Cold Counsel - Softcover

Sharp, Chris

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0765393298 ISBN 13: 9780765393296

Verlag: St Martin's Press, 2017

Inhaltsangabe

<p>In Chris Sharp's new epic fantasy <i>Cold Counsel</i>, Slud of the Blood Claw Clan, Bringer of Troubles, was born at the heart of the worst storm the mountain had ever seen. Slud’s father, chief of the clan, was changed by his son’s presence. For the first time since the age of the giants, he rallied the remaining trolls under one banner and marched to war taking back the mountain from the goblin clans.<br><br>However, the long-lived elves remembered the brutal wars of the last age, and did not welcome the return of these lesser-giants to martial power. Twenty thousand elves marched on the mountain intent on genocide. They eradicated the entire troll species—save two. <br><br> Aunt Agnes, an old witch from the Iron Wood, carried Slud away before the elves could find them. Their existence remained hidden for decades, and in that time, Agnes molded Slud to become her instrument of revenge.<br><br> For cold is the counsel of women.</p>

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

CHRIS SHARP grew up in the suburban wonderland of Alexandria, VA, where he cut his nerd teeth playing role-playing games and making gore movies with his friends. He studied English Literature and Anthropology at Brown University, and Mayan Archaeology at the Harvard Field School in Honduras. He then spent sixteen years in Brooklyn, NY, where he worked in film and commercial production by day, and was yet another wannabe novelist by night. Some of the films he made with his childhood friends have gained international distribution and won numerous awards at festivals around the world. His first novel, <i>The Elementalists</i>, is the first in a dark YA series and was called one of the “Overlooked Books of 2014” by <i>Slate</i> Magazine. Chris now lives in Concord, MA, with his wife, daughter and an insufferable cat named Goblin.

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Cold Counsel

By Chris Sharp

Tom Doherty Associates

Copyright © 2017 Chris Sharp
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-7653-9329-6

Contents

Title Page, 
Copyright Notice, 
Dedication, 
Begin Reading, 
ONE: Witch of the Iron Wood, 
TWO: The Beast and the Flame, 
THREE: Crossing Over, 
FOUR: Neither-Nor, 
FIVE: The Unforgotten, 
SIX: Fox Hunt, 
SEVEN: Black Cloud Rising, 
EIGHT: Witch Way the Wind Blows, 
NINE: Call to Arms, 
TEN: Walk with Thunder, 
ELEVEN: Watchers on High, 
TWELVE: Drink Before the War, 
THIRTEEN: Elements of Surprise, 
FOURTEEN: Blood Pressure, 
FIFTEEN: Chop, Chop, 
SIXTEEN: Boom, Boom, 
SEVENTEEN: Hack 'n' Slash, 
EIGHTEEN: Butchering Heroes, 
NINETEEN: Cloak and Shovel, 
TWENTY: Night Moves, 
TWENTY-ONE: All Keyed Up, 
TWENTY-TWO: Death March, 
TWENTY-THREE: Door Jam, 
TWENTY-FOUR: King of the Mountain, 
EPILOGUE, 
Acknowledgments, 
About the Author, 
Copyright Page, 

CHAPTER 1

Witch of the Iron Wood

HEAVY FOG CLUNG to wet earth beneath the trees. Thick-trunked conifers climbed high, and the dense canopy of needles and branches blocked the light even on the rare day when it broke through the clouds. It was a forest of gloom and chill, never fully dry, and the dappled light never held sway for long against the lurk of the shadows. Aside from the prevalent centipedes, spiders, and snakes, even the animals tended to give this section of the forest a wide berth. The ponderous creaking of the trees was at most times the only sound to be heard, punctuated occasionally with the squawk of a passing raven or the far-off howl of wolves.

Slud's feet sank into muck with every step, following the same worn trail from the woods, through the bog, to the river, and back every day for almost two decades. For more than half those years, fetching the water had taken him a full afternoon of heaving and cursing his way back up the hill to the hut. He'd grown large and strong since then — able now to carry the burden with relative ease.

He stopped at the root-strewn bank and swung the pine beam off his shoulder before lowering the oak barrel that dangled from a chain at the far end into the water. It filled, and he braced his legs to counter the heavy pull of the current. As always, he looked downstream and imagined where the river might take him were he to follow its path. As always, he was brought back to the moment when the fullness of the barrel threatened to carry him in.

