To Be King - cover reveal

Knox Robinson have released the cover for the upcoming paperback To Be King (Book Two of the Chronicles of Floreskand).  The artist has captured the essence of the story, we feel.

To Be King - sequel to Wings of the Overlord

TO BE KING

When Ulran and Cobrora Fhord left Lornwater on their quest to resolve the mystery of the red tellars (Wings of the Overlord), the city was ripe for rebellion against King Saurosen, holder of the Black Sword.

In charge of the Red Tellar Inn, Ulran’s son Ranell is drawn into a conspiracy with nobles to support Prince Haltese, the king’s heir, to overthrow the tyrant. Inevitably, as a mining disaster and a murder in a holy fane stoke the fires of discontent, open rebellion swamps the streets.

Conflict turns into civil war, where the three cities’ streets become a battleground. Conflict is not confined to Lornwater, however. There’s fighting below ground in the mysterious tunnels and caves of the Underpeople, and within the forest that surrounds the city, and ultimately in the swamps and lakes of Taalland.

Subterfuge, betrayal, conspiracy, intrigue, greed, revenge and a thirst for power motivate rich and poor individuals, whether that’s Lord Tanellor, Baron Laan, Gildmaster Olelsang, Lord-General Launette, ex-slave-girl Jan-re Osa, Captain Aurelan Crossis, Sergeant Bayuan Aco or miner Rujon. 

Muddying the fight are not only bizarre creatures – the vicious garstigg, the ravenous lugarzos or the deadly flensigg – but also the mystics from the Sardan sect, Brother Clen, Sisters Hara, Illasa and Nostor Vata.

At stake is the Black Sword, the powerful symbol that entitles the holder to take the throne of Lornwater. 

 

Saturday Fiction – ‘a strong element of authenticity…’

It’s really satisfying when a book reviewer ‘gets it’. We all want readers to enjoy our books; obviously, we cannot appeal to all tastes, but occasionally the story connects with a reader.

Just such a reader is Nigel Robert Wilson, reviewing Wings of the Overlord in the British Fantasy Society website in June this year. The full review is here

I’d like to quote a snippet from the review:

… Such twists and turns in the presentation of the plot expand the telling of the tale and there are many duly woven into the pattern to enrich and excite the reader. The journey through the Sonalume Mountains has a strong element of authenticity to it, concentrating on the treacherous ice and snow coupled to an intense bitter cold. This seems to derive from an actual experience that must have been quite wretched at the time.

The final denouement by which our now familiar heroes, at great personal risk and cost overthrow the hideous king, Yip nef-Dom … is recounted intensely and is quite a page-turner. The body count is high and contains images of great cruelty.

This is quite clearly the first volume of what is intended to be an entire sequence of stories about the world of Floreskand, a very cultivated creation. Enough links have been established within this tale onto which further adventures, deeds and characters can be connected at later times. It is a well-worked story involving swords and sorcery which will have a very direct appeal to those who admire heroism, but who also like to wade through buckets of blood and gore combined with a dash of mystical sentiment added to provide a degree of sweetness to finish off the feast.

Thank you, Mr Wilson!

And, yes, I was able to call upon some experience when writing about the ice-bound Sonalume Mountains. Here’s an excerpt:

First Dloin of Darous. And it dawned with the sky filled by mares’ tails, drawn out and wispy.
“Winds to mandunron,” said Ulran and rolled up his blanket.
       Breakfast consisted of an apple and a square of honey-loaf each.
       They must have spent a warm night, Fhord realised, as her hair was barely damp, the hoar-frost having thawed. Alomar’s drooping moustache looked bedraggled: the warrior and innman still shaved themselves each morn with their honed poniards.
       But the intense cold and knifelike winds soon froze every breath from their mouths upon their furs and facial hair.
       They descended the snow-scree, plunging legs knee-deep at times, jarring those selfsame knees repeatedly till they constantly gave way when weight was applied.
       At last they came to the hog’s-back, winding towards Glacier Peak, the spine of the formation about a half-mark in width.
       Ulran led with Fhord, Rakcra and Alomar following in that order.
       Winds pummelled and battered them as they walked. Heads down, they constantly watched their feet and, blinking against the flurries of upswept snow, braced as frequent but unexpected gusts lambasted them.
       And yet on they trod, never halting in case they baulked and lost balance and were pitched over the side: there was a steep slope on each side of the narrow crest, falling off to dizzying grey depths.
       Snow-glare inflamed Fhord’s eyes, and her lips were becoming dry and cracked with the insidious cold. She knew she must close her eyes before she was blinded and jeopardised their mission.
       She only hoped her faculties were not reluctant in answering. Eyes shut, she concentrated on listening beyond her own footsteps and the haunting wind-whistle, reaching out for the crisp crunch of Ulran’s foot-falls. And as she did so she threw out mental feelers, and was rewarded before fear forced her to open her eyes: vaguely, she detected the bulk of the innman, just ahead.
       Rakcra too was in a bad way and stumbled on two separate occasions. Before panic hurled him off the hog’s-back, Alomar was there, steadying, his big hands lifting the Devastator up, urging him on.
       But the incident had instilled Alomar with the feathering of alarm. “Ulran!” he called. “Ulran!” And as the innman stopped and turned, with Fhord following suit, Alomar added, “Can we rope together? It may prove safer!”
       Ulran agreed whilst inwardly wondering why he had let such an elementary precaution slip his mind.
       To make matters worse, the snow was not firm, so every footstep could precipitate a fall. Ulran slipped once, near the end of the spine, but neatly corrected his balance and went on. Nobody else felt as much as a tug on the line.
       They reached a crescent shape of stagnant ice, earthy material and boulders: the dead ice at the snout of the glacier. The terminal moraine gaped where a small runnel showed. A stream of melt-water gushed down into the depths to Ulran’s left.
       “Keep to the right,” urged the innman as they joined him.
       The sun had reached zenith.
       Snakelike, the glacier wound down towards them, its source firn hidden from view high up near the peak. Up each side showed irregular bands of discoloration of the lateral moraines, formed by rock debris on the glacier’s surface. Down the centre, the medial moraine, over which melt-water streamed and glistened. The left-hand side was impassable, scattered with jagged ice-pinnacles and loosely packed snow that crumbled at the touch of a breeze. Across the immense breadth of the glacier too were great gaping cracks – crevasses.
       Ulran hoped they could cross the glacier further up, near the source, and thus skirt the peak. He mentally shook himself: his head felt bloated, eyes puffy. They had been standing here at the snout of the glacier too long: time to move!
       The right-hand side of the glacier was negotiable but proved difficult.
       Twice they came upon gullies about three marks deep, which they descended then climbed the opposite side, using swords to cut foot-holds.
       Wind howled intermittently; the sound whistled about their ears. Eyebrows and other facial hair were matted white by now, numbing lips and foreheads.
       Heads bowed, they trudged higher till Ulran halted on the lip of an ice and rock overhang, under which the glacier had cut its ancient path. From here he swung his sword, pointing higher along the glacier’s length, where it widened further up.
       “Ice-fall,” the innman said, sneezing. “Beyond that, I believe the glacier spreads out a bit.”
       Fhord thought the innman’s voice sounded nasal, half-choked. Ulran seemed to blink more than usual too. A hot clammy fear clutched the base of her spine and sweat collected there, damp and uncomfortable.
       At the foot of the ice-fall was a labyrinth of deep clefts and ice-pinnacles, with crevasses intersecting. Above this, the glacier steepened, like an ice-wall. A few pinnacles jutted out from this wall, casting long shadows.
       Without any warning, one of these pinnacles broke away from the shoulder of the glacier and plunged down the ice-fall. Fhord was speechless. At least the size of a Lornwater mansion, the pinnacle crashed down, tearing with it huge ice-columns from the fall itself. The thunderous sound was awesome.
       Stopped in their tracks as the plumes of snow and ice-particles billowed above the ice-fall’s base, they exchanged glances.
       “I don’t like it,” murmured Alomar. “That could have set up a chain-reac–”
       At that instant a shattering, tumultuous roar reached them, unmistakably coming from above, to their right.
       Fhord saw billows of powdery snow in the air above the next slope.
       “Avalanche!” yelled Ulran, walking towards it.
       Fhord stumbled after him. “No – don’t –!”
       “We must swim through it, come on!” Ulran called over his shoulder.
       Then huge powdery airborne blasts roared down into the innman, cutting him off from sight.
       Snow rode over Ulran’s head. He tried swimming against the deluge, using breast-stroke, dog-paddle, anything to stay on top. Pounding filled his ears. He couldn’t breathe. His eyes ached with constant buffeting and he couldn’t see.
       Alomar, who had been ten paces behind Ulran when the avalanche hit, was as swiftly engulfed, his world abruptly dark and cold. He reached out blindly and hit a rock, grazing his hands to no avail. He tumbled backwards, head over heels and felt the line snap. And behind him, Fhord was swamped also. The time under the black cold weight stretched to a lifetime as she tumbled upon her nightmarish descent.
       Rakcra had been beside Fhord when the sight of the avalanche stunned him into immobility; he was hurled pell-mell down the track they had painstakingly made. The snow not only obliterated their tracks, but also him.
       A sudden, eerie silence settled as the last remnants of the avalanche tumbled down over the hog’s-back, down to the mauve depths.
       Ulran was buried up to his waist. As he craned his neck round to look down the mountainside, he proceeded to use his hands to dig his way free.
       Fifty marks below, Alomar was shaking snow off himself and his shield. Miraculously, his helmet was just visible a couple of paces away: the crestless dome glinted in the after-morning sunlight.
       The rest of the mountain was devoid of life.

