The words “When does the next book come out?” are a double-edged sword to a writer. While it means that people are really excited about your work, it also means that you’ll be hearing until you actually release your next book. So the most recent time I heard it, it got me thinking: what I could do in the meantime to sort of ease the transition? The answer, to me, was simple: give you a look at a chapter from the second book in the Highglade series, tentatively titled “Awaken the Three.”
How’s that for a solution?
The goal is to start doing this with chapters that are spoiler-free (i.e. don’t contain chapters on characters from Gift of the Shaper that might reveal their fates) — so where better to start than the beginning?
This chapter takes place somewhere that you may be familiar with if you read Gift of the Shaper, but somewhere that we never actually went, story-wise. The names and the characters will be new, but their relationship to the characters from the first story will eventually become clear.
So, with that, I present to you the first chapter from Book 2 of the Highglade series.
CHAPTER 1
“The struggle between the Traveler and the Holder of the Dead is older than the world itself, and Asha Imha-khet is the eternal reminder of their sins. Her mark on the world is everlasting, and her slumber just as deep.”
– Excerpt from “The Night Sky and its Names,” Author Unknown. From the private collection of Hedjetten Hota
The sun was setting over the dunes of Khulakorum as Rathma doffed his hood.
Tonight was the night; he knew it in his bones.
Covering his face and mouth was his his brown-and-black shemagh. He had wrapped it around his head and tied it off, leaving nothing but his eyes exposed to the quickly darkening dusk.
A cursory pat of his body told him that his sword, along with five daggers, was still concealed beneath his dark and loose-fitting tunic. The leather armor he wore beneath it would protect him only a little — a risk he had to take when dealing in stealth. On each of his forearms were leather bracers reinforced with steel that he could use to deflect a swordswing or two, and into their undersides were slipped three thin, razor-sharp blades that could be thrown into an enemy’s throat in a pinch. His dark hooded cloak — a gift from his brother — came down past his knees, concealing the twin daggers strapped to his thighs, and a grappling hook and rope was tied to his waist. Finally, across his back was strapped a recurve bow and a single quiver with twenty arrows. With shafts of wood and tips of sharpened steel, their true strength came in their reusability — a singularly important quality when hunting humans.
A last-second mental inventory of his tools and weapons confirmed that his careful preparation would not be in vain. He was ready for battle — mentally and physically.
He went over the layout of the great compound at the center of Khadje Kholam one last time.
A great stone wall formed the exterior of the city-within-a-city where there were eight guard posts in total manned by one lookout apiece: one on each corner with the other four in between. The guard posts sat high enough on the wall that their lookouts could see just as far as they needed to without being an obvious target. They were not elaborate either: just a standing-height stone enclosure with a wooden roof and just enough room for one man to sit and watch the perimeter.
Beyond them, inside the wall, were the tents of hundreds of soldiers loyal to Djozen Yelto — potential collateral if any of them decided to wake up and wander outside at the wrong time. And beyond those tents, in very middle of the compound, was Djozen Yelto’s palace, a small fortress in its own right.
Even without the walls surrounding it and the army of soldiers camped around it, the palace was not easily penetrated. It was protected by an armed guard in front of a reinforced steel door and topped with a lookout tower with four guards – one guard for each cardinal direction. The Djozen was a cautious man who spared no expense when it came to security.
What was on the other side of the steel door, though, Rathma could only guess — no one from outside of the compound had been inside the compound in over ten years. It was the one of the reasons that Yelto had remained in power this long.
Tonight, Rathma planned to change that.
Watching the last light of the fading sun, Rathma knew that he would have only a few short moments to move while most of Khadje Kholam paid their respects to the Holder of the Dead. He listened for their chant as the shadows fell.
From his hiding spot near the exterior of the wall, Rathma was close enough to be able to hear but far enough away that they would not be suspicious of him. The tent that he hid behind was as close to the wall as Yelto would allow for someone who was not one of his trusted guard.
Darkness continued to blanket the night… yet still all was quiet; quiet was not what Rathma needed.
He peered around the corner of the tent one more time.
What is taking so long? he thought. This has to happen tonight.
He felt his palms start to sweat when, finally, the guards on the wall raised their eyes to the night sky.
Do it, he thought.
And when they started their chant, so did Rathma begin his silent advance.
“Ahman, Ahman, Ahman Ka.
Dobrak mahn ihmantu zjha
Mith te’kunde Lash’kun’a
Ahman, Ahman, Ahman Ka.”
