to join his high priest and his cochcal.

“It is time to begin our journey,” Scathmizzane told them. He looked around at the many boats that had been assembled, many carried down from the lake villages on the rim of the chasm but some newly built by the industrious xoconai.

“We can ferry a thousand at a time across the lake,” Tuolonatl told him.

“That is good,” he congratulated. “But unnecessary.” He looked to Pixquicauh. “You have brought the two mirrors?”

The old augur looked around and nodded to some other priests, who scurried to retrieve the mirrors, the one from the top of the great temple and the one Scathmizzane had given to Pixquicauh for his personal use, the same one he had used to torment the captured human named Egard.

“These are the purest gold,” the God King explained to Tuolonatl. “It lessens the risk.”

The risk? the woman mouthed under her breath, but she dared not ask aloud.

“This is your favored man?” Scathmizzane asked her, indicating the young and tall xoconai by Tuolonatl’s side.

“Ataquixt, God King,” she said, pushing Ataquixt forward.

“You are a fine mundunugu, I am told,” Scathmizzane said to the man, who kept his gaze deferentially to the ground.

“Do you think you can guide Kithkukulikhan with your steady hand?” Scathmizzane asked him, drawing several gasps from those around, including one from Tuolonatl.

Ataquixt’s gaze rose quickly, the mundunugu staring into the eyes of Glorious Gold. “I . . . I . . .” poor Ataquixt muttered, surely overwhelmed.

“We will see,” Scathmizzane said and, turning to the water, called for the dragon.

“Two augurs,” the God King instructed Pixquicauh, “and the mirror from atop Otontotomi. Fear not, we will replace the mirror presently, and if Kithkukulikhan eats the augurs and this young warrior, they will be replaced.”

Pixquicauh glanced back and motioned to two of the priests, young men both, bidding them to bring forward the desired golden mirror. Both hesitated, staring out at the dragon with clear trepidation, but Ataquixt’s chuckle mocked them, especially when Glorious Gold joined in.

Scathmizzane guided Ataquixt to the appropriate spot on the dragon’s huge back, then helped the priests to settle behind him. “Guide Kithkukulikhan to the spot where the fleeing children of Cizinfozza left the lakeshore,” he instructed Ataquixt. Then, to the two augurs, he said, “And there, set the mirror aiming back to this spot. Recite your prayer to the rising and setting sun. Catch the rays of the rising sun and redirect them to us back here on this dock.”

Away went the dragon, half of it in the water, half above, propelled by the snakelike body and the small, beating wings.

“Bring your mirror, Pixquicauh,” Scathmizzane told the high priest. “And you,” he said to Tuolonatl, “use that mirror to track the reflection of Kithkukulikhan.”

None of them understood what this might be about, but neither were they about to question their god. The second mirror was brought forth and set on the edge of the dock. Tuolonatl stood before it, just a bit to the side, directing the priests to turn it a bit left, then right, so that she could see the reflection of the dragon, which by then was nearing the spot far across the lake.

She couldn’t make out the movements, exactly, as the three xoconai debarked the giant mount and the dragon started away. The woman told the priests to turn the mirror to follow.

“No, watch your chosen scout in the reflection,” Scathmizzane instructed, and the mirror was quickly realigned.

“What do you see?”

“Flickers of the mirror, nothing more,” the woman replied. “They are far away, my Glorious Gold.”

“Look deeper,” Scathmizzane told her. “Let yourself flow into the mirror more fully. Trust in the image.”

Tuolonatl stared at the distant image and, to her surprise, it did seem to grow a bit in the mirror. She knew that the trio and the other mirror were too far away for this to be possible, but she could indeed see them, moving about, the augurs flanking the golden sheet, Ataquixt behind them, directing.

They grew bigger still when their mirror was turned correctly, catching the light of the rising sun and turning it back so that the glare became intense in the mirror before Tuolonatl.

So intense! A bright flash, blinding, washing away all other sights.

No, there they were again, the woman thought, looking at Ataquixt over the top edge of the mirror he had taken across the lake. So large now, and appearing so near! Tuolonatl felt as if she could reach out and touch—

The woman gasped and spun about.

She was across the lake, standing with the shocked trio of Ataquixt and the two augurs. Looking back the other way, she saw clearly the fissure of the ixnecia and the distant, tiny boats and their swaying masts, the docks, the Glorious Gold, Scathmizzane.

A flash in the mirror across the way became one in the mirror beside her, and then Pixquicauh was there.

“Glorious Gold,” he muttered repeatedly, shaking his head and seeming fully overcome with awe and shock.

“He comes!” Ataquixt said then, pointing out over the lake, and the others turned to see Kithkukulikhan flying toward them, with Scathmizzane, once more a giant, riding the dragon. He flew right up to them, hovering above them, towering above them.

“This is how we will move the legions,” Scathmizzane explained to them. “Flash-steps—we will cover a hundred miles a day, easily. And those trailing will erect pyramids, one facing behind, one forward, each with a mirror to keep this magical trail open to us. Go back now the way you came, Tuolonatl. Get the boats laden with supplies and sailing at once. Get my warriors and their cuetzpali to the docks and through the mirrors.

“Go back now the way you came, Pixquicauh,” Scathmizzane continued. “Gather the augurs and twenty-two more mirrors that we can begin a dozen points of flash-step travel. Quickly, before the sun climbs too high.”

“How many, God King?” Tuolonatl dared to ask.

“A hundred legions,” he answered.

The woman tried to quickly calculate how long that would take, given a thousand warriors in each legion.

“Only in the sunlight?”

“The sunlight is your mount,” Scathmizzane explained. “For now. There are other ways, but the sunlight will be enough at this time.”

More calculations swirled about the commander’s thoughts. She would have to get the mirrors across as quickly as possible, then send twelve lines in orderly flash-stepping. They would have to move in fast march to keep the bank area clear. They would have to take more mirrors ahead for a second hop, and a third. Would the most efficient process involve twelve on either side of the intended step or a line of mirrors allowing the warriors to frog-hop along, stretching the lines?

She tried to consider the logistics in light of this new and remarkable magic, and more than once shook her head, dismissing this arrangement or that.

“You will discern the best way, great Tuolonatl,” Scathmizzane said to her, drawing her from her contemplation and causing a gasp of embarrassment.

“This is why I chose you as cochcal,” the Glorious Gold told her. “You will find the best arrangement of the mirrors, and you will keep the mundunugu and the macana marching, or perhaps rafting, when the mirrors are not enough, when the sun cannot be caught to give passage. A hundred miles a day.”

Tuolonatl nodded subserviently. There was no room in Glorious Gold’s tone for her to argue or question or perform any less than had been demanded. Still, she had no idea of how they might accomplish this. Even going as fast as they could, it would take many hours to simply get the legions flash-stepping to the next spot, and many hours more if they lessened the mirror portals. She could get her mundunugu to sprint forward spot to spot with fresh cuetzpali, even a total of a hundred miles in a day, but that, too, would be no easy task.

“I give you one more gift to complete your task,” Scathmizzane said, as if reading her confusion and doubts. “I, upon Kithkukulikhan, will fly the mirrors and their handlers, a dozen at a time, to the next point in line.”

The woman nodded, the process becoming clear, the task seeming suddenly far less daunting.

“A hundred miles a day,” Glorious Gold reiterated. “Go assemble my legions. Fill their packs, bring the supplies. The children of Cizinfozza will find no rest, and the nation of Tonoloya will see the sun climb from the eastern sea and sink into the western sea each night for its sleep.”

“Yes, Glorious Gold,” Tuolonatl said, and bowed. She could hardly catch her breath. In only two weeks, they would come to the small village Ataquixt had scouted. How much longer, she wondered, would pass before she stood on the beaches of the eastern sea?

And what carnage would a hundred fierce xoconai legions leave in their wake?

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Excerpts

Excerpt: Black Leviathan by Bernd Perplies

November 5, 2019March 19, 2024torforge

In the coastal city Skargakar, residents make a living from hunting dragons and use them for everything from clothing to food, while airborne ships hunt them in the white expanse of a cloud sea, the Cloudmere.

Lian does his part carving the kyrillian crystals that power the ships through the Cloudmere, but when he makes an enemy of a dangerous man, Lian ships out on the next vessel available as a drachenjager, or dragon hunter.

He chooses the wrong ship. A fanatic captain, hunts more than just any dragon. His goal is the Firstborn Gargantuan—and Adaron is prepared to sacrifice everything for revenge.