***

Wings of the Overlord – hardback

Knox Robinson publishing here

Amazon COM here

Amazon UK here

Writing - Publisher opens its doors wider

Readers

Wings of the Overlord (Book One of the Chronicles of Floreskand) was published by Knox Robinson in 2014.It is a fantasy quest novel.  Its sequel To Be King is a work in progress. The book is co-authored by me and Gordon Faulkner under the penname Morton Faulkner. At present in hardback, it will eventually appear in paperback and e-book formats. (Currently six 5-star reviews on Amazon UK - here).

My books are published by three publishers.

Fantasy - Knox Robinson
Westerns - Robert Hale
Crime/thrillers - Crooked Cat

As long as they'll have me, I'm very happy to stick with all three publishers for these genres.

Writers

Writers still seeking a publisher might be interested to note a recent announcement from Knox Robinson, which can be found on their website also (along with Wings of the Overlord et al, of course): http://www.knoxrobinsonpublishing.com/

January 12, 2015 (London & New York) – Established in 2010 as an international, specialist publisher of historical fiction, historical romance and fantasy, Knox Robinson Publishing has now opened its doors to publishing literature of all genres.

According to Managing Director, Dana Celeste Robinson, this move is a plausible change in direction for the publishing house. “In truth, when I started the house, I wanted only to publish works based in past eras, these were the works with which I was most familiar and the works I preferred to publish,” she says. “But critical reviews of our novels have proven that we have long since outgrown the designation ‘specialist publisher’. It is a logical step forward for the house to welcome all fiction.”

Indeed, much has changed in the four years since the establishment of Knox Robinson. Many of the novels that bear the imprimatur of Knox Robinson Publishing have received critical acclaim and praise for the literary nature of the writing.

“We have found that our authors are writing of a standard that would be classified as literary fiction. It no longer makes sense for us to limit the house to publishing only works of three genres. In fact, with the upcoming launch of our new children’s imprint Under The Maple Tree Books and our new young adult speculative fiction imprint Mithras Books, we now have room on our list for works of other genres,” Robinson says.

Knox Robinson has accepted submissions directly from authors since its inception and the house will continue to do so.

“We have already begun to go back through our archives to find and contact talented authors we originally turned away because their work did not fit within the scope of our publishing program at the time,” Robinson says. “This change has been in effect for several months, but we never formally announced. We began late last year to publish all genres of literature and we look forward to receiving submissions from talented new writers of everything from thrillers to mysteries to horror to contemporary romance and everything in between. This is an exciting time for us.”
Interested authors are encouraged to visit the website at www.knoxrobinsonpublishing.com for submission instructions.

About Knox Robinson Publishing. Established in London in 2010, Knox Robinson Publishing is an independent, international publisher of fiction. It is the home of the upcoming juvenile and children’s book imprint Under The Maple Tree Books and the young adult speculative fiction imprint Mithras Books.

Knox Robinson and its imprints’ titles are distributed by Marston Book Services in the United Kingdom and Midpoint Trade Books in the United States of America.

Writing - Catching up while standing still

Sometimes, it feels like that. At present, I’m coming to the end of a final edit for Maureen, my editor of Catalyst, which is due for publication by Crooked Cat in a few weeks. The book has been edited a number of times, but when Maureen asked me to check it over and sign it off, I couldn’t resist having another read-through. The temptation at this stage is to let it go, as it has been read more than once by several critical eyes. Always, always, there will be something that has been missed, even with the best will and experience and diligence in the world. Mostly, it will be style things – such as echo words appearing in the same page or even paragraph. I’ve caught four instances of that. One instance where it should have been ‘he’, not ‘she’; it happens. I’ve said it before and will doubtless repeat it again often, but you will never catch all the typos or errors, but you need to strive to do so.

Next is the edit of The Prague Papers, due for publication by Crooked Cat later this year. I’m giving it the final check as requested by my editor Jeff. Some radical surgery has been committed on this book, and it’s all to the good. Quite a few thousand words have been excised by me since really they don’t move the story forward. Those lost words are interesting back-story, but they slow down the tale. I will probably include some of the missing material in a forthcoming blog/website for the protagonist, Tana Standish, psychic spy.

 

Tana Standish, psychic spy

 

The moral here is that just because you’ve completed a novel and it has been accepted, that doesn’t mean it is really finished. Approach these final edits with the same diligence applied to the manuscript prior to being despatched to the publisher.

And I’m still in the throes – getting to the exciting end – of Catacomb, the sequel to Catalyst. That’s taking a backseat while I clear the above edits. Yet even so, the characters are busy in the back of my head, jostling for a place, attempting to overcome the obstacles I put in their way before shunting them into a temporary limbo.

Finally, when I’ve completed Catacomb I need to return to the fantasy world of Floreskand, to get on with the sequel to Wings of the Overlord, To Be King, which has now been plotted in depth after a visit from my co-author, Gordon Faulkner.

 

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Overlord-Chronicles-Floreskand-Morton-Faulkner/dp/1908483857/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1412864739&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=wings+of+the+overlord

Writing - Shadows over Lornwater - 04

SHADOWS OVER LORNWATER

 

Morton Faulkner

 

continued from yesterday...

