Book excerpt and Giveaway for Solace Lost by Michael Sliter

 

Hello  and welcome back to the blog or welcome if you are new. Today I have an excerpt for the booktour of Solace Lost by Michael Sliter. It is the first book of the Pandemonium Rising series.

It has an over all rating of 4.18 stars on Goodreads, which is very impressive. I'll have link below  where you can find the book yourself if you wish to enter this world as well as to the rest of the tour

Book Information:

Solace Lost by Michael Sliter
Published: 2018
Series: Pandemonium Rising
Genre: Epic Fantasy
Intended Age Group: Adult
Pages: 568
Publisher: Dragyn Press (Self Published)

Content/Trigger Warnings:

Shown on page:

• Ableism

• Abusive relationship

• Ageism

• Alcoholism

• Amputation

• Animal violence/death

• Blood (gore)

• Bodies/corpses

• Body horror

• Bones (animal/human)

• Bullying

• Child abuse

• Childbirth

• Classism

• Death/dying

• Death penalty

• Decapitation

• Domestic abuse (emotional, physical, sexual, verbal)

• Drinking (heavy)

• Drug use

• Fatphobia

• Forced captivity

• Graphic sex

• Hospitalization

• Hostages

• Kidnapping

• Medical procedures

• Murder

• Murder (attempted)

• Needles

• Poisoning

• Pregnancy

• Prostitution

• PTSD

• Racism

• Rape (attempted)

• Serious injury

• Sexism

• Sexual abuse

• Skeletons

• Skulls

• Slavery

• Slurs

• Smoking

• Swearing

• Torture (sexual)

• Violence

• Vomit

• Warfare

• Weapons

• 
  

Alluded to:

• None

Book Blurb:

Fenrir de Trenton, a disgraced guardsman-turned-ineffective-criminal, is accustomed to taking orders. So much so that, despite the danger, he finds himself neck-deep in the politicking of his current superiors as well as the rulers of the country. The fact that Fenrir’s father would rather see him dead doesn’t help matters.

Emma Dram, a handmaiden of the great Lady Escamilla, hates Fenrir with a fiery passion and with good reason: he lopped off most of her hand. Nonetheless, she finds herself in close proximity to her former lover as she seeks to serve her lady liege in fomenting her own rebellion.

Hafgan Iwan is a Wasmer, a race reviled by humans, who serves the same masters as Fenrir. His efforts to assimilate with human culture only earn him the derision of his own race, and he seeks to find belonging amidst the escalating conflict.

Meanwhile, Merigold Hinter, a serving girl with an unusual power, lives a simple existence, hoping for love, adventure, and to see the world. Her life should be untouched by political maneuvering and war. However, her world becomes a crucible—how much can one woman bear before breaking?

A story of love lost and family destroyed, of bigotry and belonging, of suffering and strength, and of religion and magic, SOLACE LOST grows from a character-driven tale to something grand in scale, perhaps even involving the gods, themselves.

Book Links:

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Solace-Lost-Michael-Sliter-ebook/dp/B07BGW6BDP

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39326498-solace-lost

Author Bio & Information:

Michael Sliter was born in the deep wilds of Cleveland, Ohio, where he fought off at least two siblings for scraps of pizza. His bedroom, growing up, was a monument to fantasy, containing a stack of worn and well-read books, a medieval Lego civilization spanning half the room, and a very real sword circa World War II.

Though always fascinated with the written word, Michael ended up with only a minor in writing, instead majoring in Psychology (Hiram College, OH). He later went on to complete his M.S. and Ph.D. in Industrial-Organizational Psychology (Bowling Green State University, OH)—overall spending a larger portion of his life than strictly necessary in school. Following, Michael was a psych professor for a time, and then moved into the real world to help organizations hire the right people.

He attempted to write some childish fantasy novels in the past, all abandoned as derivative refuse. It wasn’t until his daughter was born that Michael decided to begin writing in earnest, and he published Solace Lost, the first book in the Pandemonium Rising series. Since, Wisdom Lost (Book 2) and Valley of the Free (novella in the same world) have been published.

