Daughter of the Draugr

Today I’m going to share an excerpt from Tales from Stolki’s Hall, currently 46% funded on Kickstarter and, I’m pleased to say, selected by Kickstarter as a #ProjectsWeLove.

When I was an editor in SF&F publishing, I was fortunate enough to work with Joel Shepherd on ten titles. His absolutely brilliant Cassandra Kresnov series is one of my favorite science fiction series I’ve ever read. He’s also the author of the equally brilliant series, “A Trail of Blood and Steel” and “The Spiral Wars.” For Tales from Stolki’s Hall, he has pride of place as the first story with “Daughter of the Draugr.”

And here is its gripping opening:

Sten rides, across green fern and thick moss. The last of spring snow lies in crystal patches upon the ground, and the sun is still low at mid-morning. On the saddle’s rear clutches his sister, cheek to his back as they raise to a gallop along a straight stretch of path.

“Frida?” Sten shouts above the hooves and wind. “Frida, you have to hold on tighter! You’ll fall!”

He clasps her wrist, trying to pull her arms more tightly about him. Ahead, the forest resumes, as scrub, fern and rock end at a wall of trees. Beyond, Dragon’s Bay glitters gold in the low sun, beneath a scatter of pink-edged cloud. The air is chill, and Sten pulls the scarf that Aunt Olga gave him more firmly about his neck, tucking the longer end into his tunic.

He feels Frida slipping, and realizes he won’t make the trees. He reins the horse to a stop, and catches her just as she falls, near falling himself in his hurry to get his weight beneath her, an awkward dismount and collapse.

“Frida!” He’s come down in some snow, the icy wetness through his pants is unpleasant. “Frida, wake up!” He holds her upright, and slaps her cheek lightly.

Frida’s eyes open. Light blue, within deathly pale skin. Her eyes were bluer than that, when she’d been alive. Now she stares past him, at the broken cloud, pink and yellow in the low light. “So cold,” she murmurs. “So dark.”

“It’s not that cold!” says Sten, attempting cheerfulness. It blackens his heart to look at her. His sister, older by two years. She’s always been the one to cheer him. Now this. He props her, holding the reins of the horse so that it does not wander. Sitting in ferns beside the trail, she can see Dragon’s Bay, and the Seal Islands, dark rock upon the glittering blue sea. “You see, Frida? You see the bay? We’re nearly home!”

“It’s so dark,” Frida murmurs, gazing at the scene in bleak distress. “How can you stand it?”

Sten gazes at her in dismay. “Stand it? Frida, it’s Skagilund! It’s home! You love it here!”

You stole her, whispers a voice on the wind. Sten stares about, upslope, where the ragged cliff of the Harðrtönnbjarg glows bright against the sun. Bring her back to me.

A boiling river of swords, axes and other weapons. Jangling and clanging as they swirl and tumble, a sound terrible like a thousand blacksmith’s anvils. Sten blinks hard, and shakes his head to clear the vision. Had he been there? Had he truly? He must have, because Frida is here now. But it seems like a blur.

His eyes drop to the silver pendant on Frida’s tunic. It’s shaped as a silver stag, hanging upon a necklace of twine. Another of Aunt Olga’s gifts. She must wear it at all times, Olga insisted. If she doesn’t, she’ll turn.

To find out what happens next, consider backing Tales from Stolki’s Hall on Kickstarter.