We continue to feature our multiple-award-nominated author, Dave Duncan, and this time around we’re covering another one of his many series. It’s A Man of His Word and it’s actually a precursor to another series we’ve already featured, A Handful of Men. A princess and a stableboy? It sounds like the worst sort of hackneyed formula romance. Think again, for A Man of His Word may well be the most original fantasy you ever read. The magic is unique and applied in unexpected ways, some of which the late Lester del Rey admitted he had not met in fifty years as writer and editor. The world itself is unique–there are no humans in Pandemia, only imps, elves, gnomes, jotnar, and many more, all of whom you will recognize as “human”.

Magic Casement (Book One of A Man of His Word)

In Magic Casement the tale begins gently, even slowly, with Inosolan enjoying an idyllic childhood in a tiny backwater kingdom, too carefree and innocent even to understand that the feelings she shares with her friend Rap are more than friendship. Mystery, menace, and the gods appear in short order, and from then on the story grows in scope and power to straddle the world, and adversity thrusts rapid maturity on Rap and Inos. Populated by unforgettable characters–Aunt Kade, Little Chicken, Doctor Sagorn, and many more–Pandemia is an incredible world of credible people and infinite surprises.

Faery Lands Forlorn (Book Two of A Man of His Word)

When Inos was abducted through the magic casement and Rap tried to follow her, they arrived in places very strange-and very far apart…

Perilous Seas (Book Three of A Man of His Word)

Hunted now by the fearsome warlock wardens who rule the world, Inos is convinced that Rap is dead. But Rap is not, and the tide may be about to turn…

She thought he was dead. Queen Inos feels Rap’s presence as if he has risen from the grave to be beside her, but she knows all that is left of him is his voice, which echoed in her mind–well, so she thinks. Her duty is to serve her people, and Queen Inos doesn’t know her galley slave, Rap, is alive and, with his magic wand, trying to bring happiness to his beloved Queen. But when the evil Nordland raider, Kalkor, arrives in port, Rap’s plans begin to fall apart.

Emperor and Clown (Book Four of A Man of His Word)

With Inos married to the wrong man and Rap dying in a dungeon, obviously the cause is hopeless. Only Aunt Kade refuses to admit defeat…
–
Dave Duncan does fantasy like no one else and this early series shows him working at the top of his form.

When Sony finally released its updated Reader, the PRS-505 a few weeks ago (pictured at right), Peter N. Glaskowsky from CNet was one of the first happy reviewers to take a look at the new edition of this famous ebook device. He bought the new model to replace his old 1st generation Sony Reader (the PRS-500), and his write-up of the new version, which I recommend you read, shows he’s pleased with the improvements. The new Reader boasts more onboard memory, a new interface button layout, and comes in one of two colors (silver or dark blue). What many people aren’t aware of is that it’s capable of MP3 playback (yes, both music and audiobooks!) and that you can mount it as a read/write drive by USB to either your Mac or PC, to drag folders of RTFs, PDFs, and other supported ebook formats onto the device. It also has both a Sony Memory Stick slot and a standard SD slot, giving you as much as 10GB of storage space. Sony Connect sells E-Reads titles for the Reader at just $8.99 a pop, or you can purchase our non-DRM Sony ebooks from Fictionwise. This Christmas, the Sony Reader is probably the best device deal, for under $300 at Best Buy.

Meanwhile, Fujitsu has readied 2 new color ebook readers that represent an effort to break away from standard grayscale sooner rather than later. The Flepia, in either an A4 or an A5 size, is WiFi enabled and can display 4096 colors on its screen, but there are limitations… it takes about 10 seconds to redraw a screen (aka. flip a page) and bleeding edge technology doesn’t come cheap. The problem stems from e-ink panel technology, which is based on creating a static image that does not refresh until you request it to do so, in order to conserve energy, and color technology in this realm is still percolating and expensive. When Fujitsu showed a demo version of this technology over a year ago, it didn’t blow many people away as much as it delivered a proof-of-concept device. The final versions Fujitsu announced as Flepia models won’t be available in North America, probably because color e-ink like this is still considered too expensive for our market. However, you can expect future ebook readers for the mass market to eventually incorporate color like the Flepia does.

This week E-Reads added some two dozen titles to its list of Destroyer action adventure novels by Warren Murphy and Warren Sapir, bringing our current total to 50. E-Reads has about 50 more titles in inventory, so you may be sure the supply is not going to run out any time soon.