Today, you can find Michael back in the Cleveland area, where he lives with his wife, daughter, and two dogs. They are quite tolerant of his writing, reading, video game, and racquetball habits.

Twitter: https://twitter.com/MikeSliter
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authormichaelsliter
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17838702.Michael_Sliter

Now on to the excerpt 

Solace Lost

Chapter 1

Fenrir took a last long pull of the cheap stout and shoved his pewter mug across the bar with some reluctance. He’d probably had five or six pints of the horrendous stuff over the past couple of hours, but he deserved a bit of fortification.

     It was stressful work, after all, taking a man’s finger.

     The former guardsman slapped down a few yets and left the dingy little tavern without a word. In a town as small as Umberton, Fenrir couldn’t escape without notice, though; the wandering eyes of the locals followed him out the door. A traveler–especially a big man draped in relatively fine, dark clothing–was inevitably an object of curiosity to the local bumpkinry. But, it didn’t matter. After this evening, he would be out of this piss-poor place. And, a few days on, he would be back in the comforting walls of Rostane, his home, and arguably the greatest city in Ardia.

     Fenrir strode further out into the inky darkness of the evening, moving stiffly along the hard-packed dirt road. His right knee was even tighter than usual, and he grimaced as the twenty-year-old ache loosened, one painful step at a time. The lingering winter chill certainly didn’t help matters, as the soreness was always worse in the cold.

     He spat the bitter taste of beer onto the ground and cursed at the squalor of this place. Umberton was barely more than a village—a gathering of a few hundred loggers, laborers, and the odd artisans. During the day, the place was surprisingly colorful. In fact, the town practically glittered with crimson, most of the building facades highlighting the only resource that allowed this place to even be a speck on a map: Arbutus wood. The Arbutus tree only grew in this region, something about the soil making it flourish. The Yetranians said that this region had formerly been ashlands, earth devastated during a battle of the gods in times long past, with the bodies of the dead giving the land a strange, sanguine fertility. Superstitious nonsense, of course, like most Yetranian religious prattle. Regardless, products made from the twisted, blood-hued tree were incredibly desirable among the rich and notable. They sold for small fortunes in the Ardia’s major cities and countries beyond, though apparently none of that trickled back to Umberton itself.

     In Fenrir’s experience, the people who did the hardest labor rarely saw the best rewards.

     He pulled his collar tighter around his neck and began to pick his way down the road more quickly, which was tougher than it seemed. Unlike Rostane, which in the evening shined nearly as bright as day thanks to modern gas lamps and cleverly-placed mirrors, Umberton was almost completely dark now, the waning moons obscured by meandering clouds. Lamps and torches lit the entrances to the few red-faced taverns, but the scant light was swallowed by the night before illuminating the main throughway in any meaningful sense.

     This was fine from a practical standpoint. Fenrir didn’t exactly want to announce his presence to any wandering Umbertonians. Nonetheless, the darkness did pose a few problems—namely, the mounds of donkey and horse shit, as well as the occasional pothole that littered the well-used road—so Fenrir wound his way down the street carefully, avoiding these obstacles as best he could. If it hadn’t been dark, Fenrir knew he would look completely ridiculous, a broad, muscular man mincing his steps and shuffling around even the smallest of impediments. However, necessity was necessity. Tripping and twisting his already weak knee would make this job immeasurably more difficult. Even worse would be falling in the waste ditch, an eight-foot deep crevasse of putridity running along the south side of the road. The god of stench embodied in a layer of runoff, night soil, assorted trash, and Ultner knew what else. Umberton was a shithole, literally and figuratively.

     After a quarter hour-long awkward dance down the center of Umberton, Fenrir ducked into a side lane, moving toward the large, two-story house that he had scouted out earlier in the day. The light shining through the glass-paned windows–a lavish luxury in a place like this–showed that his date for the evening was, in fact, awaiting his courtship.