King Saurosen’s witch, Nostor Vata was a contradiction in many ways, Welde Dep believed. For someone of fifty summers, she possessed the complexion of an adolescent, with piercing blue-grey eyes; perhaps her looks could be attributed to her inscrutable powers. She welcomed him graciously enough into her chamber, her tall shapely figure gliding over the patterned floor tiles on rope-soled sandals. Her long black hair draped over her shoulders; the left shoulder was bare, as was that breast, which appeared scarred. Her gown was a deep ochre colour, tied with a black leather belt at her waist. Gold armbands and bangles jangled at her wrists. “I am flattered that you should wish to consult with me, Watchman Welde.” Her voice was like surf sifting over sand.

            He bowed slightly. She was a powerful woman in her own right, even if she hadn’t had the king as her patron. Her friends were rich and influential, not least the Nemond family. “In matters of the unknowable, Nostor Vata, you are matchless. I seek your guidance on a troubling matter.”

            She gestured to a seat.

            He sat and she lowered herself into a sofa opposite. “This would be the manner of Pro-dem Hom’s murder?”

            “You are well informed,” he replied with a fleeting smile.

            She didn’t return his smile but tapped her forehead – a narrow vertical crease above the bridge of her long straight nose. “The third eye has its uses.”

            “I don’t suppose it has seen who the murderer is, by any chance?”

            She smiled now. “A fine jest, Watchman. If my power were that great, you can be assured I would have informed you at once.”

            “Can you explain the meaning of this, please? A female assassin was found with her face cut off and her right eye in her left hand, her nose in her right hand. I believe it’s ritual magic of some kind.”

            She leaned forward. “Intriguing. But what has this to do with my king’s speechwriter?”

            “Pro-dem Hom’s left eye was put in his right hand, and his tongue in his left.”

            “Balance in all things,” she mused, fingering a curved knife at her belt. “You’re not familiar with our manderon magic, are you?”

            “How did you know?”

            “You hark from Tarakanda, originally, I believe, though few know this.”

            Dep shifted in his seat. “I would rather maintain that secret.”

            “It will not go beyond these walls, Watchman.” She withdrew her knife, flicked the blade at her bare breast. It was only a small nick in the flesh and drew blood; small droplets fell onto the marble tile at her feet. The blood spots spattered slightly. She sheathed the knife and her right hand absently dabbed at the little cut while she studied the bloody pattern. “I see,” she whispered, licking her lips. “Yes, this is troublesome.”

            “In what way?”

            “The transposition of those organs in this manner is part of a forbidden ritual. This ritual can conjure up a melog…”

            “But that’s pure myth, surely?”

            “So some say. I am not aware of anyone who has been successful with this ritual. Often, it just results in several dead bodies and displaced organs – a messy business…”

            Dep shuddered. “Thank you, Nostor Vata.”

            At that moment, King Saurosen entered. “Vata, I was not aware you had company.” His deep almond coloured eyes glanced at the blood spatter. “Who are you to consult with my muse?” he demanded of Dep. His eyes narrowed and he gazed with suspicion at his witch.

            Rising to his feet, Dep bowed. “I am Watchman Welde Dep, working for…”

            “Zen-il, yes, of course! What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the city tracking down the assassin? Even now, my assassination could be plotted already!”

            “There are special factors that…”

            “Never mind, man. Be gone!”

            Bowing again, Dep made for the door. “Thank you, Nostor Vata!” he called and left.        Before Dep moved away from the door, he heard the king remonstrate, “I’m disappointed in you, Vata. Can’t I trust anyone now?”

 

Ulran left his inn and walked the streets of the city, moving from the House of Velvet to the dye factory, asking questions of the people along the way. He knocked on doors of houses that overlooked the roadways and alleys and slowly he constructed an image. A most unusual picture emerged.

            Pro-dem Hom was a well-known figure in the area. Many had glimpsed him walking rather awkwardly. Some felt he was deep in his cups. Others wondered if he were ill. Almost everybody who saw the writer felt confused because his entire body seemed bathed in a freakish gray miasma. There was no other description. A grey mist enveloped Pro-dem Hom as he walked.

            The dye factory was locked, the night-watchman vowed. He could not explain how Pro-dem Hom and his murderer could enter and drown him. “I did my rounds as usual and he certainly wasn’t in the ink vat when I left; when I returned, there he was. Such a shock, I can tell you…”

            Ulran then checked the home of the murdered assassin, Aba-pet Fara. She lived alone, over a leather-goods shop. The smell of leather permeated everywhere. It was evident that Watchmen had searched the place, but it had been cursory. He soon found a secret cache under the floorboards beneath a sideboard. The hiding place contained money and a parchment notebook with figures and names scrawled, detailing her contacts, contracts and her fees. Some fees were clearly freelance, as she didn’t deduct gild dues, while others showed a proportion allocated to the gild. One name in the book leapt out at him and he smiled. Welde Dep would be pleased. Though, in fact, what charges could he muster? Since Aba-pet Fara did not assassinate Pro-dem Hom as planned.         