At last count there were over 140 Destroyer novels, not including the many books in other series that Warren Murphy (his co-creator passed away many years ago) has generated. For those of you who have written a novel, or who have labored over your masterpiece for five or ten years, it’s almost incomprehensible that one writer can be so prolific. It calls for determination, discipline, inventiveness and nimble fingers to produce hundreds of books over a career (and Murphy is still going strong), but as remarkable as it may seem to the lay reader or weekend novelist, Murphy is by no means the world’s champion. The French thriller writer Simenon boasted over 1000 books and there may be others of similar fecundity. Having written potboilers myself years ago I am not at all surprised. At 5000 words a day, I was able to complete a novel in about two weeks. Granting an author his or her sabbaths and a couple of weeks per year of vacation, that’s still about 20 or 25 books a year. Over an effective career of, say, forty years, that puts us close to 1000 titles.

But — are they any good? Well, Warren Murphy’s army of fans thinks so, and so do we. For a more detailed look at prolific authors, read about the bet I made twenty-five years ago that I know authors who can write books faster than publishers can cut checks. No publisher has taken me up on the bet, and for good reason.

I’m tempted to bet that Warren can write a Destroyer faster than you can read it, but I don’t think I’d win that one. Read one and you’ll know why.

- Richard Curtis

I have a standing bet with many publishers, backed by one thousand dollars payable to the charity of their choice. The bet is that a professional author can write a book faster than a publisher can write a check. And I hereby reaffirm the bet publicly.

So far nobody has taken me up on this wager, and I doubt if anybody will. But if someone wants to, just make your check payable to the Special Olympics.

There is no gimmick here. At least a dozen professional writers on my client list are capable of turning out a novel in two to four weeks, even less if their publisher is desperate. But I know of scarcely any major publisher capable of routinely preparing contracts or, once contracts have been signed, cutting a check in that period of time. Unless it’s an emergency, in which case it takes about three weeks longer.

I don’t believe my clients are unique in this respect. Many agents handle or know of authors capable of turning out genre fiction, male adventure, westerns, romances, and the like, within weeks. In fact, many writers would go under if they were not capable of producing at least a book a month.

But are the books good? What is the relationship between the quality of a book and the time it takes to produce it? I’ll be exploring these questions in a moment. But I’m not quite through with publishers.

The contracts and accounting departments of most publishing companies are extremely burdened with work and, under the best of circumstances, move with maddening bureaucratic casualness. Absent, it seems (to authors and agents), is the sense that the papers being shuffled have any bearing on the basic needs, the food and clothing and rent and car payments and college tuitions, of the human beings “hereinafter referred to as Authors.” One agent, in a frothing fit of frustration, likened the process to the admitting office of a hospital emergency room, where the life fluids of victims trickle out of their bodies while the admitting clerk takes down their address, Social Security number, and mother’s maiden name. I don’t know if I would go that far, though I do remember a case of one crazed client who informed his editor he had just had his cat destroyed because an unconscionably late contract and check had made it impossible for him to pay for the poor creature’s medical treatments. But I might, if I were of a cynical turn of mind, be tempted to suggest that the torpid pace of the contracts and accounting departments of some publishing companies is yet another example of how publishers cling to money as long as possible at the expense of authors. Luckily, I am not of a cynical turn of mind.

In fact, one’s heart might almost go out to the gallant minions of the contracts and accounting departments. Anyone who has actually seen them in action, or inaction, must appreciate that the choreography of procedures for drafting a contract and drawing a check is highly complex in even the most efficiently run publishing houses. Once an editor has concluded negotiations with an agent or author, he or she draws up a contract request enumerating all of the deal points plus any variations in the boilerplate language that the author or agent may have requested. This contract request joins the many others awaiting action by the contracts department. The terms in the contract request are then transferred onto contract forms.

These forms must now be reviewed, sometimes by the original editor, sometimes by department heads, sometimes by the chief executive of the company, sometimes by all of them. The contracts are then submitted to author or agent, and if, heaven forbid, there should be but one or two minor items to be negotiated or renegotiated that the editor or contracts person does not have sole authority to decide, approval of those changes must be secured from someone at the company who is in authority. I have seen a contract held up for a month because I requested upping the number of free authors’ copies from ten to twenty, or extending the delivery date by one month. Some contract department heads are fanatical about initialing alterations, requiring weeks of additional back-and-forthing. Some agents have become quite masterful at forging their clients’ initials on contracts, and though this is a potentially dangerous practice, it seems like the only practical tactic to counter massive delay. One of my colleagues grinningly boasts, “If I spent a day in jail for every set of initials I’ve forged, you’d never see me again.”

