Realms & Galaxies: Celebrating SFF!

Happy Birthday to Stephen

2011-07-03T08:44:00.002+02:00

I would just like to send some Birthday wishes to author Stephen Zimmer, all the way here from SA.

May you have all the best in the year to come, and may the launch of the new book be a roaring success.

We hope you enjoyed the day and may there be many many more for you and your family to enjoy.

Stephen Zimmer - The Rising Dawn, The Seventh Throne

2011-06-28T20:56:00.003+02:00

Recently i brought you a review of one of Stephens books, and the busy body that he is his new book is finally heading our way.

This is what i can tell you about the new book in the Rising Dawn series.

A bold, ambitious series that pushes the boundaries of urban fantasy, The
Rising Dawn Saga has gained a steadily growing, very dedicated following
since the debut of The Exodus Gate in spring of 2009. Showing the
epic-scale possibilities of urban fantasy, the series draws heavily upon
mythical and supernatural lore, weaving it into a modern day tale of a
world tilting swiftly towards a dystopian nightmare.

Readers who have been journeying along in the Rising Dawn Saga will need
to hold on to their seat, as a conflict of cosmic scope escalates rapidly.
They will join the human soul Friedrich as he accompanies the powerful
Avatar Enki into the depth of the Abyss, to discover the fate of
Erishkegal, who crossed the Veil to spare a horde of outcast Nephilim ages
ago. It is a quest that will take them to the brink of hell itself, but
it is one that may hold astounding revelations.

Elsewhere, martial law is installed across the UCAS during the outbreak of
a deadly virus, and the onset of a war to the far east that threatens the
stability of the entire world. The imposition of a diabolical technology
looms, as centuries-old organizations in the service of Adonai race to
confront the looming menace.

Gregory Andreas, an ex-marine, leads a budding resistance to the
authoritarian government, as Dagian Underwood, the mastermind behind the
oncoming Living ID technology, reaches out to the dark realm of Set to
gain the help of an ally with a rare, formidable ability. Seth Engel and
his teenaged friends venture forth once again to seek proof of spreading
rumors; this time of rounded-up townspeople being herded into large
detainment facilities close to Godwinton.

Even the shapeshifting An-Ki are caught in the maelstrom of uncertainty,
as Godral and their others of Sargor's clan struggle to find their place
in the strange modern world, and Uria leads his renegade new clan into the
unknown. His path leads to an encounter with a mysterious individual
possessed of supernatural powers; who expresses the desire to be his
guide.

Threads intertwine as the dangers increase, and nowhere is safe as the
things of the material and non-material worlds clash. The Seventh Throne
will leave the reader hungry for the next installment, after a revelation
of tremendous magnitude culminates the latest Rising Dawn Saga adventure.

"I am very excited about this installment, as with three books out in the
Rising Dawn Saga I can really show readers how I build a series," Stephen
Zimmer commented. "Everything builds, and threads that may have seemed
ambiguous in the earlier books pay off in droves. For the dedicated
reader, I have worked hard to bring a level of range and depth that can be
explored again and again."

As with the previous Rising Dawn Saga books, readers can expect another
full set of Matthew Perry illustrations, with eight brand new ones
included in the regular edition of the book. The extensive Matthew Perry
body of artwork produced for The Rising Dawn Saga is, without a doubt,
highly unique in the publishing of fantasy works today, regardless of
major press or small press classification.

A pre-ordering window is now open for readers interested in a limited
edition hardcover of The Seventh Throne, which features a Matthew Perry
illustration not included in the regular editon. Only 75 numbered/signed
copies of the limited edition will be issued, at a price of just $35.95.

There is also a special pre-order offer for the regular trade paperback
edition. Both of the pre-order offers include an array of collectibles
from The Seventh Throne. Copies can be pre-ordered in the online store at
http://www.seventhstarpress.com/documents/books.html and all pre-ordered
packages will be shipped no later than August 16th.

The Seventh Throne will ultimately be available in trade paperback,
hardcover, and a variety of eBook editions.

Updates and additional information can be obtained at the official site
for Seventh Star Press, at www.seventhstarpress.com , or at the author's
site at www.stephenzimmer.com

Now to formulate a plan to get my hands on a copy of the new book as soon as possible.

Crown of Vengeance - Stephen Zimmer Review

2011-05-09T19:22:00.006+02:00

Well after a long wait I finally bring to you the review of an epic/amazing book that i have been trying and promising to post for almost a year.

Epic Fantasy at its best, that is what Stephen Zimmer offers us in his riveting series Fires in Eden.

The First book in the series Crown of Vengeance was release a bit over a year ago by Seventh Star Press and I was lucky enough to get a goody bag, from the man himself, full of memorabilia.

The story starts out introducing us to a whole group of characters following the steady stream of their ordinary, everyday existence. That is until a mysterious fog settles in.
This is of course where Stephen throws us into a wild adventure in the alternative realm of Ave, a world full of mysterious, magical and dangerous creatures and characters.

The Unifier, a mysterious overlord taking control of the realm, is spreading his grip out towards the 5 Realms, the only lands apart from Saxany that still opposes him.
The elusive wanderer, an enigma of the first order and Gunther along with his fantastical pack of Jaghuns are some of my favorite characters thus far in the first book.

Book one introduces us mainly to the characters from our own realm and their struggle to understand and come to terms with the situation they find themselves in. This includes a strong cast of several characters from earth, each unique and interesting in their own way.

The storyline keeps its mystery throughout the first book, forming part of why it becomes so captivating. Stephen reveals just enough to us to wet our lips and leaves you craving for more. At the start i did have some trouble with the amount of characters you are introduced to and it took me some time to place and remember them, aka who's who, but as I got deeper into the book i became accustom to them all. Secondly the names of the Ave denizens were also a bit of challenge at the start but that's the advantage of Fantasy, you can pronounce them as you wish.

The story line progresses smoothly as you get to the end, relinquishing just enough of the mystery to make sure you will go looking for the second book. The world Stephen creates is crafty, realistic, vivid and captivating, its not everyday you can say that you saw yourself walking through the forest with an amazing group of strangers or encounter the "Indian-esk"Onan people or the awe inspiring Dragol on his flying Harrak.

This series is set to take us on a roller coaster ride for a long time to come and I'm definitely in for the full ride. Fires in Eden is set for several books, along with Stephen's second series, The Rising Dawn. I cant wait to dive into the second book in the series Dream of Legends, luckily Stephen has already supplied me with a copy ready for my reading pleasure.

Stephen, well done, don't know where you get the time to think up, let alone write these fantastical tales, but well done.

World be warned, Fantasy has a new crime lord on the rise.

For your viewing pleasure the book trailer of Stephens amazing Crown of Vengeance.

~keep your eyes open in future for my review of the second book~

Jackie Gamber - Redheart

2011-04-05T17:37:00.004+02:00

Some exiting news from the folks of Seventh Start.

Jackie Gamber's Redheart Cover Art and Illustrations Revealed

Seventh Star Press is proud to unveil the cover art and illustrations to
Redheart, Book One of the Leland Dragon Series, from Mary Shelley Award
winning author Jackie Gamber.

The first installment of the exciting new YA fantasy series is slated for
release on April 19th. The cover art and illustrations were created by
Matthew Perry, whose artwork appears on the covers and interiors of other
Seventh Star Press authors such as Steven Shrewsbury and Stephen Zimmer.

A pre-ordering window is now open for readers interested in a limited
edition hardcover of Redheart, which features an illustration created
especially for that version. There is also a pre-order offer for the
regular trade paperback edition. Both of the pre-order offers include
packages of bonus materials, ranging from 14X20 posters of one of the
illustrations, to a set of four 5X7 glossy prints.

Redheart invites readers into the lands of Leland Province, where dragon
and human societies have long dwelled side by side. Superstitions rise
sharply, as a severe drought strips the land of its bounty, providing
fertile ground for the darker ambitions of Fordon Blackclaw, Dragon
Council Leader, who seeks to subdue humans or wipe them off the face of
the land.

As the shadow of danger creeps across Leland Province, a young dragon
named Kallon Redheart, who has turned his back on dragons and humans
alike, comes into an unexpected friendship. Riza Diantus is a young woman
whose dreams can no longer be contained by the narrow confines of her
village, and when she finds herself in peril, Kallon is the only one with
the power to save her. Yet to do so means he must confront his past, and
embrace a future he stopped believing in.

A tale of friendship, courage, and ultimate destiny, Redheart invites
readers to a wondrous journey through the Leland Dragon Series.

Redheart will ultimately be available in trade paperback, hardcover, and a
variety of eBook editions.

Sela, Book Two of the series, is targeted for a third quarter release in
2011, with Book Three scheduled for mid-2012 release in all of the
aforementioned formats.

Updates and additional information can be obtained at the official site
for Seventh Star Press, at www.seventhstarpress.com , or at the author's
site at www.jackiegamber.com

Sounds interesting to me, will have to keep an eye out for this one.

New Robot for the Army JUSTIN GUSTAINIS

2010-06-24T22:11:00.002+02:00

Angry Robot anounced today that they have signed a new author to their growing army.

"We are delighted to announce our latest signing, bringing a stunning series of books set in the harassed police department of a city full of vampires and werewolves" says the folks at AR

Angry Robot has signed urban fantasy author Justin Gustainis for a new series set in Scranton, Philadelphia, in a world where supernatural beings are part of everyday life. Stan Markowski is a Detective Sergeant on the Scranton PD's Supernatural Crimes Investigation Unit. As Stan puts it in the first book, Hard Spell: "When a vampire puts the bite on an unwilling victim, or some witch casts the wrong kind of spell, that's when they call me. My name's Markowski. I carry a badge."

Justin Gustainis said, “I'm tremendously pleased to be associated with one of the most dynamic publishers in speculative fiction today, and I look forward to selling enough books to put a smile on that robot’s face.”

The first title in this sensational series, Hard Spell, will be published by Angry Robot in spring 2011, in both the UK and USA.

Justin Gustainis was born in north-east Pennsylvania in 1951. He attended college at the University of Scranton, a Jesuit university that figures prominently in several of his writings. After earning both Bachelor's and Master's degrees, he was commissioned a Lieutenant in the US Army.

Mr Gustainis currently lives in Plattsburgh, New York and is a Professor of Communication at Plattsburgh State University. His recent series of urban fantasy investigations starring Quincey Morris and Libby Chastain now runs to three titles.

His website is justingustainis.com.

Some more changes

2010-06-18T09:07:00.002+02:00

Well there might not be a full post for you today but if you look carefully you will see some slight changes to the page.

The main point of note is my bookshelf. the first gives you access to all the books future and past. (don't criticize me for my beginnings, Goosebumps were cool 50 years ago.)

The second bookshelf shows you what i am currently reading.

And there are some other minor changes that piped and popped all over the place.

Well enjoy your weekend and remember to keep reading.

Trailers

2010-06-15T20:56:00.001+02:00

Well i don't really have anything for you today so instead go over to dave's site and check out some of the cool sff trailers he's got up for you.

Wanted to do something similar but i guess he beated me to it.

Damn.

Hayabusa?

2010-06-14T12:14:00.002+02:00

Well another fraction of Sci-fi made real.

The Japanese satilite Hayabusa, the first ever earth probe to land and return from an astroid with samples is back. And surprisingly enough the samples are still intact, now to wait 6 months to find out what type of dust it is.

Wonder if it brought venom along?

Keep an eye on the site for a peak at an up and coming sci-fi book that looks to beat hayabusa back into the stone age.

Alex J. Cavanaugh - Cassastar

2010-06-13T22:46:00.004+02:00

Here is a book to keep an eye out for.
Alex J. Cavanaugh's first book Cassastar to be released closer to the end of the year, looks to be an interesting read. Will be keeping my eye's out for it. But decided for yourself.

Few options remain for Byron. A talented but stubborn young man with a troubled past and rebellious attitude, his cockpit skills are his only hope. Slated to train as a Cosbolt fighter pilot, Byron is determined to prove his worth and begin a new life as he sets off for the moon base of Guaard.

Much to Byron’s chagrin the toughest instructor in the fleet takes notice of the young pilot. Haunted by a past tragedy, Bassa eventually sees through Byron's tough exterior and insolence. When a secret talent is revealed during training, Bassa feels compelled to help Byron achieve his full potential.

As war brews on the edge of space, time is running short. Byron requires a navigator of exceptional quality to survive, and Bassa must make a decision that could well decide the fate of both men. Will their skills be enough as they embark on a mission that may stretch their abilities to the limit?

If you would like to know a bit more about Alex you can check out his home page here.
Well till next time and Keep Reading

New Facebook Fan group

2010-06-13T17:23:00.002+02:00

Hey guys and girls, make sure to join the new fan group on face book for all the notifications.
The old one unfortunately is closing down because of some technical issues.
Follow this link to the new one:

http://tinyurl.com/3a3xmdh

The Storm Guardians Art Work

2010-06-13T14:11:00.009+02:00

Well still busy reading but i do have some really cool artwork that Stephen sent me for his new book The Storm Guardians.

I can tall you that so far in my journey down Stephens imagination in Crown Of Vengeance i am absolutely loving it. Really awesome journey into a new world. Very captivating writing style as well.

Till our next encounter
Keep Reading

Forthcoming Attractions

2010-06-06T21:21:00.004+02:00

Well like i said i will keep you updated as to what books will be reviewed in the near future and here they are.

First of all the book im busy with now has been out for some time but i promised the author Stephen that i will review it the moment im back online.

I have already started with this book and so far it is amazing, the review might not be out yet but i can already tell you - GET YOURSELF A COPY!
I cant wait to get this one over and done with just so i can put up the review and tell you exactly how awesome it is and to get my hands on the second one.
Stephens new book The Storm Guardians, Book Two of The Rising Dawn Saga is also available now, the release date was the 4th of June. Make sure to check it out as well. I will make sure to put up a review of Book 1 The Exodus Gate as soon as i can along with the review for the 2nd one as soon as i get it.
But if you want to know a bit more about this talented writer check out his homepage at http://www.stephenzimmer.com/index.html

In addition to Stephens work i will also be bringing out reviews on the following;

Spirit by Gwyneth Jones.

Naamah's Kiss by Jacqueline Carey.

And The Blue Demon by David Hewson.

This is not all that i have however, i also have a whole stack of additional books such as The Bookman, The Exodus Gate and several more but alas i am only human so lets not overdo it. i will get to each one in time.

Till the reviews are ready i will keep you updated with all the odds and ends i can come up with so,
Keep Reading and see you soon.

It is Alive!!!

2010-06-04T11:52:00.002+02:00

Hey there to all the guys and girls.

You must have been wondering what happend to me these last few months.

Just to clarify i did not take part in some religeous cruisede or underground cult plotting world domination through genetically modified coconuts.

I started with my masters degree and it proved to be a bit more than i could handle but things are quieting down now and once more i have time to dictate to you exactly what books not to miss.

I have quite the selection of books coming up for review.

Not my Text Book.

Keep an eye on this site over the weekend and i will post for you exactly what is to come in the weeks ahead.

Time for a weekend break and to find a new reading corner in my brand new flat.

Keep reading and keep an eye on this site.

King Maker - Part 3

2010-03-08T02:10:00.002+02:00

Well guys and girls, here is the last part of King Maker, sad to say.
Hope you enjoyed it as much as i did.

Ultimately stemming from the nearby Eagle Creek
reservoir, creeks bordered the Breton Court condos
along the south and east. Not too long ago, several
kids had followed the tributaries back to the reservoir
and drowned. The tragedy was still repeated at
supper time to children who dawdled too long after
the street lights went on. The main drive of Breton
Court was laid out like a horseshoe with elongated
tips. As one went down either side, individual courts
of townhouses faced one another. King lived at the
base of the horseshoe. A few townhouses were still
owned and rented out by people who simply refused
to sell to the three owners even if they didn’t live
there.
King stayed in one of those. His condo overlooked
the southern bend of the creek, now overgrown with
weeds and filled with discarded shopping carts from
the nearly vacant strip mall on the other side of it. It
was better than living out of a car which he had done
for months. Clumped between his court of condos
and the next were trash dumpsters. A black raincoat
and a pair of jutting legs dangled from one. Merle
fell from his perch, a tangle of legs and arms in an
awkward sprawl, then drew the collar of his black
trench coat up about his neck, though there was no
chill to the air. The aluminum foil helmet was a nice
touch.
“What’s the good word, Merle?”
The old bullshit fool gave a clenched-fist salute,
though he didn’t pause from his rummaging activities.
Merle had a familiar spirit. Maybe he was one
of those faces, those strangers you bumped into on
a bus or train and instantly poured yourself out to.
Maybe he was one of those neighborhood peripheral
figures who seemed to travel in the same circles he
did, even if the two had never officially met. Thinking
back on those times, King felt a certain comfort
about the man, as if the shambling bearded tramp
were a filthy protective shadow. If he were the Merle
he had heard people whisper and laugh about over
the years, by most accounts, he appeared better,
younger, now than he did back in the day. Maybe he
cleaned up from drugs and such and was now
merely homeless. His breath smelled of pork rinds
and Funyuns.
“Signs, signs, everywhere are signs.”
“I heard that.” King plopped down on the curb,
withdrew a burrito from his bag, and offered it to
Merle. “Somehow I’m not really surprised to see you
here. You seem to get around.”
“That’s me. The bad penny.” Merle pinched off bits
of bread and scattered them about him. He shooed
away the birds, making way for a squirrel to come
collect as he will. Without a warning, Merle suddenly
bowled over, gripping his head as if trying to
keep it from exploding. His face flushed an agonized
shade of red, his mouth locked in a silent scream.
Collapsing on the ground, he waved King off from
helping him. When he next spoke, his voice had the
weak rasp of a sick kitten.
“You alright, man?”
“I’m fine. I suffer from spells.”
“You ought to see a doctor. Get that checked out.”
“I’m past the concerns of a doctor. What say you,
good King? Caught twixt the knights of Dred and
Night?”
“Nah, they just jawing. They needed to show their
teeth some.”
“The Night’s too long. Night’s daddy was a crackhead.
Got hit in the head with a shovel.”
“Do what?”
“He was sitting on a curb, people acting stupid.
Crackhead just bopped him straight in the side of the
old noggin.” Merle tapped the side of his head, dislodging
his aluminum cap. He sprayed food with
each sloppy bite, losing almost as much as he ate
while he spoke.
“My daddy was crazy, so I hear,” King said. He
fought to be legally emancipated from his mother
years ago. She had two little ones at home and he
was old enough to live on his own so that she could
concentrate on providing for the young ones. According
to his grandma, she was never quite the
same after his father’s death. Whenever she spoke
of him, it was with a mix of awe and sorrow, as if
either she had been betrayed or her idea of him had
been. At any rate, he had to get his social security
benefits transferred into his name but to her address
so that she could spend it. They’d make it
without him. As would Nakia. More family he’d
abandoned.
“An OG OD’d on the streets. Brought down in a
fight over a woman. He had to have her, though.”
“My pops wasn’t no drug addict.”
“Never said he was. Heavy is the head… and all
that.” Merle wiped his hands in the grass. “Prisons
and graveyards are full of fools who wore the
crown.”
“Truth and all, I didn’t know my father at all to
speak of. I just sort of fill in the blanks here and
there, the way I’d want them.” King froze, not understanding
why he gave up that bit of personal
information at all much less to a stranger. A white
stranger at that. Like he thought, maybe Merle had
one of those faces. Before he could speak again, the
homeless man spoke.
“Can I tell you something?” Merle leaned in, still
chewing on too big a bite of his burrito.
“Sure.”
“Last night, I dreamt of the dragon.”
“You sound like that’s supposed to mean something.”
King had an air of being trapped in himself,
of not knowing who he was, that came off as rather
petulant. “You act like you ain’t right in the head and
yet you seem so…”
“Content. I am what I am. I know who I am. I accept
who I am.”
King heard a bit too much bite in his tone. “What
does that mean?”
“You war with yourself. You’re the ‘should’ve’
man. You–”
“Should’ve finished high school. Should’ve gotten
involved in something larger than myself. Should’ve
let myself fall in love,” King said.
“Instead you hide, afraid of betrayal. A spectator
in your own life.”
“Until lately. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“You felt the call.”
“The call?”
“To action.” Merle thrust the remaining bread into
the air, a makeshift sword jabbing at clouds. He
turned the jousting loaf toward King and engaged
him in a one-sided duel, waving the bread about in
strokes and feints. “Feelings overtook you. Who you
really are wants to take over.”
“And who am I?” King kept turning to face the
loaf-wielding man. As much as instinct might have
told him to, he couldn’t write Merle off as either a
bum or a lunatic. He had too much gravitas, too
much presence, to be easily dismissed.
“That is the question. I can’t answer it for you.
Some people are built to lead, some to follow. Which
are you, lion or lamb?”
King inspected the stretch of Breton Court like
there were parts within the sphere of his influence
and the hinterlands, those areas on the outskirts, out
of his influence. Prez. Damn. What happened to that
brother? Everyone seemed infected with the same
sickness, on edge. King saw the fear, the frustration,
the cauldron of terror and rage with life reduced to
desperation and survival. So many stood by and did
nothing; sick of gangs and violence, yet suffering in
silence.
“You get off on knowing the rule book without
having to share anything.”
“Knowledge,” Merle tapped his aluminum foil helmet
with the loaf, then returned to feeding the birds
and squirrels, “is power.”
“Power is power, too.”
“Ah, the first lesson in ruling. That wasn’t so hard,
now was it?”
“What wasn’t?”
“Making a decision. Making the hard choices is a
gift.”
“What do…” King didn’t know why he sought
Merle’s advice, or approval, nor could he explain the
strange sense of kinship between them. “What’s my
next step?”
“Take hold of your destiny.”
“How do I do that?”
“Either you seek it out or…” Merle stood up as if
dismissed. “Here come your boys. Anyway, I have
places to be and fey to annoy.”
“What?”
“You’re the right guy, my guy. If you were another
guy, you’d be the wrong guy.”
Evenings were made to sit out and King relished the
few quiet moments. He had grown up in the area
though now he spent some time away, maybe to
come into his own. His boys were still his boys. So
they drank some, listened to the sounds of kids playing,
the occasional car horns, and dogs barking from
the fenced back patios of the rowhouses.
“Ain’t nothing changed,” King said.
“Look around you. Why would it change?” A
hard-faced man, with a scar on the back of his neck,
Wayne had the build of a defensive linesman, stocky
and chiseled, with the swinging step of someone
who knew how to use their size should the necessity
warrant. Thus also explaining why the plastic chair
wobbled every time he shifted his weight. A mane
of long dreadlocks furled down to his shoulders.
Wayne was King’s case manager down at Outreach
Inc., a ministry that worked with homeless and atrisk
youth. He’d helped King with his emancipation
and got his benefits straightened out. Even though
Wayne was four years older, the span of attaining his
college degree, he hung out with King now out of
true friendship as much as anything else. King had a
spark about him that drew folks to him.
“You know what your problem is?” King asked.
“What’s that?”
“You pessimistic. Now me, I’m a glass half full of
Kool Aid sort of man.”
“Just something in the air.” Wayne carried his survival
instinct, too. The eyes in the back of his head
that let him know when something was up. King respected
and depended on it.
“I know. I feel it, too. A vibe. Like a whole lot of
anger bubbling out there waiting for an excuse to
blow up.”
“Yeah, something like that,” Wayne said.
“Want another one?”
“Nah, I’m good with this one. Don’t need to be setting
a bad example for you young ’uns.”
“Sure.”
“What about you?” King raised a beer to Lott.
Lott bobbed his head to beats and rhymes only he
heard, keeping his own counsel. He was a week past
getting his hair tightened up and his large brown
eyes drifted with the activity of the court. His FedEx
uniform – a thick sweatshirt over blue slacks, his
name badge, “Lott Carey” with a picture featuring
his grill-revealing smile, wrapped around his arm –
girded him like a suit of armor. Lott put on his pimproll
strut for all the eyes to see as he moved toward
an open seat, a puffed-up exaggerated gait with a
cool blank stare, his face locked into a grimace of
put-on hostility purposefully designed to make old
ladies clutch their purses and white suburbanites
cross the street if they were in his path. A row of
faux gold caps grilled his teeth. He was a wrong
time/wrong place sort, always getting caught up in
situations he didn’t start but felt compelled to finish,
with jail being the typical finish line. These days he
kept his dreams simple: dreaming of holding a job
and breathing free air, not like some of the other
talkers on the block.
“You know I don’t drink.”
“It’s still polite to ask.”
“And where would we be without politeness?”
King nodded then popped open the beer. There
were too few evenings with anything approaching
peace, so he opted to enjoy the time he had.
It was a glass half full of Kool Aid evening.
A nest of fine braids lined Omarosa’s head, not a hair
out of place as if she had just stopped from the
beauty salon. Hers was a cultivated beauty, but
where would her kind be without beauty? With skin
like heavily creamed coffee, almond eyes that missed
nothing, and the high cheekbones with accompanying
aquiline nose of a European aristocrat, her
pointed ears were the only tell of her mixed fey heritage.
The pair of handcuffs clicked in her hand as
she spun one spindle through the rest of the cuff.
Invisible to all, she strolled along the court sidewalks.
Only three kinds of people generally
remained invisible: fiends, homeless, and pros. Such
a station in life supplied invisibility because as fixtures
in the neighborhood, most folks averted their
eyes from them either in sympathizing shame or due
to the desire to not be approached by them. Folks
tended to assume she was a pro, though few dared
ask her for sex. She allowed them to carry on in their
assumptions, for her kind also valued the power of
illusion. After all, few suspected the need to be on
guard against the sawn-off 12-gauge that rarely left
her side.
“The game begins again.” She didn’t turn her head
to address him nor otherwise betray any surprise at
his presence. Few managed to sneak up on her, with
her battle-hardened senses keen as the edge of the
blade strapped to her thigh. However, Merle had a
way of appearing when least expected. “All the players
are almost in place.”
“Indeed,” he said. “They’ve woken the dragons.”

