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Review: Beyond Redemption by Michael R. Fletcher

Review of Beyond Redemption
Review by Sean Grigsby

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Beyond Redemption was provided to Grimdark Magazine as an Advanced Reader Copy by HarperCollins.

 

The cornerstone philosophy of self-help literature is something I’m very familiar with—your beliefs create your reality. This idea can be traced from James Allen’s As a Man Thinketh to more modern teachings like The Secret by Rhonda Byrne. What these gurus teach is that your mind and your thoughts create and attract what you see around you. What if this was physically true, and humans could shape reality through the power of thought, but those who could do this were all insane?

That’s the concept in Michael R. Fletcher’s dark and gritty fantasy, Beyond Redemption.

There are two types of people in Fletcher’s dark world—the sane and the Geisteskranken (German for The Insane). These deluded crazies are varied in their beliefs and abilities. Hassebrands are pyromaniacs that can bring fire with a blink of an eye. Kleptics are magnificent thieves and disappear from memory like a shadow in the night. Gefahrgeists are sociopaths and gain strength from those that worship them.

Konig Furimmer has many delusions and is the high priest of the Geborene Damonen, a religion that believes humans created the gods, and they’re in the process of creating a new deity. Konig hopes that god to be Morgen, a young boy and the last of a group of children born specifically to “ascend” into godhood. But in order to ascend, Morgen has to die.

In this world, anyone you kill must serve you in the Afterdeath. What if you kill a god? That’s what Konig is hoping for—a god to serve him and prevent him from going the way of all Geisteskranken and having his own delusions destroy him.

Bedeckt is the haggard leader of a trio of drifting murderers always looking for the next score. His companions are Wichtig, who claims to be the “World’s Greatest Swordsman” (his delusion is catching), and Stehlen, a Kleptic who kills first and asks questions later. When these three ride into a town and hear news of a god child, Bedeckt sees a hefty ransom in kidnapping the boy, enough to retire on.

After Stehlen wipes out an entire Geborene church, Konig sends Gehirn Schlectes, a Hassebrand, to burn out the truth. But in a world with many strong delusions, loyalty can be as malleable as molten steel. Gehirn discovers Bedeckt’s plan to kidnap Morgen, but abandons her mission after joining a travelling horde following a very powerful Gefahrgeist, who Gehirn can’t help but love and serve.

Now everyone wants the god child and the power that comes with him. In a world full of the Insane, nothing is true, and no one is safe.

This book is dark. Just when I thought the plot couldn’t get any more morbid, Fletcher takes you down even gloomier alleys. His writing style dances from elaborate to more down-to-earth language in a way that grips hold of you. You keep turning the pages not only to see how much worse things can get for these characters, but also because it’s so easy to read. I loved it.

Many of the elements in the story are those we’ve seen before: an aged barbarian at the end of his stamina, a cocky swordsman, a religious nut greedy for power and self preservation. But Fletcher has taken these classic tropes and given them new, psychotic life. Gehirn was one of my favorite characters. I couldn’t decide if I loved or despised her. She’s a whacko for sure, like almost every character in the book, but is she one to root for? And who doesn’t like a grimdark protagonist that can burn you to ash in milliseconds?

There were a few things in Beyond Redemption that could put a grimdark reader off. At times a character would try to explain how delusions created reality. This was seen particularly with Wichtig and his philosophy of winning the crowd before ever drawing a blade. However, it was only at the start and overall I don’t feel readers will be overwhelmed with the worldbuilding. There were also many points of view, but it was pulled off well.

Michael R. Fletcher has put himself on the map as a grimdark author to watch and read for many years to come. Beyond Redemption releases June 16th from Harper Collins and gets four Grimdark Lords out of five.

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You can buy Beyond Redemption from:

Hard copy: Galaxy Bookstore
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Excerpt from Anthony Ryan's Queen of Fire

We're really excited to bring you an excerpt from Anthony Ryan's Queen of Fire! It's chapter 2 -- you can find chapter 1 on Anthony's website.

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Alucius

The Kuritai’s name was Twenty-Seven, though Alucius had yet to hear him say it. In fact he had yet to hear the slave-elite say anything. He reacted to instruction with instant obedience and was the perfect servant, fetching, carrying, and cleaning with no sign of fatigue or even the faintest expression of complaint.

“My gift to you,” Lord Darnel had said that day they had dragged Alucius from the depths of the Blackhold, expecting death and gasping in astonishment when they removed his shackles and he found his own father’s hands helping him to his feet. “A servant of peerless perfectitude,” Darnel went on, gesturing at the Kuritai. “You know, I think I’m growing fond of your wordsmithing ways, little poet.”

“Yes, I’m very well this fine morning,” Alucius told Twenty-Seven as he laid out the breakfast. “How nice of you to ask.”

They were on the veranda overlooking the harbour, the sun rising over the horizon to paint the ships a golden hue he knew would have sent Alornis scurrying to fetch her canvas and brushes. He had chosen the house for the view, a merchant’s domicile no doubt, its owner presumably dead or enslaved along with his family. Varinshold was full of empty houses now, more to choose from should he grow tired of this one, but he found himself too fond of the view, especially as it covered the entirety of the harbour.

