What a great day! Not only do I have an excerpt for you of author Rayne Hall's Storm Dancer, but also a great interview! I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!
Dark Epic Fantasy
Date Published: 9/9/2011
Demon-possessed siege commander, Dahoud, atones for his
atrocities by hiding his identity and protecting women from war's violence -
but can he shield the woman he loves from the evil inside him?
Principled weather magician, Merida, brings rain to a
parched desert land. When her magical dance rouses more than storms, she needs
to overcome her scruples to escape from danger.
Thrust together, Dahoud and Merida must fight for freedom
and survival. But how can they trust each other, when hatred and betrayal burn
in their hearts?
'Storm Dancer' is a dark epic fantasy. British spellings.
Caution: this book contains some violence and disturbing situations. Not
recommended for under-16s.
STORM
DANCER - EXCERPT - First Scene
Even
in the shade of the graffiti-carved olive tree, the air sang with heat. Dahoud listened to the hum of voices
in the tavern garden, the murmured gossip about royals and rebels. If patrons
noticed him, they would only see a young clerk sitting among the lord-satrap's
followers, a harmless bureaucrat. Dahoud planned to stay harmless.
The tavern bustled with women
- whiteseers hanging about in the hope of earning a copper, traders celebrating
deals, bellydancers clinking finger cymbals - women who neither backed away
from him nor screamed.
The youngest of the
entertainers wound her way between the benches towards their table, the tassels
on her slender hips bouncing, the rows of copper rings on her sash tinkling
with every snaky twist. Since she seemed nervous, as if it was her first show,
he sent her an encouraging smile. Ignoring him, she shimmied to Lord Govan.
The djinn slithered inside
Dahoud, stirring a stream of fury, whipping his blood into a hot storm. Would she dare to disregard the Black
Besieger? What lesson would he teach to punish her insolence?
Dahoud stared past her sweat-glistening torso,
the urge to subdue her washing over him in a boiling wave. For three years, he
had battled against the djinn's temptations. To indulge in fantasies would
batter his defences and breach his resistance. He focused on the flavours on
his tongue, the tart citron juice and the sage-spiced mutton, on the tender
texture of the meat.
Govan clasped the dancer's wrist
and drew her close. “Come, honey-flower, let's see your blossoms.”
She tried to pull herself from
his grip. Panic painted her face. Against a lesser man's groping, she might
defend herself with slaps and screams, but this was the lord-satrap. She was
too young to know how to slip out of such a situation, and none of her older
colleagues on the far side of the garden noticed her plight. The other clerks
at the table laughed.
“My Lord,” Dahoud said. “She
doesn't want your attentions.”
“She’s only a bellydancer.”
Contempt oiled Govan's voice. Still, he released the girl’s hand, slapped her
on the rump, and watched her scurry towards the safety of the musicians. “These
performers are advertised as genuine Darrians. I have a mind to have them
arrested for fraud. I suspect ...” He ran the tip of his finger along his
eating bowl. “They're mere Samilis.”
Dahoud, himself a Samili,
refused to react to the jab. Govan was not only satrap of the province, but
Dahoud's employer, as well as the father of the lovely Esha.
“Samilis are everywhere these
days.” Peering down his nose, Govan swirled the wine in his beaker. “Not that I
have anything against Samilis. Given the right kind of education, their race
can develop remarkable intelligence, practically equal to that of Quislakis.
They can make valuable contributions to society.” He stroked the purple fringe
of his armband, insignia of his rank. “Provided they respect their betters.”
The other clerks at the table
bobbed their chins in eager agreement.
Dahoud the Black Besieger
would not have tolerated taunts from this pompous peacock, but Dahoud the
council clerk had to bow. Submission was the price for guarding his secret.
At the entry arch, a short man
in the yellow tunic and turban of a royal rider was consulting with the tavern
keeper.
“Is that messenger looking for
you, my Lord?” Dahoud asked.
Govan shifted into his
official pose and summoned the man with a flick of his sandalwood fan. The
courier walked on bowed legs as if he still had a mount between his thighs. Conversations
halted, glances followed him, and whiteseers peered, anticipating business.
Lord Govan put on his official
smile to receive the leather-wrapped parcel.
“Forgive me, my Lord,” the
herald said. “The message I carry is for Dahoud, the clerk.”
Govan’s hand pulled back and
his smile vanished.
Dahoud's stomach went cold:
The Queen or her Consort would not write to an ordinary clerk. After three
years of respite, his anonymity was breached. He stripped off the camel-skin
wrap and broke the scroll's seal. The ends of the purple ribbon dropped into
the mutton sauce.
“The High Lord Kirral, Consort to the Great Luminous Queen, greets
Dahoud, council clerk in the satrapy of Idjlara: Present yourself at the palace
without delay. The Queendom needs the Black Besieger. K.”
The expansive curves of the
signature “K” claimed more space on the parchment than the message.
