Bruce Blake's Blog, page 14
September 24, 2012
Blood of the King Excerpt: Chapter 2 (Part 2)
Less than a week until the release of Blood of the King. Let’s peek in at Khirro and see how he’s faring.
Blood of the King (Khirro’s Journey Book 1)
A warrior, a whore, a magician, a mute, a reluctant hero. A curse to journey to a haunted land.
Khirro never wanted to be anything more than the farmer he was born to be, but a Shaman’s curse binds him to the fallen king and his life changes forever.
Driven by the Shaman’s dying words, Khirro’s journey pits him against an army of the dead, sends him through haunted lands, and thrusts him into the jaws of beasts he wouldn’t have believed existed. In one hand he carries the Shaman’s enchanted sword, a weapon he can barely use; in the other he holds a vial of the king’s blood, the hope of the kingdom. His destination: the Necromancer’s keep in the cursed land of Lakesh. Only the mysterious outlaw magician can raise the king from the dead to save them all from the undead invasion, but can Khirro live long enough to deliver the vial?
Can a coward save a kingdom?
Read Chapter 1 – http://www.tamiparrington.com/2012/09/19/blood-of-the-king-excerpt/
Read Chapter 2 (Part 1) – http://www.writersownwords.com/chantal_boudreau/blog/1783/
Excerpt: Blood of the King
Chapter 2 (Part 2)
Khirro moved into the courtyard, tired legs burning with effort. Each step jostled strangled moans from the king. Braymon’s breath was alarmingly shallow and Khirro could find nowhere to lay his hand without it coming away sticky with the king’s blood.
A ball of hellfire arced over the wall and landed a few yards away, showering them with sparks. Fire smeared across the courtyard, igniting the tinder-dry grass, cutting off his path to the center keep. Sweat or blood stung Khirro’s eyes as he glanced up at the fire, looking through the wavering heat and smoke, and amended his course, veering toward a closer building. It wasn’t where the king had requested, but he had to find a place to make a stand.
Make a stand. The thought made him shudder. I hope the door isn’t barred.
As they approached, the world slowed to dream time and everything leaped to new levels of clarity: fires burned brighter, sounds became clearer. The king’s breath rasped in his ears, blood pounded in his own head. Another sound hammered above all else: footsteps closing in, gaining ground fast. And a smell. It overpowered the sooty stink of fires and the stale odor of sweat and dried piss. Rank and sweet, earthy and rotten, it smelled of the dead.
Hope drained from Khirro like candle wax pooling into panic at the pit of his stomach, leaving behind a quickly solidifying trail of fear. His mind swirled. The foot race was lost, no doubt of that.
What do I do?
Face the soldier? He’d be dead before he drew his dirk. Surrender? The Kanosee would take no prisoners. But did the warrior pursue him or was he simply after Braymon?
What if he dropped the king?
Khirro gritted his teeth, biting back the thought. He let the king down once, he wouldn’t do it again. A day ago, he told Jowyn the king deserved his loyalty, not his life, but he could no longer make that argument. Braymon could have waited, sacrificing one man to ensure his own safety, but he didn’t. Instead, he threw himself into the fray knowing it might mean his end. If a monarch would sacrifice himself to save a dirt farmer, how could the farmer hesitate at saving the king?
With each step Khirro expected to feel steel in his back, ending his flight and his life. A cry rose behind him, deep and wild. Khirro echoed it, crying out with effort, putting everything into pumping his exhausted legs. Ahead, a door swung open and a figure appeared on the threshold, distracting him. Khirro’s feet tangled and he fell forward, tumbling awkwardly as he twisted to protect the king. His shoulder hit the ground painfully. The king’s body shifted forward, sandwiching Khirro’s head against the ground, blurring his vision. He rolled to his back, reached for his scabbard, found it empty, and had only a second to realize his weapon lay on the wall walk where he’d stumbled down the stairs before his pursuer was on him.
Khirro tried to struggle up, but his arm was trapped beneath King Braymon. The Kanosee soldier sent him back to the ground with a kick to the midsection and put his foot on Khirro’s chest, pinning him. Writhing and wriggling beneath the pressure, Khirro grabbed the enemy’s boot in both hands and tried unsuccessfully to move it. He looked up at the warrior, at his black mail splashed with red, at his menacing closed-face helm, at his massive axe, and his limbs went numb. For the second time in a day, death stared Khirro directly in the eye, and Khirro was afraid.
The Kanosee stared back at Khirro from behind his visor, breath rattling against the steel. Khirro looked from the black helm to the battle axe and saw star bursts of rust dotting the blade, chips and gouges marking its edge. What soldier carried a weapon so old and neglected? It would split his skull nonetheless. Khirro gritted his teeth, determined to take the deathblow like a man but, to his surprise, the Kanosee released the haft with one hand and lifted his visor instead of raising the axe.
The face beneath the visor may once have belonged to a man, but the flesh was rotted and decayed, leaving behind a parody of a man’s features: a black-edged hole in one cheek revealed crooked yellow teeth; the right eye socket stood empty and inflamed; tattered flesh hung from cheek and jaw and forehead. Strands of hair, gray and stringy, escaped from under the helm, plastered by dried blood and pus to what was left of the mottled gray flesh patch-worked across its face. Khirro recoiled. If the thing’s foot wasn’t pinning breath inside his body, he would have had to fight to keep his gorge from rising. He squirmed under the thing’s boot, grabbing and pushing; it didn’t move. Tears squeezed from his eyes as he struggled to move, to breathe.
The enemy leaned over, leering at him, and something dripped onto Khirro’s face—sweat or saliva or blood. He gagged and his captor laughed.
Khirro’s resolution faltered, his mouth opened in a scream. The soldier—the creature—smiled, its lipless mouth twisted in a grin that might easily have passed for growl. Goose flesh puckered Khirro’s skin, his stomach knotted. The thing straightened, grasped the haft of the axe with both hands, and laid the blade’s edge on Khirro’s shoulder. Cold steel pressed against his cheek, its rusty smell filling his nostrils. A weak cry burbled from Khirro’s lips, unheard by any save himself and the creature raised the axe skyward as Khirro closed his eyes, whispering prayers to Gods he’d not bothered with since childhood. Memories of Emeline fought their way through his panic, first of her smiling, happy, then angry and accusing. So much had happened, so much was left undone.
What am I doing here? Why does it have to end like this?
He wished he was anywhere but here: tending fields, slaughtering cows, at the end of his father’s switch for something done wrong. Anywhere.
Light flashed bright enough to shine red through Khirro’s lids. A sound like canvas tearing. The pressure on his chest lessened then disappeared. Something hit the ground near Khirro and the stench of burnt hair filled the air. He tensed, awaiting the deathblow, lying helpless pinned beneath the king.
Dread-filled seconds passed, then the king’s weight lifted. Khirro raised his arms in defense, peeked through slitted lids. A black-robed figure leaned toward him—the man from the doorway. He saw nothing beneath the man’s cowl: no face, no mask. The hood cast an inscrutable shadow even in the bright sunlight.
“Bring him,” the robed man said.
Hands grabbed Khirro, dragged him into the darkness beyond the wooden door. It swung closed behind them, leaving Khirro blind in the night-dark room.
September 21, 2012
Blood of the King Excerpt: Chapter 2 (Part 1)
Only nne more days until the release of Blood of the King. Here’s another taste.
Blood of the King (Khirro’s Journey Book 1)
A fallen king. A reluctant hero. A curse that binds them by blood.
Khirro never wanted to be anything more than the farmer he was born to be, but a Shaman’s curse binds him to the fallen king and his life changes forever.
Driven by the Shaman’s dying words, Khirro’s journey pits him against an army of the dead, sends him through haunted lands, and thrusts him into the jaws of beasts he wouldn’t have believed existed. In one hand he carries the Shaman’s enchanted sword, a weapon he can barely use; in the other he holds a vial of the king’s blood, the hope of the kingdom. His destination: the Necromancer’s keep in the cursed land of Lakesh. Only the mysterious outlaw magician can raide the king from the dead to save the kingdon from the undead invasion, but can Khirro live long enough to deliver the vial?
Can a coward save a kingdom?
Read Chapter 1 here.
Excerpt: Blood of the King
Chapter 2 (Part 1)
A helm clattered off the wall walk, bouncing end over end down the stairs. It hit Khirro’s foot, startling him and sending a jolt of pain up his leg. When he looked to see what hit him, he recognized the dead eyes of a member of the king’s guard staring back at him from within the helm. A pained grimace twisted the face, blood dripped from severed tendons and ragged veins. Khirro recoiled, pain flashing down his spine. He kicked at the head, the sound of his armor scraping stone impossibly loud in his ears. His toe contacted the helmet painfully, sending it spinning across the landing. It trailed off blood spatters as it rolled to the edge then disappeared over the brink. Khirro breathed a sigh of relief.
“Help me.”
Khirro flinched. The king’s plea came again, a breathy whisper barely audible above the sounds of battle. Chickens ran about after their heads were removed, but nothing could speak without life remaining within. Khirro shifted painfully onto his side.
“My king,” he whispered.
Braymon lay in a tangled heap, hips wrenched farther than possible, one arm pinned beneath him, the other twisted behind. Blood streamed from his shaven head onto his cheeks and into his eyes, a mask of red through which little flesh showed. He blinked clearing his vision, a slow, lethargic movement, then directed his gaze toward Khirro. A pained smile twitched his lips; it quickly turned to a grimace.