Black Leviathan by Bernd Perplies will be available on February 25. Please enjoy the excerpt below!

1

Jägers in the Cloudmere

Seventh Day of the Fourth Moon, Year 822

The schooner glided through the air as its wooden hull pierced thick clouds of fog. Delicate wisps of mist crept silently upward, dissolved by the brightly shining sun as they rose. Thicker blankets of fog sank back into the endless whiteness that completely enveloped the small vessel.

At the ship’s bow, Adaron set both hands onto the swaying railing, gazing pensively into the unending and all-consuming Cloudmere. The fleece of the blanketing clouds spanned beneath him like freshly fallen snow on a hilly landscape, though the impression was misleading. The ground lay more than a thousand paces below, and perhaps more importantly, no water filled the space in between to buoy a person who fell. Only endless, weightless mist gathering into a thick gray fog as the vessel rose in the sky, until even the biggest creatures below were concealed from view.

These creatures—formidable dragons—were the reason the Queen of Fog had been aloft the island-studded Cloudmere for the past two weeks. Before their departure from the port city of Skargakar, Adaron and four of his crewmates—Enora, Ialrist, Jonn, and Finnar—had pawned all unnecessary possessions, many acquired from previous adventures, to purchase the skyship they now called home.

The name was more impressive than the actual vessel, which was relatively small and with barely any room below deck. However, the steering mechanics were in good condition and the kyrillian crystals, which gave the flying ship its buoyancy, were enclosed safely in their metal casings. In fact, the ancient Nondurier ship merchant had even boasted that Adaron wouldn’t find a more agile ship anywhere between Skargakar and Luvhartis afloat the Cloudmere’s waters.

They were still waiting to test this claim.

With their final few coins, Adaron and his crew recruited three young Nondurier to join their mission. Like so many others these days, the houndlings had been searching for work, but it had been prospect of great fortune from a dragon catch, Adaron reckoned—and not the mere handful of gems that Jonn had pushed into their hands—that convinced the Nondurier to board the vessel.

“Lost in thought again, are you?” A woman spoke from behind him.

As Adaron turned to discover Enora standing there, a smile curled his lips. The woman leaned against the railing, her long red hair billowing behind her. She was dressed in weatherworn leather trousers, a lightweight linen shirt, leather boots, and a dark green doublet to shield her from the cool morning breeze. Two Sidhari swords, her favorite weapons, short curved blades that had been gifted to her from a desert elf prince, hung from ornamented sheaths at her hips.

“Well?” she coaxed. “What is going on in there?”

“I’m thinking that at this very moment, my life could hardly be any better,” he confessed. “The Three Gods must truly love me to bestow such great fortune.”

“Embarking on a journey without a single coin in your purse, on the hunt for the most vicious creatures in this realm . . . you consider that to be the greatest fortune?” Enora looked shocked, but the sparkle in her blue eyes proved she was teasing.

Adaron chuckled. “It’s all a question of perspective. I think of it this way: aboard one’s own ship, in the company of the most loyal crew that I could wish for, we are approaching the most promising realm of Cloudmere. Great adventures, not to mention treasures, await us. And to top it all off, the sun shining from the blue heavens pales in comparison to the smile of the woman standing before me, who has my heart.”

“You’ve got such a flair for the poetic.” Enora smiled. “Any bard would turn green from jealousy. Or white with nausea.”

Adaron set his hands on his hips. “Well, this much is sure. I won’t waste any verses on you in my next epic.”

Now Enora laughed. “Settle down. I love you most because of your courage and your good heart. The beautiful words you whisper in my ear only increase that love beyond any shadow of doubt.” Her right hand wandered toward the medallion that she wore on a chain around her left wrist, a gift that Adaron had given her last moon cycle. Taijirin had crafted the token, promising protection to the wearer.

“A love that I return,” Adaron said, approaching Enora. He wrapped his arms around her, gazing into her eyes. “Now we’re just missing one thing to make this moment perfect.”

“If you say ‘an heir to the family line,’ I’ll cast myself overboard,” Enora warned.

Adaron grinned. “A dragon,” he continued, his gaze wandering across the endless white of the Cloudmere that spanned before them. “A dragon to pursue and conquer, and to return home to the greatest laud and honor.” With that, the lovers parted and took their places at the railing.

“Well, we haven’t had much success on our hunt so far,” Enora admitted. “Except for the one bronzeneck that we caught last week, but he was just a buck, and not especially big. If we don’t find a full-grown bull soon, we’ll return to Skargakar just as poor as when we left.”

“Our stores aren’t used up yet,” Adaron soothed. “And anyway, we’re approaching the zone where most other jäger ships will surely turn back. Just wait. Soon we’ll be alone on the Cloudmere—free to make the catch of our lives.”

“What makes you so sure about that?”

“I just know it.”

“Comrades!” called Jonn from high atop the crow’s nest at mainmast.

“Ialrist is on his way back!”

Adaron looked up as Jonn pointed portside. The small, wiry man with wild black hair and the keen vision of a lynx had the withered skin of someone who had spent most of his days under the hot sun and whipping wind atop the crow’s nest as he kept a sharp lookout for dragons or other flying vessels.

The flying ships were an awe-inspiring combination of expert craftsmanship and magic. Two half-circle enclosures around the bow and the stern formed a frame, which held six metal cases against the wooden hull. On the underside of these cases, small, gill-like slats opened and closed by way of a rope-and-pulley system from a control stand above deck. These cases contained amethyst-like kyrillian crystals, which held powerful magical properties that propelled them upward when not enclosed by heavy metal. A sufficient number of these crystals could not only lift a ship’s hull into the air but could also raise entire rock masses, or lithos, from whose undersides kyrillian was mined. Fanlike sails along their sides enhanced most skyships, while trapeze-shaped ones hung on the masts above deck, to control the vessels’ propulsion and steering accuracy.

The ability to fly ships was first introduced to the foggy coast near Skargakar nearly a century earlier. On a cool autumn day, a fleet of flying ships first appeared through the fog. Both the humans and lizard-like Drak residing there were stunned. Those ships had been steered by the folk with small frames, red complexions, and heads like hounds. Non-durier were refugees from a distant land where an unknown evil had driven them south. During the first few weeks, the locals feared conquest and were wary of the outsiders. However, it soon became apparent that Nondurier were not hostile and that both their expertise and their ships could be precious commodities for the entire coastal region. For the first time, the prospect of free flight through the Cloudmere, just as the vogelfolk had always enjoyed, would now be possible for any man or woman without a set of wings.

Thanks to their ships and nautical abilities, the Nondurier quickly developed into highly sought-after employees. The abundance of dragons within the Cloudmere became apparent, and as the many possible uses those great reptiles were revealed, the coastal folk relinquished the last of their reservations. They built more and more flying ships, supported through an extensive discovery of kyrillian crystals. The coastal region, previously a collection of small, scattered settlements amid the lush wilderness, practically blossomed overnight. Especially Skargakar, which prospered from its new reputation as a hub for the most formidable jägers and their flying ships. Anyone on the hunt for Great Drachen wound up in Skargakar eventually—just as Adaron and his crew had done.

With a last beat of the great wings growing from his back, Ialrist landed on the deck beside Adaron and Enora. The Taijirin, as the vogel-folk called themselves, did not seem quite as foreign as the Nondurier on board, but no one could have mistaken Ialrist for a human. A fine tan and white speckled down covered the man’s skin. His large, dark eyes peered out from a gaunt face. Feathers grew from his head in a crest that nearly reached the floor, and powerful wings sprouted from his back that, when extended, spanned nearly four paces. As with most members of his kind, Ialrist had the lean and sinewy build that allowed him to lift into the air by strength alone.

The vogelfolk turned toward the group and called over the wind. “I come bearing good news. I’ve spotted a silverwing circling a flock of cliff birds not far from here.”

“A silverwing?” repeated Adaron. “Now that’s a beast worth hunting.”

Known for their shimmering scales and glimmering silvery wings, which were fashioned into expensive robes back in Skargakar, silverwings— depending on age—could span from ten to twenty paces.

“Where is the beast now?” asked Belhac, the Nondurier who manned the helm.

“Over there,” Ialrist said, pointing starboard. The crew could decipher nothing beyond the endless clouds that streamed past.

“That would lead us dangerously close to Death’s Bleak,” the houndling warned.

