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The Year 264

As the edge of dawn began the daily struggle to beat back the deep
darkness of night, the intruder felt comfortable enough to stand after
crawling unseen and unheard inch by inch for hours.  A nightbird sang
out a few nervous notes and the call was echoed in the far distance.  
Audvakr never heard the approach, he never heard the slow stealthy soft
footfalls, Adosinda; his wife, merely stirred and rolled over.   The
tip of the razor sharp knife held by the intruder hesitated only for
a moment and then pricked the pulsing artery in Audvakr’s neck. 
Instantly awake, his battle honed instincts commanded him to freeze
and in that moment, his life was saved.  Audvakr struggled mightily
in the battle of emotions; one of rage to leap and destroy the enemy
who had invaded his yurt and the other to remain utterly still and
accept his fate. 

The knife blade was laid gently on Audvakr’s neck as the intruder
leaned in close.  It was the smell that gave him away.  Audvakrs’ eyes
flashed with anger as his older brother Ricimar, leaned in and whispered,
“We will have no more argument, you and your clan have one season to
leave.  This time, next year, I will kill you”    And with little more
noise than a gentle zephyr, he was gone.

In the long minutes that followed, Audvakr subdued his rage and
replaced it with a chilling calm as he considered his options;
challenging Ricimar for supremacy was foolhardy and most likely
suicidal as most of the clans considered Ricimar as the Ric or king
already, so leaving these lands with the clan became the only option. 
The question of where to go plagued Audvakr’s mind.  He had always
been good at remaining calm in battle in order to see the larger
strategic positions.  Now he must be calm and brutally honest with
himself so that the options could be properly considered.

To the East, lay the lands of the deadly Alans and Saspirii, who fought
great battles while mounted on fast and nimble, but small horses.   The
daunting prospect of carving out a homeland against the Alans, who never
took hostages and relished the idea of tying prisoners to a tree and
setting it alight, did not sit well.  Audvakr thought of his childhood
friend Tucovar’s fierce border fight several years ago that left him with
a useless left leg and dependent on the women for his every need.

To the North, lay the Vandal people and utter destruction.  The Vandals
and Goths of late had tolerated each other as long as there were long
distances between them, but as the number of people had grown, so had
the accounts of attacks and a few burned settlements.  Of all of the
places that Audvakr and the clan could go, this was the most dangerous.

South, across the great sea, called the Euxine Sea by the Romans, lived
the dark skinned and fierce Phrygians who were ruled but never subdued by
the Romans.  This too could end in disaster, if he and his clan survived
the sea voyage and tried to establish a settlement with unknown farming
and hunting resources on the far shore, and a counter-attack occurred
while his back was to the sea, disaster was assured.   The Romans might
spare him and then enslave him, but the Phrygians would not.

Seemingly surrounded on all sides by enemies, Audvakr mulled the Romans
over in his mind, well organized and well equipped, but reports from the
spies, told of many new Emperor’s in a short amount of time.  This must
mean that there was a leadership problem in the Empire. 
“I wonder how that affects the loyalty of the Legions?” mused Audvakr. 
Shaking his head to force himself back into considering the options,
caused his wife to stir, roll over and drape her arm over his chest.

To the West, over mountains and another sea, lay the great Empire of the
Romans with their highly disciplined, fast moving and extremely well
armed legions.  Audvakr closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax into
the barely awake stage of consciousness where the Gods could speak to him
of their intent.  

Audvakr dreamed that he was trapped in a bear fighting ring armed only
with a small spear.  His opponent, instead of a bear was a Roman Centurion
fully armed in heavy armor.  Anytime Audvakr tried to make for the side of
the ring, the Centurion was there to block him.  What had been cheering of
the crowds for him had now become jeers and catcalls.  There was only one
way out; directly attack the Centurion.  Gathering his courage, he charged
the Centurion.  As he approached, the armor no longer seemed quite so new,
the sword no longer quite so bright, shining and sharp.  The closer he got
to the Centurion, the older and more aged it appeared.  When Audvakr was
finally within combat distance, the mighty Centurion was merely a collection
of twigs and branches that fell into dust at the first thrust of his spear. 
Beyond lay the exit in the ring that he had been searching for.  Finally
relaxing, he felt the tenseness leave him and then, then the sweet embrace
of nothingness.  With his wife’s warm body offering solace against the early
morning chill, Audvakr, struggled to remember the dream, something about
being trapped, fighting a Centurion, and fighting an old Roman. 

The Gods tired of playing with him, and stuck his mind as lightning would
detonate an old gnarled tree.  Audvakr snapped wide awake and understood
that the Romans were politically weak and a quick thrust would deliver the
Empire into his hands.  Smiling at his good fortune, Audvakr considered the
problem of his people.  The Gothic people had always honored those chieftains
that split off and established their own kingdoms.  Trapped between the Euxine
Sea and foreigners who desired their land, the Goths were perpetually at war
with each other to expand each clans land.  Audvakr realized that his problem
lay not with the ability to fight; instead it lay with the lack of land.  
The Romans, although larger in force were weaker in substance.  His father’s
advice rang in his ears “Avoid the strong and attack the weak” he had always
said when in his cups.  Audvakr needed to split off and become a chieftain,
Rome was politically weak; why not become the ruler over Rome?

It was a vision as clear to Audvakr as anything he had ever experienced;
invade and conquer the Roman Empire.  The Goths had the men to overcome the
Legions natural advantage in movement.  If one group were to secretly travel
west across the land using the Romans own roads and another large group led by
Ricimar to the south by sea…  The Romans would naturally respond to the large
seaborne attack with Legions from Rome led by one of many Emperors eager to
prove himself to the people of the Empire.  With the Legions racing south to
fight Ricimar to the South, Ricimar would be desparate for help but Audvakr
would instead swoop across the land and seize Rome.   With the capital occupied
by Audvakr, the Romans would become disheartened and would surely submit.  And
if Ricimar should happen to fall…  Audvakr smiled and the vision of Audvakr
living amongst the golden palaces of the Romans unburdened by Ricimar lingered
long enough for him to slip into the most restful sleep he had ever known.

Devine and the Snakes [short story]

Everyone of a certain age claims to remember where they were when they heard of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, or the terror attacks on 11^th September 2001. Similarly, people tend to remember the circumstances when they first saw a snake. I am referring of course to real snakes in the wild, not one of those rodent-stuffed, for-display-only relatives that you might see wallowing in captivity at a local zoo.