Now i guess you will have to get your own hands on a copy.
Keep reading.

Maurice Broaddus - King Maker - Part 2

2010-03-05T18:41:00.001+02:00

Part 2 of King Maker
Seriously Extended just for you guys.
Enjoy.

Merle never imagined that a Timberland boot in his
midsection would be the defining moment of his day.
The abandoned shoe factory on the south side of
downtown had been declared a historic landmark, but
neither the city nor any foundation knew what to do
with it nor wanted to put up the money to restore it
for modern use. The owner languished with the albatross
of high property taxes, unable to sell it, so the
building existed in a state of limbo, between being and
not being, and thus was the perfect place for Merle to
break into and lay his head. With a flattened refrigerator
box as his mattress, visions of dragons, mist, and
silver-armored knights filled his dreams.
Waking with a start, disturbing the rats which
scurried along the broken bits of crates and skids,
Merle knew he had to make his way to the west side
of town.
“Sir Rupert?” he called out. A brown and black
squirrel, with a gray streak along its back, poked its
head through a hole in the bay door of the building.
“I had the dream again. I think the time has finally
come. He has returned.”
The squirrel sat back on its haunches, eagerly
working at an acorn.
“I know, I know. There have been several false
alarms, but this time I know it’s real.” Merle
wrapped his arms loosely around his knees and gathered
his wits while Sir Rupert ate.
The squirrel finished with the nut, turned, and ran
out the hole in the door.
“You’re right, you’re right. We mustn’t tarry.”
Scooping up his backpack and his black raincoat,
Merle slipped between the still-chained doors. The
raincoat doubled as his blanket, though its winter insert
had pulled free and with a few teeth missing
from the zippered lining, he was unable to reattach
it. Not much of a clothes horse, he kept his attire
simple. A furry hat, the kind a Russian soldier languishing
in Siberia would wear, a tattered black
sweater with matching jeans, and black socks with
no shoes. He had the most difficult of times keeping
shoes and suspected Sir Rupert, prankster that he
was, of nicking them at night. He pulled the raincoat
tight around him, buttoning it only at the middle
where a belt might fall. He already missed his normal
routine that had him checking in at the Wheeler
Mission, then panhandling outside of the Red Eye
Café – whose owner often let him push a broom for
a meal – and avoiding the police eager to sweep him
under the city’s rug. It would be little more than a
three hour haul to the west side that awaited him.
Merle kept to the bank of the White River which
was unusually low due to the lack of rain. Though
the White River was a natural ley line winding its
way through the heart of the city, another one lay
closer to Eagle Creek Park, along Breton Street.
Whatever called him, he knew his destiny had to lie
there. After three hours, he climbed up the embankment
to follow 38th Street west.
The Breton Court housing addition had changed
considerably in the quarter of a century since it was
established. Once a solidly all-white not-quitesuburban
enclave, it now languished as a
neighborhood in decline. Street lore attributed this
to two things. For one, the first black family moved
in a decade or so ago. Their white neighbors, not
wanting to let a bad element gain a foothold in the
neighborhood, harassed them to the point that a UHaul
truck was soon being loaded. Unfortunately,
they had made a slight miscalculation. The black
family was also seeking a respite from bad elements
and had more in common with their white neighbors
than not. And though they moved, they never
sold their town house in Breton Court. Instead, they
rented it out. They found the worst of the “bad elements”
they could find and let them live there
rent-free for six months. The white flight was more
of an exodus of Biblical proportions.
The second factor? The townhouses had since
been bought up primarily by three owners who, in
an act just shy of collusion, opted to let the property
run down, renting to Section 8 tenants or anyone
who had cash in hand. While the word “gentrification”
hadn’t been bandied about, their goal was to
sell off the whole piece for development and by
“development” they envisioned razing the entire
lot.
Merle plodded along the creek line which ran the
length of Breton Court from 38th Street. Sir Rupert
had long scampered off, perhaps to survey the scene
from his own vantage point. No matter, Merle recognized
layabouts and ne’er-do-wells when he saw
them.
“What you need, old timer? You look like you
need to get up.” A young man, more boy than man,
stepped toward him. His slightly faded blue jeans had
rolled-up cuffs and sagged just below his blue and
white striped boxer shorts despite the presence of a
skull-buckled chain through the belt loops. Rhinestones
dotted his black shirt.
“All’s not right in Who-ville,” Merle said.
“What you got, Dollar?” Another young man
sported a formidably sized pair of black Timberland
boots, smothered in a hooded jacket with a frog
across its back. Merle couldn’t help but think of the
cartoon with the frog singing “Hello my baby, hello
my darling” when no one but his owner was around.
“Don’t know. You up?” Dollar asked, never one to
let any potential sale slip past. The court had been a
quiet stretch of real estate until Dollar built it up into
a profitable venture. He was due to be moved up the
ranks soon, climbing the corporate ladder, to get
away from actually handling product.
“No, no. Just passing through,” Merle said while
he fished in his pockets as if he misplaced his wallet.
“What? We some sightseeing stop? Get right or get
gone.”
“I’m tired of these ghetto tourist types. ‘Let’s see
how the po’ folks be living.’” The Timberland-booted
man stepped nearer, a hulk of aggression needing to
be vented.
“Come on, man. Green said no drama less we had
no choice.” Dollar understood that in such stark economic
times, fiscal responsibilities demanded certain
precaution. Ever-present muscle was the cost of
doing business. But some of these young bucks were
too eager to make a name, thinking that being crazy
was the surest route to success. It was a headache he
didn’t need.
“Green?” Merle had hoped to never hear that
name again. He buried the gleam of recognition too
late.
“You know Green?” Dollar tilted his head with
piqued curiosity.
“Yes. Uh, not really. Maybe I’ve heard the name.”
“I bet his country ass is a snitch.” Mr Size 12 Boots
gave him an exaggerated sniff. “Yeah, he smells like
a snitch bitch.”
Merle waved his fingers in front of him as if with
a sudden display of jazz hands. “These are not the
droids you are looking for.”
“Are you making fun of me?” Before Merle could
respond, the young man punched him in the gut
with such force that Merle crumpled to the ground.
With blood in the water, the Timberland boot
slammed into his side three or four times for good
measure before the man bent over to grab him by
the lapels. “Yeah, I’m gonna give you a name to remember.”
“My man.” Dollar backed up a step or two, looking
over his shoulder for Green, instead spying another
approaching figure. “Ease up.”
“We got a problem?” Tall and straight, visibly muscled,
but not with the dieseled artifice of prison
weight, the man had the complexion of burnt cocoa.
His eyes burned with a stern glint, both decisive and
sure. Hard, but not in a street tough way, his walk
was street savvy, with a hint of the swagger of someone
who knew how handsome he was. Carrying
himself properly was a survival tool. Level chin,
squared up, not moving too fast which betrayed fear.
The streets hadn’t changed much in the years Merle
had wandered them. If your body language portrayed
you as scared, you became nothing but prey. Despite
the oversized black T-shirt with a Jackie Robinson
portrait, the young man wasn’t much older than the
other man-boys. He cold-eyed both Dollar and Mr
Size 12, though not so hard as to give Mr Size 12 a
challenge he’d have no choice but to respond to.
“Nah, we ain’t got a problem. Simply a misunderstanding,”
Dollar said.
“He in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Mr
Size 12 said. “He needed… directions.”
“He’s just an old man.” The man turned to Mr Size
12 with a weary disappointment. For a moment, the
two seemed to square off, an untold story between
them, but Mr Size 12 without displaying a measure
of backing down, withdrew nonetheless. It was as if
his spirit, if not his bearing, deserted him. “Come on,
man, he isn’t even worth the hassle. Things that slow
out here?”
“Come on. Fun’s fun, but we still on the clock,”
Dollar said.
The Timberland-booted man cocked his hand like
a gun, fired off a shot at Merle, then trailed Dollar.
“You all right? You know them?” The man’s gaze
followed them, disappointment rife in his eyes as he
helped Merle to his feet.
“All jackals and hyenas… without a lion in sight.”
Merle brushed the leaves and loose dirt from him,
though his many-stained jacket reeked of grime.
“Uh huh.”
“Who is my would-be savior?”
“My name’s King. King James White.”
“Merle.”
“Merle what?” King asked.
“At your service, oh King.” Merle bowed before
King’s steady gaze.
“Great.”
“Damn, son. You broke him off a piece for real.” Dollar
laughed as they made their way back to the spot.
Brief distraction aside, they were still on the grind,
though he always had his eye out for new talent.
“You ready to step up to this here game?”
“I’m here to put in work. I’m tired of playing out
here.” Prez knew what he was going to hear from
Big Momma. Not even in her house and already he’d
found the streets. But he’d been watching Dollar
from way back, a few years at least. Steady slinging,
always in fine clothes and just enough bling to set it
off. It was either the game or continue to attend
Northwest High School. Though the ladies were fine
up in there, ladies could be had just as easily out
here. No point in wasting everyone’s time killing
time and taking up space in school when he needed
to be out here doing dirt.
“Anxious to make a name for yourself.”
“Something like that.”
“I feel you. Look here, you hang with us for a
minute. Think of yourself as an apprentice or some
shit. See how we do. We got our eyes on you and
we’ll see how you handle yourself.”
“Yeah?”
They bumped fists. A new day, same as it ever was.

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2010-03-03T21:31:00.002+02:00

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Make sure you join my tweets at

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Maurice Broaddus - King Maker - Part 1

2010-03-03T21:23:00.004+02:00

Something Interesting for you avid readers out there.

The folks at Angry robot have made abailable the first chapter of a new promising book, King Maker, and i thought i would bring it to you personally.

I will be introducing it in 3/4 parts so make sure you stay tuned over the next couple of days to get the full story.

I've already started nagging my contacts at AR to send me a full printed copy of this great new novel.

Well enough of my chatting, here is Part 1 of the King Maker Sample.

“It ain’t even right,” King said to stave off the impending
silence. He drummed his fingers along the
steering wheel. Absently noting the recently closed
or unoccupied stores in several strip malls along
Lafayette Road, it was as if blank spaces pocked his
neighborhood. Even the newly opened Wal-Mart
struggled, though neighborhood lore held that
within its first week it had to let fifty of its employees
go for excessive shoplifting. He hated driving, preferring
to walk when he could, but Big Momma
asked him to pick up her son and even loaned him
her car to do it. King hardly knew Prez – as he was
known around the way, though born Preston Wilcox
– but Big Momma was a neighborhood fixture. Her
word that he was a good kid was all King needed,
despite the boy striking him as just another neighborhood
knucklehead.
“I know.” Prez had a just-shy-of-amiable halfsmile
on his face. The wisps of an attempted goatee
sprouted along the sides of his mouth. Eyes fixed on
the road, he nestled into his oversized Kellogg’s
jacket, a picture of the Honey Smacks frog danced
on the back. Though late in the summer, the temperatures
remained fairly mild.
“You should have your own spot.” King heard the
lecturing tone in his voice, but chalked it up to wanting
to mentor the boy. The streets had their lure and
anything he could do to inoculate Prez to their madness,
well, he couldn’t help himself. His street, his
responsibility – that had always been his way.
“Ain’t no shame in it.” A sullenness quilted Prez’s
face, man-child struggling with independence but
having to retreat to his moms. Grandmoms, technically.
His moms turned him over to Big Momma so
that raising a child wouldn’t slow her down. He
knew full well that he’d have to hide any of his foolishness
from Big Momma because she would have
none of it.
“I know. Big Momma ain’t gonna let her baby
sleep out on the street.”
“Shit, I’d still be on my own if this dude who I
stayed with had let me know that he was moving
out and his cousin would be taking his place. But his
cousin wasn’t trying to pay no rent, and it wasn’t like
either of us were on the lease. So, boom, the landlord
kicks us out. We only had till Monday to get our
stuff out of there before he puts it out. And the
cousin ain’t even started to pack his stuff up.”
“Yeah,” King said without commitment, part from
having nothing to add, part due to distraction. He
eased off the gas as they passed a row of apartments.
A little girl skipped into an open door while a
woman struggled with pulling a basket of clothes
from the backseat of her car.
“What’s up?” Prez asked, noting King’s focused attention.
“Nothing.” It wasn’t as if King was going to say
“That’s my baby’s momma’s place. Look at her. You
know she be having men all up in there all hours of
the night. In front of Nakia.”
Prez spied a buxom, dark-complexioned woman
walking in the front door of her apartment carrying
a load of laundry. “Pretty girl.”
“Reminds me of someone I used to know.”
King flipped through radio stations, though Black
radio in Indianapolis only came in two flavors: hip
hop and adult soul. He loved hip hop, but he really
needed something with a melody right now. His
mom called his taste in music the legacy of his father.
King had no true sense of who Luther White was,
only the legend his mother made him out to be. It
was easy to be a legend when you were long dead
and gone.
As if Saturday afternoon traffic in front of Meijer
wasn’t going to be bad enough, they crept the last
mile to the Breton Court townhouses due to construction
on the only street leading there. Prez
eased back in his seat and put one of his Timberlands
on King’s dashboard. A half-muttered “my
bad” and the foot lowering followed a stern gaze
from King. Kids today, King thought, no respect for
anything.
Sliding into one of the parking spots, one assigned
per townhouse, King grabbed the two bags of clothes
from his trunk, to which Prez nodded in appreciation,
and carried them toward Big Momma’s.
Already outside holding court, she slowly fanned
herself with a tattered magazine. Her usual courtesans,
the neighbors from across the way, sat around
the plastic table. King couldn’t quite remember the
name of his neighbor who lived across from Big
Momma, though they seemed like a nice family.
Every Sunday they dressed up for church along with
their two kids. The neighborhood kids (half of whom
Big Momma ostensibly babysat) played with a garden
hose, spraying each other and turning the center
of the court into a mud slick, a dirt-floored “slip‘n’slide”.
The white-haired candy lady, who had lived in
the court longer than anyone else, stood on her
porch passing out popsicles to any kid who took a
break from the hose. Her cats keened against the
front storm door like children denied the chance to
play with their friends.
“Damn,” he said to himself, as Prez left him with
his bags to hook up with a couple of neighborhood
knuckleheads who were setting up shop on the corner.
Their fixed gazes dared him to do something
about their presence. His face flushed with heat, but
he wasn’t about to return a hard look for each one
he received, nor could he afford to get bent out of
shape every time some fool stepped to him wrong.
Attitude and anger came in shorter supply for him
these days so he chose his spots rather than exhaust
himself on every bit of drama. However righteous
his rage.

What do you think?

2010-02-22T21:01:00.002+02:00

Hey guys and girls, hope you all have been reading great novels so far.

My silence for those interested is mostly due to my job, and boy did these people throw me in to the deep end. But things are getting manageable now and im coming back to you guys.
Yes even though i have endured sleepless nights i have done some reading AND thinking.

The THINKING part is due to a discussion and questionnaire im involved in with some budds across the globe on genre fiction and the future of e-readers.

Now my opinion is all and well, but i've been thinking, whats your opinion on some of these questions we are dealing with.

So if you feel interested in leaving your opinion, feel free to do so, please.

These are some of the questions we are faced with:

1. How has genre fiction changed over the years since you first started reading it?

2. The most recent trends have been things like vampires, darker storytelling, flawed protagonists, and stronger female leads. What do you see as some of the upcoming trends?

3. What should the price of a genre e-book be in your mind?

4. Which new and upcoming authors are grabbing your attention and are poised to become the next big household names and why?

5. Just what does the future of genre fiction look like to you?

Lets see what you guys do with that!

Hope to hear back from some of you loyal fans out there, till next time

Good Readings

Round Up of the Week,

2010-02-14T11:56:00.004+02:00

So your weeks been busy and your not sure if you got all the cool information.
Well dont worry I decided to take a look around for you and give you some of the best info. I could find. Just to round up your week and not feel to miss informed.

First of all over on Dave's blog are two note worthy articles.
The first being an exclusive extract from Tad Williams novel Shadowrise. (click on me)
The second being something aimed at our South African readers, finally an eReader
hits our shores. (click on me)

The second Piece of Information I have for you comes all the way from our friends at Angry Robot.
They have now announced that several of there authors are up for Hugo's in this years Hugo
Awards.
The List for Best Novel looks as follows:
* Slights by Kaaron Warren
* Book of Secrets by Chris Roberson
* Nekropolis by Tim Waggoner
* Kell’s Legend by Andy Remic
* Angel of Death by J Robert King
* Triumff: Her Majesty’s Hero by Dan Abnett
* Winter Song by Colin Harvey
* Sixty-One Nails by Mike Shevdon
For more on this you can take a look over there

And lastly a little round-up of some news form all over.

The Horror Writers Association have announced the winners of the Bram Stoker Lifetime Achievement and HWA Specialty Press Awards. The Lifetime Achievement award will go this year to both Brian Lumley and William F. Nolan. The Specialty Press Award goes to Tartarus Press of North Yorkshire, England. The awards will be presented in March at the World Horror Convention in Brighton, England.
Sony Pictures has optioned the rights to a series of science fiction novels by Jeff Somers, starting with The Electric Church. The novel concerns a new religion founded by a mysterious man who converts the faithful into cyborgs with human brains, enhanced robotic bodies and virtually unlimited life spans. Trevor Sands has been hired to adapt the work.
The two film adaptations being made of The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien have been furthered delayed for a new release date of late 2012. Guillermo del Toro is still directing the films, and Peter Jackson, who produced and directed the Oscar-winning films for Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, is producing.
Mervyn Peake writer of the Gormenghast series who died in 1968 seams to have left us something after all. A fourth book in the series written by his wife and based on the notes he left behind was found in the family's home attic by his granddaughter. Random House has now won the rights to release this next installment and plan to d so in July 2011 as part of a memorial to Mervyn Peake.

So there is your round-up of the weeks most interesting snit-bits i could find.
Enjoy your week and remember, keep reading!

Book Review - The Darkness Within by Jason Nahrung

2010-02-09T20:53:00.006+02:00

Well today i bring you something dark. mysterious and on the magical side.

Jason Nahrung's Book The Darkness Within is one of those classic young woman finds out she is actually a witch from a long line of witches, but still brings its own little twists.
The story follows Emily Winters, a young down on her luck photo journalist who one night finds out she is more than she ever thought.

After a mysterious stranger and a meeting in an old church she is entrusted with her granmothers old grim moire. A simple record of her family's lineage, until you start looking close, finding what the true purpose of the book actually is.

Along with an ancient family heirloom Emily becomes flooded by the memories and spirits of all her ancestors, learning about about a power carried in her family's bloodline. A secret that made her lineage the most powerful witches and unfortunately the preferred food of a dangerous cabal. A cabal who now seems to have found her after her great great grandmother gave her life to free and hide her family from them.

The story is a familiar one, but introduces some interesting aspects such as the vampire guardians and the type of family memory which allows each new witch to learn and remember the craft form those before her.

Emily's character is a very confused and sensitive one and through the story one does see some development in her. Growing more confident and coming to terms with her gifts and eventually taking on the role fo guarding her whole family and their lineage.

In some ways she is a very relateable character though a little slow in the uptake sometimes.

Apart form Emily there is Jehal, her vampire guardian and love interest who has to deal with his own internal war of betrayal.

Brett on the other hand is the wannabe hero, trying his best to protect and win Emily's heart from the Cabal and the dark and mysterious Jehal. Still he comes through for Emily in the end and undergoes a surprising transformation himself at the end of the book.

lastly no story will be complete without the antagonist, Petr Uhgrau leader of the evil Cabal fills this role. A dark and mysterious character himself he plays the obvious nice guy, trying to help Emily in discovering her own power. He does however have his own reasons for doing so, and it's not only Emily he has his eyes on.

Now though the story has some reasonable character I was rather disappointed with the pace of the book. In my opinion it took way to long for Emily to discover her powers and finally use them. Several times throughout the book I found myself getting rather bored and wishing that something would just happen.

Definitely a book for the younger teen generation, especially girls with a taste of the dark romance. More advanced readers will quickly put this book down and move on to something with a more complex or engaging storyline.

Unfortunately not part of my book list.

Still if you feel a craving for some romance, mystery and magic then you might just find yourself enjoying it. Get your copy Here if your one of our SA readers, else UK readers can find a copy Here and US readers click Here.

Next up I will be bring you a review of The Cardinals Blades, so keep and eye out for that one. The three musketeers will never be the same again.

Kaaron Warren and Angry Robot, They've done it again

2010-02-04T22:44:00.003+02:00

The folks at Angry Robot are always promising to push the boundaries,
and now there is yet again proof that they are doing it.

Here's the latest development from their little world of insanity.

When Kaaron Warren told us she wanted to re-write her next book Walking the Tree as a 20,000 word novella from the point of view of one of the book’s minor characters, we thought she was mad! But we’ve always encouraged creative madness.
Kaaron says:

“As I was writing Walking the Tree, with its strong adult and child
characters, it struck me that it would be a wonderful thing if my son and
I could be reading the same book but in appropriate versions, so I wrote
Morace’s Story, the child’s point of view version of Walking the Tree.
My idea is that every parent can share the reading of Walking the Tree with their child.
Sit there, together, reading the same book.”

Our only concern was how to fit an additional 20,000 words into an already-hefty book. The answer was so obvious we wondered why everyone else wasn’t already doing it!
The first two chapters of Morace’s Story are included at the back of Walking the Tree along with a secret DVD-style download link and password that allows you to read the entire novella online or on your eBook reader. And if you buy the eBook edition you get the whole thing as an added extra. Walking the Tree is published worldwide by Angry Robot.

UK: 4th February 2010 (ISBN: 978 0 00 732 244 2)
US: July 2010 (ISBN: 978 0 06 199 417 3)

Coming Up Next

2010-02-02T13:54:00.002+02:00

Well its the start of a new month and that means new books, new stories, new everything.
Thanks to the folks at Angry Robot I now have my very own copy of Servant of the Underworld and The Bookman

Make sure to look out for their reviews coming soon.
But right now you can expect reviews on The Darkness Within and The Cardinals Blades

So keep an eye out for the first review coming up shortly and some more book news later on in the week.
Happy Readings

Review - Liz Williams - Winterstrike

2010-01-27T20:10:00.002+02:00

Greetings Guys and Girls.

As promised I'm back with the first of many reviews

I decided to start with the first book I read before the little visit form the gremlin lifeforms and in this case that is Liz Williams's Winterstrike.

Liz is not an unknown name in the sci-fi arena having written several successful novel in several series. Winterstrike being her newest creation.

First of all I have to admit that this was not exactly my type of novel. It was a decent read, entertaining and interesting at times but over all not a repeat read for me.

Liz takes us deep into humanities future, man has colonized mars and in fact for a period of time lost contact with earth and completely forgot our origins.

Through Genetic science and in some aspects the misuse of it man has completely left the picture leave a world ruled by women. The plague of man is of such a dangerous nature that it is in fact illegal for any female to be seen in contact with a man.

The story primarily revolves around the cousins Hestia Mar, a secret spy for the Matriarchy, and Essegui who is on a mission to find and help her sister Shorn who has gone missing a year after her imprisonment for being seen with a genetically modified male.

For Hestia this is a dangerous mission, going against the Matriarchy as she discovers some dark secrets about their beloved leaders. One that takes her to the stronghold of a rebel group of men lead by a female warrior that died a thousand years ago, and eventually all the way back to earth where she makes some startling discoveries.

Essegui on the other hand undertakes a journey ending up with the same rebels but discovering very dangerous secrets about her family and her own sister Shorn who seams to be losing herself in some for of genetic transformation. She must come to accept difficult facts not only about her family and what they have done, including stealing a part of her soul, but also about herself and her limitations.

Both these characters go thorough some character development but I do believe they could have been developed a bit more.

The world Liz creates for us is truly unusual and strange and I found it difficult to grasp at times. A bit more detail into how some technologies worked could have facilitated this but overall for the majority of the book I failed to understand just how the mechanics of the machines and the essence of ghosts interlinked.
Yup that's right the machines are powered by ghosts and you use your soul to interface with them. Freaky!

If your looking for a really out there type of sci-fi novel then this should appeal to you, but for me the lack of insight into the workings of the world, the relatively slow progression of the book, and a rather disappointing and bluntly open conclusion was a rather big disappointment.

Still the almost medusa-like bad guys, or girls in this case, along with the Centipede Queen and her followers were some impressive additions to the story. Also the method of space travel was disturbingly cool.

Well I have decided not to score the books I read anymore, the review itself should allow you to decide if you want to read it or not.
Instead I will just say Interesting to read, it has its ups and downs but personally not a contender for my top list.