“Death’s Bleak?” Adaron looked bemused. “That sounds remarkably dramatic to my ears. Who thought of that name?”

“I don’t know,” answered Belhac. “But I will say this much: any experienced jäger you’d meet in the taverns of Skargakar would avoid that area at all costs. Rumor has it that the mountain peaks hidden beneath the fleece are so treacherous that one wrong encounter could be a ship’s undoing. They also tell of firebloods lurking in the fog there, awaiting unsuspecting prey.”

“A red dragon.” Enora’s eyes glimmered with anticipation. “That would be the catch of our lives!”

“You can forget about that,” said Belhac, shaking his head. “We aren’t prepared for a battle against a fire-breather, and neither is our ship.”

“That may be,” Adaron cut in gruffly, “but we’re the ones who pay your wages. So we’ll decide the course of action. Anyone who doesn’t like it I will happily remove from the deck.”

“Who is steering this ship, then?” the Nondurier challenged, eyeing Adaron. “You?”

“Belhac is right,” Finnar said—being without a doubt the most sensible person on board. The massive bearded man, who had previously earned a living as a weaponsmith before being dealt a bad hand, crossed his arms in front of his huge chest. “This is our first voyage into the Cloudmere. Let’s not go immediately for the most dangerous dragon of all. That can only end badly, and I for one would like to return home in one piece, to sell our wares and buy endless barrels of mead with all of the money we earn.”

“Wisely said,” said Belhac. “My brothers and I share your opinion.”

“Fine, then we’ll keep a distance from red dragons for now,” Adaron announced. “But we shouldn’t let any silverwings escape us. You know how rare they are; their scales alone are worth a pretty pile of crystals.”

“Maybe we’ll even be lucky enough to find a drachen pearl inside its heart,” added Enora, wistfully.

“Why not? The chances are certainly higher than with bronzenecks.” Adaron’s gaze passed over Ialrist, Jonn, and finally Finnar. “I say we follow Ialrist’s lead. On the edge of this so-called Death’s Bleak, there’s only a slight threat of hitting any cliffs. I trust that the Three Gods will know how to keep us from encountering any firebloods on our way.”

“I agree with Adaron,” said Ialrist, now growing restless. “Let us hunt the silverwing.”

“I’m with you,” called Jonn from the crow’s nest, and Enora nodded. “Good, then,” agreed Finnar. “Let’s look upon our riches.”

At the order, Belhac steered the Queen of Fog into a wide curve, clearly unhappy with the decision. His younger brother, Wuffzan, also looked grumpy and resigned. Only the youngest of the three brothers, Felhim, seemed to have caught the hunting fever. He had already positioned the crystal rudders and now set to work hoisting the extra sail from beneath the bowsprit. Veils of fog rippled around the ship as it picked up speed, gliding toward the unknown.

_________

The sun had passed its zenith, well hidden behind a cluster of clouds, when the crew first discovered the silverwing. The dragon circled elegantly over a stone reef, whose peak stuck out through the mist in two sharp crags, each looming forty paces high and pointing up like an admonishing claw. At the start of their journey, Adaron had not yet learned to discern whether a piece of land protruding from Cloudmere was the summit of a mountain rooted deep within the earth or a lithos floating in the air from an abundance of kyrillian ore on its underside. Time aloft had, thankfully, sharpened his eye to decipher the subtle movements that set free-floating masses apart from unmoving ones.

The reef, which before the dragon’s arrival had been a flock of birds’ undisturbed breeding colony, rose and fell gently as if it drifted over the gentle waves of a quiet, ordinary ocean of water. Even today, Adaron could barely grasp that hard, heavy stone, often as large as a dwelling and occasionally as massive as an entire village, could hang in the fog, suspended as though weightless. He pushed back his astonishment; they were not there to marvel at the magic of kyrillian crystals.

“Look at him!” called Enora, her eyes wide and sparkling as she gazed at the silverwing. The dragon measured about fifteen paces from its head to the tip of its tail—it must have been a young animal. Its body was a light gray, and the scale sheath running from its tail, past its back and flank, and all the way up to its neck glittered in a matte silver. Black scales lined its four legs, indicating the beast was male. Certainly, the creature’s wings did its name justice; silverwing—the leathery skin growing between the bony spokes sprouting from its back shimmered, reflecting rays of sunshine into brilliant sheets of silver.

“He’s beautiful,” said Adaron, awestruck, before turning to the others. “We all know what needs to be done, mates. I’ll man the harpoon ballista. Finnar, Enora, you stand ready by the kyrillian buoys. Ialrist, fetch your reaver. And Belhac . . .” Adaron paused, his eyes aflame. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

“Don’t worry, Captain. We know what to do. The dragon won’t get away from us,” Belhac answered solemnly.

The Queen of Fog picked up speed and leaned into a wide curve to circumvent a mound of cloud and sneak up on the dragon from the side. Adaron stepped up to the harpoon ballista. Attached securely to the ship’s bow, the contraption resembled an oversized crossbow on a swiveling gun carriage. He laid the harpoon into the crossbow’s shelf and threaded fine, unbreakable Sidhari hemp through the eye at the rod’s base. Four rolls of rope lay ready next to him, which would gradually bind the prey, sure and steadfast, to the ship’s side. Using a winch, Adaron began to pull back the bowstring, made of tightly wound dragon skin. He raised his head occasionally to gauge when their target would come within shooting range.

Ialrist appeared at Adaron’s side. The spear in his hands was nearly three paces long, ending in a flat, sharp, scythe-like blade. On the opposite end, an iron ball ended in a spike, which served as a counterweight. Aside from the short bow, used in long-distance battle, a reaver was the most common weapon used by Taijirin in sky battle. In a fight in the winding alleys of Skargakar, Ialrist would surely lose; he needed room for the both the reaver’s swing and his own wingspan to make the most of the weapon. When he had sufficient room, he was a dangerous opponent.

Even a dragon would be wise to be wary; a Taijirin warrior could descend on its prey as quick and sure as a raptor. If everything went according to plan, Ialrist would swoop in, slicing through the muscle fibers at the base of the beast’s wings. A dragon that could no longer fly was a far easier target.

One thing was sure: a giant beast in full possession of its strength shouldn’t be underestimated. Even if they didn’t possess any particular natural weapons, such as spitting fire or deadly acid, they were still immensely powerful. One blow could break bones, and one bite would cut straight through an unarmored opponent without second thought. In addition, dragons were clever and cunning creatures—as this one proved once the wavering mountain reappeared in the Queen of Fog’s view.

“Where did he go?” Adaron said, looking around in confusion. The silverwing, which had eaten its fill of the bird colony, had disappeared. Whether the beast was simply full or sensed approaching danger, it was impossible to say.

Jonn’s sharp vision spotted the dragon first. “There, he’s flying ahead!” called the wiry man pointing starboard, past the cliff’s sharp crags.

Adaron squinted. Between clouds far in the distance, he could make out the beast’s body glinting in the afternoon sun. “Belhac, take pursuit!” he roared.

“On it, Captain,” the gruff Nondurier called from the helm.

“He’s not diving,” Enora remarked. “He doesn’t seem to be leaving because of us.” She stood next to the kyrillian buoys, metal cases with gilled undersides similar to those at the hull, which could unleash the crystal’s hidden powers in large amounts when opened. These buoys would be employed to give a fishing boat extra lift should a dragon, once shot by a harpoon and successfully bound, threaten to pull the vessel into the depths of Cloudmere, taking its men along with it into the depths of the foggy abyss.

“We can’t overtake a silverwing with this skyship,” called Belhac. “We’ll have to follow him until he stops to rest or feed again.” He stopped short.

“Why are you hesitating?” Adaron asked.

The hound-headed man curled his lips into a snarl. “He’s flying straight for the . . . ,” he growled.

“Spit it out, man!”

Belhac bowed forward. A chilling expression loomed over his face. “If the silver doesn’t turn around soon, he’ll lead us straight into Death’s Bleak.”

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Excerpts

Excerpt: A Queen in Hiding by Sarah Kozloff

November 4, 2019March 19, 2024torforge4 Comments

Exiled and hunted, Cerulia, Princess of Weirandale, knows she has one destiny.

Her enemies failed to kill her, and no one harboring her is safe. Raised in obscurity, she has no resources, no army, nothing that can help her against her enemies.

Except their gods.

A Queen in Hiding by Sarah Kozloff will be available on January 21. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

Excerpt

Cerúlia’s biggest dog, Aki, prodded her with his cold nose, which he had wiggled under the bed curtains. She rolled over, but then Aki pawed her back with his nails.