“I thought you lost, lad.”
The blood drained from Khirro’s cheeks.
“No, your highness. I… I was knocked unconscious. I’ve only just woken to find you here beside me.” The lie tasted more bitter than the coppery tang of blood on his tongue.
Braymon coughed a fine spray of bloody spittle. Khirro knew it meant something inside him was bleeding.
“I’ve not much time. I need your help.”
“I owe you my life.”
“Then you can return the favor.”
Fear lumped into a mass at the back of Khirro’s throat. “What can I do?”
“The healer will know I’ve fallen,” Braymon said coughing again, face strained with the effort. “Take me to him.”
Relief. He didn’t ask to be avenged or dragged back to the battle to die a soldier’s death. Khirro glanced at the blood pooling beneath the king’s contorted body, flowing from some unseen spot under his plate mail, and pushed himself up to kneel beside Braymon to better assess his condition. The battle raged above but no one appeared on the stair.
“You shouldn’t be moved,” Khirro said after consideration. The way the king’s body twisted upon itself made him feel sick. “It would mean your life.”
Braymon shook his head minutely. “It matters not. I must get to the healer before the warmth has left my body or all is lost.”
“I don’t think–”
“Soldier,” Braymon said with a tone of command befitting a king. “If you do this thing, all else will be forgiven.”
Khirro gaped at the king’s words. He fought to keep tears at bay as guilt siphoned the strength from his limbs. His mouth moved trying to form the words to apologize for not rejoining the fight, to beg forgiveness, to explain, but his constricted throat choked them. Instead, he nodded.
“You’ll have to remove my armor to carry me.”
Khirro stripped the king’s armor as quickly and quietly as his hurts allowed. Each time he shifted the king, Braymon’s face contorted with deeper levels of pain, but he never cried out, and each piece of armor Khirro removed revealed more horror. The king’s blood-soaked underclothes stuck to him like a second skin; the jagged end of a bone punched through the flesh of one thigh; a loop of intestines protruded from a long cut in his abdomen. As he uncovered each injury, Khirro felt more grateful to be alive and whole and his own injuries seemed less significant. By the time he finished removing all the pieces, the king’s eyes were closed, his face taut with pain, cheeks pale. Khirro had to look closely to ensure he still drew breath.
“We’ve no time to lose.” Braymon said in a strained whisper. “Take me to the center keep.”
Khirro stood, teeth gritted against his own meager pain. He reached for Braymon but stopped, unsure how to proceed. He saw no way to pick up the injured man.
“Don’t concern yourself with my pain, it will end soon enough. Put me over your shoulder.”
A shudder wracked Khirro’s spine as he paused to look around. A few men ran about the courtyard below, but they were distant. Above, the fighting reached the top of the stairs. Two Kanosee soldiers—one wearing gray leather, the other the black breast plate splashed with red—hacked at soldiers of the king’s army who tried to keep them from the stairway. Khirro hoped they’d hold them long enough. He bent and hooked the king by the armpits, struggling to pull the dead weight from the ground. The king clenched his jaw, every muscle he could control straining to help.
Finally, the king’s limp form flopped over Khirro’s shoulder. He imagined he felt the soft flesh of his innards through his leather armor and his stomach flipped, forcing bile into his mouth. He swallowed it. The pain proved too much for the king and a cry tore from Braymon’s bloodied lips as his broken body pressed against Khirro’s shoulder.
Khirro looked back up the stairs, hoping no one heard. At first he thought the Gods with him as the fight continued, but one of the Erechanians fell and as the gray leather-clad Kanosee pulled his sword from the man, he leaned toward his companion and pointed down the stair.
A sword flashed and the man fell, but Khirro saw no more as he turned and rushed down the stairs, focusing on his feet hitting each one and not over-balancing under the king’s weight.
By the time he reached the bottom of the final flight, Khirro’s back and legs ached, his pulse beat in his temple as his breath came in ragged gasps. If he didn’t pause to catch his wind, he wouldn’t get much further. He stood at the foot of the switchback staircase, half-bent, and watched a pebble strike the ground near his foot. Khirro looked at it without understanding, his fatigued mind reeling from lack of oxygen, but realization came quickly. He twisted awkwardly, ignoring the pain in his back, to look up the stairs. Halfway down, the black and red mailed soldier hurried toward him, battle axe in hand.
Biography
Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don’t take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.
Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn’t really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the “u” out of words like “colour” and “neighbour” then he does shovelling. The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of burlesque diva Miss Rosie Bitts.
Bruce has been writing since grade school but it wasn’t unti, 6 years ago he set his sights on becoming a full-time writer. Since then, his first short story, “Another Man’s Shoes” was ;published int he Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon, another short, “Yardwork”, was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod and his first Icarus Fell novel, On Unfaithful Wings (published to Kindle Dec., 2011) was chosen a semi-finalist in the Kindle Book Review’s Best Indie Books of 2012. The second Icarus Fell novel, All Who Wander Are Lost, was released in July 2012, and Blood of the King, the forst book in the two-part Khirro’s Journey epic fantasy, will be released on Sept. 30. He has plans for a tleast three more Icarus novels, several stand-aalones, and a possible YA fantasy co-written with hiis eleven-year-old daughter.
September 19, 2012
Blood of the King Chapter 1
Less than two weeks until the release of Blood of the King (Khirro’s Journey Book 1), so here’s the first sneak peek — Chapter 1. Let me know what you think.
Blood of the King (Khirro’s Journey Book 1)
A kingdom torn by war. A curse whispered by dying lips. A hero born against his will.
Khirro never wanted to be anything more than the farmer he was born to be, but a Shaman’s curse binds him to the fallen king and his life changes forever.
Driven by the Shaman’s dying words, Khirro’s journey pits him against an army of the dead, sends him through haunted lands, and thrusts him into the jaws of beasts he wouldn’t have believed existed. In one hand he carries the Shaman’s enchanted sword, a weapon he can barely use; in the other he holds a vial of the king’s blood, the hope of the kingdom. His destination: the Necromancer’s keep in the cursed land of Lakesh. Only the mysterious outlaw magician can raise the king from the dead to save them all from the undead invasion, but can Khirro live long enough to deliver the vial?
Can a coward save a kingdom?
Excerpt: Blood of the King
Chapter 1
Khirro blinked.
Wispy smoke floated across an otherwise unspoiled sky, marring it, capturing his attention, bringing him to focus. He realized there was nothing but sky and the smudge of gray—no smells, no sounds, nothing.
Smells returned first, all of them familiar—dirt and stone and dust, the scents of his life that had always been there.
The farm, then. I’m on the farm.
That didn’t feel right, didn’t explain the streak of smoke. Memories were faint, distant, as though seen through the wrong end of an eyeglass. It couldn’t be the farm, he’d left home months before…but for where?
Sound crept back into Khirro’s world. A man’s voice floated to him on the summer air, then more voices—not shouts of reverie but cries of anger and pain. Like a dam bursting, the clash of metal on metal added to the din.
The sounds jarred Khirro and memories flooded back like the tide filling a hole in the sand. Consciousness slammed down on him, brutal and unflinching. On his left, a sheer stone wall rose thirty feet or more; his right arm dangled over untold nothing. He moved his head to see and pain flooded his body, filling every joint and crevice, leaving no portion free from its touch. Something wet on his forehead and face, the taste of blood on his swollen tongue. The feel of it all filled in the last holes in his recollection: the invasion, the fight on the wall, the king and his men coming to his rescue. He’d tried to fight alongside the elite knights, but he was only a farmer forced to dress up in armor and wear a sword.
There’d be no harvest this year, not for him.
He spat weakly to clear his mouth; bloody saliva ran down his cheek into his ear. Ragged breath caught in his throat as he remembered the warrior breaching the wall, a huge man dressed in closed helm and black chain mail splashed red—paint or blood, Khirro couldn’t tell. The man easily bested him, forced him back until he stumbled over a fallen knight. He recalled the fellow’s pained groan as his foot struck his ribs, then he was tumbling end over end down the stairs, desperate to keep from going over the edge to the courtyard seventy feet below.
So that’s where he was—lying on the first landing, precariously close to death, as King Braymon and his guard defended the fortress from a Kanosee army.
King Braymon.
Everything hurt: back, arms and legs, hips. His head pounded. Warm blood oozed down his forehead from above his hairline. His throat worked futilely; it was a struggle to draw breath. Instead of his lungs expanding in his chest, panic grew in their place. He’d survived a bombardment of fireballs and the first Kanosee breach of the fortress wall; how ironic it would be to die falling down the stairs.
When he could breathe again, he gasped air past the bloody taste on his tongue like a man breaking the surface of a lake after a long dive. He took inventory of his body, wiggling his fingers and toes, flexing his muscles. They hurt, every one of them, but they all worked.
What do I do now?
The thought was fuzzy, as though spoken by someone with a mouthful of cotton. Another thought came fast on the heels of the first: The king needs me. Even warriors as fierce as King Braymon of Erechania and his guard couldn’t defeat so many. He wanted to get up and rush to his king’s side, to stand against the enemy, but more than the pains in his body kept him from it.
He thought of Emeline, and of his unborn child. His heart contracted.