Once the contracts have been signed by the author, the machinery for procuring the check begins to grind. The contracts department issues a voucher instructing the accounting department to draw the check due on signing the contracts. Such vouchers must in the normal course of things be reviewed by the comptroller or some other executive in charge of financial affairs. Once the check is drawn, it will be examined by that executive and possibly by the publisher before it is signed by one or both of these officers. Needless to say, it is not as if these folks have nothing else to do.

If, therefore, you wonder why a publishing company can’t just type up a contract the way you might scribble a thank-you note, and dash off a check the way you dash one off to pay your landlord, now you know, and perhaps you’ll feel a bit more compassion for the clerical staffs of publishers.

I do. But my bet still stands.

Despite this lengthy digression and a muffled tone of querulousness, this chapter is not about how slow publishers are. It’s about how fast writers are.

Outsiders—by which I mean people with little firsthand experience of the creative and technical aspects of writing—have difficulty making peace with the idea that any kind of book, let alone a good one, can be turned out in thirty days or less. But I know of several professional writers who have written full-length novels over a weekend, not because they wanted to, but because they had to in order to accommodate publishers in a jam. A tightly scheduled manuscript had not been delivered on time, covers were printed, rack space reserved, the printer’s time booked. “Can do,” these heroes quietly said, and on Monday morning, looking like The Thing From The Crypt, they dragged into their publisher’s offices with a manuscript.

Ah, you murmur, but were they good manuscripts?

This annoying question arises again and again whenever prolific writers are mentioned. It’s easy to understand how the public at large would classify such feats as belonging to that end of the spectrum of human accomplishment reserved for flagpole sitting and marathon dancing. It’s harder to understand why many editors feel that way too. But a large number have the attitude that the quality of literature rises in direct proportion to the time required to produce it. Publishers, even those who publish lines of genre fiction that call for short and rigid deadlines, are quite suspicious of prolific authors. They can’t believe a book written that fast can be that good.

I have always felt that in order to qualify to practice their profession, editors should be required to write a novel. They would then undoubtedly discover that many of the skills they now consider dismayingly hard are actually quite easy, while many they regard as a cinch are inordinately difficult. One thing they would appreciate, I’m certain, is that an experienced professional writer working an eight-hour day and typing at average speed can produce five thousand words daily in clean first draft without pushing. That’s a finished book in twelve to fifteen working days.

But one draft? How can a writer produce a first draft that is also a polished draft?

One reason is that he has no choice. The author who writes a good book in one draft will earn twice as much money as one who writes the same book in two. And when the pay scale is twenty-five hundred to five thousand dollars per book, one simply cannot afford to write a second draft.

It is also a matter of training. Many professional writers reach a level of craftsmanship where whacking out clean copy is as natural as hitting balls is for a professional baseball player or dancing en pointe is for a ballerina. The amateur who writes fast usually writes sloppily; the professional who writes fast will most likely write masterfully.

And let us not forget inspiration. It is not uncommon for writers to talk about writing as if in a trance, or feeling like a channel through which a story is being poured from some mystical source. Some writers rehearse a scene or story so often in their heads that when they finally commit it to paper, it all comes in a rush, as if they’re writing from memory rather than from a sense of original creation.

All this is helped by the development of computerized word processors, which enable their owners to write two drafts in the time it used to take writers working on conventional typewriters to write one. But now that the technology is at hand, will the prejudice against prolificness finally be overcome? I’m not too sure.

For, in the last analysis, it isn’t the editors or public who cling most tightly to the myth that fast writing is poor writing. It’s the writers themselves. Almost all the professional writers I know equate speedy writing with money and slow writing with love, to the point where their personalities actually bifurcate and the halves declare war on one another. Authors capable of knocking off a superb genre novel in one draft will agonize over every sentence of their “serious,” “important,” “literary” novel as if they were freshmen in a creative writing course. They seem to believe that anyone wishing to cross the line between popular entertainment and serious literature must cut his output and raise frustrating obstacles in his own path, and that legitimacy may be purchased only through writer’s block. It is futile to point out that Dickens, Balzac, Dostoyevski, and Henry James wrote as if possessed, in many cases with scarcely a single emendation, yet turned out a body of sublime classics. And they did it in longhand, by the way.