She sat up in bed, still sleep-drugged. Cerúlia felt a pressure on her mind, something akin to wings beating against a closed window. She “opened” the window, and Aki spoke to her for the first time. Danger, he sent.

Aki! You can hear me? Cerúlia delighted in her new connection with a dog. Can I talk to the other dogs too? What about the cats?

Little princess! Danger! Aki sent.

Is there a fire? she asked, yawning.

No. Strange men. Stink of fear. On the roof. Coming closer.

Cerúlia twitched the bed hangings open. Zizi, Faki, and Naki growled softly. Pakki, who was so old that he didn’t even react to his name, was the only dog not on alert. Her house cats had arched their bodies and their tails twitched. Cerúlia snapped alert.

A short interior corridor connected the queen’s chamber and the princella’s. Her mother had told her it was built so that mothers and fathers could check on their daughters in the middle of the night without walking in the public hall undressed. The passage wasn’t a secret, but because after nursery years it stood dark, cold, and airless, everyone generally avoided it. Platsy, the maid, had once referred to it with a shudder as the “Passageway of Lost Babes,” and Nana had scolded her sharply. Reluctantly, she explained to Cerúlia that the name stemmed from the fact that parents used it most when newborns were ailing.

Tonight Cerúlia raced through the black passageway barefoot, the dogs panting on her ankles. She shook her mother.

“Mamma—wake up! Wake up! There are strangers on the roof.”

“Um, what?” Her mamma reached for her sleepily and asked, “Are you ill?”

“No Mamma, listen! The dogs say that there are attackers on the roof.”

“The dogs say—the dogs say—Cerúlia, what kind of nonsense did you wake me up for?”

“Mamma! I swear men are coming to kill us! Look!” Cerúlia grabbed a narrow brand from the fire and held it up so her mother could see her dogs: their heads hung on low, rigid necks, their ruffs stuck straight up and their lips were pulled back from their teeth.

Her mother darted up, taking the burning wood from Cerúlia. She crossed through her sizeable reception room, where a maid dozed before the banked fire, and opened the double door to the main hallway. The two shields outside turned to her mother’s urgent call. Faki and Naki took advantage of the cracked door to slip out, racing away at full speed, ears flattened, low growls deep in their throats.

While her mother spoke with the men and they called their fellows patrolling the hallway with sharp halberds, Cerúlia saw the catamount push at the window shutter, first with a paw and then with her nose. Cerúlia sprang out into the hall and opened the shutters, which led onto a balcony; the catamount jumped through in one graceful bound.

Two of the shields ran off in the direction the dogs had taken.

“Platsy.” Her mother shook her maid and lit two candles with the brand before throwing it into the fire. “Take this. Go back to your quarters and lock your door. You won’t get in trouble for leaving your post. Go now!”

Sergeant Bristle and Shield Seena came into her mamma’s rooms, their stern expressions and the quivering light making them look like strangers instead of old friends. Bristle bolted the doors to the big hall and wedged a chair cockeyed on two legs against it. Then he led them into Mamma’s bedroom and again secured the door. He and Seena crossed through the passageway and locked the door from Cerúlia’s rooms to the corridor. They looked around for a sturdy chair to brace against the door but didn’t find one to their liking.

“Wake up, Nana!” said Seena, who had gone into Nana’s room and shaken her. “Trouble afoot.”

Bristle had been examining the door fastenings of the Passageway of Lost Babes. “You ladies go in here,” ordered Bristle. “I’ll stand watch on the queen’s side; Seena, you take this side. Bolt the doors from within and stay quiet there until I give you the all-clear.”

“Can we take a candle?” asked Nana, rubbing her eyelids.

“Best not,” said Bristle.

“Wait!” Cerúlia pulled elderly Pakki and her delicate little greyhound into the protected space. Aki, nostrils twitching, moved beside Seena.

Minutes passed so slowly. Locked in their black, shut-in space, with only glimmers of firelight slipping around the doorjambs, they couldn’t tell what was going on. Cerúlia grew bored, and her feet were so freezing she picked them up off the icy stone and rubbed them. She noticed that her mother and Nana wore night clogs; she wished she’d left hers neatly by her bedside as Nana always told her to.

Still they waited. Cerúlia wanted to complain about her feet, and she wanted to call out to the shields to check that they were still close by, but she held her tongue. She wondered, with a shudder, if the lost babies’ souls surrounded her in this dark corridor, but she pushed down her rising panic.

The thoughts of Zizi, the knee-high greyhound, battered inside Cerúlia’s mind for the first time. Startled by the strange sensation, Cerúlia jerked.

Zizi?

Danger! Men with death in their hearts. The dog trembled against Cerúlia’s calf so intensely that her whole body shook.

You’re all right, Zizi. I swear I’ll protect you.

In the distance they heard shouts and the noise of swords clanging, higher-pitched yells, and then the sound of a woman screaming into the night. She screamed and screamed and screamed.

The noise ceased, and for long moments they heard nothing more. Cerúlia strained her ears, but all she could hear was Mamma and Nana breathing quickly. She took her mother’s hand and patted it.

Abruptly, Aki growled. The noise of a blade splintering wood cut through the dark.

“See-na!! I’m coming!” Bristle shouted from behind them.

People had burst through the outer door into her rooms! As terror coursed through her, Mamma crouched down and enfolded her in her arms.

Intruders! This is one’s territory! Aki’s warning splashed into Cerúlia’s mind.

Seena shouted, “For the Nargis Throne!” and the clash of sword hitting sword rang out.

But Cerúlia couldn’t make out anything further because all at once the air was sundered by ear-splitting yowls, rising in pitch.

The noise became so loud and fearsome that Nana covered her ears in her hands and cried out, “Nargis, protect us!” Mamma pulled Nana down and wrapped her arms around her too. But Cerúlia yanked herself free of the embrace, jumping up and down. She put her mouth to her mother’s ear, “It’s the cats! I have five cats in my room!”

Her delight in the cats joining the battle only lasted a second. Without warning, something extremely heavy struck the door to their passageway hideout. The door shook, and a chink opened between two planks!

Without meaning to, Cerúlia screamed.

They heard catfight screeches, Aki’s growls, and human shouts of pain. Heavy footsteps came thumping down the hallway. More sword clashes and yells and curses. Pakki, finally realizing something was wrong, started woofing, his deep voice echoing in the enclosure and deafening the shut-ins.

“DROP YOUR SWORDS IF YOU WANT TO LIVE,” roared Captain Clemçon’s voice with such authority it rose above the chaos.

A clattering noise. The cats cut off as if someone had thrown a basin on them. Shut up, Pakki! Cerúlia sent to him without even realizing she had done so, and the old hound was so surprised to hear her thoughts in his head that he too ceased his barking. Cerúlia caught the noise of moans and men talking over one another. Someone pounded on the door on the queen’s entrance to the passageway.

“Your Majesty, are you unharmed?” came Sergeant Bristle’s voice.

Mamma unbolted the door that opened into her own bedchamber. “Yes. Tell me.”

Bristle looked wild; he’d lost both helmet and cloak, and dark sweat stains spread under his arms. Nana went to the wardrobe to pull out a night cloak to cover her queen’s nightshift. Cerúlia grabbed a fringy coverlet off a chair and wrapped it around herself.

“A band of intruders penetrated the palace grounds,” reported Bristle. “They went from the terrace to the roof and were making their way to the Royal Wing. Eight have been killed. Hard to survive when a catamount has broken your neck or a dog ripped out your throat. Two broke into the princella’s rooms. They were fought off by Seena and all the animals.”

“Who are these intruders?” asked her mother.

“We don’t recognize ’em.”

“But are they Weir citizens?” she pressed.

“As far as we can tell. Course, we’ll be asking these questions of the captives.”

“I would see them. Nana, keep her here.” Wrapping her cloak around her, Mamma left the suite through the public hall. Nana reached out for Cerúlia’s shoulders, but Cerúlia was too quick—she slid out right behind her mother.

Cerúlia’s eyes opened round when she saw her own rooms. Five shields and Captain Clemçon were crammed inside, and all her furniture had been tossed about. In the light of flickering torches she saw red splattered everywhere and pooling on the floor. The cats perched here and there, briskly and innocently licking paws and coats. Aki’s eyes were locked on two men on the floor, his lips pulled back in a snarl, his fur puffed out like a porcupine. The men on the floor wore dark colors; their clothes were torn; their faces twisted.

