This week 4 more of my Forgotten Realms novels were released in e-book format: Thornhold, The Magehound, The Floodgate, and The Wizardwar. All four are available at Amazon.com’s Kindle bookstore and Barnes & Noble’s Nook bookstore. Links follow!
Chapter 2 is available here. If you’d like to start at the beginning of the story, scroll over HONOR BOUND in the heading and choose Chapter 1 from the drop-down menu.
SPOILER ALERT:
This excerpt contains major spoilers for Honor Among Thieves. If you have not yet read the first Tales of Sevrin book, now’s a great time to do so!
A sharp clatter of metal drew the old man’s attention to the workroom. Every clockwork guard had dropped to one knee. Moving as one, they lifted mailed fists and thumped them to their chests in an unmistakable–and very elfin–gesture of fealty.
Rhendish released the elf’s wrist and backed away. Uncertainty twisted his handsome features, but his face did not show the fear that would come with true understanding.
The old man understood all too well.
If the other adepts learned Rhendish’s secret, they would join forces against him and
drag him out to sea. They would find the biggest glacier within a tenday sail, and they would use weapons not seen since the defeat of Eldreath to melt a hole in that glacier twenty fathoms deep. Then they would drop the sorcerer into this hole and stand guard until it froze over.
Unless, of course, they could think of an even more unpleasant and final method of
disposition.
The details mattered not. Rhendish was powerful, but he didn’t stand a chance against the combined might of his fellow adepts.
There was but one solution: Remove the other adepts.
It did not occur to him to kill the elf. She would die, of course, but not until she
brought him the Thorn.
To read the entire first chapter, click here.
Thanks to all who entered! The random generator at www.Random.org has spoken. The winning number was 4, which corresponds to the email send by Kenneth Goad. A copy of Winter Witch will be on its way Monday morning!
I haven’t held a contest in ages. This was fun. Let’s do it again when the print version of the Tales of Sevrin “Thorn” trilogy ominbus is available.
I play with words. It’s what I do. People in this profession who fall to the Dark Side–and who doesn’t from time to time?–have been known to develop an unseemly affection for puns. So when I was struck by the festive spirit and decided to hold a winter-themed contest, I immediately fell into pun mode.
If you’d like to toss your name into the hat to win a signed and personalized copy of the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch, decipher the following holiday greeting and send the answer to elainecunningham@cox.net with WINTER WITCH in the heading.
This contest will be open until noon (EST) on Friday, December 9, at which time the winner will be selected at random—www.random.org, to be precise. I’ll put the emails in a folder as they arrive. On Friday, I’ll count them and use the random number generator at www.Random.org to select a random number between 1 and whatever. Then I will send a copy of the novel to the person whose email corresponds to that number. Quick and easy!
Sevrin is a land of islands, and many of its people make their living from the sea. Two fishermen called Askur and Bejarki live in Whalespout, a small village on the island of Heartstone, not far from the port city of Sevrinspire. The village’s name comes from the geyser that bursts from a rocky hillock overlooking the village. Legend has it that the hill was once a living whale, turned to stone by dwarven magic in a time before humans came to the islands. The geyser is evidence of a spark of life in the stone creature. If its struggles to free itself succeed, or so the story goes, it will roll back into the sea, crushing the village in the process.
Of course, the only time anyone even half believes is when tales are told around late night firesides, or when they’ve indulged a bit too freely. A great deal of mead is required to bring a man to that point, and there are many states of inebriation between sobriety and credulity. Along the way a man is likely to become boisterous and pranksome. So it was with Askur and Bejarki, who after several mugs decided it would be a fine jest to fashion a whale out of the abundant new snow.
They set to work, rolling large balls of snow over to the base of the hillock and shaping it into flukes and fins. The top of the hillock stood bare, snow melted away by the steam, but at night the pale rock gleamed in the moonlight and the whole blended together well enough. After an hour or two of labor, Askur and Bejarki fell back to admire the results, chuckling over the start this apparition would give to those who beheld it.
A soft hiss warned of rising steam. The friends’ grins widened, for they’d had experience enough with steam and spray and winter chill to know how quickly ice crystals formed. Their handiwork would be nicely encrusted and would last for many days.