The words were as old as the stars in the sky that the Holder of the Dead commanded. And, though Rathma didn’t follow the ancient religion, he saw its influence everywhere — and used it to his advantage. By the time the guards had finished chanting, Rathma had scaled the southeast portion of the wall and pulled himself up, coming to a crouch, and leaning his back against the guard post. His dark cloak did well to conceal him in the moonless night sky and his relentless training had quieted his movements, leaving him undetectable to all but the sharpest of ears.
The guard post had openings wide enough for a man to jump through. So Rathma did just that.
He gripped the ledge and vaulted over in an explosion of movement. He drew his dagger as he flew toward the guard, cloak trailing behind him like wings. One hand covered the guard’s mouth while the other hand planted the dagger in his throat. Rathma rode him to the ground as he collapsed, knees pressed into the guard’s chest. The two of them hit the ground with a muted thud.
He peered out of the guard post to the towers on either side of him to see if he was as silent as he thought he was.
No alarm was raised that he could tell.
He looked down at the guard, whose eyes were still open in fright, and closed them with his fingertips. Looks like the Holder had his back turned as well, he thought as he stood up and pulled out his bow.
He knew that it would be risky trying to crawl his way to the other guard tower, and he would most likely be caught if he did so. The only blind spot that the tower had, he had already used — and this time there would be no chanting to distract the remaining guards.
On the tower to his west, the guard was barely distinguishable against the darkness of the night, but Rathma could make out just enough of the shape to know where to aim. It was too much of a gamble to aim for center mass: the arrow could easily catch him in the shoulder, or miss his heart, or bury itself in his arm, allowing the guard enough time to raise an alarm. The slightest sound could give Rathma away.
No — he had to shoot for the head.
He nocked an arrow, took aim, and held his breath.
His release made little more than a snap in the still night air, and the arrow flew just as quietly. He held his breath for what seemed like an eternity as it sped after its mark. The thump he heard meant that it found something, but he waited for a cry or a yell from the guard to see just what. When none came, and the shadowy figure fell to the ground, Rathma finally exhaled.
One more to go.
The guard to the north of him would be problematic as he, too, could spot Rathma approaching the palace from his position in the southeast corner. He’d already nocked a second arrow in case the first guard needed it, so he used it to aim at the lookout in the nearby post.
Rathma looked down the shaft of his arrow as used it to track his target. Slowly, he pulled back and felt the tension in his bowstring. He held his breath … and released.
The well-fletched arrow did its job as he watched yet another figure slump to the ground, another dead soldier in Yelto’s employ. Turning his eyes to the north, Rathma looked upon the prize.
The palace was three stories high and square, with each story being narrower than the one below it resulting in a tiered appearance. The red clay roof tiles made the palace stand out against the brown of the desert that surrounded it — the result of Yelto’s haughtiness. And on the top of the third tier stood a guard tower manned by four of Yelto’s most trusted guards — one for every cardinal direction. Rathma knew that one of them certainly held the key to the iron door below them that led inside.
Only one way to be sure, Rathma thought. He just hoped that Kuu was holding up his end of the bargain.
He waited nervously, squinting to try and see a little better in the dark. The advantage of the nearly-moonless night was also a liability — a double-edged sword concealing himself and his enemies alike.
…But Rathma had his hand on the hilt.
When he heard a series of small explosions come from the northern side of the compound, he smiled. Kuu had done his job.
The four guards in the tower shouted in panic and surprise, turning their eyes toward the explosions — and their backs to Rathma.
Now, he thought, as he exited the guard post and fastened the end of his grappling hook to the wall. Pulling it taut, he approached the edge, stepped off, and rappelled backward, lowering himself down in two short leaps. When he reached the bottom he let the rope drop to the ground. Turning to face the palace, he hoped that Kuu’s distraction would be good enough.
The bare dirt floor of the courtyard did little to cushion his steps as he ran, but he no longer cared about stealth — his only concern was swiftness now. He needed to reach the tower before the guards overcame their confusion. He covered the distance in a speed that surprised even him.
Reaching the palace, he leapt up and grabbed hold of one of the eaves that comprised the first tier. Pulling himself up, his chest found the edge and he pulled himself onto it.
Only two more to go.
Rathma could hear the sounds of shouting from above him as he knew Kuu was doing his part — but he worried that the noise would bring unwelcome attention to them.
When his fingers found the top of last tier, he pulled himself up slowly, just high enough to peek over the edge. He saw the four guards, only a few feet away, scanning frantically to the north for the source of the explosions. They each wore long tan tunics that came down past their knees — long enough to protect them from the sweltering daytime sun, and light enough for them to breathe. They would each be wearing chainmail vests underneath, Rathma knew. Their open leather boots offered little more than protection from the heat of the desert floor as they looked more like sandals than armor. Rathma knew right away what he should do.