Aki, what—

Cerúlia broke off contact with the dog to attend to the human conversation. Captain Clemçon had gone down on one knee to the queen, not noticing that he knelt in a puddle of blood.

“How did these men infiltrate the castle grounds? How did these ruffians enter my daughter’s rooms? The princella’s bedchamber!” Her voice got higher, and some spit sprayed out of her mouth.

“I swear to you, Your Majesty, we will find out.” Captain Clemçon pulled out his sword and laid it hilt-first across his thigh, keeping his head bowed low. “This happened on my watch. My liege, would you like my sword?”

“Don’t be a noble ass, Clemçon, just get to the bottom of this.” Mamma studied the wounded men. All Cerúlia could tell was that one was big, the other tall and lean. Cerúlia saw their faces bore wicked scratches and their hands had little punctures in them everywhere from the cats’ bites. Their trouser legs showed Aki-sized tears. A gaping wound—a sword slash?—cut across the bigger man’s belly, pulsing blood.

“I don’t know them,” said her mother.

“Nor do we,” replied Clemçon. “We will bind them up so they don’t bleed out here and take them for questioning.”

“Did you get them all?” Mamma asked.

“We’re searching the grounds now. I’ve gotten the rest of the catamounts to help.”

Clemçon turned to a shield. “Yanath! Get healers in here! We have to keep these two alive by all means.”

The thinner man on the floor noticed Cerúlia staring at him. His eyes locked on hers. She experienced his hatred like a blow. His lips moved. Cerúlia couldn’t hear what he was saying because Aki started growling low, but she guessed he cursed. His ill will alarmed her; she ducked behind her mother, holding on to her skirt.

Captain Clemçon caught sight of Cerúlia. Again he went down on one knee, “Princella, my deepest regrets.”

When her mother realized that Cerúlia had snuck into the room she asked Shield Seena to take her back to the queen’s bedchamber. But Mamma bent down and whispered to her, “I wish you to keep all the dogs with you at all times.”

Cerúlia was glad to escape the wounded man’s hatred. Nana disapproved of her running off, but she held her lips together and didn’t scold this time. As Cerúlia crossed to warm her feet at the fire, she saw that the dragging length of the coverlet dripped with blood. She threw it off with a shudder and a little yelp. Aki, who had followed them into Mamma’s room, thrust his nose into her neck.

“Nana,” Cerúlia said, “my stomach feels really bad. Like I ate an old shoe.”

“Saw more than she should’ve,” Seena told her nursemaid.

Nana got down on her knees and hugged her tight. “There, there, my Chickadee,” she said. “I’ll set you to rights.”

Nana sat her down on a footstool and rubbed her freezing feet in her warm hands. She sent Tiklok for a sleeping draught with lots of honey, which tasted comforting.

When Faki and Naki scratched at the door, Shield Seena cautiously opened it and let them in.

“Naki’s bleeding!” Cerúlia pointed, with a little shriek of distress.

“We’ll take a look,” said Seena.

“Sit still, Naki,” said Cerúlia. Nana held a lantern close to his middle and wiped off the blood, while Seena probed the injury along his ribs with her fingers.

“Good boy,” said the shield, and Cerúlia noticed that despite the sprays of blood across her forehead and breastplate—despite everything that had happened that night—her voice and hands were steady.

“It’s only superficial, Princella.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s only on his skin, not deep into his body. He’s going to be fine.”

Then Cerúlia felt embarrassed for screaming over a little hurt. “How does your stomach feel, Shield Seena? Would you like some of my tisane?”

“My stomach? Thank you, Princella, I’m fine.”

“Seena’s trained for this, Chickadee,” said Nana. “Now drink the last bit and hop into bed.”

Cerúlia let all of them—Aki, little Zizi, Faki, injured Naki, and even no-good old Pakki (Seena had to pick up his stiff hind legs)—get up on Mamma’s big bed with her. Nana said that this once, her mother would not be angered. In the morning she would talk to Aki more and see if she could converse with all the dogs. But now the bed was warm, and Zizi felt soft and her little heart thumped against Cerúlia’s chest rhythmically

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Excerpts

Excerpt: Servant of the Crown by Duncan M. Hamilton

November 1, 2019March 19, 2024torforge

Long laid plans finally bear fruit, but will it prove as sweet as hoped for? With the king on his deathbed, the power Amaury has sought for so long is finally in his grasp.

As opposition gathers from unexpected places, dragonkind fights for survival and a long-awaited reckoning grows close.

Soléne masters her magic, but questions the demands the world will make of her. Unable to say no when the call of duty comes, Gill realizes that the life he had given up on has not given up on him.

Servant of the Crown by Duncan M. Hamilton will be available on March 10, 2020. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

Chapter 1

Val had always dreamed of the city of Mirabay, the glittering capital of their country. Home to the king, his lords, ladies, knights, and dames. He wasn’t naive enough to think of it as a place of wonderment, where streets were paved with gold, where dreams became reality. He reckoned it would be little diferent from Trelain—good bits and bad bits—albeit on a far larger scale.

He stopped his horse when the city first came into view, the king’s palace sitting majestically on the hill overlooking Mirabay. Even from that distance, Val could see the twin campaniles of the cathedral, as well as some of the turrets of the old castle on the Isle. He had never been here, but felt as though he knew the city well. Almost every story of Chevaliers and heroes he had ever been told had started within the walls of the city before him. To finally visit was at once exhilarating and terrifying. He felt some pride, too. He was going to take his place at the Academy and seize the future he had always desired, but thought would be forever beyond his grasp.

As he urged his horse forward and continued toward the city’s gates, he thought over the last few days. They had been a true taste of the life that lay ahead of him. Val wondered which of the three bannerets he had recently kept company with he would come to most resemble: the bragging Beausoleil, who showed his true worth at a critical moment and shamed everyone for not having thought highly enough of him; Cabham, who had seemed competent, but proved to be nothing more than a fame-hungry coward; Gill? Val had spent more time with Guillot than with either of the other two, but still didn’t know what to make of the man.

One the one hand, Gill seemed like a man who had given up on life, or one whom life had given up on. Either way, he was as unlikely a candidate to ride of to save a village from marauding dragons as Val could imagine. He certainly didn’t fit the image of the old Chevaliers of the Silver Circle, who were, according to legend, handsome, decked out in shining armour, and armed with courage that never wavered. Yet Gill had all the substance that was needed.

In the old stories, the Chevaliers never got knocked down. Gill did. Often. But he got up every single time and tried again. He had kept getting up and trying until he’d won. Val wondered how Guillot had fared against the last dragon. That matter would have been long decided by now. Val felt rotten having left him to face it alone—it didn’t seem like something an aspiring banneret should do. He understood why Gill had sent him away, though. Ostensibly it was to deliver a message, but he knew what Gill’s intention was, something that was confirmed when Val noticed that the letters Gill had given him were addressed to the master of the Academy. Gill had lost people, and didn’t want to lose any more. He had sent Val away to keep him safe. More than that, he was a man who did his best to make good on his promises, and knowing he faced death, he was keeping the one he’d made to Val: sponsorship to the Academy.

After that odd little cup, the one used in the Silver Circle ritual, was stolen, something in Gill had changed. Val had been so caught up in the idea of finally realising his own dream that he hadn’t noticed at first, but he’d worked it out eventually. Resignation was something Val had seen often in Trelain—people doing the same thing, day in, day out. They accepted it because they knew there was nothing else for them. Resignation might have made the drudgery easier to bear, but it killed something inside. The thought made him feel nauseous. He should have stayed. Should have helped, but he hadn’t. Gill had known exactly how to tempt him away, and he’d gone. Regret wasn’t much use now.

Val knew he’d likely be dead now, if he’d ridden out after that last dragon with Gill. No one had ever done a selfless thing for him before. That was why Gill was a hero, more so than any of the old Chevaliers with their glittering breastplates and magical swords. He put others before his best interests, and Val knew it had probably cost him his life. He loved Gill for that.

He stopped his horse again, and turned south, looking back at the mountains he had come from. There, he knew, Gill had fought the last dragon, near a village no one had ever heard of. But Val knew. He knew the village was called Venne, and he would be sure to tell anyone who would listen what had happened there. Where the last of the Chevaliers of the Silver Circle had faced the last of the dragons.

