Book Blast: To Be Fair

To Be Fair

by Julieta Moss

In the autumn of 1997, Bogdan is a teenage Yugoslavian refugee who fled his country at just eleven to claim asylum in Italy. He does not know the fate of his family. He mainly relies on his old school friend Alessia, whose father employs him during the summer, and her boyfriend Guido, who is also his social worker.

A regular at the Caffe Fratelli where Bogdan works, James has lived in Italy for a couple of years escaping family problems after dropping out of University. He works as a cruise crew member, spending his time in between contracts sofa-surfing at Guido's, who grew up in James’ native Bristol.

After breaking up with his lover, James goes on a path of self-destruction neglecting his health. Bogdan tries to help him, and they begin an on-off relationship with disastrous consequences. Unable to let go despite knowing that James doesn´t take him seriously, Bogdan decides to travel to England with James to help him save the family business when his father becomes sick. But when the authorities come to deport Bogdan for overstaying his visitor VISA, will James rise to the challenge of saving the boy who risked everything to be with him?

  

END OF SEASON

North Italy, Early October 1997

 

James knocked lightly on the front door and watched how Alessia opened it shortly afterwards. Looking clearly fed up, she gave him a wan smile that felt more like an ugly grimace. Then she took the bottle of wine that he had brought, and cheek kissed him out of politeness, or maybe pity. James immediately knew she felt resigned at the prospect of another evening listening to his boring stories of months before. He only wished she knew how tired he was of telling them, as well. At that precise moment, he would have gladly traded his supposedly exciting career, travelling the world as a cruise ship host for a dull, normal life without a second thought. But since this was how things had played out, he might as well make the most of the prestige and extra spare cash that his lifestyle afforded him.

Behind James, Berndt sprang out like a breath of fresh air. He greeted Alessia holding her hand eagerly and kissing it delicately. Making her blush and grin, he handed her an exotic bouquet exquisitely tied with satin ribbons that he was hiding with his arms folded back. Alessia was so taken aback that she almost gasped as she grabbed the bunch, observing it with wide open eyes. She was looking very pretty with all that make up she had put on, James thought, despite being such a petulant child. And that made him even more annoyed when she fluttered her eyelashes at Berndt as she smelled the flowers. Although James was well aware that Berndt was just teasing her.

“Sit here till Guido cooks pasta.” She led them to their seats at the table in her less than perfect English. “Are you tired of trip?”

“We’re fine,” Berndt said. “After disembarking in Venice, we went straight to my apartment in Mestre to drop off the luggage. And the very first thing we did was take a nap before catching the train here. We wanted to be well rested for your debut tonight,” he added, smiling mischievously at James. But James was bracing himself for the boring half-hour live performance at her uncle’s piano bar that they were due to attend that evening.

“Good, good.” She smiled back, having probably understood a third of what Berndt had just said. Then she immediately disappeared into the kitchen, where her boyfriend Guido was making dinner.

James shook his head as she left and whispered to Berndt.

“Her English is just atrocious. I don’t know what Guido sees in her. Other than, you know, her obvious talent with the flute,” he giggled.

“At least she is trying, because my Italian is very rusty. I actually thought she was quite nice and attractive for your average Italian girl,” Berndt replied just before their host arrived with a different bottle of wine from the fridge.

“Nice to have you back, James!” Guido gave James a big hug as he stood up to greet him. “And I’m really glad to finally meet you, Berndt!” They shook hands. “Can I leave this one with you while I finish the linguine? It may be best to open this bottle until the other one has chilled. I won’t be a moment.” Guido left the wine on the table and returned to his kitchen.

“Not a bad choice for such a low price. Probably the best you could afford on a student budget.” James looked rather unimpressed at the bottle’s label, standing up again to rummage around on the sideboard.

“I know being a Swabian I should know my wines. But I’ve always been more of a beer person,” Berndt admitted, looking like he was not bothered.

“And so is Guido. His parents may be Italian, but he was born and bred in the UK, just like me,” James told Berndt before screaming loudly to ensure that his old flatmate could hear him from the kitchen, “By the way, where are all the cork screws I used to keep in the top drawer?”

“I moved them to the kitchen when my dad and I did the clear out after you left for Mestre,” Guido explained, returning from the kitchen. “He came from the UK in the summer to help me get rid of my nan’s stuff that was still lurking around.” He handed James the bottle opener before rushing back to his pan on the cooker.

“I thought the flat looked different without those hideous rugs and the old sofa cover that stank of mothballs,” James joked when Guido and Alessia returned to set the table. “No matter how much pot we smoked, we still couldn’t get rid of the stench!”

“I’ve also replaced the twin beds with a double.” Guido smiled, glancing at Alessia, who shyly looked down. “I’m afraid next time you want to stay over, you’ll have to make do with the sofa.”

“Don’t listen to him, Alessia,” James teased as he poured himself and Berndt a glass of wine each. “A good, respectable Italian lady should remain chaste until at least the proposal.” He made fun of her, knowing that she wouldn’t have understood most of what he was saying. “Or the ripe old age of twenty five, whichever comes first.” James clinked his glass with Berndt’s with a wicked smirk before adding, “No te capissi un klinz?” in the Triestino dialect, proving he could speak her obscure local jargon better than she understood his universally spoken language.

Guido shook his head in disapproval of his snobbery before bringing up the dreaded matter for James in an attempt to change the topic. “Now, tell me about all those exciting places you have been travelling to during your cruise ship contract.”

“Well, where shall we start?” Berndt replied excitedly, rubbing his hands.

“I go for food.” Alessia stood up to get the dinner from the kitchen, likely trying to avoid listening to the same old rants.