For many people it is a startling experience of childhood, but, coming from Ireland, James Devine was different. He had never stumbled across a plump adder sunbathing on a warm path on the Surrey Downs, nor pulled the stump of a dead old tree in winter to reveal a writhing nest of them angrily awoken from their hibernation. No, the wise Saint Patrick had banished them from the Emerald Isle many centuries before Devine's time. The irony was that more than one type of snake frequented the bush in early 1980's Hong Kong.

Having failed to make any mark in London, Devine answered an advertisement in the Sunday Telegraph and fetched up as an inspector in the Royal Hong Kong Police. It sounded grand to the ignorant, but in those days Europeans were recruited direct at the rank of inspector, like baby lieutenants in the Army, and were the cannon fodder thrown straight into the deep end with formations of Chinese Sergeants and Constables. Some swam, but to the amusement of the locals a lot sank. No one thought Devine much of a swimmer.

*

It was one of those late tropical spring days when the sun was hot and strong and the rains had not yet arrived. Devine - overweight and sluggish - was feeling rough after a night of excess on the local beer and had suffered a throbbing head and very queasy stomach all morning. At a heavy six foot he towered over his Chinese colleagues. By the time he had turned up late for work that day his platoon were already sitting in their transport waiting for him. The Platoon Sergeant, Cheung, failed to hide a disapproving frown, and tapped a beautifully carved hardwood walking stick - which Devine coveted - impatiently on the tarmac. Some of the younger PCs sniggered amongst themselves. Devine, since his first arrival in the Colony, had inspired curiosity and amusement rather than respect and obedience in his men.

They pulled out of the dusty station yard in Sai Kung, far out in the eastern New Territories, and bumped off towards High Island Reservoir, and beyond. A couple of resentful-looking Chow dogs skulked off to find other shelter from the rising sun.

Devine sat in the seat of honour in the front of their short-wheelbase Platoon Commander's Landrover next to the driver, Cheung sat behind the driver so that Devine could see him easily and the bored-looking platoon orderly - a thin, acne-encrusted youth with good English and a groundlessly high opinion of himself - sat directly behind his commander. The New Territories were the rapidly diminishing area of country between Kowloon and the Chinese border.

Cheung, dapper and studious-looking with spectacles balanced on his nose, patiently briefed Devine, who was still huffing and puffing loudly after having had to rush his change into his straining khaki summer uniform, webbing belt and canvas-legged jungle boots. A stain of sweat was already spreading out across his clean uniform tunic.

A friend of Devine's in Marine Police - Belgian Bob, the most boring man in Hong Kong - had built up an unnerving collection of photos which appealed to the broad streak of depravity in Devine. There was a selection of Chinese hookers dressed as schoolgirls which he dwelled upon, and another section with a grisly parade of corpses collected from the waters around Hong Kong in varying stages of decomposition which he did not.

Devine had become inspired and had borrowed Belgian's camera in the hope of taking a few souvenirs of his own. He rested the Nikon on his lap and sneered at the thought of Belgian ever getting it back.

'There have been reports of Snakeheads operating in the Tai Long Wan area last night.' Snakeheads were the Triad lads who organised the smuggling of the groups of would-be immigrants on their journey into Hong Kong. In the metaphor, the bodies of the snakes were the long wriggling lines of these unfortunate migrants being led along by the Snakeheads. As with all illegal activity in Hong Kong where there was a decent profit, the hand of the Triads was ever close. They were indifferent to the personal circumstances and tragedies that drove the individual illegal immigrants to part with their entire families' life savings and risk death, or worse, on the gamble of a journey from China or Vietnam to the golden streets of Hong Kong. To them it was just business.

The self-pitying Devine listened with little patience 'These bloody people, why do they insist in coming here?' he wondered aloud.

Cheung sighed as he studied the back of Devine's fat head, the bristle of sandy hair glistened with sweat. He had been in the police for more than twenty years and had known many of these foreigners like Devine who arrived in his country with little care for them and less experience as policemen. They lived a life of great luxury compared to him and his kind, and the majority of them spent their time avoiding work, boozing and whoring. Why do they insist on coming here, he wondered silently. 'Marine police ambushed a group of them on a speedboat and there was some shooting. They got the Snakehead but some of the illegals got clear. We must sweep the area to find them.'

Devine leant his arm casually on the window sill of the Landrover but recoiled sharply at the searing heat of it. Even at that time of the day you could've fried an egg on the outside of his vehicle. The orderly and the driver exchanged a snigger and received a stern frown from Cheung for their trouble. The driver's smiling eyes returned to the road and the orderly returned to the racing form with a contemptuous sniff.

Devine curled into a kind of sitting foetal position and grunted with disdain. 'Bloody nuisance, why can't we have a nice quiet day for a change?' He let go a sneaky little fart, sighed with relief that he could still do that with his stomach in the state it was, and thanked his luck that it was too hot to keep the Landrover's windows closed. He took a soggy, stained handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.

Cheung wondered idly what it would have been like if the Chinese empire had maintained an old trading post on the Atlantic coast of Europe. What if he had been offered the chance of going there in a privileged capacity, what would he have behaved like and what would the locals have thought of him? He fingered the image of the ugly little god Chung-Kuei, protector of travellers, which was carved on his beloved stick. One day he would travel to see where these people came from and try to understand them.

Less than an hour later Devine was sitting by a rocky stream bed in the middle of the bush. He squeezed a little trickle of sweat out of his handkerchief onto the rocks at his feet and pondered his lot. It was still before midday, but the queasiness in his stomach had developed into loud gurglings and sharp cramps as he had struggled to control his rebellious innards. He had called the whole convoy to a screeching emergency halt, blocking a narrow twisting road that followed the coast on one side and had thick vegetation on the other. He commandeered the morning paper from his sulking orderly - who hadn't quite finished with the racing page - and, hanging the camera over his shoulder by its strap, he slipped off alone down a little stream bed looking for a spot of privacy.

Devine pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted up at the sun. He was presently serving out a posting as a platoon officer at the Police Tactical Unit. It was supposed to be an elite paramilitary formation within the Force; the truth was that divisional commanders also found it a perfect dumping ground for any officer that had become a liability in some way. In Devine's case that would be for his old-fashioned incompetence.

His present duties were to march round the New Territories hunting any illegal immigrants that had wriggled past the slashing knives of the Ghurkhas up on the border, or had slipped around the Marine police patrols and onto the outlying beaches and bays of the thousands of islands that made up Hong Kong. The day before he had been at an operations meeting with the officers at the Ghurkha Lines near Fanling and had partaken of one of their fine goat curries and a number of local beers afterwards. The fact that he had patronisingly insulted one of the native Ghurkha officers, a highly decorated Subedar, by asking him to run along to the kitchen and re-fill his bowl of curry like a good chap, had not registered with him - he therefore hadn't any idea of what had been introduced to his bowl surreptitiously en-route, and its direct relationship to his current delicate condition.