Val chuckled to himself. He knew he gave far too much weight to the old stories. Now he was getting carried away by having been a bit player in a new one. Even he, a lad of sixteen summers—perhaps seventeen, he couldn’t be sure—was too pragmatic to take all that romantic nonsense at face value. He’d need to empty his head of such thoughts before he entered the Academy, or the other students would think him a country fool.

Giving the mountains one final look, Val prayed to all the gods that Gill still lived, that the dragon was slain, and that there might be some hope of the man finding whatever it was his life was missing.

________

Val was determined not to look like a wide-eyed country bumpkin as he rode into Mirabay. He didn’t have much money, but he knew what little he did have would be stolen in the blink of an eye if he advertised the fact that he was new to the city. As discreetly as he could, he asked a patrolling officer of the watch for directions to the address he wanted, then did his best to appear as though he knew his way around and that the short sword at his hip wasn’t merely for decoration.

The officer said the address Gill had given Val was located on the southern bank of the River Vosges, near the Academy of Bannerets. Just the mention of the Academy got Val’s heart racing with excitement. He had dreamed of going there from the moment he had first learned of it, and now it seemed he was about to realise that dream.

He kept his excitement contained as he rode along the dirt street at a modest pace, one that he thought befit a young gentleman. What little he knew about the nobility came from watching those who had passed through the Black Drake inn at Trelain, where Val had been employed before convincing Gill to take him on as a squire.

Despite his high spirits, Val couldn’t help but detect an air of tension in the city. People glanced about furtively, as though they were on the lookout for someone, or something. Val presumed it was the dragon and wanted to laugh out loud at their cowardly behaviour. Although he was not too proud to admit the beasts terrified him— especially the ones he had seen up close—the nearest one was miles and miles away. Even flying, it would take at least a day to reach Mirabay from the mountains—perhaps longer; Val wasn’t certain how fast they could fly, or for how long. Even then, there were plenty of farms and villages to keep it interested along the way. He reckoned it would be weeks before a dragon had cause to be within a hundred miles of the city, assuming it still lived.

The houses lining the street were fine—far grander than anything in Trelain. Val started to wonder about the man Gill had sent him to. He was obviously very wealthy if he could afford to live in a neighbourhood like this, but then again, Gill was a lord, and everyone knew lords were wealthy, and only hung around with other lords.

Eventually Val found the house he was looking for, a pale, stone edifice pocked with ornately framed windows. Large, slate-grey double doors sat at the centre of the façade, with a smaller wicket door set in one of them. He dismounted and rapped the heavy bronze knocker, then stood back to wait. His heart was racing, and his mouth was dry. He had no idea what to expect. How would this man react to his arrival? Would he do as Gill had asked? There was always the possibility that he would refuse, a thought that Val had not allowed himself to entertain up until now, but that dominated his mind as he counted the seconds.

He heard a latch scraping on the far side of the doors, and the wicket door opened. A slim man with lank hair hanging down to his shoulders—less well dressed than Val would have expected for a house such as this—filled the breach. He regarded Val with a hostile stare.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve a letter here for the master of the house.” Val held it up, but out of reach.

The man scrutinised the address, written in Gill’s neat hand, and frowned. Val wasn’t convinced he was able to read, but he certainly wanted to give the impression that he could. Val couldn’t manage more than a few words himself, so he didn’t condemn the inability, only the desire to mislead.

“Hand it over. I’ll see that he gets it.”

“It’s to be delivered in person,” Val said.

The man took a moment to consider. “Wait here.” He shut the door behind him, leaving Val standing on the cobbled street to further consider the neighbourhood. It was quiet, and the day was heading into early evening. Val hadn’t given any thought to where he would stay for the night. On some level, he expected to be whisked straight to the Academy and shown to his dormitory, but he realised that wasn’t very likely.

He waited there for some time, like the unwelcome caller he was beginning to suspect he was, before the latch scraped again and another man appeared at the door—this one bespectacled and better dressed, but with an equally hard face.

“I understand you have a letter for Maestro dal Volenne?” the man said.

“I do,” Val said, once again showing the letter. It was all he had to prove his credentials, and there was no way he was handing it to anyone but the master of the Academy.

“My name is Burgess Prenneau, Crown Solicitor. I represent the Crown in the matter of Maestro dal Volenne’s estate, and am officially authorised to receive all correspondence addressed to him.”

“I don’t understand,” Val said.

“Are you claiming relation, blood or otherwise?” Prenneau said, ignoring Val’s question.

“No, I . . . What’s going on here? May I see Maestro dal Volenne? I was instructed to hand this letter to him personally.”

Prenneau seemed to relax when Val said he wasn’t a relative. “I apologise,” he said. “Maestro dal Volenne is deceased. He died intestate, with no known successors, so his estate is reverting to the Crown. I was appointed to deal with the matter. I can accept the letter and add it to his documents, but I’m afraid there will be no reply.”

Val’s heart sank. He had no idea what to do or say.

“If you knew the Maestro,” Prenneau said, “I commiserate for your loss, but I’m afraid I’m extremely busy. The Maestro was not the most fastidious in managing his afairs and there’s a great deal to do.”

The awkward silence that followed made it clear that it was time to go. Val dofed his hat and turned to lead his horse back the way he had come. Only moments before, he had been on his way to fulfilling a lifelong dream. Now he was alone and adrift in a great city, with no idea of where to turn.

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Excerpts

Excerpt: The Bard’s Blade by Brian Anderson

October 30, 2019March 19, 2024torforge2 Comments

Mariyah enjoys a simple life in Vylari, a land magically sealed off from the outside world, where fear and hatred are all but unknown. There she’s a renowned wine maker and her betrothed, Lem, is a musician of rare talent. Their destiny has never been in question. Whatever life brings, they will face it together.

Then a stranger crosses the wards into Vylari for the first time in centuries, bringing a dark prophecy that forces Lem and Mariyah down separate paths. How far will they have to go to stop a rising darkness and save their home? And how much of themselves will they have to give up along the way?

The Bard’s Blade by Brian Anderson will be available on January 28, 2020. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

Excerpt

Lem wanted to weep; to scream; to do something, anything that would take away the feeling of helplessness that threatened to overcome him. He threw back the blanket and placed his feet on the cold wood floor and slumped at the edge of the bed. Perhaps a spot of whiskey might help. Shemi kept some in the kitchen pantry. He didn’t enjoy it as much as his uncle, preferring wine. But it had its uses.

A garbled cry sounded from beyond the door. Lem snatched up a lantern and hurried into the hallway, turning toward Shemi’s bedroom. But another agonized moan from the spare room had him sliding to a halt and running in the opposite direction. The stranger was still in bed, but was twisting and groaning as if in horrible pain.

Lem placed the lantern on the floor and leaned over the ailing man, unsure what to do. “It’s all right. Calm down. You’re safe.”

Shemi. He should get Shemi. He turned to call for his uncle, but a hand shot up and gripped his wrist.

“He’s coming!” the stranger shouted, thrashing his head from side to side. “He’s coming!”

Lem tried to pull free, but the steely fingers held fast. The stranger’s eyes popped open and fixed on Lem.

“Is it . . . is it you?”

Lem could not form a reply.

Sweat drenched the stranger’s hair and face. “You must go,” he rasped. “You must leave this place. He’s coming. You must go before he finds you.”

“I’ll get help,” Lem finally managed to say. Again he tried to break free.

“No!” With irresistible strength, the stranger pulled Lem forward and wrapped his other arm around his neck. Lem panicked, frantically pushing against the stranger’s chest, but to no effect. In a single motion, the stranger leaned up, crushing Lem to his body.

A flash of white light covered Lem’s eyes, momentarily blinding him. As his vision slowly returned, his nostrils were assaulted by the rancid stench of burnt timbers and rotten flesh. The bedroom and the stranger were gone. In their place was an open field roughly two hundred yards in diameter, completely encircled by a massive inferno reaching as high as the treetops. Heat assaulted him with brutal ferocity, but there was nowhere to run. Strewn across the ground like broken twigs were hundreds upon hundreds of bodies, mangled and twisted, some hacked to pieces, their faces contorted and frozen into their final horrorstricken moments. Many he recognized at once—friends, acquaintances, students. He averted his eyes, fearing that one of them might be Shemi . . . or Mariyah.

“This can’t be real,” shouted Lem. “It’s a trick. What have you done to me?”