First Sapinma of Juvous

Illasa completed her scrying and sat back, exhausted. She was concerned. The innman Ulran was nosing around, getting close. Ulran has too much influence among the common folk and would do all he could to prevent an uprising, and it was the defeat of Saurosen she craved. If she could get the king’s first cousin, Nemond Thand on the throne, she would wield the power, since dear Thand was susceptible to maladies of the mind. For the next two orms she waited impatiently. Finally, in answer to her secret summons, there was a knock on her door. She let Badol Melomar in, ensuring that nobody in the street had seen him.

            “I trust this visit will be worth my while, witch,” he said, his voice thick and throaty. He was an unprepossessing specimen of manhood, with a face covered in pustules, rheumy eyes of tarnished coin and moist thick lips seemingly always turned up in a scowl.

            “Oh, it is, Badol.” He was head and innman of the powerful Open House Combine and he’d had a running vendetta with the Red Tellar for an age. “I wish to finance an assassination. It would be to your benefit.”

            “Go on. I’m listening.”

            “Offer a hefty purse for the life of Ulran. I will pay.”

            He stroked his forked beard that was reminiscent of a swallowtail and grinned, exposing a saw-toothed mouth. “I like it. But why?”

            “You don’t need to know my reasons. Of course my involvement will remain secret.” She described an incantation in the air with her sharp fingernails. “Or you will regret being born.”

            Badol hunched his burly body. “It will be arranged.” He held out his hand.

            She dropped a pouch of coin into his palm. “You will receive half again when the deed is done.” She opened the door for him and he left.

            She had been tempted to use her melog, but no, the conjuration was already complete, the runes cast, the names given, so the assassin would not directly kill anyone else – unless they got in his way, such as the unfortunate Aba-pet Fara. And she doubted if she could repeat the incantation successfully. It had taken much from her life source to accomplish. Anyway, Badol did not need to know about the shadow assassin, for conjuring a melog was blasphemous, and she doubted if the conniving man’s scruples could be entirely trusted.

Second Sabin of Juvous

Prime Watchman Zen-il paced in front of Dep. The exotic floor covering showed wear, as if his chief made a habit of pacing up and down. This was only the fourth time he’d been in his chief’s office housed here with the Royal Council in sector one of the Old City.

            “Welde, I have been apprised of a rumour”

            “Where from, sir?”

            Zen-il pursed his lips then shrugged. “I was visiting – in an official capacity, I might add - the House of Velvet.”

            “But I questioned all of them. They told me nothing.”

            “Yes, but this is new – a fresh rumour.”

            “You’re at pains to point out it’s only a rumour, sir.”

            “Many of our watchmen rely on whispers for leads, Welde. You know that.”

            “True, sir. So… What is this whisper you heard?”

            “There’s a new assassin’s target. It’s supposed to be Ulran of the Red Tellar.”

            The innman. “Really? Whispers, you say? Usually, it’s merely pillow-talk.”

            “Have a care, Welde…”

            “Just an observation from experience, sir.”

            “I thought you should be aware of this… information.”

            “But, sir, my job is to follow facts, not whispers…”

            Zen-il nodded. “I know,” he responded with a grin. “Who’d be foolish enough to go up against the innman of the Red Tellar, eh?”

 

Ulran’s son, Ranell, betrayed concern in his brown eyes. He ran a hand through his dark wavy hair. “Begetter, there suddenly appear to be too many assassins for comfort,” he said, his voice husky.

            Ulran grinned. “It is only gossip.”

            The innman was slightly taller than his son but, Dep noted, they were both slim and powerfully muscled; doubtless formidable opponents. “Your son has a point, Ulran. I think you should be cautious. It’s quite possible that your enquiries have already stirred up something.”

            “What will you do with that evidence?” Ulran asked, changing the subject.

            Dep held up the notebook. “This will convict Pro-dem Hom’s wife of conspiracy to murder.” He made for the door. “Thanks for finding it. I’ll have words to say with my two men, be assured!” At the door, he added, “Listen to your son’s counsel, Ulran.”

            After Watchman Welde had left, Ranell said, “Begetter, I insist that you must abide by the watchman’s warning. You must be accompanied at all times by two of our men.”

            Ulran grinned. “At all times?”

            “Yes. Wherever you go in the Three Cities.” Ulran raised an eyebrow. “I know you can handle yourself, Begetter, but these assassins are underhand people.”

            “If the whispers are true,” Ulran countered.

            “I’d feel happier,” Ranell said.

 

“This is most displeasing, Watchman,” said the gildmaster. “Your evidence shows that Aba-pet Fara’s fees did not always go through the gild.”

            “This could be worse, couldn’t it?” Dep said. “Others might be doing the same…”

            Jentore wailed. “We can’t have assassins freelancing. It will be anarchy!”

            “It might be the death of your gild,” Dep suggested, hiding a smile. The gildmaster was going to have problems balancing his books.