“I just can’t believe it’s over. You have no idea how hard it was to spend six months working at sea without a single day off,” James complained. “It was like an endless prison sentence. And now that I’m finally free to enjoy some time winding down, it’s the last thing I want to talk about.”

“Oh, come on, I know it was not easy for me either. People think second officers have the best job in the whole ship. And we would, were it not for the bridge watches in the middle of the night and then the boring, repetitive safety inspections. But we still had some great times, didn’t we?” Berndt beamed at James, trying to cheer him up a bit.

“The few moments I spent with you were the only thing I enjoyed,” James replied as he rested his head on Berndt’s shoulder affectionately, locking his sight on Berndt’s for a long while, as though the rest of the world had suddenly disappeared.

Berndt had the most angelic blue eyes and cheeky smile James had ever seen. Not to mention his cycle sculpted legs and the boldness James badly lacked, as a skinny, freckled redhead with a big, Aquiline nose. He couldn’t wait to fly back home to Bristol the following day and introduce Berndt to his dad and sisters. It had been a tough cruise season, but it all seemed worth it in hindsight.

After dinner, James invited Berndt to join him downstairs. They sat at the Caffè Fratelli opposite while Guido and Alessia washed the dishes at the flat. It was a small, old fashioned Italian bar with an exceptionally large terrace which would have been previously packed with both cruise ship staff and tourists. But since the opening of the lounge in the Cruise terminal a few months earlier, business had declined considerably, and Mr. Bolcatto, the owner, who also happened to be Alessia’s dad, had transferred most of the staff to his other businesses. Despite all this, it was still a firm favourite for James, because the bar tender who still worked there, a friendly young boy from the former Yugoslavia, made rather good coffee that they sold for a very reasonable price. Particularly when most of Trieste’s bar tenders were infamous for their rudeness, and the locals for their coldness towards strangers.

As soon as James and Berndt walked in, the waiter followed them to the outside terrace. It had been months since James had last seen him, but his reappearance at the Caffè Fratelli had never failed to bring a smile to the boy’s face. It didn’t matter that James could never remember his name and called him the Illyrian boy instead. He was always happy and cheerful and didn’t seem to mind. He was also extremely shy, he only exchanged just a few words with James when the bar was not too busy. But on a quiet evening like this one, it felt odd that he hadn’t greeted him with his warm ‘Hello’, the only word he could pronounce in English, as he often used to.

Avoiding eye contact, the young lad cleaned up their chosen table and took their order very hastily, looking rather uncomfortable, to say the least. Was he perhaps shocked to see James behaving in such a playful manner with his lover? Even in Italy’s heavily patriarchal society and with the north of the country embroiled in a neo-fascist resurgence, James had never faced any backlash yet for holding hands or kissing Berndt in public. Could it be perhaps that his strict religious upbringing had got the best of him?

He served their drinks politely and, instead of hanging around for a chat as James had become accustomed to, particularly when there were no other customers, the waiter returned to the door threshold. And from there, he spent most of the time pretending to be minding his own business.

“That linguine was amazing.” Berndt tapped his belly as he sat back on the chair to relax, “but I shouldn’t have finished your plate, too.”

“I know. Guido has always been a gifted cook.” James agreed as he poured his second glass. “He’s learnt it all from his mother. We’ll probably eat at their restaurant, the famous Trattoria Siracusa, tomorrow evening when we arrive at Bristol. My dad and sisters love it. Although knowing Martin, he’ll probably make up some excuse,” James added with a bittersweet smile, as he remembered his brother-in-law turned foe, eagerly looking forward to his well-deserved revenge. “I can’t wait to see his face when he finally meets you.”

“Isn’t he the friend who you tried to smooch one drunken night during fresher’s week?” Berndt laughed.

“That was a long time ago,” James quickly replied, mildly infuriated. “He can be a pain sometimes. If he mentions the war, just ignore him. You can always excuse yourself saying that you’re tired and leave early if you want. I’ve booked you an hotel nearby for the first two nights so my Granddad Frank won’t bother you either. Then we can hire a car and drive to the Cotswolds and spend the rest of the week on our own.”

“Oh, wow, you have everything carefully planned already,” Berndt began to say and James’ gaze immediately fixed on him expecting the worst. Could this mean that Berndt was backtracking again from going back home with him and meeting his family? James was beginning to wonder when Berndt quickly changed the topic, likely trying to distract him. “Don’t look now, but our cute little barman hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we arrived,” Berndt noted, rather amused.

 “It must be your imagination,” James dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “I wouldn’t pay him any attention. He’s just a kid.”

“But he won’t be a kid forever.” Berndt raised his eyebrows cheekily. “How old do you believe he is?”

“He used to go to school with Alessia. I guess he must be about seventeen like her,” James guessed, looking at his watch impatiently after nearly half an hour waiting for Guido and Alessia to join them. “That’s why we’re always stuck for places to go since they started dating, and almost always end up at the cinema. In Italy, most nightclubs will not allow entry to anybody who is underage, unlike Austria or Germany.”

“That’s why I believe the waiter must be at least eighteen. Otherwise, how is he allowed to serve alcohol and work this late?” Berndt guessed. “Let’s ask him. The loser buys the drinks. Waiter! Waiter!” Berndt shouted to attract his attention as the young boy began to walk away to serve new customers at the other end of the terrace.

“Could we have the bill please?” James asked in Italian, glancing at Berndt when the waiter returned to clear their table. “I don’t think he understands any English,” James explained to Berndt as the waiter left again with the empty glasses and bottle.

“Excuses, but how many years you are...?” Berndt asked in his awful Italian when he returned with the bill. The boy’s face instantly blushed, and James pretended to look elsewhere to cover his embarrassment.

