Novel Excerpt: Mage Singers

As chaos descends like a dark cloud, four children are chosen by the gods to rescue mankind and battle evil. This chapter introduces the reader to one of those children, a young girl.

Gyowi ran as fast as she could down the moonlit cobblestone street. She was furious. Furious with Petrovoch for pawing at her, furious with her mother for inviting him into their home, and furious with herself for not running away earlier. She gritted her teeth and ran harder. It was when she saw the lights of the riverbank that Gyowi realized she still held her dagger in her right hand. The bloody blade glinted in the distant torchlight, bringing back in sharp relief the events earlier that night.

She had awoken to the sounds of her mother and her mother's lover, laughing raucously as they entered the home. Gyowi had rolled over and covered her head with the blanket, doing her best to ignore the sounds of lovemaking in the next room. She had finally drifted off to sleep and was dreaming of hunting with her father, when she heard Petrovoch's voice.

"Little sweet one," he said, his wine-soaked breath on the back of her neck. "Did you know you're a very pretty girl?"

Gyowi was wide awake now, her muscles taut, senses alert. She thought this might happen, had prepared for it. Her mother had probably passed out, as she often did when she drank too much. Petrovoch had been winking at and complimenting her for days now - as had other "friends" of her mother's ever since Gyowi's breasts had started budding. Still, she was terrified. It was one thing to imagine a disgusting, hairy man trying to touch you, quite another to actually experience it.

"Let me look at you," he said, pulling the blanket back.

The hunting dagger her father had given her was under her pillow. "Don't hesitate to use this if you ever feel threatened," he had told her. She gripped it firmly now, and executed a move she had practiced many times: she sprang off the bedroll and in one smooth motion turned and slashed. Petrovoch's hands were reaching out to grope her. The blade cut into both, drawing blood. He reeled back, screaming.

Gyowi ran toward the door. Her wooden chest was next to the entrance. She kicked the lid open and grabbed her traveling cloak and sack with her left hand - packed and ready for just such a departure. Her bow was leaning against the wall, her quiver hanging above it; she hooked them both with her right hand. Another kick opened the door latch and she bounded down the stairs.

Gyowi began to tire and her mind returned to the present. The river was very close. She could see soldiers loading boats, and hear their voices. What was she doing? She was a girl of twelve, barefoot, dressed only in a nightshirt - that now clung to her sweaty body - and was about to approach an area of the city swarming with legionaries.

I should go to the temple, she thought.

There were two in the town, a lavish one dedicated to Akraurem, the god of mining, and a simpler one to Flumos, the god of rivers. They both provided temporary shelter for the destitute and desperate. But then she remembered that both closed their doors at sundown. Anyway, she knew Petrovoch and her mother would go looking for her there and she never wanted to see them again.

"No, I'm going to see father," she said quietly but firmly. He had departed with the Fourth Legion seven days before - when he had been suddenly called up - and as she didn't know where he was, following the Oyot army was the only way she knew how to get to him.

One block from the riverbank, Gyowi ducked into an alleyway. It was dark, but she thought it would be safe, being so close to where the troops were. Unlike other armies, the Oyot were disciplined and kept order in the towns and cities they occupied. True, they looted and pillaged when they conquered, but once they held a possession, they made sure it was peaceful and the inhabitants law-abiding.

"You don't want the people against you," his father, a proud Oyot archer, had told her.

Gyowi set down her belongings and quickly put on the clothes in her sack. As she pulled on her tunic she realized her hands were shaking. It was almost impossible to buckle the belt around her waist.

Something came out of the darkness. She jumped back, wishing she hadn't placed her dagger on the ground. A rat scurried past. Gyowi muffled a laugh, relieved.

She pulled on her soft leather shoes, picked up her dagger and wiped the blade with a piece of cloth. Then she grabbed a handful of her long blond hair and held the blade above it. She hesitated. Her father loved her hair. He always commented on it and encouraged her to grow it out. Cutting it would disappoint him, she knew. But keeping it would only invite trouble. If Petrovoch had been dangerous, how much more so a legion of frustrated troops. She sawed her hair with the knife.

Once done, Gyowi huddled in the shadows among the buildings and watched the soldiers at the riverbank. They were loading watercraft by torchlight.