Recently in sneak peeks Category

I read a lot of Greek myths as a kid, which has proved unexpectedly useful during pub trivia nights. I rarely consciously borrow from them, though; I think they're just so done, being one of the most familiar mythologies in the Western world.

This one came to me when I was hoping to submit to the latter half of the dual Trafficking in Magic/Magicking in Traffic anthology. Apparently Hummers were popular in the submissions, but of course I wanted to go for an other-world fantasy. Horses seemed so done (sense a theme?) so I went with this instead.

She was born on the ferry over the River Styx as her parents fled the underworld. Her father passed her into the arms of her exhausted mother. Then the new parents leaned their foreheads against each other in a moment of unparalleled relief: they had escaped the realm past death, and brought forth new life.

On the other end of the boat, the ferryman ceased the long strokes of his pole and held out his palm.

"She wasn't yet born when we paid," the mother protested, cradling the girl to her.

The ferryman looked at her with dark eyes.

"We have nothing left," the father said, anguished.

And so a man and a woman boarded the ferry from the underworld, and a man and a woman disembarked in the daylit lands. The ferryman stood in his boat, holding a baby with her mouth still golden with her first milk. He named her Aikaterine.

I'm a little anxious about this one because it grew out of a resolution not to fall back on convenient flashbacks. Thus it starts off when the characters are children:

Atop a hill on Centuris, a girl and a boy eyed each other warily. He'd come prepared with a blanket rolled under his arm and binoculars dangling from his neck. The binoculars were still swaying with the force of his stop, after he'd dashed up here and then seen her, the same moment she'd spotted him.

Shayalin had run here too, knowing her mother wouldn't approve but unable to stay away. This was the best hill from which to see ships descend to the Base, and they came to the colony only once a year.

"I'm watching the supply ships from here," she said, watching for his reaction. The boys of her acquaintance liked ships, but when they played with their models they crashed them into each other in mock space battles. They never listened when she pointed out that ships used long-range weapons instead of brute collisions.

He fingered the strap of his binoculars. "So'm I."

Return to impasse. She knew the shadows were creeping longer, and that arrival was approaching.

"I guess we can both watch," he said, resigned in the face of time slipping away.

She sat down on the grass and hugged her knees.

"You're going to stain your skirt."

She turned to stare at him, wondering if her mother had suddenly appeared in his place. But standing there still was the same boy with freckles and ruddy hair and no business telling her about the state of her clothes.

He looked abashed. "That's all the girls in school care about, not getting dirty."

"All the boys care about is fighting."

"I want to fight," he said. "But in a ship."

"My dad fought in a ship," she said.

He was suitably impressed. "A pilot?"

"A captain!"

But now he grew skeptical. "Of a scout ship?"

"Cargo," she admitted.

"And he fought?"

"Pirates attacked his ship. He died. Before I was born."

He was quiet.

She looked resolutely upward, although the stars were blurred through her tears. Shayalin had never known her father, but how many times had her mother said in exasperation that she took after him? He would have understood her and her longing to get off-planet, she was sure.

There was a soft rustle and then, "You can sit on it too."

He'd spread out the blanket and sat on one side, leaving enough room for her.

The beginning of the short story set in the same world as Demon's Fall:

Lilith often found herself drawn to gardens. No need for perfume amidst fragrant bark and flowers; no need for sheets against the soft earth. The dappled shade of a leafy canopy. Wind against bare skin.

She seduced the gardener and then sent him away a broken man, forever looking over his shoulder in the distant hope that she might be looking back at him. In peace she explored the rest of the garden: its maze of paths, the dreamward arch of trees overhead. Under the roots of a silver birch she buried the man's soul, a gold coin etched with his visage and his name. She didn't bother remembering either.

So it looks like I'll be participating in National Novel Writing Month this year to make sure I actually start writing regularly again. Life's been so busy lately that I honestly haven't had time to sit down and put out the words. I'm counting on lots of peer pressure to keep me in line.

Here's the start of the story I'm thinking of working on:

Her brother traded her for peace, two dozen swords, and three hundred arrows. She did not speak to him on the day the soldiers came to escort her through the mountain pass and to her new home; she was too furious with him.

"Kimri," he said, "won't you even give me a proper farewell?"

She patted her sorrel's neck, then swung herself up into the saddle. They wouldn't need a farewell, she thought, if he hadn't given her away to the mountain-king like market goods. With her knees, she told her horse to move on.

Her brother stood squarely in the way. "I had no choice, you know," he said.

She spared him a disdainful glance. It was true that no one dared challenge Helsmont. The small mountain kingdom conducted its affairs as it saw fit, but in the past it had always done so quietly, involving none others. It had been her brother's messenger who had gone there first, asking what it would take for an alliance between their realms.

Kimri was, frankly, impressed she was worth such a price. But it was one thing for the mountain-king to offer it, and another for her brother to take it.

Tereth sighed and stroked the sorrel's face. "At least don't try to run away this time. Ride safely," he said, then stepped aside.