'What a day for a hunt,' Devine thought. The tall grass and tropical vegetation either side of the rocks were higher than him and there was little more than a trickle of water in the stream at this time of year.

He pulled himself up using the nicely carved walking stick that he had bullied away from Cheung and stepped carefully from rock to rock around a stand of bamboo. 'If he thinks he's getting you back he's got another thing coming.' Once Devine borrowed something the owner rarely saw it again.

He stopped on a large boulder, about ten feet across, and laid the walking stick down on it. He placed the newspaper down and rested the camera on it. After one more look to check that he was definitely alone he was suddenly gripped by another, much fiercer, stomach cramp. Oblivious to the presence of anything in his agony - a troop of elephants could have stormed up the stream bed at that moment - he quickly undid his webbing belt and whipped down his trousers. His revolver handle in its webbing holster clattered on the rock.

He squatted down hanging onto his knees like a coolie, his white, spotty bottom suspended inches above the boulder. The walking stick slid off the side of the boulder out of sight, dislodging the camera as it went and causing it to disappear too. The gentle breeze took a hold of the newspaper and it fluttered off across the rocks and into the stream page by page. He could control himself no longer. His teeth clenched and eyes squinting, a dark fluid mass issued from him and across the hot surface of the rock - oh sweet relief.

Had the noise started before he had squatted down? He couldn't say, but his bowels instinctively snapped shut. He could have been in no more vulnerable a position when he heard a loud whooshing noise, a long hollow hiss. It meant nothing to him until his misty eyes re-focussed.

He found himself looking, at a range of about four foot or so, straight into the black expressionless eyes of a coiled and hooded cobra. The huge, dreaded Hamadryad or King Cobra, hunter of snakes. It was bathed in sunlight and for a moment it was as if he was looking at it through a Vaseline covered lens. Instinctively he knew that any movement on his part could provoke the beast into an attack. Its erect head swayed from side to side gently - Devine feared it was sizing up the angle and distance of attack.

The smooth cream belly and the olive-green back of the beast glistened. He had been sunning himself on a rock, relaxing and waiting for a spot of food to amble by when this great lump of a human turned up. Not even the most ambitious cobra could look upon Devine as a potential meal - he couldn't even take a bite off him. Devine had heard it said that snakes can smell fear; well if that was the case then this one should have been gagging at the stench of Devine now.

Fat black flies had started to gather around him. Seconds ambled and minutes strolled by with mocking indolence. The sound of crickets and beetles sawing away in the vegetation niggled at him. The sweat tickled across his brow, down the bridge of his nose and collected in a big drip on the end. He daren't even flick it off.

The snake's awful eyes drilled into him without a trace of mercy, it was examining his very soul. Its head sat up on its supple spine, as taught as a finely strung bow.

Then it seemed to relax. It was still erected and hooded, but there was an indefinable sense that it had reached some conclusion - it had run its rule over Devine and concluded that this snivelling wretch was no threat. Was it a swish of the body, a flick of the tail or a glint in the eye? Perhaps it was amused, in a primitive reptilian sort of way.

How long does it take for venom to work? Devine was all alone and didn't know if he would have time to find help before it did. He had heard it could kill a human in just a few minutes, an elephant in a couple of hours. He had no idea what sort of venom it was though. Would it be excruciatingly painful or would it paralyse his nervous system and suffocate him to death? 'Oh God deliver me from this and I'll be a changed man', he whimpered.

The sun glared down bright, a heat haze rippled around him and his legs quivered with the effort of squatting. His inflexible hamstrings and groin screamed with pain. He didn't even notice the dreadful stench from his outpourings below him. Flies were now swarming about him and the filth below, they droned in his face and marched across his lips, taunting him.

There was a strange mystical feel to the light. Devine wondered if he was beginning to hallucinate, he thought that he could see a face in the wall of green behind the snake. First he noticed the eyes, a pair of brown almond shaped oriental eyes. Then he could make out a round face, a nose and a grinning mouth, a child's face. Was he going mad?

He blinked to eject the sweat that was now gathering on his eyelids and the face had gone. He scanned the bush behind the snake leaf by lush green leaf but there was only vegetation - no, he must have been mistaken. With nothing else to occupy him he was peering at the area again when another face appeared, an adult face this time, and quite distinctly different. An oval-shaped woman's face examining him with interest and then distaste as the eyes took in the mess drying out below him. He couldn't call out to his men for help - through the dense bush he couldn't even hear the impatient low throbbing of their diesel engines ticking over.

Stealthily the woman emerged through the curtain of bush. This Chinese woman represented an unexpected glimmer of hope for him, a possibility of rescue from his dreadful situation, but at what cost.

Her eyes looked past him towards the stream bed and the edge of the dense bush on the opposite side. She had that look of the single-minded woman, her own children being her primary concern at this moment, then a flicker of concern for him and the obvious inner turmoil as she weighed the implications of interceding on his behalf against continuing her escape with her little family. His eyes appealed to her, he daren't make a sound as he willed her desperately to do something, anything to chase this thing away.

She knew what he wanted, but she hesitated. A crease of her brow, a twitch beneath her left eye, a nibble at her lower lip as she battled with her own priorities. She hadn't got this far without being able to make a decision. Her pretty brow unknotted itself. Devine thought how he would probably have crashed off through the jungle laughing to himself had their positions been reversed.

She was behind the snake, and to begin with it did not detect her. She reached stealthily down behind the big boulder and picked up the beautifully carved walking stick. He could have kissed her. As she did that the cobra became aware of her and span around to face her, hissing loudly again. This was a new and entirely different grade of threat to it.

Taking a pace forward she raised the stick above her head like an oriental swordsman. There was a pause as the snake and woman regarded each other, a confrontation across species, then she brought it down with a loud crack on the stone beside the snake. It flicked one more defiant hiss at the woman, gave Devine what appeared to be disturbingly like a final sneer and slithered unhurriedly off across the rocks. The deadly yellow bands along its back rippling across the undulating ground before it disappeared into the far curtain of jungle. It seemed to go on forever, he hadn't realised how huge the thing was. The woman had chosen not to harm it, and the snake knew this. Was it Devine's sun-baked imagination or was that last hiss corrupted by mirth?

For the first time he noticed that the woman had a small sleeping child strapped to her back.

