Adrian Collins's Blog, page 247

Writing About Firearms

by Matthew Sylvester

 

Burke ripped his revolver from his holster, diving into cover as his prey opened fire. Rounds sent chips of concrete flying through the air. Ducking round his cover, he blazed away until the hammer clicked home on an empty chamber. Not the best way to ensure a hit, but a good way to keep an opponent's head down. Quickly he popped another clip into the pistol. 

Taking a deep breath, he popped his head round the cover and straight back. It took less than a second, but that was all that he needed.  There were two men further down the corridor both armed with AK47 machine guns.

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Many people who write about firearms don't know much about firearms. Many probably haven't even handled one. Many of them will have watched films, which look awesome but are not entirely accurate in their depiction of firearms and the effects that they have, and based their writing upon that. Unfortunately, many content editors and test readers will compound the issue by using the same inexperience to affirm the author’s writing.

The above excerpt featuring Burke is full of errors, which I shall cover below. 

 

Rounds and Bullets

The first mistake, and one which many people make, is mistaking rounds for bullets. As you can see from the picture below, the bullet is what is actually fired. The round is what houses the bullet, the propellant, and which is fed into the chamber. 

 

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*Parts of a round, also demonstrating the difference between rimfire and centre fire.

Now that you know what a round is, the line "Rounds sent chips of concrete flying through the air," is now an impossibility, and also sounds faintly ridiculous.

 

Is that a revolver in your pocket, or are you pleased to see me?

The next common mistake is to confuse a revolver with a pistol. Put simply, a revolver is the type of pistol most commonly seen in use by cowboys and Dirty Harry. There are a number of rounds (usually 6) set into chambers within a rotating cylinder. Every time the trigger is pulled, the cylinder rotates and another bullet is fired, the expended round staying within the cylinder­.

A semi-automatic pistol uses a magazine (see the next mistake below) that has an internal mechanism that feeds a new round into the pistol's chamber every time the pistol is fired. These pistols usually (depending on the calibre of the round) have at least 10 rounds in each magazine.

 

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*A semi-automatic pistol (left) and a revolver (right)

 

* Pistol Shooting, some good explanations.

* Revolver shooting

Clips and magazines

Another common mistake is confusing clips with magazines. The picture below shows a clip, used to reload a .303 Lee Enfield rifle. In order to load the Lee Enfield, a soldier places the clip into the rifle's internal magazine, presses down and pushes the bullets into the rifle. The piece of metal (the clip) holding them is then discarded. 

 

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*A bolt action Lee Enfield rifle with a clip being loaded into the magazine (left) and a magazine (right)

Pistols - specifically semi-automatic pistols - do not use clips. They use magazines. A magazine can either be a self-contained and temporary unit that is pre-loaded with rounds, as per the picture below, or which can be a permanent internal fixture in bolt-action rifles, and some vintage semi-automatic rifles such as the World War Two M1 rifle. 

Another common mistake is soldiers letting magazine fall to the floor like confetti. Magazines are usually not discarded by soldiers but are placed into their webbing or combat gear so that they can be reloaded at a later point.

 

Assault rifle or machine gun?

A lot of authors also tend to confuse assault rifles with machine guns, as in the introductory paragraph. An AK-47 is one of the most famous assault rifles in the world, but it is still referred to as a machine gun. In addition to this, authors and editors go on to confuse machine guns with sub-machine guns. This is understandable, as when someone is firing on full automatic at you, the distinction isn't all that important. 

An Assault Rifle is, as the name implies, a rifle. However, unlike bolt-action rifles which require the user to manually feed a round into the chamber by working the bolt back and forth (back to eject the expended round, forward to feed another round into the chamber), an assault rifle has to be capable of allowing the user to select semi-automatic, or automatic fire of some sort.

Semi-automatic means that the gun fires one round and sends one bullet towards the opponent every time the trigger is pulled, for as many times as there are rounds in the magazine, the spring in the magazine pushing each round up into the weapon's chamber. 

Fully automatic means that the gun fires rounds for as long as the user holds the trigger down, or for as many rounds are in the magazine or on the belt (for machine guns). 

Most modern assault rifles also have what is known as a burst fire option. This means that the user pulls the trigger once, but the gun fires a set number of rounds. Usually three. This is because with every round that is fired, the barrel of the weapon rises, taking it further and further off target. Three round bursts give better stopping power, whilst keeping the weapon as accurate as possible.

