The cover art for Stone Serpent is officially complete! Liam Reynold’s skill in oil painting is truly undeniable in capturing the moment where Ta (the protagonist) opens the forbidden underground chamber to reveal his nemesis.
The following excerpt is from Stone Serpent Chapter 17.
“Sarakand
looked different from the sky. Its plazas and squares exploded outward
in weaves and blossoms of color framed by bustling thoroughfares that
faded into dark spiderwebs of side streets and alleyways. The glistening
spires of the former Royal Palace and the Academy’s high shimmering
dome, soared over the monotonous expanses of mudbrick tenements
separated from the manors of the wealthy by walled gardens of glistening
green. Then there were the sun-bleached lines of the city walls and the
harbor where boats scudded back and forth like little black beetles
against a limitless blue horizon.
Hong stood above it all.
Surveying viscounts and beggars from his rickety throne of sun washed
timbers. Sweat dripped into his squinting eyes, crisscrossing his
sunburnt skin in long winding rivers. A king with a crown of matted
black hair, with a cheap hammer for a scepter.
“Oi, crawler! Quit your ogling and put your back into it!”
Standing
on the slender walkway, arms akimbo and with all the charisma of an
undressed block of sandstone, was Atesh the foreman. Wretched was the
king to have him in his retinue.
Hong exhaled, averting his gaze
from the spreading expanse of rooftops, conscious once more of the
hammer in his hand, the chisel in his belt, and the empty gulfs of space
behind and beneath him.
It was not his city anyway.
Weariness gripped his aching wrists as he returned to work, the chisel’s impact sending up fine plumes of stone dust.
Behind
him, the treadmill crane rumbled as it hauled the latest in an endless
succession of loads to the pinnacle of the ascending tower that would
one-day crown Sarakand’s Citadel. In the past three months, Hong had
seen it rise to a dizzying height that made the men in the courtyard
resemble children’s toys.
He did not envy poor old Ying, whose
legs drew up every block the masons added to the rising structure. Those
legs, born of Kwang’s foothills, carried the whole crew.
Hong’s
chisel rang out in unison with Maz’s on his right, joining with the drum
of their hammers, though the Sarakand native, twitching from quickleaf
withdrawal, would never acknowledge harmony with an outlander. Hong had
heard him complain to Atesh more than once. Despite having worked side
by side for days, they had yet to exchange a single word.
The
discordant melody circled the tower’s half-formed belvedere, quarried
stones trimmed and smoothed by a circular chorus of chisels and hammers.
It droned for hours, interrupted only by the whistling of the wind that
swept the precarious walkways. Aching arms and backs played the same
monotonous rhythm over creaking scaffolding until the sun sank low,
throwing wine stains over the sandstone.
At last, the hollow
trumpet sounded from below, the sound echoing among the city’s domes and
spires, to signal that the day was done. Atesh’s masters would not pay
for the lamp oil to allow work to continue at night, nor would the pool
of workers be so plentiful if they did.
Hong downed tools and rose
to his feet, clinging to the stonework as the bones in his legs
cracked, cramped muscles straining as he took his first steps. There
were no railings up here and the only way to work and survive in the
constantly blowing wind was to remain on one’s knees for hours on end.
It was a hard lesson that some didn’t live long enough to learn.
Harsh
gusts whistled in his ears, making him cling tighter to the stonework
as he edged along the walkway. Three months in and he still wasn’t used
to it. Never, not in the most backbreaking harvest of his life, had farm
labor been this hard. The sights and smells of the rice paddy, thronged
with mud-covered friends and neighbors, were more infinitely more
wholesome than rickety scaffolding loaded with strangers. Surely the
Goddess had never meant for Her children to toil in this dawn to dusk
village in a foreign sky, but it was the least of many abominations.
Keeping
his eyes on the curving line of masonry, he followed Maz toward the
crane. He crept forward, not daring to move any faster as the boards
creaked under his hesitant steps.
How could Maz walk so confidently? Like he was strolling down a village lane.
A sudden gust whipped at his tunic and he muttered a hasty prayer to the Lady of the Rice Harvest.
The
breeze was interrupted by a loud crack. Before Hong could even think,
the scaffolding, worn smooth by days of plodding feet, gave way.
His
heart froze, suspended in a gulf of nothingness that clawed greedily at
his ankles. The weight of his body rested on whitening knuckles,
weakened by hours of toil.
The splintered boards echoed in space as they fell down and down.
Blurred shapes swirled above him. He heard voices shouting, but couldn’t make out the words over the wind whistling in his ears.
His fingers faltered. This was the end.
Hong
shut his eyes as his panicked heart thundered, silently begging Yara
for forgiveness and praying for the Goddess to keep her and Ming and
Chan…
Suddenly there were hands on his straining arms. He could hear cursing over the racing of his own blood as he was pulled upward.
He was looking into Maz’s scowling red face and that of a second laborer whose name he couldn’t remember.
They dragged him over the creaking boards, depositing him on the platform.
The next thing he heard was Atesh’s barking voice.
“Watch your bloody footing, idiot!”
Hong was aware of little else until his feet rested firmly upon the Goddess’s earth.”
Release date coming soon! Stay tuned!
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