He pulled himself up slowly and silently, sliding onto his belly as he rose over the edge of the red clay-tiled roof. Pushing himself to his knees, he donned his hood and reached for the twin daggers in their sheaths on his thighs.
Crouching, he crept closer. With his hood over his head, even if any of the guards had turned around that very moment, he blended with the dark so well that he might have stayed hidden had he remained still. But remaining hidden was no longer an option as he surged forward, plunging a dagger into the foot of each of the two middle guards. They howled in pain, grabbing the attention of the other two guards who had almost given up looking for the source of the explosions. The two outer guards looked at their screaming counterparts to see what was the matter, then whirled around just in time for Rathma to smile at them. He raised his hands in surrender.
Then, in the blink of any eye, he bent his arms inward at the elbow where his fingers found the ends of the long blades he had planted on the opposite forearm, drew them, and flung them out in a “V” before the guards could ask what he was doing there. Each blade hit its mark as they landed right in their windpipes. Their hands went to their throats as they collapsed, choking on blood and steel.
Rathma moved forward and drew his shortsword. He ran it through the guard on his left by grabbing his arm and thrusting upward through his side – the one place the chainmail vest did not protect. Then, he turned to face the only guard still upright, who had dropped to a knee to try and remove the dagger from his foot.
“Please,” the guard said, putting out a hand begging him to stop. “What do you want?”
“The key to Djozen Yelto’s inner chambers,” Rathma answered. “Where is it?”
With a shaky hand, the guard pointed to the one Rathma had just run through with his sword. “Th-there. It’s on his belt.”
Rathma kept his sword level and his eyes on the guard as he stooped to pat down the body in front of him. Hearing the jingle of a group of keys, he looked down to see about a half dozen, all of different shapes and colors, hanging from a keychain.
“Which one is it?” He asked as he unfastened it from the belt loop.
Hearing no answer, he looked up to see his friend Kuu standing behind the guard with his dagger jutting out of the guard’s back.
Rathma sighed. “Why did you do that?” he asked.
“He was going to kill you,” Kuu answered. “You should thank me.” He pulled out the dagger and kicked the body of the guard with his boot. Kuu’s wavy black hair hung down to his chin, onto which the beginnings of a beard had sprouted. His emerald-green eyes stood out on his thin, dark face that was capped with a big, crooked nose. He was skinny, and the meager leather armor he wore only accentuated that fact.
Holding up the ring of keys, Rathma sheathed his sword. “How will we know which one fits the door?”
“Try them all?” Kuu said with a shrug. “And will you take that thing off your face? I can barely hear you through it.”
Rathma stood up with a sigh and undid the shemagh, shaking out his dark red hair to let it hang down past his ears. His eyes, the same shade of red as his hair, darted back and forth over the north courtyard where Kuu had fought his own way through. “What choice do we have? Come on.”
Rathma walked south and leaped off, twisting to grab the edge of the second story, then pushing off to drop backward to the ground. He heard Kuu muttering something about showing off as the thin thief grabbed onto the roof and lowered himself down, slowly.
Rathma had already been trying keys when Kuu dropped down beside him.
“That wasn’t it either,” Rathma grumbled as he slid another key off the ring and tossed it to the ground. “We might be here until morning.”
Kuu was tapping him on the shoulder as he looked through the keys, trying to see which one would be a good fit.
“Not now, Kuu. I think I this might be it.”
“But you may want to see this,” his friend said as he spun him around.
“…Well.” The key ring dropped to the ground as Rathma slowly reached for his sword. “You’re wrong. I didn’t want to see this.”
Standing in front of the two boys was a man in a long robe — dark blue, with a white border — holding a blazing torch above his head. Behind him, emerging from the tents, were perhaps twenty armored men brandishing knives and swords.
“So,” the man in the robe began. “You think that two young boys can simply walk into the house of Djozen Yelto?” He had cloudy grey eyes, and spoke with the accent of the western tribes. But neither of those things were what signified him as being a priest of the Holder; those two things would have been tolerable for Rathma.
It was the fact the servants of the Holder of the Dead had their flesh stripped away from the neck up, leaving their eyes permanently open and all of their facial muscles exposed. That was what disturbed Rathma more than anything.
“Ah,” Rathma said. “We should have knocked.”
“Take them,” said the priest.
And — as the swarm of men poured over the two boys from the Wastes — in the blink of an eye, Rathma disappeared from sight.
If you’re new here, check out Gift of the Shaper, book one in the series. It won’t help, but at least you’ll be better-read.
