The great thing about writing sequels — my creative mind currently ensconced in Red and Gold — is revisiting earlier work and, pushing all that useless false modesty aside, remembering just how damn good you are.
Ergo, an excerpt from the most recent in The Martuk Series, The Elder:
The Child had stopped, her body still, her blood-drenched toes far from the ground, her face stained red as she watched me with bleeding eyes.
The Seer had stopped, the bent body now still, waiting.
The wolves were quiet, their bodies hidden in the dark, waiting.
She spoke, The Child, her words silently on The Seer’s lips.
“Made of ash, of stone, burning from the bones, warriors and Queens, a woman trapped in time, a rival drawing near, hatred, love, pain, hatred, love, pain, hatred … ”
The bones crunched and snapped as her head circled, the neck rolling chin to chest and then back, her jaw snapping open and shut.
Then she paused.
And spoke again.
“He will come, the one you seek, with the death, the life, stepping through the light, walking on the bones.”
She then closed her eyes as she bent back, back, back, her bones snapping with a crack as she broke her back, the golden locks of her silken hair touching the delicate heels of her tiny feet.
The body dropped to the ground.
From the shadows, the wolves pounced.
The Seer breathed deep, heavy, thick.
I stretched out and rested my head, the Whispers drowning me as the world spun and throbbed and tilted.
She waits …
Who? I asked, my eyes closing.
She comes …
The wolves dragged the broken Child away, jaws around her skull, her arm, even the delicate heel, hungry to rip and shred the succulent flesh and gnaw the tender bones.
Who? I asked again, the cool soil against my face, my forehead.
I opened my eyes, the air too hot, the rank taste of bile on my tongue, and the thick scent of age and rancid sweat and death in my nostrils. And from the shadows the wet sound of the girl being devoured as the wolves ripped and shredded and tore in my ears while the world heaved and lurched.
The sound of wings. Great wings. From behind me they came, the unexpected whoosh, whoosh, whoosh coming closer.
But I was too tired. Too tired and too sick. Too sick and too weak and too confused, the ground buckling and spinning too much for me to keep my eyes open, to turn, to see what had wings. Wings too large and too great.
She comes …
From the mountains? I asked with a sigh as I exhaled and ended the fight, allowing darkness to take me.
From the ash …