Well, here it is for yourselves!
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?
Coming May 25, 2015
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You can win one of three ARCs of the novella, either by filling out the Rafflecopter form below, or entering over at Anne Elisabeth Stengl's blog.
AUTHOR BIO:
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.
To learn more about Anne Elisabeth Stengl and her books visit: www.AnneElisabethStengl.blogspot.com
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EXCERPT:
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.
I hope you all enjoyed this cover reveal--and enjoy the novella even more! It looks like it's going to be an eerie, heart-wrenching story!
