Enjoy this excerpt of Nights of Villjamur by Mark Charan Newton, available wherever books are sold. Beneath a dying red
Enjoy this excerpt of Nights of Villjamur by Mark Charan Newton,NIGHTS OF VILLJAMUR by Mark Charan Newton, ExcerptNIGHTS OF VILLJAMUR by Mark Charan Newton, ExcerptNIGHTS OF VILLJAMUR by Mark Charan Newton, ExcerptNIGHTS OF VILLJAMUR by Mark Charan Newton, ExcerptNIGHTS OF VILLJAMUR by Mark Charan Newton, ExcerptNIGHTS OF VILLJAMUR by Mark Charan Newton, Excerpt
[...] people.” it's not your fault an ice age is starting. There've been hundreds of years of accurate predictions, you were merely the Emperor to face the challenge. There's always stocks of I have to look after them. It means four hundred thousand responsibilities. You wouldn't have a clue what that's like.” “They know you try to look after Brynd insisted. “Your Imperial lineage has always been popular.” ones already living here, perhaps. But any other idiot arriving from whatever benighted corner of this Empire they inhabit will be surprised when we can't let them enter. [...]
[...] He limped around a nook of the forest that leaned over the water. Two of his three longships had been totally destroyed. The smell of burning fuel was pungent. Tiny pyres ﬂoated on the water's surface, shattered wood and cargo were strewn around the shoreline, once-proud sails had become burning rags, propped up by masts that were sinking even as he watched. Three Night Guardsmen ﬂoated face-down, their cloaks ballooning with trapped air. Several soldiers were still ﬁghting on the shore. [...]
[...] The roll-up fell to the ﬂoor, exploding ashes across the tiles. Later, when he had fallen asleep again, she thought about their conversation just before he drifted off. He talked a lot, which was unusual for a man after sex. She reﬂected deeply on what he had said, about the details that he had gone into. He had shocked her. A man in his important position should surely refrain from talking so much, but he was probably still rather drunk. [...]
[...] Brynd then stumbled through the aphotic fagus forest, peering between its mottled bark for any sign of movement. His eyes caught subtleties, as he gripped branches, slipped on moss-laden rocks. At some distance on, he passed the disaggregated body of one of his Night Guard—and could tell it was Voren by the elaborate bow cast to one side. Doglike black gheels lingered around the corpse, their triple tongues and double sets of eyes shifting in rhythmic twitches around the open wounds, in a ritual as old as the land itself. [...]
[...] They stepped cautiously to within an armspan of him, noticing his face lacked blood as if totally drained of it. His eyes were slightly slanted, and they gazed directly past Brynd. There were strange wounds around his neck, then Brynd noticed that his head was shaven unevenly, so that tufts of black hair blossomed on it in patches. “Looks dead, doesn't Apium remarked. Brynd reached out, prodded the man in the chest. Still no reaction. The commander took a bold step forward and reached out to feel his wrist. I'll swear by Bohr, he Apium gasped. [...]
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