Idiot! All you had to do was push over a couple of ladders. What kind of soldier are you?
He was no soldier, that was the answer. Spade and hoe were his tools, horse and plow, not sword and dirk and catapult. But he had a duty, and he’d made a promise to Jowyn before the hellfire claimed his life. Khirro scrambled away from the edge; his head smacked the stone landing sending a fresh jolt of pain through his temples.
I don’t want to end up like Jowyn.
Fighting sounds tumbled over the edge of the walk thirty feet above, carried to Khirro on a hot summer breeze that petered out long before it reached him. The thought of King Braymon and his guards fighting for their lives filled him with guilt. He heard the king’s voice call for aid. Someone answered, far away and small, and Khirro felt relief. The clangs and clatters intensified and the king called out again, but this time his cry cut short. Khirro gasped and held his breath, waiting for a sign of what had happened.
He should be at the king’s side, repelling invaders. He was no one’s equal with a weapon, but another sword was a sword nonetheless. Pain flared as he tensed his muscles and his body tilted dangerously in the direction of the painful death awaiting at the bottom of the wall. He scrambled a few inches away from the edge, sweat beading on his brow, leather breast piece scraping on stone stair. A couple of deep breaths pained his ribs but slowed his racing heart. Part of him wondered if he could just stay there, wait for the battle to end. His sword arm would be of such little use to the king, anyway, perhaps more of a hindrance. Live to fight another day, as the saying went. His father, a lifetime farmer who never hefted a sword, would said that was a coward’s saying. His father still considered himself the best judge of such things, but ever since the accident that cost him his arm, everything Khirro did made him a coward, or useless, or no good.
He wouldn’t prove his father right.
Khirro stared up the wall at the sky, its promise of summer seeming so far away now. He gathered his strength, drew a few short, sharp breaths. The muscles in his shoulders and back bunched painfully. He stopped and released them, allowing his body to go limp again as a figure appeared at the edge of the wall above.
The angle and distance made it difficult to see the man until he leaned forward and peered directly down at Khirro. The black breastplate splashed with red made him unmistakably the same man who nearly killed him. Khirro stared up, mimicking a corpse, as anger filled his chest, partially directed at the invader for his actions, partly at himself for playing the coward his father accused him of being.
The man disappeared from sight, but only long enough for Khirro to release his held breath and half-draw another. When he returned, the Kanosee warrior held a limp form in his arms. Sunlight glinted on steel plate as, impossibly, he hefted the armored body above his head, presenting it to the heavens as if an offering to the Gods.
Something caught the man’s attention and he looked away for a second then hurriedly, ungracefully, heaved the body over the edge.
Time slowed as the limp body twisted through the air toward Khirro. He saw the blood caked on lobstered gauntlets, dents and scuffs on silver plate.,an enameled pattern scrolling across the top of the breastplate. The armor seemed familiar but his pounding head gave no help in recognizing it as the limp form tumbled toward him.
At the last moment, instinct overpowered shock, fear and pain, and Khirro rolled to the right, teetering dangerously on the landing’s edge. The body hit the stone floor beside him.
The slam of armor against stone was nearly deafening, but not loud enough to mask the sickening pop of bones snapping within. The body bounced once and came to rest, some part of it pressed against Khirro’s back, threatening to push him over the precipice. He wriggled painfully away from the edge, pushing against the unmoving body behind him.
The sounds of fighting renewed. Soldiers must have pushed past the burning catapult that had barricaded them, rushing to engage the enemy and save their king.
Where were they five minutes ago?
Khirro put the thought from his mind. He lived, after all; it was more than he could say for the man lying beside him.
Khirro lay still for a minute, unsure what to do. If he stayed put, he’d forfeit his life to a Kanosee sword as surely as if he rejoined the fray. His eyes flickered from the wall walk above to the stairs. He saw no one. If there was a best time to move—to go somewhere, to do something—itwas likely now, while the enemy was freshly engaged. He turned his head, looked at the man lying dead beside him.
The man’s cheek pressed against the stone landing was curiously flat, crushed by the fall. His eyes were closed; blood ran across his closed eyelids from a gash on his clean-shaven scalp. A scrollwork of enameled ivy crawled out from the corner of his silver breastplate and across his epaulet. Khirro stopped breathing.
King Braymon!
It was the king dead beside him, the man who had rescued him from the red-splashed Kanosee soldier, leaping into the fight to save a lowly farmer-turned-soldier without regard for his own safety.
The king. The man who ruled the kingdom.
While Khirro had chosen to cower on the landing, struggling to find his courage as others fought for the kingdom, Braymon hadn’t hesitated a second.
And now the king was dead, and there was no one to blame but Khirro.
Guilt stirred his gut. What would this mean to the kingdom? To the war? His head swam. Did this mean he could return home, or would it mean more fighting? He thought of Emeline. It was easy to remember why he hadn’t risen after his fall down the stairs when he thought of her and of the child she carried. He only wanted to return to her, to go back to the farm and live out his life in peace and quiet. If Emeline would have him back.
The clang of steel and the shouts and screams of men fell on him like violent rain. He didn’t know how long he lay there listening and thinking, mourning and celebrating, awash in guilt and remorse and relief when another sound caught his attention. He held his breath.
A footstep on the stair?
His eyes darted toward the stone steps, but he couldn’t see beyond the king’s leg twisted at an unbelievable angle. He dared not turn his head for fear a man clad in a red-splattered breast plate may be leering at him from the stair, waiting for an excuse to fall upon him and finish the job. Thirty seconds crawled by, a minute. Khirro began to think he’d heard his own breath. For a while there was only the sound of fighting, then it came again. Not a footstep, but a groan, small and weak, but close. Khirro waited, listening, hoping. Dreading. Then another sound, a whisper.
Haltingly, Khirro moved his gaze back to the face of his king, the man who saved him, the man who so many years ago, saved the entire kingdom.
He looked into the open eyes of King Braymon.
Biography
Bruce Blake lives on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada. When pressing issues like shovelling snow and building igloos don’t take up his spare time, Bruce can be found taking the dog sled to the nearest coffee shop to work on his short stories and novels.
Actually, Victoria, B.C. is only a couple hours north of Seattle, Wash., where more rain is seen than snow. Since snow isn’t really a pressing issue, Bruce spends more time trying to remember to leave the “u” out of words like “colour” and “neighbour” then he does shovelling. The father of two, Bruce is also the trophy husband of burlesque diva Miss Rosie Bitts.
Bruce has been writing since grade school but it wasn’t until five years ago he set his sights on becoming a full-time writer. Since then, his first short story, “Another Man’s Shoes” was published in the Winter 2008 edition of Cemetery Moon, another short, “Yardwork”, was made into a podcast in Oct., 2011 by Pseudopod and his first Icarus Fell novel, “On Unfaithful Wings”, was published to Kindle in Dec., 2011. The second Icarus Fell novel, “All Who Wander Are Lost”, was released in July, 2012, and “Blood of the King”, the first book in the two-part “Khirro’s Journey” epic fantasy, will be released on Sept. 30. He has plans for at least three more Icarus novels, several stand alones, and a possible YA fantasy co-written with his eleven-year-old daughter.
http://www.on-unfaithful-wings.com/
September 15, 2012
Cover Reveal: Blood of the King (Khirro’s Journey Book 1)
Only two weeks left until the release of my new epic fantasy Blood of the King, the first book of Khirro’s Journey. Many thanks to Travis at ProBook Covers for another great creation. Take a look and tell me what you think.
A kingdom torn by war. A curse whispered by dying lips. A hero born against his will.
Khirro never wanted to be anything more than the farmer he was born to be, but a Shaman’s curse binds him to the fallen king ans his life changes forever.
Driven by the Shaman’s dying words, Khirro’s journey pits him against an army of the dead, sends him through haunted lands, and thrusts him nto the jaws of beasts he wouldn’t have believed existed. In one hand he carries the Shaman’s enchanted sword, a weapon he can barely use; in the other he holds a vial of the king’s blood, the hope of the kingdom. His destination: the Necromancer’s keep in the cursed land of Lakesh. Only the mysterious outlaw magician can raise the king from the dead to save them all from the undead invasion, but can Khirro live long enough to deliver the vial?
Can a coward save a kingdom?
Blood of the King (Khirro’s Journey Book 1) arrives September 30.
Sign up on my mailing list to stay up to date: http://eepurl.com/pjLej
September 11, 2012
Now Available: The Blood is Strong by Chantal Boudreau
My good friend and fellow Canadian author Chantal Boudreau has a new book now available on Amazon for your Kindle and the print version will be out soon. Check out a prequel story to get you ramped up and ready for this great new book from Chantal!
When a seemingly harmless dispute between youths within the tribe ends in tragedy at their Rites of Passage, the Snowy Barrens Tribe finds themselves divided and without compromise. Three splinter groups result: the Tribe of the Wolf, the Tribe of the Bear, and the Tribe of the Owl. With the threat of possible monsters overshadowing them and the loss of their strength in numbers, how will they survive?
The first in a three part/three generation tale, this YA tribal dark fantasy will whisk you away to a different world and a different time, where you get to be a part of the adventure that shaped a people and their ways.