     Fenrir allowed himself a moment’s rest, leaning down to tighten the straps on the leather support brace he wore on his knee. A friend of his, a physician, had designed and created it especially for Fenrir. It was, in many ways, one of the most important tools of Fenrir’s trade. Sending a silent thanks to Martis Aieres (who would undoubtedly disapprove of his current task), Fenrir took a quick, fiery sip from his silver flask and continued toward the house.  

     As he approached the front door, Fenrir paused, sucked at his teeth, and swallowed. He considered himself neither a coward nor a brave man. Just a practical man who did what was needed, when it was needed. Of course, what was needed did not always align with, say, the law. But this was a world where men needed to do the occasional unsavory thing to keep ahead, and Fenrir was willing to do that thing. So, here he was.

     He took a deep breath and forced himself to release it slowly. After a pregnant moment, Fenrir stepped onto the wooden patio of the house and, abruptly, felt his consciousness ripped from his body in a dizzying maelstrom of flashing colors.  When the disorienting experience faded, as it always did, Fenrir could see himself from a distance—as if he were hovering around his body, a spirit attached by an ethereal, binding leash. He was able to observe and think and ruminate, but unable to control his body’s physical actions.

     It was confusing as Pandemonium, whenever this fission occurred. Phantom-Fenrir, watching his Body-Fenrir do the hard work while his consciousness simply observed from afar. Fenrir had never been able to discern a pattern in the timing of these manifestations. It had happened for the first time when he was about fifteen. He had been fighting with his brothers, which was a fairly routine occurrence. Yet, somehow, that day must have been different because, abruptly, Fenrir had seen the quarrel from above, and been watching as blood flowed as never before in a fraternal conflict. It had been terrifying, with his mind straining and screaming from above while his body struggled below.

     But that had been decades ago. Now, his Phantom emerged as a matter of course. He’d never known it to happen to anyone else, though it wasn’t as if he brought up the oddity in polite conversation. Anything hinting at the unknown or the arcane in the inflexibly superstitious, Yetranian-heavy Ardia was a quick path to a knife in the dark.

     Besides, this particular ability wasn’t worth bragging about. It was fucking useless.

     Phantom-Fenrir saw Body-Fenrir standing before the rich Arbutus wood door of his target’s two-story home. He thought that he cut a rather intimidating figure in his tar-black shirt and dark trousers, a deep brown cloak wrapped about his frame. Standing six feet tall, and with the broad chest and the sinewy arms of a man who had spent his entire life training with weapons, Fenrir could understand why he was perfectly-suited to his current line of work. Well, near perfectly.  His past failures weren’t worth considering in this moment. 

     He saw himself reach beneath his shirt and expose the heptagram medallion hanging around his neck. The sharp, seven-sided star—the symbol of The House, his current employer—was nearly impossible to handle without cutting oneself. Fenrir supposed such cuts were intended to be symbolic of opposing the powerful underground organization, but he tended not to overthink it. Leave philosophizing to the Scholars and Savants, he figured. Leave the appendage gathering to him and the other enforcers.

     Body-Fenrir tried the doorknob, finding the door unlocked and unbarred–a strangely fortuitous start to the venture. Fenrir’s consciousness skipped ahead, fluttering through the doorway and along the ceiling like an impossibly fast spider. He saw himself enter the house and walk across the greeting room, tracking dirt and various excrements onto a decorative carpet. Apparently, he had stepped in some animal dung without realizing, or smelling, it. Phantom-Fenrir could see that his body was tense, and that his hand was resting on the hilt of the wickedly curved knife that was strapped to his belt. The first floor was barren; Fenrir did not see the quarry he was seeking, and so his body proceeded to the stairs leading to the second level. From Phantom-Fenrir’s disembodied view, he thought that, if his body was attempting stealth, it was doing a hideously bad job. The floor was creaking, the buckles on his boots were jingling, and he occasionally bumped into furniture. Apparently, spending a few hours at a tavern was not the greatest of ideas when one’s stealth needed to be more on par with that of a fox than an ox.