 

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*An M-16 Assault Rifle 

Assault rifles also fire much larger calibre rounds, usually .223, .303, and 7.62mm, but even going up to .50 inch (such as the famous Barrett rifle). Because of their size and weight, the bullets in these rounds require a large amount of propellant. This in turn means that the bullets can be deadly at ranges up to and over a mile. They have a high penetrative power, which means they can punch through a car door as easily as a hot knife through butter. They will not ricochet off the metal or the windows in a shower of sparks. Those cops hiding behind the door? Unless it's reinforced or armoured, they're dead. That one-brick wall the detective ducks behind? Not enough. He’s dead, too. Nothing short of proper armoured plate (for vehicles), or body armour with either a Level III or IV rifle plate, or military specification body armour can stop these bullets in their tracks and have the person behind it still be able to operate. Even then, the body armour is only designed to stop a certain number of these bullets. The more that hit, the greater the chance of penetration. In fact, the original military spec body armour, Small Arms Protective Insert (SAPI), only required that it stop three bullets. Yes, three.

*An apparently bulletproof mercedes, being shot by an assault rifle on semi-automatic. 1:30 onwards shows what it would be like to be inside a car when being shot at by determined attackers.

* Excellent video demonstrating the penetrative qualities of different shotgun rounds and different walls types. Scarily the ‘home defence’ round blows right through a typical american house wall. This has serious consequences for any family members on the other side!

Even then, getting hit by a bullet is going to hurt. People are going to register a hit, they’re going to be bruised, maybe break a rib or three. If you’ve never broken a rib before, it causes excruciating pain. The break effects all forms of movement and makes breathing in a combat situation very difficult and very painful.

 

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* Pistol and Rifle round comparison chart.

The penetrative power is such that these bullets can, and will, go through a number of bodies. One particularly accurate, albeit stomach-churning and chilling, example can be seen in Schindler's List where members of the SS line up a number of Jewish males in single file, and use one bullet from a Mauser K98 rifle to kill a group of them in one go. 

Some very well known authors have confused bolt action rifles with assault rifles, even going so far as to say that solders were armed with bolt-action assault rifles. Below is a picture of an assault rifle that has been fitted with a bolt action. Now that it can only fire one round before the user has to manually operate the bolt, it is no longer an assault rifle because there is no ability to fire on full automatic. It is a very cool looking bolt-action rifle. Just like the Lee Enfield next to it.

 

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The picture below is of a machine gun. Machine guns don't have selective fire. They are an infantryman's favourite support weapon. These weapons will chew through a double-brick wall, and will fire for as long as the user holds the trigger down, or the ammunition lasts. They're hard to aim accurately and are designed to put a large amount of bullets down into an area, suppressing - keeping their heads down - the enemy long enough for squad members to neutralise the threat. They are hard to fire accurately from the shoulder and so usually come with a bipod (two little legs at the front that allow the user to rest the weapon securely). 

 

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*A bipod mounted machine gun 

*M60 Machine Gun

A sub-machine gun is an entirely different weapon. Initially designed for trench warfare, weapons such as the .45 Thompson Sub-Machine Gun became famous. Sub-machine guns fire small-calibre rounds, the sort of round that is used in a pistol, most usually 9mm, .38in or .45in. They may have selective fire as per assault rifles, but what they're useful for is sending a lot of bullets towards an opponent at a short distance. They don't have the penetrative power of an assault rifle, which means that their bullets aren't known for punching through bad guys and killing innocent civilians. This is one reason that the SAS adopted the Heckler and Koch MP9 sub-machine gun. The rounds were powerful enough to kill terrorists, but weak enough to stay in the terrorist and not kill hostages. With selective fire, they were also highly accurate. 

 

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*A Heckler & Koch sub-machine gun (left) and the Thompson sub-machine gun (right).

* Classic Uzi sub-machine gun being fired, some swearing, but makes it better.

To summarise; if you're going to write about firearms, even the futuristic sci-fi versions of what we use today, do your research. If you're not sure, ask people who do know about firearms. If you live in a country where you can go and fire a number of firearms, do so. Handling and firing a pistol, or a rifle, or any firearm is completely different to seeing them in films, or reading articles such as this. As soon as you put the stock into your shoulder, and take aim, you will instantly know how heavy they are, how they feel whilst snugged into your shoulder, or held in both of your hands. It really is a game changer, and can save you from the ire of your readers!

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Matthew Sylvester is a multiple dan, multiple black belt holder and instructor in a number of martial arts ranging from Taekwondo through to Reality Based Self-Defence. He has been in the Officer Training Corps, Special Constables, worked as a Door Supervisor, and topped turnips. He knows how to talk a good fight, write a good fight, and slaughter his enemies using nothing but his cutting wit.

