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At Ball State I worked with a number of people far more creative than I could ever hope to be. Without a doubt, the one who gave me the most Little Debbie snacks was Mike Meyerhofer, an accomplished poet, fiction writer and memoirist. Knowing I'm a fan of the fantasy genre, Mike let me read his works-in-progress. I can honestly say that I enjoyed my friend's books as much as I enjoy reading George R.R. Martin, Jane Yolen, and Ursula LeGuin. In fact, I consider The Dragonkin Trilogy superior to many successful fantasy books. You can read my review of an earlier copy of Wytchfire here.
This summer, Wytchfire opened to universal acclaim. You can purchase a Kindle copy from Amazon, a NOOK copy from Barnes & Noble, or a Kobo.
Before you buy, check out the Prologue below. (Last word: I LOVE Fadarah.)
Prologue
Fadarah turned his tattooed face toward the granite walls of Syros, greatest of the Free Cities of the Simurgh Plains. He held the reins of his horse in one fist as he settled back in the saddle and took in the sight. Mid-morning light crested the city’s crenellated battlements, shone through its white banners sewn with crossed longbows, and cast long, taut shadows over a forest made not from trees but from the raised arms of trebuchets. The sun burned in Fadarah’s eyes, but he did not blink. He was, after all, a Shel’ai. What was the sun, if not fire?
But the soldiers arrayed in vast columns behind him were Human, and they winced as the sun climbed higher into the clear, cloudless sky, blazing in their faces. Those men knew what all good fighters had known since the dawn of time—to fight with the sun in your face was madness. Courage and armor meant nothing if you could not see.
Still, when Fadarah ordered them forward, the Throng obeyed without question. They had nothing to fear from Syros’s archers and murder-holes, her broad battlements and stout, sealed gates. No, the Nightmare would take care of those.
Fadarah removed his gauntlets with deliberate slowness. Then he raised one fist and loosened his fingers. Tendrils of wytchfire burst to life above his open palm. The violet flames coursed the length of his arm. He felt a familiar, roiling heat. Though it titillated his senses, it left him unharmed. Those soldiers closest to him were merely Human, though. They blanched and drew away, already perspiring from heat as much as fear.
Concealing a smirk, Fadarah shouted, “Send forth my Nightmare!”
Fadarah rose, standing in the saddle of his huge, oxblood-colored horse. Even without his armor and the wytchfire coursing from his fingers, men might have fled at the sight of him. He stood at least seven feet tall, broad shouldered and muscled like an Olg, with intricate blue tattoos covering his arms and shaven head.
As his order took effect, his men reacted uneasily. Twenty thousand strong, bristling with spears and drawn blades, and clad in armor, they still feared magic. They feared Fadarah. But more than him, they feared the Nightmare.
Fadarah could not blame them. He feared it, too.
He closed his fist, extinguishing the wytchfire, then seized the reins of his horse so his soldiers would not see his hands shake when the Nightmare came forward. Even after so much time, even knowing that the Nightmare had once been a man—a friend—Fadarah could not entirely quench his fear. He clenched the reins of his horse until his knuckles turned white as the pupils of his eyes. Despite the bloodmare’s training, the horse would have panicked had Fadarah not sent a paralyzing jolt of magic into the beast’s mind.
Pity no one can do that for me. The Nightmare drew closer.
Fadarah heard shouting, even weeping, and sensed a wave of terror rolling through the ranks of his usually well-disciplined army. The men of the Throng had all seen the Nightmare at least once; many of them were Nightmare’s ragged, wheezing breath filled the air, scalding it with heat as from a blacksmith’s bellows. The beast faced the sunlit city. The harsh breathing grew louder, resounding with some awful sense of anticipation, like an attack dog anxious to slip its leash. For a long time, nothing moved. Then, Fadarah gave the order. The Shel’ai released their mental control. The leash came off.
Cries of panic spread across the high stone walls of Syros. Some of the city’s defenders fled and dropped their weapons, abandoning their posts. Others found their courage and leapt into action. The Nightmare closed to within bow-range. Along the granite walls, hundreds of bowstrings shuddered. A broad, dark cloud rose against the sun.
The cloud bristled with enough arrows to shred an entire battalion of horsemen. Yet not one of them hit its mark. Hundreds of wooden shafts burst to cinders just before they might have struck, ignited by the intense heat rising in waves off the Nightmare’s body.
Barreling through a blizzard of ash, the Nightmare continued its charge.
Syros’s archers admirably managed three more volleys, but even their final, closest volley burst to cinders. Then, they did something even Fadarah had not anticipated.
All along the walls, men tipped great, sloshing cauldrons over the battlements. Water fell in fast, clear braids, flooding the plains at the base of the walls, transforming the earth into a swamp.
Fadarah smiled. “Clever,” he admitted grudgingly.
The Nightmare hurtled forward. Its burning body met water, and steam rose in thick, gray clouds. For a moment, fog swallowed the high walls of Syros. Even the flaming Nightmare momentarily vanished in the hissing mist.
Fadarah heard cries of alarm, different from what he had heard before, and tensed. He used his magic to heighten his senses and extended his mind into the ranks behind him. He saw the problem right away. None of the conquered cities had ever tried this tactic before. The soldiers of the Throng feared it might work. With the Nightmare gone, they might have to fight with the sun in their eyes after all.
