Sneak Peek
Warrior of the Dusk
Here’s a sneak peek of the fantasy novel I’m querying for traditional publishing. Early days yet, but cross your fingers!
The temple pavilion stood open to the night, the flames in the massive lamps hung from columns flickering amber and gold. The night sky was low overhead, the wind soft from the south. It stirred the robes of those gathered, waiting eagerly for this night of revelry and gods.
Stark against the dark stone floors were these robes of white. The petitioners wore them long to the floor, their arms bare, the women’s hair loose down their backs, the men with a topknot tied with a strip of white cloth.
Nothing else showed difference between them, the fabric loose enough to hide any newly emerging curves on the young women. Yet, in the watching crowd, one could see the disparity of wealth and class clearly enough.
Those with it sat calm and certain, their gazes following their child with pride. These youths smiled with confidence, sure of their path and their selection.
Those without clustered together. Their faces carried hope and fear in equal measure, their smiles strained. They knew this Choosing was not certain. And if not selected for service by one of the gods, there was little else to turn to. No thriving trade, no wealthy family to support them. Another laborer dragged back into an endless circle of poverty.
But even among this disparate group, one stood out. It may have been her beauty, perhaps her grace. Many looked on this young woman with envy or admiration or even both at once.
She waited in demure reverence, her gaze on the elaborate carvings of the temple columns. The light gleamed on her hair, curled around her head in a halo of black silk. The plain fabric of her covering only emphasized the quality of her skin, the perfect curve of her throat. More than one young man stared in adoration.
But none more possessively than Belick, Acolyte of Phanir, God of Storm and Thunder, of Rain and Wind. The breath through the city tonight carried His blessing, an awareness that touched every particle of Belick’s being.
It was this wind that drove the trade ships, that powered the mills, that moved the soft rain into the valley of Auna and gave life to the fields. Belick knew the importance of his position and used it to serve his god well. That holy wind stirred his own robes, dark blue and worked with gilt thread.
He stood in the waiting crowd next to a well-dressed couple, who also watched this girl with intent. She was their daughter, an only child much beloved. She found their faces and smiled with happiness. When she met Belick’s, his pulse raced, amazed anew at her loveliness, desperate for the moment she would be his at last.
Surely Noble Phanir would hear his prayer. Had not his father and his father before served the Storm King faithfully? Had not Neseen, her father, a wealthy merchant who relied on the winds for his ships, been generous patron of the Order?
Belick tried to remain humble, to see that perhaps Illna had another purpose. His gaze moved over the Pavilion, at the likenesses of the gods and goddess gathered in this neutral space for the Choosing. Their visages stared blank-eyed, last minute offerings piled at their feet.
Perhaps Endoninan, Goddess of Plenty, would look favorably on this wealthy daughter. Rhox, God of Beasts and Hunting, might find Illna’s beauty to his liking.
He did not care who, as long as he was still allowed to claim her to wife. That Illna’s lovely body might belong to another, even a God, stirred a torrid blaze in his chest. One he could not condemn, even welcomed, for it proved to him the rightness of it, the fate.
She would be his.
A deep bell tolled once and stillness settled over them. The girl’s mother squeezed Belick’s fingers. He returned the gesture absently, watching for the figure that would come forward. An Acolyte of Thero, God of Choice and Chance, who presided over this holy day.
The gathered youths shivered, feeling the change in the air. A pressure, as the deities bent Their intent on them.
The Acolyte called a name. A young man rushed forward. The Acolyte stood aside. Behind him was a door, no larger than any other in the temple complex. It opened on darkness.
The youth set his shoulders and walked through, swallowed by the blackness as the door shut without aid of human hands.
How long it took, this Choosing, varied. Some only moments, others an hour. What each experienced was as varied as the gods Themselves. After, they could not speak of it.
Not would not, but could not. Even now, three years after his Choosing, Belick could not find the words to explain, the memory of it burning clear and bright inside him.
There had been pain, but also joy, ecstasy, as his humanity had been inspected down the smallest mote, broken apart and rebuilt as his god saw fit.
A shout cut the silence. The youth stumbled back through the doorway, gasping as he staggered into their midst, his hair damp and sweat running down his face.
His robes were now deep, brilliant red.
As if in a trance, he moved to the figure of Eron, Goddess of Forge and Fire. He fell to his knees and someone in the crowd cried out a fervent prayer of thanks and rushed to his side.
Already another youth was called forward and put to the test. The noise grew, those Chosen unable to contain their euphoria, their family and sponsors gathering to congratulate and pray.