Fewer and fewer ships, he thought, counting the vessels with accustomed precision. Ten slavers, five traders, four warships. The slavers sat highest in the water, their copious holds empty, as they had been for weeks, ever since the great column of smoke had risen to blot the sun from the sky for days on end. Alucius had been trying to write something about it, but found the words failed to flow every time he put pen to paper. How does one write a eulogy for a forest?

Twenty-Seven placed the last plate on the table and stood back as Alucius reached for his cutlery, tasting the mushrooms first, finding them cooked to perfection with a little garlic and butter. “Excellent as always, my deadly friend.”

Twenty-Seven stared out of the window and said nothing.

“Ah yes, it’s visiting day,” Alucius went on around a mouthful of bacon. “Thank you for reminding me. Pack the salve and the new books, if you would.”

Twenty-Seven instantly turned away and went about his instructions, moving to the bookcase first. The house’s owner had maintained a reasonable library, largely, Alucius assumed, for appearances sake as few of the volumes showed much sign of having ever been read. They were mostly popular romances and a few of the more well-known histories, none suited to his purposes, which obliged him to spend hours ransacking the larger houses for more interesting material. There was much to choose from, the Volarians were boundlessly enthusiastic looters but had little interest in books, save as kindling. Yesterday had been particularly fruitful, netting a complete set of Marial’s Astronomical Observations and an inscribed volume he hoped would arouse the interest of one of his charges in particular.

Ten slavers, five traders, four warships, he counted again, turning to the harbour. Two less than yesterday . . . He paused as another vessel came into view, a warship rounding the headland to the south. It seemed to be struggling to make headway through the water, only one sail raised and that, he saw as it came closer, was a ragged thing of soot-blackened canvas. The ship trailed sagging rope through the placid morning swell as it neared the harbour mouth, blocks and shattered beams hanging from her rigging, sparse crew moving about the deck with the stoop of exhausted men. As she weighed anchor Alucius’s eyes picked out numerous scorch marks blackening her hull and many dark brown stains on her untidy deck.

Five warships, he corrected himself. One with an interesting tale to tell, it seems.

* * *

They stopped off at the pigeon coop on the way, finding his sole remaining bird in typically hungry mood. “Don’t bolt it,” he cautioned Blue Feather with a wagging finger but she ignored him, head bobbing as she pecked at the seeds. The coop was situated atop the house of the Blocker’s Guild, the roof spared the fires that had gutted the building thanks to its iron-beamed construction. The surrounding houses hadn’t been so fortunate and the once-busy building where he had come to have his poems printed now rose from streets of rubble and ash. Seen from this vantage point the city resembled a grimy patchwork, islands of intact buildings in a sea of grey-black ruins.

“Sorry if you’re finding it lonely these days,” he told Blue Feather, stroking her fluffy breast. There had been ten of them to begin with, a year ago. Young birds each with a tiny wire clasp about their right leg, strong enough to hold a message.

This had been the first place he had hurried to on release from the Blackhold, finding only three birds still alive. He fed them and disposed of the corpses as Twenty-Seven looked on impassively. It had been a risk leading the slave here to witness his greatest secret, but there was little choice. In truth, he had expected the Kuritai to either cut him down on the spot or shackle him once more for immediate return to captivity. Instead he just stood and watched as Alucius scribbled the coded message on a tiny scrap of parchment before rolling it up and sliding it into the small metal cylinder that would fit onto the bird’s leg clasp.

Varinshold fallen, he had written though he knew it was probably old news to the recipients. Darnel rules. 500 knights & one V division. Twenty-Seven didn’t even turn to watch the bird fly away when Alucius cast it from the rooftop and the expected deathblow had never fallen, not then and not when he released the next bird the night the Volarian fleet set sail for the Meldenean Isles. Twenty-Seven, it appeared, was neither his gaoler nor Darnel’s spy, he was simply his waiting executioner. In any case his worries over what the Kuritai saw had long since faded, along with the hope he might live to see this city liberated . . . and watch Alornis draw again.

He briefly considered sending Blue Feather with his final message, those he reported to would no doubt find the news of the ragged warship interesting, but decided against it. The ship portended a great deal, and it would be better to await discovery of the full story before expending his last link to the outside world.

They climbed down from the rooftop via the ladder on the back wall, making for the only building in Varinshold that seemed to have suffered no damage at all, the squat fortress of black stone sitting in the centre of the city. There had been a bloody battle here, he knew. The Blackhold’s garrison of Fourth Order thugs putting up a surprisingly good fight as they beat back successive waves of Varitai, Aspect Tendris in the thick of the fight, spurring them on to ever-greater feats of courage with unwavering Faith. At least that’s how the story went if you believed the mutterings of the Realm-born slaves. It had finally fallen when the Kuritai were sent in, Aspect Tendris cutting down four of the slave-elite before a dastardly knife in the back laid him low, something Alucius found extremely unlikely, though he did concede the mad bastard had probably gone down fighting.

The Varitai at the gate stepped aside as he approached, Twenty-Seven in tow with his books and various medicines in a sack over his broad shoulder. The interior of the Blackhold was even less edifying than its exterior, a narrow courtyard within grim black walls, Varitai archers posted on the parapet above. Alucius went to the door at the rear of the courtyard, the Varitai guard unlocking it and stepping aside. Inside he followed the damp winding steps down into the vaults. The smell provoked unwelcome memories of his time here, musty rot mingling with the sharp tang of rat piss. The steps ended some twenty feet down, opening out into a torchlit corridor lined by ten cells, each sealed with a heavy iron door. The cells had all been occupied when he was first brought here, now all but two stood empty.

