Book Excerpt: Citizen Magus by Rob Steiner

A few weeks ago, we revealed the cover for Citizen Magus, the first book in a new series by Rob Steiner. Today, Steiner has granted us permission to reveal the first chapter of the story. Enjoy!

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CITIZEN MAGUS
by Rob Steiner

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Remington Blakes, but people in 6 B.C. Rome call me Natta Magus.

Why?

For starters, I am a fully trained, licensed, and insured magus from twenty-first century Detroit in the American Union. Second, I needed to feed myself somehow after I got stranded in ancient Rome, so I set up my own magus shop on the Aventine Hill. What Roman would hire Remington when they could hire (cue epic echo) Natta Magus. It means something like "artisanal wizard" in Latin, so I guess you could call it a marketing decision. But there were times like now, running through Rome's crowded streets on my way to stop a magical murder, that I wondered if there were safer ways to earn money. Like joining the legions.

Gaius Aurelius Vitulus, my Praetorian friend—perhaps my only friend in Rome—stopped ahead and gave me an impatient frown. I once saw him make a corrupt quaestor spill his guts with just that frown. He was a few inches shorter than my six-foot two-inch frame, but he had the intimidating build of a twenty-something man who spent the last ten years in the legions. When I caught up to him, he said, "The sun is setting, and we're still a mile from the temple."

"I'm going as fast as I can," I growled. "These damned sandals are killing me." Eighteen months in Rome and I still longed for the rubber-soled sneakers I wore back home.

"Your dawdling will kill Celsus Maximus," Vitulus grunted, and began weaving his way again through the crowds and labyrinthine Roman alleys.

Vitulus was dressed like any other citizen of the equestrian social rank—a white woolen tunica with two narrow, vertical red stripes down the sides—but his bearing and the well-used, pearl-handled gladius on his belt made the crowds part for him. The gladius was a gift from his father upon his ascension to manhood on his fourteenth birthday. I once asked Vitulus why he didn't brush the stains off the pearl handle, and he said that the stains remind him the gladius was a tool and not a bauble. I tried not to think of how many men he'd killed with it during his days in the legions.

I'd known Vitulus for about a year, and all I can tell you is that by contemporary Roman standards, he's a huge Boy Scout. He values honor above all other virtues, always keeps his promises, will fight to protect the innocent, but won't hesitate to kill his enemies. A year ago I had helped Vitulus and his boss, Praetorian Prefect Salvius Aper, with a "delicate matter" involving supernatural forces. They'd come to me ever since with more "delicate matters" that gods-fearing Romans didn't want to believe in.

Take the case of Celsus Maximus, the famous gladiator whose murder we were racing to prevent. Now I abhor slavery like anyone from my time, so when Vitulus came to me for help in finding Celsus, I turned him down. I had hoped that Celsus had escaped the bloody gladiatorial games that Romans loved. But then Vitulus told me that a clay tablet had been left in Celsus's empty quarters. It said that Celsus would be killed unless "Remington Blakes, the one you call Natta Magus," shows up alone at the Temple of Sterquilinus outside the Porta Ostiensis by sundown. It warned of dire consequences if I brought anybody with me.

Well that piqued my interest. Only two people in ancient Rome knew my real name. Vitulus was one. The other was the all around bastard who abandoned me in ancient Rome in the first place, my former friend and mentor from the twenty-first century, William Pingree Ford. He'd been using his magus powers in Rome over the last eighteen months to try and change history, and I'd done my best to clean up his messes. But he always stayed a few moves ahead of me. I had to catch him, so I could not only stop him but make him send me home.

Was it a trap? Maybe. He'd passive aggressively tried to kill me last year by sicking daemons on me, though I think that was more to distract me from his real plot to kill Caesar Augustus. I stopped him, but that's another story.

No, this was the best lead I'd had on him in months, and I couldn't ignore it.

Which is what worried me.

"I don't understand how Celsus could be captured," Vitulus said as I came even with him again. "He's a cunning warrior."

I dodged a flock of sheep heading to the Forum and blinked the sweat out of my eyes. My Detroit Wolverines baseball cap, which helped me focus my magic, was soaked in sweat from my jog through Rome's stifling and close streets.

"Magic beats might every time, my friend," I said. "If William is behind this, then Celsus may not have had a chance. We need to—"

I stubbed my open toe on a stray rock and unleashed a string of modern curses. Vitulus eyed me with amusement.

"Is that how you curse in 'Anglish'?" he asked.

"English," I said, limping next to him. "Latin curses don't feel as good." And I hope I'm not here long enough for them to do so. "As I was saying, we need to figure out why William would kidnap Celsus of all people and use him to lure me to this temple."

"If your former mentor wants to kill someone famous," Vitulus said, barely breathing hard, "he couldn't have found anyone more famous than Princeps Augustus himself. Celsus has over a hundred kills in the arena in just the last year alone. He rarely ever gets wounded, and he's refused the wooden sword of freedom four times. He's the most remarkable gladiator in over a generation."

Listening to Vitulus rattle off Celsus's kills reminded me how I'd rattle off the stats of my favorite Wolverine ball players. It was kind of disgusting and once again illustrated the huge cultural gulf between my friend and I.

"Yeah, well, a good sword arm is no match against a well-formed sleeper spell," I said.

We rounded the corner and almost ran into a wedding party. The bride's father, dressed in a brilliant white toga, led the procession. Female slaves marched behind him and in front of the bride, throwing multi-colored flower petals at her feet. A deep-yellow veil covered her head, and she wore a white robe bound at the waist with a woolen belt. Her attendants and family marched behind her, likely on their way to the groom's house and the next stage of their ceremony.

These processions were common in Roman streets, and my heart cracked a little each time I saw one. I had missed my own wedding in the twenty-first century two months ago. I'm trying, Brianna, I thought. All my will and focus is bent on getting home to you. I missed her so much that I saw her reflection in every pool of water I passed. Her long brown hair always pulled back in a ponytail; her circular, wire-framed spectacles perched on the end of her nose; sparkling green eyes; mischievous grin; the goose flesh on her soft skin when I touched—

Focus, I had to focus. Daydreaming about Brianna had almost killed me during my recent jobs with Vitulus.

We passed the procession and stepped onto the brick-layered Via Ostiensis, where I felt like I could breathe again. For an empire renowned for its efficient roads and imperial administration, the Mother City was a maze of meandering, claustrophobic alleys and haphazardly built wood and brick tenements. Even native Romans got lost if they tried navigating the unlit streets at night.

"Have you given more thought to my invitation?" Vitulus asked as we continued jogging.

I winced, expecting this after passing the wedding. "Still thinking about it."

"What's there to think about? It's my wedding. I'm meeting Claudia's family tomorrow to negotiate guests, so I want to add your name to that list. I don't know about your Detroit, but here in Rome it's considered an insult to refuse a wedding invitation, especially from a friend."