Devine, nearly in tears, could control himself no longer and, with a loud farting noise, he relieved himself again over the rock. A child broke cover behind the woman - it was the owner of the first face he had seen - and it smirked at Devine's predicament. They were tidily dressed and obviously healthy, but dirty from their travelling.

She glanced down at her feet and spotted something down there. Handing the walking stick to the child she picked up the camera and examined it carefully.

Devine was so cramped and in pain that he could not move, let alone stop her. He was trying to move himself, to get his seized-up, locked and pain filled limbs moving as he thought to himself of what a superbly ironic moment it would be when he had this bitch arrested and thrown out of Hong Kong - she who had looked at him with such presumptuous pity.

Perhaps she had seen something in his face, a betrayal of his treacherous nature. She steadied the camera in front of her and peered through the sight. The implications of what the general availability of such a picture of him would mean instantly horrified him. He desperately tried to claw himself off his haunches like some demented crab, his eyes filling with tears at the pain and frustration like a spoilt child throwing a tantrum.

She held the shutter-release button down for a moment and the camera clicked several times. Having barely struggled a foot towards her he stopped and hung his head, defeated at the thought of her being caught and those pictures getting into the wrong hands. This was a story he didn't want widely known.

Jamming the camera into a shoulder bag the woman signalled wearily for the child to follow her, gave Devine one more pitying look, shook her head in disdain and stepped with great athleticism and dignity across the rocky bed. She disappeared into the foliage on the far side of the creek, not far from where the snake had entered. The child, as it was bid, skipped after her twirling the stick and Devine was once more alone. The quiet was broken only by the raucous clatter of insects, his only company the foul smell in the air around him where the flies rapidly multiplied.

He had forgotten all about the walking stick. The diminutive god of travellers would be looking after her little family now.

How was he going to explain the loss of the stick and the camera?

Pages!

Chapter One

Banging rattled the door. As Azarel sat up, tendrils of dreams swirled and escaped. The door shook again, banishing all thought of recapturing them.

"Anyone home?"

Azarel hopped down from her bed atop the cold brick fireplace. She reached the window in a few steps and pulled aside the rough curtains. A handful or so of men in Lasaral uniform were outside, mounted on rangifers that dug with antlers in the fallen leaves and dusting of snow, searching for lichen.

"In the name of the Qins, open this door!"

Azarel walked to the shelf with the pots and dishes. Barely visible behind them, she found the knife with its wooden handle painted red, the one laced with poison, and turned back to the door.

She took one step. Before she could take another, the bar on the door broke in half. The resounding crack made her jump. The door swung in, revealing a young man with thick dark brows and several-day stubble. Behind him was an older man, his small eyes drowning under puffy lids and bags. A scar bisected his face.

The young man's gaze landed on Azarel. His eyes widened slightly, as though surprised to see her. He tipped the leather visor of his fur hat.

Azarel tightened her grip on the knife she held behind her back.

"Are you Azarel?"

"I am." Her words sounded strange to her ears, and her throat felt raw, as though from long disuse.

"You are? But...," he trailed off. Then, smiling brightly, "Can we come in?"

"You already did."

The young man glanced at the door and then back at her, and grinned sheepishly. "Sorry about that. I thought no one was home when you didn't answer."

"I was sleeping. What is it you want?"

The young man walked into her hut and the older man followed.

"Wait for me outside," the young man said, turning around. He fingered the belt at his waist that kept the warmth in.

"Are you sure?" The other's voice was low and raspy.

"Go, I'm sure."

The older man inclined his head and glanced at Azarel.

The daylight dimmed for a moment. Dread overwhelmed her, making it hard to think. His gaze carried through the space between them and brought with it his malevolence. Not anger and not hatred. Nothing so passionate. Simply a quiet, calculating malice.

Azarel shuddered.

He broke their gaze and was gone out the door. The room brightened again, the pressure lifted from her chest, and she could breathe easier.

The young man pushed his sat on her one rough bench and glanced up at her. From him, she sensed only excitement and urgency. Her own blood picked up speed in response.

"You can't imagine how happy I am to find you. I wasn't even sure we'd be able to," he said, his words coming out as puffs of white in the cold room.

"You haven't answered my question."

"Of course. Why I'm here. Again, I apologize for the door. I'm Shaunn Diamonestesh, and I was sent here by Qin Yacoba, Co-Ruler of Lasaral, Lead Co-Ruler of Frosland, to summon you to Lasaral to cure her sister, Qin Daxia."

"I haven't heard of a Yacoba or Daxia," Azarel said.

"Really? They've been Qins for some time, after the death of their father and then their older brother."

"I suppose I don't get a lot of news here." Her fingers ached and she relaxed her grip around the knife. She sensed no malice from him and his relaxed pose suggested that he intended no harm.

"Why did you come to find me? You have doctors and priests closer by," she said.

"We've tried everything. Truthfully... you are our last resort. Don't take offense. It's simply that we weren't sure we would be able to find you. If you do come and succeed, there will be significant compensation, to make it worth your while." He smiled the kind of smile used to getting its way. Too confident, considering she had yet to give her answer.

The memory of the scarred man's ill will was still fresh. He would kill her, given the chance. Shaunn seemed oblivious to it, and thus would be poor protection.

And too, she wanted to go back to sleep. She wanted to close her eyes and dream again. She didn't remember what those dreams were, but she woke up content. She knew the forgotten dreams were more pleasant than this cold lonely hut.

Images flitted through her mind. Old people, young people, children, men, women, all coming to her with that same desperation, begging for her help. Azarel had helped them all, not for the compensation they offered. It pleased her to see the ripples of her actions spreading out, changing the world.

Herbs lined her shelves in stone and glass and clay containers. Dried branches of them hung on her walls. She did help those in need. If she left, those who came to help wouldn't find her.

"I can't come with you."

Shaunn's smile faltered but he forced it back in place. "If you don't come, Daxia will likely die. Her father and brother already died of the same ailment, and nothing had aided them. And we've found nothing to aid her, either."

Despite his smile, she sensed desperation underneath it, growing now in the face of her resistance.

"Bring her here, and I will see what I can do."

Shaunn stood. The tension in him overrode all other emotions.

"Do you jest? We can't bring her here. She's too ill." He sounded outraged. His cheeks were red under the stubble, as though she slapped him, and he gritted his teeth. "And she's the Qin!"

Azarel held his gaze. His entitlement strengthened her resolve to go nowhere with him. "I am not coming with you. You can bring her here, that's the best I can do for you."

"You leave me no choice but to arrest you. You are coming with us, and you will help Daxia, like it or no."