“No,” Alucius replied to Twenty-Seven’s unvoiced question. “I can’t say it is good to be back, my friend.”

He went to the Free Sword seated on a stool at the end of the corridor. It was always the same man, a sour-faced fellow of brawny build who spoke Realm Tongue with all the finesse of a blind mason attempting to carve a masterpiece.

“Which ’un?” he grunted, getting to his feet and putting aside a wine-skin.

“Aspect Dendrish I think,” Alucius replied. “Irksome duties first, I always say.” He concealed a sigh of frustration at the Free Sword’s baffled frown. “The fat man,” he added slowly.

The Free Sword shrugged and moved to the door at the far end of the corridor, keys jangling as he worked the lock. Alucius thanked him with a bow and went inside.

Aspect Dendrish Hendrahl had lost perhaps half his famous weight during captivity, but that still made him considerably fatter than most men. He greeted Alucius with the customary scowl and lack of formality, small eyes narrowed and gleaming in the light from the single candle in the alcove above his bed. “I trust you’ve brought me something more interesting than last time.”

“I believe so, Aspect.” Alucius took the sack from Twenty-Seven and rummaged inside, coming out with a large volume, the title embossed in gold on the leather binding.

“‘Fallacy and Belief,’” the Aspect read as he took the volume. “‘The Nature of God Worship.’ You bring me my own book?”

“Not quite, Aspect. I suggest you look inside.”

Dendrish opened the book, his small eyes peering at the text scribbled on the title page which Alucius knew read: Or ‘Pomposity and Arrogance—The Nature of Aspect Hendrahl’s Scholarship.’

“What is this?” the Aspect demanded.

“I found it at Lord Al Avern’s house,” Alucius told him. “You remember him, no doubt. They called him the Lord of Ink and Scroll, on account his scholarly accomplishments.”

“Accomplishments? The man was an amateur, a mere copier of greater talents.”

“Well, he has much to say on your talents, Aspect. His critique of your treatise on the origin of the Alpiran gods is particularly effusive, and quite elegantly phrased I must say.”

Hendrahl’s plump hands leafed through the book with expert precision, opening it out to reveal a chapter liberally adorned with the late Lord Al Avern’s graceful script. “‘Simply repeats Carvel,’?” the Aspect read in a furious rasp. “This empty-brained ape accuses me of lacking originality.”

“I thought you might find it amusing.” Alucius bowed again and moved to the door.

“Wait!” Hendrahl cast a wary glance at the Free Sword standing outside and levered himself to his feet, not without difficulty. “You must have news, surely.”

“Alas, things have not changed since my last visit, Aspect. Lord Darnel hunts for his son through the ashes of his great crime, we await news of General Tokrev’s glorious victory at Alltor and Admiral Morok’s equally glorious seizure of the Meldenean Isles.”

Hendrahl moved closer, speaking in a barely heard whisper. “Master Grealin, still no word on him?”

It was the one question he always asked and Alucius had given up trying to extract the reason for this interest in the Sixth Order’s store-minder. “None, Aspect. Just like last time.” Oddly, this response always seemed to reassure the Aspect and he nodded, moving back to sit on his bed, his fingers resting on the book, not looking up as Alucius left the cell.

As ever, Aspect Elera proved a contrast to her brother in the Faith, smiling and standing as the door swung open, her slender hands extended in greeting. “Alucius!”

“Aspect.” He always found he had to force the catch from his voice when he saw her, clad in her filthy grey robe they wouldn’t let him replace, the flesh of her ankle red and raw from the shackle. But she always smiled and she was ever glad to see him.

“I brought more salve,” he said, placing the sack on the bed. “For your leg. There’s an apothecary shop on Drover’s Way. Burnt-out, naturally, but it seems the owner had the foresight to hide some stock in his basement.”

“Resourceful as ever, good sir. My thanks.” She sat and rummaged through the sack for a moment, coming out with the small ceramic pot of salve, removing the lid to sniff the contents. “Corr tree oil and honey. Excellent. This will do very well.” She rummaged further and found the books. “Marial!” she exclaimed in a delighted gasp. “I once had a full set. Must be near twenty years since my last reading. You are good to me, Alucius.”

“I endeavour to do my best, Aspect.”

She set the book aside and looked up at him, her face as clean as her meagre water ration allowed. Lord Darnel had been very particular in his instructions regarding her confinement, a consequence of her less-than-complimentary words during his first and only visit here. So, whilst Aspect Dendrish was treated to only the cruelty of indifference and a restricted diet, Aspect Elera was shackled to the wall with a length of chain that restricted her movements to no more than two square feet of her tiny cell. As yet, however, he had not heard her voice a single complaint.

“How goes the poem?” she asked him.

“Slowly, Aspect. I fear these tumultuous times deserve a better chronicler.”

“A pity. I was looking forward to reading it. And your father?”

“Sends his regards,” Alucius lied. “Though I see him rarely these days. Busy as he is with the Lord’s work.”

“Ah. Well, be sure to pass along my respects.”

At least she won’t call him traitor when this is done, he thought. Though she may be the only one.

“Tell me, Alucius,” she went on. “Do your explorations ever take you to the southern quarter?”

