August 18th, 2012 by Ken Scholes
Coming in Late to the Excerpt Party:  A Very Early Sneak Peek at My New Baby

Howdy Folks and Happy Saturday!

I want to thank my best pal, John J.A. Pitts for covering for me these last few weeks while I pounded out the last 20,000 words of Requiem, a book that was later than the White Rabbit ever could be.  Next week, I’ll talk a bit about my take-aways from that project.  But this week, I thought I’d jump onto the bandwagon of the theme week I missed in my absence.

And I thought I’d let you get a look at my latest paper child.  Requiem was delivered last Saturday at 12:30 in the afternoon.  I finished it in the bar of the Village Inn in Saint Helens, where I took up a corner for about five hours and two meals.  She weighed in at 143k words, putting her in the ballpark of Canticle and Antiphon.  It’s the hardest book I’ve written because of the circumstances it was written under.

Now, I don’t think there’s anything spoilerific in what I’m going to post.  And I think that it works even if you haven’t read the other books.  Still, read at your own risk.  And I hesitated to post it, but I’ve had so many fans asking after the book, waiting patiently, sending me encouraging notes, etc that I wanted to show them at least something by way of gratitude.  I’ve read the prelude at two events over the last several months and it went over well.

Most have know the tale of this book’s slow and painful birth — interrupted by death and birth and horrific health issues over the course of about two years (keep in mind that it takes me about 3 months to actually write a novel).  I’ve had amazing support from a long, long list of people.  And absolutely no complaints or ugly letters cursing me for my tardiness.

So without further ado, I give you the first draft prelude to Requiem, coming to you from Tor in June 2013.  And now, I’m going to go get the revisions underway so I can land my final manuscript on my editor’s desk by next Friday.




Volume Four of the Psalms of Isaak


     A gibbous moon hung in the pre-dawn sky casting shades of blue and green over a frozen blanket of snow.  Fresh from the gloom of the woodlands behind her and not even an hour past the warmth of the thick quilts and crackling fire of her family’s home, Marta clutched her stolen sling and cursed the rabbit for running so far and so fast.

She’d not meant to be gone so long.  She’d only meant to quickly and efficiently do her part, proving to her father and her brother that she could.  Still, if she caught it, skinned and gutted it, she could have it in the stew pot before the sun rose.

Marta moved slowly, following the slight trail the rabbit left in the thick snow, her sling loaded and ready in her left hand.

“Everyone,” her father had said since her mother died, “must do their part.”  She’d been selling fresh produce in Windwir two years ago, same as she’d always done, when the ground the shook and the pillar of fire rose up into a Second Summer sky to choke out the sun.

Everything changed that day.  And then kept changing.

First, there had been the armies.  Then, eventually they had retreated and the Marshers had come, though now they wore black uniforms and called themselves Machtvolk.  Now they built schools and encouraged the children to attend, though Marta’s father had not permitted her to.  At least twice monthly, the black-robed evangelist visited their doorstep and entreated Galdus to send at least his daughter so that she might be properly educated.

Part of her resented that he held her back, relegating her to do her part, namely sweeping and cleaning and tending the garden during the spring and summer.  But another part of Marta reveled in being one of the few children to not attend the Y’Zirite school.

Still, she heard things through her friends.  She knew about the Crimson Empress and the Great Mother and the Child of Promise and how their advent meant the healing of the world.  She had heard bits of scripture and had listened to the evangelists expounding upon it in the village square.  She’d even seen the Great Mother not long ago, just after the earthquake, riding south in a small company, fast as fast can be on magicked horses.  And she’d guessed that the bundle she carried close beneath her winter cloak was the Child of Promise, Jakob.

They’d lined the muddy road to catch a glimpse though her father’s grim jaw-line told her that he did so with no sense of the faith or joy the surrounding villagers felt.

Everyone must do their part.

Marta pushed ahead and caught sight of movement near the tree-line.  Beyond it, she heard the quiet rush of water that marked one of the many creeks that ran into the Third River.  She watched her breath gather in a cloud ahead of her face and measured the distance with her eyes.  The rabbit was just out of reach.