Non the less, well done Liz!

Two sequels are planned for Winterstrike as can be concluded from the ending of the first book, but their release dates are not known as of yet.
You can however find an interesting interview held with Liz here
Or if you decide you would like to give Winterstrike a go our SA readers can find it HERE
US readers can find it HERE and UK readers can grab there copy HERE

For now Be Fantastic and see you all soon with more reviews and interesting additions.

Cheers

Winterstrike

2010-01-25T21:38:00.002+02:00

As promised i have quite the list of reviews to publish but i will not be over eager and put them all up and over load your mind.
First up is my review for Liz Williams Winterstrike, the review will be coming your way in the next day or two.
Never thought someone would take the saying "And women shall inherent the earth" so literally, or in this case mars!

New Life into Horror

2010-01-22T13:23:00.009+02:00

The amazing Angry Robot group has signed on a new Horror author, Gary McMahon, to their label who promises to deliver quite the read.
For the full story you can find it here on Dave's site
or alternatively you can go straight to Angry Robots site and find the article here.

Book to Movie Deals

2010-01-22T13:23:00.004+02:00

Well guys and girls here is some of the first news I have for you today.
Movie deals.
With the latest trends in adapting Books to the silver screen several new books will be coming to the big TV in 2010 and post.
Apart form the teeny-boper hits of Twilight 3 - Eclipse and the first half of Deathly Hallows (whats up with that?) some more classy productions are also being launched.
Firstly is the deal to bring Carrie Ryan's The Forest of Hands and Teeth to the silver screen. You might remember the review i did for that just after mid '09. It might be able to give us a decent movie going experience for a change.
Not much i could find out on that subject apart from that the first drafts for the screenplay being in production, but will be keeping an eye out for that and informing you as more comes our way.
Secondly Terry Brooks novel Magic Kingdom for sale - Sold which forms part of the Landover series sounds to be almost done with production and could see the light of day later this year. Along with the Elfstones and the Sword of Shannara which have been in production for quite some time now, but unfortunately still has no release date.
There is also the new version of Alice in Wonderland that will be hitting cinemas sometime later this year.
Towards the end of the year we can also look out for the launch of the next installment of the Narnia series, Voyage of the Dawn Trader.
As for 2011 so far i can say i am definitely looking forward to see The Hobbit. From the few sneak peaks that have been released it definitely looks to be a pleaser.
Now then there are also a few other well loved classics that are being given a new life but more on them as the information becomes available.
For now i say Happy reading!

"Their here!", well i am at least

2010-01-22T12:42:00.003+02:00

Now after a very long and brutal absence I am back and ready to inform.
Due to some pesky gremlins, pixies, goblins and what ever other form of misfortune you would like to blame I was stuck without access to the 3 w's.
But i never stopped reading, so as you can guess i have quite a few reviews stacked up to publish and who knows what other insightful and informative inscriptions i have to upload.
As for my plans for where to go with the blog from here well lets keep that a surprise for now.
But you will soon start to see the trends as they unfold.
As for the original blog, as Dave said he will be returning to that, but we are still keeping in touch and will definitely be supporting each other.
For now I say be fantastic, and enjoy your read.

Change is Coming

2010-01-03T17:08:00.002+02:00

Hey everyone, I thought I'd give you all a heads-up about the changes coming to the blogs. :-)

As many of you may know, this was not the first blog I ran. I originally started blogging about and reviewing SFF over at my first blog, and I started this blog because I wanted to play with the options Blogger had, thinking that it would lead to a bigger, better blog. Alas, I was wrong. :-)

In the three month period that this blog has been running, it's accumulated just over 2700 hits. I thought this was pretty okay, but I also knew that there was lots of room for change and growth. I got a surprise, though, when I checked the stats of the first blog - in the same three month period, the old blog accumulated just over 30000 hits! And that was with me updating content sporadically, and then it was only writing-related stuff. So it became immediately obvious to me that the old blog was the blog everyone knew and kept on visiting; it was also the old blog that everyone had linked to, had put in their blogrolls, etc so in retrospect I have no problem saying that I was an utter fool to have thought that I could launch a new blog and enjoy as much success and attention as the old blog did. :-)

Success and attention that will probably increase! You see, a quote from my (old blog) review of Jasper Kent's Twelve has been included on the mass market paperback edition (which should already be on shelves everywhere, except in SA - we've still got a couple of weeks to wait), and I've also been mentioned in the acknowledgements of a highly anticipated book that'll be out shortly. So, making the jump back to the old blog seems like one of my better decisions of late. :-)

The other question that needs answering, I s'pose, is what will happen with this blog?

Well, David Jooste will be taking over this blog; if you need a reminder (which I'm sure you don't) David joined the old blog as a fellow reviewer some months back, and is definitely one of the reasons that my old blog and this blog were as successful as they were. :-) So, David will probably be changing things up a bit here, adding and taking away stuff until he gets the blog the way he wants it. You can expect him to keeping on reviewing SFF but the blog will be entirely his, to do with as he wants. :-)

David has got a whole slew of reviews coming up, so brace yourself! :-)

And until then, be sure to add us to your Google Reader and

be EPIC!

The Last Post of 2009!

2009-12-30T19:42:00.004+02:00

So, here we are - mere hours away from the beginning of Arthur C Clarke's second Odyssey! ;-) Let's hope that the remaining hours are good to us - it'd be really shitty having a, well, shitty end to 2009.

I thought this would be a good time to also let you know what my resolutions, SFF-wise, are:

Firstly, I'm planning to finish all the Small Press & self-published books I've received by March, at least.

I'm also going to fit in at least one Angry Robot book a month (I still owe you all my review of Kaaron Warren's Slights), as well as one Macmillan SFF title a month.

Added to that, well, to read more Science Fiction. I picked up another Greg Egan a couple of weeks back, and there's still much more to choose from on my shelves. :-)

Also, I want to purchase at least one item from Amazon.co.uk; Why? Well, I'd like to support the authors and books I review even more by posting reviews there, to help out with the all-important Amazon rankings. :-)

And that's about it - I don't think I'm over-reaching. :-)

Have you guys got any SFF-related resolutions planned? I'd love to hear them. :-)

In any case, I hope the remainder of 2009 is kickass for you all, and that 2010 starts off with an EPIC bang! :-)

See you next year!

SFF in South Africa

2009-12-29T20:30:00.002+02:00

Since I'm the only SFF reviewer from South Africa and in South Africa, I thought that it was way past time to post this 'article' / 'essay' (or whatever it turns out to be) and get all of you outside SA an inside-seat to the state of SFF here. :-)

So, where to start? I guess the best place would be my introduction to SFF.

Comics. Argue if you want, but I'm pretty sure it'll be the same for many of you out there. My parents got me started with Wendy, Casper, Spooky, and later, Archie. This is what started me reading, and you can be damn sure I'm always grateful for that. :-) Pretty soon I graduated to the comics and characters that we all know - Superman, Batman, etc and the first comic I remember reading from DC was an issue of Flash, in the post-Invasion days, where Wally West was homeless and buggered. (This is probably why Wally West, and The Flash, is my favourite DC character - yes, way above Batman, even).

You see, comics opened up such a massive world for my imagination to play in that I was completely hooked, and by the time I was in my first year of High School, I had a collection in excess of 1000 different comics. By then I had already started reading actual books (we're not that backward here!), but I still see comics as my first taste of SFF, and I collect what I can today, too. :-)

I also read plenty of books, too, but these were along the lines of Enid Blyton's The Famous Five and Franklin W. Dixon's The Hardy Boys stories. The first adult book I read was Stephen King's Pet Sematary, and I was nine years old (blame my dad for leaving his books lying around!). After King, I never touched another book meant for my age-group. :-)

The first Fantasy book I ever read was David Eddings' Pawn of Prophecy, and that led to me reading every Fantasy book in our school library in less than a year (granted, that's not such a big claim, since there weren't that many books to begin with, but still, the hunger started there). The first SF book I ever read? Arthur C. Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey.

And what an introduction those books were! Eddings (may his name always burn brightly) showed me magic, evil, battles; Clarke showed me the gorgeous beauty of space and the true meaning of the word 'extra terrestrial' (sorry, Spielberg), and from then on, I devoured everything I could get my hands on. Sometimes I would focus on SF for an entire year, and then Fantasy - I marveled at Clarke and Lee's Rama Cycle, was completely blown away by The Reality Dysfunction, and holy hell, when I discovered Robert Jordan... Let's just say that Fantasy really became fantastic!

But the question that I'm going to try and answer here is this: is the rest of South Africa the same?

As the first part of my answer, here's a shocker for you - a fact that will go a long way to explaining just why I'm the only reviewer in South Africa:

A book needs to sell between 2000 and 5000 copies to be a national BESTSELLER. I can see you doing a double-take, but that's the average. To put it even more in perspective, there are about 60000 to 70000 active readers in South Africa, and those numbers are split between every kind of book you can imagine.

What sells well here? Cookery books, Misery Memoirs, biographies, business books, and fiction along the lines of Wilbur Smith, Danielle Steel, etc.

Now, when I started working as a bookseller in 2001, I immediately felt at home in the SF section; 'S' for Science Fiction, and 'F' for Fantasy. Don't worry, I shook my head, too. Talk about not caring about the distinctions, right?

Anyway, one of the first things I noticed was that readers of SFF here were and are starved for material to read, and this problem has two parts;

The first, and, I suppose, most important, part of the problem, is how long we have to wait for books. You see, because we're such a small market here, our publishers / distributors have to acquire rights to get the books into the market. What this means for us is that we have to wait an average of 3 months from the date of publication for the books to hit our shelves. With the huge international publications such as the Harry Potter novels and The Lost Symbol that period is null and void, but with everything else the 3-month rule applies. (Sometimes we strike it lucky - case in point, Peter V Brett's The Painted Man; the publisher's here sent me a copy in late July 2008, and my review of it was the review that got me started in the blogosphere.)

The second aspect of the problem is that there isn't much book knowledge among book sellers here. I'm not saying that the majority of us are complete dunces, but book sellers here think they know a lot and don't actually know as much as they think they know. The knowledge we do have must, necessarily, be focused on the books that make the most money in our market, and none of those books include anything from SFF (once again, JK Rowling would be the exception to the rule). I'm an aberration, of course. :D

A smaller, though no less important, part of the problem is that every bookseller or manager has their own opinion on what will sell and where it should be sectioned. A good example of this would be Cormack McCarthy's The Road; I took it out of Fiction (mainstream, non-genre if you like) and put it in Science Fiction & Fantasy (we're lucky enough to have the section named as such in the our shop). What happened? 3 copies sold in a week, whereas in Fiction, 3 copies didn't sell in a month. Now it's a mainstay of my section (yes, I'm in charge of SFF in our store) and when I tell people that the book they're looking at is by the same author of No Country for Old Men, they seem a bit shocked. You see, there are just some books that don't sell in sections where they should normally go, so experimentation is needed in our market.

Now, my section pulls in more money than any other section in the shop, and this is directly sure to Stephanie Meyer's Twilight Saga books being sectioned there - I'm pretty damn excited to see how my section will hold up once sales start dropping off, but thankfully, it wont be happening any time soon. Why did I section Meyer in SFF? Well, it just didn't fit anywhere else. Plus, why pass up the opportunity to show off the non-vampire stuff? Browsing in my section opens up universes. :-)

But there are still books that don't sell. :-(

Gemmell, for instance, has dropped off quite a bit - but James Barclay is rising to the occasion. Steven Erikson is consistently a good seller, and so is Robert Jordan, as is Trudi Canavan and (brace yourselves) Terry Goodkind. (Hey, no matter what Terry says, I will put his books in SFF!) On the SF side of things, well, that's a bit of a struggle, unfortunately. :-( Sales for SF are slow and sporadic. Why? Blame Peter Jackson, I s'pose, but I think this goes deeper.

So see, we South Africans are a strange people. Our history makes us farmers, predominantly; that's the foundation we come from. And farmers don't have time to read. Centuries and decades down the line, you've got people who read at school, because they have to. You see, it's just not an important part of life here, it isn't encouraged. Sad, but true. The situation is changing, thanks to the likes of Rowling and Meyer (not so much Peter Jackson - I still get customers saying that they tried to read The Lord of the Rings but didn't like it because Tolkien left out scenes that were in the movies); more people are reading here, teenagers, yes, but they are reading. This leads to sales across the board, but still not as much as I would like to see.

I've been blogging now for a year and four months, and I've run a couple of giveaways which have completely failed. Either readers here are inherently distrustful of anything free, or they just weren't interested. I also consistently get more visits from the USA and UK than SA, even though everyone I know is on Facebook, so it's not a problem of internet access. As long as I can read, though, I'll be blogging and reviewing, and I've now got a reputation among SA publishers that I need to uphold, anyway. :-)

These are the reasons why the SFF market in SA is so small, and the only thing we can hope for is that (and this is a fact, not me being egotistical) more book sellers like me get into the book trade. We also need the publishers to take a more active role in bringing more SFF into SA, but that depends on sales. And above all, as book sellers, we need to make damn sure that all of our customers keep coming back. More sales means that we can experiment with them, take chances, and get them to read outside their comfort zone.

The small SFF market leaves us with another problem, though; loads and loads of people writing SFF, but no-one getting published. :-(

So, there we go. We've got an uphill climb, all the time, but damn it, it's an incredible climb with spectacular views! :-)

Be EPIC!

Good (and bad) news from Michael J Sullivan, author of The Riyria Chronicles

2009-12-28T18:08:00.005+02:00

Robin Sullivan, Michael's wife, sent me an email last week that informing me about some good and bad news concerning Michael's books, news that needs to be spread. :-)

The first batch of news, and this is good news, is this (taken from this post on the blog that Michael and Robin run):

"It is only Christmas Eve but the holiday season has already been very good to me. Sales of The Crown Conspiracy, Avempartha, and Nyphron Rising have been phenomenal."

Now, that's the kind of news that every author wants to hear! :-) I mean, imagine being on your first Epic/Heroic Fantasy series and receiving that news? Surely a cause for celebration if there ever was one! :-) I'm pretty damn chuffed for Michael and Robin - not only does this signify that The Riyria Revelations (3 books available so far in this great series) is being read and enjoyed by scores of readers worldwide, but that the work they put into this series has borne fruit, and continues to. :-)

Unfortunately, there is a slightly crappy situation that has arisen, and this is also one of those situations that authors the world over can probably sympathize with; it concerns The Crown Conspiracy:

"Amazon is out of stock. Book Depository is out of stock. Powell’s is out of stock. Barnes & Nobles is out of stock. Abes Books is out of stock. Everyone except rare booksellers—who are offering the book as outrageous prices—are all out of stock."

So, there you have it. :-(

But what does this mean? Well, basically, if your order your copies of Book 1 The Crown Conspiracy, you wont get the book in the advertised time because it's on back-order, awaiting stock (i.e. the second print run). You see, the entire print-run has sold out. Awesome, awesome news, no doubt about that, but that means that thousands of readers, wanting to dive into the world that Michael has created, will be out of luck getting copies of the book.

BUT DON'T DESPAIR!

Michael and Robin, showing a level of planning-for-the-future that may amaze you, have a solution:

Using this link (which will take you through to Michael's website), you can order copies of the The Crown Conspiracy, and you'll be able to get copies! :-) You see, they bought several hundred copies! So hundreds of lucky people out there will be able to get hold of the book and start their journey into The Riyria Revelations! :-) Also, Avempartha and Nyphron Rising are also available to order; there's still stock available of those two books. You may see, however, that the books are a tad more expensive than what they cost on Amazon, and that's totally understandable; I mean, how exactly would Michael be able to match the discounts that Amazon offers? Well, here's the solution: Michael offers a 15% discount, plus he will personalize the book for you - that means a signature and/or dedication. :-) And that includes not only The Crown Conspiracy but Book 2 and Book 3, too.

Now, I'm sure some of you will still want to order The Crown Conspiracy through Amazon, Powells, B&N, but the second printing wont be available until around March 2010 - if you're willing to wait (and you probably wont be disappointed, I believe), then go ahead and place your orders. But if you aren't willing to wait, order your copies from Michael and Robin, and you'll be able to get the books signed and personalized, too. :-)

For those lucky bastards out there who have Kindle's, there's no need to worry: The Crown Conspiracy is available at this link. :-)

So, there we have it - The Crown Conspiracy has SOLD OUT it's first print-run, but there is still stock available at this link, and you can get your copies personalized, too. :-) Good news all round, in my opinion! :-)

If you'd like to see what I thought about The Crown Conspiracy, check out my review here, and here's my review of Avempartha. A review of Nyphron Rising will be up early in 2010, so keep your eyes peeled for that. :-)

Be EPIC!

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

2009-12-24T20:24:00.002+02:00

I just wanted to wish all of you, religious or not, a wonderful 25th of December. :-) Whatever this day means to you and however you will spend it, I hope that you all enjoy it! And let's hope, too, that there's plenty of SFF on its way to you! :-)

Be safe,

Be EPIC!

The Pre-Christmas Post

2009-12-23T18:35:00.002+02:00

Here we are again! Man, seriously - it feels like a couple of months have passed since this time last year! And just why is it that time goes faster the older you get? *shaking my head* Last year at around this time I was absolutely knackered after a hectic day at Fascination Books Kolonnade (and I'm buggered after today, so nothing's changed), I had set up the desktop in the lounge so that I could smoke while I write (which worked out well, as I wrote 'Stalker' because of that move, and the desktop has since been destroyed by lightning but I've got my Acer Aspire One!), and my girlfriend was away on holiday visiting her mom (same thing again this year). Sounds like not much has changed, right? ;-)

Well, many things have, and for the better. :-)

First off, I moved the blog to Blogger. I decided to move it because Blogger just offers more - case in point, as I'm the only South African in South Africa that blogs about SFF, I couldn't really afford to upgrade on Wordpress to be able to upload videos and music files. Sure, embedding a video still worked, but even thinking about that restriction P'd me off a bit. I also wasn't able to add widgets, java-stuff, etc, and the old blog looks pretty damn boring compared to this blog, don't you think? I still miss the old blog, though; it'll always be my baby, and without it, I wouldn't have made impact I did, made the friends I've made, or learned as much about blogging as I have. I've been blogging now for over a year (July 2010 will be 2 YEARS!), and in that time, I've been welcomed into one of the coolest groups on the planet - I receive free books from publishers and authors, I get to talk about what I'm passionate about, I get to chat with authors, editors, agents and fellow bloggers, I get to read some awesome books, and, above all, sometimes my opinion helps people choose what they want to read! How awesome is that?! :-)

Besides that, this year saw David Jooste joining me as a fellow reviewer, an occurrence which I'm very grateful for. :-) Sure, David has read and reviewed some awesome books before I did, but he's added immeasurably to the blog, and has also been embraced by fellow bloggers. :-) His joining me as a reviewer is also another reason why I decided to create a new blog - it just didn't seem fair to me he reviews SFF on a blog with my name in it.

Another awesome event that took place: Jasper Kent let me know that my review of Twelve (reviewed here on the old blog and here on this blog - both posts are exactly the same) is quoted in the paperback edition of Twelve! :-) How damn awesome is that?! :D I absolutely cannot wait to see my quote on one of the best-selling trade paperbacks of 2008. :-)

This year also saw me being lucky enough to have read Paul Hoffman's The Left Hand of God (reviewing coming up early next year), and I was also one of the veryyy lucky bastards to have received a limited edition proof copy of Stephen King's Under the Dome - almost 2 months before it was available (thanks to Jonathan Ball Publishers for that!). :-)

Much, much more has happened this year! And that makes it an awesome year for the blog, no doubt. :-)

Will 2010 be bigger and better? Count on it! :-) I've had some ideas about things that I'll try out sometime next year, plus there are some incredible titles coming up (and more interviews, too). :-)

The next post will be a look-back on 2009, so until then,

Be EPIC!

An Update for Independant Publishers and Authors

2009-12-22T18:31:00.005+02:00

I'm sure plenty of you out there have been wondering about how far along I am with the books that you've been so kind in sending through - either as eBooks (PDFs) or as bound books; this post should clear up everything. :-)

Since the start of the old blog and the creation of this new blog, many independent Publishers and authors have send through books for me to review, and right now, I'll have to necessarily put a freeze on accepting books to review. Everyone who knows me knows how much I love reading and that I'll never have enough books, but I'm doing some authors out there a disservice by accepting more and more and adding to my reading-load, so as of this post, (unless we've already corresponded and I have agreed to accept more books / PDFs from you), please don't contact me until I announce that I'm open for accepting more books / PDFs to review.

This isn't about me deciding I've had enough - believe me, it really isn't! - but many of you are waiting for reviews from me, and I'm reading as fast as I can; adding more is not just putting more pressure on me as a reviewer but is also creating an apprehension on the part of the authors and publishers who have been awesome enough in sending through material for me to read and review.

I'm also limiting this to independents, and you might think it unfair, but look at it this way - authors with big, established houses such as DAW, Bantam Spectra, Harper Voyager, Gollancz, Del Rey, Tor, Orbit, etc have already got a huge network of reviewers, and although it pains me to say so, if I don't review a SFF title from one of them, someone will. Independents, however, are more limited, and need more help from us Reviewers - they don't have the marketing, promotional or monetary support that the big publishers enjoy, and many authors put their own hard-earned money into getting their books printed, shipping them out to reviews, etc.

So that's my position on this - I'll read and review what I've got at the moment, and then open for for submissions. :-)

Here's the rundown of what I've got - reviews guaranteed:

Stephen Zimmer: The Exodus Gate & Crown of Vengeance

A.J. Scudiere: Resonance

Adin Kachisi: Rise of the Anakim

Corey K Cotta: All of Yesterday's Tomorrows

Spencer Baum: The Demon Queen and the Locksmith

Edward Morris: There Was a Crooked Man

Leona Wisoker: Secrets of the Sands

Brian Libby: Storm Approaching

Michael J Sullivan: Nyphron Rising

Brian Rathbone: The Dawning of Power

David W Barbee: Carnageland

Curly Raphino: Fire in the Ocean, a New Testament

Leigh Bridger - Soul Catcher

Katherine Gilraine: The Index: Book 1 - Mages

Fran Jacobs: The Shadow Seer

Visions - Volume 1: Strider Nolan Media
Visions - Volume 2: Strider Nolan Media

Robert Preston: The Siege

As you can see, that's quite a list! And I'm pretty sure, too, that you understand why I've chosen to close submissions for reviews. I've got a lot of reading to get through!

At the moment, I'm reading Storm Approaching by Brian Libby, The Siege by Robert Preston, The Exodus Gate by Stephen Zimmer and All of Yesterday's Tomorrows by Corey K Cotta. As soon as I'm done with those, I'll be launching into Nyphron Rising by Michael J Sullivan (received this in October already!), and then I'll be announcing the next batch of books to be read. I guarantee reviews of all the titles listed, and I'll send the authors and publishers links to the reviews as soon as they are up.

So please be patient - I'm hoping for two reviews before the end of 2009! :-)

And please also understand that I will also be reviewing books sent to me by the bigger publishers - I must also repay their awesomeness, just as I must repay yours. :-)

As always,
Be EPIC!

P.S. If I've forgotten you ( and I may have ), please send me an email to remind me and I'll amend this post and add you to the reading list. :-)

P.P.S. My fellow reviewer David is (as far as I know) not laboring under any reading restrictions, so feel free to contact him. :-)

John Jarrold's Corner: News & Mark C Newton News!

2009-12-21T19:36:00.006+02:00

I've got one last batch of news for you from John Jarrold for 2009, and it really is awesome news!

PRESS RELEASE – TWO-BOOK DEAL FOR SF NOVELIST PHILIP PALMER

Bella Pagan, Commissioning Editor of Orbit UK, has acquired two new novels by British SF author Philip Palmer. The agent was John Jarrold, and the deal was for World rights.

These novels – the first is entitled HELLSHIP – are both due for delivery in 2010, and will see a concerted push by Orbit on both sides of the Atlantic in 2011.

Philip’s first novel, DEBATABLE SPACE, was published in 2008, with RED CLAW following earlier this year. His work has drawn praise from the Guardian, SFX magazine and many other sources, both in print and on-line. The latter novel features in the Top Twenty SF novels published in 2009 in leading genre website SF Crowsnest’s reader poll. His third SF novel, VERSION 43, comes from both Orbit UK and Orbit US in 2010.

Wonderful news for Philip! :-) Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, and I'm really chuffed that we'll be reading more of his incredibly funny blend of hard SF / Space Opera! :-)

Next up, here's the official US cover of Mark Newton's impending entrance into the US Fantasy market - Night's of Villjamur! (I quite like the cover, btw)

Mark is also looking back on 2009 in this post, and head on over to Pat's blog to read an excerpt of the sequel to Nights of Villjamur, coming in 2010! :-)

Be EPIC!

Review: Avatar (Movie Review)

2009-12-19T10:19:00.004+02:00

Last night a friend and I went to go watch Avatar, and we were both completely blown away! Not only is it an incredible 3D movie (and the first I've seen), it's also a movie with a very strong message - a message that I'm afraid will go completely un-noticed because it has been packaged in entertainment.