“Rarely, Aspect. The pickings are hardly rich, and in any case there’s little of it left to pick through.”

“Pity. There was an inn there, the Black Boar I believe it was called. If you’re in need of decent wine, I believe the owner kept a fine selection of Cumbraelin vintages in a secret place beneath the floorboards, so as not to trouble the King’s excise men, you understand.”

Decent wine. How long had it been since he’d tasted anything but the most acid vinegar? The Volarians may have had little interest in the city’s books but had scraped every shelf clean of wine in the first week of occupation, forcing him into an unwelcome period of sobriety.

“Very kind, Aspect,” he said. “Though I confess my surprise at your knowledge of such matters.”

“You hear all manner of things as a healer. People will spill their deepest secrets to those they hope can take their pain away.” She met his gaze and there was a new weight to her voice when she added, “I really wouldn’t linger too long in seeking out the wine, good sir.”

“I... shan’t, Aspect.”

The Free Sword rapped his keys against the door, voicing an impatient grunt. “I must go,” he told her, taking the empty sack.

“A pleasure, as always, Alucius.” She held out a hand and he knelt to kiss it, a courtly ritual they had adopted over the weeks. “Do you know,” she said as he rose and went to the door. “I believe if Lord Darnel were truly a courageous man, he would have killed us by now.”

“Raising his own fief against him in the process,” Alucius replied. “Even he is not so foolish.”

She nodded, smiling once again as the Free Sword closed the door, her final words faint but still audible, and insistent. “Be sure to enjoy the wine!”

* * *

Lord Darnel sent for him in the afternoon, forestalling an exploration of the southern quarter. The Fief Lord had taken over the only surviving wing of the palace, a gleaming collection of marble walls and towers rising from the shattered ruin that surrounded it. The walls were partly covered in scaffolding as masons strove to remold the remnants into a convincingly self-contained building, as if it had always been this way. Darnel was keen to wipe away as much of the inconvenient past as possible. A small army of slaves laboured continually in pursuit of the new owner’s vision, the ruined wings cleared to make room for an ornamental garden complete with looted statuary and as yet unblossomed flowerbeds.

Alucius was always surprised at his own lack of fear whenever he had the misfortune to find himself in the Fief Lord’s presence, the man’s temper was legendary and his fondness for the death warrant made old King Janus seem the model of indulgent rule. However, for all his evident scorn and contempt, Darnel needed him alive. At least until Father wins his war for him.

He was admitted to the new throne room by two of Darnel’s burlier knights, fully armoured and smelling quite dreadful despite all the lavender oil with which they slathered themselves. As yet it seemed no blacksmith had solved the perennial problem of the foul odours arising from prolonged wearing of armour. Darnel sat on his new throne, a finely carved symphony of oak and velvet, featuring an ornately decorated back that reached fully seven feet high. Though yet to formally name himself king, Darnel had been quick to attire himself with as many royal trappings as possible, King Malcius’s crown being chief among them, though Alucius fancied it sat a bit too loose on his head. It shifted on his brow now as the Fief Lord leaned forward to address the man standing before him, a wiry and somewhat bedraggled fellow in the garb of a Volarian sailor, a black cloak about his shoulders. Alucius’s fear reasserted itself at the sight of man standing behind the sailor. Division Commander Mirvek stood tall and straight in his black enamel breastplate, heavy, scarred features impassive as always when in the Fief Lord’s presence. Darnel might need him alive, but the Volarian certainly didn’t. He took some heart from the sight of his father, standing with his arms crossed at Darnel’s side.

“A shark?” Lord Darnel said to the sailor, his voice heavy with scorn. “You lost your fleet to a shark?”

The sailor stiffened, his face betraying a man suffering insult from one he considered little more than a favoured slave. “A red shark,” the sailor replied in good but accented Realm Tongue. “Commanded by an elverah.”

“Elverah?” Darnel asked. “I thought this fabled elverah was engaged in delaying General Tokrev at Alltor?”

“It is not a name, at least not these days,” Mirvek explained. “It means witch or sorceress, born of an old legend . . .”

“I could give a whore’s cunt hair for your legend!” Darnel snapped. “Why do you bring me this defeated dog with his wild tales of witches and sharks?”

“I am no liar!” the sailor retorted, face reddening. “I am witness to a thousand deaths or more at the hands of that bitch and her creature.”

“Control your dog,” Darnel told the Division Commander quietly. “Or he’ll get a whipping as a lesson.”

The sailor bridled again but said no more when Mirvek placed a restraining hand on his shoulder, murmuring something in his own language. Alucius’s Volarian was poor but he was sure he detected the word ‘patience’ in the Commander’s soothing tone.

“Ah, little poet,” Darnel said, noticing Alucius. “Here’s one worthy of a verse or two. The great Volarian fleet sunk by a Dark-blessed shark answering the whim of a witch.”

“Elverah,” the sailor said again before adding something in his own language.

“What did he say?” Darnel asked the Division Commander in a weary tone.

“Born of fire,” the Commander translated. “The sailors say the witch was born of fire, because of her burns.”

“Burns?”

“Her face.” The sailor played a hand over his own features. “Burned, vile to look upon. A creature not a woman.”

“And I thought you people were absent all superstition,” Darnel said before turning back to Alucius. “What do you imagine this means for our great enterprise, little poet?”