False Tranquility
Spear-Thrower was being a little careless as he walked the perimeter of his tribe’s terrain. The Black Talon had not dared venture into the Snowy Barrens territory for the last couple of years, their attention redirected elsewhere. Why they had stopped attacking didn’t appear to matter to most anymore. The longer the lack of raids extended, the more the better part of the tribe took that feeling of security for granted. Spear-Thrower, young and inexperienced, was amongst them.
While most people were grateful for the peace, the warriors had mixed feelings about it. Their necessity was put into question – would they not serve their village better by hunting, fishing, crafting or foraging, instead of scouting and training for a threat that no longer seemed to exist? The elders weren’t convinced. These lulls had occurred before, but they were only calms in a ceaseless Black Talon storm. Their aggressors were merely regrouping. They had saturated their own tribe with as many slaves as they could manage, but there would come a point, as their tribe members increased through natural population growth and their slave numbers declined through attrition from use and abuse, when they would start raiding again. If the warriors did not maintain their training, if they did not continue to keep watch, where would the people of the Snowy Barrens be when that happened?
Spear-Thrower raised his face to the sky, shielding his brown eyes with one hand. He rolled his shoulders trying to shake away the itch that came from wearing newly tanned leathers. It had been a beautiful sunny day when he had started out on his patrol, but dark clouds were now rolling in, suggesting bad times to come. He was so absorbed in contemplating the weather that he almost missed the indentation in the ground, an imprint of a single foot. His toe caught the edge of it as he passed, causing him to glance down.
One distinct difference between the members of the Snowy Barren tribe and the Black Talon tribe was their footwear. The shoes and boots of Spear-Thrower’s people were carefully crafted, their soles thick, ridged and sturdy, the soft leather attached, expertly tanned. The Black Talon wore crudely fashioned coverings that were barely functional, the work of inexperienced slaves rather than master craftspeople. The rough edges to the imprint had not come from the foot of one of the Snowy Barren tribe and the print was quite fresh.
The young warrior tensed and crouched, following the ragged outline with his fingertips. He drew in a hissing breath and the adrenaline began to pump through his veins. His tribe would need to know about this find and their peace of mind, their state of calm, would likely yield once more to fear. Did this mean that the Black Talon were on the prowl again?
Before he had a chance to stand and return to the village with news of his find, an abrupt sound from the brush ahead of him caused him to start and brace his weapon defensively. Various scenarios flashed through his mind in the seconds that followed. No predatory animal would charge their target so noisily, and that included the Black Talon. One of their raid scouts would fire silently upon him first with one of their blow darts and once he was disabled, they would fall upon him and kill him with deft blows from one of their horn or bone knives. They would never take a warrior as a slave. A warrior would fight their attempts at dominance and cause too much trouble. A warrior would never be tamed to the expected level of subservience.
Despite instincts that screamed at him to attack whatever emerged from the brush, Spear-Thrower held back. He was glad his forethought overrode those inclinations, when one of his tribe members, Nectar, stumbled out of the brush before him. The woman, normally a vivacious dark-haired creature with a sharp wit, looked like she had just been through hell. She staggered from the foliage, barely maintaining her footing and clutching the form of her small daughter, Clover to her chest. Her clothing was torn, her face and arms scratched and bloodied, and her expression etched with exhaustion. She wavered for a moment and then, with a sound somewhere between a whimper of relief and a sigh of resignation, she fell.
Fortunately, Spear-Thrower had not attacked, nor was he so bent on some sort of combat that he was not able to cast his weapon aside and grab for her as she toppled. Had she dropped to the ground without his support, she likely would have crushed the limp body of her child beneath her. Catching and cradling the woman from the awkward position of his crouched stance, the young warrior lowered the woman gently to the ground onto her side, protecting the girl from harm.
Spear-Thrower’s heart thrummed in his chest, unsure what to do next. He needed to get Nectar back to a healer, that much was clear, and he was unsure if the motionless child loosely tangled in her arms was even alive. The pair had gone out to fetch honey with Nectar’s mate, Flint, but the woman did not carry with her the specially made satchels she used to gather the honeycomb, and the man with whom she had left the village was nowhere in sight. He would have never left his mate and child unprotected. He cherished the pair. They were his world. His absence did not bode well.
Before Spear-Thrower could contemplate the situation further, the child began to stir. She lifted her head shakily and looked about, emitting a slightly panicked mewling sound. Spear-Thrower dropped to his knees and crawled closer to her. She glanced his way, a wide pair of hurt and haunted eyes staring out from a face haloed by wild black hair. Spear-Thrower reached out a hand towards her, an offering of comfort. He did not catch the glazed look of shock in her unblinking stare, or the lack of recognition there. When his fingers were too close for comfort, the little girl snarled at him with more ferocity than he would have expected from a four-year-old, and bit down hard enough to draw blood on the area of skin extending between his thumb and index finger.
Spear-Thrower yelped and drew back his hand quickly. Then with a reflexive burst of anger, he grabbed Clover by the shoulders and gave her a few jarring little shakes.
“Stop it, you silly brat! I’m trying to help you!” he bellowed with each jolt.
When the small, frightened girl burst into tears, the warrior felt immediately ashamed for losing his temper with her and hugged her to him, with whispered soothing sounds and relaxed gestures. She did not try to bite him a second time, thankfully.
“I’m sorry, Clover. I didn’t mean to startle you, but your mother is not well, and we can’t waste time. I need to get her back to the village, to the healers. Where is your father?”
Instead of answering him, Clover withdrew into herself, choking back her sobs and turning her face away from him. Perhaps, Spear-Thrower thought, that had been the wrong question to ask.
“What happened then? We will need to know in order to find him, and to best help your mother.” He took her wrist gently but firmly as he supplicated her.
The little girl’s reaction was even more dramatic and she tried to pull free from him, shaking her head frantically and issuing soft, plaintive whimpers. She had already distanced herself mentally from this time and place, and from the events she and her mother had recently experienced. It would take great effort and incentive to draw her back again. Spear-Thrower sighed. He would be getting no answers from the girl, it would seem. Not immediately, anyway.
“Can you walk then? I will have to carry your mother, and I can’t manage the both of you. Can you follow me?”
Clover didn’t answer this question either, her breathing laboured and her face devoid of spirit. That worried Spear-Thrower greatly. Little Clover had always been a lively and spirited child, full of mirth and positive energy. All that was left of the girl was animal instinct, including a fierce will to survive. She did manage to yank her hand away from him this time and struggled to her feet without his help, her features set with a harsh and determined look that seemed inappropriate for a child of her few years. She looked tired, but she could walk independently and she would follow.
The warrior did not bother to try and soothe the child or enliven her any further. There was no time for that, and he doubted he would have much success even if there had been. He gathered up the still form of Nectar very carefully, and began what would be a very difficult trek back to the village.
* * *
“Ermine! Help – fetch Ermine!”
Spear-Thrower slid to his knees at the central clearing of the village, as he roared for help, his limbs numb from fatigue and barely able to hold onto his charge. He wanted to get Nectar into the care of the healers so he could return to retrieve Clover. The girl had fared much better than he would have ever expected, and had stumbled along stubbornly after him for almost the entire length of the trip. She had finally dropped from exhaustion much like her mother had, on the outskirts of the village. They were close enough to their tribe that the warrior had only hesitated a second before leaving her there, but he had promised himself he would go back for her as quickly as possible.
The pretty face of Ermine’s most recent apprentice was the first that Spear-Thrower caught sight of, as his tribe-mates began to gather at the sound of his cries. She paused only briefly to take in the view of him and his circumstances before scampering off to fetch her mentor, in a flurry of bright auburn hair and silvery-blue feathers. Spear-Thrower was quickly surrounded and relieved of the burden of Nectar by others, as they came to his aid. Truetrail, one of the tribe’s hunters and one of the stronger personalities amongst his people, helped the warrior back to his feet.
“What happened?” Truetrail demanded.
Spear-Thrower shook his head, still mostly breathless from his demanding travail.
“I have to go back, for Clover. She couldn’t tell me anything, and they returned without Flint.” He gave Truetrail a fretful look. “And I found a fresh Black Talon print.”
The two men retrieved Nectar’s child and brought her to the home of the girl’s closest playmate to recover from her ordeal. They hoped that awakening to the presence of her friend might bring Clover a little solace and restore some of her senses. Spear-Thrower had seen children react poorly to the loss of a parent, especially if they had witnessed it, and he was suspecting that might be the case here.
Truetrail and Spear-Thrower then started out for Ermine’s hut, to check on Nectar, but they were intercepted mid-route by one of the elders, Quill-Curl.
“Thank you, Spear-Thrower, for all you have done here,” the older woman said. “Ermine is treating Nectar as we speak and has sedated her while he tends to her. She revived in a terrible state of panic initially, and could not tell him anything that made any sense. She pleaded for Flint and Clover, wringing her hands and wailing. Did she or her daughter say anything to you when you found them?”
“No – Nectar was unconscious within seconds of appearing before me and Clover refused to speak. I think whatever happened to them was quite traumatic, and I pray the spirits allow them to recover properly. I’m worried that it may have been the Black Talon; I found one of their prints. What I didn’t find was any sign of Flint. I’m concerned that he may not have survived whatever frightened Nectar and Clover so violently.”