Action adventure series — they’ve been around for decades, hugely popular. Male readers eat them up, but they’re also tremendously appealing to women as well. It’s hard to say who was the first author to produce them, but certainly one of the founding writers of the modern genre, and arguably the best, is Warren Murphy and his Destroyer Series. E-Reads is proud to bring you the first fifty, and you can look for more as time goes by.

We’ve got your hero (maybe he’s even a superhero, even though he isn’t bulletproof—just nearly so). We’ve got your trusty sidekick. We’ve got a secret government agency. We’ve got specialized and mysterious training, with a hint of mystical stuff thrown in for spice. We’ve got a never-ending series of villains of all types, from the ordinary and merely venal to the megalomaniac Earth-conquerors in training. And we’ve got action. Boy have we got action. For books that start with a bang and never let up from beginning to end, there’s nothing that matches a Destroyer novel, except maybe a Richard Stark (that’s Donald Westlake under one of his many pseudonyms for those of you who care) novel about the professional thief, Parker, and his perennial misadventures with his crimes and the criminals whom he gets involved with.

We’re not talking finely-honed prose or literary masterpieces here, although each book is a small gem in its way. What we are talking is a perfect model of entertainment reading at its most entertaining. Start on page one and, more than likely, you’ll look up a few hours later, notice that a bunch of time has gone by, and reach for another volume so you can just keep going—and not worry to much about how late it is and when the alarm is going to ring in the morning. You might not be any smarter or more elegant than you were when you started reading but you will recall that your heart was racing and you couldn’t stop turning the pages to find out what happened next until it was all over.

You’re invited to check out what all the series readers know about how much fun it is to read a Warren Murphy Destroyer novel but don’t buy just one because when you finish the first, you’ll just have to get out of your chair, log on and buy some more.

Here’s the first in the series and here’s Warren Murphy’s bio page with a list of available tiles. And there are more to come.

Enjoy!

Hot news from a report in Publishers Weekly on October 25th!

Hachette Book Group USA announced that it will release all of its ebook publications in the International Digital Publishing Forum’s new file format standard for ebooks. The format, Open Publication Structure 2.0, was adopted by the IDPF in September and allows publishers to create a single digital book file instead of many files for the multiple formats currently needed to make an ebook available for all retailers and on all devices. Hachette is the first trade publisher to adopt the standard. This should cut ebook publication costs and make more titles more widely available.

The underlying message here is that Hachette is telling retailers that if they want to sell in a specific format it is their own responsibility to convert it to that format: Hachette will
not burden itself with the cost of producing multiple formats. Not only are they the first to adopt the standard but also they’re using their weight to overthrow any retailer’s expectations that publishers will continue to provide multiple formats in the future. For example, eReader will now have to convert Hachette’s files to .PDB with DRM at eReader’s own expense before they can sell a Hachette publication to their customers. This is the start of a big publisher revolution to reduce conversion costs and spend more money on making more titles available!

We hope that Hachette is the first of many publishers to adopt this standard and we encourage all others to follow their lead.

As we continue to focus on Dave Duncan, multiple award-nominated author, we focus on the fact that not all of his books are parts of one series or another. Herewith, five one-off novels which resemble each other not much at all except in their ability to greatly entertain.

The Cursed

The world was desperate. Since the empire had fallen a hundred years ago, Gwin and her people had nearly given up hope that the Renewer would come? Gwin had lost everything. Her husband was killed in one of the wars. Her children died of Star Sickness. Even her work at the hostel was in jeopardy because the politicians had it out for her. The cursed Gwin, therefore, had nothing to lose? When she took in the girl, a survivor of the Star Sickness, it was a dreadful crime. Gwin was at the end of her rope, and possibly the end of her life if she was found out? But the Sickness had left the girl with certain magic, certain powers which could prove very useful to them both. Was it possible that this young survivor could save their lives and the empire? Was a new life for Gwin and her world finally at hand?