     Regardless, the stairway was the only exit from the second story, so even if the occupant had fair warning, there would be no escape. Body-Fenrir stomped up the stairs, clearly abandoning any pretense of covertness. The stairs emptied into a large, brightly-lit chamber that constituted the entirety of the second floor. On one end of the room was a sleeping area comprised of one large bed that was flanked by two decoratively-carved end tables. Above the bed was a painting representing a scene that was commonly displayed in the heavily religious Ardia. A slender, bare-chested woman, her silvery-white hair covering the most desirable bits, was perched atop a rock, arms held high and apparently cleaving the crimson firmament, parting the skies and allowing pure light to sneak through. Men and women knelt nearby, cowering below the rock, giving obvious obeisance to the goddess, Yetra. Typical Yetranian dross.

     On the other end of the chamber was an office area made up of a wide and solid wooden desk, bookshelves, and several ropey plants. Everything was made of Arbutus, hinting at the barely-restrained wealth of the owner. Atop the desk was a bronze Scales of Justice statue, the universal symbol of office of an adjudicator in Ardia. 

     Phantom-Fenrir could see himself approaching the desk. The man sitting behind it, who was obviously aware of Fenrir’s presence, continued to pointedly ignore him, bending over a blue leather-bound book.

     Body-Fenrir paused two feet back from the desk, arms crossed. He waited another moment. When the man turned a page in his book, Body-Fenrir pointedly cleared his throat.

     “I knew that one of you filth would be here eventually,” the man said, exhaustion weighting down his voice. Still, though, he did not look up.

     “Filth? Filth is a term that should be reserved for men who do not fulfil their obligations, Adjudicator Frommis,” Fenrir answered, his deep monotone filling the second story like the knoll of a funeral bell. “Filth is a term for men who take yets for services not rendered.”

     Martin Frommis slowly raised his head then, glaring at Fenrir with icy hatred. He was an older man, silver hair trimmed short and revealing a balding pate. Despite a slight hunch to his shoulders, though, he still appeared to be sound and wiry in the manner of a twisted, but strong, Arbutus tree. Frommis’ eyes were still, too—unafraid. Fenrir supposed that the man had seen worse than a House enforcer. Years of adjudicating in a great city would give one perspective, after all… a bird’s eye view into Pandemonium.

     “You know I didn’t have a choice. You filth offered coin. Coin you knew I needed to cover my daughter’s dowry, so she could be married without the embarrassment of her father’s tumble into poverty. My investments, everything I had saved, all lost thanks to a greedy, thieving banker.” Frommis scrubbed at his lined forehead with one hand. “But, the evidence levelled against Pontz was too strong. Had I adjudicated in his favor, there would have been a riot; I would have been torn to shreds!” 

     Frommis continued to meet Fenrir’s dispassionate gaze, a beta wolf challenging the pack leader.

     “I don’t know why you are trying to convince me.” Body-Fenrir unfolded his arms, rolling his shoulders. Loosening his neck with a sharp pop. Frommis flinched at the sound. “Besides, you took the money, no? And here you are, living in the most expensive house in this shit town, rubbing in the fact that you took our money without fulfilling your promise. Tell me, did you even try?”

     “I had no chance. Pontz was a clear murderer. He was caught covered in blood near the scene, laughing and jesting. He disemboweled the victim, you know. A young, pregnant woman! You people knew this was the situation. I tried to explain it!” Frommis continued to finger the oversized leather-bound book in front of him, his voice rising as he spoke.

     “It was my understanding that you were paid to make that evidence disappear, to make the witnesses change or doubt their testimony. To find other witnesses to discredit this evidence. Whatever needed to be done. But, no matter. The House has decided to render the punishment, and I have no authority to override the words of my superiors,” Fenrir noted with a careless shrug.

     “But…”

     “You waste your words, adjudicator.”

     Phantom-Fenrir, from his floating vantage, could see his body stepping forward. Could see himself reaching for Frommis’ wrist, almost as if time had slowed. He could also see Frommis grasping for something under his book. His phantom self screamed a warning. Useless, he knew.