Her escort was waiting in the yard outside the stable: fourteen soldiers standing by their horses, garbed in leathers and furs rather than uniforms. But from their stance they couldn't be mistaken. That was what had given her away, Kimri thought, the time she'd run off and tried to join a troop. Her brother's warning had been unnecessary; she wasn't going to try to escape these men—

—and woman. There was one among them, but she didn't seem out of place — she had short-cropped hair, a scar on her cheek, and a sword on her hip. She fascinated Kimri, for there was no female soldiers in Anagard.

Kimri rode up to her. "Surety for my virginity?" she guessed.

"Any good commandant could ensure that," the woman said. "King Tathan trusts all of his commandants, and each of them has the obedience of his troop. You would be as safe with any of them."

"An iron fist," Kimri said.

The commandant shrugged. "He is the mountain-king."

"And you?"

"I?" Her demeanor turned formal. "Commandant Beatris. I am charged with your safety until we reach Helsmont and I deliver you into the hands of King Tathan."

"An onerous duty indeed."

When Kimri saw the hint of a smile on Beatris's face, she was reassured that the other woman had a sense of humor.

Alas, I'm not referring to the electricity that tingles through you when you've grabbed onto the tail of an awesome story and it's dragging you through the wilderness at top speed. All I'm going to say is that if you're traveling and plan to write on your laptop, and your laptop's power adapter has a grounded plug (three prongs) and the country you're going to uses a different voltage and you do have a voltage transformer but said transformer only proffers ungrounded outlets...local hardware stores probably won't be able to help you. That's all.

However, I did find out that I'm able to write a nibble of a story with characters in a previously written story (a discovery made just days before deadline, of course). I thought it fitting to offer an autumn-themed story that was tied in to Summer-set, and so you'll be able to find "Fall, Falling, Fallen" at samhellion.com later this month. Here's the start of it:

On the day the prince was to arrive, all the women were aflutter because it was said he sought a bride. Melea was too busy to care — she was looking for a dog that had strayed. "Misbegotten cur," she sighed as she made her way through the browning grasses outside the city, although of course it wasn't. Shiri, the missing dog, was of faultless pedigree — Melea had chosen the parents herself, and Shiri's bloodline was nearly as noble as her own.

This is the short story I eked out. It should be out later this month.

A list of names.

"Barone Rosolen, for arson."

The executioner set up the noose, then gestured for the guards to bring the next man forth.

"Tamerighi Godori, for murder."

There was a brief scuffle on the scaffolding before the stool was properly occupied. During the delay people exchanged greetings, asked after business, and commented on any of the convicts who were arranged in a row to witness their last sunrise. A few citizens — relatives of the condemned, no doubt — stood stone-faced and silent enough to join the gargoyles perched atop the older palaces. Others leaned forward to better hear the herald's words. Elizabeta simply stood and waited.

The last man stepped forward without being dragged. Though young, he was tall, and the executioner had to adjust the rope. During the pause, his gaze swept the crowd and met Elizabeta's eyes.

The rest of the world faded against those black eyes. She tried to turn her head but couldn't move. Panic seized her and squeezed the cry in her throat stillborn. He didn't look away, even as the herald called out the last name.

"And Deo Miceli...for treason."

The square fell silent at this pronouncement. And so the raised voice of the herald riding into the plaza was as clear as Chidalien glass: "Stop! Take that man down! Deo Miceli has been declared innocent!"

Disbelief erupted. Someone jostled Elizabeta, freeing her from those eyes. She fled, slipping through the press of bodies, but before she vanished down a side street, she couldn't help glancing over her shoulder back at the scaffolding.

Through the uproar, Elizabeta watched Deo Miceli, standing on the stool positioned to put him in prominent view, smile and fold his hand closed, as though over a victory softly come.

I took a break from the computer while my wrists recovered from the mad typing up of performance reviews. Then I made the wondrous discovery that while writing during football games is near-impossible, editing works quite well.

Anyway, here's the beginning of "Shadow Hunt." If you've read "Mayfly Night" or "Beneath Their Masks", this is another tale of the Miirazenu that I plan to put up as a free read once done.

Rialis heard the horns of the hunt calling as she rode through Eyrim Forest. She checked her mare, then dismounted and began disrobing. The only thing she left was a red cord tied around her wrist. The rest she tried to shove into her saddlebags, but the horse snorted and danced aside.

"Stay still," she said, seizing the reins and forcing it to heed her words. "I need to get there before they find real game."

The horns again, closer this time. She stretched, skimming her awareness along every inch of her body, to the very fingertips, then shifted.

The mare whinnied this time, alarmed. Rialis streaked away before it could draw someone's attention. Hadn't she warned Lord Mazan that she needed a calm steed?

No matter, now. Her paws carried her swiftly toward the hunt. The forest was rich with aromas and texture, but she didn't allow those to distract her. She had her own prey to pursue.

She broke through the brush to sudden cries.

"A fox!"

"After it!"

And the baying of hounds.

I'm going to try posting a little bit from my work-in-progress on Mondays, just snippets of a few hundred words.