“I’m sixteen,” He replied in a very hushed voice, looking down as though he was ashamed to admit it.

“The drinks are on me, then!” Berndt reverted back to English, leaving a bunch of bank notes that added up to more than double their bill.

After counting the cash, the waiter took the amount required to cover their drinks and, unaccustomed to receiving tips, an occurrence highly unusual in Italy, he made a gesture towards Berndt as though he had forgotten something. But Berndt simply winked at him before catching up with James, who was already on the way out, not wanting to be part of Berndt’s antics.

“What is the Italian age of consent anyway?” Berndt continued to make fun once they were a few yards away from the Caffè Fratelli.

 But James could not see the point of his joke. And besides, it was getting late, and they still had to catch the midnight train back after Alessia’s performance. They’d better go back to the flat and chase them. Hopefully, he could still get an early night ahead of their big trip the following day. He would need it if he was to remain calm when Martin’s sarcasm and his Granddad Frank’s hurtful remarks eventually made an appearance. After all, he didn’t want to scare Berndt away with his dysfunctional family.

  

Teaser

When somebody has risked everything to be with you, can you rise to the challenge of saving them?

About Julieta Moss
I am a translator who left Argentina 28 years ago to live in Spain for 12 years, before moving to the UK with my British husband 16 years ago. My passion has always been writing and reading stories, particularly those with a strong moral takeaway, and specially those with an immigrant narrative.

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Book Blast - Plea to a Frozen God

 

Plea to a Frozen God
From the author of The Oxbow Kingdom Trilogy comes a new fantasy adventure: Plea to a Frozen God.
 
Prince Ligo endured a troubled engagement. Betrothed to a foreigner to save a realm abandoned by their god, the prince suffers a seizure during a sacred hunt, and awakens to see his fiancée’s family usurp the volcano-menaced realm. Indeed, Prince Ligo has seen better days.
 
When the enigmatic Mystic Riggan rescues Prince Ligo from the deadly coup, she leads him on a pilgrimage to the cryptic God of Death’s secret sanctum. Fugitives in the frigid wilds, the beleaguered duo conscripts a badly wounded soldier to help them survive. Pursuing answers to what truly ails the realm, the misfit trio discovers more ancient mysteries at their journey’s end. They also find the beginnings of a home and family like none they’d ever known.

 
Book Teaser: A condemned trio of fugitives’ only chance for survival is to stop a volcano from erupting.

Chapter Preview:

Chapter 2

The seven celestial visitors arrived on the watery planet ages before the Septem Dominions existed.

 

Swagger Fry

Swagger Fry led two dozen mounted troops on the desolate road between Skelmoth and Worglen. Far to the south, Fiegardia’s trio of smoldering volcanoes served as their wintry backdrop. This time of year, Fiegardia’s roads were barren, if not already impassable. As summers grew shorter, so did the traveling season. Once the traffic tapered off, drifting snow clogged the less-frequented roads. By midwinter, dog sleds became the only reliable method of overland travel.

Singular winter smells dominated Swagger’s olfactory senses. The dry, crisp breeze carried none of the pungent summer odors from agriculture and fishing. He savored the scent of conifer needles, gurgling water through cracks in the ice, and the occasional whiff of wood smoke from a stoked hearth. Despite the cold and the gray and the winds, Swagger enjoyed the outdoors—even winter in Fiegardia. The snow’s soft silence soothed him.

King Kolf Fiegard himself assigned Swagger to this delicate political mission. As the leader of Fiegardia’s royal forces, Swagger and his soldiers traveled on horseback to meet a Drachian betrothal party. Because of early ice in Skelmoth Harbor, the Drachian ships would land in Worglen and caravan inland to Skelmoth for this evening’s feast. 

Sergeant Fry was to escort the Drachian royalty into Skelmoth and Castle Fieg. He and his armed riders were to ensure no beasts or bandits troubled the visitors on their journey. Though a royal procession would prove an enticing target for raiders, a rogue mammoth, pack of ice wolves, or rampaging snogre could prove just as deadly. Ever vigilant, Fry’s keen eyes scrutinized the terrain for fresh tracks, but so far, no signs of nearby predators appeared.

In his opinion, snogres posed the worst threat to unprepared visitors. Unique to Fiegsland, the bear-sized carnivores were stealthy apex predators, especially in winter, when their white hides provided them camouflage. Fry suspected even a seasoned Drachian knight would have his hands full with one of those vicious beasts.

“Damned silly time of year for a betrothal feast,” Fry said to his second-in-command, Diora Boghech, who rode beside him on a stout bay. The soldiers wore fur-lined helmets, cloaks, and woolen hoods over their hardened leather armor. Blustering wind crusted their gear in white. The lead riders carried green and gold flags, fighting the stiff wind as it rippled the Fiegardian fabric.

“At least the wedding will be in fairer weather,” Boghech said.

“Let’s hope so. Never can predict the whims of royals. Why anyone would travel this time of year’s beyond me.”

“Love doesn’t follow the calendar, Sergeant.” She paused before bursting into laughter. 

“Love’s got naught to do with this marriage,” Fry said, his voice a creaking gate blowing across a gravel path.

“Poor Prince Ligo’s got to marry that imported princess to rescue the realm,” Boghech said.

Sergeant Fry considered voicing his opinion, but cringed at speaking ill of his liege, despite fearing King Fiegard undertook a risk in dealing with King Eronak Drachia. Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

Everything about the Drachians worried Swagger. King Eronak motivated people with greed, and, unfortunately, for most, that trumped integrity. Rumors also painted the Drachian ruler as an avid misogynist. Swagger suspected a daughter meant no more to him than a valuable commodity to expand his reign. It was common knowledge that King Eronak cycled through several queens in search of that still elusive son.

