Sneak Peak: Tarranau by James Tallett
This week my blog has been home to a writer whose name will soon be synonymous with the Fantasy genre. I was hooked on his novel Tarranau after the first few pages, and so it is with pleasure (and personal privilege) to give you a sneak peak of James Tallett's first novel in the saga known as The Four Part Land.
This excerpt is a battle that spills over Tarranau after he has been involved in suppressing rioting miners, and buried himself in drink to forget.
That next day Tarranau awoke to a noise of rattling and banging in the levels above him, a clattering sound that sounded as if someone had knocked over the pots in kitchen on the topmost floor. "Sawwaed? What are you doing up there? I'm trying to sleep." Certain that it was his room-mate, Tarranau turned over and proceeded to try and sleep, but when he got no response, and the clatters died away into a profound silence, he began to wonder if it was really Sawwaed up there. Had he locked the door the night before? His memory was too hazy, too clouded by drunken fumes, for him to remember. Struggling to a sitting position, Tarranau grasped at his power, only to have it slip through his fingers. Shaking his head to try and clear it, he reached again, this time catching it, but only tenuously. Should something make him lose what little concentration he had, Tarranau knew he would relinquish his grip on water. Letting it trail upwards through the levels to the entrance two stories above him, he felt not one but several concentrations of water that symbolized bodies. So that meant thieves, or people trying to kill him for what he had done
to the miners. His mind clearing, Tarranau rolled out of bed, tightening his will, focusing it as he pulled at his power, letting it suffuse his form, stripping away any taint of alcohol that he could find in himself, much as he would purify a cask of water. Panting slightly as he crouched next to his bed, he looked down at himself with eyes clear for the first time since his slaughter of the riot, and saw a body well on the way towards ruining itself. Growling, he began to stalk up the stairs, pulling water from the air, from the pitchers used to wah the hands and face, from every source that he could find, and collecting it and chilling it about his hands, giving the impression of spheres of ice where his hands once were.
Letting his senses roam ahead of him, Tarranau could feel one of the five slipping down the stairs towards him, his pose suggesting that he was a soldier, and not one of the miners who might be interested in revenge. When Tarranau felt his opponent begin to come down the spiral staircase, he flicked a blast of ice from one finger, watching as it skipped around the corner, then clanged, rather than the sound of it penetrating flesh. Interesting, Tarranau mused, they're wearing full face helmets. Backing up, he watched and waited for
the soldiers to come around the corner. A face of glittering insectoid form began to appear, and Tarranau nodded inwardly. Brawdoliaeth chan Danio. And wearing the heavy armour of their land. A twinkle sparkled in the eyes of the assassin as he stepped free from the stairwell, confident in his defence against the ice for which this target was known.
Musing on what to do next, Tarranau, clasped his hands together, letting the blocks of ice that surrounded each merge and combine, while slowly backing around the furnishings. Those, at least, would provide a strong obstacle, for in a Tri-Hauwcerton house, the furniture was stone, cut and shaped as the house was built and still attached to the ground from which it had been carved. Placing the table and chairs between him and his attackers, for the others had begun to spill into the room, Tarranau wondered how he was to kill all of them before they got him. He had no armour, and figured they had no qualms about killing him.
All five of the assassins had made their way into the room, and it was beginning to feel cramped, for his foes had begun to circle around either side of the table, backing him away and seeking to trap him against the wall. While his attention was focused on the two nearest to him, Tarranau saw a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye and ducked. A glass throwing knife skittered off of the wall behind him, and he saw the thrower readying another. Tarranau released all the energy and the water that he had gathered, blasting it out to fill the room with a dense driving sleet, the damp cold blinding everyone within, and causing the floor to become a slick mess of slippery fragments of ice and other detritus.