Picking up her pace, she twirled the sling and listened to its buzzing as it built on the air.

She broke into a run as the rabbit moved into the trees and grasping in frustration, she loosed the stone.  It shot out and hummed across the clearing, cracking against a tree even as she fitted another into the sling’s pocket.

Overhead, the sky moved towards gray.

Then, something happened.  There was movement — heavy movement — within the treeline and she heard the rabbit scream even as she heard the snap of breaking bones.

She felt a sudden stab of fear and tasted the copper of it in her mouth.  But still, her feet carried her forward.  She caught a glimpse of something in the trees moving with long, deliberate strides off towards the river.  It was tall and looked like a man.

Marta glanced down, saw the speckle of blood on the ground and the large footprint.  I should go back, she thought.  I should tell my father there is someone in the woods.

But it would easier to go back with the rabbit in hand.  And it would be more efficient to go back with some idea as to who hid in their woods.

It moved faster than a man and she jogged to keep up, staying well behind.

When it paused, she stopped in her tracks.  And when it looked over its shoulder in her direction, she felt her mouth go dry.

Eyes that burned the color of blood opened and closed on her.  “Do not follow me, Little Human,” a wheezy, fluid voice said.

She swallowed, then summoned up her own voice, trying hard to not let it shake.  “Give me back my rabbit.”

It turned and moved off again.  But now it slowed, and she drew closer.

It was a man made of metal, but no metal she’d ever seen before.  It was a silver that reflected back their surroundings — the white of the snow, the blue-green of the moonlight, the charcoal shadows of the forest — and it moved with liquid grace, its joints whispering and clicking faintly as they bent.

“Who are you?”

They were near the river now and the cliffs it ran beside.  The metal man paused and she was close enough now to see tears in its red jeweled eyes.  “I do not know who I am,” he said.

“Where are you from?”

The metal man looked up, its eyes taking in the moon.  “I do not know.”  It shuddered slightly as it spoke.

Marta took another step forward and the metal man spun suddenly, moving off in the direction of the cliffside, the rabbit hanging loosely in one slender, silver hand.  Again, she jogged to catch up.

She’d heard tales of mechanicals though she’d never seen one and an idea crept to mind.

“Are you from Windwir?”

This time, its movements were violent and she leaped back when it spun towards her.  “I told you I do not know, Little Human.  It is not safe for you to follow me.”

She gritted her teeth.  “Then give me back my rabbit.”

He looked down at the rabbit and then looked at her.  “The human body contains on average two congius of blood.”  He leaned forward.  “You are not fully grown but you would suffice.”

She felt herself go pale.  She even willed her feet to carry her backwards, to fly her home to the warmth of her waiting house and bed.  But they refused her.  Instead, she stood transfixed by the creature that towered over her now, the sling dangling powerlessly from her hand.  She wanted to ask him what she would suffice for, but couldn’t make her tongue work either.

When he turned away just as suddenly, she heard her breath release.  Striding to the cliffside, he disappeared behind a boulder.

Shaking, she followed slowly this time.

When Marta reached the boulder, she saw that it hid a crack in the granite wall and just within that crack, she saw the metal man crouching over a battered wooden pail.  She winced as those bare metal hands ripped open the rabbit’s throat and upended it so that its blood could drip into the bucket.

I should be silent, she thought.  I should flee now and get the others, tell them what hides here.  But as she watched, she saw the metal shoulders begin to shake and she saw silver tears roll down silver cheeks to mix with the rabbit’s blood.

“Why do you need blood?” the girl asked in a quiet voice though she wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

The metal man looked up and raised a tattered brush in his other hand.

“To paint the violence of my dreams,” he said.  And in the dim red light of his eyes, Marta saw the words and symbols that covered the walls of his cave and she gasped.

Outside, a cold wind picked up as the moon began its slow slide downward into the horizon and the sky went purple with morning.


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