“Loss for words, Sergeant?” Boghech asked.

“Nah. I feel for the lad, too. I’m sure he’d rather wed a fine Fiegard-blooded Skelmoth noble than this strange foreign lass.” He blinked away the frozen moisture from the corners of his eyes. “But such is the life of royalty. Bet that Drachian princess doesn’t know how lucky she is to land a prize like Prince Ligo.”

“Rumor has it the prince suffers from spells.

Might be he’s the one getting the prize.”

Swagger’s head drooped as he thought of young Ligo. Wish she wouldn’t speak of it. A fierce gust pushed him westward in the saddle, as if mocking him.  “Think the marriage will really help the realm?” Boghech asked.

“It may,” Fry said as he studied the horizon. He hoped this union would fare better than King Fiegard’s latest. After declaring his missing wife dead, the king had remarried too quickly for most Fiegardians, and the new queen consort accomplished little to restore faith in the king’s decision. Swagger chased the depressing thoughts from his mind.

Drifts encroached upon the road, threatening to colonize it into the barren white fields. Ahead, their path dipped into a valley and cut through a sprawling pine stand.

“You hold out hope for this pending marriage,

Sergeant?”

“Expanded trade and an alliance with a former rival should strengthen Fiegardia.” He rubbed his numb nose and fretted his loose tongue, then continued despite his reservations. “The joining of two divine bloodlines promises strong offspring.” Thinking of Prince Ligo as a father lifted his mood, if only momentarily. “But then again, they don’t pay me for my political smarts.” Fry’s thoughts on Fiegardian politics grew more pessimistic with each passing day, yet he dared not voice his fears to his troops. Never in his thirty-six years had the public opinion of the Fiegards been so low. 

“Worst that’ll happen is we’ll be riding under a different banner,” said Boghech.

“Bite your tongue. I’d rather die than forsake the Fiegard colors.” Despite the chill, Fry’s temperature rose.

“You bleed green and gold, do you?”

Fry shifted to the side and spat. “Red, just like you. But a soldier without loyalty’s just a mercenary.” “There’s never a shortage of work for soldiers,” Boghech replied. “At day’s end, don’t really matter whose head’s on the coin they pay me.” She cast Swagger a side-eyed glance.

“Bah, you ain’t that heartless, no matter how hard you pretend.” Her audacity riled him, but Swagger remained calm.

“You never know, Sergeant. Never know.”

“You’re a good soldier, and those are rare these days. I’d hate to lose you.”

“Things keep going like they are, we might both be wearing different colors before too long,” Boghech said, too loudly for Swagger’s taste. “People are restless—desperate, even. Weather gets worse every season, the realm hardly sees the sun. Fishing, farming, trade—all hurting. This union might be our king’s last chance.”

“Ain’t King Fiegard’s fault the volcanoes won’t stop filling the sky with ash.”

“Isn’t it?” Boghech asked. “People think the descendants of Fieg should be able to change the weather. Folk say Fieg abandoned her royal bloodline.

Based on what I see, it’s hard to argue with that.”

Fry allowed the conversation to drop as he focused on the descending path ahead. Few years ago, I would have warned her of treason for such talk. He snuffed the ice inside his nostrils. Now, her words are about as good as you can expect regarding the

Fiegards. Or might be I’m getting soft in my old age? He’d also heard the rumors of Queen Blynn’s disappearance, how she set off on a foolhardy quest to appeal to Fieg herself. Might be Boghech’s more right than she knows.

A practical man, Swagger knew his strengths and limitations. Built for combat and survival, a quiet pride infused him over the fact that in harsh times, his chances were better than most. Swagger was a solid leader to like-minded soldiers, but didn’t suffer fools. Not born to nobility, he never dwelt on the limitations of his station. Easier to value your blessings than spend your days lamenting flaws.

Preferring silence to more of Boghech’s irritating chatter, he led his contingent into the wind, while snow pellets raced to the ground, impatient with gravity’s pull. He brushed the accumulated frost from his beard and did the same for his horse’s coarse mane. The double-coated chestnut snorted in response, its breath fogging the air.

Swaying conifers lined the valley road and shed clumps from their branches. One devious gob landed on his neck and trickled down his shoulder. Swagger shimmied and twisted as the melting snow raised his hackles.

“Fieg’s fury, that’s cold!”

Diora Boghech chuckled at his misfortune. “Curse all you want at your frigid goddess, but that’s just bad luck!”

Fry hushed Boghech with a hiss and a finger to his lips. He pointed to riders in the distance. Upon following his finger up the valley ridge, Diora Boghech’s eyes grew wide.

“Who are they?” she whispered.

Swagger halted his troops and squinted into the bluster. While shielding his face with a gloved hand, he inspected the distant horsemen.

“Drachian colors.” His brows furrowed, Swagger turned toward Boghech with a questioning glance. 

She shrugged. “They’re early?” “Doesn’t make sense,” he said.

“That’s no royal caravan.”

“Did King Drachia send a scouting party?” Swagger counted the distant riders, noting their weapons and armor. “They outnumber us, and are fitted for battle.”

“Why bring a war band to a betrothal feast?” Boghech asked.

“They say King Drachia’s paranoid.” Swagger scratched his beard, sending flakes onto his emerald tabard. “But this reeks of treachery.”

“Should we confront them?”

Fry licked his chapped lips and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.” They could be hostile, and we’re outnumbered. Swagger wondered if he was the one being paranoid.

“What then, Sergeant? If they spot us avoiding them, it’ll reflect badly on King Kolf.”

