Rabia Gale's Blog, page 7

Quartz Cover Reveal

I’m thrilled to finally reveal the cover for Quartz, created by Yocla Designs. Things are on track for an early-to-mid September release!

Blurb

Rafe Grenfeld, diplomat and spy, has problems. He’s just learned of the discovery of a legendary quartz pillar: his sunless world’s most precious resource. But his informer died before revealing its location and Rafe’s on the run in the hostile state of Blackstone.

Once, quartz powered magical devices, but the mages who created them are long gone. Now, veins of quartz provide light and heat to a dying world, and Rafe has competition.

Karzov, chief of Blackstone’s secret police, is also hunting for the pillar. Determined to claim the quartz for his own country, Rafe forms an uneasy alliance with the mysterious and maddening Isabella. As dangerous magical artifacts resurface and dark forces close in, Rafe must tap into the lost powers of the mages in order to find and secure the quartz—before his world is torn apart by famine and war.

friday fiction

This is a blast from the past! Back when I first started writing short stories, I dabbled in humorous fantasy. The phase didn’t last long, but one of the results is this short story about an unlikely group of heroes confronting the Dark Lord.

Prophecy’s End

When the heroes burst into the throne room of Castle Doom, they found Umbraga the Dark Lord seated upon his throne of skulls (padded to spare the Dark Lord’s backside), with the Staff of Immolation across his knees.

Prince Florizel squinted myopically at a piece of stained parchment covered in crabbed handwriting and addressed the Evil One. “You foul villain,” he read. “Your ring… sorry, reign… of terror is at an end. This day you shall polish… polish?” Deep frown lines appeared between the prince’s eyebrows. He wiped his sweaty forehead, gave Umbraga an apologetic smile and said, “Excuse me a moment.” There was whispered consultation with the rest of the party, opened by Florizel’s irate, “Damned royal bards!”

After a furious exchange, the heroes turned back to Umbraga, with identical expressions of steely resolve. Prince Florizel stepped forward. “Umbraga!” he proclaimed. “This day you shall pol… perish!”

The Dark Lord looked at the prince with an expression generally reserved for a zealous housewife confronted with a cockroach in her kitchen. “Hah!” he said. “I can only be defeated by one wielding the Sword of Invincibility!” His gaze traveled to the weapon in the prince’s hand. “Is that a poker I see?”

Prince Florizel (who was short, fat and balding), looked at the floor and muttered something.

“Excuse me?” said Umbraga, cupping a hand around his ear.

Florizel looked up defiantly. “We threw away the Sword of Invincibility.”

Umbraga’s eyebrows shot up. “Threw it away?”

A tall, middle-aged woman with a mane of chestnut hair liberally sprinkled with gray, pushed to the front. She had a long face that–if you were being kind–could only be called “striking”. Or “horsey”, depending on who you asked.

“Of course we did!” she brayed. “The wretched thing would start glowing and singing at the presence of any malefactors, which, of course, was all the time in the cities. We nearly got arrested for disturbing the peace, and I swear, they were forming a lynching mob in that last town. And then, up in the mountains, it kept us awake all night, singing heroic sagas. We took a vote and down the ravine it went. And a good riddance, I say.”

Umbraga turned his disbelieving stare towards her. “And who might you be?”

“I’m the prophesied princess, of course.” The woman gave him an exasperated stare. “Now, can we get on with this, please? My best mare is near her foaling time, and I want to be back before she gives birth.”

Umbraga’s thin-lipped mouth turned down primly. “I’m sorry. A poker cannot defeat the Dark Lord. Unless it’s the Poker of Much Hurting?” His tone was hopeful.

The woman gave a neighing laugh. “No, it’s just an ordinary poker. Give Florizel anything sharp and he’ll stab himself in the foot more like than not! Why, the Queen won’t even let him carve the Winter Solstice turkey anymore, even though it’s traditional for the…”

Florizel, red-faced, interrupted. “Do stop rattling on and on, Martha!”