“It would seem the Meldenean Islands did not fall so easily after all, my lord,” Alucius replied in a flat tone. He saw his father shift at Darnel’s side, catching his eye with a warning glare, however Darnel seemed untroubled by the observation.

“Quite so. Despite the many promises made by our allies, they fail to secure me the Isles and instead bring dogs into my home barking nonsense.” He pointed a steady finger at the sailor. “Get him out of here,” he told Mirvek.

“Come forward, little poet.” Darnel beckoned him with a languid wave when the Volarians had made their exit. “I’d have your views on another tall tale.”

Alucius strode forward and went to one knee before the throne. He was continually tempted to abandon all pretence of respect but knew the Lord’s tolerance had its limits, regardless of his usefulness.

“Here.” Darnel picked up a spherical object lying at the foot of his throne and tossed it to Alucius. “Familiar is it not?”

Alucius caught the item and turned it over it in his hands. A Renfaelin knight’s helmet, enamelled in blue with several dents and a broken visor. “Lord Wenders,” he said, recalling that Darnel had made his chief lapdog a gift of an unwanted suit of armour.

“Indeed,” Darnel said. “Found four days ago with a crossbow bolt through his eye. I assume you have little trouble guessing the origin of his demise.”

“The Red Brother.” Alucius concealed his grin. Burned the Urlish to nothing and still you couldn’t get him.

“Yes,” Darnel said. “Curious thing, they tended his wounds before they killed him. What’s even more curious is the tale told by the only survivor of his company. He didn’t last very long, I’m afraid, victim of a crushed and festered arm. But he swore to the Departed that the entire company had been buried in a rock-slide called forth by the Red Brother’s fat master.”

Grealin. Alucius kept all expression from his face as he asked, “Called forth, my lord?”

“Yes, with the Dark, if you can believe it. First the tale of the Dark-afflicted brother, now the ballad of the witch’s shark. All very strange, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would, my lord. Most certainly.”

Darnel reclined in his throne, regarding Alucius with arch scrutiny. “Tell me, in all your dealings with our cherished surviving Aspects, did they ever make mention of this fat master and his Dark gifts?”

“Aspect Dendrish asks for books, and food. Aspect Elera asks for nothing. They make no mention of this master . . .”

Darnel glanced at Alucius’s father. “Grealin, my lord,” Lakrhil Al Hestian said.

“Yes, Grealin.” Darnel returned his gaze to Alucius. “Grealin.”

“I recall the name, my lord. I believe Lord Al Sorna made mention of him during our time together in the Usurper’s Revolt. He minded the Sixth Order’s stores, I believe.”

Darnel’s face lost all expression, draining of colour, as it often did at mention of the name Al Sorna, something Alucius knew well and counted on to provide suitable distraction from further astute questioning. Today, however, the Fief Lord was not so easily diverted.

“Store-minder or no,” he grated after a moment. “It now seems he’s a pile of ash.” He pulled something from the pocket of his silk robe and tossed it to Alucius; a medallion on a chain of plain metal, charred but intact. The Blind Warrior. “Your father’s scouts found this amongst the ashes in a pyre near Wenders’s body. It’s either the fat master’s or the Red Brother’s, and I doubt we’d ever get that lucky.”

No, Alucius agreed silently. You never would.

“Our Volarian allies are extremely interested in any whisper of the Dark,” Darnel told him. “Paying huge sums for slaves rumoured to be afflicted with it. Imagine what they’ll do to your friends in the Blackhold if they suspect they have knowledge of more. The next time you visit them show them this medallion, tell them this tall tale, and report back to me every word they say.”

He got to his feet, walking towards Alucius with a slow gate, face quivering a little now, lips wet with spittle. They were roughly of equal height, but Darnel was considerably broader, and a seasoned killer. Somehow, though, Alucius still felt no fear as he loomed closer.

“This farce has dragged on long enough,” the Fief Lord rasped. “I ride forth tonight with every knight in my command to hunt down the Red Brother and secure my son. Whilst I am gone you will make sure those sanctimonious shits know I’ll happily hand them over to our allies to see them flayed skinless if it’ll drag their secrets forth, Aspects or no.”

 

In the thrilling conclusion to the “deftly and originally executed” (Booklist) New York Times bestselling trilogy, Vaelin Al Sorna must help his Queen reclaim her Realm. Only his enemy has a dangerous new collaborator, one with powers darker than Vaelin has ever encountered…

Find our review of Blood Song, the first book in the Raven's Shadow Trilogy here.

Purchase Links for Queen of Fire:

Galaxy Bookstore (Local Sydney bookstore)
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The Testament of Tall Eagle by John R. Fultz Excerpt

We're really excited to bring you the an excerpt from John R. Fultz's newest novel, The Testament of Tall Eagle. Without any further ado, I hope you enjoy Chapter 4: On the Blood Trail. It's an excellent little stand-alone piece we know you'll enjoy,

Book Description

A young warrior's vision-quest unveils an alien city full of magic and mystery. As a tribal rift threatens to destroy Tall Eagle's people, night-crawling devils stalk and devour them, so he seeks the wisdom of the high-flying Myktu. These fantastic beings offer him hope, a chance for rebirth and prosperity, as two separate realities converge. Yet first Tall Eagle must find White Fawn—the girl he was born to love—and steal her back from the camp of his savage enemies. His best friend has become his deadliest rival, and now he must outwit an invading army of conquerors to lead his people into the Land Beyond the Sun.