He bristled at her familiar use of the king’s first name. “I’ll risk a political embarrassment if it means protecting the realm. Send two riders to Skelmoth with a warning. We’ll monitor ’em from a distance.”

“How should we phrase the warning? Early guests?”

Swagger eyeballed Boghech. His patience evaporated and revealed itself in his harsh tone. “Tell the king there are Drachian knights on Fiegard soil— and no sign of the princess or royal caravan.” Swagger exhaled a tense breath into the frigid air. “At least the king won’t be taken unawares. And if this is just a misunderstanding, I’ll take the blame for our lack of hospitality.” And only a demotion, if I’m lucky.  

Boghech turned her horse toward the troops, but before she issued the command, Swagger interrupted her.

“They’ve spotted us. Here they come.”

 

         

 

 

Chapter 3

 

The seven celestials visited the watery world long before The Claimed Isles were named.

 

Riggan

 

Castle Fieg’s clarions warned Riggan that trouble approached. She peered out her tower window with a clear view of Skelmoth. Smoke wafted from snow-covered roofs on buildings extending to the frozen bay. Anchoring Skelmoth’s center sat Fieg’s Temple and its prized treasure, the crystal obelisk. Under the late afternoon sky, Riggan scanned from the bay to the bridge connecting Skelmoth to Castle Fieg.

No signs of obvious concern met her eyes.

Despite the myriad of calamities a Mystic of Fieg had to tend with, her intuition convinced her that the horns blew for the royal hunting party. ’Tis past time for their return. She donned her pocketed leather coat, collected her medicine bag, and strode for the stairs. 

Although she served the God of Death, Riggan’s primary tasks were to keep Fieg’s faithful from prematurely dying. Despite the stigma associated with the God of Death, Fieg’s servants never hastened death’s arrival; rather, they worked to keep her faithful alive until their proper time to pass. 

The path from her tower chambers led Riggan through the cavernous Castle Fieg. The stone edifice clung to the west side of Mount Skelmoth, towering above the capital city of the same name. Carved blocks from the Skelmoth mines comprised the structure, which spread back into the rocks whence it was hewn. Commanding high ground and rooted to the mountain by a network of tunnels and caverns, a well-defended Castle Fieg was impenetrable. 

At the moment, this mattered little to Riggan, whose knees and ankles lamented the winding trek down flights of oaken stairs. As she hurried toward the ground floor, house guards fell in behind her, summoned to duty by the ominous horns. Illuminated only by sconce flames, the castle walls and stairwells displayed eerie shadows from the silent marchers. Boots echoed in the hallways, setting a rhythmic beat to accompany the misery pipes. 

The bustling castle staff prepared for tonight’s betrothal feast as busy servants impeded Riggan’s progress. She dreaded the event, all pomp and ceremony, with no purpose other than to ply guests with gluttonous food and drink. The royals claimed the celebration honored Fieg, but Riggan recalled no such ritual in the ancient canon. And she knew Fiegardian creed better than anyone alive. This particular tradition sprung from a hedonistic royal’s desire for more divinely sanctioned debauchery. So be it, just another harmless gala, with a fabricated origin.

She could envision the haughty Drachians watching her and whispering ancient falsehoods. Of the Seven Gods, Fieg was the most misunderstood—and reviled. Especially by Drachians, who considered Fieg inconsequential compared to their own God of War.

Fuck them, and their arrogant god.

While her booted feet pounded the floorboards in long strides, Riggan’s mind raced. Despite all the dangers of a walrus hunt, her thoughts revolved around Prince Ligo. He’s the most vulnerable. The prince’s confounding ailment vexed her, as she could not cure— much less identify—the reason for his unpredictable convulsions. If forced to wager, Riggan placed her coin on another royal seizure as the reason for the alarm horns. With the betrothal feast imminent, King Kolf would have little patience with her failure to remedy his eldest’s recent malady.

Riggan sympathized with Prince Ligo over the similarity of their paths. Both she and the prince were assigned their life’s work at birth. Though predestined for lofty, powerful positions, neither enjoyed the freedom of choosing their own destiny. Now, Prince Ligo had been designated a life mate with no input of his own.

Theoretically, she and the prince could have spurned their predetermined stations, and turned their backs on their families and peers. Such a rebellious decision might have granted them some form of freedom at the cost of ostracization from their families and communities. Riggan sometimes fantasized about what her life could have been, if not for her sworn service to Fieg. She wondered if Prince Ligo did the same.

When Riggan reached the gatehouse’s main floor, the massive doors stood open, and the drawbridge lowered. Castle Fieg’s gatehouse exterior bore the God of Death’s likeness. The entrance served as Fieg’s open mouth, and the iron portcullis resembled her long teeth. Leering above the opening, the carving wore a perpetually scowling face. Riggan blamed the threatening visage on grandiose artistic license with no basis in historical fact. She rolled her eyes out of habit.

Another harmless fabrication.

From across the stone bridge, Riggan spotted the hunting party through puffy wet flakes. Across Skelmoth’s slippery streets, the loaded dogsleds approached with near-reckless haste. Prince Ligo was not driving any sled.

King Kolf, Prince Calamir, and Firon Halcha pulled their dogsleds across the massive drawbridge and into the castle proper. Their cargo included a dead walrus and an unconscious Prince Ligo. King Kolf’s angry eyes met Riggan’s and held fast. 

“Mystic, attend my son!”

Riggan sped past the panting dogs and found Prince Ligo strapped to a sled’s basket. She brushed the accumulated snow off him.

“What happened, Your Majesty?”

“What else? He suffered another spell,” the King said.

“Collapsed on the ice, right in front of the bull,”

Calamir added. “Halcha saved his life.”

