A selection from "Death in Keenspur House"
For those who may be interested, here’s yet another sample of what you’ll find in my new heroic fantasy collection THE PLAGUE KNIGHT AND OTHER STORIES. This excerpt comes from “Death in Keenspur House,” another adventure of the mercenary turned fencing master Selden.
The steps debouched into dank crypts, festooned with webs the spiders spun to snare the beetles, and smelling faintly of incense, embalmer’s spice, and rot. The lesser Keenspurs lay behind graven plaques in the walls. The principal lords and ladies had their own private vaults, where stone sarcophagi, the lids often sculpted into likenesses of the occupants, reposed on pedestals in the center.
I assumed Yshan had rated one of the latter, and found him quickly. If his marble likeness could be trusted, he’d possessed the sharp features characteristic of his line, honed beyond the point of gauntness. It gave him a look of fanaticism and spite, which the sculptor had accentuated by rendering him with glaring eyes and a scowl instead of the usual expression of serenity.
I inspected the lid of the sarcophagus, trying to discern whether anyone--or anything--had opened it recently. I couldn’t tell. Not unless I opened it myself.
Assuming I could. It looked damnably heavy for a lone man to shift. But I meant to try. I set the lantern down, then, with a dry mouth and sweat starting beneath my arms, tried to work the pry bar into the crack between cover and box. The iron tool scraped the stone.
The lid flew up and to the side, like the cover of a book, straight at me.
It could have shattered my bones, but my reflexes jerked me backward, and perhaps that robbed the impact of some of its force. Even so, the sculpted marble slab slapped me like a giant’s hand, knocking me into the wall. I fell, and the lid fell with me, crashing down on top of my legs.
Meanwhile, Yshan, who had, by dint of either magic or prodigious strength, flung his graven image at me, reared up from the sarcophagus. He was relatively intact. The embalmers had evidently done their work well, and his box had protected him from rats and worms. But his face was shriveled, flaking, and streaked with black leakage. His right eye had gone milky, while the left had crumbled inward. A few slimy strings stretched across the vacant socket.
You can find THE PLAGUE KNIGHT AND OTHERS here:
http://www.amazon.com/Plague-Knight-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B00H1EN9BU/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1386384739&sr=1-1&keywords=the+plague+knight+and+other+stories
The steps debouched into dank crypts, festooned with webs the spiders spun to snare the beetles, and smelling faintly of incense, embalmer’s spice, and rot. The lesser Keenspurs lay behind graven plaques in the walls. The principal lords and ladies had their own private vaults, where stone sarcophagi, the lids often sculpted into likenesses of the occupants, reposed on pedestals in the center.
I assumed Yshan had rated one of the latter, and found him quickly. If his marble likeness could be trusted, he’d possessed the sharp features characteristic of his line, honed beyond the point of gauntness. It gave him a look of fanaticism and spite, which the sculptor had accentuated by rendering him with glaring eyes and a scowl instead of the usual expression of serenity.
I inspected the lid of the sarcophagus, trying to discern whether anyone--or anything--had opened it recently. I couldn’t tell. Not unless I opened it myself.
Assuming I could. It looked damnably heavy for a lone man to shift. But I meant to try. I set the lantern down, then, with a dry mouth and sweat starting beneath my arms, tried to work the pry bar into the crack between cover and box. The iron tool scraped the stone.
The lid flew up and to the side, like the cover of a book, straight at me.
It could have shattered my bones, but my reflexes jerked me backward, and perhaps that robbed the impact of some of its force. Even so, the sculpted marble slab slapped me like a giant’s hand, knocking me into the wall. I fell, and the lid fell with me, crashing down on top of my legs.
Meanwhile, Yshan, who had, by dint of either magic or prodigious strength, flung his graven image at me, reared up from the sarcophagus. He was relatively intact. The embalmers had evidently done their work well, and his box had protected him from rats and worms. But his face was shriveled, flaking, and streaked with black leakage. His right eye had gone milky, while the left had crumbled inward. A few slimy strings stretched across the vacant socket.
You can find THE PLAGUE KNIGHT AND OTHERS here:
http://www.amazon.com/Plague-Knight-Other-Stories-ebook/dp/B00H1EN9BU/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1386384739&sr=1-1&keywords=the+plague+knight+and+other+stories
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