Umbraga looked ready to faint. “Martha? Martha? What sort of prophesied-princess name is that? I’ve been confronted by Clarissas and Emelines and they were all young and beautiful, not like this hag over here.”

“There are no other princesses, so you’re stuck with me. We can’t all be young and beautiful, you know,” said Martha, reasonably, “especially after six children.”

“Six children?!” shrieked Umbraga, spittle spraying from his mouth. “The prophesied princess-companion must always be a virgin. You,” he stabbed a bony finger in Martha’s direction, “do not qualify!” Looking wildly about, he pointed at the burly man hovering behind Martha and Florizel.

“You!”

“Yes, sir?” said the man, touching his cap politely.

“What’s your name?”

“Conan, sir.”

Umbraga relaxed. “That’s a good solid barbarian name, at least.”

“Um,” began Conan, holding up his hand. “I’m not a barbarian. Sir. I’m a painter.”

One of Umbraga’s eyes whirled madly in its socket.

“I wanted to see the final confrontation,” said Conan hurriedly. “So I can paint it. For posterity. Well, actually for the Royal Art Society’s annual competition. They always get hundreds of pastoral scenes with rosy-cheeked shepherdesses and portraits of fat children with puppies.  I thought I’d do something different this time.” His words trailed away under Umbraga’s withering stare.

“And I suppose he’s really a pacifist tailor?” Umbraga jerked his head towards the fourth member of the party who had detached himself from the group and was gently orbiting around the room like a moon on vacation. He had flowing silver hair, eyes of cerulean blue, and well-made clothing that showed off an excellent figure. Occasionally, he made notes in a leather-bound silver-clasped book with a long white quill that curled elegantly at the end.

“His name is Elindorian Bright Moon,” volunteered Florizel. “He joined us three days ago. We’re quite sure he’s an elf. Or a bard. Maybe even both.” His brown spaniel eyes looked appeasingly at Umbraga, whose fingers clenched convulsively around the Staff of Immolation.

“He may be all right, but the rest of you!” said Umbraga, through gritted teeth. “What a sorry lot! Have you no respect for tradition, for custom, for Ancient Prophecies that Must be Fulfilled to Every Tiny Jot?” Conan and Florizel drew closer together under the blast of his scorn.

“Never have I seen such a motley, ill-prepared, ill-equipped set of would-be heroes! Does Good not train its Chosen Ones anymore? I have risen and been defeated twenty-five times in the last thousand years…”

“Twenty-nine,” interrupted Martha. “You’ve been defeated twenty-nine times.”

“I am never defeated a prime number number of times!” shrieked Umbraga.

While Florizel and Conan tried to work this out, Martha said. “Oh yes, you are. You had to go through nineteen to get to twenty five. And it’s the last thousand and one years. We’d have come last year but we had to find Florizel first. He ran away from home when he found out about this Chosen One business and hid in a brewery for six months. And when we finally found him, we had to pry him loose from his barrels of Ostenian beer.”

“Martha!” complained Florizel. “Do you have to dredge up ancient history all the time?”

“Chosen Ones do not run away from their Destiny!” blared Umbraga. He stood up, towering over the heroes, the Staff held out stiffly before him. Florizel and Conan cringed, Martha’s lips tightened. “I see that I must take things into my own hands, since Good is doing such a useless job of it. I shall have to train you.”

They turned horrified looks at him.

“You, Prince Florizel, will lift weights and run five miles every day. You will be permitted only stale bread and cold water. My Right-Hand Almost-Supreme Commander will instruct you in the use of the sword and the bow. You will retrieve the Sword of Invincibility from whichever ravine you pitched it in. The Princess Martha will get a complete make-over. Hair dye, manicure, new clothing, and three hours in deportment every morning. And as for the painter…” He drew in a deep breath.

They were not fated to know what delights Umbraga had in store for Conan. Just then, a lump of stone fell from the ceiling and landed with a thunk on Umbraga’s head. The Dark Lord’s eyes crossed. The Staff clattered to the floor. Umbraga tumbled headfirst down the dais steps to lie in a crumpled heap on the floor.

