The Ninth Forsvar

My debut novel is available on Amazon in hardcover, paperback, and e-book! I have included a sample chapter for you below, as well as some of the art you can find in the book. The Ninth Forsvar is an adult other-world fantasy thriller full of nail-biting action and wily political intrigue! If you enjoy such authors as Joe Abercrombie or N.K. Jemisin, I recommend you give it a try!

Law, on a Horse

It was early autumn, and Bel Esha’Ir sat atop his horse in the misty morning drizzle. He had in one hand a fine ivory carving knife, and in the other a perfect orange. The last of his precious supply.

From his place atop a low hill overlooking the village of Amberstolt, he watched with pleasure as the mist and rain rolled over the fell behind him and down onto the people below. It was the quaint foreign beauty of the scene that brought the smile to his face. There was never so much rain in Murskosk, his posting of the last several years. In comparison to the blistering winter winds of that land, the scene he now witnessed was positively tropical.

Bel had been soaked through since he woke up that morning and was now well past caring how much more water the harsh northern sky had to throw at him. Acceptance of one’s discomfort, Vernack would always remind him, was a key sign of humility.

Although he would be hard-pressed to admit it, he smiled for a chance to hear a voice other than his own. The trip into the East March had been long and lonely, after all.

At that moment a sour-looking old man on a rickety old cart passed by, a threadbare cloak pulled tight over his head. Bel gave the man a friendly smile and a nod. He’d found that kind of thing could go a long way.

For his trouble, the man hucked up a glob of sour spit in front of him, as his kind often did.

Bel tried not to let it ruffle his feathers. It was no matter that the people of the north thought him a stranger, an alien not to be trusted. He would serve them and the Throne faithfully all the same. He would prove he’d earned his place among them, as he had always done. He would trick them into believing he was a good man.

Neither dwelling in his own mind, nor the foul-tempered Estrian nature could dampen his spirits today. Today he’d treated himself to an orange. Ove never knew an unhappy man who was eating an orange. He must, therefore, be happy.

With delicate fingers and a feeling that was deeply bittersweet, he savoured the last of the segments, nibbling bit by bit until it inevitably disappeared. A shame, that. When he’d bought a dozen from the vendor back in Trost, he’d eaten two on the spot without a care in the world. Wolfed them down. Now that he’d almost none left, he savoured every moment. Why did he always do that, he wondered? Why didn’t he savour the fruit right from the beginning? Next time, he swore, he would remember to appreciate them. He would remember to put his good sense before his impulses.

With the taste of the orange a lingering memory, he stuffed the rind into his coat pocket with a plan to slice shavings of it into his oatmeal the following morning. With it safely tucked away and having given the old man a polite amount of space, he spurred Hush down towards the village.

Amberstolt, named for the precious mineral its people once drew from Lake Stadig, was utterly unremarkable as far as small Estrian villages went. With any luck, Bel would find its problems equally so.

He paid no heed to the eyes peering at him through shuttered windows, or the woman who set down her spade to glower at him from her garden. He smiled as earnestly as possible, and she blushed before going hastily back to her large, ripe tomatoes.

Estrians. Sour to foreign sights. