Today is a very special day as I have the delightful honor
of participating in the cover reveal for Anne Elisabeth Stengl’s forthcoming
novella and Tale of Goldstone Wood, Draven’s
Light. The treats in store include a beautiful and haunting cover, an
intriguing storyline, and a thrilling excerpt from the novella. And don’t
forget to enter for your chance to win!
In the Darkness of the Pit
The Light Shines Brightest
Drums summon the chieftain's powerful son to slay a man in cold blood and thereby earn his place among the warriors. But instead of glory, he earns the name Draven, "Coward." When the men of his tribe march off to war, Draven remains behind with the women and his shame. Only fearless but crippled Ita values her brother's honor.
The warriors return from battle victorious yet trailing a curse in their wake. One by one the strong and the weak of the tribe fall prey to an illness of supernatural power. The secret source of this evil can be found and destroyed by only the bravest heart.
But when the curse attacks the one Draven loves most, can this coward find the courage he needs to face the darkness?
ANNE ELISABETH STENGL makes her home in North Carolina,
where she lives with her husband, Rohan, a kindle of kitties, and one
long-suffering dog. When she’s not writing, she enjoys Shakespeare, opera, and
tea, and practices piano, painting, and pastry baking. She is the author of the
critically-acclaimed Tales of Goldstone Wood. Her novel Starflower was awarded the 2013 Clive Staples Award, and her novels
Heartless, Veiled Rose, and Dragonwitch have each been honored with
a Christy Award.
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Excerpt from
DRAVEN’S LIGHT
By Anne Elisabeth
Stengl
(coming May 25, 2015)
He heard the drums in his dreams,
distant but drawing ever nearer. He had heard them before and wondered if the
time of his manhood had come. But with the approach of dawn, the drums always faded
away and he woke to the world still a child. Still a boy.
But this night, the distant drums
were louder, stronger. Somehow he knew they were not concocted of his sleeping
fancy. No, even as he slept he knew these were real drums, and he recognized the
beat: The beat of death. The beat of blood.
The beat of a man’s heart.
He woke with a start, his leg
throbbing where it had just been kicked. It was not the sort of awakening he
had longed for these last two years and more. He glared from his bed up into
the face of his sister, who stood above him, balancing her weight on a stout
forked branch tucked under her left shoulder.
“Ita,” the boy growled, “what are
you doing here? Go back to the women’s hut!”
His sister made a face at him, but
he saw, even by the moonlight streaming through cracks in the thatch above,
that her eyes were very round and solemn. Only then did he notice that the
drumbeats of his dream were indeed still booming deep in the woods beyond the
village fires. He sat up then, his heart thudding its own thunderous pace.
“A prisoner,” Ita said, shifting
her branch so that she might turn toward the door. “The drums speak of a
prisoner. They’re bringing him even now.” She flashed a smile down at him,
though it was so tense with anxiety it could hardly be counted a smile at all.
“Gaho, your name!”
The boy was up and out of his bed
in a moment, reaching for a tunic and belt. His sister hobbled back along the
wall but did not leave, though he wished she would. He wished she would allow
him these few moments before the drums arrived in the village. The drums that
beat of one man’s death . . . and one man’s birth.
His name was Gaho. But by the
coming of dawn, if the drums’ promise was true, he would be born again in blood
and bear a new name.
Hands shaking with what he
desperately hoped wasn’t fear, he tightened his belt and searched the room for
his sickle blade. He saw the bone handle, white in the moonlight, protruding
from beneath his bed pile, and swiftly took it up. The bronze gleamed dully,
like the carnivorous tooth of an ancient beast.
A shudder ran through his sister’s
body. Gaho, sensing her distress, turned to her. She grasped her supporting
branch hard, and the smile was gone from her face. “Gaho,” she said, “will you
do it?”
“I will,” said Gaho, his voice
strong with mounting excitement.
But Ita reached out to him
suddenly, catching his weapon hand just above the wrist. “I will lose you,” she
said. “My brother . . . I will lose you!”
“You will not. You will lose only
Gaho,” said the boy, shaking her off, gently, for she was not strong. Without
another word, he ducked through the door of his small hut—one he had built for
himself but a year before in anticipation of his coming manhood—and stood in
the darkness of Rannul Village, eyes instinctively turning to the few campfires
burning. The drums were very near now, and he could see the shadows of waking
villagers moving about the fires, building up the flames in preparation for
what must surely follow. He felt eyes he could not see turning to his hut,
turning to him. He felt the question each pair of eyes asked in silent
curiosity: Will it be tonight?
Tonight or no night.
Grasping the hilt of his weapon
with both hands, Gaho strode to the dusty village center, which was beaten down
into hard, packed earth from years of meetings and matches of strength held in
this same spot. Tall pillars of aged wood ringed this circle, and women
hastened to these, bearing torches which they fit into hollowed-out slots in
each pillar. Soon the village center was bright as noonday, but with harsh red
light appropriate for coming events.
Gaho stood in the center of that
light, his heart ramming in his throat though his face was a stoic mask. All
the waking village was gathered now, men, women, and children, standing just
beyond the circle, watching him.
The drums came up from the river,
pounding in time to the tramp of warriors’ feet. Then the warriors themselves
were illuminated by the ringing torches, their faces anointed in blood, their
heads helmed with bone and bronze, their shoulders covered in hides of bear,
wolf, and boar. Ten men carried tight skin drums, beating them with their
fists. They entered the center first, standing each beneath one of the ringing
pillars. Other warriors followed them, filling in the gaps between.
Then the chieftain, mighty Gaher,
appeared. He carried his heavy crescent ax in one hand, and Gaho saw that blood
stained its edge—indeed, blood spattered the blade from tip to hilt and covered
the whole of the chieftain’s fist. Gaher strode into the circle, and the boy
saw more blood in his beard. But he also saw the bright, wolfish smile and knew
for certain that his sister had been correct. The night of naming had come.
“My son,” said the chief, saluting
Gaho with upraised weapon.
“My father,” said Gaho, raising his
sickle blade in return.
“Are you ready this night to die and live
again?” asked the chief. His voice carried through the shadows, and every one
of the tribe heard it, and any and all listening beasts of forests and fields
surrounding. “Are you ready this night for the spilling of blood that must flow
before life may begin?”
Gaho drew a deep breath, putting
all the strength of his spirit into his answer. “I am ready, Father.”
Gaher’s smile grew, the torchlight
flashing red upon his sharpened canines. He turned then and motioned to the
darkness beyond the torchlight.
The sacrifice was brought forward.
Thank you for sharing this preview with us, Anne Elisabeth! May cannot come soon enough.