Estimating the trip’s duration, Riggan calculated that Prince Ligo’s post-seizure unconsciousness had lasted longer than ever. I fear his attacks are worsening. As the hounds sniffed her boots, Riggan checked Prince Ligo’s vitals. His breathing and pulse are sound, but I need to do a thorough inspection. The brisk, crowded gatehouse would not serve. 

“Your Majesty, my infirmary is best equipped to treat him.”

The glowering king motioned for his guards to comply, and they hoisted the prince onto a stretcher.

Back up the tower stairs, Riggan followed the soldiers and their royal burden. Though doubts began popping into her mind, she mentally prepared for her examination. Could the cold trigger his reaction? The dogs? As soon as an idea emerged, she quashed it. No, his last seizure happened inside, in the morning, after sleeping in a warm bed with no animals near him for hours.

When they arrived at the infirmary, Riggan instructed the guards to place him face-up on her examination table. “Help me get his parka off, please.”

The guard propped Prince Ligo into a sitting position and Riggan stripped off his coat. Vomit coated the exterior. She tossed the damp garment onto an adjacent table and then pointed at the other guards milling about her infirmary. 

“One of you, please stoke the fire, then close the door on your way out.”

As the guards exited, she removed the prince’s coif and checked his skull for injuries. So far, so good.  

The infirmary door slammed shut and Riggan pulled off the prince’s two-layered boots. Sweat beaded on her brow as the roaring fireplace warmed the sterile room. She continued to remove Prince Ligo’s clothing. Urine soaked his trousers. Could have been worse. With a warm, damp cloth, she cleaned and inspected each part of his body.

“No external injuries, thank Fieg.” She imagined a scowling King Kolf breathing down her neck.

Riggan covered the naked prince with a blanket, then hurried to her apothecary cabinet and began grabbing ingredients. He’ll have a headache, for sure, and I’ll need to warm his blood and get it flowing. “Willow bark, betony, verbena,” she mumbled as she worked. “Some cumin and mint.”

Riggan added the ingredients to a ceramic mortar and began grinding the grassland herbs and flowering plants into a powder. She added the painrelieving concoction to a simmering alembic solution and then increased the heat. The mystic repeated the process for a second elixir, using sage and snogre blood. 

With the amalgams boiling gently, she grasped her lodestone and returned to her still-unconscious patient. Riggan wiped the sweat from her brow. Standing toe to heel, she slipped off her boots, providing relief from the sweltering room. The stench from his soiled garments intensified in the warm air. Riggan kicked her boots under the table and uncovered Prince Ligo. With the lodestone in her right hand, she traced his bare skin with the magnetic mineral while pressing his flesh with her left hand. 

Riggan started at Prince Ligo’s head, running her fingers through his curly hair, feeling his scalp for abnormalities. Convinced his skull was physically unharmed, she advanced her examination to his limbs. Riggan sensed the stone’s subtle magnetic field while probing flesh and muscle to the bone. She covered each sinewy arm, around shoulder and armpit, across his smooth forearm and long fingers, all the way to the tips. She repeated the procedure for each leg and found no injury or affliction. His fitness is certainly not an issue.

She inspected his chest, feeling each rib, from spine to sternum, then on to his abdomen as it rose and fell with each breath, using her deft fingers to prod his organs. Lodestone’s telling me nothing.

She moved to his groin and noticed his first bodily reaction to her touch. That’s a good sign. Riggan would dutifully check every inch of him to discover what was wrong. Her lifelong training provided her an unparalleled knowledge of the body. And yet, she lingered over him, completely flummoxed. Can’t find anything wrong. Why won’t he waken?

With her hand still between Prince Ligo’s legs, she startled as King Kolf cleared his throat behind her. 

About the Author:

C. M. Skiera currently lives in the American Southwest, a long way from Michigan, where he grew up, graduated from Michigan State University, and started a thirty-plus-year career as a professional environmental engineer.
 
He and his wife are devoted dog-lovers who share their home with rescue dogs. Plea to a Frozen God is his fourth fantasy novel following The Oxbow Kingdom Trilogy (Crimson & Cream, Mirrors & Mist, and Warlock & Wyrm).

 
Website:  http://cmskiera.yourresearchhelp.com/
 
Blog:  http://cmskiera.blogspot.com/
 
BookBub Profile:  https://www.bookbub.com/authors/c-m-skiera
 
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6520768.C_M_Skiera
 
Amazon Author Central Page:  http://www.amazon.com/C.M.-Skiera/e/B008XKXD2Q
 
Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100004136952025

Book Blast By:

Book Blast - Glintborn Fools

 

Glintborn Fools
Aria's chronic illness has robbed her of freedom, friends, and romance. However, an incredible act of magic transforms her and she's swept into a mysterious and perilous new world of fae, sorcerers, and vampires.

In the once-sleepy town of Colville, the sky cracks open and magic rains down, enchanting everything it touches. Aria and her classmates Claire, Sorin, and Michael start to manifest strange supernatural abilities.

Unaware that something sinister also arrived in Colville that fateful night, the friends must uncover the mystery of who caused the sky to crack, how to harness the power of magic, and expose the motives of the creature whose sights seem set on her.

(Chapter Preview) Prologue: 

"I know where the Emerald Court’s missing son is,” the girl in the yellow sundress said to the man in the black trench coat under the harsh light of a street lamp.

Her feet dangled off the edge of the bench, swinging back and forth. It was past midnight, and the park was empty except for raccoons, the unhoused, and this odd pair. Despite being wildly out of place, the slight girl with long black hair and sightless white eyes seemed quite comfortable and unafraid.

"Very good, but why are you telling me about this?”