 

Lornwater library was imposing, a tall austere gray building, its pillars and windowsills carved ornately with ancient symbols. The shelves were tier upon tier, some cloaked in cobwebs, others laden with dust. Only the books near the reception desk seemed to be dust-free. Dep wondered if reading might be a dying art. That would be sad, he reflected. Wisdom and knowledge resided in these countless tomes; just waiting for inquisitive minds to unlock their secrets.

            He needed to read more about melogs. And brush up on manderon magic. The eye and nose in Aba-pet Fara’s hands, and the eye and tongue in Pro-dem Hom’s must mean something other than signifiers for a melog.

            At the nearest broad table sat a young woman, leaning over a tome entitled Songs of the Overlord. At least she’d found what she was looking for; he gazed ruefully at the dusty shelves. Where to begin?

            “The most secret books are those with the thickest dust layer,” the woman offered, glancing up from her book, her angular and thin face framed by long lank black hair. Her voice was soft, pleasant. To one side of her was a satchel with the letters CF engraved in the leather.

            “How did you know I sought arcane knowledge?”

            She shrugged, shifting her brown eyes away, seeming uncomfortable under his direct gaze. “I believe you seek knowledge of the seven senses, Watchman, though perhaps you do not yet know it.” She indicated the next shelf along, on his right. “You’ll find what you want in there – ‘The Forbidden Arcane’.”

            “Seven senses?” He was not familiar with those beyond the normal five. He had heard of a sixth, and understood some folk could master it, though he thought it was fanciful myth. But seven?

            The woman rose, her features abruptly pale, her forehead creased. “I’m sorry, I must leave. My head aches. I fear something is amiss… soon…” She grabbed her satchel and fled the library with her book under her arm.

            “Amiss soon?” he wondered. When in fact, there was something very amiss right now.

            It didn’t take him long to find the tome the woman alluded to. He used a sleeve to brush off the dust, sneezed and opened the reedpaper pages.

            “Ancient teaching propounded that the soul of mankind contains seven properties which are under the influence of the seven planets,” he read. “Fire animates, earth gives the sense of feeling, water gives speech, air gives taste, mist gives sight, flowers give hearing, the ranmeron wind gives smelling.” He sat back, intrigued. “So,” he mused, “the seven senses are animation, feeling, speech, taste, sight, hearing and smelling?”

            By the time he left, he had gleaned some knowledge that might be of use; whether it was enough, only the gods would know.

To be concluded tomorrow...

 

This is a prequel to the fantasy quest epic WINGS OF THE OVERLORD published by Knox Robinson

 

Please purchase from Amazon here

Knox Robinson website and shop is here

 

Writing - Shadows over Lornwater - 03

SHADOWS OVER LORNWATER

 

Morton Faulkner

 

continued...

First Durinma of Juvous

At about the same time that Dep’s men returned to report that only one person on their list couldn’t be located, a man of letters called Pro-dem Hom, a message arrived from his chief, Prime Watchman Zen-il. A man identified as Pro-dem Hom had been found drowned in a vat of red ink in the dye processing factory in sector five in the Second City.

            Prime Watchman Zen-il met him at the factory. He was tall, thick-set with piercing slate-grey eyes and wrinkled features. His uniform was the usual plaid, tight-fitting; he wore knee-high black leather boots.

            The dead man was unclothed and had been deprived of one eye and his tongue; which were clutched in the right and left fists respectively. ‘S1’ had been burned into his forehead.

            Staff who found the wordsmith had recognised him as Pro-dem Hom immediately since he often visited for writing supplies.

            “Welde, I want this murderer caught soon,” said Zen-il, his voice grating. He gazed at the morticians who removed the corpse, splashing the floor in ink, making crazy patterns.

            “As do I, sir.” He bagged the eye and tongue in a separate leather pouch, tied it to his belt, alongside the other evidence bag. “It’s not going to be easy, though.”

            “Your cases are not meant to be easy, Welde. That’s why they’re special investigations.”

            “Indeed, sir.” Dep shook his head. “Nobody saw anything. The place was full of shadows, according to the night-watchman when he found the body floating face-down.”

            “Chasing shadows is not within our remit. Give me a flesh-and-blood killer. Soon. Before he strikes again!”

            “Or she, sir?”

            Zen-il growled, spun on his heel and stomped away, flinging over his shoulder, “Yes, ‘or she’!”

 

She didn’t appear too distressed at being made a new widow, Dep mused, sitting opposite Pro-dem Zimera. Maybe it was her upbringing, a reluctance to show emotion to strangers, especially if on official business? Good breeding, perhaps; she was the daughter of Xarop, one of the oldest nobles in the city. Her upturned nose twitched; maybe she’d caught a whiff of the contents of the evidence bags at his belt?