Oh, it's insulting in my time, too, I thought. But how could I explain to him that passing a stranger's wedding procession made me want to sit in my shop all day writing sad poetry and sighing. Watching a friend get married would be a figurative gladius shoved into my heart.

"I know, and you deserve an answer," I said. I licked my lips. "I have to decline. You know I can't make any oaths that would tie me to this century or it'll be all the more difficult for me to get back home. Accepting a wedding invitation is an implied oath that I will be at a certain place at a certain time. What happens if I discover a way to get home tomorrow?"

Vitulus gave an exasperated laugh. "Then I'll release you from your 'oath'!"

"Yes, but what if you're not around to do that? I can't take that chance. I'm sorry."

Vitulus continued jogging in silence, his teeth clenched.

Accepting a wedding invitation wasn't considered an Oath with a capital "O" in any magus class I'd ever passed. Only strong Oaths, like marriage vows might keep me here longer than I wanted. I'd even turned down Salvius Aper's clientela offer, essentially giving me a full-time job in the Praetorian Guard, because I'd have to swear oaths to serve him that might conflict with my Oaths. Swearing an Oath is like putting a tattoo on your soul. It's there for life. Sure there are ways to remove it without fulfilling it, but they hurt like hell. So if you even think you might not follow through with an Oath, it was best not to swear it in the first place. If I went back to the twenty-first century without fulfilling it, my aura would be forever tarnished, and then good luck finding a job or making another friend again.

So even I knew my excuse was lame.

We exited the Porta Ostiensis on the south side of Rome and jogged another half-mile before stopping. Vitulus pointed to a hilltop with a small circular building on top. It was a few hundred yards away and surrounded by plowed grain fields. The building had a red-tiled roof and square windows that ran along the entire circumference. It looked more like a tool shed than a temple.

"The Temple of Sterquilinus," he said, "the god of fertilization. Most people go to the Temple of Ceres these days, so it's fallen into disrepair."

"So he's the god of manure?"

Vitulus shrugged, and then said, "I still think it's foolish for you to go alone."

"Probably," I said. I mentally checked the enchantments that held my ball cap to my head and my components belt around my waist were set. The familiar tingle in my hairline and my hips said they were. "But the letter said he'd kill Celsus if I didn't come alone. And William couldn't have chosen a better spot to ensure my loneliness."

Vitulus's hand tightened on the pearl hilt of his sheathed gladius as he studied the temple. "If you think this is a trap, then why are you going? Why risk your life for a gladiator you've never met?"

"Because this is the best lead I've had on William in months." I put a hand on his shoulder, and he turned his eyes back to me. "And I want to go home."

He nodded reluctantly.

"Besides," I said, "William has had plenty of chances to kill me over the last year and a half. If he wanted me dead, I'd be dead. He wants something else from me."

"Then may Fortuna walk with you," Vitulus said.

I nodded to him, turned my black Wolverines ball cap around so the bill was pointed backwards, and started toward the temple. This prepared my body to cast a spell at a moment's notice.

The Temple of Sterquilinus may have been forgotten, but the manure he represented sure wasn't. It was planting season, so the stench and crunch of desiccated dung beneath my sandaled feet made my nervous walk toward the temple all the more unpleasant. When I arrived at the base of the temple hill, I noticed the walking path that I could've taken from the Via Ostiensis to the temple door.

"Son of a..." I muttered, and then kicked the manure and dirt off my sandals and bare feet. Only a bath later would get them clean. William would just have to deal with my smells.

I walked to the top of the hill, glancing to the west as I did so. A sliver of orange sun still shone above the hilly horizon. I had made it here before sundown. I hoped I wasn't too late for Celsus.

The entry into the temple had no door and was dark. Nothing like an abandoned, spooky temple to raise the hairs on your neck. My Wolverines baseball cap would block my presence from any lurking spirits that might try to feed on my magic, so I wasn't worried about them. It was the living that concerned me, and William in particular. What I said earlier about my belief that he didn't bring me here to kill me was well reasoned...until my lizard brain threw spark grenades at that logic.

Maybe he's tired of you stopping his plots and wants to kill you now in the middle of a manure-sown field. Maybe he's finally lost what's left of his mind. He admitted in our last meeting months ago that he wanted to erase the knowledge of magic from twenty-first century humanity. In my future, magic was ubiquitous and powered the world; erasing it would plunge the world into a dark age that I couldn't imagine. For someone who wanted to do that, murdering a former student wasn't too far-fetched.

Well I wouldn't get any answers by standing outside soaking up manure reek. I marched through the open entry and into the dark temple.

The meager light from the windows and a second open entry across from me helped me see a dozen wood benches surrounding a stone altar in the middle. A large man with a shaved head wearing a brown tunica stood before the altar with his back to me. That was not William, unless he'd grown three inches and put on fifty pounds since I last saw him.

"Celsus Maximus?" I asked, my eyes scanning the rest of the empty room.

A throaty chuckle came from the large man. I shifted my eyes to him and every cell in my body seemed to ice over. There was something terribly wrong with him.

"That is not my name," the man said in a Germanic accent. "The Romans gave me that name when they enslaved me."

He turned around. I first noticed the small body he held in his massive arms. It was a dark-haired girl, no more than thirteen. Her face looked serene, but the left side of her neck was a jagged mess of dark red flesh, muscle, and exposed white bone. A second girl lay near the man's feet. She was younger than the first and her eyes were closed, but I saw no wounds and she was still breathing.

My eyes fled from the two girls to the man's face. His entire mouth and chin were bright red, and his teeth were impossibly large, gray, and jagged. "My name is Octric," he said, "and I no longer kill for the pleasure of a Roman mob." Blood oozed from between his teeth when he grinned. "Now I kill for my own pleasure."

©2015 Rob Steiner

To learn more, check it out on Amazon.

Book Excerpt: Shattered by M. Terry Green

Last Monday, we revealed the cover for Shattered, the third book in the Chronicles of White World series from M. Terry Green. This week, Green has granted us permission to reveal a sample of the story. Enjoy!

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Shattered by M. Terry Green

“What's wrong with your father?” Thirteen asked.

As usual, Miyu stood tucked against her side. Although the eight-year-old was small, there was barely room at the bow for one person. She wore a parka, three layers of thermals, and goggles to stay warm, but still preferred the wind to the comfort of the cockpit. Turning the opening of her hood to face aft, she looked at her father.

As he had since they’d taken the slaver sloop, Cord piloted the ship. Thirteen hadn’t questioned it. Her eyesight was needed forward. Though the trimaran was iceworthy, it had no sounding buoy. Without the sound and flag warning system, any vasses that lay ahead would have to be sighted. While Thirteen waited for Miyu’s answer, she continued to scan. Although the freezing air was crisp and clear, visibility was limited. This close to the volcano, the fractured plateau allowed views of several clicks, not hundreds. Cord steered the sloop around jagged, tilted, and towering blocks of ice. Even the surface they sailed on was veined with cracks. Like most ships on the Pacifica Sheet, the trimaran’s heavy steel blades were made for speed, not the sharp inclines and drops of a direct course.