The Hunters’ Haunt

Omar often gets into trouble as a result of his role as the world’s greatest storyteller. The wrong tale at the wrong time told to the wrong audience can prove fatal. A slighted innkeeper threatens to kill Omar by tossing him out into the vicious storm that rages just outside the door of the inn. But this time, for a change, Omar also has the chance to redeem himself by using his gift. If Omar can top the most outrageous tales invented by the inn’s guests, he may get away with his neck intact. Omar not only tells a series of tales that would astonish the most gifted bard, but corrects the errors of the otherss and weaves them all together into one absolutely compelling tale of adventure.

The Reaver Road

Omar is the finest storyteller the world has ever known, captivating audiences everywhere, from the campfires of soldier camps to the plush residences of nobility. In times of turmoil, people can still appreciate a good tale that offers respite from their troubles. But as hordes of barbarian soldiers surround the unvanquished city of Zanadon after ravaging the surrounding countryside, few things are certain any longer. Omar has been guided to the city by prophetic dreams, yet finds himself in an increasingly dangerous situation as the people grow more desperate and the gift of a glib tongue turns into a curse.

A Rose-Red City

The city of Mera is a fortress hidden from the rest of humanity, a sanctuary for the diverse group of people rescued from death by the Oracle that rules the city. The Oracle has brought together the citizens of Mera from every land and every time period, protecting them from the ravages of time, death and the evil demon forces that howl outside the city at night. All that the Oracle asks in return is a willingness to aid the rest of humanity, calling the citizens to go forth on various missions of rescue to mortals in need of aid. The Oracle sends Jerry out into the wilderness, accompanied by his ancient Greek friend, Killer, a world-famous lecher and juvenile delinquent with deadly combat skills. There they must rescue a woman named Ariadne, on the run with her children and seeking shelter. But children are not allowed in Mera, and Ariadne will not leave them, while Mera’s evil demon enemies move closer and closer to Jerry’s and Killer’s temporary place of respite.

Shadow

Sald Harl would like nothing more than to soar on the wings of his noble eagle, but his youthful rides in the sky are cut short by an appointment to guard the prince. Sald watches his dreams of flight fade with his name and independence as he takes over his bodyguard duties. During a perilous journey to the edges of the kingdom a dark secret comes to life. Now the great Prince Shadow is accused of treason, and Sald must orchestrate a desperate plan of escape or he will lose the one thing he has been ordered to defend. His only option for freedom is a dangerous flight that no one has ever survived. Once again Sald hopes to feel the freedom of soaring though the air unshackled from servitude.

There you have them: no two alike, nothing less than a winner in the bunch. Enjoy!

I divide authors into two categories: the ones who know exactly what they’re doing – and everyone else. When I read this opening chapter of King’s Property, the first chapter of the leadoff novel of Morgan Howell’s Queen of the Orcs trilogy, I knew I was in the very best of hands and surrendered my disbelief like a vanquished knight humbly laying down his arms before his conqueror. Reviewers confirmed my judgment, as you’ll see in the windfall of five-star amazon.com reviews hailing the arrival of Morgan Howell.

- Richard Curtis

I happen to have more than a passing acquaintance with Halloween because I was commissioned by Bantam Books to write the paperback tie-in of John Carpenter’s blockbuster movie Halloween under the pen-name of “Curtis Richards.” It was a pretty good novel if I do say so myself. Out of curiosity I checked it out on amazon.com and was gratified to read that one reviewer described it as, “A near classic of its kind.” (Near? Why just near?) If you’re interested in learning how I dealt with the challenge, and the fascinating process of movie, television and game novelizations, feel free to read a free expanded chapter from my book Mastering the Business of Writing.

Excerpt from the text: “One of the great things about movies is that they move so fast, you don’t have time to think about logic. Novels are a more reflective medium, however; at any time you can put a book down and think about what you’ve read. And it worried me, for instance, that my readers would put my book down and wonder how the hell someone who’d been institutionalized since he was five would know how to drive a car. So I had to concoct a whole chapter describing the fellow’s stay in the asylum (which was okay, since I needed the five thousand words anyway) and showing that because he’d been a model inmate and trusty, he’d been taught to drive a truck and use it to run errands on the asylum grounds.” (Read more here…)

Incidentally, I hold an orange belt in pumpkin carving, and above is an example. In the dark you can’t see the bloodstain where my filleting knife penetrated the palm of my left hand.