The Testament of Tall Eagle is the epic saga of The People, as told in the words of their greatest hero.

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The Testament of Tall Eagle

Chapter 4: "On the Blood Trail"

by John R. Fultz

On our third week in the new Winter Village, Bear Killer came down from a highland hunt and called together a group of men. All who were in the village at that time gathered about him and my cousin. Two Elks and I had just returned with a fresh deer carcass, and we were drawn to my uncle’s powerful voice.

“Men of the People!” said Bear Killer. “Warriors of my heart! The Bear Spirit has sent me a powerful vision. With my son Rides the Wind I hunted the highland bear this day. I sought to kill another of these mighty beasts and take his strength into my limbs to make vengeance on our enemies. Look now, all of you, on what I found when I walked the trail of the great bear!”

He lifted a sack of buffalo hide and poured its contents clattering onto the ground. Men drew in their breaths and made sacred symbols above their heads. Before the feet of Bear Killer lay a bear’s entire skeleton, white bones picked clean by some unknown predator. He picked up the great bear skull and raised it high.

“The bear was already dead and his flesh worn away before I even raised musket or spear!” He placed the bear skull onto his head like a white hood. His eyes looked out from between the yellowed fangs. “The Bear Spirit tells me that the time has come for us to make war on our ancient enemies! The Urkis will fall like these brittle bones beneath the roar of our guns and the edges of our axes! We will take scalps and avenge our brothers who died on the plains! Now is the time, while our teepes are stocked with good meat, and the mountains still free of snow. Now is the time to walk the warpath! Who will follow me?”

This was the moment my cousin and I had been awaiting. We were the first to step forward, shouting our war cries into the air. Laughs at Death came forward as well, hoisting his war axe with its gleaming metal head. Sharp Tongue’s shoulder wound had mostly healed, and he stepped forward to join our howling. Then came Little Hawk, Black Feather, Wolf Eyes, and Storm Caller. Broken Knife and Red Hawk were the last to step forward, but their voices were loud and strong. They saw the wisdom of Bear Killer’s magic. By stepping forward, we had made Bear Killer our war chief. We would walk the Blood Trail this night.

“Let the word go out,” said Bear Killer. “Go and work your magics, call your omens, sacrifice to your guardian spirits. Tonight comes the war ceremony. I go to light the big fire.”

I climbed alone to the promontory in the glow of early evening and burned a sacred herb. I sang my song to the Eagle Spirit and offered a drop of my blood to the flames. In the ruddy light of sunset, I saw a great bird sail across the horizon and dip into the forest that filled a distant valley. I knew it was an eagle swooping to take its last prey of the day. So would we prey upon the Urkis in the coming battle. Filled with the exultation of the Eagle Spirit’s blessing, I climbed down into the valley and joined the war ceremony.

All the hard work of the past weeks was forgotten as the village gathered about the sacred fire. Bear Killer stood proudly in his bear-skull bonnet, which now trailed many feathers, charms, and beads of copper and glass. Warriors stomped the earth to show the power of their feet and legs, they tossed chants into the leaping flames to announce their strength of spirit, and they leapt into the air, returning to the earth with mock blows upon their imagined enemy. I joined my war brothers and we howled at Mother Moon, stirring ourselves into a frenzy. So many years I had watched the warriors prepare themselves for the Blood Trail, but now I was a part of it.

About the circle of dancing, shrieking warriors stood every woman of the camp, yowling and singing to honor their men. I knew White Fawn was there somewhere, adding her beautiful voice to the big noise of the females, and I knew my mother and sister were there too. My father watched the ceremony from the door of his lodge. He was too old for the warpath, or so he confided in me. It was not my place to talk him into it. Each man of the People must follow his own heart. This has always been our way in war and all other things.

Of all the men who had pledged to follow Bear Killer, only Black Feather changed his mind. His magic had showed a bad omen, so we respected his decision to withdraw. Runs Fast, Young Bear, Gray Wolf, Big Rain, and Snake Catcher were all hunting when Bear Killer made his call, but they joined the war band as soon as they returned. That brought our number to fifteen…a good number to stalk the Blood Trail.

We painted our faces death-black, with two red lines on forehead and chin representing the spilled blood of our enemies. We consecrated our shields, arrows, bows, axes, and spears while the women urged us on with the high song of their screaming. In the cool wind of midnight, we left the Winter Village and followed Bear Killer into the mountains, moving quiet as snakes through mounds of fallen leaves. The glow of the village fires faded as we marched toward the mountainous country of the Urkis.

 

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The Land of the Urkis was many days away, so we slept at dawn beneath the wild oaks, rose at midday and traveled well into the night. The violent colors of fall were spread across the mountain vales. We drank from a bubbling stream carrying leaves toward the lowlands. We camped near a waterfall and hunted small game as hunger came to us. We followed winding ravines thick with ivy and moss, climbed flinty ridges, and rested in high meadows on beds of yellow blossoms. It was much like a hunt, but there was less talking, for each man held the seriousness of war in his heart. Rides the Wind and I did not speak much, but I knew he was thinking of Night Wind, left to the care of his mother, just as I thought of White Fawn. Then I forced myself to think only of the Urkis and all the ancestors they had killed or enslaved.

