Unlike the first two, this one isn't a murder mystery. It's a fantasy novella, with historical ties. It was actually the first book I finished last summer, but it took a while to get it ready for publishing. In particular, the cover art was an issue. Fortunately, there are a lot of freelance artists on sites like Fiverr.com. The cover art for the first Chronicles of Meterra book was done by Alex Lechev, also known on Fiverr as thegreyghost.
So, for those who like to know what they are getting into, here's a sample of Arrival, the first book of the Chronicles of Meterra:
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The desert
heat pounded relentlessly on the heads of the slow-moving caravan. The knights’
gleaming chain mail reflected the bright sun into the eyes of everyone, forcing
them to keep their gazes low to the ground, looking up only occasionally to
reassure themselves of their direction. There was little conversation; even the
children had no energy to play among the animals and wagons. The quiet was
broken only by the softly-chanted prayers of the priests and monks.
Near the
head of the column, the Saxon Baron Eadric of Nanscarden shaded his eyes as he
gazed into the distance, vainly seeking any sign of the scouting column sent
out that morning. Sweat dripped from his dark blonde hair and mustache down
onto his white tabard with a red cross, but he had grown used to it in the
weeks since they had left Europe. He had disagreed with the knight-commanders
in their decision to march during the heat of the day; he didn’t doubt the
courage and fortitude of his brother knights, but the civilians of the caravan,
and especially the bishop’s entourage, should not have been exposed to this
torment.
After a
time, he rode back to the largest wagon of the caravan. To his surprise, Bishop
Marten was riding alongside, in discussion with Sir Louis de La Hay, a Norman
knight. At Eadric’s approach, the Bishop dismissed the other knight and
motioned the Saxon to come forward.
“Good
morning, Your Grace,” greeted Eadric, bowing in the saddle.
“And to you
as well, my son,” replied the Bishop. “What news from the road ahead?”
“There is
none yet, Your Grace,” admitted Eadric. “The scouting party is overdue. There’s
no telling what might have delayed them; a sandstorm could have come upon them
suddenly; a pack of marauding bandits; even wild animals, though I can’t
imagine any of them being out in the heat of the day.”
The bishop
nodded. “Does Sir Rickard share your concerns?”
Eadric
snorted. “He’s German,” he replied in explanation. “Nothing concerns him except
getting to Jerusalem as quickly as possible, regardless of the obstacles.”
“That is a
noble sentiment,” Marten pointed out. “Trust in God, my son. He will ensure we
arrive at our destination safely.”
“I trust
God with all my heart, Your Grace. It’s my faith in the Saracens’ peaceful
intentions that is lacking.”
“There have
been no incidents with the heathens in several years,” said the bishop.
“No, but
there are rumors of a new leader, a man who is eager to bring war back to the
Holy Land.”
“Yes, I
have heard mention of this ‘Saladin’ before. I find that rumors often grow with
distance. Most likely a local tribal leader has made a stirring speech or two,
and the tale has spread among the heathens and the local people.”
“I pray you
are right, Your Grace. But the lack of scouting information is a grave concern,
nevertheless.”
The bishop
looked carefully at the young knight’s face for a moment. “You truly believe we
will face a Saracen attack, then?”
“We’ve
never lacked for information from the locals,” replied Eadric. “But for the
last three days, they have been very, very quiet. I don’t believe it’s because
they are suddenly cowed by the presence of two thousand knights on a pilgrimage
to Jerusalem.”
Bishop
Marten nodded. “You may be right. Bring this matter up in council tonight, my
son. I will consult God for advice in my prayers.”
“Of course,
Your Grace.” The bishop gave him a blessing, and he returned to his place in
the column, joining Sir Gervais of Flanders. “We’ll bring it up in council
tonight,” Eadric said to his French friend.
“Tonight?
That’s assuming we don’t get ambushed and slaughtered,” replied Gervais, a
dark-haired knight with a matching red-crossed tabard. “Sir Rickard’s crazy if
he thinks we can handle an army the size of the one Saladin is putting
together.”
“Trust in
God, my friend.”
“I do, but
unless he’s going to lend us a heavenly host or two, we’re going to be facing
Him sooner than we had hoped.”
Eadric
clapped Gervais on the shoulder, then turned to see Sir Rickard of Bremen, the
titular head of the knightly force, approaching from the west, his squire and
retainers in tow. He pulled his horse up by the two knights. “Where are the
scouts, Saxon?”
“They
haven’t returned yet, my Lord,” replied Eadric with exquisite courtesy. “We
expected them back this morning, but there has been no news.”