Azarel shook her head, and held the knife before her. "I am not going anywhere with you."

"I don't want to hurt you," he said and took a step toward her. His hand hovered on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

"And I don't want to hurt you," she said, standing still, knife ready. She meant it. He was young and impulsive, and he only acted this way because he wanted to help the ill Qin. But she didn't pity him enough to come with him.

At that moment, the silence was rent by the shouting of men and the lower tones of finxes. Azarel and Shaunn both glanced at the door. The panic, fear, and pain carried over the distance.

She ran outside, Shaunn following. The soldiers had their swords out, warding off the finxes that outnumbered them. The finxes flew above the humans, each several heads longer than a man, covered in wiry black fur, long clubbed tails writhing through the air. Their black leathery wings cast great shadows below them.

One of the men screamed and toppled from his rangifer.

The swords sliced through the air, reflecting the sunlight sharply. One caught a finx and the animal howled and rose higher. The men were banding together, slowly moving toward the trees. Once they were in the trees, it would be safer, for the finxes' wingspan was too great to allow them entrance. Then, they would put their bows to good use and the finxes would be at a disadvantage.

"Stop!" Azarel shouted.

The fighting continued. Inhaling deeply, Azarel raised her voice. She willed that word to cover the distance between her and the finxes, to reach them, to have her be understood.

"Stop!"

The word carried, spread. Its volume, and the force behind it surprised her. All in the clearing - man and animal - turned to her.

The finxes hovered just above reach, their wings beating the air with enough force to lift her hair. She concentrated on pushing the awareness of the men's fear out of her mind, and focused on an image of light, a sense of calm. She nurtured it and it spread within her, pushing its way through her limbs and out. She willed it to reach the finxes.

The finxes hungered to rip the men apart and watch the red flow, taste its salty goodness, let its heat warm their stomachs. Their fury at the men overrode that hunger. The finxes would keep her safe from these humans who came with threats and anger.

"Go now, all is well," she whispered. She willed the calm to convince them. Their tails cease their agitated writhing and the largest of the of the finxes called out hoarsely, a sound akin to speech. Then they all lifted into the air and flew west, toward the mountains there, where they made their lairs.

The men all stared at her. When she opened herself back up to it, their fear hit her at once.

A moan from the man on the ground broke through the silence. His hood had fallen back, revealing bright orange curls. He clutched at his shoulder and blood seeped through his fingers, staining the transparent layer of snow that covered the ground.

"Get him inside," Azarel said to Shaunn, who had come up beside her.

She went too, inhaling deeply, holding her breath, savoring the freshness of the forest on the brink of winter. The sky was grey and bright; tense, as though gathering itself before unleashing a torrent of snow.

Her chest grew tight and she thought of the dream that she no longer remembered. It had been a warm dream. Here, all was loneliness and solitude.

She tried to remember how long she had slept, but failed. The last thing she could remember was the music of ice melting from millions of frozen branches, heralding spring. There was no doubt that now it was fall. She didn't know what that meant and it was too unpleasant to think about. She hoped that after she patched orange-hair up, they would leave. Then, she could let oblivion reclaim her, taking the questions, and worries, and loneliness away.

The men entered the hut and Azarel stepped in behind them. She could feel the scarred man's malevolence fill the tiny space, pushing at her.

She turned to him and his gaze was already on her, small eyes narrowed.

"It's a bit...cold in here," Shaunn said, his eyes lingering on the fireplace.

The fire had gone out at least half a day ago, for the grey bricks held no hint of warmth in them.

Azarel shrugged. She had no explanation for how she had slept here with no fire. She didn't know herself. She wasn't cold, despite only wearing a shirt and pants, and she left it at that.

"Start the fire," she said.

Shaunn took out a lighter and turned to the stack of wood by the fireplace.

Azarel turned back to the scarred man, who still watched her. He never took his eyes off her and she felt his gaze even with her back to him. He seemed calm and composed, but she felt much more simmering there, where no one else could see it.

"What's your name?" she asked him.

"Gerth."

"And your friend, here?"

"Thom."

"If I cut the coat off him, do you have anything else for him to wear?" She had nothing she could offer him in the way of replacement clothes, and a man without a coat was a dead man.

"No."

"Then you better help him out of it, and his shirt too. Carefully." She slid the poisoned knife into her belt.

Azarel took the herbs needed, and a stone bowl and pestle. After the water had boiled, she washed the wound, and applied the poultice of dried herbs, tying the tourniquet tightly. Thom gritted his teeth throughout, her work punctuated with his escaped grunts.

Azarel rested her hand top the bandage and closed her eyes. The wound was hot. Her fingers began to tingle. She allowed the feeling to grow and it spread, the tingling becoming painful, the pain reaching into her, reverberating through her very bones. Azarel forced herself to breathe evenly and willed her body to absorb it all.

She heard Thom exhale and opened her eyes.

"Better?" Azarel asked.

"The pain is gone," he said. His words suggested gratitude, but she sensed his wariness that built as she worked.

"It's time for you to leave now," she said, turning to Shaunn. Thom's fear mingled with Gerth's simmering malice. It was too much for the small space, difficult to shut out. She wanted them gone, as soon as possible.

"You better pack, we're not leaving without you." Again, Shaunn's right arm hovered on the hilt of his sword. She thought it was more of a reflex; she knew he had no intention of harming her.

"I already gave my answer."

Shaunn gritted his teeth and she felt the anger in him rouse quickly. "Are you going to call those monsters down again?"

"They're not monsters. They're highly intelligent animals. And I didn't call them down, they were here of their own accord. And finally, to answer your question, no. I don't think they'll be back."

"Good. You're still under arrest."

His words grated on her, and she felt her hands clench into fists. She forced herself to relax them. "How do you plan to make me help you, once we're there?"

"Hopefully by the time we get there, you'll come to your senses. And if not, I'm sure Yacoba will think of something. My job is to get you there." When Azarel didn't respond, he added, "I didn't want to have to do it this way, but I'm not leaving here without you."

He crossed his arms in front of his chest and squared his legs. His lips were pursed in determination. Azarel could see he meant it. He would tie her up and drag her out, if he had to.

"Will you gather what herbs you think you might need?" He asked.

“What are her symptoms?” Azarel resigned herself to going. If she pushed the issue, she risked having the finxes come back. She didn't want anyone else hurt.

Shaunn smiled, clearly relieved. “She is weak, sleeping a lot, lately especially. Similar to her father and brother, who both died of it.”

“How many others are affected?”

“No one else has been.”