On the third day we came upon the skeleton of an elk. It lay on a hillside and not a stitch of sinew or muscle was left on its pristine bones. Bear Killer called this another good omen, and we marched ever westward. As we came to the borderland of our enemies, we grew ever more quiet and made no fires. The nights were cold, but we endured with the fire of war coursing in our veins.

On the fifth day we found the skeleton of a man lying at the bottom of a broad ravine. It lay in a tumbled clutter, and just like the skeletons of bear and elk, it had not a shred of flesh left upon it. Sharp Tongue found the axe of an Urki lying nearby, while Snake Catcher found a broken shield.

“You see?” whispered Bear Killer to his warriors. “What better omen could we ask for? The bones of our enemy lie at our feet like the bear and the elk before them. Our victory is certain…”

Sharp Tongue looked carefully at the axe he had pulled from the gravel. “This axe is newly made,” he said.  “It has no signs of weather on it. It has lain here no more than three days, I am sure of it.”

“So?” asked Rides the Wind. “It means nothing.”

“It means this Urki cannot have died before then,” said Sharp Tongue. “Yet here his bones lie naked. What beast is it that strips a corpse of its flesh so quickly?”

The war band fell into silence. No man had an answer to Sharp Tongue’s question.

“It is a sign from the Bear Spirit,” said Laughs at Death, giving a low chuckle. “Who are we to question the ways of the spirits? Let us move forward.”

“Yes,” said Bear Killer. “We have seen the signs. We are close now. Come!”

That night we saw the smokes of an Urki village, and we crept to the top of a ridge overlooking the settlement. It looked much like our own Winter Village: a collection of teepees large and small gathered about the banks of a winding river. Mother Moon’s glowing face turned the river to silver. The smokes from the Urki lodges bore a sickly smell.

“That is the smell of evil,” said Bear Killer. “The stink of those who would destroy us.”

He sent Little Hawk and Runs Fast ahead as scouts. We lay quiet beneath the flickering stars until they returned with news.

“The village is awake,” said Little Hawk. “Their medicine man leads them in some kind of ceremony. Their men’s faces are painted for war.”

“Perhaps they are ready to walk the warpath themselves,” said Runs Fast.

“That is good,” said Bear Killer. “They will not expect a raid this night.”

“How many sentinels?” asked Sharp Tongue.

“They stand in a ring about the village…these Urkis are wary,” said Runs Fast. “I count three on the eastern end where we must pass.”

Bear Killer explained his war plan to us until each man knew his part.

We crept close to the edge of the encampment, following the line of the river where a row of trees gave us cover. We stalked and crawled until we saw the three sentinels standing before the first line of smoking lodges, their painted faces staring out into the night, searching for enemies like us. At Bear Killer’s signal Rides the Wind, Storm Caller, and I nocked our bows and took aim at the sentinels. We were accounted the best bowmen of the group. Our eyes were young and sharp. It was our job to slay these men. We would get only a single shot each, and they must be killing shots.

From behind a scraggly bush I pointed a shaft at the heart of the nearest sentinel. Some distance to my left and right, Rides the Wind and Storm Caller did the same. A hissed signal from Bear Killer met my ears, and I let the arrow fly. It entered the Urki’s left eye, the arrowhead of Aldoneq metal sinking deep into his skull. He fell and died with hardly a sound. I looked and saw the other shafts had struck true as well.

“Go!” whispered Wolf Eyes at my side. “Take his scalp!”

The war band crept forward on our bellies, and we three who had drawn first blood approached our kills. In the village firelight danced across the walls of the teepees. Voices chanted obscure pleas to the spirits. But the spirits were not with the Urkis this night…they were with the People.

I drew my knife and pulled back the dead Urki’s head, digging my fingers into his hair. First I removed the bloody arrow and tucked it into my quiver. Then I slid my knife’s edge across the forehead in a curving arc, and it took all the strength of my young arm to separate the scalp from the skull beneath. I had not know it was so difficult to strip a man’s head bare. Sharp Tongue had made it look so easy with the fallen Eenu. While I did this, my cousin took the scalp of the man he had killed.

Now we crouched at the limit of the firelight, fifteen warriors with ready axes, knives, and guns. Most of us stalked bravely into the camp while only a few lingered behind with ready bows. A man of the Urkis spread the flap of a lodge and walked out to join the ceremony. He saw us moving among the shadows. His eyes grew big and his mouth opened to scream, but Gray Wolf’s hurled axe caught him in the forehead. He fell gurgling and twitching as his scalp was claimed. The rest of us crept deeper into the village, searching between the teepees and pulling back their flaps to find whatever trace of the enemy lay within. I pulled back the flap of a teepee and saw a young Urki girl. She lay on her side among thin furs and cradled an infant.

I froze at the threshold. She looked so much like White Fawn for an instant. I could not move. Perhaps she thought me one of her own people at first. The bloody scalp dripped where I had tied it to the foot of my bow. Suddenly I did not know what to do. I was too young to carry her away…she looked heavy enough to slow me down and fetch me an arrow in the back. I had no wish to kill her, although she was my enemy. I did not want to snatch the infant…and my heart was not hardened enough to kill it.

My instant of weakness was shattered by a squeal from a nearby teepee. A woman’s scream, followed by a man’s yelping filled the night air. “Enemy! Enemy!” I understood that word clearly enough. Although the language of the Urkis was not that of the People, it shared enough common terms.