Illna watched, her eyes wide and lips parted in anticipation. Belick could see it even as far as he was, the eagerness shivering down her limbs. Her eyes met his and the promise there took the fire in his chest and fanned it through his body.
She would be his. Tonight, they would shed their robes of blue and he would claim her as his own, shared by no one else but his god.
He did not hear her name called over the exulting Acolytes. She mounted the steps, a goddess herself. She went through the door with her proud head high and unafraid.
The door was plain, built of stel oak and bound with iron. It had no handle and could not be opened by mortal hands. It had stood in the center of the temple complex as far back as their records could be read. Some of those gathered had traveled weeks to reach here in time for the ceremony.
“There!” Neseen cried. Indeed the door had opened, swinging back into the darkness.
Belick saw her feet first, bare and pale against the dark stone. The hem of her robes, jerking as she stumbled. He, too, had been nearly overcome by the power coursing through him. Unthinking, he stepped forward, yearning to catch her to him, to steady her steps.
Next her hair, no longer sleek and shining, but tangled, as he imagined it would be after they made love, spread in glorious locks on his bed.
Her face. A trembling hand, braced against the frame of the door.
And her robes… she hesitated, still in the shadows, just beyond the lamplight. Belick was already moving, a cry of joy on his lips. They were dark now, as dark as his. She could be his at last, her father had sworn after her Choosing, she could be his for eternity.
She took the final step into the light.
Belick staggered, legs drained of strength. Around him, the Chosen drew back, bunching together in sudden fear. Even the flames of the lamps stilled as those gathered turned to see which god had favored this splendid daughter of Yvedes.
“No,” he protested. Useless. Feeble. The fire in him drowned under an icy deluge, cold angry winds gathering at his back.
A wail cut the stillness. A keening, her mother shrieking with grief and terror.
Illna’s eyes were sightless as her body jerked in uncoordinated movements, some power other than her own forcing her to approach her patron.
“No,” he begged. “Phanir, please, no.”
Illna did not slow as she passed him. Did not turn to look at him, her face lifted to the goddess above her. No others gathered at this shrine to a veiled figure, set apart from the others. Behind them, but always looming, a threat and a promise.
Was that her father screaming now? Was it him?
Illna fell to her knees as if her legs had been cut from under her. Her head lowered, no longer glowing with health and happiness. Her body bowed, gray robes pooling around her as she pledged her devotion.
From the night, as silent as the stars, two figures approached. They, too, were robed in gray and veiled as their goddess was. The crowd drew back in fear. They walked unhindered to the girl now huddled alone on the floor.
As one, they bent and gripped the girl’s arms.
“No!”
The faceless forms turned to watch him, unmoved by his anguish, his rage. Someone restrained him, pulled him back from his surge for her. He fought, snarling, cursing.
The veiled Acolytes pulled Illna limp to her feet. A swirl of cloth and she was veiled as they were. Shrouded from the sight of mortal eyes for the rest of her life. Cut off from every living thing by her service to Kotris, Goddess of Dusk and Demons, the Lady of Death.
Rhoden woke to the sound of thunder. Early yet, by the faint light in the window. He muttered a curse and sat up.
The room was warm enough, given the brazier still flickering by the washstand. But damp as always with the trade winds still strong from the east. He could feel them in his shoulder, his knee. He kneaded the offending joints before rising to find his clothes.
No matter his early rising, his mother had been long at work in the bakery. Rows of neatly formed loaves were out and proofing on the tables. One of the kitchen girls handed her carefully measured balls of dough, which his mother deftly turned into ovals and dusted with flour.
He stood against the massive oven and blew across his mug of caj. His mother saw him and gave him a bright smile. He returned it and went to find his father.
The man was just finished dressing.
“Rhoden,” he greeted.
“Father.”
They were a family of few words, even in private. Rhoden warmed his hands around his mug. He recognized the stiffness in the older man’s joints as he pulled on his boots.
“You’re too old for this job, father.”
The man snorted. “And you too forward for your rank, son.”
Rhoden grinned. “I will see you tonight?”
“Unless we are called to the Hanger’s quarter again.”
Rhoden grunted acknowledgment of that and sent a prayer to their patron there would be no need of it. His father squeezed his shoulder and went to take farewell of his wife.
Unlike his father, Rhoden was not called to duty until the lunch hour. He ate a leisurely breakfast and was shooed out by the workers so they could start the meat pies for the midday crowd. He went back to his room above the bakery and took up the task he had fallen asleep over last night.
His chain-mail was of high quality, but even the best steel would rust in this climate. Dipping a rag in a pot of oil, he set to work wiping and inspecting the links.