Matthew edits books for their hand weapons, firearms and fights authenticity. Hire Matthew to ensure that your book is full of action-packed and authentic scenes by contacting him at matthewsylvester (at) me.com

 

Audio Review: The Incorruptibles by John Hornor Jacobs

Review: The Incorruptibles by John Hornor Jacobs
Reviewed by Sean Grigsby

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John Hornor Jacobs provided Grimdark Magazine with an audiobook recording of The Incorruptibles for an honest review.

Part alternate history, part western, but all fantasy, The Incorruptibles by John Hornor Jacobs is something different that jumps up and bites you like a rattlesnake you never saw coming.

Our storyteller is Shoestring, a half dvergar (dwarf) who’s been partners with gunslinger, Fisk, for over a decade. Their current job has them outriding alongside a Rumen steamship called the Cornelian. If the word “Rumen” looks familiar, it’s because Jacobs has taken much of ancient Roman civilization and put it smack dab in what could just as easily be the American West.

But this land, the Hardscrabble Territories, is a tough and untamed place, filled with savage elves they call “stretchers” that stand eight feet or more and love to scalp and devour any unlucky enough to get stranded out in the wilderness.

It’s these stretchers from whom Fisk and Shoe have to protect the Cornelian and her passengers, namely, Governor Cornelius, his children, and the engineers that operate the demon-powered boat.

Oh, yes. The Rumens have made use of demons to power their engines, light their lamps, and even Fisk’s bullets contain imps that leave flashes of their wicked forms as the bullets fire from the barrel. It’s one of the reasons Shoestring refuses to arm himself with anything but his trusty blades. Shoe’s faith in his deity Ia, and his desire to keep his soul clean, leaves the gunwork to Fisk.

 

But the Cornelian has another aboard her that Fisk and Shoestring hadn’t counted on, a young foreign woman whose welfare is the key to either peace or war. When a fellow mercenary falls in love with the girl and runs away with her, it’s up to Fisk and Shoe to see her back to the ship safe and sound. But time is short, and there are stretchers about.

This is John Hornor Jacobs’ sixth book and the first in a new grimdark series. John’s first novel Southern Gods was shortlisted for the Bram Stoker Award, and his horror roots have wonderfully trickled into his fantasy work. There’s a raw sophistication to John’s writing that is simultaneously eloquent and to the point. The narrative is slow in parts, but still engaging, reminiscent of the river the Cornelian chugs along. Shoestring’s voice is one readers will love and resonate with. It’s through him we care about Fisk, sympathize with the stretchers, and are wary of demons.

With an audio book, you have to acknowledge great voice work, and Steven Pacey did a phenomenal job, giving variable life to each character. Fisk sounded almost like Clint Eastwood, which added a nice spaghetti western splash of color.

Whether you choose audio, digital, or a paper copy, you can’t go wrong with this fresh grimdark tale available from Gollancz.

Four and a half grimdark lords out of five.

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The Grimdark Magazine 1 year anniversary

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With issue #4 out, we've hit the end of our first year. We've had victories, failures (and a couple of epic fails, like Goodreads giving us the boot), laughs, and managed to get 4 issues out there on time each quarter. It's been a magnificent year working out just what it is to be a small publisher, and I've got some people to thank for the experience.



Firstly, to you, our readers, thank you for giving us a crack and reading our issues, Facebook posts and blog rantings. Engaging you guys on our pages has been one of the highlights of running GdM. It's been awesome getting to know the grimdark community. 



Secondly, and very importantly, a huge thank you to the GdM team who have made this dream a reality by putting their expertise, passion and time into each issue and all that happens in between. Something that often goes unrecognised is that these small publisher teams often volunteer their time. Our team is 100% voluntary. GdM runs on pure passion for grimdark alone.



To find out more about the guys and to follow their own works, go over to our about us page.


To the lifeblood; those hundreds of you who have submitted short stories to compete for the very few spots we have available for unsolicited short stories in a year. You've opened my eyes to what is possible in under 4,000 words. You've also shown us just how bloody difficult it can be to run a publication like this. Having to let some of your stories go to other publications because we ran out of budget is nothing short of gutting. I've been so stoked to be able to publish guys like Peter Fugazotto, Kelly Sandoval, Siobhan Gallagher, Aaron Fox-Lerner, Tim Napper and Tara Calaby alongside articles from contributors such as Jeremy Szal and our very own Layla Cummins. I can't wait until we can afford to publish more words per issue.