So, we sat down, watched the previews of other movies -and the plethora of TV ads that are the irritating norm for SA movie-goers- and when the movie started, we slipped on our 3D glasses...

The first thing that grabbed by attention -during the main character's voice-over- was, of course, the 3D. Even though you don't see much in the beginning, it's still amazing, though it was introduced in a manner that made you want to say, "Okay, that's cool, but not breathtaking or amazing." I'm glad that James Cameron took this route, because it would have been terrible to showcase everything the 3D technology could do in the first ten minutes of the movie.

As the movie progresses, James really ups the ante - and as the world of Pandora is revealed, the 3D tech almost overawes you -almost, I say, because James balances showcasing the tech with the absolutely stunning world he has created; Pandora really is an alien world, and is stunningly beautiful! Everything from the plants to the landscapes to the creatures - the CGI is so realistic that you'll find yourself thinking on more than one occasion that there must be a world like Pandora somewhere, and that James Cameron traveled there to shoot the movie. It will, without a doubt, take your breath away!

Another aspect in which this movie really works, and which ties in to Pandora itself, is the culture of the natives - and this is where, I believe, the message and lesson of Avatar will be glossed over and forgotten in the hype and beauty of the movie:

I bet if all the delegates at Copenhagen watched this movie, they would be awed, would enjoy it, would cheer at the movie's climactic battle - but would they get the message? Would any of us? The story at the heart of Avatar is about destruction, and the hope that it can be halted, or at least staved off. Either way, I really hope this movie is not only enjoyed and celebrated because of its utter beauty and the incredible technology employed within it, as well as the fact that it looks at issues the whole world is facing, and forces us to acknowledge those issues and deal with them.

Avatar is a movie that you simply must watch in a movie theatre - watch in in 3D, watch it in IMAX, as many times as you can!

9/10

An Aside: Introducing Darius Pretorius - Part 2

2009-12-17T20:12:00.010+02:00

Hey everyone, I'm back with some incredible artwork from my talented friend, Darius. :-)

Once again, if nudity doesn't sit well with you, then DON'T LOOK AT THIS POST. Don't say I didn't warn you. :-)

Phoenix

Darius didn't supply names for the rest of the pieces, perhaps fittingly. :-)

There we go, two posts (this and the previous post of Darius' beautiful artwork. :-) Remember, if you'd like to contact Darius for any reason (hopefully to tell him what talent he has and how beautiful his work is) then drop him a line at the following email address:

Darius (dot) Pretorius (at) iprosol (dot) co (dot) za

That's it for now! Until tomorrow,

Be EPIC!

An Aside: Introducing Darius Pretorius - Part 1

2009-12-16T20:23:00.010+02:00

Hey guys and girls, I thought I'd change things up a bit by posting something new and non-SFF related.

Darius is a friend of mine, and he's an artist, too; we got to talking about his work a couple of weeks ago and I offered him the opportunity of getting his work onto the blog so that it could be seen by a wider audience, which I feel is needed and completely justified. Darius' work is beautiful!

This post will show 6 pieces, and tomorrow's post will show the remaining 7 pieces. And please note, these are photos of the pieces, not JPEGs. :-) Also, I'm warning you straight out - there is nudity in some of the pieces, so if it offends you, DON"T LOOK AT IT.

Enjoy!

Chimp

Desert

Desert Symbols

Desire

Madonna

Nymph

I'll be posting the remaining 7 pieces tomorrow. :-) If you'd like to contact Darius, you can reach him at this email address:

Darius (dot) Pretorius (at) iprosol (dot) co (dot) za

Until tomorrow,

Be EPIC!

The Desert Spear by Peter V Brett - My Fan Video

2009-12-15T16:12:00.005+02:00

I made this video on the 15th as a thank-you to Peat - for The Painted Man, being such an awesome guy, and for helping out a blogger from South Africa to get a foothold in the blogosphere. :-) Thanks Peat!

Hope you all enjoy it!

I hope you've pre-ordered your copies already! Click here for US, here for UK and here for South Africa.

Be EPIC!

Review: Angry Ghosts by F. Allen Farnham

2009-12-15T11:47:00.006+02:00

I've owed Allen this review for a while now, and I'm happy to finally post it. :-)

Angry Ghosts follows the story of what might happen when the absolute worst happens - humanity is practically wiped out in a surprise attack and those that remain are left to struggle and survive, but don't let this simple plot-explanation fool you - Allan has crafted a tale that explores what it means to be human, and what it means to survive when you are vastly outnumbered and outgunned.

Diving into the review, the first thing that I noticed was Allen's ability to describe movement and action - his descriptions are so well written that you hardly notice them; they sort of creep up upon you and bushwhack you while you're not looking, and as the world takes shapes around you in more and more detail, you realize that Allen is extremely good at painting scenes and descriptions that resonate and come alive in your mind. He also writes battle scenes like a master - the action is brutal and frenetic, whether its hand-to-hand or a battle between vessels in space. These are the kind of scenes that would translate extremely well onto the big screen!

The world that Allen has created for Angry Ghosts is also very well realized, and its obvious that he put in a lot of effort to make sure that everything had a depth and history too, from the vessels to the weapons to the clothes the characters wear, including the worlds they live in. Everything has a purpose and is not just background-clutter.

Allen also manages, while sharing his tale, to force us to look at our own lives - how we live them, what we consider to be right and wrong, even what we sacrifice to survive. He builds a convincing stage that reflects us at ourselves - if that makes any sense - and often times you'll be left thinking, Man, if only that were so; the world would be a better place.

The tale does leave you with some questions, though, and I sincerely hope that these questions will be answered by a sequel - Angry Ghosts works on its own, but it is clear that this is the opening tale in a story that has the potential to be a series that will explore and play with many ideas that have been done in SF and Fantasy, but which I'm pretty sure Allen will be able to put his own unique spin on.

Definitely a novel that deserves to be read and enjoyed; highly recommended!

8 / 10

To order your copies of Angry Ghosts, click here for US and here for UK.

For more info on F. Allen Farnham, check out the Cadre One Publishing website and the blog. Also, check out this review on Only The Best Sci-Fi/Fantasy!

Review: The Wheel of Time Book 12 - The Gathering Storm by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson

2009-12-14T10:02:00.006+02:00

So, I finally managed to get a copy and read it. Practically a month and a half after it was published worldwide, but I did get it. And here are my thoughts:

I will admit that I was a bit worried about the book after I read the first chapter posted at Tor.com; I immediately picked up that this wasn't Jordan, and my instinct was to be a bit put out and disappointed. Until, that is, I realized the most important thing - this was Robert Jordan's book, but he did not write it. Some of you might be thinking, Huh? That's obvious! But think about this a little. Is any negative response towards the book justified, when taking into consideration that Robert Jordan was unable to write this book? If you were looking for a book written by Robert Jordan, there are plenty to choose from, including some westerns, but The Gathering Storm is not one of those books. Robert Jordan did not write this book! I'm just trying to make you few who might hate this book understand that. It is his book, but he did not write it because he, very sadly, died. Brandon Sanderson worked off notes, worked with Harriet and Mr Jordan's assistants, to write this book. So it is Robert Jordan's book, and it most definitely is a worthy Wheel of Time book. :-)

Okay, to my thoughts:

The prologue, in which a farmer we have never met before decides to pack up and move towards the building storm -to do his part in the battle that is coming- was an incredible piece! This section, more than any other, really brought home to me how close Tar'mon Gaidon is, and sets the tone for The Gathering Storm as well as The Towers of Midnight and A Memory of Light. In my opinion, the best of all previous Wheel of Time prologues!

And then you read further... Rand takes center-stage, and this Rand is dark and brooding and, worryingly, terrifying. I really came to like Rand, to commiserate and sympathize with him, but this Rand... This Rand was not the Rand I knew. I'm not saying that Brandon didn't capture him, that Brandon totally destroyed the character - I'm saying that, in a way, I didn't want this to be the rand I knew and liked. Like Min and Cadsuane, I didn't want to acknowledge the fact that pressure -and who has more immense pressure on him than the Dragon Reborn- changes a person; rand could not be the same person he was when we met him on the Quarry Road. He had to become harder and darker and ruthless. And when I understood this, I was able to read on - wincingly, and on the edge of my seat.

Falling deeper into the book is was a joy - not only did Brandon manage to capture the characters -even Aviendah- perfectly, but his understanding of the world and the story came through gloriously. You can tell that Brandon really has a deep and abiding love of the world and characters created by RJ, and a deep respect, too. I never once got the feeling that characters were reacting in ways that were at odds with how RJ wrote them, something that must have been incredibly difficult to do. I mean, not only was (and he still is, I believe)he under immense pressure from fans, the general Fantasy community, Tor, etc but he also had to handle characters and events that have been with us since 1992! A tall order, but something that Brandon accomplished in grand style, in my opinion. :-)

Moving to the events of the book, there are plenty of major surprises! Rand, as I said before, is terrible - by terrible I mean he's the kind of opponent I would cross oceans to escape! Now, more than any time before, he has embraced being the Dragon Reborn, and what he does in this book will knock your socks off! One event, in particular, will have the Forsaken s******g their pants, that's for sure! Brandon (via RJ's notes) sets the pace and keeps to it, charging the story through glimpses of the Forsaken, a very important and fateful day in the life of Tuon, Mat entering a creepy village, one of Egwene's Dreams coming true, and more events involving Rand. I was left breathless on many occasions, my girlfriend glancing at me and frowning most of the time because of me cheering or gasping or shaking my head or swearing, and on occasion, even laughing! There are some truly hilarious moments in the book, and not just in chapters devoted to Mat. :-)

In my opinion, Brandon succeeds at respecting and, in some ways, enhancing The Wheel of Time, as well as pushing events onwards towards the Final Battle. This book is definitely a worthy successor to the legacy and brilliance of Robert Jordan and I wouldn't mind at all if Brandon was asked to do the two other prequels that RJ planned to do or the Outrigger novel.

All in all, while this may not be the book we were waiting for -because RJ wasn't able to write it- this is definitely a must-read for all Wheel of Time fans and without a doubt one of the best books in the series. Not only did I enjoy it immensely, it also left me with the need to go back and read the rest of the books - not for re-reading purposes, not because I want to refresh myself on events and character arcs, but because I want to relive meeting the characters, watching the events unfold and learning about the world and its history. After The Gathering Storm, I love The Wheel of Time all the more!

My verdict: Very entertaining, exciting and a worthy addition to The Wheel of Time - 9 / 10!

To order your copies, click here for US, here for the UK, and for those in SA, use the Kalahari link at the top of the page or click here to order from Exclusive Books.

Back with Content!

2009-12-13T15:07:00.008+02:00

Ah, it feels so good to be back! :-) We ended up getting a new ADSL modem and I can now connect to the internet through my notebook -the desktop still being a pile of once-electronic slag- so all is well! :-)

I thought I'd give you guys some cool stuff to check out on this crazily hot -in Pretoria, South Africa, at least- Sunday afternoon. :-)

First up, some new cover-art from Angry Robot for forthcoming novels -

Here's Kaaron Warren's Walking the Tree:

And here's the blurb for you, too; sounds like it'll be an incredible read!

Botanica is an island, but almost all of the island is taken up by the Tree.

Little knowing how they came to be here, small communities live around the coast line. The Tree provides them shelter, kindling, medicine – and a place of legends, for there are ghosts within the trees who snatch children and the dying.

Lillah has come of age and is now ready to leave her community and walk the tree for five years, learning all Botanica has to teach her. Before setting off, Lillah is asked by the dying mother of a young boy to take him with her. In a country where a plague killed half the population, Morace will otherwise be killed in case he has the same disease. But can Lillah keep the boy’s secret, or will she have to resort to breaking the oldest taboo on Botanica?

Next up, I've got Colin Harvey's second Angry Robot offering for you - Damage Time!

It’s 2050 and sea-levels have swamped today’s coastal regions. New York City is protected by tidal barriers and the USA is bankrupt.

Detective Pervez (Pete) Shah serves with the NYPD’s Web Crimes Division as a Memory Association Specialist. When he’s accused of murdering a glamorous woman in a bar, he must find the killer, save himself … and the world.

There has been some debate about the cover art over at Walker of Worlds, and while I believe this isn't a terrible cover, I think it could be a bit better. :-) What do you think?

Next up, Andy Remic's sequel to first book in The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, Kell's Legend; here's Soul Stealers!

The sequel to Kell’s Legend – more blood-soaked, action-packed, vampire-laced dark epic fantasy.

Kell is being hunted. The vampires are fighting back against him, and the mighty hero finds himself the prey of two beautiful but deadly vampire assassins.

Their bronze fangs are coming for him.

He will strike back.

And here's Lavie Tidhar's first novel for Angry Robot, The Bookman;

A brilliant criminal stalks the streets of London. Scotland Yard is on his trail. But how can the city remain safe when every book is a potential weapon?

Angry Robot have also started their own 12-Days-of-Christmas thing, and every day from now until Christmas they'll be posting a little something from their authors on the site. Today, launching the cool endeavour, is Collin Harvey and his short story, Alternativity.

Also in the news, awesome fantasy author John Marco has started blogging again! Let's give him a massive Welcome Back! :-)

Peter V Brett is hosting a competition that'll have thousands of entries, I'm sure - he's giving away ARC's of his eagerly awaited sequel to The Painted Man, The Desert Spear! Check out the link for details on how to enter.

Tomorrow I'll have my review of the excellent Jordan-Sanderson twelfth Wheel of Time novel, The Gathering Storm, and on Tuesday I'll be posting my review of F Allen Farnham's Angry Ghosts. It absolutely kicked Brandon Sanderson's Warbreaker's arse - check out this link for details on how and why. :-)

Oh, and get ready for some for KICKASS Star Wars Force-Unleashing!

Until tomorrow,

Be EPIC!

Why I Haven't Been Blogging...

2009-12-07T13:58:00.002+02:00

Hey Guys and Girls, so here's the problem:

Last week Wednesday there was a huge storm, lightning, cloud-bursts, the works, and while I was at work, lightning struck at home. My girlfriend phoned me and said that the power had just gone out and that she thought something inside the TV had exploded. It turned out that our satellite decoder had been struck, and it's now stuffed. We've been catapulted back into the 50's with that decade's black-and-white imagery. :-(

But that's not all. My desktop was struck, too; apparently it got such a massive hit that the processer's mounting has melted, which in effect means that the motherboard is now about as useful as a cardboard-screwdriver. So that means I'll have to get a new desktop. :-(

But that, too, is not all. The ADSL modem was struck, too, along with the phone line. Now, the modem survived intact, but the phone line is messed up, so no internet. I've still got my notebook to work on, but I have no connecting to the internet.

I've looked at my options and, if everything goes well, will be up and running again in the week of the 16th. Hopefully. :-( So, please understand that until then, there wont be any new content on the blog. David, too, has had a run of bad luck (his laptop was stolen on his birthday, no less), so we're both a bit screwed at the moment. :-(

But I can still be reached (for all of those who have our email addresses, and I'm on Twitter, too (just search for RealmsGalaxies), and my Blackberry is still okay. :-)

Hang in there and we'll be up and at it again before too long! :-)

And Be EPIC!

Sherrilyn Kenyon - The League Trilogy Competition

2009-12-02T13:39:00.005+02:00

Hey everyone, some awesome news from St Martin's Press regarding Sherrilyn Kenyon's new (and now complete and entirely available) trilogy, The League, comprised of the following books:

Born of Night

Born of Fire

Born of Ice

To celebrate this new trilogy from Sherrilyn Kenyon, St Martin's Press is offering 20 readers in the USA a chance to win free downloads of all three books! :-) If you'd like to enter, check out this link. :-)

And here's a new trailer for you all to enjoy - since all the books are now available, the book trailer has been redone! Enjoy!

For more info on Sherrilyn and The League, check out these links: The Official Website for The League, Sherrilyn's official website, and the website dedicated to The Sanctuary.

Until tomorrow,

Be EPIC!

Free Fiction - Mercury Retrograde Press Presents!

2009-12-01T19:14:00.004+02:00

Hey everyone, thanks to Barbara Friend Ish I have some great free fiction for you! :-)

Edward Morris' There Was a Crooked Man has been serialized; the first book, Book Zero - Death Inc. is ready to be read and enjoyed! Taken from the website:

"Welcome to the world of master fabulist Edward Morris, where History has been pulled down a Hieronymus Bosch rabbit-hole and everything makes far too much sense...

Things are strange out in western Pennsylvania. It's a matter for debate whether they've always been that way. But if things are getting creepy in Powersburg, we're going to need a new word for what's coming into the County Morgue..."

If you're interested -and who wouldn't be, come on- then click here for the main site; you'll see that the serializations have been split into 'canvases', so go ahead and start at 1 if you don't want to be confused. :-) A new canvas is posted every Friday, so set your alarms, mark your calendars, whatever you need to do!

The link will take you through to the page set up on Mercury Retrograde Press' website for the serializations, and this is how I'd suggest you proceed; make a cup of coffee, or juice, or prepare your favourite poison, and then settle down and bookmark the site before you plunge in. :-) And once you're done, check out what else Mercury Retrograde Press has to offer - you're sure to find something you'll enjoy. :-)

And don't forget to spread the word!

Be EPIC!

A Very Short Review of New Moon

2009-11-30T12:03:00.004+02:00

Hey everyone, hope you all had an enjoyable weekend! :-) Mine could have been much better, but hey, you take the good with the bad, right?

Anyway, so I went to go watch New Moon. I really should have waited for DVD, as well as listened to @mattlibrarian; it was a waste of time and money.

We sat down to watch it, thinking that the hype must be deserved - after all, other than Harry Potter, this is the biggest movie-series to hit the cinema in recent history, and millions of poor girls lose their minds every time the simple word, 'Edward' is uttered aloud. An d I will admit, in many cases, this mania towards The Twilight Saga is deserved - it takes a sharp eye to notice when the masses are ripe to exploited, and the teams of people behind the marketing drives have gone well above the call of duty in making sure that everyone alive (practically) knows about the movies.

I'll also freely admit that I liked the first movie; Twilight was not only not as soppy as I thought it would be, but it also succeeded in making Vampires interesting again - at least for me. (I still believe, though, that Lestat, Marius and even poor Louis would put a huge smackdown on the Cullen-family, in terms of both power and pure style) I walked out of that movie thinking, "Okay, not bad, I'll be watching New Moon when it hits the screen." I wasn't hooked on Stephanie Meyer's books (I have yet to read any of her work) but I was on the front lines, working in a bookstore as I do. So seeing the mania grow did its part in insulating me from its effects, you could say. :-) But yes, I did enjoy Twilight, the movie.

But New Moon... It really was a waste. First of all, the director of Twilight should have been kept on to direct New Moon. Twilight flows where it must, speeds when needed, and had a palpable atmosphere of danger when Bella was being targeted by the rogue vampires (including Victoria). New Moon supposedly upped the stakes, pushing Bella into more danger, but you couldn't tell. And that, I'm afraid, was mostly due to the acting of Ms Stewart. The only time there was any real emotion from her was in the sequences when she was having nightmares, and then we didn't even get to see her face, just heard her screaming. I've never been so frustrated by an actor before, honestly. There was no variation at all in her acting, and Bella (as far as I can tell from friends who have read all the books) was ripped to shreds. She seemed like an Emo-chic that I would just as soon frown at and ignore than have to rely on her to tell a tale that'll keep me interested.

Another aspect of the movie that dragged it down even further into the muck was the pacing - I was literally waiting for something to happen that might push my heart-rate up a bit, even during the (I have to admit) excellent fight-scenes involving the Wolves Vs Vampire and Vampire Vs Vampires. The movie dragged too much. And someone please explain why it seemed that no-one could speak coherently? Or at a steady, normal pace? Why did it take 30 seconds to say three words?

Anyway, suffice it to say that I did not enjoy the movie at all. But I will say this - I'll be reading the books. Often, an adaptation is terrible because it's difficult to adapt it to the screen, and that usually implies that the book itself is excellent. Case in point, Thomas Harris' Hannibal. So I'll read the books, sometime, and offer my thoughts on them - hopefully before Eclipse hits the screen. :-)

Until then,

Be EPIC!

New Projects Coming from Stephen King

2009-11-27T12:45:00.003+02:00

Now, I hope most of you have read Under the Dome and have given yourselves over to a King-fest (I know I would like to!), but if you've read of Stephen King's work and are starved for new material, you'll have to still wait a bit. :-)

The King has announced one project, and the web is a-buzz with rumors of another - the projects being a return to the worlds of The Dark Tower and a sequel to The Shining.

The King has said that he'll be writing either a novel or a series of interlinked stories set between Volume 4: Wizard and Glass, and Volume 5: Wolves of the Calla, and that these stories (or the novel) will have the title The Wind Through the Keyhole. There has been much debate on this, with some saying, basically, Leave It Alone, and others foaming at the mouths for more Dark Tower material; I'm of the latter - The Dark Tower saga is such an incredible tale that I would love another addition to it - goodness knows that the worlds King created for the series (worlds which link to his body of work in many ways) have almost limitless tales waiting to be told! :-) (Thanks to Piotr for the info!)

I'll keep you updated on news concerning The Wind Through the Keyhole, though, :-)

Now, concerning a sequel to The Shining, King hasn't yet decided whether to actually write the book or not. The story might focus on Danny, he who has the Shine, as a 40-year old, and might be titled Doctor Sleep. It'll be interesting to see in which direction King takes the character and events, and I for one am, of course, itching to read it! :-) (Thanks to Lood for the info!)

What do you think? Return to the Dark Tower or write a sequel to The Shining or both?

Be EPIC!

A Quick Update...

2009-11-26T14:46:00.003+02:00

... of absolutely bugger-all. :-) I have nothing specific to blog about today, but I will tell you that I'm reading The Gathering Storm - Brandon was an excellent choice! The book, while a bit jarring in the beginning because of it not being in the voice we know, has grown to be an absolute page-turner; Brandon really knows the world, the conflicts and the characters, and I'm really happy with what he's done so far. :-)

I also started reading Aliette De Bodard's Servant of the Underworld (coming in Jan 2010 from Angry Robot), and as I said on Twitter, this is definitely going to be a memorable book! Imagine an urban fantasy set in ancient Mexico and you've got a good idea of what you're in for. :-) Expect that review up soon, too!

I'm also reading plenty of other books at the moment, jumping around as the mood takes me, but more on that after my Wheel of Time and Angry Robot review. :-)

Be EPIC!

New Novels in-Coming!

2009-11-25T14:54:00.007+02:00

News from TOR (thanks to Chloe Healy) and John Jarrold!

Some great news for all you Hard-SF / Space Opera lovers out there (like me): Gary Gibson (who's Nova War should be on shelves everywhere, so get on Exclusive Books' case if it isn't) has signed with TOR for three more novels! :-)

"Gibson has already begun work on the first book in the new contract, the working title of which is Final Days. The second will be a sequel and the third a standalone novel set in the same world as The Shoal Sequence, the second book of which, Nova War, has just been published to rave reviews."

Julie Crisp (Mark C Newton's editor, too) says of Gibson and the incoming novels: "Gary is easily considered one of the up-and-coming stars of, not only the Tor UK list, but space opera in general and is constantly aligned with Alastair Reynolds, Peter F Hamilton and Neal Asher as a leading name in British hard SF. So I’m thrilled to continue working with him on his very exciting books."

What does gary have to say about the news? Taken from his blog, "I just got an offer for Tor for three new books, starting with Final Days, which I've blogged about in the past. The other two books are a sequel to Final Days, called The Thousand Emperors, and Core (very much a working title), a standalone story set in the same world as Stealing Light and its sequels. Off to a restaurant to celebrate."

Awesome news! I'll have to get my ass in gear and get some Gibson's under the belt! :-) As I've said, Nova War is already available in SA, and I'll keep you updated on the paperback-release date, as well as release dates for Final Days, The Thousand Emperors, and Core. :-)

Now for news from John Jarrold:

Eric Brown's new deal with Solaris!

PRESS RELEASE – NEW SOLARIS DEAL FOR ERIC BROWN

Jonathan Oliver, commissioning editor of Solaris Books since the imprint’s acquisition from Games Workshop by Rebellion earlier this month, has commissioned a new SF novel from Eric Brown, GUARDIANS OF THE PHOENIX. The agent was John Jarrold, and the deal was for UK/US rights. The book is due for publication late in 2010.

“Eric has been a mainstay of Solaris since their very successful publication of his novel HELIX,” said John Jarrold. “This proposal looks fascinating, and I can’t wait to read the finished novel!”

Great news, especially considering the fact that, for a while, everything was so up in the air with Solaris. :-)

And great news for Jaine Fenn fans!

PRESS RELEASE – TWO-BOOK DEAL FOR SF NOVELIST

Jo Fletcher, Associate Publisher of Gollancz, has acquired two new novels by British SF author Jaine Fenn. The agent was John Jarrold, and the deal was for World rights.

These novels, titled BRINGER OF LIGHT and QUEEN OF NOWHERE, are due for delivery in 2010 and 2011 respectively and will be published under the name J N Fenn, as will all the author’s future novels.

Fenn’s first novel, PRINCIPLES OF ANGELS, was published to critical success by Gollancz in 2008, with CONSORTS OF HEAVEN following this year and GUARDIANS OF PARADISE forthcoming in 2010.