While I’m on the topic of Halloween, I want to mention something my client Mindy Klasky wrote that you might also enjoy. It’s a pumpkin-stuffer for trick-or-treaters who prefer a yummy read to a handful of Mars Bars. Mindy Klasky’s Sorcery and the Single Girl is the delightful sequel to her paranormal Girl’s Guide to Witchcraft. Klasky established herself as a serious fantasist with a wonderful series (The Glasswrights’ Apprentice and four sequels) published by Berkley Books, but when she said she’d like to try something in a lighter and more romantic voice, I told her to go for it. She immersed herself in chick lit, uttered some incantations, and when she came up for air she’d transformed herself into a Harlequin novelist. Check out the promo, and do pay a visit to Mindy’s website. It’s more fun than a coven of witches!

- Richard Curtis

Glaciers have erased the past. The mountains are diminished. The plains are scraped bare. The First Children have departed, and their works have perished. Only tales remain, worn thin by retelling.

Dar walked alone down a mountain path, bent beneath a load of firewood. The trail she followed hugged steep rocky walls that blocked the morning sun, so the air and ground still held the night’s chill. Nevertheless, she walked barefoot and wore only a tattered, sleeveless shift with a rag to cushion her shoulders. Dar moved quickly to keep warm, but the sound of a distant horse stopped her short. None of her neighbors owned one, nor did anyone in the tiny village beyond the far ridge. Only strangers rode horses, and strangers often brought trouble.

Dar listened. When the hoofbeats died away, leaving only the sound of wind in bare branches, she continued homeward and arrived at a hollow devoid of trees. Its stony ground had been prepared for spring planting. At the far side of the hollow lay the only building—a rude hut, built of rocks and roofed with turf. The horse was tied nearby. Dar was considering leaving when her father’s wife emerged from the low building with a rare smile on her face. The older woman called out. “You have visitors.”

The smile heightened Dar’s wariness. “What kind of visitors?”

Dar’s stepmother didn’t respond, except to smile more broadly. She moved aside, and six armed men stepped from the dark hut followed by the village headman, whose air of self-importance was subdued by the soldiers’ presence. Dar’s father came after him. Last emerged Dar’s two little half sisters, looking frightened. All watched Dar carry her load over to the woodpile. She set it down, then asked her stepmother again, “Thess, who are these men?”

“King’s soldiers,” replied Thess.

“Why are they here?”

“There’s a levy for the army,” said the headman. “Our village must provide two.”

“Then they’ve come to the wrong place,” said Dar. “My brothers are dead, and Father’s too old.”

“It’s not men they want,” said Thess.

“I’m no fighter,” said Dar.

Thess laughed humorlessly. “Then you’ve fooled me.”

“Not all who serve the king need fight,” said the headman. He turned to one of the soldiers. “She’s the one.”

“Father, what’s going on?” asked Dar, already guessing the answer.

Her father looked away.

“This was his idea,” said the headman.

“It’s for the best,” said Dar’s father, his eyes still elsewhere.

“Best for her,” said Dar, casting her stepmother a resentful look. “She’ll be pleased enough to have me gone.”

“I’ll be glad for some peace,” retorted Thess. “Always the proud one, you.”

“Unlike some, who’d tup a man for a space by his fire.”

“You’d be a wife, too, if you weren’t so willful.”

“She’s best suited for the army,” said the headman.

“I’ll determine that,” said the soldier in charge. Though he was the youngest, his helmet and arms were finely made, and his armor was metal, not leather. “Murdant, see if the girl’s fit.”

The murdant, a man half again the age of his officer, slowly circled Dar, taking in her sturdy grace. He thought her old to be unmarried, perhaps two dozen winters. Though unkempt, she had pleasant features—large dark eyes, a delicate nose, russet hair, and full lips—making him surmise it was her temperament that had kept her single. As if to confirm this, Dar stood with a defiant expression, fists clenched at her sides.

“Show me your teeth,” said the murdant.

Though Dar realized the murdant was unlike some suitor who could be scared off by a show of temper, she pressed her lips tightly together. The murdant only grinned, then roughly pinched her cheeks with his thumb and forefinger to force open her jaws. He got a quick glimpse into Dar’s mouth before she struck a blow that he easily warded off. “She’s got her teeth and the rest of her looks sound enough.”

“She’ll do,” said the officer.

The headman bowed. “Tolum, we always fulfill our duty to the king.”

