In the Darkness of the Pit
The
Light Shines Brightest
Drums
summon the chieftain’s powerful son to slay a man in cold blood and
thereby earn his place among the warriors. But instead of glory, he
earns the name Draven, “Coward.” When the men of his tribe
march off to war, Draven remains behind with the women and his shame.
Only fearless but crippled Ita values her brother’s honor.
The
warriors return from battle victorious yet trailing a curse in their
wake. One by one the strong and the weak of the tribe fall prey to an
illness of supernatural power. The secret source of this evil can be
found and destroyed by only the bravest heart.
But
when the curse attacks the one Draven loves most, can this coward
find the courage he needs to face the darkness?
Coming
May 25, 2015
AUTHOR
BIO:
ANNE
ELISABETH STENGL makes her home in North Carolina, where she lives
with her husband, Rohan, a kindle of kitties, and one long-suffering
dog. When she’s not writing, she enjoys Shakespeare, opera, and
tea, and practices piano, painting, and pastry baking. She is the
author of the critically-acclaimed Tales of Goldstone Wood. Her novel
Starflower was awarded the 2013 Clive Staples Award, and her
novels Heartless, Veiled Rose, and Dragonwitch have
each been honored with a Christy Award.
To learn
more about Anne Elisabeth Stengl and her books visit:
www.AnneElisabethStengl.blogspot.com
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EXCERPT:
DRAVEN’S
LIGHT
By Anne Elisabeth
Stengl
(coming May 25,
2015)
He heard the drums in his dreams, distant but drawing ever nearer. He
had heard them before and wondered if the time of his manhood had
come. But with the approach of dawn, the drums always faded away and
he woke to the world still a child. Still a boy.
But this night, the distant drums were louder, stronger. Somehow he
knew they were not concocted of his sleeping fancy. No, even as he
slept he knew these were real drums, and he recognized the beat: The
beat of death. The beat of blood.
The beat of a man’s heart.
He woke with a start, his leg throbbing where it had just been
kicked. It was not the sort of awakening he had longed for these last
two years and more. He glared from his bed up into the face of his
sister, who stood above him, balancing her weight on a stout forked
branch tucked under her left shoulder.
“Ita,” the boy growled, “what are you doing here? Go back to
the women’s hut!”
His sister made a face at him, but he saw, even by the moonlight
streaming through cracks in the thatch above, that her eyes were very
round and solemn. Only then did he notice that the drumbeats of his
dream were indeed still booming deep in the woods beyond the village
fires. He sat up then, his heart thudding its own thunderous pace.
“A prisoner,” Ita said, shifting her branch so that she might
turn toward the door. “The drums speak of a prisoner. They’re
bringing him even now.” She flashed a smile down at him, though it
was so tense with anxiety it could hardly be counted a smile at all.
“Gaho, your name!”
The boy was up and out of his bed in a moment, reaching for a tunic
and belt. His sister hobbled back along the wall but did not leave,
though he wished she would. He wished she would allow him these few
moments before the drums arrived in the village. The drums that beat
of one man’s death . . . and one man’s birth.
His name was Gaho. But by the coming of dawn, if the drums’ promise
was true, he would be born again in blood and bear a new name.
Hands shaking with what he desperately hoped wasn’t fear, he
tightened his belt and searched the room for his sickle blade. He saw
the bone handle, white in the moonlight, protruding from beneath his
bed pile, and swiftly took it up. The bronze gleamed dully, like the
carnivorous tooth of an ancient beast.
A shudder ran through his sister’s body. Gaho, sensing her
distress, turned to her. She grasped her supporting branch hard, and
the smile was gone from her face. “Gaho,” she said, “will you
do it?”
“I will,” said Gaho, his voice strong with mounting excitement.
But Ita reached out to him suddenly, catching his weapon hand just
above the wrist. “I will lose you,” she said. “My brother . . .
I will lose you!”
“You will not. You will lose only Gaho,” said the boy, shaking
her off, gently, for she was not strong. Without another word, he
ducked through the door of his small hut—one he had built for
himself but a year before in anticipation of his coming manhood—and
stood in the darkness of Rannul Village, eyes instinctively turning
to the few campfires burning. The drums were very near now, and he
could see the shadows of waking villagers moving about the fires,
building up the flames in preparation for what must surely follow. He
felt eyes he could not see turning to his hut, turning to him. He
felt the question each pair of eyes asked in silent curiosity: Will
it be tonight?
Tonight or no night.
Grasping the hilt of his weapon with both hands, Gaho strode to the
dusty village center, which was beaten down into hard, packed earth
from years of meetings and matches of strength held in this same
spot. Tall pillars of aged wood ringed this circle, and women
hastened to these, bearing torches which they fit into hollowed-out
slots in each pillar. Soon the village center was bright as noonday,
but with harsh red light appropriate for coming events.
Gaho stood in the center of that light, his heart ramming in his
throat though his face was a stoic mask. All the waking village was
gathered now, men, women, and children, standing just beyond the
circle, watching him.
The drums came up from the river, pounding in time to the tramp of
warriors’ feet. Then the warriors themselves were illuminated by
the ringing torches, their faces anointed in blood, their heads
helmed with bone and bronze, their shoulders covered in hides of
bear, wolf, and boar. Ten men carried tight skin drums, beating them
with their fists. They entered the center first, standing each
beneath one of the ringing pillars. Other warriors followed them,
filling in the gaps between.
Then the chieftain, mighty Gaher, appeared. He carried his heavy
crescent ax in one hand, and Gaho saw that blood stained its
edge—indeed, blood spattered the blade from tip to hilt and covered
the whole of the chieftain’s fist. Gaher strode into the circle,
and the boy saw more blood in his beard. But he also saw the bright,
wolfish smile and knew for certain that his sister had been correct.
The night of naming had come.
“My son,” said the chief, saluting Gaho with upraised weapon.
“My father,” said Gaho, raising his sickle blade in return.
“Are you ready this night to die and live again?” asked the
chief. His voice carried through the shadows, and every one of the
tribe heard it, and any and all listening beasts of forests and
fields surrounding. “Are you ready this night for the spilling of
blood that must flow before life may begin?”
Gaho drew a deep breath, putting all the strength of his spirit into
his answer. “I am ready, Father.”
Gaher’s smile grew, the torchlight flashing red upon his sharpened
canines. He turned then and motioned to the darkness beyond the
torchlight.
The sacrifice was brought forward.
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