The trio stared at the Dark Lord’s body in stunned silence. Elindorian Bright Moon drifted over in a cinnamon-scented cloud and placed a hand on Umbraga’s chest.

“Dead,” he pronounced.

“Um?” began Conan, just as Martha said, “I gathered as much from that awkward angle of the neck.”

“I thought only the Sword of Invincibility could defeat him,” said Florizel. He whipped out a handkerchief as Conan once again uttered an “Um?” which was lost in Florizel’s giant sneeze.

“Damnit, Elindorian, must you wear that scent?” said Florizel, eyes tearing. “You know I’m allergic to it.”

“UM?” said Conan, louder. The others looked to see him pointing up at the ceiling. They looked up.

After a bit, Martha said, “It doesn’t look too stable, does it?”

Elindorian examined the enormous wax-covered blackened-iron chandelier hanging over their heads by a chain that was slowly working loose from the ceiling. “No. The whole building’s in utter disrepair, and Umbraga never heeded the warnings of the Department of Housing Safety. I came to deliver the property condemnation papers.”

As if to prove a point, the entire structure groaned alarmingly.

“Shall we?” suggested Elindorian.

There was a mad rush for the door.

#

Four figures stood outlined against the sunrise, watching the collapse of Castle Doom from a convenient hilltop.

After the dust had settled, Martha said to Elindorian. “We thought you were a bard.”

Elindorian flicked a piece of lint from his elegant sleeve. “I was once. Bureaucracy pays better.”

Martha looked back down at the ruined heap. “I wonder what Umbraga will do when he returns. A Dark Lord needs a moldering old castle, and there’s not many of them left since they went out of style centuries ago.”

Elindorian stifled a yawn. “I doubt that it will be a matter of any concern in the future. Umbraga will not return.”

“But he always does,” protested Florizel. “He’s indestructible.”

“Only because the Sword of Invincibility decapitates him without banishing his soul out of the world,” said Elindorian. “Crumbling castles, on the other hand, are not that subtle.”

The other three digested this in silence.

“Why, that…” said Florizel.

“Quite so.” Elindorian gave him an understanding smile.

Martha gave a cracking yawn. “Well, it’s a good thing we threw it away then. Let’s go home. Who knows what the servants are doing without me to supervise. Walter’s a dear, but he’ll let anyone walk all over him. And Firefly needs me with her.” After a thoughtful pause, she added, “I expect the children will be glad to see me, too.”

Florizel’s eyes grew misty. “Mother was expecting a shipment of ’34 wine when we left. It ought to have come by now. Yes, we’d better hurry back before she serves it all up to those jumped-up courtiers of hers.”

“I wonder if a Crumbling Castle painting will impress the judges?” mused Conan. “I’ll add lightning in the background, and just a hint of dragon wings. And robes flapping in the wind as the hero battles the Dark Lord…”

The figures disappeared down the hill.

#

In the cold dark waters of the river, the Sword drifted, dreaming of flaming dragon’s breath and marching armies upon vast plains.

One day, the Chosen will come. And together we’ll set the world on fire. Our names will blaze across the sky, our fame will make the nations tremble.

How long it dreamed, it never knew. A hand parted the waters above it, grasped its hilt. The Sword thrilled to the strong fingers, the manly clasp.

“What’s this, then, Anron?” yelled a coarse voice from further away. A peasant voice. The Sword disdained it.

The man named Anron had a voice like dark honey and cold steel. “A sword, Pilel,” he said. The voice reminded the Sword of the great heroes who’d wielded it. This man would be greater than any of them.

Pilel snorted. “What good’s a sword with Umbraga dead and gone?”

“No good at all,” said Anron. “But I always need metal for plowshares.”

coming soon: fiction blog hop

On August 26th, I’ll be participating in a speculative fiction blog hop with a number of other writers.

What’s that, you ask? Good question! On that day, all the participants will post a short story or flashfic on their blogs, and link to all the rest. You, gentle reader, will have the opportunity to go from blog to blog, feasting on the literary delights that await. Rest assured, there won’t be any explicit content.