***

Awesome stuff all round! Long Live SF! :-)

Be EPIC!

Book Trailer: Sherrilyn Kenyon's Born of Ice

2009-11-24T15:09:00.005+02:00

Hey everyone, I've got another awesome book trailer for you! :-)

Enjoy!

Check out this link for the site dedicated to The League, this link for Sherrilyn's official site, and this link for the Official Sanctuary site. :-) Wanna get your hands on the book? It'll be available from the 1st of December, so you'll have to pre-order your copies! Click here for UK, here for USA, and for those in SA, please use the link at the top-right of the blog.

Click here if you'd like to read an excerpt from Born of Ice, and, as always,

Be EPIC!

Awesome Books, Awesome Covers!

2009-11-23T14:40:00.009+02:00

Hey everyone, thought I'd let you all have a look at some covers that have recently seen the light - some are for new books, some are rejackets, but they all deserve a spotlight. :-)

First up we have the new jacket of Joe Abercrombie's Best Served Cold; I have to be honest and say that I like the original cover more - I've supplied it, too. :-)

Next up, the preliminary (i.e. not final, so don't go nuts yet) cover for Brent Weeks' next novel:

I have to say I like this - it shows that a brand is definitely being created for Brent's work, and it'll always make his books leap off the shelves, visually. :-)

Then we've got the much-debated US paperback-cover for Mark C Newton's excellent Nights of Villjamur - not my favourite cover but a a pretty cool cover nonetheless!

Next up, some more striking cover art from the forthcoming Angry Robot title, Servant of the Underworld by Aliette De Bodard!

And now, the US cover art for Robert Redick's sequel to The Red Wolf Conspiracy: The Rats and the Ruling Sea. As you see, the title has been truncated somewhat. :-)

Next up, the cover of Jasper Kent's sequel (and book 2 in the series) to the excellent Twelve:

Hopefully all the covers are kept the same for the UK releases - more author branding is never a bad thing, though I'm interested to see what happens with the US covers. :-)

Next up, I've got a new cover for Brian Ruckley's Winterbirth. It's the Czech translation, and I quite like this! Wouldn't mind a copy on my shelf! ;-)

What do you think of the covers?

Be EPIC!

Angry Robot Free Fiction: Kell's Legend Part 4!

2009-11-20T13:09:00.004+02:00

Hey everyone, here's the fourth and final excerpt of Andy Remic's Kell's Legend, Book One of the Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, from Angry Robot; enjoy!

‘Wait.’

Kell’s hushed whisper, despite its low tone, carried with surprising clarity. Nienna and Kat froze instantly in place. Both young women were walking a high-rope, skating thin ice, breathing the tension of the besieged and sundered city. Again and again they passed corpses, shrivelled husks, sometimes piles of men, women, heaps of disjointed child corpses, huddled together as if for warmth; in reality, all they craved was a chance at life.

Kell lowered his hand, half-turned, gestured for the girls to join him. They scampered down the cobbled road, gloved hands holding cloth over the freezing skin of their faces, swords sheathed at waists more as tokens than real weapons. Both girls understood that in real world combat, their lives hung by a thread. And the thread was named Kell.

‘See,’ he hissed, gesturing towards the Selenau River, flowing like ink beneath swirling tendrils of ice-smoke. ‘The enemy have a foothold here; now it’ll be damn impossible to steal a boat.’

Nienna watched the albino soldiers, streams of them in their hundreds, marching down the waterfront. Many dragged prisoners, some kicking and screaming. These, they locked in huge iron cages which had been erected beside the sluggish wide river. Many dragged corpses, and these they piled in heaps as if… Nienna frowned. As if they were waiting for something?

Nienna’s eyes searched as far as the false horizon. Sometimes, ice-smoke parted and she got a good glimpse down a length of the river. Huge black and red brick factories lined the water; they were mainly dye-works, slaughter houses and tanneries. The sort of place which Nienna had been destined to work before her ‘nameless benefactor’ stepped in with university fees. Huge iron cranes stretched across the river for loading and unloading cargo. Wide pipes disgorged chemical effluence, dyes and slaughterhouse blood and offal into the river. Even in winter, the place stunk to high heaven; in summer, vomit lined the waterfront from unwary travellers.

Kat edged forward, and crouched beside Kell. She met the old warrior’s gaze and he had to admire her edge. ‘What about another way out of the city? There’s too many of the bastards here.’ She spat on the ground.

‘They will have the gates covered. This whole situation stinks, Kat. I’ve seen this sort of… slaughter, before. The Army of Iron don’t want anybody getting out; they don’t want anybody to spoil their master plan. If somebody was to get word to King Leanoric, for example…’

‘That is our mission!’ said Katrina.

‘No girl. Our mission is to stay alive. Anything else – that comes later.’

In truth, Kell still felt deeply uneasy. What sort of conquering army simply committed murder and atrocity? It didn’t make sense. Slaughter all the bakers, who would bake bread for the soldiers?

Murder the whores and dancers, who then to provide entertainment? Soldiers marched on their stomachs, and fought best when happy. Only an insane general went on a pointless rampage. Kell had seen it once before, during the Days of Blood. Bad days. Bad months. Kell’s mouth was dry at the thought. Bitter, like the plague.

The Days of Blood…

A dark whisper. In his soul.

A splinter. Of hatred. Of remorse.

You took part, Kell. You killed them all, Kell.

Visions echoed. Slashes of flashback. Crimson and shimmering. Diagonal slices, echoes of a time of horror. Screams. Writhing. Slaughter. Whimpering. Steel sawing methodically through flesh and bone. Worms eating skin. Eating eyes. Blood running in streams down stone gutters. Running in rivers. And soldiers, faces twisted with bloodlust, insanity, naked and smeared with blood, with piss and shit, with vomit, capering down streets with swords and knives, adorning their bodies with trophies from victims… hands, eyes, ears, genitalia…

Kell swooned, felt sick. He forced away the terrible visions and rubbed a gloved hand through his thick beard. ‘Damn you all to hell,’ he muttered, a terrible heaviness sinking through him, from brain to stomach, a heavy metal weight dragging his soul down to his boots and leaking out with the piss and the blood.

‘You look ill.’ Kat placed a hand on his broad, bear-clad shoulder.

‘No, girl, I am fine,’ he breathed, shuddering. And added, under his breath, ‘on the day that I die.’ Then louder, ‘Come. I can see a tunnel under the tannery.’

‘That’s an evil place,’ said Kat, pulling back. ‘My little brother used to collect the piss-pots used in the tannery; he caught a terrible disease from there; he died. I swore I would never go inside such a place.’

‘It’s that, or die yourself,’ said Kell, not unkindly.

Kat nodded, and followed Kell and Nienna down the street, all three crouching low, moving slowly, weapons at the ready and eyes alert. As they approached the tunnel, an incredible stench eased out to meet them: a mixture of gore and fat, dog-shit, piss, and the slop-solution of animal brains used in the bating process. Kell forced his way inside, treading through a thick sludge and coming up grooved and worn brick steps into a room hung with hides still to be stripped of hair, gore and fat. They swung, eerily, on blood-dried hooks. There were perhaps a hundred skins waiting for the treatment that would eventually lead to water-skins, armour, scabbards and boots. Kell stepped over channels running thick with disgorged brains.

‘What is that?’ gagged Nienna.

‘When the skins arrive, they need to be scraped free of dried fat and flesh. The tanners then soak skins in vats mixed with animal brains, and knead it with dog-shit to make it soft.’ He grinned at Nienna, face demonic in the gloomy light where shadows from gently swinging skins cast eerie shapes over his bearded features. ‘Now you can see why you were so lucky to be accepted into the university, girl. This is not a place for children.’

‘Yet a place where children work,’ said Kat, voice icy.

‘As you say.’

They moved warily between swinging skins, the two women flinching at the brush of hairy hides still strung with black flesh and long flaps of thick yellow fat. At one point Kat slipped, and Nienna grabbed her, hoisting her away from a channel filled with oozing mashed animal brains and coagulated blood.

‘This is purgatory,’ said Nienna, voice soft.

Kat turned away, and was sick.

As Kell emerged from the wall of hung skins, so he froze, eyes narrowing, head turning left and right. Before him stood perhaps twenty large vats, four with fires still burning beneath their copper bases. This was where excess flesh and hide strips were left to rot for months on end in water, before being boiled to make hide glue. If nothing else, this place stunk the worst of all and Kell was glad of the cloth he held over his mouth.

Then Kell turned, frowning, and strode towards a vat containing the foul-smelling broth and hoisted his axe. ‘Are you coming out, or do I come in axe-first?’

‘Whoa, hold yourself there, old fellow,’ came an educated voice, and from the shadows slipped a tall, athletic man. Nienna watched him, and found herself immediately attracted; something the dandy was no-doubt used to. His face was very finely chiselled, his hair black, curled, oiled back, neat above a trimmed moustache and long sideburns that were currently the height of fashion amongst nobles. He wore a rich blue shirt, dark trews, high cavalry boots and a short, expensive, fur-lined leather cloak. He had expensive rings on his fingers, a clash of diamonds and rubies. His eyes were a dazzling blue, even in this gloomy, murky, hellish place. He had what Nienna liked to call a smiling face.

Kat snorted. Nienna was about to laugh as well, so ridiculous did the nobleman look in this evil-smelling tannery from hell; until she saw his sword. This, too, had a faint air of the ridiculous, until she married it to his posture. Only then did she consider the broad shoulders, the narrow hips, the subtle stance of an experienced warrior. Nienna chided herself. This man, she realised, had been underestimated many times.

‘Why are you skulking back there, fool?’

‘Skulking? Skulking? Old horse, my name is Saark, and Saark does not skulk. And as for fool, I take such a jibe as I presume you intend; in utter good humour and jest at such a sorry situation and predicament in which we find ourselves cursed.’

‘Pretty words,’ snorted Kell, turning back to Nienna and Kat. He turned back, and realised Saark was close. Too close. The rapier touched Kell’s throat and there was a long, frozen moment of tension.

‘Pretty enough to get me inside your guard,’ said Saark, voice soft, containing a hint of menace.
‘I think we fight the same enemy,’ said Kell, eyes locked to Saark.

‘Me also!’ Saark stepped back and sheathed his blade. He held out his hand. ‘I am Saark.’

‘You already said.’

‘I believe it’s such a fine name, it deserves saying twice.’

Kell grunted. ‘I am Kell. This is Nienna, my granddaughter, and her friend Kat. We were thinking of stealing a boat. Getting the hell away from this invaded charnel house of a city.’

Saark nodded, moving close to Nienna and Kat. ‘Well, hello there, ladies.’ Both young women blushed, and Saark laughed, a tinkling of music, his eyes roving up and down their young frames.

‘Saark!’ snapped Kell. ‘There are more important things at play, here. Like the impending threat on our lives, for one.’

Saark made a tutting sound in the back of his throat, and surveyed his surroundings. And yet, despite his smile, his fine clothes, his finer words, Nienna could see the tension in this man; like an actor on the stage, playing a part he’d rehearsed a thousand times before, Saark was enjoying his performance. But he was hampered, by an emotion which chipped away at the edges of his mask.

Fear.

It lurked in his eyes, in his stance, in a delicate trembling of his hand. Nienna noticed. She enjoyed people-watching. She was good at it.

Saark took a deep breath. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘I could smell you.’

‘Smell me?’ Saark grinned then, shaking his head. His face was pained. ‘I cannot believe you could smell me amidst this stench. I like to think I have better grooming habits.’

Kell had moved to a window, was standing back from the wooden shutters and watching soldiers down by the river. He turned and eyed Saark warily. ‘It was your perfume.’

‘Aaah! Eau du Petale. The very finest, the most excitingly exquisite…’

‘Save it. We’re moving. We can escape via the pipe which dumps tannin and slop out into the river. If we head down into the cellars, I’m sure…’

‘Wait.’ Saark brushed past Kell and stood, one manicured hand on the shutters, the other on the hilt of his rapier. Suddenly, Saark’s foppish appearance didn’t seem quite so ridiculous.

‘What is it?’

‘The carriage. I know it.’

Kell gazed out. A carriage had drawn alongside a cage full of weeping prisoners; all women. The carriage was black, glossy, and had an intricate crest painted on the door. The horses stomped and chewed at their bits, disturbed either by the stench of the tanneries or the moans of the women. The driver fought to keep the four beasts under control and their hooves clattered on ice-rimed cobbles.

‘Well, I know him,’ snarled Kell, as General Graal stalked towards the carriage and folded his arms. His armour gleamed. He ran a hand through his long white hair, an animal preening. ‘He’s the bastard in charge of this army. He called it the Army of Iron.’

‘You know him?’ Saark met Kell’s gaze.

‘The bastard sent a couple of his soldiers to kill me and the girls.’

‘He was far from successful, I see.’

‘I don’t die easy,’ said Kell.

‘I’m sure you don’t, old horse.’ Saark smiled, and turned back to the distant performance. The carriage door was opened by a lackey, and a man stepped down. He was dressed in furs, and held a cloth over his face against the chill of ice-smoke, which was dissipating even as they watched – its job now done. The man had shoulder length black hair, which gleamed.

‘Who is he?’ said Kell.

‘That,’ said Saark, staring hard at Kell, ‘is Dagon Trelltongue.’

‘The King’s advisor?’

Saark nodded. ‘King Leanoric’s most trusted man. He is, shall we say, the King’s regent when the King is away on business.’

‘What about Alloria?’

‘The Queen?’ Saark smiled. ‘I see, Kell, you have little schooling in nobility, or in royalty. It would be unseemly for a woman to rule in the King’s absence; you would have her meeting with common-folk? Doing business with captains and generals? I think not.’

‘Why,’ said Kell, ruffled, ‘would Trelltongue be here? Now?’

Saark transferred his gaze back to the two men beside the carriage. ‘A good question, my new and aged and ragged friend. However, much as I would love to make his acquaintance at this moment in time, I fear your escape plan to be sound – and immediately necessary. Would you like to lead the way, Kell, to this pipe of disgorging effluence?’

Kell hoisted his axe, looked at Nienna and Kat, then tensed, crouching a little, at what appeared behind the two women.

‘What is it?’ hissed Nienna, and turned…

From the hanging wall of skins, moving leisurely, gracefully, came a Harvester. Its flat oval face seemed emotionless, but the small black eyes, coals in a snowman’s face, searched across the room. Vertical slits hissed with air, and the creature seemed to be… sniffing. The Harvester gave a grimace that may have been a smile.

‘I followed you. Across the city.’ The voice was a dawdling, lazy roll, like big ocean waves on a fused beach.

Saark drew his rapier, and gestured to the two women to move. He took a deep breath, and watched as the Harvester lifted a hand. The embroidered robe fell away leaving five long, pointed fingers of bone…

‘I thought I explained, sweetie. You’re just not my type.’ But terror lay beyond Saark’s words, and as he and Kell separated, Kell loosening his shoulders, axe swinging gently, Saark muttered from the corner of his mouth, ‘Watch the fingers. That’s how they suck the life from your body.’
Kell nodded, as the blast of terror hit him. He stood, stunned by the ferocity of fear which wormed through his mind. He saw himself, lying in a hole in the ground, worms eating his eyes, his skin, his lungs, his heart.

Come to me, came the words in his head. A song. A lullaby. A call stronger than life itself.

Come to me, little one.

I will make the pain go away.

The Harvester drifted forward, and with a scream Saark attacked, rapier moving with incredible speed; a lazy backward gesture slapped Saark a full twenty feet across the tannery, where he landed, rolling fast, to slam against a vat with a groan.

Five bone fingers lifted.

Moved, towards Kell’s heart.

And with tears on his cheeks, the old soldier seemed to welcome them…

CHAPTER 3
A Taste of Clockwork.

Anukis awoke feeling drowsy; but then, the ever-present tiredness, like a lead-weight in her heart, in her soul, was something she had grown to endure over the years, something which she knew would never leave her because… because of what she was. She stretched languorously under thick goose-down covers, her long, curled, yellow hair cascading across plump pillows, her slender white limbs reaching out as if calling silently across the centuries for forgiveness.

Anukis glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was long, smooth, black like granite. Through a glass pane she could see tiny intricate cogs and wheels, spinning, turning, teeth mating neatly as micro-gears clicked into place. A pendulum swung, and a soft tick tick tick echoed through the room. Anukis’s eyes stared at the clock, loving it and hating it at the same time. She loved it because her father, Kradek-ka, had made the clock; and just like his father before him, he had been one of the finest Watchmakers in Silva Valley, his hands steady, precise, incredibly accurate with machining and assembly; his eye had been keen, not just with the precision of his trade, but with the delicate understanding of materials and what was perfect for any machine job. But it had been his mind that set him apart, indeed, highlighted him as a genius. Anu’s grandfather had accelerated and pioneered the art of watch-making, turning what had once been a relatively simple art of mechanical time-keeping into something more… advanced. This way, Kradek-ka had upheld the family traditions, and helped to save, to prolong, and to advance their race. The vachine.

Anukis rubbed at her eyes, then stood, gasping a little at the cool air in the room. Naked, goose-bumps ran up and down her arms and she hurried into a thick silk gown which fell to her ankles. She moved to a porcelain bowl and washed, her long, dainty fingers, easing water into her eyes, then carefully, into her mouth. She rubbed at her teeth, cold water stinging, then moved to the window of her high tower, gazing out over Silva Valley, eyes scanning the high mountain ridges which enclosed the huge tiered city like predator wings around a victim.

Anukis smiled. A victim. How apt.

Maybe they’ll come for me today, she thought. Maybe not.

A prisoner of the High Engineer Episcopate since her father had died (had been murdered, she thought hollowly), she was not allowed out from a small collection of rooms in this high tower suite. However, what the high-ranking religious Engineers and Major Cardinals did not realise, was that Anukis was not a pure oil-blood like the majority of the city population lying under a fresh fall of snow below, pretty and crystalline, a pastel portrait from her high window.

The smile faded from Anukis’s face.

No. She was far from pure. She carried the impurity seed within her. Which meant she could not drink blood-oil. Could not mate with the magick. Could not… feed, as a normal vachine would feed.
Anu could never enjoy the thrill of the hunt.

There came a knock at the door, and a maid entered carrying a small silver bowl which she placed by Anukis’s bed. With head bent low, she retreated, closing the door on silent hinges, hinges Anukis herself had oiled for the purpose of freedom. Anu moved to the bowl, glanced down at the tiny, coin-sized pool of blood-oil that floated there, crimson, and yet at the same time streaked with rainbow oils. This was the food of the vachine. Their fuel. That which made them unholy.

Anukis could not drink blood-oil. In its refined state, such as this, it poisoned her, and made her violently sick. She would be ill for weeks. To the Watchmakers, the Major Bishops, the Engineers, this was heresy, a mockery of their machine religion; punishable by exile, or more probably, death. Anu’s father had gone to great pains to protect his daughter for long years, hiding her away, dealing with the amoral Blacklippers of the south and their illegal import of Karakan Red, as it was known. Only this unrefined, common source – fresh from the vein – would, or could, sustain Anukis. And, she was sure, it was this subterfuge which had led to her father’s untimely death…

A face flashed in her mind. Vashell! Tall, athletic, powerful, tiny brass fangs poking over his lower lip. He was prodigal, a powerhouse of physical perfection and one of the youngest ever

Engineer Priests to have achieved such a rank. Destined for greatness. Destined for leadership!

One day, he would achieve the exalted rank of Major Cardinal; maybe even Watchmaker itself!

He had asked Anukis to marry him on two occasions, and both times her father had rejected Vashell’s advances, fearing that for Anukis to marry was for Anukis to die. But she saw the way Vashell looked at her. When he smiled, she glimpsed the tiny cogs and wheels inside his head, saw the glint of molten gold swirling in his eyes. He was true and pure vachine; a wholesome, blood-oil servant to the Vachine Religion. Vashell, a spoilt prince, an upstart royal, had got everything he ever wanted. And, she knew with a shudder, he would never stop until he possessed Anukis.

And… when that happens? She smiled sadly to herself.

Well, she would have to kill him. Or failing that, kill herself.

Far better death than what the Engineers would do to her if they discovered her tainted flesh…
Anukis opened the window and a cold wind gusted in, chilling her with a gasp and a smile. Far below, the sweeping granite roads shone under fresh snow, most of which had been swept into piles along the edges of the neat, gleaming thoroughfares. Buildings staggered away, maybe six or seven storeys in height, and all built from smooth white marble mined from the Black Pike Mountains. The architecture was stunning to behold, every joint precise. Arches and flutes, carvings and ornate buttresses, many inlaid with precious stones to decorate even the most bare of Silva Valley’s buildings – gifts from the all-giving Pikes. And the city itself was huge; it drifted away down the valley, mountains rearing like guardians to either side, for as far as Anukis could see. And her eyesight was brilliant. Her father had made sure of that.

The scent of snow came in to her, and she inhaled, savouring the cold. The vachine had a love affair with cold, but Anukis, being impure, and contaminated, preferred a little warmth. This, again, was a secret she had to jealously guard. If the Engineers discovered what she was… and the things she did when darkness fell…

Despite its well-oiled silence, Anukis caught the sound of the door opening. She also sensed the change in pressure within the room. Her eyes shone silver with tears and still gazing out over her beloved city, the one which her grandfather, and father, had given so much to advance, she said without turning, her voice a monotone, ‘What can I do for you, Vashell?’

‘Anukis, I would speak with you.’ His voice was soft, simple, almost submissive in its tone. But Anukis was not fooled; she had heard him chastise servants on many occasions, watched in horror as he beat them to death, or kicked them till they bled from savage wounds. He could change at the flick of a brass switch. He could turn to murder like a metal hawk drops on its prey…

‘I am still in mourning. There is little to say.’

‘Look at me, Anu. Please?’

Anukis turned, and wiped away a tear which had run down one cheek. With the tiniest of clicking sounds, she forced a smile to her face. Ultimately, her father would want her to live. Not sacrifice herself needlessly for the sake of sadness, or misery, or impurity. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m looking, Vashell. You have picked a bad time to intrude on my thoughts. And I am barely dressed. This is an unfortunate time to receive company. But then, if the High Engineer Episcopate keeps me a prisoner, I suppose my body is theirs to do with as they please…’

‘Hush!’ Vashell stepped forward, but stopped as Anukis shrank back, cowering almost, on the window-seat. ‘If anybody hears you speak so, your life will be forfeit! They will drain your blood-oil. You will be husked!’ For a vachine, there was no greater shame.

‘Why would you care?’ Her voice turned harsh, all the bitterness at her father’s death, all the poison at being kept prisoner rising to bubble like venom on her tongue. ‘You are a party to all this, Vashell! You said, twice, that you loved me. And twice you asked my father for the gift of marriage. Yet you stand by the Engineers whilst they keep me locked here,’ and now her eyes darkened, the gold swirling in their pupils turning almost crimson in her flush of anger, ‘and you collude in the capture of my sister.’

Vashell swallowed, and despite his mighty physical prowess, he edged uneasily from one polished boot to the next. ‘Shabis is fine, Anu. You know that. The Engineers are taking care of her. She is well.’

‘She is a young girl, Vashell, whose father has just died and whose sister has been imprisoned. When can I see her?’

‘It will be arranged.’

Anukis jumped down from the window-seat and strode to Vashell, gazing up at him. He was more than a head taller than the slender female, and she herself was nearly six feet in height. ‘You said that a week ago,’ she snarled, staring up into his eyes. Vashell squirmed.

‘It is not easy to arrange.’

‘You are an Engineer Priest! You can do anything!’

‘Not this.’ His voice dropped an octave. ‘You have no idea what you ask. So many in the High Council outrank me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘But… I will see what I can do. I promise.’

‘On your blood-oil soul?’

‘Yes, on my eternal soul.’

Anukis turned her back on him, moved to the window. She gazed across the city, but the beauty was now lost on her; decayed. A sudden wave of hate slammed through her, like a tsunami of ice against a frozen, volcanic beach. She would see it destroyed! She would see the Silva Valley decimated, and laid to a terrible waste…

‘You came here to ask me, didn’t you?’

‘I can help you, Anu.’

‘By marrying me?’

‘Yes! If you become the wife of an Engineer Priest, you will be sacrosanct. The Engineers cannot keep you prisoner! It would go against the Oak Testament. You know that.’

‘And yet, still I choose to say no.’

Anukis felt Vashell stiffen, without turning to look. She allowed herself a small smile. This was one thing she could deny him. But when he spoke again, the smile slowly drained from her face like bronze from a melting pot.

‘Listen carefully, pretty one, when I say this. For I will speak only once. Your father was found guilty of heresy by the Patriarch; I do not know what happened to him, but we both know, without seeing the corpse, that he is dead. The Engineers wanted you and your sister dead, also; I am all that stands between the two of you, and the Eternal Pyre. So, think very carefully before offering a facetious answer… because, if I choose to withdraw favour, the last of your worries will be your separation from your sister.’

Vashell swept from the apartment, door slamming in his wake so hard it rattled the oak frame. Dust trickled from between well-machined stones. Echoes bounced down the stairwell.