“The Black Talon? That wouldn’t make any sense,” Truetrail disputed. He had always been the naysayer type, unwilling to accept anything that might disrupt the comfortable life that they were living – not without solid proof. He was not the only tribe member who was change averse. The majority of the people of Snowy Barren preferred to turn a blind eye to anything that might add adversity to their complacent ways. “They wouldn’t have taken Flint and allowed Nectar and Clover to go free. He was a fighter. They would have killed him and the girl, and taken Nectar as a slave. It was more likely an animal – a bear or a puma, perhaps. If you spotted a Black Talon print, it was probably a Rogue and not a raider. You know they occasionally stray into our territory. There’s no point in stirring up a bee’s nest over nothing.”
Spear-Thrower was not as quick to dismiss the notion. He had a bad feeling about this, and he preferred to trust his instincts. He wouldn’t be satisfied that the Black Talon were not responsible for whatever had happened to Nectar, Clover and Flint until he could confirm it for himself. If the Black Talon was on the warpath again, the tribe would have to make themselves ready. His faced reddened.
“Fine – I’ll find out for myself. If I bring back solid evidence, then we can warn the tribe. Besides, someone needs to look for Flint. If he’s still alive, he may be stranded out there, hoping help is coming.”
“Ermine will consult the spirits on this as soon as he is done with Nectar,” Quill-Curl advised him, as the warrior started to walk away. He was going despite the fact that his limbs were weary and his back and shoulders ached from the strain of carrying Nectar all of the way back to the village. “Perhaps she’ll be able to offer us some insight as well, once she is properly settled and healed.”
Spear-Thrower, driven now by frustration, shrugged and continued walking.
“I’ll accompany you too,” Truetrail insisted. “I’d like to see this print you spoke of. Besides, you’ll do best finding Flint if you have a proper tracker with you. I can trace Nectar’s steps back to where she had come from. It’s the most likely place where we’ll find him.”
Spear-Thrower knew that as much as Truetrail was claiming that it was for the missing man’s benefit, he was much more motivated by personal interest. The chieftain-hopeful was planning on disproving Spear-Thrower’s theory regarding the Black Talon, if the option were there.
Drawing in a deep, ragged breath, the warrior ignored the cockier man’s words and presence and set off to find what he both dreaded and felt he needed to verify for the sake of his tribe.
* * *
“Well?”
Truetrail crouched by the print and frowned. Spear-Thrower wasn’t one to gloat, but it was clear that he had been correct about the source. The tracker grunted in displeasure.
“It’s Black Talon – but it could just as easily be a Rogue. This doesn’t prove that the raids have begun again.”
Spear-Thrower crossed his arms over his chest and scowled as well. Truetrail’s resistance to the idea wouldn’t be easily conquered.
“Let’s find Flint then. Nectar came through there.” The warrior pointed at the area of brush through which the woman had come crashing, but Truetrail was already headed in that direction, the disturbance in that spot quite obvious to a knowledgeable tracker. He drew in a loud breath.
“She certainly wasn’t trying to hide her path. I’ve seen a stampeding herd of deer do less damage.”
“She was panicking, and barely able to keep her footing. She was running with Clover in her arms,” Spear-Thrower said in her defence, but Truetrail wasn’t interested in excuses. He sprang ahead, following the very obvious trail at a good clip. A very tired Spear-Thrower trudged along behind him, barely able to keep up.
They had been travelling this way for several minutes when Truetrail came to an abrupt halt, staring dead ahead. His face paled drastically. Before Spear-Thrower could reach him, the man lunged ahead, dashing over to the bloodied form of Flint. There was no chance, with the number of grievous wounds that scored his flesh, that he was still alive. But what made the bile churn in the pit of Spear-Thrower’s stomach was the fact that the craftsman had been scalped, a war token that the Black Talon took to claim the right to a new facial tattoo, a mark of an enemy kill. Nectar would be without a mate and Clover was now fatherless. Both would be devastated by the man’s loss. This was the work of raiders.
Truetrail dropped to his knees, gagging a little at the sight of his fallen tribe-mate.
“He must have sacrificed himself protecting them,” the tracker choked, his eyes glued to the corpse. “That’s how they managed to escape.”
All of this happened as Spear-Thrower readied his weapon and ducked behind some bushes, but before he could give warning that the area had not been secured and that they should make ready for more trouble, what he had been trying to avoid had already been set into motion. The raiders had not succeeded in getting what they had come for, and were lurking close to the body, hoping that Nectar might return for her mate. The first dart missed Truetrail, but the second flew true to its mark. It lodged firmly in the back of the tracker’s neck. He clapped a hand over the offending spot as he felt the dart’s sting, but before he could even stand, his muscles tensed and his body went rigid. He slumped to one side, twitching and gurgling before unconsciousness claimed him.
Spear-Thrower held his breath and waited, hoping that the raiders did not realize he was there. Eventually, two of the cowardly tattooed Black Talon scouts, dressed in their standard brown and green leathers, crept out of the brush, one of them wielding a horn knife with the clear intent of doing to Truetrail what they had already done to Flint. Praying to the spirits that his training would not fail him, Spear-Thrower rose to his feet and launched his weapon at one of the raiders, grabbing his secondary weapon before his first had even struck its target. The warrior’s aim had been flawless and the spear tip pierced the raider’s breast as if a bull’s eye had been painted there to guide Spear-Thrower’s hand. The Black Talon man did not even get the chance to cry out before he dropped to the ground like a stone, still and dead. His cohort took one look at the first man’s lifeless and unblinking stare, as well as the blood spilling from around the spear that protruded from his chest, and then turned to run. The raider was well behind cover before Spear-Thrower could let loose his second missile, and the warrior was far too exhausted to try to pursue him.
When he was certain that the second Black Talon man was well out of range, Spear-Thrower stumbled out to where the three men lay, side-by-side, two dead and one far beyond caring. The warrior braced against the body of his victim with one foot, and wrenched his spear free from bloodied flesh and bone. Then he slipped down into a seated position to rest, too fatigued to do much more. He did spare the time and effort to lean over and retrieve the blow gun and bandolier of darts from the fallen Black Talon man that would be sufficient proof that the raiders had returned. Once he had managed that, all he could do was wait. After all that he had already done that day, he would never be able to carry one immobile and dead-weight fully-grown man back to the village, let alone two. He would have to be patient and remain where he was until the effects of the blow dart drug started to wear off of Truetrail. Then, hopefully, the pair, one groggy and the other exhausted, could return Flint to where he belonged, where his body and spirit could rest.
Spear-Thrower noticed the special satchel that belonged to Nectar and reached for it. She had already gathered a fair amount of honeycomb when they had been attacked, but she had abandoned it all when forced to run. The warrior reached into the bag, drawing out one of the waxy segments. He leaned back against a tree trunk, licking at the sweet golden liquid that had already begun to ooze down his fingers.
Under other circumstances, resting in the shade of the leaves and enjoying the peacefully pleasurable moment of sucking honey from his fingers while serenaded by songbirds, would have been a memory to treasure. The bodies lying before him, however, killed whatever serenity could have been drawn from the experience. They assured him that it was a false tranquility, one upon which his tribe never should have become dependent, and it was up to him, now, to carry home the sad news.
Bio:
Chantal Boudreau is an accountant by day and an author/illustrator during evenings and weekends, who lives by the ocean in beautiful Nova Scotia, Canada with her husband and two children. In addition to being a CMA-MBA, she has a BA with a major in English from Dalhousie University. A member of the Horror Writers Association, she writes and illustrates predominantly horror, dark fantasy and fantasy and has had several of her stories published in a variety of horror anthologies, in online journals and magazines and as stand-alone digital shorts. Fervor, her debut novel, a dystopian science fantasy tale, was released in March of 2011 by May December Publications, followed by its sequel, Elevation, in December of 2011. The third in the series, Transcendence, is planned for release in 2012. Magic University, the first in her fantasy series, Masters & Renegades, made its appearance in September 2011 and its sequel, Casualties of War in June 2012. The Blood is Strong is her first YA novel.
Links: Website: http://www.writersownwords.com/chantal_boudreau/
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Now Available: The Blood is Stronger by Chantal Boudreau
My good friend and fellow Canadian author Chantal Boudreau has a new book now available on Amazon for your Kindle and the print version will be out soon. Check out a prequel story to get you ramped up and ready for this great new book from Chantal!
When a seemingly harmless dispute between youths within the tribe ends in tragedy at their Rites of Passage, the Snowy Barrens Tribe finds themselves divided and without compromise. Three splinter groups result: the Tribe of the Wolf, the Tribe of the Bear, and the Tribe of the Owl. With the threat of possible monsters overshadowing them and the loss of their strength in numbers, how will they survive?
The first in a three part/three generation tale, this YA tribal dark fantasy will whisk you away to a different world and a different time, where you get to be a part of the adventure that shaped a people and their ways.
False Tranquility
Spear-Thrower was being a little careless as he walked the perimeter of his tribe’s terrain. The Black Talon had not dared venture into the Snowy Barrens territory for the last couple of years, their attention redirected elsewhere. Why they had stopped attacking didn’t appear to matter to most anymore. The longer the lack of raids extended, the more the better part of the tribe took that feeling of security for granted. Spear-Thrower, young and inexperienced, was amongst them.