            Wealthy just didn’t describe Zimera and her family. They lived here in the Doltra Complex, which was perched upon huge stone-block pylons and, on his approach, he felt it looked obscenely bright and clean in comparison to the dark and sullied earth surrounds beneath it. Nobody walked near the foundations, where lay the caved-in remains of an older city, which had collapsed in 1823; city and King Kculicide had perished, falling into flooded mines and into the dread hands of the Underpeople.

            “I’m sorry to ask you at a time like this,” Dep said, his tone soft, caring, “but have you any idea where your husband might have been last night?”

            Her grey-green eyes flickered away from his face, but only for a moment and then she returned his gaze steadily. “He frequented the Red Tellar…” Her hands fidgeted in her lap. She was withholding some information, he felt sure.

            “Really?”

            Zimera nodded. “I know that was his favourite place. He was a close friend of the innman, Ulran, I believe.”

 

“I find it strange that Pro-dem Hom was a target for assassination,” Ulran said, running a hand over his short black hair. The innman was tall and commanding, even in the simple attire of a green silk shirt and loose-fitting cotton trousers. He stood at the window of his tenth storey office, gazing down at the inn’s roof-gardens.

            Established some 570 years ago on the occasion of the First Festival of Brilansor, the Red Tellar Inn was situated in Marron Square in the Three Cities that comprised Lornwater. The renowned Red Tellar was the only inn in all Floreskand equipped with duelling rooms. Its ten-storey height alone would draw attention, only overshadowed in Lornwater by the two minars and the Eyrie above the Old City’s palace. There were many specialised chambers, among them music and shrine rooms, hotel rooms, staff residences, private duelling rooms, the beer-hall and the Long Gymnasium.

            Ulran turned, faced Dep. “He was a man of words, and posed no threat to anybody.”

            “Pro-dem Hom was rich and had the ear of the king,” Dep replied from his chair. “A powerful man, by all accounts.”

            “True.” Ulran’s brown eyes narrowed. “And powerful men have enemies.”

            Dep nodded. “Just so. Why did he come to your inn?”

            “For the amenities it offers. He particularly liked visiting the storyteller rooms. He would write down their tales.”

            “I suspect he wrote down other things. Would he be privy to improprieties here?”

            “Hidden knowledge can be powerful, I admit. It’s possible he saw someone or something that might adversely affect a reputation, if you concern yourself with such matters.”

            “But you have a reputation that goes before you, Ulran,” Dep countered.

            “It is nothing that I foster or invite. It is the nature of a gossip-hungry public that they settle on certain individuals. I’m one of those individuals.” He shrugged. “It means nothing. Celebrity is base coin.”

            “Do you know if Pro-dem Hom was working on a speech for the king?”

            Ulran laughed. “He would need to write a fine speech for any of the king’s words to be praised, I assure you.” His face clouded, serious. “I do not talk sedition, it is just an observation. Our king is not widely liked by his subjects.”

            Dep sucked in through his teeth. “Have you any idea why Pro-dem Hom was in the House of Velvet?”

            Ulran arched an eyebrow. “It’s a pleasure house. I imagine he was seeking pleasure where he could find it, as it was no secret that his wife hadn’t provided him with any for several years…”

            That would explain her lack of bereavement. “It’s puzzling. He went missing from the House of Velvet and turned up dead at the dye factory,” Dep mused. “The room assigned to him was where we found the dead assassin. If Pro-dem Hom eluded his female assassin, why didn’t he call out the watchman?”

            “Yes, it is a mystery. Have you a name for the assassin yet?”

            Dep shook his head. “Their gildmaster is my next call.”

            “Strange, isn’t it?”

            “What?” Dep asked.

            “The assassin’s gild is illegal, yet it is allowed to flourish.”

            Dep shrugged. “I’ve had a similar discussion with the Prime Watchman more than once. We consider that they will exist whether we proscribe them or not. Perhaps having a gild permits some kind of oversight.”

            “Perhaps. The killer of the assassin might have taken Pro-dem Hom, kidnapped him?”

            “It’s a slim possibility, innman. Surely they would have been seen by somebody. Yet none of those interviewed so far know anything.”

            Ulran pursed his thick lips, frowned. “Drowning in ink suggests something premeditated and vicious. Despite the presence of the dead assassin, it seems that Pro-dem Hom was singled out for an unusual death. The colour of the ink might be significant too.”

            Dep jotted down a note about checking on the colour red in magical rituals.

            Ulran stroked his chin. “He was a good man with words, and I liked him. I’ll make my own enquiries, I think.”

            “Have a care, Ulran, don’t tread on my toes.”

            “I will tread so lightly you won’t know where I’ve been,” Ulran said.

 

 

III

Shifting ’tween supernal myth and every day,

They enjoy fearful images wondrously born.

And they thrive on these myriad feelings torn

By the dark deceit that suborns what is true.

 

Their world is unlike ours in every way.

It’s spectral in aspect, where dusk’s forever worn,

Always at the mercy of effulgent light shone,

Be they god-hewn or man-made in effulgent hue.