Shivering, Anukis turned and stared at the elegantly carved portal, then back out over the city. She shivered again, and this time it was nothing to do with the cold. Above her, her father’s clock ticked, every second reminding her of a melting life.

Anukis licked ice-cold lips.

She thought about blood.

And that which was denied her.

Tonight. Tonight, she would visit the Blacklippers.

The sun set over the mountains casting crimson shadows long against granite walkways. Anukis listened, acute hearing placing guards down in the tower entry. She could hear muted conversation, the flare of a lit pipe, the laughter of a crude rude joke. Anukis pulled on her ankle-length black gown, belted the waist, and lifted the hood to obscure her golden hair and pastel features.

She moved to a heavy cabinet beside the door, lifted it with ease, carrying it across a thick rug and tilting it to wedge under the door handle. Moving back to the window, she watched the sun’s weak, crimson rays finally die like spread fingers over the jagged peaks of the Black Pikes; then she leapt lightly onto the window seat and prised open the portal.

An ice wind whipped inside. Anukis climbed out, finding narrow handholds in the marble and stone, and easing herself over the awesome drop. ‘Don’t look down,’ she murmured, but just couldn’t help herself. It was a long fall to hard granite ruts polished smooth by brass wheels. Anukis eased herself along the narrow crack, moving only one hand, or one boot, at a time, so she always had three points of contact. The wind snapped at her with teeth. Away from the window, darkness fell like molten velvet. Anukis felt totally isolated. Alone.

For perilous minutes she eased herself around the flank of the tower, to where she’d discovered a worn vertical rut. Above, tiles converged into a marble trough which had grown a leak, probably a hundred or more years previous. This in turn had allowed water to groove the marble facade, giving slightly deeper handholds, almost like steps, down which Anukis could climb several storeys to a sloping ridge of tiles.

Several times she almost slipped; once, gasping, she swung away from the wall and her boots scrabbled on marble as sweat stung her eyes, and she felt a finger-nail crack. But she calmed her breathing, stopped her panicked kicking, and hauled herself up on bloody fingertips, regaining her handhold, saving her life.

Down, she eased, an inch at a time, as the wind mocked her with brutal laughter.

Below, Silva Valley spread away, some sections well lit, others deep dark pits of intimidation. Despite Watchmaker rule, not every vachine was equal; a complex religious hierarchy existed which sometimes led to murder and civil unrest. Royal torture was delivered for gross acts of sacrilege, but the vachine were powerful, proud, and physically superior. The illegals took some ruling. Only the Machine God kept them sane.

Anukis hit the tiles lightly and dropped to a crouch. Her eyes scanned, swirling with gold, finding the patrolling Engineer Deacons and their minions and watching them as she had watched from her cell window. With care, she eased across sloping tiles on her carefully plotted route, and dropped down to a second storey balcony. She knocked a plant-pot, which clattered, and swiftly she scaled the rails, hung, and dropped to a lower balcony as light emerged above her, muttering voices casting curses on the wind.

Anukis landed on the smooth granite road, and checked herself. Tugging her hood tight, she hurried down the dark street, winding downhill to the Brass Docks.

Silva Valley was just that, a valley; but at its heart, a dissection, lay the Silva River, which emerged from a complex core of caves and vast subterranean tunnel systems beneath the Black Pike Mountains, and named the Deshi Caves. In his youth, Anukis’s father Kradek-ka had explored the tunnels in detail, had been part of several professional vachine expeditions to map the labyrinth beneath the mountains. But something odd had occurred which the more religious of the vachine called bo-adesh. Occasionally, the tunnels moved, altered, shifted within the infrastructure of the mountain vaults. Some said it was down to blood-oil magick; some said the Black Pike Mountains were alive, had been alive longer than Man, and were in contempt of vachine deviation and intrusion. Whatever, many of the under-mountain routes were mapped and used for travel on long brass barges, or even to reach other distant valleys; but some were prohibited. Dangerous. Death to those that travelled…

In those early days of exploration, many had been lost to the Deshi Caves. Anukis remembered long cold evenings, sitting on her father’s knee, staring into dancing flames as he recounted some of his travels, how they used blood-oil markers on the stone, ropes under the water, magick fires by which to see. And still many had died; hundreds had died, lost, drowned, or simply vanished.

Sometimes, an empty brass barge would drift from the mist of an early morning, a single bell chiming. Empty. No signs of struggle. It had been Kradek-ka’s view that terrible beasts lived under the Black Pike Mountains; creatures nobody had ever before seen… or at least, seen and lived thereof to speak.

Anukis shivered; and not just with the cold.

She stopped at an intersection, easing into shadows beyond the pooled light from a swinging brass lamp. Two guards passed and stopped beneath the yellow orb, lighting long pipes and exchanging pleasantries. Anu watched them carefully; these weren’t real Engineer Deacons; they didn’t have the shaved heads and facial tattoos of the Royal; but they were as near as damn it. And certainly authorised to kill Anukis beyond curfew. She smiled, her smile a crescent in a bloodless face. And the reason for curfew?

The vachine were running out of blood-oil.

The vachine had bled the cattle dry…

Oh, the irony!

The guards moved on, and so did Anukis, loping across the road and delving into more darkness. Down she strode, cloak pulled tight, breath emerging in short gasps of dragon smoke.

She rounded a corner, and the Silva River opened before her, vast, wide, and glass-still at the base of the Silva Valley. Buildings staggered in staccato leaps far down the steep descent before her, right to the ebony water’s edge. Anukis hurried on, down narrow back-streets of this vast and beautiful city, down ill-advised routes. Three times she spotted thieves before they spotted her, and circumnavigated their positions. Even so, she knew, she would have needed no weapon to deal with their kind. Outcast. Impure…

Like me, she realised.

But then, despite her disabilities, she was… special.

Her father had made sure of that.

Anukis reached the long flanks of the Brass Docks and halted, a few feet from the water, listening to the lilting slap against brass jetties. She waited patiently, searching out more guards; finally, she moved down a wide curving walkway which followed the crescent of the Silva River towards… The Black Pikes. And the Mouth, which disgorged ice-pure mineral-rich waters from deep beneath echoing mountain halls. She felt the Breath before she saw the river’s ominous exit; it emerged, hissing and singing sometimes, to wash cool mineral-scented air over those who stood within five hundred yards. Anukis walked into the breeze, which tugged annoyingly at her hood, and stopped by the Brass Docks warehouse block. She glanced right, where huge brass and bronze freighters bobbed at anchor, trade vessels and smaller navy vehicles, many unmanned and silent, some showing tiny yellow glows from fat-oil lamps. Carefully, she stepped down a narrow alley and entered a maze, skilfully negotiating a complex route which led her to a steep, dark stairwell.

From the depths, a cold breeze blew, and Anu skipped down slick granite, slowing as she reached the bottom. The crossbow appeared before the Blacklipper, strung and tensioned, and his teeth gleamed behind the black-tainted scarring of his lips.

‘Going somewhere, my pretty?’

‘I have business with Preyshan.’

The Blacklipper moved from the shadows, and she saw he was what they called a Deep Blood; not only his lips were stained black from the powerful narcotic, even the veins beneath his skin had taken the taint, showing a diffused map of web-strands beneath his pale white skin. Anukis shuddered inside; he had to be close to death to look like this. Ready for the Voyage of the Soul.

Seeing the shudder, the man smiled. ‘Don’t you be worrying about me, pretty one. I’ve had a good life. My Paradise awaits.’

‘One filled with blood-oil?’

The crossbow jerked towards her, and his eyes narrowed. ‘One such as you shouldn’t readily condemn, pretty, outcast vachine.’

Only she wasn’t an outcast.

Because – they didn’t know… yet.

And if the Watchmakers discovered her impurity?

She heard they had special chambers for just such occurrences.

Anukis shuddered, and squeeze past the leering Blacklipper, feeling his fetid rigor-mortis breath on her face, his body pressed close to her own, its muscles surprisingly iron-hard beneath his web-traced skin. She hurried on, down more and more steps, and deep into a maze of brass-walled corridors which eventually gave out to smooth-hewn tunnels, some flooded. Several times Blacklippers challenged her, and several times Anukis used her magick card. The name: Preyshan. One of the three kings of the Blacklippers.

As she entered the maze beneath the Silva River, so she could discern a distant booming sound. It was said to be the noise made by the souls of the drowned, banging on the river bed for spiritual release. Anukis moved on, hand touching the smooth wall where lode-veins of crystals and blood-red mineral deposits could be traced, glittering, in the glow of irregularly placed fat-lamps.

The corridor ended in an iron gate. She gave her name, and the gate swung open revealing a long, low chamber filled with perhaps fifty men, and only a handful of women. Many were Blacklippers, some from the south, over the mountains; Falanor couriers who had sworn an oath to keep from using blood-oil and its deviants in order to turn huge profits smuggling. Money, not blood-oil, was their own particular narcotic.

‘Anu!’ boomed Preyshan, striding forward, towering over the vachine and beaming her a generous smile. His lips were jet black, riddled with blood-oil, his eyes blue and wide. He wore a bushy black beard, and his size was prodigious beneath cheap market clothing. ‘So long since you last visited! How is your father?’

‘My father is dead,’ said Anukis, voice soft, her eyes lowered to the ground lest she fill with tears and betray her weakness here, of all places. ‘I think the Engineers murdered him.’ Preyshan reached out, a huge, black-nailed hand cupping her chin and lifting her eyes to his, where there came a spark of connection.

‘Truly, Anukis, I am sorry. He was a great man.’

‘And now he’s a dead man.’

‘You have escaped their machinations?’

‘For now. But I must return. I have come for…’ She did not say it. Could not say it. But Preyshan understood; after all, the only vachine who visited Preyshan and his underground minions were those in need of the impure, and the illegal, Karakan Red. Smuggled in from beyond Black Pike.

Fresh blood.

Preyshan gestured, and could sense the need in Anukis. A man ran forward with a small brass cylinder. He passed it to Anukis, who took it gratefully and unscrewed the top. Carefully, she consumed a small amount of the contents, and the Red glistened on her lips. As Preyshan watched, the blood shone against tiny, elongated canines of the female vachine before him, and he caught a sense of movement deep within her mouth; of whirring wheels, tiny cogs meshing and integrating, balancer shafts lifting, rotating cylinders and pumping pistons. He smiled, and it was a dry smile.

Paradoxical, thought the large Blacklipper, that as the vachine feed from man, so here, and now, in an ironic twist of fate and science, so men feed from the vachine to become Blacklipper. A twisted symbiosis? Ha! He could debate the philosophy all night.

Anukis gave a deep, drawn-out breath. Gold clouds, like golden oil, swirled in her eyes. She glanced up, a swift movement, lethargy gone as energy infused her, as blood infused her. ‘I’ll need to take more,’ she said, quietly.

Preyshan nodded. ‘Why not stay here, with us? You will be safe here, Anu. You know that.’

For an instant she saw the longing in the big man’s eyes, but then it was gone, a neat mask replaced, the portcullis gate closed. Anukis licked her lips, tracing the last of the Red and swallowing. Inside, she felt greased. Oiled. Whole again.

‘I cannot. The Engineers have Shabis…’

Preyshan nodded, and taking the woman’s elbow, guided her to one side of the low chamber. Here, where a breeze blew in from deep subterranean mountain tunnels, where they could not be overheard, Preyshan leant against the wall and interlaced his fingers.

‘If you stay, Anukis, I will fetch Shabis for you.’

‘How…’

He reached out, placed a finger against her lips. ‘You vachine are powerful, yes. But you do not understand my heritage; or my history.’ His eyes glittered. ‘The Engineers hold no fear, for me. Nor does Vashell.’

Anukis shook her head. ‘If I allowed you to do this, I would place you all in great jeopardy. Your whole world…’

‘I know this. We know this. Our existence is a dangerous one at best. But still…’ He touched her arm. ‘You know I would do this for you. For your father, the great man, but mainly… for you.’

‘I understand.’ Anukis stepped forward, reached up on tip-toe, and kissed him on his black necrotic lips. ‘You are a great man, Preyshan. I am lucky to be… loved, by such as you.’

Preyshan opened his mouth to speak, but his eyes narrowed, shifting over Anukis’s shoulder.

‘Breach!’ screamed a voice, followed by a metallic screech and a twanging sound as five crossbows disgorged industrial quarrels. Three vachine, tall, athletic, hands curved into gleaming metal claws, skin peeled back from faces revealing long, curved steel fangs bared and growling, screaming, leapt from the tunnel. Crossbow bolts riddled them, and one vachine was punched back, slamming the wall, body a torn and twitching marionette of tattered flesh and twisted, bent gears; savaged clockwork. The others leapt amongst the men in great bounds, claws slashing left and right sending severed limbs flying, and long fangs descending on throats, ripping out windpipes in a sudden harsh attack. Swords hissed from sheaths as the two vachine paused, hunkered on all fours like beasts, heads rotating, eyes glittering, tiny cogs and wheels humming in their skulls. The Blacklippers converged, sword and axes drawn, spears held in clammy hands, faces grim with a need to kill these invaders –

Preyshan ran forward, his own sword held in one great paw, his face merciless in the cold glow of brass lamps. The vachine leapt, fangs tearing at arms and throats in a mad flurry of ripping flesh and savagery and inhuman speed; swords slammed, spears stabbed, and Preyshan, as if with some primeval instinct, turned back towards the iron gates – open, now, with this sudden breach of violence.

His soul fell from his world.

In the tunnel, more vachine eyes glittered. And with a roar they flooded the chamber, ten, twenty, fifty of the clockwork vampires, bowling over and through the Blacklippers ripping at flesh tearing heads from bodies steel fangs and brass claws tearing easily through unprotected flesh and succulent raw bone…

Preyshan skidded, turned, sprinted back towards Anukis who stood, shocked, mind not registering what her eyes could see. ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’ he screamed at her, pounding across stone, but as he reached her he faltered, and his eyes met hers, and there was confusion there, and sudden pain, and he glanced down at the brass blade emerging from his chest. Blood bubbled around the wound, and his mouth opened allowing blood to roll through his thick beard. He reached out towards Anukis, and their fingers met, but Preyshan carried on falling to the floor and hit with a heavy slap. He lay still.

Anukis fell to her knees amidst the sounds of slaughter, tears on her pale cheeks, and she stroked Preyshan’s beard. Gradually, a presence drifted through her confusion, and into her consciousness. Sobbing, she glanced up.

Vashell smiled, placed his boot on Preyshan’s back, and pulled free his short brass sword, weighing the weapon thoughtfully.

‘What a surprise, finding you here in this den of iniquity. And I see, you’ve drank your fill of Karakan Red. And left none for me? Tut tut, sweetheart.’ He shook his head, eyes mocking. ‘No wonder you could never marry me, Anukis.’ He squared his shoulders. Took a deep breath through fangs stuck with torn flesh. ‘I see now, with your impurity, with your taint, with your fucking sacrilege, how we could never be compatible.’

‘Damn you, Vashell! What brought you here? Why kill these…’

‘Blacklippers? Why? You ask me why?’ He pressed the heavy brass blade against Anukis’s throat and lifted her, panting, from her knees using the point. ‘Because, my darling, they are illegal smugglers. Because, sweetheart, they undermine our core vachine society. And because, my beautiful little Anukis, they are the unholy, the impure, and the damned.’ He glanced over his shoulder, where savage vachine warriors had finished off the last of the Blacklippers in a bought of savagery that had sprayed the walls with blood. The chamber was littered with mangled corpses. The vachine started a low, metallic keening, and with fangs ejecting, savoured the kill. Vashell leant close. His breath was sweet. ‘Just like you,’ he said.

Hope you've ordered your copy, or you're enjoying it already! :-) If not, order at these links: US, UK & UK. For those in SA, please use the Kalahari link at the top-right of the blog.

Have an EPIC weekend! I know I'm going to: I'm picking up my copy of The Gathering Storm tomorrow evening! :-)

Angry Robot Free Fiction: Kell's Legend Part 3!

2009-11-19T14:34:00.003+02:00

Hey everyone, here's the third excerpt of Andy Remic's Kell's Legend, Book One of the Clockwork Vampire Chronicles, from Angry Robot - enjoy!

Chapter 2
A Dark Shroud Falls.

Kell reached Jalder University’s huge iron gates and stopped, panting, wiping sweat from his eyes. He listened, eyes darting left and right. Screams echoed, distant, muffled by ice-smoke. And more, off to the right, down the hill from where he’d emerged. Kell’s teeth clamped tight, muscles standing out along the ridge of his jaw-line; the bastards were murdering everybody! And for what? What petty purpose of slaughter? Invasion? Wealth? Greed? Power? Kell spat, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

I thought I’d left the Days of Blood behind?

I thought my soldiering was done. He smiled, a grim bloodless smile with coffee-stained teeth. Well, laddie, it seems somebody has a different plan for you!

Hoisting his matt-black axe, Kell glanced momentarily at the twin butterfly-shaped blades, like curved wings. It would have been a very dark butterfly: poisonous, deadly, utterly without mercy.

This was Kell’s bloodbond. The Ilanna. Sister of the Soul, a connection wrenched from him by ancient rites and dark blood-oil magick, flowing with his lifeblood, his very essence. Ilanna had many tales to tell. But then, the horror stories of the axe were for another day.

Kell moved warily up a well-kept path. He could barely see past low bushes and winter flowers which lined the walkway beyond neatly trimmed grass. He stopped, as something loomed from the mist: it was a circle of corpses, young women, each a shrivelled dry husk with faces stretched like horror masks, skin brittle like glass. Kell’s heart-rate increased and his grip tightened.

If they’ve hurt Nienna, he thought.

If they’ve hurt Nienna…

He reached the entrance, past more corpses from which he averted his eyes. Up stone steps, he rattled the large oak doors. Locked. Kell’s gaze swept the mist, his senses singing to him; they were out there, the soldiers, he could feel them, sense them, smell them. But… Kell frowned. There was something else. Something ancient, stalking the mist.

Shivering with premonition, Kell moved warily around the edges of the building. He found a low window, and using his axe-blade, prised the jamb and struggled inside. It was cool and dark.

Ice-smoke swirled around the floor. No candles were lit, and Kell’s boots padded across thick rich carpets, past fine displays of silverware and ceiling-high shelving containing an orgy of books.

Kell seemed to be in some kind of office, and he reached the door – with its ornate arched frame – and eased out into a carpeted corridor lined with small statues. He listened. Nothing… then a scream, so loud and close-by it rammed Kell’s heart into his mouth. He whirled, around the nearest corner, to see a young woman on her knees, hands above her face, palms out, skin blue with cold.

An albino soldier stood over her, a short knife in his hand. He turned as Kell’s eyes fell on him… despite Kell making no sound.

The albino smiled.

Kell launched his axe, which sang across the short expanse and thudded through armour and breast-bone, punching the soldier from his feet to sit, stunned, a huge butterfly cleaving his heart. His mouth opened, and milk-blood ran over pale lips and down his chin. Kell strode forward and crouched before the albino.

‘But… you should be powerless against us,’ whispered the man, eyes blinking rapidly.

‘Yeah, laddie?’ Kell grasped the axe-haft, put his boot against the soldier’s chest, and ripped the weapon free in a shower of waxy blood. ‘I think you’ll find I’m a little different.’ He bared his teeth in a skull smile. ‘A little more… experienced, shall we say.’

Kell turned and crouched by the woman, but she was dead, skin blue, eyes ringed purple. Her tongue protruded, and Kell touched it; it was frozen solid, and he could feel the chill through his gloves.

A distant memory tugged at Kell, then. It was the ice-smoke. He’d seen it, once before, as a young soldier on the Selenau Plains. His unit had come across an old garrison barracks housing King Drefan’s men; only they were dead, frozen, eyes glassy, flesh stuck to the stone. As the cavalry squad dismounted and entered the barracks, so tiny wisps of mist had dissipated, despite sunlight shining bright outside. Kell’s sergeant, a wide brutal man called Heljar, made the sign of the Protective Wolf, and the inexperienced men amongst the squad imitated him, aware it could do no harm. ‘Blood-oil magick,’ Heljar had whispered, and they’d backed from the garrison barracks with boots crunching ice.

Kell rubbed at his beard through leather gloves, and glanced down at his axe. Ilanna. Blessed in blood-oil, she would protect him against ice-smoke, he knew. She would allow him to kill these magick-cursed men. Allow? Kell smiled a bitter smile. Hell, she would encourage it.

Now. Where would Nienna be? The dormitories?

If under attack, where would she run?

Kell, following instinct, following a call of blood, eased through long corridors and halls of the university building, past corpses and several times past soldiers intent on their search. Up to the second floor, Kell found piles of bodies, all frozen, all arranged as if awaiting… what? What the hell do they want, wondered his confused mind?

A scream. Above.

Kell broke into a run, past lines of bodies laid out with arms by sides, faces serene in cold and death. His hands were tight on Ilanna, his breathing ragged and harsh, and he could sense his granddaughter close by. Up more steps, growing reckless the more he grew frantic with rising fear.

Through a dormitory, beds neatly made, wooden chests unopened, and up another tight spiral staircase, taking the steps two at a time, his old legs groaning at him, muscles on fire, joints stabbing him with pain, but all this was washed aside by a surge of adrenalin as Kell slammed into the room –

There were four dead girls, lying on the floor, with long hair seeming to float behind pale chilled faces. Nienna and two others stood, armed with ornamental pikes they’d dragged from the walls during their flight. Before them stood three albino warriors with long white hair, all carrying short swords, their black armour a gleaming contrast to porcelain skin.

The soldiers turned as one, as Kell burst in. With a scream he leapt at them, axe slamming left in a whirr that severed one soldier’s sword-arm and left him kneeling, stump spewing milk blood.

Nienna leapt forward, thrusting her commandeered pike into an albino’s throat but he moved fast, grabbing the weapon and twisting it viciously from Nienna’s grip. She stumbled back nursing injured wrists, and watched with mouth open as the skewered albino stubbornly refused to die.

‘Magick!’ she hissed.

The albino nodded, smiling a smile which disintegrated as Kell’s axe cleaved down the centre of his skull and dropped him in an instant. The third soldier turned to flee, but Ilanna sang, smashing through his clavicle. The second strike severed his head with a savage diagonal stroke.

The world froze in sudden impact.

Kell, chest heaving, moved forward. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘Grandpa!’ She fell into his arms, her friends coming up close behind, their faces drawn in fear, etched with terror. ‘It’s awful! They stormed the university, started to kill everybody with swords and… and…’

‘And magick,’ whispered a young woman, with short red hair and topaz eyes. ‘I’m Katrina. Kat to my friends. You are Kell. I’ve read everything about you, sir, your history, your exploits… your adventures! You are a hero! The hero of Kell’s Legend!’

‘We’ve not time for this,’ growled Kell. ‘We have to get out of the city. The soldiers are killing everyone.!’

Katrina stooped, and hoisted one of the albino’s swords. ‘Normal weapons won’t kill them, right?’

Kell nodded. ‘You catch on fast, girl. The soldiers are blessed – or maybe cursed – with blood-oil magick. Only a suitably blessed and holy weapon can slay them. Either that, or remove their heads.’

‘Will this kill them?’

‘There’s only one way to find out.’

Nienna and the third young woman, Volga, armed themselves with the dead soldiers’ swords. Kell led them to the spiral stairs, moving cat-like, wary, his senses alert, his aches and pains, arthritis and lumbago all gone. He could sense the women’s fear, and that was bad; something dark flitted across his soul, something pure evil settling in Kell’s mind. He didn’t want the responsibility of these women. They were nothing to him. An inconvenience. He wanted simply to save Nienna. The other two? The other two women could…

I can kill them, if you like.

The thought came not so much as words, as primitive, primal images, drifting like a shroud across his thoughts. For a decade she had remained silent. But with fresh blood, fresh magick, fresh death, Ilanna had found new life…

‘No!’

They halted, and Nienna touched his arm gingerly. ‘Are you well, Grandpa?’

‘Yes,’ came his strangled reply; and for a moment he gazed at his bloodbond axe with unfathomable horror. The Ilanna was powerful, and evil, and yet – yet he knew without her he would not survive this day. Would not survive this hour. He owed her – it, damn it! – owed it his life. He owed it everything…

‘I am well,’ he forced himself to say, words grinding through gritted teeth. ‘Come. We need to reach the river. We can steal a boat there, attempt to get away from this… horror.’

‘I think you will find the river frozen,’ said a low, gentle voice.

The group had emerged like maggots from a wound, spilling from stairs into a long, low hall lined with richly polished furniture gleaming under ice-light from high arched windows. The whole scene appeared grey and silver; a portrait delicately carved in ice.

Kell stopped, mouth a line, mind whirring mechanically. The man was tall, lithe, wearing black armour without insignia. He was albino, like the other soldiers, with long white hair and ashen skin; and yet, yet – Kell frowned, for there was authority there, integral, a part of his core; and something not quite right. This was the leader. Kell did not need to be told. And his eyes were blue. They glittered like sapphires.

‘You are?’

‘General Graal. This is my army, the Army of Iron, which has forcibly taken and now controls the city of Jalder. We have overrun the garrison, stormed the Summer Palace, subdued the soldiers and population. All with very little loss to my own men. And yet – ’ He smiled then, teeth bared, and took a step forward, the two soldiers flanking Graal remaining in position so the general was fore-grounded, set apart by his natural authority. ‘And yet you, old man, are fast becoming a thorn in my side.’