While most people were grateful for the peace, the warriors had mixed feelings about it. Their necessity was put into question – would they not serve their village better by hunting, fishing, crafting or foraging, instead of scouting and training for a threat that no longer seemed to exist? The elders weren’t convinced. These lulls had occurred before, but they were only calms in a ceaseless Black Talon storm. Their aggressors were merely regrouping. They had saturated their own tribe with as many slaves as they could manage, but there would come a point, as their tribe members increased through natural population growth and their slave numbers declined through attrition from use and abuse, when they would start raiding again. If the warriors did not maintain their training, if they did not continue to keep watch, where would the people of the Snowy Barrens be when that happened?
Spear-Thrower raised his face to the sky, shielding his brown eyes with one hand. He rolled his shoulders trying to shake away the itch that came from wearing newly tanned leathers. It had been a beautiful sunny day when he had started out on his patrol, but dark clouds were now rolling in, suggesting bad times to come. He was so absorbed in contemplating the weather that he almost missed the indentation in the ground, an imprint of a single foot. His toe caught the edge of it as he passed, causing him to glance down.
One distinct difference between the members of the Snowy Barren tribe and the Black Talon tribe was their footwear. The shoes and boots of Spear-Thrower’s people were carefully crafted, their soles thick, ridged and sturdy, the soft leather attached, expertly tanned. The Black Talon wore crudely fashioned coverings that were barely functional, the work of inexperienced slaves rather than master craftspeople. The rough edges to the imprint had not come from the foot of one of the Snowy Barren tribe and the print was quite fresh.
The young warrior tensed and crouched, following the ragged outline with his fingertips. He drew in a hissing breath and the adrenaline began to pump through his veins. His tribe would need to know about this find and their peace of mind, their state of calm, would likely yield once more to fear. Did this mean that the Black Talon were on the prowl again?
Before he had a chance to stand and return to the village with news of his find, an abrupt sound from the brush ahead of him caused him to start and brace his weapon defensively. Various scenarios flashed through his mind in the seconds that followed. No predatory animal would charge their target so noisily, and that included the Black Talon. One of their raid scouts would fire silently upon him first with one of their blow darts and once he was disabled, they would fall upon him and kill him with deft blows from one of their horn or bone knives. They would never take a warrior as a slave. A warrior would fight their attempts at dominance and cause too much trouble. A warrior would never be tamed to the expected level of subservience.
Despite instincts that screamed at him to attack whatever emerged from the brush, Spear-Thrower held back. He was glad his forethought overrode those inclinations, when one of his tribe members, Nectar, stumbled out of the brush before him. The woman, normally a vivacious dark-haired creature with a sharp wit, looked like she had just been through hell. She staggered from the foliage, barely maintaining her footing and clutching the form of her small daughter, Clover to her chest. Her clothing was torn, her face and arms scratched and bloodied, and her expression etched with exhaustion. She wavered for a moment and then, with a sound somewhere between a whimper of relief and a sigh of resignation, she fell.
Fortunately, Spear-Thrower had not attacked, nor was he so bent on some sort of combat that he was not able to cast his weapon aside and grab for her as she toppled. Had she dropped to the ground without his support, she likely would have crushed the limp body of her child beneath her. Catching and cradling the woman from the awkward position of his crouched stance, the young warrior lowered the woman gently to the ground onto her side, protecting the girl from harm.
Spear-Thrower’s heart thrummed in his chest, unsure what to do next. He needed to get Nectar back to a healer, that much was clear, and he was unsure if the motionless child loosely tangled in her arms was even alive. The pair had gone out to fetch honey with Nectar’s mate, Flint, but the woman did not carry with her the specially made satchels she used to gather the honeycomb, and the man with whom she had left the village was nowhere in sight. He would have never left his mate and child unprotected. He cherished the pair. They were his world. His absence did not bode well.
Before Spear-Thrower could contemplate the situation further, the child began to stir. She lifted her head shakily and looked about, emitting a slightly panicked mewling sound. Spear-Thrower dropped to his knees and crawled closer to her. She glanced his way, a wide pair of hurt and haunted eyes staring out from a face haloed by wild black hair. Spear-Thrower reached out a hand towards her, an offering of comfort. He did not catch the glazed look of shock in her unblinking stare, or the lack of recognition there. When his fingers were too close for comfort, the little girl snarled at him with more ferocity than he would have expected from a four-year-old, and bit down hard enough to draw blood on the area of skin extending between his thumb and index finger.
Spear-Thrower yelped and drew back his hand quickly. Then with a reflexive burst of anger, he grabbed Clover by the shoulders and gave her a few jarring little shakes.
“Stop it, you silly brat! I’m trying to help you!” he bellowed with each jolt.
When the small, frightened girl burst into tears, the warrior felt immediately ashamed for losing his temper with her and hugged her to him, with whispered soothing sounds and relaxed gestures. She did not try to bite him a second time, thankfully.
“I’m sorry, Clover. I didn’t mean to startle you, but your mother is not well, and we can’t waste time. I need to get her back to the village, to the healers. Where is your father?”
Instead of answering him, Clover withdrew into herself, choking back her sobs and turning her face away from him. Perhaps, Spear-Thrower thought, that had been the wrong question to ask.
“What happened then? We will need to know in order to find him, and to best help your mother.” He took her wrist gently but firmly as he supplicated her.
The little girl’s reaction was even more dramatic and she tried to pull free from him, shaking her head frantically and issuing soft, plaintive whimpers. She had already distanced herself mentally from this time and place, and from the events she and her mother had recently experienced. It would take great effort and incentive to draw her back again. Spear-Thrower sighed. He would be getting no answers from the girl, it would seem. Not immediately, anyway.
“Can you walk then? I will have to carry your mother, and I can’t manage the both of you. Can you follow me?”
Clover didn’t answer this question either, her breathing laboured and her face devoid of spirit. That worried Spear-Thrower greatly. Little Clover had always been a lively and spirited child, full of mirth and positive energy. All that was left of the girl was animal instinct, including a fierce will to survive. She did manage to yank her hand away from him this time and struggled to her feet without his help, her features set with a harsh and determined look that seemed inappropriate for a child of her few years. She looked tired, but she could walk independently and she would follow.
The warrior did not bother to try and soothe the child or enliven her any further. There was no time for that, and he doubted he would have much success even if there had been. He gathered up the still form of Nectar very carefully, and began what would be a very difficult trek back to the village.
* * *
“Ermine! Help – fetch Ermine!”
Spear-Thrower slid to his knees at the central clearing of the village, as he roared for help, his limbs numb from fatigue and barely able to hold onto his charge. He wanted to get Nectar into the care of the healers so he could return to retrieve Clover. The girl had fared much better than he would have ever expected, and had stumbled along stubbornly after him for almost the entire length of the trip. She had finally dropped from exhaustion much like her mother had, on the outskirts of the village. They were close enough to their tribe that the warrior had only hesitated a second before leaving her there, but he had promised himself he would go back for her as quickly as possible.
The pretty face of Ermine’s most recent apprentice was the first that Spear-Thrower caught sight of, as his tribe-mates began to gather at the sound of his cries. She paused only briefly to take in the view of him and his circumstances before scampering off to fetch her mentor, in a flurry of bright auburn hair and silvery-blue feathers. Spear-Thrower was quickly surrounded and relieved of the burden of Nectar by others, as they came to his aid. Truetrail, one of the tribe’s hunters and one of the stronger personalities amongst his people, helped the warrior back to his feet.
“What happened?” Truetrail demanded.
Spear-Thrower shook his head, still mostly breathless from his demanding travail.
“I have to go back, for Clover. She couldn’t tell me anything, and they returned without Flint.” He gave Truetrail a fretful look. “And I found a fresh Black Talon print.”
The two men retrieved Nectar’s child and brought her to the home of the girl’s closest playmate to recover from her ordeal. They hoped that awakening to the presence of her friend might bring Clover a little solace and restore some of her senses. Spear-Thrower had seen children react poorly to the loss of a parent, especially if they had witnessed it, and he was suspecting that might be the case here.
Truetrail and Spear-Thrower then started out for Ermine’s hut, to check on Nectar, but they were intercepted mid-route by one of the elders, Quill-Curl.
“Thank you, Spear-Thrower, for all you have done here,” the older woman said. “Ermine is treating Nectar as we speak and has sedated her while he tends to her. She revived in a terrible state of panic initially, and could not tell him anything that made any sense. She pleaded for Flint and Clover, wringing her hands and wailing. Did she or her daughter say anything to you when you found them?”
“No – Nectar was unconscious within seconds of appearing before me and Clover refused to speak. I think whatever happened to them was quite traumatic, and I pray the spirits allow them to recover properly. I’m worried that it may have been the Black Talon; I found one of their prints. What I didn’t find was any sign of Flint. I’m concerned that he may not have survived whatever frightened Nectar and Clover so violently.”
“The Black Talon? That wouldn’t make any sense,” Truetrail disputed. He had always been the naysayer type, unwilling to accept anything that might disrupt the comfortable life that they were living – not without solid proof. He was not the only tribe member who was change averse. The majority of the people of Snowy Barren preferred to turn a blind eye to anything that might add adversity to their complacent ways. “They wouldn’t have taken Flint and allowed Nectar and Clover to go free. He was a fighter. They would have killed him and the girl, and taken Nectar as a slave. It was more likely an animal – a bear or a puma, perhaps. If you spotted a Black Talon print, it was probably a Rogue and not a raider. You know they occasionally stray into our territory. There’s no point in stirring up a bee’s nest over nothing.”