- A Life of Their Own, from The Collected Works of Nasalmn Feider (1216-1257)

 

***

First Sapin of Juvous

 

“Yes, this ring belonged to Aba-pet Fara,” explained Gildmaster Jentore, turning the pages of a thick tome. “Now, we have only six female assassins on our books.” His tone seemed to suggest that the woman’s death was an inconvenience to the gild bookkeeping, rather than a human tragedy. He stopped, pointed to an open page and an illustration. “See, these small chevrons intertwined with berries. The fruit stalks twine from the left, indicating the wearer is female.” He held the ring against the drawing; the images matched.

            “Good,” Dep said. “At least we now have a name for the victim. Was she on gild business?”

            “Yes.” Jentore indicated a column of dates and amounts of money below the illustration. “She registered two days ago, see... Of course, an assassin does not record who the target is, solely that there has been a commission, and the fee obtained, so that a percentage can be contributed to the gild’s coffers.”

            Dep nodded, quite aware of the process and not a little irritated by the gildmaster’s manner. It was not unusual, he knew. Most gildmasters felt they were above the king’s law. The best of them was old Fascar Dak, gildmaster of precious metals and the city’s Great Gildmaster; he was always gracious and honest in his dealings with the watchmen. More than could be said of Olelsang, the gildmaster of saddle-makers, who oozed corruption from every pore yet possessed an indefinable aura that drew allegiance to him like flies to manure. “Do you think Aba-pet was intent on a target when she went to the House of Velvet?”

            “I would hope so. I mean, it would be demeaning for her to be there, otherwise. You know, I’m quite shocked to hear she was found there. Naked, you say?”

            “Yes, Gildmaster. The mutilation goes beyond anything I’ve encountered.”

            Gildmaster Jentore shook his head, and his long white hair whispered over his narrow shoulders. “I wish I could help, Watchman. I agree with you, the signs are not good. It is of dark significance. You have little choice, I fear. You must consult Nostor Vata.” As he spoke the witch’s name his mouth twisted as if in distaste. Witches had no gild; they were above all that: the gods endowed them with their arcane powers. 

            “Thank you for your time, Gildmaster.”

            “I suppose you will have to report how Aba-pet Fara was found?”

            “Yes, of course, I must.”

            “I would hope you would have no need to besmirch the gild. Perhaps you could mention that she was fully clothed?”

            “I don’t think so, Gildmaster Jentore. The facts are the facts and we cannot condone tampering with them.”

            “No, of course not, I understand…”

            “Believe me, the manner of her death and the whereabouts will be old news and soon forgotten. Your gild’s reputation won’t be sullied.”

            “I trust not, Watchman Welde.”

 

Zen-il reported to the king about Pro-dem Hom’s assassination and stood patiently awaiting a response. Queen Jikkos sat on the adjacent throne, her gimlet sky-blue eyes glaring into his while she twirled a be-ringed finger round her long braids of blonde hair.

            A nevus on Saurosen‘s left cheek, in the vague shape of a spider, grew inflamed. His almond-shaped eyes grew moist. “A dear friend and a wonderful speechwriter. He often knew what I wanted to say before I did.” His voice was more rasping than usual. He was tall, thin, and wiry with narrow stooped shoulders. He gestured dismissal with manicured hands. “Excuse us, Prime Watchman, so that we may mourn his tragic loss.”

            “Sire, before I leave, I must point out that his killer is still at large.”

            The king fingered a small tuft of brown hair under his lower lip. “I understand that. So what are you not telling me?”

            “It is believed that your speechwriter’s death was invoked by magic. The assassin has killed twice already…”

            King Saurosen’s reddish-brown complexion paled as he croaked, “Twice? I thought…”

            “The other death need not concern you, sire. Save that it was caused by the same baleful hand.”

            Saurosen turned to his queen.

            Her alabaster features betrayed no emotion.

            “Dearest,” he said, “I fear… I fear we need to take action, don’t you?”

            She leaned toward him, the low neckline of her silver dress displaying a snow-white bosom separated by a gold necklace. “I agree, my dear.” Her voice was sensuous; her rosebud mouth curved. “Whatever keeps you safe.”

            “Yes. Safe.” Saurosen stepped down and paced in front of the thrones, his gold sandals slapping. Then, abruptly he glanced at Zen-il. “I have it!”

            “Sire?”

            “I will issue an edict. We must cancel the Kcarran carnival…”

            “Excellent, my dear!” exclaimed his queen, clapping her hands, the rings on every finger clinking loudly.

            He continued to tread to and fro, excited by his idea. “Yes, you must curtail free passage of strangers into the Three Cities – at least until the assassin is found…”

            “But, sire, the carnival celebrates the crowning of Lornwater’s first king, Kcarran.  

The people have enjoyed their carnival for 1062 years…”

            “You are so precise that it is tedious, Prime Watchman Zen-il!” Saurosen railed. “It is precisely because they love their carnival that I will outlaw it! If they wish to harbour an assassin, then they will suffer!”

to be continued...

Prequel to Wings of the Overlord, now available from Knox Robinson and Amazon and other outlets.