     As Frommis began to extract the hidden dagger, Phantom-Fenrir thankfully saw his body anticipate the move. Before the dagger had even cleared the book, Fenrir snatched up the Scales of Justice statue and crushed Frommis’ hand against the solid wood of the Arbutus table. Frommis screamed, dropping his weapon, and clutched the injured hand to his chest as he fell heavily back into his seat. Judging from the audible snapping he’d heard, the Scales had broken at least a couple of bones.

     Fenrir couldn’t decide if that was terribly fitting, or terribly ironic.

     “Enough. You’ve had your payment. And look, I can return your money. I can give you more coin!” wheezed Frommis, breathing heavily, his face a mask of pain.

     “You know it doesn’t work that way, Frommis. The House always leaves its mark. Now, left or right?” 

     Phantom-Fenrir could hear his emotionless voice filling the chamber. By Ultner, he could be intimidating.

     “Please, no… Please, please,” whimpered Frommis, his earlier confidence as shattered as his hand. “You don’t want to do this.”

     “Left. Or. Right?” Fenrir asked stoically, skirting the desk to take his place next to Frommis.

     “Left, in the name of the Goddess! Left!” Frommis managed through his clenched teeth. The unbroken hand. This man either revelled in pain or he wasn’t thinking clearly.

     “Left it is.”

     Phantom-Fenrir saw himself step behind Frommis, pull out a knotted rag, and shove it into the man’s slack mouth. Tying it snugly behind Frommis’ head, Fenrir pulled out his curved, serrated knife with one hand and grabbed Frommis’ left wrist with the other. Having had multiple tiny bones in his other hand broken, Frommis must have already been in true agony. Maybe too much pain to truly realize what was happening, as he barely resisted. Fenrir could see himself pushing Frommis’ left hand flat against the desk, forcing the man’s body forward. He wrapped the adjudicator’s little finger into the palm then; he did not want to do any ancillary damage.

     Fenrir rested his knife on the man’s ring finger and began to apply pressure, to saw. A hush permeated the room, the sort of quiet that exists in the space between when a vase tumbles from a table and when it shatters on the floor. Or, just before a ship careens into a jagged collection of rocks during a storm.

     Just then, in that gap of quiet, a voice called up from downstairs.

     “Father? Father, are you home? The welcome room is a mess!”

Chapter 2

“Father? Are you upstairs? Seamus and I are here. Sorry we’re so late!”

     All at once, Fenrir’s consciousness slammed into his body, hurtling through space in the course of a disorienting moment. His eyes burned as if they were infected, and he blinked confusedly at Frommis, trying to get his bearings. His knife had just bit into the skin of the adjudicator’s ring finger, the clean, red line not yet bleeding. Fenrir drew the weapon back, and the serrated knife shook slightly in his hands, as if being held by an epileptic geezer. 

     Fenrir took a deep, settling breath, eyes darting between his victim and the stairway. How in the name of Yetra’s tits had he forgotten to lock the door? This bastard adjudicator lived alone and rarely had visitors, but Fenrir still should have taken basic precautions. This was not going to end well. 

     “Martin? Is everything okay?” A deeper voice called from below. Seamus, evidently.  

     “Father? Are you proper? We are coming upstairs,” shouted the high-pitched voice of the girl. 

     Frommis, the voice of his daughter sinking into his pain-addled mind, lost the vague look he’d had in his eyes and started to struggle to his feet. In response, Fenrir dropped Frommis’ wrist and grabbed the broken hand, applying pressure, shutting down any escape attempts—pain is an excellent deterrent. As the retired adjudicator writhed in pain, his shouts muffled by the gag, Fenrir leaned in close and held up his knife in a steadying hand. 

     “Be still now, adjudicator, or this knife will find a home in your daughter’s chest,” he hissed. Frommis quieted abruptly with a whimper, the agony in his hand or Fenrir’s empty threat finally bringing blessed silence. 