Then they heard the sounds. They echoed across the Simurgh Plains. Screams. The crack of ancient granite. The great shudder caused by tons of stone tumbling to earth. Then more screams.
Gods forgive us. Although the fog blocked Fadarah’s sight, he could guess what was happening. He thrust his two-handed sword toward the sky. Sunrise flashed down its steely face like blood.
“The walls are breached! Syros has fallen!” He pointed his blade at the city. “Follow me!”
Raw exhilaration flooded his body. He led the charge himself. The army hesitated only a moment then roared to life and streamed after him. Cavalry, pikemen, archers. Shel’ai. All followed the Sorcerer-General as he rode toward the fog-shrouded city. Then the mist parted.
Syros’s entire central wall was gone. Broken, blasted stones littered the plains. The gates had been reduced to puddles of wet ash. Dead men scattered the earth: archers, men-at-arms, Syros’s reserves. Horns blared frantic declarations of surrender from the sections of wall left intact. No one had the heart to fight. Left with no option, armed men threw down their swords and surrendered, half expecting the Throng to cut them down anyway.
They didn’t.
With the Nightmare gone—vanished—and the walls breached, Fadarah’s soldiers greeted the survivors with pity. Throng captains sheathed their weapons and coordinated efforts to aid the injured, to prevent widespread rape and murder. They did not do this out of some rare inclination toward compassion; they were simply following Fadarah’s orders.
Fadarah himself took no part in this. Instead, he watched as the twelve Shel’ai emerged, exhausted, from the ruins and fog. Dust and blood stained their bone-white cloaks, but their hoods were still drawn closed. It would not do for Humans to see the expression on their faces. But the men of the Throng were too busy looting or tending to injured, shocked prisoners to pay much attention to the twelve Shel’ai. So no Human saw what Fadarah saw: a thirteenth cloaked figure slumped amid the others, supported on each arm by one of the twelve. Iventine...
“Take him back to the camp. Hide him. Let me know if his condition worsens.”
The other Shel’ai nodded, too tired to speak. As they passed, Fadarah caught a brief glimpse of Iventine’s face. Ghastly, sunken cheeks. Wild, blood-shot eyes. He turned away.
By the time the Sorcerer-General retired to his tent, the sun was setting. He had sheathed his greatsword, for he no longer had the strength to hold it, but he took care to stand upright and breathe easily before his Human servants. He calmly accepted a goblet of cool wine then dispassionately ordered them away. When they were gone, he slumped into a chair. The ominous armor that made him look so imposing weighed him down incredibly, much too heavy for a Sylv.
But I am not a Sylv. They made that clear. He touched the tapered points of his ears. Then he attacked the complicated lattice of straps and buckles holding his armor in place, casting it piece by piece to the ground. This morning, he had watched in the mirror as his servants helped him don his plate mail: breast and backplates, pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves, and other pieces he could not name. The mirror had been left in place. Fadarah used it and removed the armor by himself. Doing so took a long time, but with each piece that fell, relief flooded his limbs. Half done, Fadarah flexed his fingers and massaged one sore shoulder. Then he studied his reflection. The Sorcerer-General’s expression turned bitter.
The same blue tattoos that covered Fadarah’s face and hands also covered the rest of his body, which was thickly muscled, as his father’s must have been.
My father. Fadarah grinned sardonically.
His mother had been Wyldkin, one of those few renegade Sylv who lived beyond the majestic forests surrounding the World Tree—not because they were forced to, like those born with the dragonmist, but because they wanted to. She and her husband made their home somewhere between Sylvos and the land of the Olgrym. What exactly happened next, Fadarah did not know. But he could guess.
Wyldkin often ran from Olgrym, but sometimes they were caught anyway. The Olgrym must have slaughtered his mother’s husband. Fadarah imagined them torturing him before devouring him raw. But that was nothing compared to what they did to his mother.
Fadarah shuddered. The Sylvs still told stories of female Wyldkin who kept small knives sheathed on the inside of a thigh—not for fighting but for slitting their own throats if the only other option was being taken prisoner by Olgrym. Fadarah did not know if his mother had carried such a knife, but he often thought that if she had, she should have used it.
True, he barely remembered her, but his mother must have been strong. She’d survived the Olgrym, hadn’t she? She even escaped and returned to the Sylvs. There she gave birth—not to the child of her husband, the Sylvan baby she must have prayed was growing inside her—but to a brute. A half-Olg. Worse, he had the dragonmist in his eyes!
An abomination on two fronts.
Fadarah shook his head. His mother might have killed him to spare her own disgrace; she didn’t. They lived in Sylvos instead, alongside the Sylvs. But even as a child, Fadarah sensed their suspicion. Their hatred. He sensed how it all must end.
Fadarah winced. He shook himself and then drew his sword. A fine length of exquisite kingsteel, fixed to a handle wrought of dragonbone. Many times, Fadarah had considered falling on it, just to end his torment. But that time, he quickly cast the sword aside. He knew he could not do that. His people needed him. Not the Sylvs, not the Olgrym, but the Shel’ai.
“My... people.”
Fadarah laughed. He laughed for a long time. Then he wept. He pressed one hand to his mouth, not wanting anyone to hear. Still, his tattooed body jerked as though he were being stabbed.