His knees went to the mud, and the beam returned to his shoulder. With a grunt, he braced the wood against the thick pad of scar tissue in the crevice of his nape, and stood with only his long arms outstretched across the beam to counter the weight. A spill of water soaked the bank as the beam bent. He breathed in the pain, just as Aunt Agnes had taught — the discomfort gave him strength now.

His dark gray-green skin was a crowded tapestry of scars. There were burns and lashings from when he had failed in his lessons and countless "battle wounds" from the ceaseless weapons drills she had put him through, but many others were self-inflicted. His palms were dotted with raised circles from willful jabs with a sharp stick, and the fine white razor cuts down his arms were so numerous that they'd become a work of art.

The wet thud of his heavy footfalls sounded again through the woods, and for a moment even the creaking of the trees hushed before his approach. Sometimes, it seemed like the land itself was waiting for him to do something; the feeling that eyes were upon him never fully went away. He broke his focus from the exquisite pain to scan the fog, but of course no one was there. No one ever came to this forgotten crease of the mountain, and he knew that his aunt was back in the hut, preparing for his return.

Agnes had been growing angrier. Every day her temper seemed to flare a bit hotter, and her once ponderous movements now carried an erratic edge. That morning, she'd lashed out with a claw and raked his cheek when he'd accidentally dropped a bowl of swamp onions in the fire. Just to spite her, he'd plucked the smoldering bulbs from the coals and eaten them, one after the other, before belching up ash. Agnes had laughed then, but she'd carried a hint of menace throughout the day. It would soon be time for Slud to go, though he did not know where.

The ache in his shoulder and the burn in his thighs brought him back to the climb. Each step out of the bog was a test of exertion, and he was just reaching the steepest stretch of trail. His leg pounded into rock as he lifted himself past the tumble of a little stream. The barrel bounced cruelly behind him, and another spill leapt out to join the tiny waterfall. He inhaled deeply through his crooked nose and let the pain settle before huffing it back out between jutting tusks. He stepped again, and rose to the next shelf.

The bog viper that had coiled there unraveled in an instant. Its jaws unhinged and attached to the top of his foot before retracting and striking once more. Slud looked down at the startled beast as its long black body skittered back and hovered to deliver another dose. He breathed in the new sting and raised the damaged foot high. The snake got in one last bite to his heel before he crushed it into the earth with enough force to launch its skull out of its snout.

Yellow liquid dribbled from the four bloody holes in the top of Slud's foot. He gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly — stooping to peel his attacker from the rock. The foot was already starting to go numb, but he breathed in again, unhurried and unworried. With a grunt he rose tall once more, slung the viper across his unoccupied shoulder, and kept climbing.

AUNT AGNES PICKED Slud's dead skin from beneath her nails from when she'd clawed him that morning and dropped the scrapings into the iron pot that rested in the fire. The little gray flecks vanished into the muddy brew, and an unmelodious hum hung in her throat as she pondered what else to add. In an unlikely burst of movement, her bent and withered form crossed the room to dig through the cluttered shelves with a rough clanking of pottery and glass. Her hand emerged clutching a half-drunk bottle of spoiled pine-ale. She swiveled to dump the leftovers into the pot, and hummed again.

The hum stopped short. From outside, she heard the stomping of the troll lad. Back so soon? He's grown strong. She cocked her ear as he mounted the steps to the door with a hitch in his gait. But is he ready?

He swept back the drapery of old wolf furs that served as a door and ducked to carry the sloshing barrel over the threshold with a final grunt. Still clutching the water, he stood to the high ceiling as his spine gave a loud crack. His beard and hair were slick with sweat, but his breath remained steady. From beneath the heavy brow, he set his dark gaze upon Agnes with the same challenge that she'd seen in him as a babe. It was like the mountain itself was looking at her — untamed, uncaring, and immovable. All of her work and teaching had been in service of bringing that to the surface; molding him into the force he was born to be.

"Why do you limp? Is the water so heavy that bones break?" she asked, trying to sound stern, though her tired voice betrayed her. She was ashamed in that moment of the weakness that had gripped her form. "Give a splash to the pot, and stir."

Slud leaned toward the fire and poured some water into the pot with a loud hiss and a...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: St Martin's Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2017
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0765393298
• ISBN 13: 9780765393296
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 368
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: PILOT CORPORATION OF EUROPE; https://www.pilotpen.de/; ; PAE DE LA CAILLE; ALLONZIER LA CAILLE; Frankreich