My offering will be set in Highwind, the same city that forms the backdrop for Mourning Cloak and Wither.

Keep an eye on this space August 26th!

monday movie trailer: the martian

The book was FANTASTIC. The movie looks great. I’m very excited for it!

friday fiction

This is the last of the children’s classics-inspired flash fiction pieces–for now. Of all the many, many books I read and reread to my children, the original is one of my favorites. Don’t be fooled by the title: the Tolkien allusion starts and ends there!

Return of the King

Max crept into the house, dropped his backpack with a weary thud, and scraped off his sneakers.

“That you, hon?” his mother called from the kitchen. “Supper’ll be ready soon.”

Max paused, hand clenched on the stair rail. “I’ll be down in a moment, Mom.”

He trudged up the stairs he had once bounded down, back when every day was an adventure. At the top, he staggered into his childhood room and collapsed on the bed.

He was sore all over. The ache had even gotten into his bones, if that were possible. He lay back and stared at the popcorn ceiling.

Twenty-two years old, and he was back in his parents’ house. He had a degree in ecology no one would hire him for. He worked in a warehouse, lifting and loading, pushing and pulling. Even his blisters had blisters.

Worst of all was how numb the work made him feel. By the time he came home, his mind was blank. He’d eat, watch mindless TV, go to bed. Rinse and repeat the next day. All his bright ideas of evening school and certifications? Out the window.

His parents had said, “Once you’re used to it…”

The timber wolf on his wall stared gravely at him through a screen of green leaves. The poster had a tear in it and had come free at one corner. The other three were thick with tape.

He’d been crazy about wolves, once upon a time. This worse-for-the-wear poster was the last remnant of that obsession.

It was probably time to take it down.

The wolf’s yellow eyes looked at him reproachfully. It seemed to be saying, What happened to you? You were so full of energy, once.

Life happened, Max answered in his own head.

You can change life. The wolf’s eyes glowed.

The room darkened and sprouted strange shapes. Vines slithered from the ceiling and wrapped over the scratched-up desk and dusty, crowded bookcases. Leaves rustled as they spread over Max’s bed. His window and wall faded, revealing a moonlit path

Max slowly stood up. His bare feet struck damp earth. He breathed in the scent of rain, soil, and growing things.

I remember this.

He wandered down the path, wondering, pausing to touch a fern, stroke his fingers down rough bark. At a bend, he nearly stepped on a pile of worn grayish fabric. Max picked it up and shook it out. A head with glassy eyes and toothless mouth flopped around.

Ah, yes. His wolf suit.

It wouldn’t fit him now. Max flung it about his shoulders like a scarf.

Further along, he saw something shiny and stick-like in a bush. Max pulled it out: a toy scepter topped with a flaking gilt ball. He tucked it under his arm, as the wind brought salt to his lips and a sigh to his ears.

He hurried out of the forest and onto the rocky beach. There was the boat, which had once seemed so luxurious, a private ship for his exclusive use. Now the paint was chipped and the wood splintery. He pushed it out, waves sucking at his ankles and soaking his jeans to his knees. It listed alarmingly as he scrambled in.

Under the seat, he found the yellow paper crown, stained, with its points folded down. He jammed it on his head and said out loud to the world, “Set sail, mates!”

The ocean rolled him onward. It took both forever and no time at all when he sighted land—just as the wild things sighted him.

They watched him come with grumbles and fidgets. They saw him land out of narrowed eyes. Their fur was matted and their scales dull. Max jumped out of the boat and hailed them.

The wild things roared their terrible roars—which were feeble—and rolled their terrible eyes—which were dull—and showed their terrible claws—which were blunted.

“Be still!” Max said sternly, staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once. The magic still worked. The wild things cowered, with many mutterings.

“You need a bath,” he informed them. “You stink.”

Silence, broken only by a head toss, a snort.

Max grinned. “But before that, let’s feast and have a wild rumpus! Just like old times!”