It was mindless enough work and let his mind wander. The sounds of the bakery drifted up, mixed with the steady drumming of rain. His mother’s breads and pies were the best in the Quarter. He knew the weather would lesson the crowd, but she would still easily sell out her wares by the end of the day.
When his hauberk was complete, he set it on its stand and took up his plating. Greaves, bracers, links and fasteners; they all needed to be carefully maintained and repaired. He had no wish to lose a hand to the bite of a corvis.
Task complete, he stood and stretched. The clamor downstairs had faded, so he ventured to see what news his mother had gleaned from her customers.
He ate again, cutting slices from a misshapen loaf and folding them around wedges of cheese. The scullery was full of laughter as the workers scrubbed pans and bowls. A dull-faced boy carried sacks of flour from the storeroom to the mixing table while his mother counted coins and tallied her ledgers.
Rhoden breathed deep of the familiar smells, comforted by the sounds he’d known all his life. Yeast and milk, splashing water and metal pans clanging.
“Well,” he asked when the half-wit had left them to tend the chickens.
His mother sent him a reproving look. “Light of my heart, have you no manners?”
Rhoden grinned at her. “You say Sul Ellis didn’t come by to gloat?”
He defended himself from a floury smack. But she laughed all the same.
“You know well enough she could never resist!”
“And did you convey my sincere congratulations?”
His wry tone earned him a swift, searching look. “Of course, I offered our family’s well wishes for the match.”
“Adros willing,” Rhoden agreed solemnly. His mouth twitched with holding back his smile.
His mother took a freshly scrubbed bowl and began adding ingredients with deft movements. She stirred with a scowl on her still lovely face.
Rhoden knew what she was thinking, but only cut another slice of her excellent bread and dunked it in a bowl of stew.
“Darling,” she said finally.
“The girl is half my age, mother.”
Her stirring grew more agitated. “You are barely eight-and-twenty.”
“And she is barely of age to be Chosen.”
The dough thumped onto the wooden table, worn smooth from years of kneading and sanding.
“I had thought…” she said uncertainly.
“So did I,” Rhoden admitted. Sula Emna was lovely, vivacious, charming. He had been surprised to find her appealing and even more so that she returned the admiration.
“You are not… disappointed?”
He had spent quite a few shifts probing the feelings the girl had stirred in his breast. When Sult Hetava had arrived from his estates and Rhoden had found himself with a rival for the girl’s attention, those feelings had suddenly included a vague disquiet.
Rhoden could not blame the girl. A man with money and land, much more influence than he could offer as a pallisa, sworn to serve Adros, God of Warriors. Hetava was a man closer to her age, more handsome and eager for her smiles.
Was it jealousy? It didn’t feel desperate enough for that. Though Rhoden found the man generally repellent, he felt the same about most people grasping at station and power. So, when Sula Emna had turned her lovely eyes to Hetava, he had let her go with no more than a rueful shrug.
And honestly, with a wedding rumored to be held this summer, there was only a strange relief. His mother, not privy to these mental wanderings, looked close to tears.
“Rhoden?”
He leaned to kiss her forehead. “Don’t worry yourself, mother.”
“I want grandchildren before I am on my deathbed!”
“I am aware. But badly enough to welcome Sul Ellis as a sister-wife?”
Her nostrils flared with disdain. Rhoden chuckled and left her to her mutterings.
He was sorry to disappoint her, but grand-babies looked to be less and less likely as the years passed.
He went to his rooms to ready for his shift.
The rain had lightened to a briskly blowing drizzle by the time he arrived at the Armory. Adros kept no temple; the god cared nothing for worship by Acolytes. He did not even Chose, as the other deities did to fill their service.
If one wanted to serve as a pallisa, one applied and trained and was selected by skilled commanders. It was an honor, but not a divine obligation. One could leave His service whenever they wished. Few did, after feeling the might of the god inside them.
No matter Adros’ inclination, Rhoden still stopped to bow before entering the long, low building. He greeted the men standing guard and went to learn his assignment.
Heleman, a sparse elderly man, kept the records and doled out assignments. He had served honorable decades before a crossbow bolt had ruined his shoulder. Now he assess recruits with sharp eyes and managed the bureaucracy of arming and training the pallisa of the city.
“There you are!” he barked. The years had stolen his hearing, as well, no matter he denied it.
Rhoden approached the man’s painfully neat desk. “At your service, prime.”
Heleman huffed, looking up at him with narrow eyes. Rhoden waited with a bland face, well acquainted with the man’s acerbity.
Heleman tapped thick fingers on the desktop. “You stink of sheep.”
“Lanolin, honored elder.”