I closed the flap and ran toward the center of the village. I thought my indecision was cowardice, and I longed to prove myself by spilling the blood of more Urki men. Two warriors rushed at me with spear and axe. My nocked arrow flew quicker than the spear, piercing the Urki’s heart before he cast his weapon. The second man charged me with his axe and an ear-splitting war cry. All about me rang similar howls as my war brothers engaged the Urkis.

I raised my shield and the Urki’s axe bit into its hard surface. I dropped the bow and pulled my knife from its sheathe. It was still wet with the sentinel’s blood as I drove it into the Urki’s belly. He bellowed and brought his axe down again, but I leaped backward, leaving my knife in his gut. He writhed on the ground as I took up the war spear of his dead brother and impaled him through the chest. Somewhere the musket of Wolf Eyes thundered, followed by that of Red Hawk. I heard no return fire; the Urkis had no guns on this day.

A cluster of Urkis rushed toward me, their eyes blazing red like wolves in the darkness. The village was fully alert now. I would have no chance to take my two foes’ scalps. I took the Urki spear instead, and picked up my fallen bow with the fresh scalp attached.

Snake Catcher rushed by me, flinging blood from his arm. In his fist he held a bloody scalp. “Run, Tall Eagle, run!”

I heard Bear Killer’s shouted signal now. Time to flee with our prizes. Leaving my knife behind, I ran back the way we had come. All about me, my brother warriors sprinted towards the shelter of the woods. The arrows of our enemy sang past our ears and necks. I had no chance to pause and look behind me, but I saw Rides the Wind running a short distance away. An arrow struck Laughs at Death in the back and he fell. I channeled all the might of my body into my legs, running from the shrieking pack of Urkis who wanted my blood. Behind me the Urkis fell upon Laughs at Death with axes and boots, beating him mercilessly. I heard him laughing between the meaty sounds of his punishment. They would not slay him now. No, they would carry his beaten and bleeding body back to their fire for long torture. I knew he would be laughing as they slowly tore the life from his body.

Now the thick trees of the slope enclosed us. An arrow took Big Rain in the arm. To my amazement, he ignored the shaft and did not slow his pace. He raced up the hill, heedless of his wound. He would tear it from his flesh when we had found safety, but not before that moment.

We ran like deer through the woods and over the ridge, and our pursuers grew less and less. Some decided to return and join the torture of their captive. Others feared for the safety of their wives and daughters, and so went back to check on them. Yet a few younger and more hearty Urkis continued the chase, following us deep into the mountains. We gathered into an ambush and sent arrows at them by the light of the moon. There were only six men following us by that time. When one took an arrow in the belly, the rest of them lost heart and ran back to their village. Sharp Tongue leapt down to capture the wounded Urki, binding his limbs with buffalo sinew and dragging him behind us until we found a clearing in which to rest. We remained vigilant, but we sat at ease upon the dewy ground and lay our backs against mossy rocks.

Bear Killer was bleeding from a spear wound near his heart, but he would let no man look at his wound or tend him. “It is nothing,” he said. “I will be fine. The Bear Spirit is with me.”

“Laughs at Death will die with honor,” said Little Hawk. “He was a mighty warrior.”

Every man agreed, nodding.

“How shall we torture this one?” asked Sharp Tongue. He kicked the fallen Urki.

The bound man bled onto the grass and cursed us in his own language. “Snakes…snakes!” This was the only word I understood.

Wolf Eyes came toward him with his bare knife and carved a piece of the man’s skin from shoulder to shoulder, stripping it from his back like pulling off a great scalp. The Urki screamed his agony to the stars.

“You die like a squealing she-coyote! Not like a man!” spat Wolf Eyes. I knew he was thinking of his stolen son and murdered mother, victims of the Eenu. This Urki would pay for the deeds of the rat-tails.

I did not wish to watch the torture. Rides the Wind grabbed my shoulder when I turned away. “Be strong,” he said. “You are a man now.”

It did not last much longer. In the end, Sharp Tongue claimed the scalp and removed the Urki’s eyes. Wolf Eyes tied the mangled body to a tree so the Urkis would find it in the days to come. Then Bear Killer pulled himself to his feet and urged us to keep moving. We must not stop until we left the hunting ground of our enemies.

We walked until midday, then rested by a stream to count our kills and our prizes. I had taken a single scalp and the spear of a warrior. The two men I killed by hand were also counted as coup with Snake Catcher as my witness. Rides the Wind took two scalps and a single coup. Sharp Tongue counted five coup, three scalps. Between our whole band, we took nine Urki scalps and counted many coup. Two men were wounded, Bear Killer and Big Rain, and one man lost. Overall it was a successful raid, especially for my cousin and I. The two youngest warriors were boys no more. Now we could build our own lodges, take wives, and have families.

We entered the borderlands again that night, where we stopped to fully rest for the first time since the raid. The Urki camp lay far behind us, and we felt secure enough to build a fire. We shared a roasted hare and took our sleep. Rides the Wind clapped my shoulder and smiled at me. I could not help but return his grin.

We were glad to be alive…glad to be men of the People at last. We lay down on a pallet of leaves, warmed by the glow of Mother Moon, and slept like stones.

 

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Continued in THE TESTAMENT OF TALL EAGLE

- JUNE 2015 -

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