“Max!” they cried, rushing forward. “Are you really back?”

Max glanced down at himself. The old costume had become a real pelt, the crown was a circlet of gold, and the stick had transformed into a sword. He looked above the wild things, above the tree tops of the forest beyond them, to the mountains that soared into the sky.

What adventures lay on the other side?

“Yes,” said Max, softly, smiling. “I’m back.”

june reading roundup: the fiction edition

I’d been eying Andy Weir’s The Martian for a while before I took the plunge and bought it. And boy, was it a good, fast-paced read! I finished it within 24 hours. As in: I started the book at midnight (I know, I know), stayed up till 2 am reading, sleepwalked through the next day, and finished it that evening (before midnight!).

Attention to technical detail? Check. Resourceful, optimistic main character? Check. Robinson Crusoe on Mars? Check, check, check!

My only nits are minor: occasionally the MC’s great voice slipped into teen girl–jarring!–and the language at times is cruder than I normally go for. Keep in mind that I’m Miss Prim-and-Proper (and always have been). YMMV.

I’m thrilled that the movie’s coming this fall. I’ve already informed my husband he has to read the book by then.

The Dark Between the Stars by Kevin J. Anderson is another Hugo nominee for Best Novel. It’s a huge book, the first of a sequel series. I was afraid I’d be lost, having never read the prequels, but it was easy to get caught up.

Short chapters, each told from the POV of a member of a large cast, helped move the story along at a good clip. The plot was neither complex nor technically demanding, and the workmanlike prose accessible. There were a few characters I particularly liked (Garrison and Orli) and several others I actively loathed. Fantasy elements like psychic powers, world trees, and elementals mingled freely with space ships and lasers. Still, it was a big book (did I mention that yet? *grin*), and I lost steam a time or two before I made it to the end.

Confession time: I’d never read any Jack Vance despite having heard high praise of his works. So when I saw The Jack Vance Treasury on sale, I grabbed it. It did not disappoint. I’m only halfway through (there are many stories) but I’ve read each through to the end so far. This is rare for me when it comes to collections and anthologies. Vance’s combination of style and storytelling hits a lot of my reader sweet spots.

Read any great speculative fiction lately? I’m always on the lookout for good reads!

Smashwords Promo

I’m participating in Smashwords’ site-wide July sale. For this month, ALL my books on Smashwords are 50% off with the coupon code SSW50.

This means that Mourning Cloak and Wired, which are regularly priced at $0.99, are free for the month.

Happy reading!

writing & publishing update

It’s been a while since I did one of these.

It may not look it from my blog posts of late, but I have been a busy worker bee behind the scenes.

I just finished the final copyedits on Quartz, Book One of the The Sunless World (yes, the series finally has a title!). Copyediting requires a different kind of mindset from writing/revising, and honestly, I spent way too long dithering over things like when to capitalize a person’s title (in this case, Ambassador) and how I really, really felt about the Oxford comma.

Not to mention having to continually resist the desire to rearrange sentences and add new little details.

I was able to break out of the endless tinkering mode last night and email the manuscript to my Most Excellent Spouse, aka the Formatting and Layout Guy. In July, I’ll be working with a cover designer for the book.

I haven’t decided when I will publish. Usually, I upload as soon as a book is done, but I’ve heard summer tends to be sluggish in terms of sales. I’m thinking of utilizing my pre-order options (and, yes, part of me wants to do it just because :D) and spending some time getting the word out before publishing early fall.

Any opinions on this would be gratefully considered.

On the writing side of things, I’m working on The Sunless World 1.5, a novella set in the gap year between when Quartz ends and its sequel, Flare, begins. The novella is set in another part of Rafe’s world, which I’m thrilled to play in, and told from the POV of a character who, sadly, isn’t slated to get much (if any) scene time in Flare.

I’ve also written some shorter stories. I’m still plugging away at the Planets Project: I just finished the Uranus fic. Two more–Neptune and Mercury–to go!