He is coming. The voice of the stranger called out from all directions. No longer shrill with madness, the enormous volume of the deep baritone reverberated in his chest.

He will find you. He will destroy everything you love. You must go. Hurry. Before it’s too late.

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Excerpts

Excerpt: Sabbath by Nick Mamatas

October 8, 2019May 2, 2024torforge5 Comments

The infamous eleventh-century warrior Hexen Sabbath is plucked from death and certain damnation by a being claiming to be an angel of the Lord, and finds himself dropped into contemporary Manhattan with no clothes, no weapons, no resources, and one mission—to track down and kill the living personifications of the Seven Deadly Sins before they bring about Armageddon.

With time running out and his only ally a destitute art gallery owner, Sabbath must fight his way through New York’s elite and challenge the world’s most powerful man, or an eternity of suffering will be his, and our, only reward.

Sabbath by Nick Mamatas will be available on November 19. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

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Proclaim ye this among the Gentiles; Prepare war, wake up the mighty men, let all the men of war draw near; let them come up.

Joel 3:9

Hell, thought Duke Richard II. This is Hell.

That’s what it was. All of it. The invasion of the Vikings, who were more beasts than men. More brutal even than the Great Heathen Army of Duke Richard II’s grandfather’s time. The conduct of the war, which had led Richard here, his whore sister and quaking idiot brother-in-law— Æthelred the Unready!—begging Richard to travel to this godforsaken hole. The horrid marriage he arranged between them in the first place, which is what brought him to this peat bog of an island, far from his beloved Normandy. The dull mud-brown glare of his sister’s eye as he indulged her husband, who had just a lovely idea to save them all from the ravishment and pillaging of the Danes. Pay them not to invade! Pay pillagers in pillage! And then Æthelred died, leaving his third son, Edmund II, to rule and fight the war. And oh, did Edmund II, called Ironside by his friends and Ironhead by Richard, have a lovely idea to save England.

The lovely idea—send his dearest ally, Richard, to the ass-end of England to recruit the land’s most talented warrior, who was himself a talent of piss filling his armor like it was a barrel latrine. Sans retinue, sans horse, as every available body and beast was needed to enforce the shield wall. Send Richard to Hell, this place, Assandun.

And speaking of Hell . . . Hexen Sabbath, who flaunted hell in his very name. He would be easy to find. Richard II just had to find the tavern with the cheapest ale and the loosest whores.

Truth be told, Richard’s own plan was to nail the door to the tavern shut if he could, then chuck a torch into the thatching and kill everyone in it. Then he’d throw in with the Danes, who were surely in need of an intelligent polyglot fellow like himself, given that they were hell-spawn pagans who wouldn’t understand God’s word even were it whipped letter by letter onto their backs by Richard’s own hand.

But the Danes would probably kill him as soon as parley with him, especially now that he was alone, on foot, his clothing stained rags, his beard unkempt.

Hexen Sabbath might not believe him either, truth be told. The damned knight, the son of a witch and a pervert, might run the duke through as soon as look at him. If it came to that, Richard just hoped that the last thing he’d smell would be his own lifeblood pouring from his guts, and not Sabbath’s foul breath or his own bowels giving way.

He stumbled and took a knee into a mud puddle. In the distance, a pair of peasant children pointed and laughed. Richard had half a mind to run them through and leave their bodies for their parents to discover later, but something about the skeletal pair touched his heart. What would their lives be like under pagan rule, divorced from the Word of God and the protection of God’s chosen king? These poor imbeciles just needed to understand that the nobility truly cared for them, and were ready to sacrifice all for their lives.

“Hallo, children,” said Duke Richard II, unsheathing his sword and waving it jauntily at the poor rag-dressed kids. “It is I, the Duke of Normandy, brother to your queen Emma. I am on a mission from the king to save—”

“Papa says we’re all going to die today!” shouted one of the children—a girl, from her voice.

“What does your father know?” Richard spat.

“He’s just come from the Royal Standard tavern!” said the boy. “Your own knights have retreated there to whore and drink. They’ve given up the battle!”

“Well, it was only one knight,” said the girl. “But only because most of the others have already abandoned the field.”

“Or are decorating it with their innards,” said the boy. He cackled madly, his face like a half-sliced gourd. He had probably been brought to the front to scavenge arrows and driven mad by the scene.

Better just to address the girl, Richard thought. She looked as if she might still be sane. “The tavern, you say . . . Is it there?” Richard pointed.

“Yes, right up Shite Hill, and down the other side,” said the girl.

“Shite Hill . . . ,” Richard said to himself. “I suppose they named it that to differentiate it from all the other mounds of shite around here.” Then to the children, “Thank you! God bless! The Lord will reward you for your service to King and Crown!”

“Yeah?” said the girl. “Reward us with what?” “A quick death, I hope . . . ,” muttered Richard.

Were he in a better mood, Duke Richard might have called the Royal Standard unassuming, or perhaps even quaint. There is something about having knowledge of the sure and imminent death of not only oneself but of one’s whole world that allows one to gaze upon the universe as it truly is, and not as one wishes it to be. The Standard was, in fact, a lopsided hovel he wouldn’t stable a donkey in. Perhaps the name was a prophecy. England would fall, the kingdom reduced to nothing more than a place to rot one’s guts with hops and loins with whores. With some regret, Richard noted that the walls and thatched roof were so filthy that even were he to take a torch to it, the dirt would extinguish the flame before it did any damage.

“Ah, it is this for which we are all eager to lay down our lives; this is what the dark-haired Danes struggle so mercilessly for,” he muttered. He should simply offer to parley with Cnut himself, invite the Danish warlord over to the Royal Standard for the drink, and let the fleas and vermin do an assassin’s work. Then Duke Richard II would be the hero of the day, not that execrable . . .

“Hexen Sabbath!”

The patrons of the crowded, squalid pub turned to stare at him. There was no steward to speak of, or even proper chairs. Just ragged, bleary-eyed people, some with still-open wounds, hunched on barrels and loose bales of hay, with planks for tabletops. Except in the very rear of the establishment, where in the shadows far from the candlelight, a certain jovial squealing emanated.

“You, Sabbath!” Richard said as he strode across the tiny, crowded room. “You’re needed at the battlefront—now.” Sabbath didn’t even care to look up from the bosom his face was pressed against. He was barely visible beneath the tangle of limbs and yards of fabric from the rawboned women who were crawling all over him, fondling him. The knight’s mail and armor lay nearby in a heap. Richard was aghast.

“Pardon me,” said one of the women. All three turned to glare at the duke. “You’re interrupting something.”

“I know,” said Richard.

Sabbath smiled and said cheerfully, “Ho, Dick! How goes the war?”

Duke Richard II, his tunic and leggings and cape still splattered with mud and filth, held his arms out wide and said, “Please, Sir Hexen, I beseech thee. Accompany me to the lines. You could turn the tide of the battle.” This was not a moment for sarcasm or japery; Richard knew that much. For all the travail it had meant, his mission was crucial, sacred. “As you wear the most Holy Cross round your neck, come and repel the pagan horde from our motherland, in the name of the King, and Christ!”

Sabbath touched the rounded cross hanging over his tunic. “I suppose I could win the war for you. Or I could stay here and catch up on my consumption . . . and fornication!” He casually fondled the woman nearest him. “Right, girls?” They cheered. “Right, everyone?!” The whole tavern roared in approval.

“Do any of you care who rules you?” Richard demanded, turning on his heel to sneer at the patrons. “Would you live in pagan darkness, under the rule of the foreign Danes?”

“Where’s your accent from, bright-eyed Norman?” shouted a man behind a plank between two barrels that served as a makeshift bar top. Perhaps he was the steward, though he was as drunk as everyone else. “Unless Danes are teetotalers, I couldn’t give a fig who sends out a man twice a year to rob me, and thrice a year to relieve my custom of their little wealth.”

“Oh, Dick, you do have a knack for speaking with the commoners,” said Sabbath, rising. “They’re not educated in the ways of statecraft like you and I. You cannot simply demand their obedience, especially not in those rags.”

“Sir Hexen, simply demanding obedience is literally what our kingdom is based on! God rules over king, king over noble, noble over knight! It is what you were trained to uphold since the day we took you from your blasted parents,” said Richard.

“I’m just saying you need a gentle touch,” Sabbath explained as he demonstrated by palming the bottom of one of the women. She flashed a near-toothless smile. “And your appeals to the Lord, well . . . as I was telling Margaret here, it was the blessed Augustine of Hippo who said, Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, deus meus sed noli modo.”