     Fenrir—enforcers in general--never killed on these jobs, per strict orders from the superiors in The House. Which was fine; he wasn’t exactly a practiced, willing killer. In his former life, he’d been a guardsman in Rostane, tasked with the protection of the Plateau, the great fortress that rose above the city like a blocky, indifferent father. Counterintuitively, guard duty at the Plateau was one of the safest jobs in Rostane. There hadn’t been a real war for decades, and blunted, half-edged swords were all that were used for drills or tourneys. No assassin would ever attempt those walls, so there’d been no need for Fenrir to be any sort of a killer. 

     So, he could fight his way out, but the knife wasn’t an option lest he cause undue harm. He’d already fucked this up enough by being caught mid-mutilation. He’d rather not risk more ire from The House. 

     The windows were open; he could jump to the street and lose himself in the darkness. Fenrir ruled out the option nearly as soon as it occurred to him, though; with his knee, he would almost certainly just end up broken and thrashing in the street like a crippled dog, struck by a passing cart. His better bet was rushing by Frommis’ daughter and son-in-law—Seamus sounded like the name of some scrawny farmer anyway—using the ancient art of surprise to his advantage. He could lose himself in the darkness and make his way back to The Crooked Tree where his horse was already saddled. He’d have to be careful since it was dark and the horse could easily break a leg, but better his horse’s leg than his own.

  But, he still needed the trophy for his superiors. To come back empty-handed, especially after raising this ruckus, could be fatal. 

     Frommis renewed his struggle, reflexively pulling back as Fenrir released his broken hand. Fenrir struck him a quick but forceful backhanded blow in the face to further disorient him, and then he again grabbed his left hand—the intact hand—and laid it flat against the Arbutus desk. Frommis was barely responsive, staring a dead man’s stare and breathing wetly through his bloodied nose. Fenrir again leveled his blade against the ring finger, the bloody line from earlier as good as a sign saying “cut here.” He began to saw, this time being less careful of the other fingers.

     “Father! Father, what’s happening? Seamus, come quickly! There is a man attacking father!” shouted Frommis’ daughter, who had just topped the stairs into the upper chamber. Fenrir pushed his full weight into his knife just as Frommis jerked away from him, the enforcer’s blade cutting all the way through the ring finger and nearly severing the middle finger, as well. Frommis was lost in pain now, staring at his mangled hand as Fenrir yanked at the ring finger, which had still been attached by a string of bloody skin. He shoved the finger into an inner pocket and re-sheathed his knife. The whole thing was a mess; Fenrir’s hands were slick with blood and his fine clothes–dark though they were–were speckled with red. But, nothing to do about that now. He was much more concerned with getting out of this house and out of this gods-forsaken town.

     Frommis’ daughter—a doughy girl who had the most unfortunate features of her father—was still standing at the top of the stairs, stunned, as Fenrir began toward her. As he approached, a man, presumably Seamus, came up the last step. Seamus was a big man. By Ultner’s cock, he was a very, very big man.

     “Shit!” muttered Fenrir, noticing the telltale burns of a blacksmith’s trade lacing the man’s muscled forearms. Why couldn’t this woman have married a nice, skinny farmer? Or a delicate wood carver? Or anyone other than this cursed giant? There was no going back now, though, and Fenrir lowered his shoulder as he closed the remaining distance to the blacksmith as quickly as possible. He crashed into the huge man, feeling like he had run into a plow horse. Luckily, he had enough momentum to knock the blacksmith back a foot or two, which was all that was needed. Fenrir and the surprised Seamus both crashed down the stairs, arms and legs flailing. Fenrir tried to stay on top of the man as they hit the landing on the first floor, and he was mostly successful, slamming into the giant’s chest but then bouncing forward and clobbering his own head against the wall.

     A high-pitched wailing filled Fenrir’s ears. He first thought the noisome sound was his pounding head, but realized quickly that it was actually Frommis’ daughter, shrieking like a mountain goat. Fenrir supposed he couldn’t blame her.

     He staggered unevenly to his feet, amazed his knee was intact but knowing that he needed to get out of the house. Fast. Looking back, he saw the giant lying at an awkward angle, unmoving. Definitely hurt, potentially dead. Shit. That could mean more trouble for him back in Rostane.