Taking advantage of the confusion that it caused, Tarranau gathered some of the moisture in a small, rock hard globe of ice, and sent it skipping through the storm into the face of one of the Brawds. Unaware of the attack, the globe struck him like the ball of a mace, cracking both the helmet and the face beneath it, crushing the bone inwards. As soon as he was sure the foe was down, Tarranau began to scramble in that direction, dodging a blind charge from the other assassin who had been attempting to circle around the table. Flinging the mace's head back the other way, he caught this foe a glancing blow to the neck, stunning him, but doing little else.
A winging sound came through the sleet, and Tarranau felt a shove, as something impacted his left arm. Looking down, he saw the slow spread of crimson about the hilt of a dagger, where it protruded from his shoulder. Staggering, he ducked down behind one of the chairs, and flicked again with the ice mace against his nearest foe. Still stunned and unable to defend himself, this time the mace crashed home, driving him back into the wall and leaving a smear where the back of the helmet had cracked.
Those in the back of the room had pulled shields from their backs, holding them forward as they advanced towards Tarranau. Pushing against the sleet, he sent a blast from the storm towards their faces, hoping to buy himself a few moments in which to think. Grasping upon an idea as it formed, Tarranau pulled back all of the moisture in the room, forming it into scything blades that hid under the table. As the soldiers stepped around towards him, Tarranau rose from behind his chair, clutching his arm to make it seem as if he was in worse shape than he was. Watching their pacing, he waited as they straightened and began to charge. As their first step took place, he sent the blades slicing out from under the table, taking his foes in their ankles, cutting their unarmoured feet from their legs. Both assassins flopped to the floor grotesquely, blood spurting from their severed limbs. Tarranau had the blades climb up and over, their points now towards the torsos of his enemies. With a thought, they drove down. A crack, followed by a wet noise, filled the room, and Tarranau glared across at the last assassin left alive. This was the knife thrower, and presumably the commander of this little expedition. Glaring, Tarranau watched him ready another knife, but he was unable to duck aside, and the blade thudded into his midsection, off on the right-hand side. Grunting as he slammed into the floor, Tarranau sent the two blades flying at his foe, only to see both blocked aside. Letting them fall to the ground, the watermage reached out for the foe himself, pulling at the water within, ripping it from the soldier's body as he had once attempted to dry a hunk of rotten meat. His foe staggered in surprise, and then began to charge, but the furniture and other carcasses slowed him enough that by the time the assassin was near, he was staggering. The soldier then collapsed and fell, his body clattering to the floor near Tarranau, as the watermage continued to yank the moisture from his foe's body, finally relenting only when his enemy was a desiccated husk.
His efforts and wounds overwhelming him, Tarranau sunk down into a grim and shallow sleep, shot through with crimson streaks of pain from the daggers stuck within him. Time passed in fevered dreams, and when the watermage woke, he had no idea of how long he slept, only that he was still alive, and aching greatly. Looking down at his body, he could see where the blood had congealed about the wound, pinning the dagger in place. Groaning, he tried to sit up, and as he did, he could feel the weapon shifting, tearing new flesh with each small movement. Slumping back to the ground, Tarranau carefully edged himself around the furniture to the front of one of the chairs. Grasping the cushion that sat there, he pulled it down where he sat. Even that exertion tired him, and he rested for minutes before moving once more. Pulling the dagger from his shoulder gifted Tarranau blurred vision, pain coursing through his body. The slow drip of blood began again, spilling out onto the floor from the re-opened gash. Using his good arm to slice the pillow's covering into strips, Tarranau bound those about his arm. Each attempt brought renewed pain and bleeding, for to tie the knots, he had to exercise the wounded arm, exacerbating the damage. Finally, it was done, but the cloth wound about his shoulder was stained crimson, although the bindings appeared to staunch the flow. Looking down at the dagger still embedded in his torso, Tarranau wondered what to do about that, for he had not enough cloth here to wrap around his stomach and tie down the wound. Looking about at the carcasses of those whom he had slain, he saw cloth underneath the chitinous armour that they wore, and eased himself towards the nearest form.