Richard grimaced. “‘Give me chastity and continence, my God . . . but not yet.’ But, Sabbath, the moment has arrived. You are to accompany me to the field of battle, now, even if I must bring you to heel myself and lead you there like a dog.”

Sabbath turned his back on Richard and fetched his large stein from the table. He lazily spun back around on one heel and sipped his ale carefully, peering at Richard from over the rim. “Oh?” he said finally. “I think we’d all like to see that.”

Richard could tolerate not another moment. He took a step back and moved to draw his sword, but before it was unsheathed, a great wave of beer slammed against his face. He struck out, blind, his blade finding only air. Sabbath swung his stein hard against Richard’s wrist. The sword clattered to the floor. Sabbath’s foot caught Richard’s ankle, and the duke fell flat onto the hard-packed dirt. In the course of three blinks, Sabbath had his right foot planted on Richard’s groin and was holding out his stein for a refill from a pitcher handled by one of his lady friends.

“You are a fucking worm,” said Sabbath. “If you’re an exemplar of our mettle, perhaps you do need me after all. Unfortunately, I have a problem. My armor.”

“What of it?” Richard’s voice was an octave higher than usual. Sabbath settled the weight of his boot on the duke’s groin. “It’s right there!”

“My squire is dead. My page is . . . indisposed,” said Sabbath. He nodded to the opposite corner of the room, where a young man had fallen asleep in a puddle of . . . something. “You know we mustn’t let a commoner handle a knight’s armor. I am nothing if not a stickler for the rules.”

“Put it on yourself,” Richard squeaked.

“I could do that . . . ,” said Sabbath. “Save for the codpiece. You must do that for me. Your noble blood makes this most delicate task suitable for your fine fingers.”

“You wear a codpiece into battle? Like a pagan Roman? But why?”

Sabbath ground his heel. “You know why . . . now.” He took his foot off Richard’s crotch and planted it on the sword. “Fetch . . . Your Grace.” Richard got to his knees, but before he could pick himself up, Sabbath added, “Crawl to it. Like a dog.”

“Your Grace!” added the woman with the pitcher. “Your Grace,” Sabbath repeated.

Richard made his way on his hands and knees to the pile of mail, and found the codpiece. “I’ll do it,” he said. “For England, I do this! For all of you, I do this!”

“Hip hip hooray,” said the steward unenthusiastically.

Sabbath loomed over Richard, his legs thick and bowed, his hands raising the hem of his tunic. “Give it a little tickle while you’re down there.”

“You disgust me. Is there no sin you’ll not commit?” Sabbath shrugged. “Not as of yet,” he said.

Richard fastened the codpiece and tightened the straps. “Your parents named you well. It’s a wonder you were ever baptized, Hexen Sabbath,” Richard said through clenched teeth.

“The village priest was very fond of my mother,” said Sabbath. He winked. “Right, off to kill some Danes!” He reached for his mail and his broadsword.

________

The shield wall had already broken by the time Hexen Sabbath arrived, on foot and alone, at the scene of the battle. Duke Richard had merely pointed Sabbath toward the direction of the battle, then took the knight’s place at the table with the women. Cnut’s raven banners, symbols of the all-seeing Odin, overwhelmed the battlefield. The English were in a rout, screaming and choking on blood as Viking axes ate into their backs. If there was anything that separated Sabbath from his fellows, it wasn’t his good sword arm, though it was excellent, nor his strong back, though he could put a horse across his shoulders like a sack of wheat; it was something inside him.

His mother, a witch, told him when he was a young boy that he would die on a Sunday. And today was Friday. Knowing this, Hexen Sabbath feared for nothing, worried for nothing, thought for nothing. Men who feared death fought differently. Some hid behind their shields, jabbing with their blades and hoping that their archers launched a fusillade that vanquished the enemy for them. Or they went mad and ran screaming toward their foes, limbs exposed, breath hot, overcommitted. The first type succumbed to the fear of death; the second hoped to defeat fear by embodying it.

One Dane came running toward him now, his face red and eyes wild. Sabbath simply drew his sword, sidestepped, and stuck it in the man’s ribs. He then pulled it out and with a great swing tore apart the shield of another. That Viking hefted his axe high with both hands, leaving his torso exposed. Sabbath slashed open the man’s belly, letting intestines fall free like bloody scarves.

Men grunted or yelled when they threw javelins, a peculiar breathless exhalation that Sabbath’s sharp senses could hear under the clash of sword and axe. Sabbath moved to the left when he heard that sound and kept swinging, not looking to see where the projectiles landed. A tall Viking deflected the blade with his shield and ran the head of his axe along the shield’s rim, parrying Sabbath’s sword and pushing the knight back onto his heels.

“Hey, you’re pretty good!” Sabbath said. The Viking crouched behind his shield and jabbed with it, seeking an opening for his axe. Sabbath smiled. The enemy was fearful, despite his skill.

The Viking swung his shield, rolling the axe around its edge, at Sabbath’s head. Sabbath’s sword battered uselessly against the shield, and the axe blade nearly nipped him. Sabbath scuttled back and readied his sword with a two-handed grip.

“Fine,” he said. He rolled his hands around the hilt of the sword and stabbed the Viking through his lead foot, staking him to the ground. The Viking howled, and Sabbath punched the man’s teeth down his throat, then freed the sword, slashing the Viking open from groin to gullet.

“It’s Sir Hexen!” cried an Englishman. “Form a wedge behind him. Push the Danes back to the River Crouch!”

“Yes!” called Sabbath over his shoulder. He heard another distant grunt. “Just beware—” A knight hit the ground hard, a sapling sprouting from his chest. “—javelins.”

Another clever Viking met Sabbath’s blade with an underhand swing of his axe, hooking the sword. Sabbath caught a glimpse of gritted teeth, then smiled again and let go of the hilt. The sword went sailing into the face of another Dane, and the one who’d snagged the sword fell onto his back. Sabbath rushed over him, jumped on his skull, reclaimed his sword from the head of the other, and swatted an incoming javelin out of the air.

“Spearmen!” a banner-wielder called out, waving a raven flag. A trio of men holding long lances at their hips converged on Sabbath, jabbing and thrusting, looking to surround him.

“Well,” said Sabbath, “any coward could use numbers”— he deflected a spearhead—“and strategy”—barely dodged another—“if they’re weak.” He winced as a point found his thigh. The men stayed at the end of their spears. These men were confident, assured that close cooperation would see them through. Sabbath didn’t have the reach to use his foot trick again. He planted himself, struck a simpleton’s expression on his face, lowered his sword, and let himself be surrounded.

“Oh Lord, oh Lord,” he cried, whipping up a few tears and sniffling loudly. “Sweet Christ Jesus, accept my soul in Heaven tonight!” He dropped his sword. The spearman behind him moved. Sabbath threw himself to the ground. The spearpoint thrust right where Sabbath had been standing and found the sternum of the Viking opposite him. Sabbath rolled onto his back, upsetting the third spearman. Then he was up, with a borrowed spear, and pierced the neck of the Viking who was still struggling to pull his weapon from the chest of his countryman. The third spearman got up and tackled Sabbath, but couldn’t hold him down. Sabbath scrambled and took the mount. He pulled the helmet from the spearman’s head and turned it in his hands, holding it high, ready to bash in the enemy’s face.

“Die, pagan!”

“Wuh-we’re Christian too,” said the spearman. His tears, the snot running down his nose, were real. He was a child, a fair one whose face burned with blood.

“Your king, your banners . . .”

“We Danes have been Christian for generations . . . the banner . . . we do not worship the old gods anymore. . . .”

Sabbath peered down at the bloody face he was about to ruin in the name of the Lord. He saw that his enemy was a youth, unbearded and sniveling. He had perhaps never made war before, never killed a man, never even lain with a woman. Sabbath put the helmet down beside the youth and clambered to his feet.

He clutched at the cross medallion around his neck and wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m sorry,” he said, but the youth at his feet didn’t hear him. “I’m sorry!” he bellowed, louder. “The world is fallen; men like us should not be butchering one another like animals!” He cast his gaze about the battle. His presence had for a moment served to rally his people, but dozens of Danes had also regrouped behind their shields and recommenced their march.

“Danes! Come collect this youth and take him back behind your lines! He does not belong here, in this field of blood! In the name of Christ, come and save your man!”

The Danes answered with a storm of javelins.

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