Spear-Thrower was not as quick to dismiss the notion. He had a bad feeling about this, and he preferred to trust his instincts. He wouldn’t be satisfied that the Black Talon were not responsible for whatever had happened to Nectar, Clover and Flint until he could confirm it for himself. If the Black Talon was on the warpath again, the tribe would have to make themselves ready. His faced reddened.
“Fine – I’ll find out for myself. If I bring back solid evidence, then we can warn the tribe. Besides, someone needs to look for Flint. If he’s still alive, he may be stranded out there, hoping help is coming.”
“Ermine will consult the spirits on this as soon as he is done with Nectar,” Quill-Curl advised him, as the warrior started to walk away. He was going despite the fact that his limbs were weary and his back and shoulders ached from the strain of carrying Nectar all of the way back to the village. “Perhaps she’ll be able to offer us some insight as well, once she is properly settled and healed.”
Spear-Thrower, driven now by frustration, shrugged and continued walking.
“I’ll accompany you too,” Truetrail insisted. “I’d like to see this print you spoke of. Besides, you’ll do best finding Flint if you have a proper tracker with you. I can trace Nectar’s steps back to where she had come from. It’s the most likely place where we’ll find him.”
Spear-Thrower knew that as much as Truetrail was claiming that it was for the missing man’s benefit, he was much more motivated by personal interest. The chieftain-hopeful was planning on disproving Spear-Thrower’s theory regarding the Black Talon, if the option were there.
Drawing in a deep, ragged breath, the warrior ignored the cockier man’s words and presence and set off to find what he both dreaded and felt he needed to verify for the sake of his tribe.
* * *
“Well?”
Truetrail crouched by the print and frowned. Spear-Thrower wasn’t one to gloat, but it was clear that he had been correct about the source. The tracker grunted in displeasure.
“It’s Black Talon – but it could just as easily be a Rogue. This doesn’t prove that the raids have begun again.”
Spear-Thrower crossed his arms over his chest and scowled as well. Truetrail’s resistance to the idea wouldn’t be easily conquered.
“Let’s find Flint then. Nectar came through there.” The warrior pointed at the area of brush through which the woman had come crashing, but Truetrail was already headed in that direction, the disturbance in that spot quite obvious to a knowledgeable tracker. He drew in a loud breath.
“She certainly wasn’t trying to hide her path. I’ve seen a stampeding herd of deer do less damage.”
“She was panicking, and barely able to keep her footing. She was running with Clover in her arms,” Spear-Thrower said in her defence, but Truetrail wasn’t interested in excuses. He sprang ahead, following the very obvious trail at a good clip. A very tired Spear-Thrower trudged along behind him, barely able to keep up.
They had been travelling this way for several minutes when Truetrail came to an abrupt halt, staring dead ahead. His face paled drastically. Before Spear-Thrower could reach him, the man lunged ahead, dashing over to the bloodied form of Flint. There was no chance, with the number of grievous wounds that scored his flesh, that he was still alive. But what made the bile churn in the pit of Spear-Thrower’s stomach was the fact that the craftsman had been scalped, a war token that the Black Talon took to claim the right to a new facial tattoo, a mark of an enemy kill. Nectar would be without a mate and Clover was now fatherless. Both would be devastated by the man’s loss. This was the work of raiders.
Truetrail dropped to his knees, gagging a little at the sight of his fallen tribe-mate.
“He must have sacrificed himself protecting them,” the tracker choked, his eyes glued to the corpse. “That’s how they managed to escape.”
All of this happened as Spear-Thrower readied his weapon and ducked behind some bushes, but before he could give warning that the area had not been secured and that they should make ready for more trouble, what he had been trying to avoid had already been set into motion. The raiders had not succeeded in getting what they had come for, and were lurking close to the body, hoping that Nectar might return for her mate. The first dart missed Truetrail, but the second flew true to its mark. It lodged firmly in the back of the tracker’s neck. He clapped a hand over the offending spot as he felt the dart’s sting, but before he could even stand, his muscles tensed and his body went rigid. He slumped to one side, twitching and gurgling before unconsciousness claimed him.
Spear-Thrower held his breath and waited, hoping that the raiders did not realize he was there. Eventually, two of the cowardly tattooed Black Talon scouts, dressed in their standard brown and green leathers, crept out of the brush, one of them wielding a horn knife with the clear intent of doing to Truetrail what they had already done to Flint. Praying to the spirits that his training would not fail him, Spear-Thrower rose to his feet and launched his weapon at one of the raiders, grabbing his secondary weapon before his first had even struck its target. The warrior’s aim had been flawless and the spear tip pierced the raider’s breast as if a bull’s eye had been painted there to guide Spear-Thrower’s hand. The Black Talon man did not even get the chance to cry out before he dropped to the ground like a stone, still and dead. His cohort took one look at the first man’s lifeless and unblinking stare, as well as the blood spilling from around the spear that protruded from his chest, and then turned to run. The raider was well behind cover before Spear-Thrower could let loose his second missile, and the warrior was far too exhausted to try to pursue him.
When he was certain that the second Black Talon man was well out of range, Spear-Thrower stumbled out to where the three men lay, side-by-side, two dead and one far beyond caring. The warrior braced against the body of his victim with one foot, and wrenched his spear free from bloodied flesh and bone. Then he slipped down into a seated position to rest, too fatigued to do much more. He did spare the time and effort to lean over and retrieve the blow gun and bandolier of darts from the fallen Black Talon man that would be sufficient proof that the raiders had returned. Once he had managed that, all he could do was wait. After all that he had already done that day, he would never be able to carry one immobile and dead-weight fully-grown man back to the village, let alone two. He would have to be patient and remain where he was until the effects of the blow dart drug started to wear off of Truetrail. Then, hopefully, the pair, one groggy and the other exhausted, could return Flint to where he belonged, where his body and spirit could rest.
Spear-Thrower noticed the special satchel that belonged to Nectar and reached for it. She had already gathered a fair amount of honeycomb when they had been attacked, but she had abandoned it all when forced to run. The warrior reached into the bag, drawing out one of the waxy segments. He leaned back against a tree trunk, licking at the sweet golden liquid that had already begun to ooze down his fingers.
Under other circumstances, resting in the shade of the leaves and enjoying the peacefully pleasurable moment of sucking honey from his fingers while serenaded by songbirds, would have been a memory to treasure. The bodies lying before him, however, killed whatever serenity could have been drawn from the experience. They assured him that it was a false tranquility, one upon which his tribe never should have become dependent, and it was up to him, now, to carry home the sad news.
Bio:
Chantal Boudreau is an accountant by day and an author/illustrator during evenings and weekends, who lives by the ocean in beautiful Nova Scotia, Canada with her husband and two children. In addition to being a CMA-MBA, she has a BA with a major in English from Dalhousie University. A member of the Horror Writers Association, she writes and illustrates predominantly horror, dark fantasy and fantasy and has had several of her stories published in a variety of horror anthologies, in online journals and magazines and as stand-alone digital shorts. Fervor, her debut novel, a dystopian science fantasy tale, was released in March of 2011 by May December Publications, followed by its sequel, Elevation, in December of 2011. The third in the series, Transcendence, is planned for release in 2012. Magic University, the first in her fantasy series, Masters & Renegades, made its appearance in September 2011 and its sequel, Casualties of War in June 2012. The Blood is Strong is her first YA novel.
Links: Website: http://www.writersownwords.com/chantal_boudreau/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Chantal-Boudreau-WriterIllustrator/107318919341178
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Chantal-Boudreau/e/B004O1FP2E/ref=sr_tc_2_rm?qid=1339427087&sr=8-2-ent
Twitter: http://www.amazon.com/Chantal-Boudreau/e/B004O1FP2E/ref=sr_tc_2_rm?qid=1339427087&sr=8-2-ent
Scribd.com: http://www.scribd.com/chantal_boudreau
Goodreads Author Page: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4446228.Chantal_Boudreau
September 9, 2012
Tasha Made Me Do It…
Here I am, taking the last few steps toward the finish line. I’m nearly exhausted, my fingers ache from keystroke after keystroke, but inside me a jubilance builds because I am going to finish.
Along the way, I scoffed at others as they dropped out, or perhaps sat out a portion of the journey on the side of the road as the rest of us passed them, kicking up dust in our wakes. “I don’t have the time for this” they said. I shook my head, pursed my lips and help back my comments only to reach the next milestone, the next week, and nearly give in myself. But I pushed on, driven to make it to the end even when I didn’t feel like continuing with taskmaster Tasha cracking the whip at my back, posting on Facebook to remind me of my assignments. Her steely eyes were always on us, pushing us, encouraging us, keeping us on track, telling us we could do it.
Regular blogging is difficult work. No, let me correct that: GOOD, WORTHWHILE regular blogging is difficult work. because really, what’s the point of blogging if it’s not going to be good and worthwhile? If what you write isn’t interesting to read, what is the point? Would you write a short story about clipping your toenails? A novella about going to the library and reading a book in which nothing other than walking and reading happens? No you wouldn’t and, if you did, no one would take the time to read it. Such is also true about our blogs. There are hundreds of thousands of them out there, more likely millions. So why would anyone read mine?