Although slavers, not Skulls, would be their worry now, Thirteen scanned for them out of habit. Her eyes lingered on the volcano.

“I think Papa is mad,” Miyu said.

Thirteen frowned and considered Miyu’s face. Where Cord's was long and angular, hers was heart-shaped and full, chin and nose small beneath her big dark eyes. But with the amber lenses hiding them, it was hard to read her.

“Why would he be mad?”

Miyu’s only answer was a little grimace and a shrug.

Thirteen returned her gaze to the ice, but her thoughts stayed with Cord. This was quiet even for him. The closer they got to Helado, the more he stopped talking. But why mad?

The lopsided slopes of the volcano were so close that Thirteen had to look up. If Cord could add another few knots, even with the tight steering, they might make port this evening. But without asking, Thirteen knew he wouldn’t try. He was far too cautious.

Through the two light layers of thermals over her chest, she touched her sister’s silver pendant. Tomorrow would be the day—tomorrow morning by the look of it. Thirteen couldn’t help but smile. Sierra was in Helado.

Where in the city, Cord seemed to know, though he had yet to say. But even if he’d named a certain district, a street, or even a location, none of it would have meant much. All Thirteen knew of Helado was slave processing and the coliseum. Once upon a time, they had been her whole world.

As the volcano loomed, the mounting dread of it did too. Though time in the hold of a slaver ship had been daunting, the volcano was where the true nightmare had begun: her separation from Sierra, branding, and sale. It was different now, but she would have to be on guard. It was swarming with sailors. She would have to wear a cap and goggles at all times, and never look anyone in the eye.

But at the same time, the weight of years was about to lift. She would rescue her sister, take her from the life of slavery Thirteen had escaped long ago. How many volcanoes, miles, and slavers had come between them, she couldn’t remember. But it was all ending here, where it had begun.

The scar between her shoulder blades tightened, but she shook it off. She tilted her head left and cracked her neck, then right.

The mainsail and headsail alternately billowed and flapped as Cord maneuvered the sloop. They zigged and zagged between frosty, sculpted columns, precariously perched boulders, and aqua-tinged pyramids. But at times they sailed due east. In the late afternoon, the trimaran threw its long silhouette out in front, the mast’s thin shadow pointing like a needle. The blotchy sails had held up. Their mottled, ghost shades undulated over the fractured ice. They just needed to last another day.

“Half a day,” Thirteen muttered.

“What?” Miyu asked.

Thirteen smiled down at her upturned face. “Nothing.”

Miyu’s faint eyebrows gathered together for an instant, but only for an instant. Her ready smile spread—until she shivered.

“You’d be warmer in the cockpit,” Thirteen said, her white hair buffeted by the gale that drove them. She knew better than to suggest Miyu go below. Neither of them wanted to be there.

In response, Miyu hugged her around the middle. No longer caught off guard, Thirteen smiled and patted her back the way she’d seen Cord do. She glanced at him, manning the helm.

Back at the Skull depot, he’d been right to pick this ship. Though the sloop hadn’t been able to fly, it’d been sturdy. With any luck it would blend into slaver traffic as they neared the volcano. It had all worked out. Thirteen scowled as she returned to scanning.

What did he have to be mad about?

• • • • •

Cord judged the sky’s dimming light. There was another hour of sailing at most. Off the bow, a few points north of east, the damned volcano soared. It dominated the landscape, demanding to be looked at. The jagged spires of its wrecked rim jutted skyward, a mix of jet-black basalt and gleaming ice. Though he couldn’t see it, the city of Helado waited on its irregular and sheltered slope. They had yet to sight it and also yet to be detected. He could still turn around, veer off north or south, away from what waited there.

Thirteen took that moment to glance back at him. He went stock-still. But it wasn’t her silvery irises or their reflection of the setting sun that gave him pause. It was her smile. As Miyu hugged her and Thirteen turned away, Cord went cold inside, with a chill that bordered on numb.

Again he glared at the volcano. He had to do this—and not just for her.

Though it was the last place in all of White World he’d wanted to see again, it would have to be. He owed Thirteen his daughter’s life. This was his end of the bargain, and it was time that it was delivered. It was almost past time. Only by the slimmest of margins had they escaped the slaver fleets. Though Cord couldn’t deny Thirteen’s knack for survival, someone would inevitably catch up. He glanced aft.

Though the enormous vasse and devastated plateau lay far behind, a pursuer might yet appear. While Thirteen looked ahead, Cord couldn’t stop glancing behind. He had to assume the slavers had survived.

Another hour of sailing wouldn’t amount to much distance, but he would take every advantage he could. Thirteen’s luck wouldn’t hold forever. His had already come to an end.

©2015 M. Terry Green

To learn more, visit Terry's website.

Book Excerpt: Trapped by M. Terry Green

M. Terry Green is putting the finishing touches on Trapped, the second book in her Chronicles of White World series. She has graciously granted us permission to post an excerpt from that novel.

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Trapped by M. Terry Green

Though much of the crowd would drift away in the afternoon, Céfiro always found this part riveting. The circus was in full swing. On the ice floor of the coliseum, troops of clowns and acrobats performed in seven rings. At the far left, one juggler tossed flaming torches high in the air. To either side of him, two more passed tumbling axes in front of and behind him. A tall pyramid of human bodies, feet on shoulders, was growing at the far right. In the circle next to it, clowns in colorful ballooning clothes walked on pointed stilts that seemed too thin to support them.

Beyond the top of the great, circular arena, the constant wind buffeted the surrounding pennants. Brilliant sunshine flooded the ice, casting short, harsh shadows on the glittering surface. Even without the wind, the temperature was just above freezing.

“Bravo,” Chucho cried out. He waved his scepter, jangling the rows of bells. “Bravo!”

Though the king and queen had left the royal box an hour ago, the little jester had stayed. Céfiro didn’t know what in particular he was watching, nor did he care. The only interesting performance was at the center.

Dangling from several thick ropes strung from the high rectangular frame, the aerial acrobats were at work. The young women pirouetted in midair as the ropes whipped in spirals below them. They wore hardly any clothing, little more than bands of elastic cloth at hips and breasts. Their bodies gleamed as they worked up a sweat. Though they were far away, Céfiro imagined their young, smooth skin would be flawless. Now as a synchronized group, they inverted, seeming to dangle with only a loop of rope around their ankles. Holding their weight like that, it would have to leave a mark. Céfiro could almost feel the dimpled grooves under his fingertips.

Chucho coughed, a deep and watery sound. But only when his scepter hit the floor did Céfiro look. The little man was standing with a hand to his mouth. As he usually did, he stood at the front of the box where he could see over the low wall. Still facing the arena, he backed up in stiff-legged steps until he hit the queen’s chair. He rolled along its front edge, finally facing Céfiro. Chucho’s eyes bulged, and he pressed both hands over his mouth.