"And you don't think that's strange?"

Shaunn shrugged. "I don't know." He held Azarel's gaze for a few moments. "If you're implying that they were poisoned -"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm simply asking questions to get more information. So far, you've told me very little."

"I didn't mean to offend you. I was just trying to say that we did consider this possibility and all of the Qins' food was tasted, and other precautions taken. Besides, the Quins are well-liked."

Azarel shrugged in response. That didn't mean very much.

"So...you will pack your things, whatever you need?" Shaunn asked.

"It seems I have little choice."

"Thank you," Shaunn said. "We will wait outside."

“Wait,” she said. The urgency to have at least some part of the puzzle resolved overtook her.

Shaunn paused and turned back.

"What's today's date?"

“Day She, first week of Meresht,” he replied.

First week of the month of fall. Where had spring and summer gone?

Azarel nodded and they left.

The small rectangle of space that was the entirety of her hut seemed to expand, again, once Gerth was gone.

When she'd packed, she glanced about the room. In part, she hoped she would heal the Qin and return soon. But a small part of her hoped she'd find a reason not to return. She'd been awakened from the comfort of dreaming oblivion to an-ever present loneliness and confusion. She didn't remember how long she had slept or or her past, and that frightened her. Perhaps out there, somewhere, there was something that could spark her memory.

She left, something in her sensing that she might never see her home again.

Query

Whitney Davis finds herself in a place she never though existed; a place where she is loved, free of conditions. A place where she can change her destiny... even if she started out life as a poor Cinderella.

Whitney has left her neglectful mother and small southern town for new adventures as a freshman at Penn State. She is nervous and anxious all at the same time, but is determined to be happy, even if it means becoming a "yankee".

A few weeks into the first semester, it seems as though Whitney is changing her life for the better, she's gotten a job at the local deli and has made loyal friends on campus. ... But one evening right before Thanksgiving Break changed everything.
As her mangled body lies on the cold floor of a frat room, she looks around and wonders why the attack has stopped.
Before she looses consciousness, she is ever so gently cradled in the arms of her best friend Wes. He takes her to his home to care for her and show her the true meaning of family.


Over the next two months, Whitney finds herself falling in love with her knight, her forever friend, Wes. At last, she can let go of her broken childhood... Maybe she can change her fate.... Only time will tell.

My novel is 80,000 words and is complete.

Pages!

Chapter 1: Transformation

Clara woke with a star t from a nightmare. All she remembered was the feeling of falling further and further down through the abyss, a putrid wind whipping at her face, the sound of her own screams as she plummeted into the unknown hell. For some reason she was cold all over and surrounded by darkness thick enough to cut with a knife. Had the power gone out? She couldn’t even see the paltry glow of her tiny nightlight. Then she realized that she was not in her bed as her hand brushed across cold hard stone. The basement? Had she been sleepwalking? She sat up and immediately regretted it as a sharp pain shocked through her skull like a lightning bolt. Clara gasped as she clutched at her head, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted. Her fingers came in contact with something warm and half sticky. She pulled the hand away quickly, then slowly brought it to her lips and tasted it. Blood! She drew back in horror.
What the hell happened? She wondered as she felt for the source of the wound. She found it on the left side of her head, right at the temple. Clara couldn’t remember anything that might have caused the injury. The last thing she knew was that she was in her bed and didn’t remember anything after that. Did she start sleepwalking and then fall down the basement steps? It was the only plausible conclusion she could think of. Clara stood up, slowly, painfully, when she heard a metallic clinking. She froze, eyes widened to try to see through the darkness, body poised for flight. Was there someone else there?

“Mom?” she called softly, nervously, “Mom, is that you? Jazz?” No one answered, and Clara broke out into a cold sweat. “Is anyone there? Hello?” she called, louder this time. Still, there was only silence. Clara took a hesitant step forward and this time she realized that the clinking sound was coming from under her. She dropped down and felt around at her feet. Her shaking, searching fingers touched something cold. She grasped it and ran her fingers across it. It was a chain, she realized as she followed it up to a shackle latched around her ankle and then back down to an iron ring fixed to the ground.

Clara panicked. Where the hell was she? What was going on? Who had brought her here and why? Fear caused her thoughts to race around her head like startled cockroaches, clouding all reason, sending her into frenzy. She screamed for help as she wrenched at the heavy iron chain. No reply came, and even as she continued to shriek, she began to sob as well. She shouted for what felt like hours until she was too hoarse to even whisper, and she pulled at the chain far past the point of exhaustion, even until her palms blistered and bled. Clara finally collapsed, panting, to the ground. Her eyes and chest hurt from crying, her throat burned from screaming, the muscles in her arms cried for rest and the skin of her hands was peeled and raw. Her body, unable to handle any more, simply shut down and Clara passed out on the floor.

Fifteen floors above Clara‘s prison, Ciaran sat at the window in his room. He stared out gravely as he absently twisted the button on the cuff of his jacket. Below in the courtyard, ladies in brightly colored gowns mulled about with their slightly more conservatively dressed husbands, shielded from the bright summer sun by their wide-brimmed hats decorated with feathers and real flowers kept fresh by small water-filled vials tucked underneath bright silken ribbons. Their wings glimmered in the sun in tones of gold or red or caramel brown or raven black. The atmosphere was reminiscent of a festival, with the hum of excitement reaching all the way up to Ciaran’s window.

Ciaran knew that this was all about him and the event that was to come tonight, but he was considerably less cheerful than everyone else about it. He had only been out of his room once today, but was immediately bombarded with handshakes and praise by everyone he crossed. He shuddered. Monsters. Of course his discovery would give the Royal family an invaluable advantage in the war against the rebels, and he was dedicated to his duty to the King, but they still shouldn’t have been so eager about it. It was the most despicable act that he would commit and the entire court was treating him like he was a hero. Ciaran had made his terrible discovery mostly by accident, and had begged the King not to use it. But the rebels were gaining ground and the Royal family losing it, so the King insisted on going through with the experiments.

Tonight would be the first attempt at the creation of a Nightborn, a fusing of a demonic presence with an innocent mortal soul. And the event was to be attended by all the most important members of the Royal court, including the King. Even the Queen herself would make an appearance. The eternal mother of the nation, hers was the single most exalted name in the land. She was her people’s ruler and goddess, immortal and omnipotent. For her to personally attend the event was a testament to its importance to the Royal family. Ciaran could not deny the Queen’s wishes, nor could he question them. At this point, if he tried to back out of what was viewed as his duty, Ciaran would be considered a traitor to the nation and would be banished or worse. In a way, he felt as much a prisoner as that human girl down in the dungeon.

