Good News and a Snippet
I am pleased to announce that on 9/4/2021, at 8:22am, I finished Kencyrath novel 10, Deathless Gods. Now I'm going over it making corrections. It runs about 114,000 words, which is typical for me, and covers 205 days, during which Jame goes to the Central Lands to check on strange reports from Harn while Torisen and Kindrie cope with growing trouble in the Riverland. I also still have to draw the maps and work out the lexicon. The deadline is Dec.1, but I hope to beat that. How long before it sees print? Well, my publisher usually takes about a year, but I hope for less than that, given the delay already. One novel to go to finish the series, if things stay on track. Thanks for being so patient with me over the years.
In the meanwhile, here's a snippet set in High Bashti. Jurik is the crown prince, a spoiled jerk. He previously expressed a desire to ride Death's-head.
An unfamiliar shiver ran up Jame's spine, jolting her hand, causing the cider mug which it gripped to spill.
Rue stared. “What is it?”
“Death’s-head is having fun.”
She leaped up and ran out of the apartment, followed by Rue’s plaintive cry:
“D’you really want to interrupt him?”
Here was the grassy heart of the barracks. At its far end, a dozen or so people lined the pasture’s fence. More were within, apparently chasing the remount herd. Horses swerved back and forth like a flock of birds, kicking up muddy spray. Then Death’s-head charged through their ranks, scattering them left and right. The human invaders fled before him and scrambled out between the bars of the enclosure. The rathorn swerved, snorting with derision, his tail held high. Nothing had amused him more in many a long, dull day.
Jame recognized Jurik and his friends. So he hadn’t left with his mother, assuming she had indeed gone home. What the prince was up to now was all too clear.
Two of his followers remained in the pasture. Now they were trying to sneak up on the rathorn. Death’s-head charged one. The other used the distraction to snake a rope around his foreleg. Tangled, he fell, plowing into the mud on his shoulder. A second rope snared another of his flailing hooves.
Jurik straightened, climbed over the fence, and sauntered toward the prone beast, a bridle dangling from his hand. He might even have laughed, as if it had been so easy after all.
As he approached, Death’s-head glared at him through a besmirched mask, panting. The prince was within feet when the rathorn hooked his nasal tusk under the ropes and ripped them off.
Jurik stopped.
Death’s-head regained his feet. Head low, horns poised, he moved toward the prince. Stalking. One slow step, then another. Oh, never offend a rathorn’s dignity.
Jurik dropped the bridle, turned, and ran.
Jame was running too, toward the enclosure, toward the watching, horrified Bashtiri. She slipped between them, between the bars, between the prince and his would-be prey, just as the latter charged.
Jurik scrambled to safety behind her.
The rathorn sat on his haunches, forelegs braced, trying to stop, but he skidded on slick mud and crashed into Jame, throwing her backward against a post. For a moment, dazed, she couldn’t breathe. A mottled wall of equine flesh loomed over her with horns and red eyes. She grabbed blindly for the flying mane, caught it, and swung up onto his back.
Jurik was shouting for spears, arrows, rocks … anything!
Death’s-head stopped short, gathered himself like a cat, and sprang over the fence.
He could have done that anytime he wanted to, Jame thought, hanging on for dear life. Bored as he had been, his supposed imprisonment here had only been a game. Then he came down again and she was jolted face foremost into his rising neck. For a moment, she wondered if she had broken her nose. Then they were galloping across the training field toward the gate. From there one way led into the beast pens, currently used as stables, while the other opened below the outer stair onto the road.
A white face watched them pass - Queen Vestula, waiting after all to see her darling son’s conquest.
Out on the street were the horses of Jurik’s entourage. When Death’s-head charged through their midst, they scattered in panic, pursued by their attendants, dragging the regal litter after them until it smashed turning a corner. Good. Hopefully Jurik wouldn’t be able to follow her, and his precious mother could damn well walk home.