As Céfiro watched, his miniature features turned red. Céfiro cocked a head at the darkening skin, trying to puzzle out why he didn’t just cough. But in answer, dark blood seeped through the spaces between the jester’s fingers. Then he coughed.

Céfiro jumped up and sprang back as spittle mixed with blood sprayed the royal chairs. Chucho’s wet hands couldn’t find purchase on the polished wood, and he slowly sank to the ground.

“Guards!” Céfiro yelled.

©2015 M. Terry Green

To learn more, visit Terry's website. If you're already hooked, pre-order it!

Book Excerpt: Iced by M. Terry Green

Last Friday, we revealed the cover for Iced, the first book in the Chronicles of White World series from M. Terry Green. This week, Green has granted us permission to reveal a sample of the story. Enjoy!

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Iced by M. Terry Green

It was perfect slaver weather: visibility a hundred clicks, temperature a few degrees below zero, wind out of the northwest. Thirteen kept an eye on the horizon and opened the vent another notch. She watched steam pour from the opening and bend severely into the frigid wind stream.

They’d have to be blind not to see that—blind or dumb.

Slavers weren’t the brightest. She let slack into the control line and dumped more wind. The perlon sail fluttered and flapped, and the rigging slapped along the mast, audible over the high wind of midday. Her speed dropped a notch. The ship already sailed so slowly the wing couldn’t generate enough lift. Under the skimmer’s three hulls, the blades sliced the ice with a scraping and rattling sound.

“Where are you?” she muttered, scanning the infinite white.

The bright gleam of the Pacifica Sheet stretched to the horizon in all directions. Where the pale blue sky met the planet, a hazy seam divided them. Few mountains and no volcanos were in sight. The huge crinkles, saw-toothed hills, and sculpted blocks that pocked the ice near volcanos were absent here. It was easy to make good speed, especially in this weather. High cirrus clouds covered the sun. The sextant shot would wait.

She saw it then, ten points off the stern—a speck.

But as it came closer and grew a little larger, she recognized it: a sloop, typical for this far out, likely a crew of four, so as to leave room for slaves. Although she’d done this countless times, her heart beat faster. She nudged the tiller, putting the ship into a slight skid that kicked up ice shavings in a high sparkling arc off the starboard outrigger. The slavers unfurled more sail.

She lightly touched the pendant through the fabric on her chest. Maybe this slaver ship would be the one. Maybe their captives would know something. Either way, the chase was on, such as it was. Her skimmer would make quite the prize for slavers. They’d be looking for a small family at least, but they weren’t going to find that—not even close.

No longer on the horizon, the sloop was taking shape. Though it wasn’t built for speed, it had three sails up now. It moved fast enough for the wing that connected the three hulls to lift the blades clear of the ice. Harpoons and shotguns were likely at the bow. Even in white, the ship was as plain as a rock. Though the shimmering ice reflected the sunlight, the hulls didn’t. Despite being the exact same color of white, it was like looking at a silhouette—growing larger. They were gaining fast.

In two quick bounds, Thirteen was out of the cockpit and up on the black deck. It was the only part of the skimmer that wasn’t white. Throughout the day it absorbed the heat of the sun and passed it to the cabin below. Thirteen gave the trigger on the winch a quick push and the rope under the railing a little tug. The switches were cocked. Everything was set. She glanced to stern.

Beyond the tall tail and stabilizer that were useless at this slow speed, the power turbine whirled. Via gears in the stern and deck and the belts that ran the length of the ship, it connected to the winch. When she needed power, it’d be ready. Beyond the turbine she watched the slavers. They ought to see her soon even without a scope. Time to give them something to see.

Thirteen raced back to the cockpit and jumped down. She grabbed the light gray jacket from the steps. It was nearly as form-fitting as the first two layers, but the color was like a beacon against the ice or her ship. The way it clung to her would leave no doubt as to whether they were really seeing a woman on deck. Her petite frame would be the clincher. She took the matching cap from the pocket and put it on. Carefully, she tucked every strand of long hair under the snug hat. Then she put on the goggles. Of course they only looked like goggles. They were fake. She needed to look right, and the large, yellow lenses were the most important part of that deception. Already the gray fabric was picking up some heat from the sun. As long as she didn’t sweat it’d be all right. Judging by how fast the slavers were closing, she wouldn’t have to wear it for long.

She stepped into the safety harness, pulled it up, and slipped her arms through. The back was already clipped to the tether that ran up the mast. Bending at the knees, she tested her weight on it. She heard the carabiner rattle in the metal ring behind her as she took the tiller.

Off the stern, the slaver ship was clearly visible. Beyond the sloop’s protruding sounding buoy, a brief glint at the bow let her know the captain had his scope out. She turned profile for his benefit, pretending to look up at the sloppy mainsail, raising one hand against the sun as if it were too bright. At this point, even a fool would see they were being chased by slavers, so she turned to them. Their heading was on an intercept course, still closing fast, not taking any chances. On deck, there were three men. One had to be below. The slaver at the bow wasn’t using his scope any more. He’d seen everything he needed: an unarmed ship with a woman in the cockpit who didn’t know any better than to let steam vent and couldn’t set a sail.

“Come and get it, Slaver,” she said, almost inaudible over the wind.

©2015 M. Terry Green

If you're already hooked, pre-order it! Ship date is February 10th.

HATER by David Moody

David Moody's zombie novel Autumn was reviewed in this blog some time ago. It was a compelling story and a well written novel and I thought that Mood had talent. I wasn't too far off the mark. Like a number of self-publishing graduates, Moody has been picked up by a major publisher and seems on his way to mainstream recognition.  On the 17th of this month David's new novel HATER is coming out from Macmillan/Thomas Dunne. Not only that,  but it's also been optioned for a movie.

THURSDAY

i

Simmons, regional manager for a chain of main street discount stores, slipped his change into his pocket then neatly folded his newspaper in half and tucked it under his arm. He quickly glanced at his watch before leaving the shop and rejoining the faceless mass of shoppers and office workers crowding the city center sidewalks outside. He checked through his date book in his head as he walked. Weekly sales meeting at ten, business review with Jack Staynes at eleven, lunch with a supplier at one-thirty...

He stopped walking when he saw her. At first she was just another face on the street, nondescript and unimposing and as irrelevant to him as the rest of them were. But there was something different about this particular woman, something which made him feel uneasy. In a split second she was gone again, swallowed up by the crowds. He looked around for her anxiously, desperate to find her among the constantly weaving mass of figures which scurried busily around him. There she was. Through a momentary gap in the bodies he could see her coming toward him. No more than five feet tall, hunched forward and wearing a faded red raincoat. Her wiry gray-white hair was held in place under a clear plastic rain hood and she stared ahead through the thick lenses of her wide-rimmed glasses. She had to be eighty if she was a day, he thought as he looked into her wrinkled, liver-spotted face, so why was she such a threat? He had to act quickly before she disappeared again. He couldn’t risk losing her. For the first time he made direct eye contact with her and he knew immediately that he had to do it. He had no choice. He had to do it and he had to do it right now.