There are many things I learned during the gruelling enduro race we refer to as the Tasha Turner Coaching Virtual Blog Tour. I learned that all of us Indie authors face time challenges, and that we all want to do our best. I learned that when a group of people who are working toward a similar goal band together (even if the goal is actually an individual one) great things can happen, that all of them can find their success. I learned that Ellie Mack has a unique perspective on how to play 3-on-3 basketball. But most of all, I learned what it takes to be a good blogger. I hope those of you who followed along enjoyed some of what you read and will continue following.
And finally, many thanks to Tasha and her team for this wonderful and well-run opportunity. It was fun and enlightening; make sure you put me on the invite list if you decide to do it again.
September 3, 2012
Meet Martin Reaves
It has been a great pleasure being part of Tasha Tuner’s Virtual Blog Tour because it has given me the opportunity to meet so many talented authors I might not otherwise have found. This week , find out about suspense author Martin Reaves, a greater writer with a fantastic haircut.
Is sanity relative? Find out here with Martin Reaves’s suspense thriller Relative Sanity: http://www.amazon.com/Relative-Sanity-ebook/dp/B005CF7EFW/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top
After a lifetime of physical and mental abuse, thirteen-year-old Babylon escapes the shack in the woods, walking away from all she has ever known in search of the Moon People.
Special investigator Nick Grimmer’s marriage crumbles as his wife slips into an unexplained madness.
Purdy Fallon is a child trapped in a thirty-year-old man’s body. Abandoned by his mother twenty years earlier, he lives a solitary existence. Until Babylon shows up at his door and changes everything forever.
EXCERPT:
Babylon sat on the faded linoleum hugging her knees to her chest, Purdy’s shirt wrapped around her and tied with the pink belt. She had finally stopped shaking. Now she sat and listened to Purdy banging pots and pans around in the kitchen.
“He’s making extra noise so you’ll think everything is normal, like he’s just in there fixing dinner and it’s just another rosy day so why don’t you come on out and have a little something to eat.”
“You don’t know as much as you think you do.” Dumb old Bella.
“I know we’ve been in here long enough.”
Bella was right about that. Purdy hadn’t done anything but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something wrong with him. The way he’d stood there looking at her, saying over and over again how hungry he was, finally running off down the hall yelling, It’s rude, it’s so rude, but I gotta eat somethin’, Mama!
It was almost funny. Except it wasn’t, not even a little.
That had been a while ago. She’d heard him fixing his lunch, then washing the dishes—you could hear everything in that little trailer. She’d heard the voices again (not The Voice, but other voices like on the radio), which she guessed was the television. She really wished things were okay, because she so wanted to see what television was like. After a while those voices fell silent.
Babylon had fallen asleep at some point, starting awake a few minutes ago when the floor creaked outside the bathroom door. Purdy’s shaky voice had filtered through the door, saying he was going to be making dinner soon and he really hoped she would join him. When she didn’t answer he walked away, whispering to his mama.
How could it already be dinnertime? She looked at the tiny sliver of window over the tub; it was dark outside. How long had she been asleep?
“It’s time,” Bella said.
“Time for what?”
“Time to get out of this damned bathroom.”
“Don’t you swear, Bella,” she whispered.
“Don’t change the subject.”
Babylon looked at her toes, no longer shriveled from the soak in the tub. “You were the one said we had to watch out for him.”
“We still do. But he had a chance and didn’t do anything. He’s probably as scared of actually doing something as he is afraid he might do something.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Just get up. He’s fixing dinner. We need to eat.”
Babylon huddled into the big shirt. “I don’t want to.” Only she did kind of want to because her bottom was numb from sitting on the floor so long, and she certainly was hungry.
“You have to, Baby.”
“I don’t hafta do nothin’!”
In the kitchen it went suddenly quiet.
“He’s listening,” Bella whispered.
“Let him listen. I ain’t leaving this room.”
“Then I will.”
She stood, shifted her weight from one leg to the other until her circulation caught up. Then she rearranged the shirt, pulled the belt tight and opened the door.
“Bella, you can’t,” Babylon hissed.
But Bella could, and Bella did.
5-STAR AMAZON REVIEW:
With “Relative Sanity” Martin Reaves has peeled back the layers of life in a small town; revealing a dense and disturbing vista that may be closer to each of us than we’d be comfortable with revealing to the world. I read this book in one marathon session. Yes, this is a dark tale that many residents of Any-Town USA will be able to relate to, and it claws at the kind of emotional scabs that long-term friendships and relationships can sometimes ignore. The tone of the book is almost confessional in nature, which only serves to make the characters all the more real and their unique pain transgressive. The story unfolds at just the right pace, and the interwoven lives of the characters seems very plausible; never treading into plot-convenient waters. This was a fantastic tale, and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend it to fans of Stephen King, Peter Straub, or even fans of true-crime authors such as Ann Rule and Jack Olsen.
~ Mars Homeworld of Dead House Music
BIO:
Martin Reaves is a writer primarily of suspense/thrillers with a psychological edge. And sometimes horror…or humor…heck, even romance. (Aren’t all these things connected on some level?)
Upon turning 48 he realized he was no longer 47…he wasn’t sure what to do with this information so he moved on.
Martin is very happily married to his childhood sweet-patootie, and has two incredible adult daughters who he considers among his best friends.
Reading and Writing are twin first-loves, followed by music (he is a musician and singer and has been performing semi-professionally for longer than he’d care to think about).
When not selling plastic to pay the bills, he (and his books) can be found here:
Facebook Personal: https://www.facebook.com/Mottlee
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Martin-Reaves/e/B005DI98LG/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1
Twitter: https://twitter.com/MartinReaves
WordPress: http://mott342.wordpress.com/
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5042356.Martin_Reaves
September 1, 2012
7 Free Books!
Canadian, friend, author, and all-around good guy Scott Bury and six of his best friend writers are giving away their books to celebrate the long weekend. Sounds better than fireworks to me! Have a look at these great authors and their books below, then go get yourself some great reads, for free!
Tell us about it, Scott:
Coming this weekend: September 1 – 3
Announcing Independent Authors International’s first free book giveaway: iAi Labor Day Free Reads happens this coming long weekend.
From September 1 to 3, anyone can download up to seven great titles from seven great, free-thinking independent authors — all for free!
I’m proud to be included in this group. Take a look at what will be available for you this coming weekend:
The Five Fortunes of Fulano — one of the Sketches from the Spanish Mustang, by Benjamin X. Wretlind. From a reviewer: “Mr. Wretlind has penned a tale of such emotional and literary depth that it will haunt the reader long after the last page is turned.”
Cassidy Jones and Vulcan’s Gift — described by a reviewer as “both the Superman 2 and Wrath of Khan to the first book,” Cassidy Jones and the Secret Formula. Both are great, esteem-building reads for the middle-grade and young adult set.
At Road’s End — the first in Zoe Saadia’s literary adventure series set in pre-Columbian America, this book has been reviewed as “a book to have on your MUST READ list.”
American Goddesses — Gary Henry’s paranormal/science-fiction yarn that makes you think, and think again.
Gray Justice — the first in Alan McDermott’s series about ex-commando Tom Gray, a man who doesn’t so much take justice into his own hands and thrust it into all of ours.
Lost — the second installment in Rob Guthrie’s thriller-horror crossover featuring one of the most interesting cops of all, Bobby Mac, and the book that established Guthrie as a truly talented and visionary writer.
And of course, my own offering: The Bones of the Earth — a tale that combines epic fantasy and historical research with a story about a young man who is trying to find his own place in a confusing and often chaotic world.
Don’t miss out. If you’re looking for some great reading material for your e-reader this fall, you could not do better than this mix from thought-provoking, truly independent authors.
To download them for free, simply type the titles into the search field in Amazon. Or watch this space and my Twitter feed for the link to the iAi Labor Day Free Reads landing page.
August 29, 2012
I’ll Do Anything So You’ll Read My Book
My next novel, Part 1 of my Khirro’s Journey epic fantasy, is called Blood of the King and will be available Sept. 15. I’m very excited about releasing something in a different fantasy sub-genre, and you’ll find this book — and part 2, Spirit of the King, which will be out next year — are very different from my Icarus Fell novels, in subject, style and tone. I don’t want to brag, but my editor has used the terms ‘masterpiece’ and ‘as close to perfect as any book I’ve read’. Lofty praise from someone who reads (and writes) books for a living.
Hope I can live up to that kind of hype.
Leading up to the release day, I will be doing the usual, so keep your eyes on this space for the cover reveal as well as excerpts. I’ll also be looking to visit other blogs and I’m considering running All Who Wander Are Lost for free for the first time to bring attention to my Amazon page.
Something new I’ll be doing this time around is tweeting the first chapter of the book starting Sept. 1. I’m not sure how much of it I’ll get out before the release date sending it out 140 characters at a time (fewer,
actually, as I’ll have to number them and add a hashtag, so it will be more like 130 characters), but I’ll do my best. As I started posting on all the Facebook pages I belong to, and setting up tweets to let people know, the size of the task I set out for myself began to loom over me like the giant who kidnaps Khirro’s friends (buy the book to find out). I’m afraid this might take up considerably more time than I expect.
Oh well. I’ve told everyone now. Nothing to do but…do it.
Follow me on twitter to preview Blood of the King starting Sept.1. Each tweet will be numbered and hashtagged #BOTK, so if you miss one, you’ll be able to go back and catch up. Now wish me luck as I cross my fingers and hope this works.
https://twitter.com/bruceablake