Then there are those authors and publishers, literary heroes to the GdM team and I, who have been generous enough to trust us with their established world short stories, excerpts, articles, ARCs and interviews. We're, of course, talking about Mark Lawrence (the first to give us a chance), Joe Abercrombie, Adrian Tchaikovsky, Graham McNeill, R. Scott Bakker, Richard K. Morgan, Kameron Hurley, Rob J. Hayes, John R. Fultz, Karen Miller, Luke Scull, Mike Brooks, Tim Marquitz, Matthew Ward, Richard Ford, Alex Marshall, Peter Newman, Peter V. Brett, Brandon Sanderson, Mike Fletcher, the guys at Hachette Australia, those champions at Ragnarok Publications, and Roc (among a few others).



Finally, the GdM covers. The artists have been fantastic, as I'm sure you will all agree. Jason Deem (GdM#4), Julian De Lio (GdM#2) and Austen Mengler (GdM#3) provided excellent covers. Nora Collins (isses #1 and #4) and Rob Matheny (Issues #2 and #3) have done fantastic graphic design jobs with the cover images we've purchased.



After reading through what must feel like a bit of a cast of thousands, I'm sure you're wondering what's coming up for year 2? We're going to provide more of the same, with short stories, interviews, reviews, and articles from established and new grimdark authors and a far more active blog presence. There are a bunch of irons in the fire with our favourite authors and some new ideas on competitions (watch this space).


We're hoping to reach and get beyond the break-even point financially this year so we can increase the per issue budget. This will include putting up some Google ads in our blog posts, among a few other different strategies, which we hope will provide us with better longevity and a meatier fiction part to each issue without pissing you off too much!



We can't wait to bring you the second year of Grimdark Magazine. It's going to be an absolute corker.

Grimdark Magazine issue #4 OUT NOW

Grimdark Magazine issue #4 is locked in, and have we got a cracking issue ready for you! Behind another brilliant piece of artwork on the cover, you'll get short stories, an article, a review, excerpts and a couple of interviews. Here's what you'll find inside:

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Cover art: a dark piece from Jason Deem named Symbiosis.

Short stories:

In Brazen Dreams by Matthew Ward shady characters converge on a powerful relic.

Tara Calaby asks "what happens after happily ever after" in Ashes. 

Redemption Waits by Mike Brooks set in his Keiko universe (Dark Run).

A Steelhaven short story by Richard Ford, The Halfwyrd's Burden.

Excerpts:

A Crown for Cold Silver by Alex Marshall


The Liar's Key by Mark Lawrence

Reviews:

The Vagrant by Peter Newman

Interviews:

Peter V. Brett 

Brandon Sanderson 

Article:

The Mud, the Blood and the Years by Ragnarok and Orbit author John R. Fultz


Purchase Grimdark Magazine #4 now

If you'd prefer to buy from Amazon, do us a favour and PLEASE USE THIS LINK. We get a kickback from Amazon. Every little bit helps!

Interview with Mike Fletcher

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[GdM] Thank you for taking the time to speak with us. Our reviewer really enjoyed reading about Gehirn in Beyond Redemption (link to review). Gehirn's abilities and craziness, the undead army of assassin corpses, the sociopath that feeds on the organs of those who worship him, and Stehlen who killed anyone without any remorse provided a really enjoyable cast of dark characters in a truly gritty and dark world. Beyond Redemption was right up our alley. Can you tell our readers a bit about yourself and what inspired you to write Beyond Redemption?

[MRF] Wow. You make it sound kinda dark when you put it like that. 

Okay. Me. Uh... For over a decade and a half I worked as an audio engineer mixing live bands (over 10,000 bands in that time) and recording albums. If anyone defines the delusional, it's musicians. Actually, probably all artists. Your grip on reality has to be a little shaky if you believe playing badly written two chord songs on an out of tune acoustic guitar will lead to fame and fortune. You have to be outright bugfuck crazy if you're so certain about the fame and fortune you do it over and over, playing the same shitty songs night after night. Much like you have to be at least a little unstable if you spend a year locked in your bedroom writing a novel about insane people and do so thinking it will sell to a major publisher.

At some point I realized most of the successful musicians I interacted with were sociopaths of one hue or another. That may have coloured my thinking.

 

[GdM] The book has all the elements that are considered the bread and butter of the grimdark subgenre -- a grim story in a dark world told by morally ambiguous protagonists. Do you see your book as grimdark? Have you had much exposure to the subgenre before and what are your views on it?