Dropping his newspaper, briefcase, and umbrella Simmons pushed his way through the crowd then reached out and grabbed hold of her by the wide lapels of her raincoat. Before she could react to what was happening he spun her around through almost a complete turn and threw her back toward the building he’d just left. Her frail body was light and she virtually flew across the footpath, her feet barely touching the ground before she smashed up against the thick safety-glass shop window and bounced back into the street. Stunned with pain and surprise she lay face down on the cold, rain-soaked pavement, too shocked to move. Simmons pushed his way back toward her, barging through a small crowd of concerned shoppers who had stopped to help. Ignoring their angry protests he dragged her to her feet and shoved her toward the shop window again, her head whipping back on her shoulders as she clattered against the glass for the second time.

“What the hell are you doing, you idiot?!” an appalled bystander yelled, grabbing hold of Simmons’s coat sleeve and pulling him back. Simmons twisted and squirmed free from the man’s grip. He tripped and landed on his hands and knees in the gutter. She was still on her feet just ahead of him. He could see her through the legs of the other people crowding around her.

Oblivious to the howls and screams of protest ringing in his ears, Simmons quickly stood up, pausing only to pick up his umbrella from the edge of the footpath and to push his wire-framed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Holding the umbrella out in front of him like a bayonet rifle he ran at the woman again.

“Please...” she begged as he sunk the sharp metal tip of the umbrella deep into her gut and then yanked it out again. She slumped back against the window, clutching the wound as the stunned and disbelieving crowd quickly engulfed Simmons. Through the confusion he watched as her legs gave way and she collapsed heavily to the ground, blood oozing out of the deep hole in her side.

“Maniac,” someone spat in his ear. Simmons spun around and stared at the owner of the voice. Jesus Christ, another one! This one was just like the old woman. And there’s another, and another...and they were all around him now. He stared helplessly into the sea of angry faces which surrounded him. They were all the same. Every last one of them had suddenly become a threat to him. He knew there were too many of them but he had to fight. In desperation he screwed his hand into a fist and swung it into the nearest face. As a teenage boy recoiled from the sudden impact and dropped to the ground a horde of uniformed figures weaved through the crowd and wrestled Simmons to the ground.

Excerpt from Entrekin by Will Entrekin

Imperfect Thirst

Jesus of Nazareth did not know temptation until she found him in the desert.

It was night, then, cool and dark save for the lonely silver light of the moon, dry sand wind‑rippled in places like it had once known water. A breeze shivered his paper‑dry skin, and his breath rattled in his lungs. His coarse hair hung like a shadow over his face, and he passed in and out of sleep like a freefall through clouds; what dreams came were thirsty.

His head down, eyes closed, he didn't see or hear the woman approach, only felt her shadow on his body. His mouth surprised him by watering and he swallowed by reflex, the first moisture his body had known in a long, long time. He'd known she would come, of course. She always did.

"You're thirsty," she told him. Her voice lilted like smoke, oozed in his head like oil.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Even if everything in his body hadn't been pleading for moisture, that voice would have persuaded him.

"I don't understand why you do these things," she said. Her dark, familiar voice slid through his soul to find the empty parts, the thirsty parts, where it gave them a taste of what they could have if they so wished. Her tongue found sibilants even where none existed and stretched them mesmerizingly.

The muscles in his neck screamed when he looked up. He could make out none of her features; she was dark against the darker night, with a silver silhouette like a moonlight halo.

He didn't answer. Tried to swallow, had to do it twice to make it work.

She looked around at the lonely, deserted night and clutched her arms around herself as if cold. "It's so lonely out here," she said, almost to herself, "So dry," her voice straining, and then she turned back, her eyes starred, her smile like quicksilver in the dark. "I'm wet." A breeze carried the invitation to him on the musky, oh-so-wet scent of her sex and arousal.

His abs clenched, and his body forced an exhalation. One taste. Just enough to wet his cracked lips, shrink his swollen tongue, soothe his leather throat. And why not? Why not immerse himself in it, lose himself in all her dark and sex, feel her wet skin against his lips and lose all the other sensation in his body? What change in the world could possibly be brought about by one man's imperfect thirst?

He would have shaken his head but he didn't have the energy. He exhaled like wind eroding the desert, and then everything he had was gone. He slid into blackness like sinking into a pool, calm and easy only because his body had long before given out.

***

He returned to the world gently as he'd left it, and the first thing he was aware of was the hard surface beneath him. Cold, porous; when it didn't give out under him like fine, loose sand, he realized just how exhausted his body truly was. His legs trembled as he rose, knees shook, and he worried they wouldn't hold him.

He was on a roof, high above a city in the middle of its night. The sky was deeply, eternally blue, lit by a full moon bright as a million human hopes pinned on a single, bloated star, and his heart trembled in his chest because it knew how they all felt. All those human hearts in that huge and lovely city, living through their days, dreaming through their sleep, laughing through their tears with all the courage and fear a universe can know.

"They'll never believe you," came the woman's voice from behind him. It ran all the way up his back, prickling the hair on his neck on its way, and it aroused him. He turned more quickly than he realized he could.

She was nearly as tall as he was, and her pale skin seemed to glow, contrasting the night-dark garment she wore. It fit her well. Her long hair rustled, as likely in the breeze as in the night, and her eyes burned into Jesus' soul like cold, pale fire.

"They don't have the faith," she whispered in her sonorous, warming voice.

Jesus said nothing. He couldn't. His body trembled, muscles like bands stretched tense and quivering, and his heart cringed because it knew the woman was right. They wouldn't believe the message he carried, or would corrupt it.

A single tear escaped his eye, full of more than that harsh, dry land was used to.

"You can change that," the woman told him. She nodded toward the edge of the roof. "Just a single step, and they would hang upon your every word, believe every last thing you said to them."

Jesus looked toward the ledge, the city beyond it. His legs trembled beneath him, and his faith shuddered in his soul. He took a deep breath, though, and in it was everything he needed to say, "There is no room for proof in faith."

The woman looked at Jesus, and those ancient blue eyes pitied him. Her chuckle was the timeless wind against the sand, comforting against the heat but also a little empty, a little eroding. "Can you really be so idealistic?"

Jesus never answered. His body gave out under him, and the night wavered around him before it closed him off.

***

He next awoke under a sledgehammer sun blazing a suffocating white sky. His breath burned in his chest, and the air seemed to push down as he struggled to his feet. He didn't trust his body; it shivered as if cold and threatened to give out on him like everything else in the world had.

He was on the edge of a cliff, and that whole world spread out before him. He could see towns and villages immediately and, farther out, the shocking blue of the cobalt sea.

"It could be ours," the woman's voice whispered into his ear, sent a thrill like water through his whole body. She gestured at the world. "You can see where they're heading, and it's nowhere worth going."

Jesus' heart trembled, but he said nothing.

"We could change that," the woman said, stepped forward, turned to face him. "You and I. Think about it. We could have the world," she told him, standing just beyond the cliff's edge, "And we could change it."