     He threw caution aside and ran out the door and down the lane, back toward the main road—through the dung and the muck, praying he’d avoid any major divots or potholes. He could still hear the incessant howling of Frommis’ daughter and now he could see lights bursting to life in nearby houses. And some additional shouting voices in the not-so-distant distance. Shit. Fenrir continued his sprint through the darkness and suddenly found himself falling into open air. The sensation lasted only a split second before he hit some foul-smelling water and waste. He had overshot the main road and fallen eight feet down, right into the sewage ditch.

     It was abhorrent. The slime had splashed into his mouth, mixing with the blood from where he’d bitten his tongue in the fall. The awfulness of it filled every sense he had—could one “hear” disgustingness? It seemed so, when crud was wedged in one’s ears.

     He gagged and started vomiting, which made his head ache even more, but he also managed to get back to his feet, and was standing almost knee-deep in the vileness when he heard a gaggle of voices. He crouched low with the sound of them, trying to force down the impulse to again be violently sick.

     “Head toward the adjudicator’s house and figure out what’s going on. It sounded like a goat was dying over there! We’ll stay here and wait for Questa in case anyone is hurt,” commanded a deep, male voice. 

     Listening from below, Fenrir had a sudden, perverse need to laugh hysterically–the girl really had sounded like a goat.

     The footsteps moved off, presumably toward Frommis’ house. Fenrir inched up the incline by fractions and peaked into the road. He could just make out what looked to be three men standing on the main road, looking toward the location of his terrible mishap. Now he’d never be able to get back to the inn and get his horse in time; once the townsfolk figured out what had happened, all of Umberton would be up in arms. Plus, he could see the dim light of lanterns in the distance, coming from the direction of the inn. His horse–his father’s, rather–would have to be left behind. No loss there, at least. Darian de Trenton had horses to spare, and knowing that the old bastard would never get this stolen horse back brought Fenrir some mild pleasure. 

     The only escape route, then, was the one in which Fenrir was already mired, so he started to move slowly through the sewage ditch, trying to avoid slipping and splashing. Trying to ignore the unnamed substances rubbing against his legs and working their way into his boots, between his toes and under his nails. 

     He had successfully traversed about thirty yards when he slipped and went down, hard, to his good knee. Remaining crouched in the slop water, he could only hope that no one had heard his grunt and splash. Luckily, no call of alarm arose. The droning of cicadas and chirps of other night crawlers seemed to have created enough of an auditory cover.

     Another twenty yards, and Fenrir could hear agitated shouting from behind him. A lot of shouting, with the words “Frommis,” “fingers,” “blood,” and “Seamus” echoing through the night like the accusations of the damned. And meanwhile, he continued to move through the ditch toward the edge of town, a bit more quickly and a bit less quietly. Between the insect symphony and the outraged townsfolk, it seemed unlikely anyone would hear him. He needed to get some distance before Frommis’ daughter was able to collect herself and explain what had happened, before they mobilized the militia or sent out a pitchfork mob.

     Frommis’ house, thankfully, was close to the fringes of the town, and the sewage ditch was becoming shallower. There were only a couple more houses on the opposite side of the main road before Fenrir would be out of town and safely cloaked by the night. From there, it would be easy to avoid capture until the morning—and by then, he should be well on his way back to Rostane. A three-or-four day walk, as long as he didn’t take any detours.

     As he finally climbed out of the ditch and snuck a glance over his shoulder, though, Fenrir could see many more lights in the distance—both lanterns and torches—some of them getting smaller, and some… getting bigger. A group was heading down the road right toward him. Apparently, it was time for him to take a detour into the long grass and subsequent Arbutus forests to the north. By Yetra’s delicious tits, it wouldn’t be a comfortable journey, but it was a necessary one. 

     Fenrir ran off, tendrils of shit-soaked hair striking his face like a dozen severed fingers.

Giveaway Information:

Prize: An eBook or Paperback Copy of Solace Lost!
Starts: September 5, 2022 at 12:00am EST
Ends: September 11, 2022 at 11:59pm EST
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