In his bowl, the uneaten mutton was going
cold, whitish grease separating from the sauce. A large fly drifted belly-up in
the liquid, its legs clawing for a hold in the air. The memories of siege
warfare wrapped around Dahoud, those sour-sweet odours of fear and faeces, of
disease and burning flesh.
At twenty-five, he had a
conscience heavier than a brick-carrier’s tray and more curses on his head than
a camel had fleas. He had left the legion to cut himself off temptation, to
deprive the djinn of fodder. After a siege, rape was legal, a soldier's right,
practically expected of him, part of the job. By returning to war, he would
forfeit his victories over his craving. The djinn would again be his master.
Yet he ached to wear the
general's cloak again, to silence sneering bureaucrats, to make women take
notice. He lusted for that power the way a heavy drinker, deprived of his
solace, ached for a sip of wine. The yearning to wield a sword ached in his
arms, his chest throbbed with the urge to command, and his loins flamed with
the dark desire. He felt the panting breaths of women and their hot resisting
bodies, smelled the scent of female fright and sweating fury.
“Why is the Consort writing to
you?” Govan leant forward to grab the document. “You’re out of your depth with
royal matters. I'll read and explain.”
“Why should I want your
counsel?” Dahoud tucked the rolled parchment into his belt.
“Don’t get pert, Samili!”
Govan barked. “Give me that letter.”
“The Consort summons.” Dahoud
rose. “Good afternoon, my Lord. Don't expect me back soon.”
He strode to the exit, his
mind reeling like a spindle. Could he deny that he was the Black Besieger? Refuse
a royal order? Lead an army without stimulating the djinn?
On a low stone wall near the
entrance gate, a row of whiteseers perched like hungry birds. Whiteseers had
glimpses of futures others could not even imagine. One of them slid off the
wall and sauntered in his direction. A coating of pale clay covered her
sharp-boned triangular face and her long hair, and painted black and blue rings
adorned her clay-whitened arms.
“Your hands,” she demanded.
“I need to know what will
happen if -”
“Give your copper to a
soothsayer,” she snapped. “We white ones only give advice. We can see the
future; we can see several futures for everyone, but we won’t tell you all we
see.”
“Advice is all I want.”
“That’s what they all say. Yet
everyone asks for more. I give one piece of advice, the best I can give to help
a client. They always demand that I tell them what I see. Well, I won’t.”
Nevertheless, she grabbed the copper ring from Dahoud’s fingers and threaded it
on her neck-thong. Her tunic smelled of old sweat and mouldy wool.
She grasped his hands to pinch
their flesh, her long nails tickling. Her white paint contrasted with Dahoud’s
bronze tan. When she felt the pulse and lifted his hand to her face to listen
and sniff, he could have sworn he saw her blanch under the white clay as her
closed eyes stared into his past. She sagged forward and stayed in a silent
slouch.
At last she straightened, her
eyes wide, her mouth open, but no words burst forth. So she had seen what he
had done, and worse, what he might do once more.
“I assure you, I'll never
again...”
“I can’t read if you chatter.”
She frowned at his hands. “My advice: Get stronger arms.”
He flexed his biceps,
startled. “My arms are strong! I do trickriding, I wrestle, I lift
weights.” Every night, Dahoud exercised until his muscles screamed, to block
out his cravings and punish his body for its desires.
The seer’s mouth curled with
contempt, making more clay crumble. “You’re not listening. I didn't say strong. I said stronger.” She pinched his biceps. “Much stronger.”
“What difference can arm
muscles make?”
“I told you to give your
copper to a soothsayer.” She ambled off, leaving a cloud of unwashed stink and
crumbles of clay.
Dahoud hurried to the stable
to ready his horse. He had to persuade the Consort not to send the Black
Besieger back to war.
INTERVIEW
When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?
When I was about five, already an avid reader, I found
information about the authors on the back cover of paperbacks. This discovery
that there were people who wrote these stories stunned me. I resolved to become
one of them when I grew up. Until then,
I had wanted to become either a housewife (the expected route for a girl in the
early seventies) or a martyr (inspired by an illustrated children's book about
saints). Becoming a writer struck me as
more interesting and less painful.
How long does it take you to write a book?
I've written books in under a month when a publisher gave me
a contract and a deadline, working from morning to midnight without days off.
Other books took years, because I rewrote them repeatedly.
The book that took longest from conception to maturity was
Storm Dancer. Each time a finished the draft, Dahoud revealed another secret
that turned the story upside down and required a total rewrite.
In the early draft, Dahoud was a swashbuckling fantasy
adventure hero. Then I found out that he
was possessed by a demon, so of course I had to rewrite the whole book. Only
then did he admit what terrible things the demon made him do, how he struggled
against the evil inside himself - another rewrite. Later, I found out how dark
his past was, what terrible atrocities he had committed as a siege commander,
and of course this required further changes. I was about to wrap it all up when
he confessed that the country he was trying to rule in peace was the very same
he had devastated five years ago, and that the people would crucify him if they
found out who he really was. Another rewrite.