The woman smiled when she said it. He gasped before he could stop himself, because he found everything he'd never known he was searching for, right there, in that beautiful woman's beguiling secret smile.

"Ramses? Tutankhamen? I knew them. They had their chances, and what did they build but glorious empires that crumbled into dust? But you're better than they were. You know things they never did. You are like no other I've ever known, and together we could succeed where there's only been war and loss. Join me. Be my king, and I will be your queen, and together we will rule this world and beyond."

Jesus looked out at that civilization on the sea, all those proud buildings built of dust and tears, all those people, too, and he breathed out. "I am not here to lead the way, only show it," he said.

The woman sighed, ancient wind in glaciers from before the world knew words, and in it was the knowledge that time was to be long. "I'm sorry it has to be this way."

"It cannot be otherwise," Jesus said.

"It could be if only you–."

"It cannot be."

The woman breathed out, weary and expectant. She stepped to the sand again, put her hand on Jesus' shoulder.

They stood, then, looking out on an uncertain world, and two hearts weighed heavy because both, at some level neither understood, knew what was to follow. They looked out at that world, that bright, sun‑bleached land full of dreams and lives, and they hoped.

"This is where we part, then." There was regret in the voice.

"It is," the woman agreed, and she wiped her cheek.

Jesus looked at her a moment, and then he took her hand, held it. A tear glittered on her index finger like a single drop of rain full of golden stars, and he brought it to his lips, kissed it from her skin. It was salty, and it filled his body with all the moisture it could hold.

She smiled at him, so full the sun seethed in jealousy, and then his legs buckled. Her ever‑so‑secret smile was the last he saw before darkness.

***

Jesus would have fallen down that cliff, but the woman was there, and upon her hands she bore him up lest he dash his foot against the stone. She carried him from the cliff and, when they were a safe distance, she set him down, caressed his cheek, and walked away.

Jesus lay there in the sun, only finally woke when it was dark again and the world had cooled. A breeze came from the night and felt like a lover's breath on his body, filled him with energy. He stretched his tired, near‑defeated body, and it loosened where he only remembered there being dry.

The moon shone down, less harshly than the sun. It cast a colder light on the world, but there was something comforting in it. The whole city bathed in it and looked more refreshed for it. He rose, his body awkward, trembling, testing before committing to posture and even then doing so carefully.

There were footprints there, he saw, in the light of the moon; they started at the edge of the cliff and traced off into the desert. He looked at them a long moment, feeling like there was something he was forgetting, but nothing came.

He looked into the distance of the desert, following those footprints with his eyes as far as he could, and then he looked down at the city and started toward it. He didn't consider for a moment the footprints been left by someone else, and even had he, he wouldn't have followed them. Which was fine, because they didn't lead anywhere; they traced off back, started to fade, and eventually vanished as if the wind had blown over them.

Excerpt of The Father by Stephen Bruce

This excerpt is a first chapter from The Father by Stephen Bruce.

So much his son had had to accept, so many trials. Hadn’t he borne enough? He thought his heart would crack under the oppressive weight of this black cloud of rage which lay across it as he watched his son be tormented, jeered, spat upon, as he staggered through the narrow streets. He took his eyes off his son and turned them to the faces in the crowd. He wanted to destroy every single one of them, to lay waste to this whole city and leave no trace of these foul creatures behind. He wanted to visit every torment on them that they were so gleefully heaping upon his son, to turn their hateful laughter into screams for mercy.

Such was his rage. It was an anger that he could not express, an impotent fury which had suggested itself to him before but which was now close to consuming him. In his mind’s eye he saw a black tidal wave, of immense size, racing towards him, destroying everything in its path and blocking out all light as it rushed to embrace him. Dreadful as this image was he felt a willingness to allow the wave to wash over him, to obliterate him completely, sparing him the agony of watching his beloved son suffer.

He could feel the wave drawing nearer, looming over him, preparing to crash down on top of him. All he had to do was bow his head, accept this inevitable mass, finally remove his resistance to it. It was as if the wave was talking to him, telling him that it had always been there, telling him that he could never have hoped to hold it back forever, promising relief from the constant struggle of denying his very nature. As if from a distance he could hear the crowd baying. Something had changed in the tone of their jeering.

He saw his son on his knees, head bent, coughing from the cloud of dust coming up from the ground and circling around him. He had fallen. A woman had stepped out from the crowd. She was wearing a black veil over her face and had the look of a harlot. She knelt before his son and began bowing to him in mock homage. With each bow she would thrust her breasts at him, calling out his name as if in the throes of passion. The laughter of the crowd spurred her on. She moved closer to his son and removed her veil. Her beautiful face was twisted and deformed by a cruel sneer.

‘Am I not worthy to be your Queen?’

As she said this she moved her face closer, continuing to call out his name, the look of cruel malice becoming more and more pronounced with each cheer of approval from the crowd. His son raised his head from the ground and looked at her for the first time. On his son’s face he saw no trace of anger nor fear, only a deep sadness. The woman recoiled from him, as if his face was a mirror and something horrific had been reflected back at her. She stumbled backwards, clutching at the ground for the veil she had discarded. His son continued to look directly at her. The sadness on his face was not the pleading look of self-pity so often seen on the faces of people enduring far less than he. His sadness was not for himself but for those who circled him and delighted in his agony.

The woman found her veil and desperately covered her face with it again. Stumbling back into the crowd she called out his name two or three more times in the same manner as before but with none of the same surety. When she had disappeared into the crowd his son bowed his head and pushed himself to his feet. Momentarily distracted by the reaction of the woman, the crowd resumed the baying with renewed zeal.

The father watched all of this, not with rage but with a crushing sense of shame. He saw himself standing on a rock, this giant black wave towering over him, suspended, waiting for his permission to come thundering down on top of him. He had invited this wave, welcomed it, longed for the oblivion it offered and had almost allowed it to engulf him. He looked over his left shoulder. Behind him was a basket. The shadow of the wave seemed to cast everything into darkness, save the basket. Inside was a child, a serene look on its face, gazing up at him with absolute trust. The shame that he had allowed such a weight of evil to come so close to this child was like a knife, piercing deep into his heart, carving out the cancerous rage which had grown so large that it had obliterated all other feelings. He thought he would die from the agony of his shame, and wanted to die but the child would not let him, continued to look up at him, reassuring him almost. He felt this knife carving deeper and deeper. When he thought he would surely die, the agony stopped and he fell weeping to his knees, the top of his head at the foot of the basket.

He felt completely empty, as if the knife had completely hollowed him out. But as he lay sobbing on the rock, he felt something begin to build up in him, as if he was being picked up. He raised his head and looked at the child. Such love, as he had never known before, passed through him like a fork of lightning. If anything this love was even more painful than before, filling him up until he thought he would burst. Fresh tears flowed from his eyes, coursing through the tracks left behind by the tears already shed through rage and shame. He picked up the child and turned to face the wave. Cradling the child to his chest he looked up at the wave, his eyes searching for the highest point. Eventually he caught a glimpse of sky, a blue speck at the top of this unimaginable height. He could see this tiny patch of sky as if he were looking up at it from the bottom of a well, many miles beneath the ground.