I’ve decided to make Friday Fiction a regular feature of this blog. On the second Friday of every month, I will post a for-fun flashfic. These days, I’m breaking classic children’s picture books (revenge for all those times I read them out loud over and over and OVER again? Hmmm!). The first two are The Feline in the Fedora and Goodnight, Celestial Object. Should be obvious from the titles which stories I’m alluding to!

How about you? What are you writing these days? Published anything recently?

friday fiction

Goodnight, Celestial Object

Benny lay in bed, his faded, much-patched blanket pulled up to his chin. He forced his eyes as wide open as they could go, and looked at every object in his room. Even the picture of the cross-eyed duck he didn’t like. Even the toys that were just shapes in the shadowed shelves.

He gave everything a moment of fierce attention. It wasn’t as good as what his mother did, but every little bit helped.

Finally she came, hurrying into the room like a cinnamon-scented whirlwind, trailing beaded necklaces and a soft grey shawl. Her eyes were dark and distracted, but when her gaze fell on him, she smiled.

She soft-stepped to the bed and kissed him on the forehead. “Good night, Benny,” she crooned. She straightened the folds of his blanket and tugged it down to cover his toes. “Good night, blanket. Good night, bed.”

She touched each of his three stuffed animals in turn. “Good night, Bear-Bear,” she said to the one-eyed bear with its worn, shiny nap. “Good night, Bunny,” stroking the velvety blue ears. “Good night, Sunshine.” She tapped the yellow lion on its nose.

Mother rose gracefully to her feet. A feeling of well-being suffused Benny as she walked from object to object, touching each and whispering a good night. “Good night, wardrobe,” she sang, then opened it to call out to his favorite hoodie, his rain boots, and the warm knobby socks she’d knitted him last year.

Benny looked and looked as he always did, but could see no sign of her magic.

But it always worked. Whatever Mother said good night to would still be there in the morning.

Benny’s eyes drooped as Mother crouched by his toy shelf. Her voice was even lower now, at the edge of his hearing. He watched as she moved on in her circuit, stroked the curtains, patted his little chair, paused at his dresser. Her back was to him, but he saw her shoulders and arms move as she crooned to his model dinosaur and half-built airplane.

Her hand was on the door knob, twisting. The door opened silently on carpet. One last glance and a blown kiss, and she was gone.

She’d been quicker than usual tonight. Probably she’d been thinking about the pots and pans, the apple tree, the chickens… Benny was toasty-warm and suddenly very sleepy. Yawning, he turned his head toward his window, toward the gap through which the moon shone silver every night.

Dread punched him in the stomach. Shrieking, Benny threw off his blanket, leaped off the bed, plunged to his window.

“Good night, moon!” he howled. “Good night!” He flung the curtains open, then gasped and shrank back.

It was too late.

His mother had not remembered in time. The Void had got a hold of the moon, was already nibbling at its white edge. Emptiness eating a cookie.

Benny pressed his face against the glass. Distantly, he heard his mother’s footsteps running upstairs. But he couldn’t wrench his gaze away from the outside.

Their yard stretched to the fence, a silvery expanse of grass. His swing set hulked at one end, at the other were rectangles of darker earth where his mother had started digging their vegetable beds. An apple tree and two maples lined the fence.

On the other side of the fence was nothingness. The Void had devoured the world beyond.

It had swallowed up Benny’s school and friends, the park with the big slides, their neighbors’ friendly dog Bandit, his grandparents two states away, his father who had never come home from the office.

And tonight, it had seized the chance for another meal.

Tears streaming down his face, Benny watched the moon disappear, bite by bite.

Singing for the Enemy & Other Stories

A disgraced War Bard takes a wrong turn in the jungle and falls into the hands of her enemy.

A pudgy, middle-aged accountant is chased through a smog-filled city by sinister men.

A mage bonded to a ship is given one last mission and a chance to win her freedom.

My latest release, Singing for the Enemy and Other Stories, is a collection of five fantasy short stories. Most are adventure fantasy, one is lighthearted and humorous, and the last a weird, melancholy flash piece.

Now available at Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Smashwords