Heleman’s eyes nearly disappeared into their wrinkles. “No fancy oil for your kit, pallisa? Surely one of your position could afford it?”
He could. He was stigidae, second only to Heleman himself in this Armory. And, to his credit, there was lavender and orange oil in his mix.
“Could be worse. The price of whale oil has dropped.”
“The enemy will smell you before they see you.”
“Hopefully, they will think a sheep has wondered in from the fields.”
Heleman laughed. But his mirth died quickly, leaving a grim line between his eyebrows. He sighed and sat back.
Rhoden frowned. “What is it?”
“I would not ask this of you, Rhoden, but you are the steadiest of the men. I trust you not to lose your nerve, to handle this with discretion and good sense.”
He picked up a sheet of fine paper and passed it over.
It was a Letter of Summons. A formal document, calling on the Warrior God to supply divine assistance to another deity. Embossed at the bottom was a name laden with honorifics. And the sigil of the temple—
A cold fist closed in his stomach. “Kotris?” He hastily corrected himself. “The Honored Lady requests a pallisa?”
Heleman snorted. “Requests? No, stigidae. Requires. At once. A Veil delivered this personally, making it clear there was little room for refusal.”
Rhoden’s skin creeped, thinking the Veil had stood where he did. Heleman made a gesture of warding.
What could he do but agree? He did not want to wish to draw Her ire upon his family. “I will serve with honor, prime.”
“I would expect no less.”
“How long?”
“Indeterminate.”
Rhoden frowned. He had only glanced at the scripted sentences on the Summons. “Is the Lady establishing a pallisade?”
Why would She need soldiers? Who would dare attack a Veil?
“I was not given specifics. ‘Until they have no further need,’ I was told.”
Rhoden did not like they way that sounded. But he had little choice. Neatly trapped he was, at risk of offending not only his own patron, but the Mistress of Death and Demons as well.
Heleman’s face showed his pity and regret. Rhoden rolled the Summons tightly and stuffed it in his belt pouch. “I will report back when my duty is done, prime.”
“Adros strengthen you, stigidae.”
Rhoden saluted and went to gather his gear.
The sky had finally run out of moisture, leaving heavy clouds rolling above as Phanir and Tsuna fought for control of the winds. The temple to Kotris sat unconcerned with their bickering, the stark white walls gleaming even in the waning light.
Rhoden had walked here, his kit slung over his shoulders. As he approached the temple, the surrounding buildings had fallen into further and further disrepair, until the street he stood on was lined with derelict structures. As if the decay of death had seeped out from the temple to infect the city around it.
Rhoden mounted the steps with trepidation pulling at his limbs. He had never been inside the Lady’s precinct. Few had, unless in company of a Veil. They usually did not return.
No guard waited at the door. Just a scattered pile of offerings: wilted flowers, jewelry tarnished by weather, coins. Kotris did not accept such things. She showed no favors, no mercy, to those begging for freedom from her curse.
He knocked with a gauntleted fist. It echoed hollowly inside. The sound dried his throat and set his heart racing.
A moment later, the door opened and a veiled figure stood silent.
He held out the Summons. “I am Stigidae Rhoden, pallisa of Adros.”
The figure stood aside and gestured for him to enter. He shrugged his bag more securely to his shoulder and followed her down a long corridor. Still all white marble, without any decoration. They turned a corner, then another, and then he faced a dark wood door.
The Veil knocked and opened it without waiting for a response. Swallowing his unease, stepped over the threshold.
Inside was a room paneled in wood, with a fine rug over the floorboards. He took in the tall windows, facing south, and the simple yet elegant furniture. In one of the chairs sat a woman.
He no more than glanced at her before dropping to his knees, eyes fixed on the delicate design in the rug.
“Forgive me, Sul-ranae,” he stammered. “Please, I did not mean to offend.” Panic clambered in his head as he prayed desperately aloud and silently.
Valiant Adros, please intercede with your kinswoman. Let Her wrath fall on me alone. Spare my mother and father.
“Sul-ranae, I beg of you to plea with the Lady. I will meet any punishment She sees fit, please, please—“
“Be at ease, pallisa.
He grit his teeth. Please, please.
“Stand, please.”
The woman did not sound angry, but calm. Amused even. It still took him a moment to gather the will to push from the floor. He kept his gaze on the hem of her robes.
“You are the pallisa sent by Prime Heleman?”
Rhoden tried to hide the trembling of his hand as he held out the Summons. “I am he, Sul-ranae.”
Her own hand come into his view. Her bare hand, taking back the paper she had likely penned herself. Rhoden flinched and turned his face away.
