For years, the Oster merchant Neb has been nagging at me to finish his story. For years, I’ve been trying to do so. But now–thanks to the whisper of another character who said simply, “It’s me, ma’am. Don’t worry about them.”–the story is rumbling along apace. And truly, not a moment too soon. I needed a break from the heaviness that can be SheyKhala.
The Drunkard is set in the same lands as my novels, and readers will recognize reference to the land of Osterloh as the enemy not yet fully seen in the current storylines. We have threats and fights and battles and blood-hungry beings… but your narrator Neb is a sharp-tongued man with a knack for odd phrasings and secrets that are both softer and harder then he’s really comfortable talking about. And no matter what you might hear, he’ll have you know he is held in the highest esteem by those merchants who share his penchant for almost-licit dealings, and can count on any of them to nudge the border guards at the proper moment and with the appropriate coin (supplied, of course, by Neb himself).
The dear folks currently supporting me on Patreon will have exclusive, patron-only access to the novella as it unfolds. The first part is up at Patreon now. For a dollar a month, you can join up! I’ll also be revamping my Patreon page and offerings in the coming month, so if you’ve some patron-input you’d like to share, please do!
So here’s a taste of The Drunkard.
Um… wait, I didn’t mean it quite that way…
Here’s how those storytelling dimwits begin the tale:
He rode into town at sunset, just as prophecy had foretold. The folk feared to meet his cold stare as he reckoned the worth of their lives against the risking of his own, for he alone could deliver them from the ancient evil that had descended upon Entibar.
Blah, blah, PAH.
First of all, there was no prophecy. Just some babble from old Plegar, who forgot more often than not to pull up his trousers before tottering into the hostel for breakfast. There was no impressive arrival, either. Near as I could figure, the drunkard staggered out of some tavern in Jendayi, passed out amongst sacks of goatswool in the back of my wagon, went overlooked at the border crossing from Calligar to Osterloh, and slept all the way to Entibar. That’s where I found him—just as I’d pulled the wagon alongside my humble mudbrick home—when I tossed a half-empty jug of cheap Calligari wine over the back of the wagon bench.
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