The officer regarded him disdainfully. “This spinster’s no great sacrifice.”

Thess entered the hut and returned with a small bundle wrapped in a threadbare cloak. “I’ve gathered your things,” she said, handing them to Dar.

The tolum mounted his horse. “March her to our camp and be quick. I’ll be waiting.” Then he rode off.

The murdant addressed the other soldiers. “You heard the tolum. Move!” He turned to Dar, who clutched her bundle with a stunned look on her face. He had seen that expression before. Her people have given her up, he thought. She has nowhere to turn. Still, he doubted her defiance was extinguished. “You fixing to give us trouble?”

Dar shook her head.

“Then come along, we have to catch up with a horse.”

Dar turned to bid farewell, but her family had disappeared into the hut.

At first, only the tread of the soldiers’ booted feet broke the silence. Dar walked blank-faced among the men, considering what to do. To buy time, she trod as though her feet were tender, hoping to slow the pace. Dar knew the path would pass a steep slope that was covered with loose rock. They won’t expect me to scramble up it barefoot. Dar was certain she could elude the soldiers, whose armor would encumber them, and escape into the heights above.

Dar tried to imagine what she would do afterward. I can’t go home. The headman would declare her an outlaw, and Dar was certain no neighbor would risk sheltering her. She would have to go far away, and that was her dilemma. In the highlands, a woman without kin had no rights or protection. To dwell anywhere, she would have to beg some man’s leave, and Dar had no illusions what price would be exacted. She recoiled at the thought.

When the soldiers marched past the rock-covered slope, Dar made no escape attempt. Having weighed her options, she chose what seemed the lesser evil—an uncertain fate with the army. The path turned away from the tumbled rocks and headed into a valley. As Dar trudged toward a new life, she thought of the one she was leaving. She would miss her half sisters but little else. Her relations with her father had been strained ever since her mother’s death. This day’s betrayal was only his latest. Life in the stone hut had consisted of hardship, visits from unwanted suitors, and the barbs of a spiteful stepmother. Dar tried to cheer herself with the thought that she was abandoning these afflictions; yet she already suspected they would be replaced by different ones.

As the marching warmed the soldiers, their tongues loosened. “Do ye think the tolum will get himself lost?” asked one in an accent foreign to Dar’s ears.

“Even he can follow hoofprints,” said a companion.

“And his horse has sense,” said another, “even if he lacks it.”

“At least he listened to the murdant today,” said the first soldier. “This one came easy enough.”

“That’s ’cause she’s like you,” said a soldier with a grin, “worthless.”

His companion regarded Dar. “You worthless?”

Dar’s face reddened. The soldier leered and answered his own question. “Well, you’re good for one thing.”

“Unlike you, Tham,” said the murdant. The others laughed.

“At least my mum cried when I marched off,” said Tham. “I saw only dry eyes today.”

“Not like yesterday.”

“Aye,” said the murdant. “Get one that won’t be missed—that’s what I told the tolum. Hey birdie, will you miss them?”

Dar remained silent.

“Maybe she’s happy to be gone from that dung heap,” said one of the men.

“Sure,” said another. “It’s fun being a soldier.”

A soldier laughed. “Especially if you’re a woman.”

“I’ve heard no talk of war,” said Dar. “When did it begin?”

The murdant grinned. “For sooth, you’ve lived under a rock. Kregant’s been at war since the day he was crowned. Soldiering’s been steady work.”

“What’s the king fighting over?”

“Whatever he wishes. I just follow orders.”

“And what will I be doing?” asked Dar.

“Cooking.”

“You marched all this way to get a cook?”

“The tolum’s commander wanted mountain girls. Said they’re tough.”

Dar regarded the murdant and the others. They bore the look of men who lived hard. It would take a strong woman to serve with them, she thought. Yet a glimpse at the murdant’s eyes warned Dar he wasn’t telling all the truth.

“How long will I serve?” she asked.

“Not long,” said the murdant, his gaze fixed elsewhere.

For a while, the route was familiar to Dar. It crossed the valley, climbed the far ridge, and followed it. By noon, they left the ridgeline and descended into a winding valley Dar had never visited. At the lower altitude, the trees had already leafed out. The marchers halted by a stream for a brief meal before moving on. By early afternoon, they reached camp. The tolum paced about the clearing where his horse grazed. Several soldiers stood nearby. One was tending a small fire. A short distance away, a blond-haired woman sat with her back against a tree, facing away from Dar.