The man had a beautiful, strange accent. A hint of British, a dash of East Coast, and an unplaceable third element that made it all the more alluring. He was covered head to toe in black, even his face was obscured by a cowl, his stunning silver eyes watched the maple leaves shake in the chilly evening breeze. His gloved hands rested on a silver dragon-headed cane.

"Oh, don’t be so suspicious. We’re friends after all! Aren’t you curious?” She giggled and tilted her head at an unnatural angle. He seemed unimpressed.

"Always, but you wouldn’t tell me unless you wanted me to do something about it. I’m not risking my neck for the likes of him. Get someone from his worthless bloodline to fetch him.” He dismissed her with a wave.

Undeterred, she persisted. "Honest! I’m only telling you about it. You’re going to find out on your own anyway.”

With a heavy sigh, he looked at her. "Ahh, are you dreaming about me again? What does my future hold? Hmm?”

"That wouldn’t be fun! And you were mean to me.” She stuck her tongue out at him. "So the only thing I’ll tell you is that you’ll uncover where he is.”

"Some seer you are. What’s the point if I’m going to get the information with or without you?” He smirked at the absurdity.

"Either you follow your lead, or I send Warden. Unfortunately, he won’t care about studying the anomalies.”

"Anomalies? What sort of anomalies?” he asked, his curiosity piqued.
The girl placed her hand over her heart in mock sadness. "It’s a pity we’ll never know since you’re not going...”

"Give me something, Ilana!” He slammed the point of his cane down on the ground. A gust of wind stirred the leaves.

She grinned at him as he fell into her trap. "Magic. More magic than this world has seen in thousands of years.”

Author Bio: J.L. Knight is a game designer turned young adult author who enjoys taking readers on fantastical adventures. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two children.

Website: https://www.glintbornbooks.com/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/50974939.J_L_Knight 

  Book Blast by 

Book Blast - The Owlbear and the Omens

 

The Owlbear and the Omens
by Aengie Scevity

Imperial Princess Phosphoria of the Zekzterian Empire is desperate to survive the inevitable culling of her father’s harem, when an opportunity arises. In the conquered land of Great Leven, her dying brother is an heirless king until Phosphoria wins the right to his throne.

To secure her rule, Phosphoria announces a tour of the country and trials for her hand, but when servants and nobles alike are murdered, she discovers that the harem she escaped might just be the key to stay the infighting. However, a queen’s harem will be no easy feat as the lords of Great Leven will never accept the proposal and Phosphoria is unable to lie; she is Blessed by the Owlbear, forced to see and speak only the truth.

Further complications arise from rebels loyal to the usurped royal line, and the reappearance of the true heir: the Lost Prince Osbeorn Auber of Great Leven, whose coming was foretold in omens upon the wind.

By marrying many, Phosphoria runs the risk of marrying the murderer in her midst, but she must fight tradition if she is to succeed against the rebels, the murderer, and the lords of Great Leven itself. As for Osbeorn, he must come to terms with the darkness of his past before he can look to the future of his country.

 

Chapter One  

The Imperial Princess Phosphoria of the Zekzterian Empire was at a disadvantage. She was three years younger, two hands shorter and many pounds of muscle smaller than the Imperial Prince Magnos.

        Trying to breathe through the pain in her ribs where her brother’s quarterstaff had struck only moments ago, Phosphoria watched Magnos carefully, the two circling each other. Their father – Emperor Moldavos the Manticore of Zekzteria, Sultan of Oenisia, Czar of Kaluk and King of the Spice Isles – watched impassively from the podium. The audience followed his lead, mouths shut, the silence only broken by loud wooden clacks as Phosphoria and Magnos tested each other’s guard.

        No one had expected either Phosphoria or Magnos to reach the final combat of the tournament for the foreign throne of Great Leven. Magnos was her father’s seventh son, the second oldest to self-nominate for the position and was known as a slow fighter who was struck more quickly than he could strike back. Today, though, today he wore an expression of focus. In the preceding quarterstaff battles with his brothers Sodan and Alum, his size gave him the advantage of reach and it was that advantage that might be Phosphoria’s downfall.

Phosphoria was the second surprising entrant to reach the final battle, a princess in a battle of princes, but, she reminded herself as Magnos swept his staff at her knees, she had her reasons.

Twenty years ago, her father had conquered Great Leven and gifted it to Hydar, First Prince of Zekzteria as a test of his worthiness. Now though, Hydar was wasting away with no heir to succeed him. Unwilling to cede Great Leven back to Levenian rule, Moldavos had decreed that the worthiest of his other children would relinquish all Zekzterian titles and become their brother’s heir.

Phosphoria had seized upon the opportunity like a woman dying in the desert seizes a half-empty waterskin. It didn’t matter that Great Leven was plagued by sporadic uprisings. It didn’t matter that she would have to leave everything she knew to rule in a country that despised her race. It didn’t matter that blocking Magnos’s powerful overhead strike with her staff sent shock shimmering down into her shoulders. The only thing that mattered was that she escape the Imperial Harem and the culling that would come after her father’s death.

When Phosphoria was ten, she had witnessed an execution – she had watched as a man presided over the executions of his father’s second wife and all of his own unmarried siblings. Before that day, Phosphoria had never thought about what the future held for her as a daughter of the Imperial Harem, but in the years since she had spent a lot of time thinking, a lot of time planning and a lot of time training.

Now, possessing a sharp mind and a strong body, both honed by determination and hard work, now was the culmination of her effort. Magnos was strong and Magnos was big but Magnos had never fought Phosphoria before. She, however, had spent the last twelve years becoming accustomed to fighting men bigger and stronger than herself. If she lost to Magnos today, the best she could hope for was to be married to a minor lord before her father died and his second son Hellos executed the Imperial Harem to secure his claim. But if she won, Great Leven was hers and she would no longer be the Imperial Princess Phosphoria of the Zekzterian Empire.