I shouldn’t even have been allowed in the presence of the court. Ciaran thought to himself as he stood up and stretched his wings, black as his hair, but the kind of raven black in which you could see nearly any color if the light hit it right. I couldn’t ever have hoped to even be a kitchen boy in the royal household. If it weren’t for Valkir and the King, I would have been killed like the murderous gutter wretch that I am. Ciaran knew that he owed the King and Diriage Valkir everything he had. He even owed the sneering, whispering court his gratitude. He was the bastard son of a prostitute, lower than low, the scum that even the peasants had walked over like a cockroach, and they, as they were quick to remind him, were so graciously allowing him into their presence. Not into their world, still not worthy of their full respect, but at least he was worth enough for them to look at him when they spoke.

Of course, now it was an entirely different tune. Every time he went out nowadays, Ciaran was bombarded with nobles, drowned in nobles, nobles swarmed about him like flies to carrion. Whether it was the overly curious Sir Marrenz barraging Ciaran with questions on “the process” as he called it, or Sir Liren the Warmonger hitting him roughly on the back and laughing boisterously, or the beautiful but notoriously sly Lady Nymphenia fawning over him like a new pet, all the while making subtle, snide comments about his “heritage”, Ciaran didn’t know, but something made him dislike these new, friendlier nobles even more than their old snobbish selves. They seemed greasier, more treacherous now, like ice in the spring. Serene on the surface, but if you took one false move, they would sink you in a heartbeat.

He looked at the clock ticking peacefully on the wall. “Scirztch”, he swore roughly to himself in Lirdish, a habit he picked up from his old “master”, a greasy Lirdish immigrant named Varg, and had never quite dropped. It was already past the 16th hyr. The ceremony was supposed to start at the 20th. Why is the day going so quickly? The sun is probably already setting, the moon getting ready to rise. Why can’t it just stop? Ciaran thought desperately. He felt submerged guilt rise up as the seconds ticked placidly away on the clock. It was eating at him more and more until he was practically driven mad by it. He paced around his room like a caged tiger. Yes, it was his duty to serve the Royal Family and his country, but was it right if it meant harming an innocent? I have to find the King! He thought as he burst out of his room. He didn’t know what else to do. He had to talk to the King, tell him about the girl. To try one last time to get him to call this whole thing off. To not make him go through with this. Please. Please make him listen to me. Ciaran prayed to some nondescript god as he rushed through the marble corridors. There was a tight knot in his stomach, a sickly urgency, as if he knew he wouldn’t make it in time, but he was trying anyways. He went straight to the King’s chambers, hoping against hope that he would be there. Truthfully, Ciaran knew that the King was probably off somewhere, chatting up the court ladies or drinking in celebration of the victory he was sure would come. But he asked the guard at the door anyways. There was always a guard at the door, whether the King was in there or not, and he was never very friendly. He looked Ciaran up and down and said curtly,

“Ee’s not to be disturbed.”

“So he is in there.”

The guard looked down on Ciaran like he was an idiot. “’Is Highness is resting before tha ceremony tonight. ’E’s ordered that I allow no one to disturb him.” he said in the thick accent typical of the city of Pertrast.

“Please.” Ciaran begged, “I must see him immediately. It’s an urgent matter pertaining to tonight’s ceremonies.”

The guard snorted, “Well, then it’s not ‘Is Highness that you need to see ‘tall. You’ll wanna be talkin’ to Lady Rubia, she’s tha one coordinatin’ everything.”

“Look. I’m the one performing the ceremony. I don’t need to speak to Lady Rubia; I need to talk to the King. It’s an urgent matter and could concern the safety of all the spectators! Now please let me through!”

Ciaran knew how to get a person’s attention, even if it was through a lie. The ceremony would be completely safe for the spectators. The only ones at risk were Ciaran himself and the girl. The guard, however, swallowed the lie whole, turning wide -eyed and pale faced. His wings fluttered nervously as he stepped aside to let Ciaran through.

The King was resting, wine glass in hand, on a huge cushioned divan, smiling contentedly. He looked up as Ciaran entered, cocked his head briefly in curiosity, and then beckoned him coolly with a pudgy white finger.

“Come in, come in, Ciaran.” he said cheerfully as Ciaran bowed ceremoniously. And then, “What brings you around here, Little Gutter Boy?” He asked warmly, almost like a father. Ciaran remembered blushing fiercely when the King had first called him that. Now, it was a term of endearment, rather than an insult, and it almost made Ciaran want to chuckle. But he was too absorbed in the graveness of his own situation to let the King’s warm, infectious personality get to him. Despite the war with the rebels, the King hadn’t changed a bit. He was a sort of enigma to the members of the court. Outwardly, he appeared to be little more than a cheerful oaf. He drank and sang and flirted with the young ladies. He ate like a beast and his voice seemed boisterous enough to lift the entire castle off the ground and levitate it there like a balloon. But underneath, there was a sharp intelligence, a cold methodic logic, and keen observation. He could spot treachery a mile away, smell fear on the skin of the guilty. He was a man to be both respected and feared.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “Have you brought me good news?”

It was a friendly enough comment, but the way the King said it gave Ciaran chills. Just a little too cheerful. It was like he was saying; it had better be good news. Ciaran wanted to just nod, smile, say everything was running smoothly and then get out of there as fast as he could. But he was frozen. All he could think about was the girl. He had seen her face as they brought her through the portal, limp in the arms of a guard, blood trickling from her head where they struck her. She was young, not much younger than Ciaran himself, but enough to make him feel like he had stolen a baby from the crib. Her expression seemed so calm, like she had just fallen asleep in the soldier’s arms. There was a bruise already forming above her left eye.

Suddenly, it came out in a torrent. Ciaran hadn’t meant it to, but it just slipped.

“Please. Please, Your Highness, you must call off the ceremony. Call off ALL the experiments. Please, I’m begging you, don’t go through with this!”

Ciaran was leaning forward, arms outstretched, his face a few dangerous inches away from the King. The King raised an eyebrow and gave Ciaran a look of simple curiosity that was worse than any contemptuous sneer or angry snarl.

“Why?”

Ciaran stood back, feeling nauseas. The King simply saw no reason for stopping. There wasn’t a scrap of guilt in his eyes or twinge in his voice. He couldn’t possibly understand the wrenching shame and guilt that gnawed at Ciaran like a pack of starved dogs. To him, the girl was nothing, not even a living creature. Just a tool. Just a lump of iron that would be forged into a fine sword. He had made sure that the quality of the iron was good, but didn’t give it a thought beyond that. After all, the blacksmith was to be praised for the making of a fine sword, not the lump of iron.