The soldier had soiled himself as he died, and the pungent stench infected Tarranau's nostrils and mouth as he approached, but he steeled himself and blocked the loathsome scent from his mind, using the dagger taken from his arm to slice the straps on the breastplate, and then to slice the cloth beneath into long strips. Reaching out, he grasped at his element, feeling the energy slowly pouring into his form, and he pressed down upon his wound, hoping to staunch any blood that might flow as he extracted the dagger. Pulling the weapon from the gash, he shuddered under the arcs of pain that flowed through his body, but managed to retain his senses and his control, and the blood did not spill forth. Growling in agony, he began to wrap the strips about the wound in his gut, pulling each tight, wrapping extra layers over the slash when he could.
Feeling the pain clawing away at the concentration that held his life within, Tarranau staggered to his feet, and began a slow, tottering march towards the stairs. Each small step upwards was a torture, but each he managed, stumbling, leaning against the wall, until finally he saw the kitchen turn into sight. Coated in snow, the door still hung open from when the assassins had pushed their way in. A chill wind blew through the portal, the frozen knives carried on the gusts cutting deeply into Tarranau, his body shuddering with each cruel strike. Wincing, he made his way out, turning to see the great spires of the fortress that dominated Tri-Hauwcerton, then began a slow journey towards that edifice. In addition to being the military heart of the nation, it also contained within it the hospital, stocked by those same medics who would journey with the soldiers when they strode to war, and it was into those capable hands that Tarranau sought to deliver himself. Each step a journey through pain, and Tarranau wondered if this would be the time that he would take the final leap into Hysbryd Byd, that he would become one of the great mass of spirits who floated about in constant hopeless waste, their minds a tattered wreck of what once was. Slumping to his knees in the snow, Tarranau stopped himself from falling completely only by pressing his good hand into the snow, and when he staggered back upright, there was a bloody handprint left to mark his passage. Soon there came cries from around him, as those few who were travelling outside on this miserable day noticed his anguished posture, and came running to help. The first to arrive was a housewife, on her way to buy food for her family, and when she saw Tarranau, she rushed over, took one look
at the ruin and blood that soaked the front of his clothing, and propped herself under his good arm, taking much of the weight from Tarranau and allowing him to journey easier. Soon others came, and one brought an anifail chan beichia, loaded with supplies for the market. Pulling some of those supplies off of the animal, a space was cleared for Tarranau, and he was levered into position. By now, his mind had all but ceased to function, and the only thought that echoed round and round his brain was that he must not let go, must not let his concentration on that single location of his body waver. Beyond that, the kindness of strangers passed almost unremarked, until he realized that he no longer was walking, yet was still moving onwards. Gratitude flooded his body, and then he let himself go, sinking down into a stupor from which he was not soon to rise.
James Tallett is the author of a series of fantasy novels set in The Four Part Land. The first of these,Tarranau, will be published by Deepwood Publishing in Summer 2011.
James is the founder of Deepwood Publishing, a small fantasy and science fiction imprint, focused around anthologies and short stories. Currently he's working on three projects
there with fifteen authors and counting.
He also created the Splintered Lands anthology project, a shared world fantasy anthology. Quickly recruiting five different writers, over the course of several months James guided the birth of the Splintered Lands, a land full of kingdoms born anew, struggling to pull themselves out of a magical and natural apocalypse.
During the days that James isn't working on his writing, he's putting the polishing touches on his MBA (specializing in entrepreneurship). He's hoping to put it to good use in business soon enough (once he gets the ever elusive job of his dreams).
James loves skiing and the outdoors, and if you can't find him on the weekends, it's
because he's skiing. And Fridays. And Mondays. And any other day he can squeeze
it in.
Outside of being addicted to going down snow at highway speeds, James combines his
passion for hiking and travel with his writing by putting places he adores into his novels.
If you're looking to stalk James on the web, you can try Twitter, Facebook, his other Facebook, Goodreads, or email him at jamestallett@thefourpartland.com
