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
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
EXCERPT from 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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