He could see the crest of the wave churning far above him, eager to lead the charge, to land the first crushing blow upon him. He ignored the wave and focused all of his attention on the blue sky. He could feel the child in his arms, its head resting against his chest, breathing in perfect syncopation with his heartbeat. Like a drunken giant the wave staggered forward slightly, threatening him, trying to regain his attention. He felt an urge to turn and run, to try and get as far away as possible from this massive black mass that could fall on him at any second. But what would be the point. He could spend his whole life running without ever escaping its shadow. Teetering above him, the wave had come so close to him now that if he were to take three steps forward he would pass into it.

He cradled the child closer to him and fixed his gaze on the tiny speck of sky. The wave staggered again, so close now that he could almost reach out and touch it, desperately trying to convince him that there was nothing else, that it, oblivion, was all there was. He could hear the screams and mocking laughter of the crowd as if they were coming from inside the wave. He could hear them taunting his son, calling out for a miracle, inviting his God to strike them down. He could feel cold wet hands, reaching out from the wave, clawing at him, trying to wrench the child from his arms, pulling at his hair and face, trying to drag both him and the child into the wave.

Yet the child didn’t make a sound, its breathing seemed to control the rate of his own heart beat, keeping it from bursting out of his chest with sheer terror. He held fast to the child and continued to look up at the sky. For what seemed like a lifetime he remained fixed, refusing to either release his hold on the child or to look at anything other than the speck of sky which promised hope of something other than this wave of despair.

He could hear everything that was happening to his son. He could hear the children encouraging each other to fire stones at him, hear them squealing with delight when a stone drew blood. He could hear and feel every agony inflicted on his son, every taunt, every curse, every wound. He felt his son’s weariness, the weight that was on each foot, the effort needed to take each step. From inside the wave he could hear harsh, cruel voices, stabbing him with questions: how could he stand for this, how could he let this happen to his son, was he going to allow these people to get away with this, did he not love his son, why was he unwilling to protect him? Each question shot deep within him, finding a doubt, a fear, a desire, and then igniting it, causing it to burn inside of him. Yet he did nothing, he did not explode in anger, he did not fight the cold hands that were tearing at his skin, he did not rush into the wave to defend his son. His upward gaze never faltered as sobs racked his body and tears passed gently down his cheeks, anointing the head of the child.

He could hear screams from somewhere far off and he felt the cold, dead hands pulling at him, even more desperately. Their nails clawed into his skin, drawing blood and he felt patches of hair being ripped from his head. He could feel the child pressed against him, still not crying, but murmuring gently. He had no idea how much longer he could withstand this agony. It seemed inevitable with each passing minute that the child would be wrenched from his grasp. It was the thought that he had failed in his duty to protect this child which caused him the most pain and yet it was also this belief that gave him strength when his body screamed for him to let go, to bring an end to its suffering. As his torment intensified he told himself that he could not hold out for one minute more and yet with each passing minute he continued to resist.

Until finally the screams, the noise, the mocking laughter, the clawing hands, everything stopped. He stood in silence, not daring to move, completely unaware of what to do. Finally he tore his gaze away from the patch of sky and looked once again at the wall of black water standing no more than a foot in front of him, yet stretching out for miles above. Although it had lost none of its size the wave seemed to have been stripped of its power. It was as if it had been masquerading as oblivion; inevitable, irresistible, inescapable, but now the mask had dropped. He could see the lie. The wave was swollen and bloated, immense in size but utterly powerless. It had come at his bidding yet had been unable to strike without his consent. He regarded the wave now, not with fear, but with disdain, angry at himself for ever having been so foolish as to be awed by it.

‘God forgive me. Would I have given my life, my soul to this? Would I have been such a fool?’

The wave seemed to swell even higher above him as he said these words, a last attempt to strike fear into his heart. Then, as if it were being sucked back into the earth, the wall of water came hurtling down. Whereas the sight of the wave itself had ceased to inspire dread its collapse filled him with awe. It fell down all around him, like a dying waterfall, without a single drop landing upon him. And as it fell, the patch of sky he had spent so long staring at expanded, filling in the spaces where before there had been only water.

The wave tumbled around him, thousands of tons of water crashing down before him as he stood transfixed on the rock. Almost shrieking, the crest of the wave passed before him before being absorbed into the calm blue sea that now spread out all around him, connecting with the sky many miles off in the distance. Then there was only silence. He fell to his knees, battered and weary, almost completely drained yet at the same time feeling freer than he had ever felt before. A burden which had always been upon him had been lifted. He closed his eyes and gently touched his head against the child, now sleeping in his arms. He stayed like that for several minutes before opening his eyes again. When he did he was no longer on the rock. The child was gone and he found himself once more on the street through which his son had passed, huddled against a wall, his face stiff and unmoving from the tears and dirt caked upon it. The crowd had moved on and he could no longer see nor hear them as they circled and baited his son.

He stood up slowly, using the wall to support himself. The street was completely deserted save for a young boy who was throwing stones into a circle he had marked on the ground. Completely focused on his game, the boy showed no interest in the old man. He walked to the centre of the street where his son had fallen. He could see large splashes of blood on the stones, already starting to congeal under the unrelenting heat of the sun. His son. He would have gladly died rather than see his son shed even one drop of blood at the hands of these people. And yet, he was suffering, was shedding blood. He could not rescue him from it, nor could he die in his place. His sense of pain was still great but it no longer threatened to overwhelm him, to drive him out of his mind. The love he had for his son had eclipsed it.

He realised now that there was nothing he could do to stop the chain of events that had been set in motion. He knew where his son was, knew the horrendous death that awaited him. Like all men of his age he had seen people put to death on the cross. He had seen men screaming in pain, pleading for death as their bodies were broken under their own weight. He also knew what happened to these men when death had finally spared them. More often than not their bodies were taken from the cross and removed to a more remote site where they were left as carrion for whatever scavengers happened to chance upon them. Desperate as he was to be with his son at his moment of death, to share his burden in some way, he knew that in so doing he would lose all hope of claiming his son’s body. Utterly incapable of protecting him in life he would do all in his power to protect him in death.

He faced in the direction of Mount Calvary. He could not make out anything from where he was standing but he knew that his son would have arrived there by now. The agony of the long struggle with the cross when finished would be replaced with a brutal, protracted death.

‘Why aren’t you with the rest of them, old man?’ asked the little boy who had stopped his game and was looking directly at him. He obviously took the old man for a beggar and felt no need to address him with any sort of deference to his seniority. Caught off guard by this interruption into his thoughts the old man could only turn and stare at the young boy, open-mouthed, unsure whether to answer, ignore or rebuke him.

'My father won’t let me go. He says I am too young to see such things, that I will have to wait until I am older.'

‘Your father is right. Some things are not meant for the eyes of a child.’