Sir Rickard
grimaced. “What more can we expect from peasants?” The other knights dutifully
chuckled; as nobles, they all had little use for the base-born. Still, Eadric
knew the men he had sent out the night before, and they had always been
reliable.
“What does
His Grace have to say?” asked Rickard.
“That we
will discuss the potential threat from Saladin tonight in council,” replied
Gervais.
“Saladin!”
Rickard spat on the ground. “A trumped-up would-be warlord, with no more than a
handful of followers. Our force is more than a match for anything he can
gather. These tribes can’t get along with each other enough to share an oasis,
much less fight a war.”
Eadric and
Gervais said nothing. Rickard noted their silence, and glared at them. “Are you
so cowardly as to fear the Saracens?”
Gervais
stiffened, and Eadric put his hand to his own sword. “Are you questioning our
honor, Sir Rickard? We have put all our faith in God, and we have pledged that
the Bishop and his entourage reach Jerusalem safely, even at the cost of our
lives. But that doesn’t mean we will ignore the warning signs all around us.”
Rickard
sneered. “You jump at shadows. God will not permit the Saracens to harm us, for
we venture to the Holy Land.” A sharp command to his retinue started them off
to the other side of the vanguard. “Jerusalem is but five days away. If your
scouts haven’t returned by nightfall, we will send out more to find them
drunk.” He rode off, sweating in the blazing heat.
That
evening, after the celebration of Mass, Eadric joined the other knightly
leaders at the Bishop’s tent. Large enough to accommodate fifty men, it served
as the expedition’s military headquarters as well. The thousand knights, along
with their retainers and common soldiers, had encamped in a long valley on the
edges of the Holy Land. They and their camp followers were eager to reach
Jerusalem, which held the promise of civilization. Two months had passed since
they left Constantinople, a force strong enough to reinforce the city against
the threat of Muslim attack. Now, however, as close as they were to their goal,
there was a definite unease as the force commanders took counsel.
“I tell
you, the fact that the scouting party still hasn’t returned tells me there is a
greater danger than we realize,” insisted Eadric in response to yet another
dismissal from Rickard. “They may be peasant-born, but they know their work,
and they swore an oath over the Sacred Scriptures.” He paused, forcing a deep
breath, then continued. “The threat of a Saracen attack cannot be dismissed so
easily.”
Before
Rickard could respond, Bishop Marten held up his hand. “While I appreciate the
zeal of our military commander, I must point out that Baron Eadric has spoken
truly. There is little out there to entice Christian men to shirk their duties.
If these men have not yet returned, then we must consider the possibility that
they have been ambushed and killed.”
Several of
the knights and priests in attendance crossed themselves at the thought of
anyone, even base-born peasants, being taken by the heathen tribes. Men did not
speak of what was done to Christian soldiers taken prisoner by the Saracens.
“Be that as
it may,” replied Sir Rickard with proper deference, “the fact remains that we
have no information that suggests such a force even exists. And there is no
force of Saracens that could withstand the might of our cause.”
“Yes, we
have no information,” agreed Eadric. “And that is what concerns me the most.”
Before
Rickard could reply, a sentry threw open the tent flap and entered. “My
apologies, Your Grace, for the interruption, but one of the scouts has
returned. He is badly wounded, and won’t survive much longer.”
Eadric,
Rickard, and the rest of the knights joined the bishop as he headed out of the
tent. “Where is he, my son?” asked Marten, and the sentry pointed to a small
gathering of men a hundred yards away. The bishop quickened his pace, and knelt
down beside the dying man.
“Be at
peace, my son, for though your life here is ending, you will be with Him today
in Paradise. If you have time, give your report and I will hear your
confession.”
The scout
nodded, and weakly turned his head to Eadric. “My Lord, they ambushed us late
last night. All but two of us were killed in the attack. Bertrem and I escaped
to bring word back, but they know the land too well. We spent the whole day
hiding and avoiding them, but they tracked us like the devil himself.” He
coughed, and blood came out of his mouth as his breath rattled in his chest.
“They caught Bertrem a few hours ago; he gave himself up so I could escape and
bring warning. We saw their army, my Lord. Thousands of them, dozens of tribes
together. They—they will be here by morning, ready for battle…” He coughed
again, and the bishop looked to Eadric.
“If you
have enough, my son, then I will minister to this unfortunate man while he has
time left.”
“Of course,
Your Grace. We have some work to do before morning.” He turned to the dying
man. “Go with God, John. You may have saved many lives today.” The knights
waited respectfully as the bishop administered the Last Rites to the dying man
and offered him absolution for his sins. Within a few minutes, the scout’s eyes
closed for the last time.
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