Kell, who had been eyeing other corridors which fed the hall in the hope of an easy escape route, eased to his right and checked for enemy. The corridor was empty. He turned, fixing a steel gaze on the general who seemed to be observing Kell with private amusement; or at least, the disdain a piranha reserves for an injured fish.

‘I apologise,’ growled Kell, eyes narrowed, ‘that I haven’t rolled over to die like so many other puppies.’ His eyes flashed dangerous with a new and concentrated form of hate. ‘It would seem you caught many of the city-folk by surprise, Graal, with the benefit of blood-oil magick at your disposal. I’m sure this makes you feel like a big cock bastard down at the barracks, Graal, the whore-master, joking about how he killed babes in their beds and soldiers in their sleep. The work of a coward.’

Graal was unfazed by insult. He tilted his head, watching Kell, feminine face laced with good humour. ‘What is your name, soldier?’ His words were a lullaby; soft and enticing. Come to me, that voice whispered. Join with me.

‘I am Kell. Remember it well, laddie, ’cause I’m going to carve it on your arse.’

‘But not today, I fear. Men? Kill them. Kill them all.’

The two albino soldiers eased forward, bodies rolling with athletic grace. Kell’s eyes narrowed. These men were special, he could tell. They were professional, and deadly. He knew; he’d killed enough during his long, savage lifetime.

The two soldiers split, one moving for Kell, the other for Nienna, Kat and Volga. They accelerated smoothly, leaping forward and Kell leapt to meet his man, axe slamming down, but the albino had gone, rolling, sword flickering out to score a line across Kell’s bearskin-clad bicep that saw the big man stagger back, face like thunder, teeth gritted and axe clamped in both hands.

‘A pretty trick, boy.’

The albino said nothing, but attacked again, swift, deadly, sword slamming up then twisting, cutting left, right, to be battered aside by the butterfly-blades of Kell’s axe. The albino spun, his blade hammering at Kell’s neck. Kell’s axe slammed the blade aside with a clatter. A reverse thrust sent the bloodbond axe towards the albino’s chest, but the man rolled fast and came up, grinning a full-teeth grin.

‘You’re fast, old man.’ His voice was like silver.

‘Not fast enough,’ snapped Kell, irate. He was starting to pant, and pain flickered in his chest.
Too old, taunted that pain. Far too old for this kind of dance…

The albino leapt, sword slamming at Kell’s throat. Kell leant back, steel an inch from his windpipe, and brought his axe up hard. There was a discordant clash. The soldier’s sword sailed across the room, clattering from the wall.

‘Kell!’ came the scream. He whirled, saw instantly Nienna’s danger. The three young women were backing away, swords raised, the second albino warrior bearing down on them, toying with them. But his stance changed; now, he meant business. Even as Kell watched, the man’s sword flickered out and Nienna, face contorted, lashed out clumsily with her commandeered sword; it was batted aside, and on the reverse sweep the albino’s blade cut deep across Yolga’s belly. Cloth parted, skin and muscle opened, and the young woman’s bowels spilled out. She fell to her knees, face white, lips mouthing wordless, her guts in her hands. Blood spilled across complex-patterned carpet. ‘No!’ screamed Nienna, and attacked with a savage ferocity that belied her size and age. And as the albino’s sword slashed at her throat, in slow-motion, an unnervingly accurate killing stroke, Kell heaved his axe with all his might. The weapon flew, end over end making a deep thrumming sound. It embedded so far through the albino that both blades appeared through his chest. With spine severed, he dropped instantly, flopping spastically on the ground where he began to leak.

Kell whirled back, eyes sweeping the room. The first soldier had regained his sword. Of Graal, there was no sign. The man, eyes locked on his dead comrade, fixed his gaze on Kell. The look was not comforting, and the arrogant smile was gone. He stalked towards the old warrior who realised –
Bastard, he thought. He’d thrown his axe.

Kell backed away.

You should never throw your axe.

‘Graal said nothing about a swift death,’ snapped the albino, and Kell read in those crimson eyes a need for cruelty and torture. Here was a man with medical instruments in his pack; here was a man who enjoyed watching life-light die like the fall of a deviant sun.

Kell held up his hands, bearded face smiling easily. ‘I have no weapon.’ Although this was a lie: he had his Svian sheathed beneath his left arm, a narrow blade, but little use against a sword.

The albino drew square, and Kell, backing away, kept his hands held in supplication.

‘Your point is?’

‘It’s hardly a fair fight, laddie. I thought you were a soldier, not a butcher?’

‘We all have our hobbies,’ said the albino with a delicate smile.

Nienna’s sword entered his neck, clumsily but effectively, from behind, smashing his clavicle and embedding in his right lung. The albino coughed, twisted, and went down on one knee all at the same time. His sword lashed out in a reverse sweep, but Nienna skipped back, bloodied steel slipping from her fingers.

The albino coughed again, a heavy blood cough, and felt blood bubbling and frothing in his damaged lung. He felt the world swim. There was no pain. No, he thought. This wasn’t how it should end. He felt tingling blood-magick in his veins, and his fingers twitched at the intercourse. He dropped to his other knee. Blood welled in his throat, filled his mouth like vomit, and spilled down his black armour making it gleam. His head swam, as if he’d imbibed alcohol, injected blood-oil, merged with the vachine. He tried to speak, as he toppled to the carpet, and his eyes traced the complex patterns he found there. Darkness was coming. And weight. It was pressing down on him. He glanced up, unable to move, to see boots. He strained, more white blood pooling like strands of thick saliva from his open maw. Kell was standing, his axe, blades stained with blood and tiny flutters of torn flesh, held loose in one hand, resting on the carpet. Kell’s head was lowered, and to the albino his eyes looked darker than dark; they appeared as pools of ink falling away into infinity. Kell lifted his axe. The albino soldier tried to shout, and he squirmed on the carpet in some final primitive instinct; a testament to an organism’s need to survive.

Ilanna swept down. The albino was still.

Kell turned, glanced at Nienna. She was cradling Volga’s head and the girl was mumbling, face ashen, clothes ruined by her own arterial gore. The other girl, Kat, was standing to one side, eyes wide, mouth hung loose. As Kell watched, Volga spasmed and died in Nienna’s arms.

‘Why?’ screamed Nienna, head snapping up, anger burning in the glare she threw at Kell.
Kell shrugged wearily, and gathered up one of the albino’s swords. This one was different. The steel was black, and intricately inlaid with fine crimson runes. He had seen this sort of work before. It was said the metal was etched with blood-oil; blessed, in fact, by the darkness: by vachine religion. Kell ripped free the albino’s leather sheath, and looped it over his shoulders. He sheathed the sword smoothly and moved to Nienna.

‘Get your sword. We need to move.’

‘I asked you – why?’

‘And my answer is because. I don’t know, girl. Maybe the gods mock us. The world is evil. Men are evil. Volga was in the wrong place at the wrong damn time, but you are alive, and Kat is alive, so pick up your sword and follow me. That is,’ he smiled a nasty smile, ‘if you still want to live.’

Nienna moved to the fallen soldier. She took hold of her embedded sword, and tugged at it until it finally gave; it squelched from the corpse. She shuddered, tears running down her cheeks, and followed Kell to the corridor. Kat put her hand on Nienna’s shoulder, but the young woman shrugged off the intimacy, displacing friendship.

‘How do you feel?’

Nienna snorted a laugh. ‘I think I’ve lost my faith in God.’

‘I lost mine a long time ago,’ said Kat, eyes tortured. Nienna stared at her friend, then.

‘Why?’

‘Now is not the time.’ Kat hoisted her own stolen sword. ‘You did well, Nienna. I froze. Seeing Volga like that…’ She took a deep breath, and patted her friend once more. ‘Honest. You did brilliant. You… saved us all.’

‘How so?’

‘That soldier would have killed your grandpa. Without a weapon, he was just meat.’

Nienna looked at her friend oddly, then transferred her gaze back to Kell, whose eyes were sweeping the long, majestic hall. He glanced back, bloodied axe in his great huge paws. And with his thick grey beard and the bulk of his bearskin, for a moment in time, a sliver of half-glimpsed reality, he appeared to be natural in that skin. A warrior. No, more. A bestial and primitive ghost.

‘Follow me,’ he said, breaking the spell. ‘And stay silent. Or we’ll all be dead.’

Nienna nodded, and with Kat in tow, they followed Kell out to the hall.

Saark stared, transfixed, as the Harvester stooped and bobbed, striding forward with a rhythmical, swinging gait, ice-smoke trailing from its robes, black eyes like glossy coals drawing Saark into a world of sweetness and joy and uplifting mercy –

Come to me, angel.

Come to me, holy one.

Let me savour your blood.

Let me take you on the final journey.

Let me taste your life…

The long, bony fingers reached for Saark, who stood with every muscle tense, his body thrumming like the string on a mandolin. Saark’s eyes flickered, saw the hooded man creeping up behind the Harvester even as those long points of white reached for Saark’s chest and his shirt seemed to peel away and five white-hot needles scorched his skin and he opened his mouth to scream as he felt flesh melt but there was no sound and no words and no control and pain slapped Saark like a helve to the skull, stunning him, his legs going weak as an ice-wind whipped across his soul–
The hooded man screamed a battle-cry and charged, a large meat-cleaver held clear above his head, his bearded face, red and bitten savagely by the ice-smoke, contorted into a mask of frenzy.

The Harvester turned, smooth, unhurried, and as the cleaver lashed down the Harvester’s arm lifted in a sudden acceleration, and the cleaver bounced from bone with a clack and spun off, lost from the man’s flexing hands. The Harvester’s finger slammed out, puncturing the man’s chest above his heart. He screamed.

Saark fell to his knees, choking, coughing, and released from the spell, grappled wildly at his burning, melting chest. He glanced down, at five deep welts in his skin, deep purple sores surrounded by concentric circles of heavy bruising. Saark continued to cough, as if slammed in the heart by a sledge-hammer, and he watched helpless as the Harvester lifted the brave attacker high into the air kicking and screaming, impaled by the heart on five spears of bone. Body thrashing, the man screamed and screamed and Saark’s eyes widened as he watched the man sucked and shrivelled, arms and legs cracking, contorting, snapping at impossible angles as the skin of his face was drawn and shrivelled until it was a dry, useless, eyeless, husk.

The corpse hit the ground with a rattle; like bones in a paper bag.

The Harvester turned back to Saark, flat oval face leering at him. Thin lips opened revealing a black interior ringed with row after row of tiny teeth.

Saark grunted, rolled onto his hands and knees and accelerated into a sprint faster than any man had a right to. He powered away, chest on fire, heart pounding a tattoo in his ears, mouth Harmattan dry, bladder leaking piss in squirts down his legs. Down long alleys he fled, with no sounds of pursuit. He turned, and almost choked. The Harvester was pounding after him, so close and silent Saark almost fell on his face with shock. He slammed right, twisting down a narrow alleyway, dropping ever downwards towards the river. He skidded on icy cobbles, turned again, and again, ducking into narrow spaces between carts and stalls and wagons, squeezing past boxes, and suddenly shoulder-charging a door to his left and barging through a deserted house, past still bubbling pans and up narrow stairs to the roof –

He halted, listening.

Nothing.

His terrified eyes roved the staircase below, and he moved to the window and stared down into the street. Had he lost it? He tried to calm his breathing, and climbing out of the window, he reached up to the eaves of the house and with frozen fingers, ice-smoke swirling around his boots, he grunted, hoisting himself up onto slick slate tiles. Carefully, Saark climbed to the ridge-line and without waiting moved swiftly along the house apex, leaping a narrow alleyway with a glimpse of dark cobbled streets encased in ice below. Scary, yes, but not as heart-wrenchingly terrifying as the creature that pursued him; the monster that sucked life and blood and fluid from bodies, the beast that drank out people’s souls. Saark shuddered.

What hell has overtaken the world? he thought.

What law did I break, to be so cursed?

From house to house, from roof to roof, Saark leapt and slithered, many times nearly falling to cobbles and stalls far below. Through drifting mist he ran, a rooftop ghost, a midnight vagabond; only this time he was on no simple errand of theft.

This time, Saark ran for his life. And for his soul.

Stay tuned for more! :-) And remember, you can order your copies; click here for US, here and here for UK, and for those in SA, please use the Kalahari link at the top-right of the blog. :-)

Be EPIC!

Announcing: Hyddenworld: Spring

2009-11-18T18:29:00.005+02:00

Thanks to Pan Macmillan in the UK, I've got some great info for you regarding a new series from the author who brought us The Duncton Wood series of novels, William Horwood. :-)

Here's some info about William and the first book in the new series, publishing in February 2010, Hyddenworld: Spring:

"Famous and treasured for the 1980’s classic bestsellers, The Duncton Wood novels, about a civilisation of warring moles, William’s work sparked a multitude of anthropomorphic spin-off tales and earned him a devoted fanbase. Sixteen years after the sixth and final Duncton book was published, with a memoir, a historical thriller and a host of sequels to The Wind in the Willows under his belt, William introduces us to the world of the ‘hydden’: the little people existing on the borders of our world. The journey begins with Spring and an epic journey undertaken by two brave and captivating young heroes, who must cross into the Hyddenworld to save both worlds from environmental destruction.

Hyddenworld: Spring is the first of four books, to be published annually from 2010. William’s research for the series—he's about to hand in the second, but knows how the fourth and final book will end—has included marching up Spaghetti Junction in Birmingham to see if it was doable (it isn't), and taking a course in Old English to help create the book's mythology."

For some extra info about the new series from William, check out this link on The Bookseller.

And here, as a taster, is the cover:

I can honestly say that I've yet to read any of William's work (the reason might be that I was still in diapers when The Duncton Wood novels were bestsellers!) but I'll be fixing that - as soon as Hyddenworld: Spring is in my hands I'll be diving in! :-)

If any of you out there have any questions for William, as I'm sure great fans always do :-) then get those questions ready - William will be doing an interview next week, and Pan Macmillan are calling for questions from readers all over the world. :-) All you need to do is send your question through to publicity (at) macmillan (dot) co (dot) uk , and put “Questions for William Horwood” in the subject line.

As soon as the video interview is available I'll be sure to post it on the blog, so keep an eye out for that. :-)

Meanwhile, you can pre-order your copies of Hyddenworld: Spring right here! :-)

Be EPIC!

Angry Robot Free Fiction: Kell's Legend Part 2

2009-11-17T18:09:00.004+02:00

Hey everyone, here's part two of the excerpts from Kell's Legend (by Andy Remic) that I received from Angry Robot! :-)

Kell awoke, senses tingling, mouth sour, head fuzzy, and wondered not just what had awoken him, but how in Hell’s Teeth he’d fallen asleep? ‘Damn the grog,’ he muttered, cursing himself for his weakness and age, and swearing he’d stop the liquor; though knowing, deep in his heart, it was a vow he’d never uphold.

Kell sat up from the window-bench, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He glanced right, but all he saw through the long, low window was mist, thick and white, swirling and coalescing through the streets. He could determine a few muffled stone walls, some snow-slick cobbles, but that was all. A terrible white had expanded to fill the world.

Kell moved to his water barrel and gulped three full flagons, with streams running through his grey beard and staining his cotton shirt. He rubbed his eyes again, head spinning, and turned to watch the mist creeping under his door. Odd, he thought. He glanced up to Ilanna, his axe, hanging over the fireplace. She gleamed, dull black reflecting firelight. Kell turned again, and with a crack the window, nearly the width of the entire room, sheared with a metallic crackling as if it had been placed under great pressure. Mist drifted into the apartment-

In reflex, Kell grabbed a towel, soaked it in his water barrel, and wrapped it over his mouth and nose, tying it behind his head. What are you doing, you crazy old fool? screamed his mind. This is no fire smoke! It will do you no harm! But some deep instinct, some primal intuition guided him and he reached up to tug the long-hafted battle-axe from her restraining brackets. Bolts snapped, and the brackets clattered into the fire…

Ice-smoke swirled across his boots, roved across the room, and smothered the fire. It crackled viciously, then died. Outside, a woman gave a muffled scream; the scream ended in a gurgle.

Kell’s eyes narrowed, and he strode to his door – as outside, footsteps moved fast up the ice-slick ascent. Kell twisted to one side. The door rattled, and soundlessly Kell slid the bar out of place. The door was kicked open and two soldiers eased into his apartment carrying black swords; their faces were pale and white, their hair long, braided, and as white as the ice-smoke which had smothered Kell’s fire.

Kell grinned at the two men, who separated, spreading apart as Kell backed away several steps. The first man rushed him, sword slashing for his throat but Kell twisted, rolling, his axe thundering in a backhand sweep that caught the albino across the head with blade slicing a two-inch slab from the soldier’s unprotected skull. The man stumbled back, white blood spraying through clawing fingers, as the second soldier leapt at Kell. But Kell was ready, and his boot hooked under the bench, lifting it hard and fast into the attacker’s path. The soldier stumbled over oak, and double-handed, Kell slammed his axe overhead into the fallen man’s back, pinning him to the bench. He writhed, gurgling for a while, then spasmed and lay still. A large pool of white blood spread beneath him. Kell placed his boot on the man’s armour and tugged free his axe, frowning. White blood? He glanced right, to where the injured soldier, with a quarter of his head missing, lay on a pile of rugs, panting fast.

Kell strode to him. ‘What’s going on, lad?’

‘Go to hell,’ snarled the soldier, strings of saliva and blood drooling from his teeth.

‘So, an attack is it?’ Kell hefted his axe thoughtfully. Then, his face paled, and his hand came to the water-soaked towel. ‘What dark magick is this? Who leads you, boy? Tell me now, and I’ll spare you.’ It was a lie, and it felt bad on Kell’s tongue. He had no intentions of letting the soldier live.

‘I’d rather fucking die, old man!’

‘So be it.’

The axe struck the albino’s head from his shoulders, and Kell turned his back on the twitching corpse showing a cross-section of spine and gristle, his mind sour, mood dropping fast into a brooding bitter pit. This wasn’t supposed to be his life. No more killing! He was a retired soldier. An old warrior. He no longer walked the mountains, battle-axe in hand, coated in the blood and gore of the slain. Kell shook his head, mouth grim. But then, the Gods mocked him, yes? The Gods were fickle; they would see to it any retirement Kell sought was blighted with misery.
Nienna!

‘Damn them.’ Kell moved to the steps, peering out into ice-smoke. He nodded to himself. It had to be blood-oil magick. No natural mist moved like this: organic, like coils of snakes in a bucket. Shivering, Kell moved swiftly down the steps and ice-smoke bit his hands, making him yelp. He ran back up to his apartment and pulled on heavy layers of clothing, a thick hat with fur-lined ear-flaps, and a bulky, bear-skin jerkin which broadened Kell from his already considerable width of chest.

Finally, Kell pulled on high-quality leather gloves and stepped back into the mist. He moved down wooden stairs and stood on a mixture of snow and cobbles, his face tingling. All around, the mist shrouded him in silence; it was a padded world. The air was muffled. Reduced. Shrunk. Kell strode to a nearby wall, and was reassured by the rough reality of black stone. So, he thought. I’m not a victim of a savage, drunken nightmare after all! He laughed at that. It felt like it.

Head pounding, Kell moved warily down the street towards the market. The cobbled road dropped towards the Selenau River, then curved east in a broad arc and wound up the hill towards rows of expensive villas and Jalder University beyond. Kell reached the edge of the market, and stopped. There was a body on the ground, mist curling around withered, ancient limbs. Frowning, Kell dropped to one knee and reached out.

He touched dry, crisp flesh, and cried out, shocked-

Boots thudded at him from the white, and a sword slashed for his head. His axe came up at the last moment, and there was clash of steel. Kell rammed his left fist into the soldier’s midriff, heard the ‘whoosh’ of expelled air as the man doubled over.

Kell stood, and stamped on the man’s head, his heavy boot crushing the albino’s skull as more came from the mist and Kell, shock and realisation slamming through him, recognised that he was outnumbered and his brow furrowed and dark thoughts shot through his brain and his blood was pumping, fired now, a deep pulsing rhythm, and he hadn’t wanted this, he’d left this behind and it was back again, drawing him in, drawing him onto the knife edge of–

Murder.

Another sword whistled towards his head, and Kell ducked one shoulder, rolling left, axe whirring fast to embed in flesh. His right elbow shot back into a soldier’s face and they were around him, swords and knives gleaming but that made life easier. He grinned. They were all enemy. Kell’s mind took a step back and coolness washed his aura. His brain calmed, and he changed with an almost imperceptible click. Years fell away like abandoned confetti. He felt the old, dark magick flowing through blood like narcotic honey. He’d fought it. Now it was back. And he welcomed it.

Smoothly, Kell whirled and his axe thundered in an arc trailing white blood droplets. An albino soldier was beheaded, the axe continuing, then reversing suddenly to slam through another’s breast-plate, cleaving through steel to shatter the sternum and pierce the pumping white heart within. Kell’s fist clubbed a soldier to the ground; he ducked a sword slash, which whistled by his ear, and Ilanna slammed a third albino between the eyes, splitting his head like a fruit. Kell’s thick fingers curled around another soldier’s throat, and he lifted the lithe albino, legs dangling, and brought him close to his own serene and deadly calm features. He head-butted the soldier, spreading nose across pale white skin, and allowed the figure to flop uselessly to the cobbles. Then Kell was running, pounding through the market dodging husks of dried corpses, his own mouth dry, not with fear, but a terrible and ancient understanding as the extent of the slaughter dawned on him. This wasn’t a few rogue brigands. This was a full scale attack!

And the enemy, with matching armour, were professional, skilled, disciplined, ruthless. Throughout Kell’s recent economic slaughter there had been no panic, no retreat. These were a people bred for war. And yet, even so, Kell had a premonition that he had met only the untrained – the frontliners, the new recruits. The expendable.

Sourly, Kell ran on, and stopped by the edge of the market, leaning against the stall of Brask the Baker to regain his breath. The smell of fresh bread twitched Kell’s nostrils, and reaching out, he realised the racks of loaves were frozen solid. And so was Brask, down on his knees, hands on the edge of his stall, flesh blue and rigid.

‘The bastards,’ snarled Kell, and calmed his breathing. Unused to running, and suffering the effects of excessive liquor and pipe-smoking, a decade out of the army, ten years sat watching the mountains and the snow, well, Kell was far from battle-fit. He waited for pain to subside, and ignored the flaring twinges of hot-knives in his lower-back and knees, in his right elbow and shoulder, an arthritis-legacy from decades wielding a heavy battle-axe and carving lumps of flesh with solid, jarring bone-impact.

The Days of Blood, whispered a corner of his imagination, then cackled at him.

Go to hell!

Kell glanced up, into the mist. No, he corrected himself. Into the smoke. The ice-smoke.

He wasn’t far from Jalder University. But it was uphill, and a damn steep hill at that. Gritting his teeth, face coursing with sweat under his thick hat and heavy clothing, Kell began a fast walk, holding his ribs as he prayed fervently to any gods willing to listen that Nienna was still present in the university grounds… and still alive.

Saark gazed down at her beautiful face, skin soft and coolly radiant in the glow from the snow-piled window-ledge. He lifted his hand and ran it through his long, curled black hair, shining with aromatic oils and the woman smiled up at him, love in her eyes, mouth parting, tongue teasing moist lips. Saark dropped his head, unable to contain himself any longer, unable to hold back the hard hot fiery lust and he kissed her with a passion, tasted sweet honey, sank into her warm depths, savoured her gift, inhaled her scent, imbibed her perfume, fell deep down into the soft lullaby of their kissing, their cradling, their connection, their joining. His hand moved down her flank and she pressed eagerly against him, moaning deep in her throat, in her chest, an eager, primal animal sound. Saark kissed her harder, more ferociously, feeling the beast inside him rear from the pit of his belly to his throat to encompass his mind and drown everything of reason in a pounding drive of hot blood and lust and the desperate need to fuck.

She stepped from her dress, and from glossy, silken underwear. Saark watched as if in a dream. He removed his jacket, careful not to let the jewels – so recently stolen from this beautiful ladies’ jewellery box – tinkle, as he draped it over a gold-embroidered chair.

‘You are a real man, at last,’ she breathed, voice husky, and Saark kissed her breasts, tasting her nipples, tongue toying, his voice lost, his mind scattered; how could anybody anybody keep such a gorgeous creature locked in a high cold crenellated tower? But then, her husband was ancient, this woman his prize, a beautiful peasant bought like any other object with favours from an outlying nobleman’s villa. He kept her secreted here, a creature denied liberty and sexual congress.

Saark kissed her neck, her throat and her breasts which rose to meet him as she panted in need. He bit her nipples and she groaned, thrusting her naked body onto him. ‘Why does he keep you locked away, sweetie?’ mumbled Saark, and as he murmured his fingers dropped to her cunt which pressed his hand, warm, slick, firm, inviting him, urging him to take her… to take her hard…

Both her hands ran through Saark’s long, curled black hair. ‘Because,’ she hissed, ‘he knows what a wild cat I’d be if he let me out to play!’ She threw Saark to the floor, and dropped, straddling him. Saark glanced up as she towered over him, aggressive, powerful, dominant, totally in charge, her jewelled hands on naked, swaying, circling hips, the smile of the jailer etched on her face as she eyed him like a cat eyes a cornered mouse. Saark’s gaze slowly strayed, from the sexual cunt-honey dripping from her quivering vulva, to the large rubies on the rings that circled her fingers. He licked his lips, dry now at the excitement of gems and gold. ‘I think,’ he said, in all honesty, and without any trace of the subtle cynicism which commanded him and in which he prided himself, ‘I think this is my lucky day.’