‘Then why am I the only one left behind? Why have all the other boys been allowed to go, boys even younger than me?’

‘The day will come boy when you will fall down on your knees and thank your father that you had no part in what is happening today. Until then you should learn to show respect for your elders when you meet them in the street.’

Realising that this was no beggar he was talking to the young boy bowed his head quickly and ran into one of the open doors in the house he had been playing outside.

A voice in his head picked up on what the child had said to him. Why was he not with the rest of them? Was he afraid of watching his son die? Was he trying to escape? Had he really done all that he could? He could not give a good answer to these questions, could not escape the heavy feeling that he had failed his eldest son. Yet he was resolute in what he had to do. Regardless of the consequences for himself he would go to Pilate and plead for the body of a condemned criminal, plead for the chance to bury his son.

Feeling like a coward, he turned his back and began walking in the opposite direction, into the heart of the city and the court where hours before his son had been condemned to death.

Excerpt of Storyteller by G. R. Grove

If you have been following this blog, you know that we recently posted about featuring sample chapters from the works that have been reviewed in this blog. The first author to send us an excerpt from his book is G. R. Grove. Hopefully others will be encouraged to participate in this new feature of the blog and avail themselves the opportunity to provide samples of their work.

GOLD. It is a word that catches everyone’s attention, is it not? Certainly it caught mine that morning at Aberteifi, near the end of the feast which Ieuan and I had hastened so hard to attend, and which had proved so unprofitable to us after all.

Not because the lord of Aberteifi had been niggardly in his rewards, mind you, but because of Ieuan’s weakness for gaming. I woke on the last morning of the feast to find myself a beggar, who had been feeling rich enough the night before. And all because Ieuan – who had been holding my purse while I performed, and kept it while I slept – was unable to resist the lure of a game of dice. It was no comfort that he had beggared himself along with me. All I had left was the clothes I stood up in, and my red-enameled brooch from Caer Dydd. It was little enough profit for two months’ wandering.

There I was, rather disconsolately eating bread and cheese in the lord’s hall, while Ieuan babbled on beside me, trying to excuse himself, when the word gold caught my attention. “What is that you say?” I asked. “Gold? We could certainly use some!”

“Have not I been telling you, then?” Ieuan sounded sullen, for which, in my opinion, there was no excuse. “It is a place where the old Romans used to mine, up in the hills to the east of here somewhere. Caradog knows where, he told me about it last night. He will let us go in with him for shares.”

“Was that before or after he won all our money at dice?” I asked sourly.

Ieuan brushed it off. “Never mind that, that was nothing. This is our big chance. It will make our fortunes for sure.”

“Something had better.” I crammed the last of the bread in my mouth and stood up, wiping my hands on my tunic. “Right then, let us go and talk to Caradog.”

Caradog turned out to be a foxy-looking fellow with a thin beard and a lot of pointed yellow teeth, which he exposed frequently in what was supposed to be a smile. I took an instant dislike to him which further acquaintance did nothing to amend, but beggars, as they say, cannot be choosers, and it was beggared that we were now. After a certain amount of secretive behavior, casting suspicious glances at all about us in a manner calculated, I would have thought, to arouse curiosity where none existed, he was persuaded to part with the details of his plan – or should I say, his generous offer?

We would all contribute equally, he said, to the venture. His contribution would be the specialized knowledge necessary to find the gold and recover it, using techniques he had learnt while mining tin in Dumnonia. Ours would be enough money or other valuables to feed us all for a month. We would all do equal amounts of the work, and share out the proceeds equally among us.

At this point I interrupted him to point out the obvious. “We have not got any money or other valuables. You won them all from Ieuan here last night.” With that I cast a look at Ieuan that should have withered him where he sat, but he remained defiantly unwithered. His mind was on gold.

“Ah!” said Caradog, scratching his scraggly beard. “Well, and it is because of that, see you, that I am for giving you this chance. Do you not worry about your stake, I will loan it to you, and you can pay me back out of your share of the gold.”

“Thereby wiping out all of our profits. I do not see the point.”

“Gwernin!” said Ieuan in distress, and at the same time Caradog said, “Na, na! Nowhere near that. I tell you, as rich as this thing is, you will get back ten times your stake, and that easy.”

“If it is a good as that,” I said, kicking Ieuan under the table before he could interrupt again, “why should you want to share it with us?”

“Ah!” said Caradog again, and paused, looking around suspiciously. No one, so far as I could see, was paying us any attention; they were all going about their morning business in the hall. Nevertheless, Caradog bent forward and continued in a hoarse whisper. “It is that I need someone I can trust, see you, and I like the look of you two. But if you do not fancy it, youngster, why, just you say so, and no hard feelings. There are plenty more would jump at the chance.”

“Gwernin!” said Ieuan in smothered anguish. I sighed and kicked him again. “All right,” I said. “We will join you. Why not?”

“Ah!” said Caradog. “You will not regret this, lad.” Reaching for a pitcher of left-over breakfast ale, he filled our cups and raised his in a toast. “To success!” Ieuan drank eagerly, and I reluctantly. I would have been happier if I could have been sure to whose success I was drinking.

Shortly after that the feasting party broke up, and we shouldered our severely lightened packs and started off with Caradog. The Romans, as he explained while we walked, when they first came into Britain, had cast about for the source of British gold, in order to take it over and mine it themselves for their own treasury. Some of it they had found in the North, and some in Gwynedd and Meirionydd, but the best gold mine in all of Britain, it seemed, had proved to be right here in the mountains of Ceredigion, at Dolaucothi.

The Romans, said Caradog, had conquered the Silures of south Wales just to get Dolaucothi, and once they got it, had set themselves up in business there with all their slaves and overseers and so forth, with a little fort stuffed full of soldiers as well, just to protect the mine. They had kept on mining for years and years, and then for some reason the soldiers had to leave – it might have been when Macsen Wledig marched on Rome. And then all the overseers and slaves and such had felt uneasy, and left as well, and never came back, leaving a great heap of ore behind them, rich as rich, and all ready to process, which nobody but himself knew anything about... That, at any rate, was Caradog’s story, or at least the gist of it. I found myself talking like him sometimes, after a while. It was catching.

So off we went, as I said, to Dolaucothi, and gods! If I thought I had seen hard marching before, I knew nothing about it! Two days up the Afon Teifi, falling in and out of swamps and fords and thickets, until even I was sick of the sight of alder, which is saying a lot! (For Gwernin, O my children, means Alder-Tree, as you should know.) Then east, on stretches of road that were sometimes straight enough to suggest the Romans’ handiwork, but naked of any suggestion of paving. These led us for three more days over what seemed the backbone of the world, seeing few people, living on cheese and stale oat cakes and cold spring water, and sleeping rough. I wondered more than once why Caradog had not recruited his workforce closer to the mine, but something held me back from asking. By the time we came dropping down into the valley of the little Afon Cothi on the evening of the fifth day, I was ready for a rest. I did not get it.