Ciaran straightened and calmed himself. “It’s nothing, Your Highness.” he said flatly, “Merely a passing madness. Tonight’s ceremonies will carry on as planned.” He bowed low and turned to leave.

“Wait, Ciaran, come here.” said the King. It sounded strange. More of a request than an order. Ciaran turned around and walked back towards the King.

“Sit with me.” he said, patting the cushion beside him. Ciaran obeyed. The King clicked his fingers and out of the darkness, a servant came, bearing another chalice. The King poured deep red wine into it and gave it to Ciaran. He put the cup to his lips and sipped delicately at it. It was rich, spicy and warm. He sighed involuntarily as it slipped down his throat.

“Good, isn’t it?” the King asked. Ciaran nodded wordlessly. It was good. Like wrapping yourself in furs on a cold winter day.

“Don’t think that I don’t realize how…”he paused as if searching for a more delicate word than he had in mind, “…personal these experiments are to you. I know it’s something that you feel regret for discovering. Something that you wished could have stayed locked away and eventually lost to time.” the King sighed; it was something he had never heard from His Highness before. It sounded weary, exhausted even, and weak. “But the fact of the matter is that we need it right now. The rebels are gaining surprising ground and other countries look at us and are thinking that we can’t even keep our own nation under control. They are seeing us as weakened, as an easy target, if you will. I fear that if we don’t quiet the uprising now, there will be an attempt at takeover of Altsterra. We are an old country, and small. We just don’t have the manpower to take on two enemies at once. This is why we must stop at nothing to end this war before it begins. This is why we need the Nightborn.”

Ciaran stood, set the chalice on a nearby table, and bowed deeply. “The ceremonies will continue as scheduled.” he said blankly, like it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. And then he left.

It was already halfway through the 18th hyr. Ciaran walked to through a maze of grand corridors and tiny service hallways. He had taken this way at least a hundred times before and could navigate it blindfolded. Eventually, he came out onto a tiny courtyard. It was always empty, an old kitchen garden that was abandoned after they rebuilt the kitchens in a new area of the palace. Scraggly, overgrown herbs had taken over everything and filled the air with a spicy aroma. Thrushes nested in the nooks and crannies of surrounding walls, their nests green from the dried up herb stalks they used. There was a cracked stone bench held up by what was once probably a stone lion but now had been washed away to a featureless monster by the rain. Ciaran sat on it, drawing his knees up to his chest. He knew what the King had said was true. As long as the rebel movement continued to exist, the whole country was vulnerable to attack. And if attacked, Altsterra would probably fall.

But still something ate at Ciaran, picking at him, making him feel guilty. Was it the girl? He hoped she was still asleep, even though she would have to be awake for the ceremony anyway, but at least she could be at peace until then. It was a childish, selfish wish, Ciaran knew, and he felt a pang of self-hatred for it. Or was it the rebels? “Commoners” fighting for a voice in government and the handful of nobles that sided with them. Personally, Ciaran could side with their plight. They often had to live with unfair laws because they had no power to protest them. But Ciaran couldn’t agree with their methods. They were trying to start a revolution, trying to overthrow the old government, the Royal Family, the Queen and put a new regime in its place. Like many, he didn’t see any good that could come out of such turmoil and destruction. But the rebels were Alsterra’s own people, too. Would Ciaran see them brutally murdered by the weapon he created? See their families broken, their children orphaned? He was sure that the rebels wouldn’t stand a chance against the Nightborn. In addition to being able to control a demon, the demon’s powers would be amplified through the fusing of it and a mortal soul. The Nightborn would be an unstoppable weapon, an Enabli Maascir, a Tool of Destruction.

Ciaran jerked his head up as he heard footsteps. Had someone followed him here? Captain Diriage Valkir emerged from the shadows. His hulking shoulders barely fit through the tiny doorway and he had to duck his head. Li Higante, the Giant, he was called by many.

“I thought I might find you here.” he said calmly, brushing the cobwebs from his jacket. He had a voice like approaching thunder, low and rumbling. Like most Alsterrans, he was fair skinned, but numerous battles in the hot sun and the fact that he just preferred to be outside had permanently turned his skin a nutty brown. He was extremely young for a Captain of the Royal Guard, maybe only six or seven years older than Ciaran, who was nineteen, but he had proven himself time and time again in battle.

He was covered in battle scars, a feature that somehow made him even more popular with the court ladies. Valkir was the closest thing Ciaran had to a friend, though he acted more like a big brother sometimes.

Updates

In the next few days, I'm going to try to clear out the blog archives, and delete all but the most recent ten posts or so. If you'd like your submission to stay up, please E-mail me to let me know.

We also need some more fodder, so please feel free to send in anything you're polishing up!

Query!

Dear Crapometer,

Mye thinks that she might be crazy when she starts hearing a cynical, man-crazed voice inside her head. She’s totally convinced she’s fallen off the wagon when the voice starts spouting nonsensical drivel about other Realms of Existence and the beings that inhabit them; wraith-like monsters called Shades. Every Elesran knows that magic is nothing more than myth; something that has fizzled away from the face of the Viridan hundreds of years ago, if it ever did exist in the first place. But when Mye finds herself debating the finer points of good and evil over a handful of olives with a Dark Shade named Melou, she’s forced to reconsider her views. Melou has been searching for a Carrier, a mortal whose body can be used by a Shade as a conduit to convert magical energy into the Mortal Realm from the Shadow Realm. He intends to use this Carrier to do what he does best: terrorize the puny mortals of the Viridan until every last one of them drops dead. Mye knows her luck can’t get any better when Melou tells her she’s just the Carrier he’s looking for.

But thanks to Melou, Mye finds out that she has about as much magical talent as a piece of driftwood; she is a magical cripple of sorts. This fact should have gotten her off the hook from future endeavors into ‘magical’ territory, but it turns out that the cynical voice she’s been hearing in her mind is actually a Shade named Toad, the ‘lesser of two evils’, who has vowed to stop Melou at all costs. Conveniently enough, Toad has also managed to blackmail an unwilling Mye into helping her find the true Carrier before Melou does, thereby saving the Viridan from complete desolation and destruction.

Realm of Shadows is a women’s fantasy novel of just over 100 000 words. It stands out from other books currently offered in the women’s fantasy genre because it has a female lead that doesn’t just kick butt ‘for a girl’, but who kicks butt in general. It is my first novel.

Thanks in advance for considering this novel.