Just as they were turning to leave, a patch of snow fell from the lower part of the hillock. As Bejarki leaned forward to pat it back into place, a stone eyelid flew opened. A dark eye, big as a barrel’s lid, glinted in the moonlight as its focus shifted toward the slack-jawed fishermen.
The monstrous eye narrowed, and the snowy tail rose from the ground and swept back like a cocked fist. Azkur and Bejarki shrieked as they turned their own tails and half ran, half rolled down the hill to the village.
Behind them, the snow and stone appeared as it always had, though glistening now from mist falled from the geyser. A dark-eyed girl rose from behind a nearby thicket, The Book of Vishni’s Exile tucked under one arm. The young man with her leaned against a tree and folded his arms.
“Nice illusion. But if you keep tormenting these two fools, sooner or later they’ll either go mad or figure out there’s a fairy at work.”
“Not when there’s a simpler explanation.” Vishni stooped to pick up an empty jug. “Come morning, they’ll blame the mead. And when do you suppose they’ll give that up? Sooner, or later?”
******
For more Askur and Bejarki tales, see Winter Wolves and Fairy Paths.
Sevrinspire, the port city of Heartstone, Sevrin’s central and l
argest island, is a haven for artists who work in stone. Over the past ten years, dozens of commissioned statues have taken up residence near public buildings, along busy streets, and beside the harbors. All are carved from blocks of dull grey stone, provided by the adept Rhendish, who also pays the sculptors and provides the pedestals on which the statues stand.
One of Rhendish’s most closely guarded secrets is the nature of this stone, and the purpose of the clockwork hidden in the pedestals. The stone is a strong, selectively porous mineral that becomes highly magnetized when it absorbs a certain oily substance, one of Rhendish’s alchemical creations. Inside the pedestals are clockwork pumps that will force this oil up into the stone. This enables Rhendish to turn these statues to powerful lodestone guardians, capable of bringing clockwork devices to an abrupt standstill. It’s a secret line of defense, protecting Heartstone against possible attack by his fellow Adepts’ clockwork warriors and war machines.
This also explains why Adepts avoid protective armor and wear loose, simple garments without metals trim. This was not always the case. The Adepts led a successful war against the sorcerer Eldreath, and for years they wore clothing that mimicked ceremonial armor. Rhendish was wearing just such a garment when he discovered, quite by accident, the substance he later named Lodestone Oil.
One of the tables in his workroom was topped by a slab of stone mined on Skyorn, of the the small islands on the northeastern side of the Sevrin archipelego. While he was working at this table, a vial tipped over. As Rhendish moved to wipe up the spill, it seemed to him that an invisble hand reached out of the stone, seized him, and slammed him face-down onto the table. When he recovered consciousness, he found himself securely pinned to the table by his decorative breastplate and bracers. Wriggling free of these garments cost him an entire night’s sleep and more than a little skin. The only garment Rhendish that could comfortably wear over his scrapes and scratches was a loose saphire tunic. This new “fashion” immediately caught on and very quickly became the Adapts’ standard wear. To this day, Rhendish seldom dons his Adept garb without remembering the origin of this “tradition” with a small, wry smile.
Nimbolk is an warrior of Mistheim, the elven settlement hidden deep within the mainland’s northern forests. Though he has never set foot on Sevrin, he is well acquainted with one of its current residents. He grew up with the elf who calls herself Honor. Throughout their youth they were friendly rivals who competed at arms, feats of skill, and nearly everything else. But the thing Nimbolk most desired, the role of queen’s champion, went to Honor.
Honor was raised to be a warrior. Her twin-born sister, Asteria, was destined to be queen and had a very different training. Though the sisters did not spend as much time together as they might have liked, theirs was a close and powerful bond. When Honor disappeared from the forest, Asteria kept searching for her and refused to name a new champion. Nimbolk acted as Asteria’s unofficial champion. His hope of gaining that title were shattered last midwinter, when Asteria received a message from Honor urging her to call a tribunal in the Starsingers Grove and bring the Thorn, a ceremonial dagger capable of unveiling an elven traitor.
Nimbolk was numbered among the elves who gathered in the Starsingers Grove. According to the adept Rhendish, Honor was the only elf who survived when the gathering was attacked by a band of rogue Gatherers. If Rhendish is mistaken (or if he lied), Honor’s old friend could be her most implacable foe.