[MRF] I absolutely understand why people are calling Beyond Redemption grimdark. That said, I'd never heard the term until my agent referred to it as such. I had to google it before I understood what she was talking about. I had a moment of, 'how dare you label me!' but I got over it.

One look at the list of writers being labelled as grimdark, and I was sold. Anything putting me in the same sentence as Joe Abercrombie, Anthony Ryan, or Mark Lawrence can't be bad; these guys are writing the best fantasy out there!

 

[GdM] In Beyond Redemption you created characters that could use different types of insanity to manipulate reality. How much research did you have to do on mental disorders to bring realism to this character? And how did it help you in furthering the plot of the story?

[MRF] Having no background in psychiatry, I had to do quite a lot of research to get a feel for the various mental disorders. The fun part was deciding how each would manifest and twist reality. 

In a way, the insanity is the story. I do almost no pre-plotting or planning. I had a situation in mind and then threw this cast of messed up characters into it. I don't decide in advance how anything will end. Instead, I try and figure out what each character would do in their situation and then write it. If I write myself into a corner (it happens a lot) then those characters better be awful creative and figure some way out. Or I kill 'em.

I suppose that's a fairly schizophrenic way of writing a book about insanity.

 

[GdM] Mental illness is a central theme in this book, was it easier or more difficult writing Bedeckt as more of a normal kind of person?

[MRF] Bedeckt is that pillar of stone standing just off the shore. Day after day relentless waves of insanity crash against him. In a world where belief defines reality, he is manically sane, psychotically sane.

In a book of crazy people I needed a sane character to balance the others. I think he did a good job.

  

[GdM] Was the mental illness theme a comment on society, a representation of something in your life, or just something you wanted to explore?

[MRF] Yes, yes, and yes. I'd rather people decided for themselves what the book is about so I won't comment on that. But I did spend a fair amount of time interacting with a sociopath and that definitely influenced the book. It's amazing how someone so glib and charming can also be utterly self-centred.

Others have written about reality being influence by belief, but I was unaware of anyone taking it in this direction. Once the idea gelled, I just had to explore it.

 

[GdM] What does the concept of the Afterdeath mean to you compared to our modern concept of the afterlife?

[MRF] The Afterdeath is an amalgamation of different concepts of the afterlife stolen from several cultures. Those whom you slay must serve, what you carry on your body makes the journey with you, etc.

Because Beyond Redemption is so focussed on a particular type of character you don't get a feel for the wider picture. There are in fact many Afterdeaths; not everyone follows the Warrior's Credo. Heavens and hells abound. It all depends on what you believe. There will be more on this in future books.

 

[GdM] The world of Beyond Redemption has a very clear German inspiration in the language. What made you choose this? Was is a cool difference or was there further meaning behind it?

[MRF] Initially it was the sound and look of German that drew me. If you want dark and gritty, what's better than German?

There is definitely further meaning. Sometimes. Maybe.

I think it should be noted that none of the characters in the book speak German.

 

[GdM] This book left our reviewer wanting more. When do your fans get to find out the next piece of the story? What can they expect?

[MRF] Good! That was definitely the plan. I've got the next two books written (working titles, The Mirror's Truth, and The All Consuming) and I'm currently editing them. TMT is a sequel to Beyond Redemption and TAC involves a whole new cast of characters. Lot's of new craziness to explore.

The two story lines will come together like the most horrendous train-wreck in a future book. The awesome folks at Harper Voyager haven't even seen these yet so I can't possibly guess as to when they might be released.

 

[GdM] Note to readers: if you want a taste of the stuff Mike can put up, head on over to his website and check out the free short stories he has up there. You can also follow him on Twitter @FletcherMR.

Michael's coming release, Beyond Redemption, can be ordered through the following links:

Hard copy: Galaxy Bookstore
iBooks

Kobo


Kindle

 

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Michael R. Fletcher is a science fiction and fantasy author represented by Cameron McClure of the Donald Maass Literary Agency.

His novel, Beyond Redemption, a work of dark fantasy and rampant delusion, is being published by HARPER Voyager and is slated for release June 16th, 2015.

His début novel, 88, was released by Five Rivers Publishing and tastes like dystopia with a dash of cyberpunk. 88 is available from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, and elsewhere.

The next two Manifest Delusions novels, The All Consuming and The Mirror’s Truth, have been written and are currently in editing.

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
iBooks

Kobo


Kindle

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:

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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.

 

####

 

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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