She would be Queen of Great Leven.

Phosphoria retreated a step, her quarterstaff held forward to maintain the distance between her and Magnos, and shook her head to clear the sweat gathering on her brow. The sleeveless wrap-top she wore was sodden, plastered to her back with perspiration; the loose breeches cinched at her waist and ankles fared little better.

Magnos spun his quarterstaff before him, his thick fingers making short work of manipulating the wooden pole as he advanced. He had not yet broken a sweat but wet blood glimmered against the deep bronze of his face from a viper-quick strike Phosphoria had landed earlier. He was one of Phosphoria’s larger brothers, tall and powerfully built and had forgone the wrap-top in favour of airflow, the deep golden tone of his chest and back on display. Phosphoria’s eyes were locked on his chest, watching for the slightest telltale moment that would give away his next movement.

A twitch near the top of his pectoral muscle: there. Magnos’s grip on his quarterstaff shifted slightly before he swung the weapon overhead in another powerful overhead strike. Phosphoria blocked the strike and dropped, rolling to one side in a single movement, Magnos’s staff sliding off the tail end of her own to punch into the ground in a spray of sand. Twisting, still on her knees, Phosphoria whipped her weapon back up and over Magnos’s, jabbing it into the centre of his chest in a ploy designed to wind him.

Magnos exhaled in a wheeze and lashed his staff through the sand, striking Phosphoria in the calf before she could dodge, the attack landing with dense thump heard around the arena. Immediately, Phosphoria began to lose the feeling in her lower leg, the hindrance only worsening as she tumbled backwards to gain some space and rise to a standing position.

Her brother’s guard was still down as he gasped silently, no air entering his lungs. With Phosphoria’s leg rapidly becoming more and more useless, she needed to end this soon. An overhead strike was a dangerous gambit against someone the size of Magnos but she was unlikely to get another opportunity. Lunging forward on a foot without sensation, Phosphoria swept her staff overhead, aiming for Magnos’s temple.

Abandoning proper form, Magnos brought up the short end of his staff at the last moment, Phosphoria’s attack glancing off the butt of the weapon to instead connect with his pronounced trapezius.

Magnos grunted, fingers loosening and grip becoming clumsy, his movements slowed. Relentless, Phosphoria whipped the weapon from Magnos’s trapezius to under his ear, the blow landing with a painfully loud rap. Magnos’s eyes lost focus as he sunk to his knees but Phosphoria was unremitting, batting his throat, his temple and the knuckles of his hands in four quick strikes.

Magnos dropped his weapon, swaying on his knees as Phosphoria kicked it away, her own pressed sharply under his chin, seemingly holding him aloft.

‘Do you yield?’ Phosphoria asked. Despite the fear and adrenaline at this penultimate step coursing through her body, her words were plain. Her breathing was rough, her ribs were on fire and one leg was numb below the knee but her grip was steady.

Her brother lurched forward, as if in search of his quarterstaff but instead came to rest facedown in the sand.

From the corner of her eye, Phosphoria saw their father, the Emperor Moldavos, raise a single finger, allowing healers to rush the arena. She smartly brought her weapon by her side and bent to one knee, bowing low as she waited. All she could hear were the healers tending to her brother and the pound of her own heart in her ears. From the corner of her eye, magickal flame glimmered – a sign of the healers’ work. Seconds turned to tense minutes, as her father the Emperor deliberated silently.

Moldavos’s voice rang out as clear as ever, the tones precisely clipped, the voice of an educated man. ‘As Emperor of Zekzteria, Sultan of Oenisia, Czar of Kaluk and King of the Spice Isles I grant victory to Her Royal Highness, the Imperial Princess Phosphoria of Zekzteria, Blessed by the Owlbear. Stand, Princess Phosphoria.’

Masking difficulty, Phosphoria rose, one foot completely numb. Another minute passed in silence as her father studied her, his fingers toying with the staff of his ceremonial war hammer, the weapon glowing with a potent fire, invisible to all without the Eye.

‘Princess Phosphoria, do you offer yourself as heir to the First Prince of Zekzteria, His Majesty, King Hydar of the Seven Realms of Great Leven, contingent upon his death?’

Phosphoria bowed, releasing a tense breath. ‘Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.’

‘Do you swear upon your blessing by the divine Owlbear whose mark you wear scarred into your brow, to relinquish all Zekzterian titles, styles and claims to the Zekzterian Empire and to rule the Seven Realms of Great Leven in independent alliance to the Zekzterian Empire?’

Phosphoria straightened, her stance proud. ‘I do, Your Imperial Majesty.’

‘Then in accordance with your divine promise and witnessed by all gathered here today you will be stripped of your title effective upon your arrival in Great Leven, whereby you will gain the title Her Royal Highness, Princess Phosphoria of the Seven Realms of Great Leven, Blessed by the Owlbear.’

Moldavos stamped the butt of his ceremonial war hammer into the stone flooring twice, indicating the end of the proceedings. ‘As the Manticore wills it,’ he intoned.

‘As the Manticore wills it,’ Phosphoria and the audience repeated.

 

Author Bio

‘Aengie Scevity is based in Melbourne, Australia. She is an animal lover and gaming enthusiast who loves nothing more than a cold day and a hot cup of tea.’

 

Purchase Links 

Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D3Z8WRQC
Amazon Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B0D3Z8WRQC
Amazon Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B0D3Z8WRQC
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0D3Z8WRQC