“Do not worry, pallisa.” She was definitely amused now. Even chuckling a little. “You may look on me without fear.”
A lifetime of social and religious mores screamed otherwise. He took a sharp breath, stiffening his spine with courage.
She was a plain woman, with gray hair coiled on her head and dark eyes that stood out against her pale skin. She wore gray, but not robes as he had thought. A well-tailored dress, slim through the bodice and embroidered with dark blue thread.
The frivolity of that decoration struck him more than looking upon one of the Veil’s true faces. While he was still gathering his thoughts, the woman spoke.
“I am Greon, First Lady of the Temple.”
Rhoden bowed. “I am honored by your devotion, sul-ranae.”
“I am aware this is a most unusual occurrence, stigidae.”
There wasn’t anything to say in response to that, so he stayed slightly bent, gaze fixed over her left shoulder.
“Heleman spoke most highly of your service to Adros. Of your skill as a warrior and your dedication to your order.”
“Thank you, sul-ranae.”
“However, I am afraid the duties I require of you may be distasteful to you.”
Rhoden flicked a glance to her now serious face and away. “I will do my best to fulfill your needs, sul-ranae.”
“Sit, please.”
He lowered himself gingerly to a chair, perching on the edge, fists clenched on his knees.
“We do not cover ourselves within the temple walls,” she said softly. He managed a longer look this time before his mind baulked. He found a subtle relief carved into the wood paneling and kept his gaze focused on that.
“I do not question your ways, sul-ranae.”
“What do you know of the ways of the Lady, Rhoden?”
This was asked sincerely and he tried not to cringe as if rebuked.
“You serve the Lady Kotris. You shepherd the dead into the afterlife. You consort with demons.”
In the corner of her vision, he saw her eyebrows raise. He flushed and hurried on. “You communicate with them. Dela with them. For our benefit.” The last was a bit too empathetic.
“I dislike the word ‘demon,’” Lady Greon said wearily. “The vyddos are as varied as mortal animals. One does not see a wolf and declare all four-legged creatures vicious beasts. Likewise, one cannot condemn the vyddos for the rapacious desires of a few.”
Rhoden started as she made a strange croaking noise. He looked swift to her face, but she was beckoning to something behind him. He shifted to look and surged to his feet, knife out, stepping instinctively between the woman and the creature.
“Sul-ranae,” he said sharply as the slinking feline thing hissed at him. “Stay behind me.”
“Sheath your weapon, stigidae. I have no need of your steal here.”
He could not force his arms to obey, watching the yellow eyes of the demon flick away and back.
“Enough, Rhoden.”
He did not like it, but he obeyed and stepped away from her chair. The demon was cat shaped, mostly, but covered in scaly skin, with too many joints and too many teeth. It continued to threaten him as it minced past, sniffing the air.
Lady Greon made more of the same noise and the thing jumped nimbly to her lap. It settled down, its head weaving sinuously as it stared at him.
“Little Bae here lost his coven,” Lady Greon explained, stroking the thing. It made a horrid noise Rhoden could only assume was a purr. “We took him in, rather than send him back to the Dusk with no one to protect him.”
Rhoden sheathed his knife, but he did not sit, keeping his stance braced should the thing leap at him.
“A kindness,” he managed. His skin crawled under his armor. He had seen a man eaten alive by a swarm of such things. They had been larger and more reptilian than this one, but still he watched it cautiously.
“I freely admit that if Bae came across your corpse, he would gladly feast on it. While you are living, however, it would be in very poor taste.”
Rhoden’s lip curled. He smoothed his expression swiftly and reclaimed his seat. He set his hands on his knees and met Lady Greon’s eyes boldly.
“Why am I here, sul-ranae? I would think you could summon any protection you needed.
She tugged at one of the thing’s ears and it swatted at her. “Commanding vyddos is not as easy or as safe as many people believe.”
“I am aware.” He and his men had been tasked with killing demons many times over his career. Those that had escaped the Dusk on their own or been allowed to cross by someone on this side of it.
“I need you because my Lady’s servants are threatened by something mortal.”
That broke Rhoden’s wary stare at the cat-demon. “Someone dared harm a Veil?”
It was blasphemy of the worst kind. It would bring a curse on the attacker, on their family, the entire valley, even, for generations to come.
“I will execute him personally, sul-ranae. I will fetch a quorum at once. We will execute him before the sun rises again.”
Lady Greon smiled humorlessly. “Prime Heleman said much the same thing. However, I am afraid I need this person alive.”
Rhoden couldn’t understand. “Why?”
Bae made a hitching sort of noise and rubbed its scaly face against her arm. “He has already taken four of us.”
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