It was later. Much later. Weak light sloped through the ice-patterned window. Saark propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at the sultry vixen beside him. She was breathing deep, lost in sleep and a totality of contentment. Gods, thought Saark, with a wry grin, I’m fucking good. In fact, I must be the best. He ran long fingers from her throat and the gentle hollow there, down her sternum, over her rhythmically heaving breasts, and further down to curl in the rich mound of her pubis. She groaned, lifting her hips to him in unconscious response, and Saark eased his hand away. No. Not now. Not again. After all, there was business to attend to. He couldn’t afford to get her excited; although, he considered, it was extremely tempting. However. Business was business. Gold was gold. And Saark took his business very seriously.

He stood, and slowly, easily, silently dressed. Finally, he pulled on his long leather cavalry boots, and gazed longingly at the beautiful woman, head thrown back on the bed. Oh, to have stayed there for a whole day and night! They would have enjoyed so many sexual adventures together! But… no.

Saark moved to the mahogany sideboard, and eased open the top drawer. There was money, a small sack of thick gold coins, and these Saark tempted into his pocket.

The next drawer held nothing but silken underwear – Saark considered helping himself, but greed for wealth over trophies got the better of him; he didn’t want to be too much of a pervert. The third drawer held papers tied together by string.

Saark rifled them, looking for bonds, shares or agreements; he found only letters, and cursed. On top of the sideboard he found a long, jewelled dagger, used, he presumed, to open correspondence. It had fine emeralds set in a heavy gold hilt. He pocketed the dagger, and moved to the wardrobe, opening the door with a slow, wary gesture, seeking to avoid the groan of aged wood and tarnished hinges. Swiftly he searched the contents, and at the back he found a satchel. It was locked. Dropping to his knees, he pulled free the jewelled dagger and swiftly sawed through leather straps. Inside, there was a sheath of bonds and Saark whistled silently to himself.

He held a small fortune. His smile broadened, for these were Secken & Jalberg; he could cash them at any city in Falanor. Today, Saark realised, was not just a good day. It was probably the first day of a new retirement…

‘You… bastard.’ The words were low, barely more than a growl. Slowly, and still on his knees, Saark turned to see the wavering point of his own slender rapier.

‘Now don’t be like that, sweetie.’ He wanted to use her name, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember. Was it Mary-anne? Karyanne? Hell.

‘Don’t sweetie me, you pile of horse-shit thief.’

‘Hey, I’m not a thief!’

‘And a rapist,’ she said, eyes gleaming, lips wet with hatred, as they had so very recently been wet with lust.

‘Whoa!’ Saark held up his hands, and went as if to stand. The rapier stabbed at him, nearly skewering his eye. ‘What the hell do you mean, Darienne?’

‘It’s Marianne, idiot! And do you know what the Royal Guard do to rapists when apprehended?’ She glanced at his groin, and made a horizontal cutting motion with her free hand.

‘Marianne! We had such sweet sex! How can you do this to me? It’s despicable!’

‘Despicable?’ she screeched. ‘You take advantage of me, then seek to clean me out of every penny I’ve squirreled away from that old vinegar bastard I call a husband! Do you know what I’ve had to put up with, marrying the stinking toothless old goat? His acid sour breath? His pawing, hairy hands on my tits? His unwashed fucking rancid feet!’

Saark managed to get to his feet without losing an eye, and with both hands held in supplication, his voice a soothing lullaby, he searched frantically for a way of escape. ‘Now, now, listen Marianne, we can both still come out of this smelling of roses…’

‘No,’ she hissed, ‘I can come out of this smelling of expensive perfume, and satisfied, but you,’ she jabbed at him again, drawing a shallow line of blood down his cheekbone, ‘you’re coming out of this without your balls.’

In a swift movement Saark slid free the jewelled dagger, lifted his arm – and froze. The door behind Marianne had opened revealing a tall, lithe warrior with shoulder-length white hair and crimson eyes. The albino stepped forward in a sudden violent movement, and his sword-tip burst from Marianne’s chest in a blossom of spurting blood. Marianne’s eyes met Saark’s. They were filled with confusion and pain and for a moment there was a connection, a symbiosis deeper than words, deeper than souls… she opened her mouth to speak, but a deep arterial blood flooded out and ran down her breasts, stained her flat toned belly, and dripped with a spattering of rainfall to the warped uneven floor. Marianne toppled over, trapping the albino’s sword.

Saark’s hand slammed forward, and the jewelled dagger entered the soldier’s eye. The albino stumbled back, sitting down heavily. Incredibly, he lifted his hand and pulled free the blade with a slurp, letting it tumble to the wooden planks with a deafening clatter.

Saark leapt forward, kicking the soldier in the face and scooped his rapier from Marianne’s dead grip. The soldier grappled for his own sword, milk-like blood running from his ruined eye-socket; Saark slammed his sword hard into the soldier’s neck, half-severing the head. Saark staggered back, watching milk-blood pump from the limp corpse, and he tripped over Marianne’s body, slipping in her blood, hitting the ground hard. His eyes met her glassy orbs. Her face was still, and awesomely beautiful, like frozen china. ‘Damn you!’

Saark stood, slick with Marianne’s warm blood, and moved across the room and, ever the thief, retrieved the jewelled dagger that had saved his life. With rapier tight in his fist, he stepped onto the stairwell and glanced down where ice-smoke drifted lazily. Frowning, Saark descended, and felt the bite of a savage cold on his legs. He retreated, and rummaged through the wardrobe, finding heavy furs and leathers.

Wrapping himself up, Saark descended again, and stepped warily out onto the cobbled road.

Here, property displayed affluence with open vulgarity, the houses, villas and towers wearing wealth and privilege like jewels. The street was deserted. Even through thick clothing Saark could feel the cold nipping at him, stinging his skin, and he hurried down the street and towards the river – stopping only to gaze at small child lying face down on the cobbles. Saark moved forward and knelt gingerly by the boy. He prodded the child, then rolled the boy, who was only four or five years old, onto his back and drew back with a gasp. The face and limbs were shrivelled, shrunken, the shirt opened over the boy’s heart and deep puncture wounds showing clearly, gleaming under drifting ice-smoke. Saark reached forward and counted five holes, his hand hovering above the wounds. ‘What did this to you, child?’ he whispered, horror suffusing his mind. Then his jaw clenched, his eyes hardened, and he stood, hefting his rapier.

‘Whatever did this, I’m going to find them, and kill them.’ Rage swam with his blood. Anger burned his brain. Hatred became his fuel, and death his mistress.

Saark, the outcast.

Saark, the jewel thief!

Once proud, once honourable. No! He had stooped low. He had traded his honour and pride and manhood for a handful of worthless baubles. Saark laughed, his laughter brittle and hollow… like his self-esteem. Yes, he was beautiful; powerful and muscular and dazzlingly handsome. The women fell over themselves to bed him. But deep down… deep down, Saark realised he despised himself.

‘Kill them? You will not have to look far, little man,’ came a soft, ululating voice from the ice-smoke. Saark turned, and there towering over him and wearing snakes of smoke like drifting charms stood the stooped, white-robed figure of a Harvester.

The Harvester’s tiny black eyes glowed, and it lifted its hand allowing the sleeve to fall back, revealing five long, bony fingers… pointing at Saark, gesturing to the man’s unprotected chest, and the heart, and the pumping blood-sugar within…

Saark took an involuntary step back. A sudden fear ate him.

‘Come to me, little one,’ smiled the Harvester, black eyes glowing. ‘Come and enjoy your reward.’

Remember, you can order you copies right now - the book is available! :-) Click here for US, here and here for UK, and for those in SA, please use the Kalahari link at the top-right of the blog. :-)

Check back tomorrow for more Kell's Legend!

Be EPIC!

Angry Robot Free Fiction: Kell's Legend!

2009-11-16T19:44:00.004+02:00

Hey everyone, I'm back with more free fiction from Angry Robot for you! :-) This time Andy Remic takes center-stage with excerpts from his first book for Angry Robot; Kell's Legend - Book One of the Clockwork Vampire Chronicles. :-) Enjoy!

PROLOGUE
Slaughter.

‘I know you think me sadistic. You are incorrect. When I punish, I punish without pleasure. When I torture, I torture for knowledge, progression, and for truth. And when I kill…’ General Graal placed both hands on the icy battlements, staring dream-like to the haze of distant Black Pike Mountains caught shimmering and unreal through mist: huge, defiant, proud, unconquered. He grinned a narrow, skeletal grin. ‘Then I kill to feed.’

Graal turned, and stared at the kneeling man. Command Colonel Yax-kulkain was forty-eight years old, a seasoned warrior and Command Colonel of the Garrison Regiment at Jalder, Falanor’s major northern city and trading post connecting east, south and west military supply routes: also known as the Northern T.

Yax-kulkain hunkered down, fists clenching and unclenching, and stared up into Graal’s blue eyes. Pupil dilation told Graal the commander could still understand, despite his paralysis. Graal smiled, a thin-lipped smile with white lips that blended eerily into the near-albino skin of his soft, some would say feminine, face.

Running a hand through alabaster hair Graal released a hiss and gave a heavy, pendulous nod. ‘I see you understand me, Command Colonel.’

Yax-kulkain murmured something, an animal sound deep in his throat. He trembled, in his frozen, kneeling position, and with ice crackling his beard, gradually, with incredible force of will, lifted his blue-hued face and snarled up at the conquering general. There came a crack as he forced frozen jaws apart. Ice fell, tinkling from his beard. In rage, the ice-chilled warrior spat, ‘You will… rot… in hell!’

General Graal turned, staring almost nostalgically across frosted battlements. He spun on his heel, a fast fluid motion, slim blade slamming to cut the Command Colonel’s head from his body. The head rolled, hitting stone flags and cracking a platter of ice. It rocked, and came to a halt, eyes staring blank at the bleak, snow-filled sky.

I think not,’ said Graal, staring down the long line of kneeling men, of rigid, frozen soldiers that stretched away down the considerable length of the ice-rimed battlements. ‘It would appear I am already there.’ His voice rose in volume to a bellow. ‘Soldiers of the Army of Iron!’ He paused, voice dropping to a guttural growl. ‘Kill them all.’

Like automatons, insects, albino soldiers stepped up with a synchronised rhythm behind the ranks of frozen infantry at Falanor’s chief garrison; white hair whipped in the wind, and black armour cut a savage contrast to pale, waxen flesh. Black swords unsheathed, eight hundred oiled whispers of precision steel, and General Graal moved his hand with a casual flick as he turned away. Swords descended, sliced through flesh and fat and bone, and eight hundred heads toppled from twitching shoulders to thud and roll. Because of the frozen flesh, there was no blood. It was a clean slaughter.

Ice-smoke swirled, thickening, flowing in the air from a resplendent and unwary city below, beyond the smashed protection of the garrison stronghold. Buildings spread gracefully and economically up the steep hillside from the broad, half-frozen platter of the Selenau River; and as Graal’s odd blue eyes narrowed to nothing more than slits, it was clear the ice-smoke was anything but natural: there were sinister elements at play.

Graal strode down the line of corpses, halting occasionally and stooping to force his finger into the icy stump of a soldier’s neck. The swirling smoke thickened. Through this carnage, up the narrow steps to the battlements, glided –

The Harvesters.

They were tall, impossibly tall for men, and wore thin white robes embroidered with fine gold wire and draped over bony, elongated figures. Their faces were flat, oval, hairless, eyes small and black, their noses nothing more than twin vertical slits which hissed with a fast rhythm of palpitation. Their hands were hidden under flapping cuffs and they strode unhurriedly, heads bobbing as they stooped to survey the scene. The ranks of motionless albino soldiers took reverential steps back, and whilst faces did not show fear exactly, the albino warriors of Graal’s army revealed a healthy respect. One did not cross the Harvesters. Not if a man valued his soul.
The first halted, peering myopically down at Graal who folded arms and smiled without humour. ‘You are late, Hestalt.’

Hestalt nodded, and when he spoke his words were a lazy sigh of wind. ‘We were preparing the ice-smoke for the city. We had to commune with Nonterrazake. Now, however, the time has come. Are your men ready with their primitive weapons of iron?’
‘My soldiers are always prepared,’ said Graal, unruffled, and he unsheathed his own slender sword. The Harvester did not flinch; instead, a hand appeared from folds of white robe. Each finger was ten or twelve inches long, narrowing to a tapered point of gleaming ivory. The Harvester turned, bent, and plunged all five bone fingers into the corpse of Command Colonel Yax-kulkain. There came a gentle resonance of suction, and Graal watched, mouth tight-lipped, as the body began to deflate, shrivelling, flesh shrinking across bones and skull until the man’s teeth were wildly prominent in a death-submission.

Hestalt withdrew bone fingers, and leaving a tiny, shrivelled husk in his wake, moved to the next dead soldier of Falanor. Again, his fingers invaded the man’s chest, deep into his heart, and the Harvester reaped the Harvest.

Unable to watch this desecration of flesh, General Graal shouted a command which rang down the mist-filled battlements. Ice-smoke eddied around his knees, now, expanding and billowing in exaggerated bursts as he strode towards the steps leading down to the cobbled courtyard. His albino regiment followed in silence, swords unsheathed and ready, and like a tide, with Graal at its spearhead, moved to mammoth oak gates that opened onto a cobbled central thoroughfare, which in turn led down the steep hillside into Jalder’s central city – into the city’s heart.

Two albinos ran forward, slim figures, well balanced and athletic, graceful and moving with care on ice-slick cobbles. The oak portals were heaved apart, iron hinges groaning, and Graal turned glancing back to the tall stooping figures that moved methodically along the battlements, draining the dead Falanor garrison of life-force. Like insects, he thought, and made distant eye contact with Hestalt. The Harvester gave a single nod: a command. He pointed towards the city… and his instruction was clear.

Prepare a path.

Ice-smoke gathered in the courtyard, a huge pulsing globe which spun and built and coalesced with flickers of dancing silver; suddenly, it surged out through the gates to flow like airborne mercury into the city beyond, still expanding, still growing, a flood of eerie silence and cotton-wool death, a plague of drifting ice-smoke shifting to encompass the unwary city in a tomb-shroud of blood-oil magick.

CHAPTER 1
Death-Ice.

Kell stood by the window in his low-ceilinged second-story apartment, and stared with a twinge of melancholy towards the distant mountains. Behind him a fire crackled in the hearth, flames consuming pine, and a pan of thick vegetable broth bubbled on a cast-iron tripod. Kell lifted a stubby mug to his lips and sipped neat liquor with a sigh, feeling alcohol-resin tease down his throat and into his belly, warming him through. He shivered despite the drink, and thought about snow and ice, and the dead cold places of the mountains; the vast canyons, the high lonely ledges, the slopes leading to rocky falls and instant death. Chill memories pierced the winter of his soul, if not his flesh. Sometimes, thought Kell, he would never banish the ice of his past… and those dark days of hunting in the realm of the Black Pikes. Ice lay in his heart. Trapped, like a diamond.

Outside, snow drifted on a gentle breeze, swirling down cobbled streets and dancing patterns into the air. From his vantage point, Kell could watch the market traders by the Selenau River, and to the right, make out the black-brick bulks of huge tanneries, warehouses and the riverside slaughter-houses. Kell remembered with a shudder how dregside stunk to heaven in high summer – that’s why he’d got the place cheap. But now... now the claws of winter had closed, they kept the stench at bay.

Kell shivered again, the vision of dancing snow chilling old bones. He turned back to his soup and the fire, and stirred the pan’s contents, before leaning forward, hand thumping against the sturdy beam of the mantel. Outside, on the steps, he heard a clatter of boots and swiftly placed his mug on a high shelf beside an ancient clock and beneath the terrifying butterfly blades of Ilanna. Inside the clock, he could see tiny whirring clockwork components; so fine and intricate, a pinnacle of miniature engineering.

The thick plank door shuddered open and Nienna stood in silhouette, beaming, kicking snow from her boots.

‘Hello Grandpa!’

'Nienna.’ He moved to her and she hugged him, the snow in her long brown hair damping his grey beard. He took a step back, holding her at arm’s length. ‘My, you grow taller by the day, I swear!’

‘It’s all that fine broth.’ She peered over his shoulder, inquisitively. ‘Keeps me fit and strong. What have you cooked today?’

‘Come on, take off your coat and you can have a bowl. It’s vegetable; beef is still too expensive after the cattle-plague in the summer, although I’m guaranteed a side in two or three weeks. From a friend of a friend, no?’ He gave a broad wink.

Removing her coat, Nienna edged to the oak table and cocked one leg over the bench, straddling it. Kell placed a hand-carved wooden bowl before her, and she reached eagerly for the spoon as Kell sliced a loaf of black nut-bread with a long, curved knife.

‘It’s good!’

‘Might need some more salt.’

‘No, it’s perfect!’ She spooned greedily, wolfing her broth with the eagerness of hunger.

‘Well,’ said Kell, sitting opposite his granddaughter with a smile which split his wrinkled, bearded face, making him appear younger than his sixty-two years. ‘You shouldn’t be so surprised. I am the best cook in Jalder.’

‘Hmm, maybe, but I think it could do with some beef,’ said Nienna, pausing, spoon half raised as she affected a frown.

Kell grinned. ‘Ach, but I’m just a poor old soldier. Couldn’t possibly afford that.’

‘Poor? With a fortune stashed under the floor?’ said Nienna, head down, eyes looking up and glinting mischievously. ‘That’s what mother says. Mother says you’re a miser and a skinflint, and you hide money in a secret stash wrapped in your stinky socks under the boards.’

Kell gave a tight smile, some of his humour evaporating. ‘Your mother always was one for compliments.’ He brightened. ‘Anyway, my girl, you’re the cheeky monkey here! With your tricks and cheeky words.’

‘I’m a bit old for you to keep calling me that, grandpa.’

‘No, lass, you’re still a little girl.’ He leant forward, and ruffled her hair. She scowled in distaste.

‘Grandpa! I am not a girl anymore! I’m nearly seventeen!’

‘You’ll always be a little girl to me. Now eat your broth.’

They ate in silence, the only sound that of fire crackling through logs as the wind outside increased in ferocity, kicking up eddies of snow and howling mournfully along frosted, cobbled streets. Nienna finished her broth, and circled her bowl with the last of the black bread. She sat back, sighing. ‘Good! Too much salt, but good all the same.’

‘As I said, the best cook in Jalder.’

‘Have you ever seen a monkey? Really?’ she asked suddenly, displaying a subtle hint of youth.

‘Yes. In the deep jungles of the south. It’s too cold up here for monkeys; I suppose they’re fond of their bananas.’

‘What’s a banana?’

‘A soft, yellow fruit.’

‘Do I really look like one?’

‘A fruit, or a monkey?’

She smacked his arm. ‘You know what I mean!’

‘A little,’ said Kell, finishing his own broth and chewing thoughtfully. His teeth were paining him again. ‘There is a likeness: the hairy face, the fleas, the fat bottom.’

‘Grandpa! You don’t speak to a lady like that! There’s this thing we learnt in school, it’s called eti… ettick…’

‘Etiquette.’ He ruffled her hair again. ‘And when you’re grown up, Nienna, then I’ll treat you like a grown-up.’ His smile was infectious. Nienna helped to clean away the bowls. She stood by the window for a few moments, staring out and down towards the distant factories and the market.

‘You fought in the south jungles, didn’t you, Grandpa?’

Kell felt his mood instantly sour, and he bit his tongue against an angry retort. The girl doesn’t realise, he chided himself. He took a deep breath. ‘Yes. That was a long time ago. I was a different person back then.’

‘What was it like? Fighting, in the army, with King Searlan? It must have been so… romantic!’

Kell snorted. ‘Romantic? The dung they fill your head with in school these days. There’s nothing romantic about watching your friends slaughtered. Nothing heroic about seeing crows on a battlefield squabbling over corpse eyes. No.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Battles are for fools.’

‘But still,’ persisted Nienna, ‘I think I’d like to join the army. My friend Kat says they take women now; or you can join as a nurse, to help with battlefield casualties. They give you good training. We had a Command Sergeant, he came to the school trying to sign us up. Kat wanted to sign, but I thought I’d talk to you first.’

Kell moved across the room, so fast he was a blur. Nienna was shocked. He moved too quickly for a big man, for an old man; it was unreal. He took her shoulders in bear paws with surprising gentility. And he shook her. ‘Now you listen to me, Nienna, you have a gift, a rare talent like I’ve not seen in a long while. The music’s in your blood, girl, and I’m sure when the angels hear you sing they’ll be green with envy.’

He took a deep breath, gazing with unconditional love into her eyes. ‘Listen good, Nienna, and understand an old man. An unknown benefactor has paid your university fees. That person has spared you a lifetime of hardship in the tanneries, or in the factories working weaving machinery so treacherous it’ll cut your damn fingers off; and the bastards will let it, rather than stop production. So, girl, you go to your university, and you work like you’ve never worked before, or I’ll kick you so hard from behind, my boot will come out of your mouth.’

Nienna lowered her head. ‘Yes, Grandpa. I’m sorry. It’s just…’

‘What?’ His eyes were glowing dark coals.

‘It’s just – I’m bored! I’d like some excitement, an adventure! All I ever see is home, and here, and school. And I know I can sing, I know that, but it’s not a future filled with excitement, is it? It’s not something that’s going to boil my blood!’

‘Excitement is overrated,’ growled Kell, turning and moving with a wince to his low leather chair. He slumped, grimacing at the pain in his lower back which nagged more frequently these days, despite the thick, green, stinking unguent applied by old Mrs Graham. ‘Excitement is the sort of thing that gets a person killed.’

‘You’re such a grump!’ Nienna skipped across the room, and tugged on her boots. ‘I’ve got to get going. We’re having a tour of the university this afternoon. It’s a shame the snow has come down so thick; the gardens are said to be awesomely pretty.’

‘Yes, the winter has come early. Such is the legacy of the Black Pike Mountains.’ He gazed off, through the wide low window, to a far-distant haze of black and white teeth. The Black Pikes called to him. They always would. They had a splinter of his soul.

‘Some of my friends are going to explore the Black Pikes this summer; when they finish their studies, of course.’

‘Fools,’ snapped Kell. ‘The Pikes are more dangerous than anything you could ever imagine.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘Three times. And three times I believed I was never coming back.’ His voice grew quiet, drifting, lost. ‘I knew I would die, up there. On those dark rocky slopes. It is a miracle I still live, girl!’

‘Was that when you were in the army?’ She was fishing for stories, again, and he waved her away.

‘Go on! Get to your friends; go, enjoy your university tour. And make sure you sing for them! Show them your angel’s voice! They will have never heard anything like it.’

‘I will, Grandpa.’ Nienna tugged on her coat, and brushed out her long brown hair. ‘Grandpa?’

‘Yes, monkey?’

‘I… I nearly told mam, about you, this morning. About coming here, I mean. I do so want to tell her… I hate keeping secrets.’

Kell shook his head, face stern. ‘If you tell her, girl, she will make doubly sure you never see me again. She hates me. Can you understand that?’ Nienna nodded, but Kell could see in her eyes she did not have the life experience to truly comprehend the hate his daughter carried for him – like a bad egg in her womb. But one day, he thought savagely, one day she’ll learn. We all do.

‘Yes, Grandpa. I’ll try my best.’ She opened the door, and a bitter chill swept in on a tide of fresh, tumbling snow. She stepped forward, then paused, and gave a half-turn so he couldn’t quite see her face. ‘Kell?’
‘
Yes, granddaughter?’ He blinked, unused to her calling him by name.

‘Thanks for paying my university fees.’ She leant back, and kissed his cheek, and was gone in a whirl of coat and scarf leaving him standing blushing at the top of the steps. He shook his head, watching her footprints crunch through a fresh fall towards a gentle mist drifting in off the Selenau River.

How had she guessed, he thought? He closed the door, which struggled to fit the frame. He thumped it shut with a bear’s fist, and absently slid the heavy bar into place. He moved back to the fireplace, reclaiming his abandoned resin-liquor and taking a heavy slug. Alcohol eased into his veins like an old friend, and wrapped his brain in honey. Kell took a deep breath, moving back to the wide window and sitting on a low bench to watch the bartering traders across a field of flapping stalls. The mist was creeping into the market now, swirling around boots and timber stanchions. Kell gazed at the mountains, the Black Pike Mountains, his eyes distant, remembering the hunt there; as he did, many times in a day.

‘Join the army. Ha!’ he muttered, scowling, and refilled his mug from a clay jug.

I've got the book, myself, and will be launching into it as soon as I'm done with Kaaron Warren's Slights. :-) Here are the links to order your copies; here for US, and here and here for UK; those in SA, please use the link at the top-right of the blog. :-)

Check back tomorrow for some more of Kell's Legend!
Be EPIC!