Finally, I learnt what he needed to do to atone for his terrible past...
and it was not something I wanted to write.
But Dahoud persisted until I gave in and wrote the story his way.
The final version is certainly more exciting, moving and
powerful than the earlier drafts.
What is your work schedule like when you're writing?
Although I don't have a regular schedule, I'm almost always
writing. When I'm not at my laptop, you can find me in a coffeeshop, scribbling in a hardback notebook, or walking
along the seafront, plotting the next scene.
Where do you get your information or ideas for your
books?
My mind is like a drum filled with jigsaw pieces, each piece
representing an idea. The drum rotates all the time, and sometimes two or more
pieces click together. When this happens, a story begins to form.
With Storm Dancer, one of the earliest ideas was that two
people have reason to mistrust and hate each other, but need to become allies
to survive. I also knew I wanted them to
be trapped somewhere during a storm. As I wrote, other ideas pieces clicked
into the jigsaw picture: ancient Persian and Hittite cultures, mythology,
drought, sand dunes encroaching settlements,
Middle Eastern rhythms, clairvoycance, bellydancing, magic.
My personal experiences also feed my fiction. Once scene in
Storm Dancer is inspired by a visit to a bathhouse in Istanbul (Turkey),
another by a training exercise when I was a disaster rescue volunteer.
How many books have you written? Which is your
favorite?
I don't know how many books I've written. Sixty, maybe? About forty-five have been published, under
several pen names, in several genres, by several publishers, even in several
languages. The reason I can't say exactly how many is that I co-wrote some with
other writers, I ghost-wrote one so I'm not officially the author even though I
did all the work, and some books were published twice in different versions
under different titles, so I'm not sure which of them to count. Some books I've written have never been
published, and frankly, that's for the best, because my early works were not as
good as what I write now.
Are your characters based on anyone you know?
While I don't put real people into my novels, I often use
certain character traits, habits and attitudes - especially when someone annoys
me.
For example, I had this job in North East China. The
contract had promised me a fully furnished flat with double-glazed windows,
running hot and cold water and central heating. When I arrived, a blizzard was
raging; the windows were smashed, there was no furniture, no water either hot
or cold, and the heating did not work. I survived the freezing night by piling
all the clothes from my suitcase on top of me. In the morning, I confronted my
employer and reminded him of the terms of our contract. He said, “I'm a busy
man. You can't expect me to keep all my promises.” He then took me on tour,
displaying the 'genuine foreign devil' like a performing monkey. I tried to leave, but he kept me locked up
and guarded, and eventually I had to risk my life in a daring escape.
I created a similar situation in Storm Dancer. The
heroine, a magician who can change the weather through dancing, travels a vast
distance to bring rain to a parched land. Her contract promised a private
apartment. Instead, she has to sleep in a crowded dormitory with unwashed
bedding. When she complains, the ruler tells her “I'm a busy man. You can't
expect me to keep all my promises” - and then he makes her perform her magical
dance as public entertainment. He keeps
her captive in his harem until she manages to escape.
What do you like to do when you are not writing?
Reading, container gardening, going for long walks along the
seashore.
Do you have any suggestions to help aspiring writers
better themselves and their craft? If so, what are they?
Join a critique group, the kind where you get thorough but
constructive criticism. Treat their
suggestions like a buffet of food: take what appeals to you and leave the
rest. Sign up for classes, get how-to
books for writers, or swap critiques with an online buddy, whatever suits you,
just keep learning. Master the writing craft to the highest possible standard
and become the best writer you can be.
What are you working on now?
I'm finishing my latest collection of horror stories, Six
Scary Tales Vol. 4. I have about 300 short stories in progress - I'm not
joking. Most are horror or fantasy, some are historical or humour. I've also almost finished a book for authors,
Writing About Villains, which will join my bestselling books Writing
Fight Scenes, The Word Loss Diet, and Writing Scary Scenes.
Another project is the Ten Tales series of fantasy
and horror anthologies of which I'm the editor. Each book has ten stories by
ten authors interpreting the same theme in different ways. I'm already working
on the next book in the series - Seer: Ten Tales of Clairvoyance.
Oh, and I'm writing another dark epic fantasy novel set in
the Storm Dancer world.
In one Tweet,
describe Storm Dancer: How can Dahoud shield the woman he loves from the evil
inside him?
Storm Dancer isn't for everyone. It contains some dark and
disturbing situations. You may want to download the sample pages to see if it's
your kind of book before you buy. I've posted the first six chapters here:
https://sites.google.com/site/stormdancernovel/storm-dancer-free-sample-pages
About the Author
Rayne Hall writes fantasy and horror fiction. She is the author of over forty books in different genres and under different pen names, published by twelve publishers in six countries, translated into several languages. Her short stories have been published in magazines, e-zines and anthologies.
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/rayne.hall
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