Meanwhile the rathorn’s hooves skidded on slick cobblestones. It must have rained again, Jame thought, clinging to his slippery back. Oh, for stirrups. The thunder seemed closer, if that wasn’t just the echo of hooves against close-set walls. Where were they going? Oh, for reins or a bit with which to steer, not that Death’s-head had ever accepted the latter. Instead, this was a run-away, pure and simple. She must either cling or risk breaking bone on stone. No other way offered itself.
In the meanwhile, here's a snippet set in High Bashti. Jurik is the crown prince, a spoiled jerk. He previously expressed a desire to ride Death's-head.
An unfamiliar shiver ran up Jame's spine, jolting her hand, causing the cider mug which it gripped to spill.
Rue stared. “What is it?”
“Death’s-head is having fun.”
She leaped up and ran out of the apartment, followed by Rue’s plaintive cry:
“D’you really want to interrupt him?”
Here was the grassy heart of the barracks. At its far end, a dozen or so people lined the pasture’s fence. More were within, apparently chasing the remount herd. Horses swerved back and forth like a flock of birds, kicking up muddy spray. Then Death’s-head charged through their ranks, scattering them left and right. The human invaders fled before him and scrambled out between the bars of the enclosure. The rathorn swerved, snorting with derision, his tail held high. Nothing had amused him more in many a long, dull day.
Jame recognized Jurik and his friends. So he hadn’t left with his mother, assuming she had indeed gone home. What the prince was up to now was all too clear.
Two of his followers remained in the pasture. Now they were trying to sneak up on the rathorn. Death’s-head charged one. The other used the distraction to snake a rope around his foreleg. Tangled, he fell, plowing into the mud on his shoulder. A second rope snared another of his flailing hooves.
Jurik straightened, climbed over the fence, and sauntered toward the prone beast, a bridle dangling from his hand. He might even have laughed, as if it had been so easy after all.
As he approached, Death’s-head glared at him through a besmirched mask, panting. The prince was within feet when the rathorn hooked his nasal tusk under the ropes and ripped them off.
Jurik stopped.
Death’s-head regained his feet. Head low, horns poised, he moved toward the prince. Stalking. One slow step, then another. Oh, never offend a rathorn’s dignity.
Jurik dropped the bridle, turned, and ran.
Jame was running too, toward the enclosure, toward the watching, horrified Bashtiri. She slipped between them, between the bars, between the prince and his would-be prey, just as the latter charged.
Jurik scrambled to safety behind her.
The rathorn sat on his haunches, forelegs braced, trying to stop, but he skidded on slick mud and crashed into Jame, throwing her backward against a post. For a moment, dazed, she couldn’t breathe. A mottled wall of equine flesh loomed over her with horns and red eyes. She grabbed blindly for the flying mane, caught it, and swung up onto his back.
Jurik was shouting for spears, arrows, rocks … anything!
Death’s-head stopped short, gathered himself like a cat, and sprang over the fence.
He could have done that anytime he wanted to, Jame thought, hanging on for dear life. Bored as he had been, his supposed imprisonment here had only been a game. Then he came down again and she was jolted face foremost into his rising neck. For a moment, she wondered if she had broken her nose. Then they were galloping across the training field toward the gate. From there one way led into the beast pens, currently used as stables, while the other opened below the outer stair onto the road.
A white face watched them pass - Queen Vestula, waiting after all to see her darling son’s conquest.
Out on the street were the horses of Jurik’s entourage. When Death’s-head charged through their midst, they scattered in panic, pursued by their attendants, dragging the regal litter after them until it smashed turning a corner. Good. Hopefully Jurik wouldn’t be able to follow her, and his precious mother could damn well walk home.
Meanwhile the rathorn’s hooves skidded on slick cobblestones. It must have rained again, Jame thought, clinging to his slippery back. Oh, for stirrups. The thunder seemed closer, if that wasn’t just the echo of hooves against close-set walls. Where were they going? Oh, for reins or a bit with which to steer, not that Death’s-head had ever accepted the latter. Instead, this was a run-away, pure and simple. She must either cling or risk breaking bone on stone. No other way offered itself.