“You took your time,” said the tolum.

“The girl’s barefoot, sir,” said the murdant. “She slowed us down.”

“That’s no excuse, Murdant!” The tolum shot Dar an irritated look. “By Karm’s tits! How can you not own shoes?” Then he took the murdant aside, and they talked in low tones. Afterward, the tolum returned his attention to Dar. “Lie on your back.”

“Why?”

“You don’t question orders,” said the murdant. “Soldiers who do are whipped. Now, lie down.”

Dar obeyed. The murdant nodded, and a large soldier walked over, straddled Dar, and sat upon her chest, pinning her arms with his knees. Another soldier grabbed Dar’s ankles. A third knelt down and gripped her head between his knees like a vise. From the corner of her eye, Dar spied another soldier approaching. He bore something in his hand that glowed. She fought to free her arms, but the man on her chest shifted more weight to his knees until the pressure was excruciating. “Don’t struggle,” he said.

Dar grew still, and the soldier on her chest eased up a bit. By then, the fourth soldier stood over her, and she could see that the glowing object was a brand. Its end resembled a five-pointed crown outlined in fire. As it came closer to her face, Dar closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. An instant later, she felt a searing pain on her forehead accompanied by the smell of burned flesh. Dar fought against crying out, but failed. The men released her, and she sat up. The pain was intense.

The murdant tossed her a water skin. “Pour water on it,” he said. “It helps.”

The water eased Dar’s pain just enough so she could control her voice. “I came without resisting. There was no need to do that.”

“All women in the orc regiments are branded, lest they run away.”

“Orc regiments!” said Dar, her pain momentarily forgotten as she recalled the nightmare tales.

“Correct,” said the tolum, “and a branded head bears a bounty. To keep it on your shoulders, you must stick with your regiment.”

“What do orcs want with women?”

“I have no idea,” said the tolum. “I fight alongside men, not monsters.”

“They have women wait on them,” said the murdant. “I’ve seen it often.”

“You also told me I’d not serve long,” retorted Dar. “This brand betrays that lie.”

“Aye, I spoke false,” said the murdant. “But now that you’re marked, I have no need.”

“We’re done here,” said the tolum. “Chain her to the other girl and move out. We must return by the morrow.”

A soldier went over to the tree where the woman sat and pulled her to her feet. Then Dar could see that the woman’s ankles and wrists were bound and an iron ring was locked around her neck. Attached to the ring was a long length of heavy chain from which dangled several bells. The soldier removed the woman’s bonds, but not the iron ring. Using the chain, he led her closer to Dar. At the far end of the chain was a second ring, which he locked around Dar’s neck. “You’ll wear this till you reach your regiment.”

The chain wasn’t overly burdensome, but Dar saw how it would hinder an escape. The belled links were noisy, and, off the road, they would tangle easily. She approached the stranger at the other end, who appeared several years younger. Dar’s fellow captive was well dressed by highland standards; her clothes were clean and almost new. She also wore shoes. She turned to gaze at Dar. Beneath the angry brand on her forehead, her eyes were red and puffy from weeping.

Despite her pain, Dar tried to smile. “I’m Dar.”

“Leela,” replied the woman in a nearly inaudible voice.

“Move out,” commanded the tolum, who had mounted his horse. He urged his steed forward, setting a brisk pace for the soldiers and women that followed.

Dar gathered up the links of chain so it wouldn’t snag on something and so she could walk next to Leela. When they were side by side, she saw tears flowing down Leela’s face.

“It’ll be all right,” Dar said.

Leela stared ahead, oblivious. Dar gently touched her arm without getting a response. The girl’s face was emptied of every emotion except sorrow. Its desolation made Dar wonder how Leela’s parting differed from her own. The bundle that Thess had prepared was an indication. At lunchtime, Dar had inspected it. Within the worn cloak were a spare undergarment and a shift even more ragged than the one she wore. Dar’s footwear and good shift were missing, as were the beads her mother had given her. Leela’s garments bespoke a loving send-off, one that made Dar both envy and pity her.

Soon, the tolum’s pace had Dar panting, and she gave up trying to start a conversation. She trudged along, concerned only with keeping up and her own misfortune.

- Copyright 2007 by Morgan Howell. All rights reserved.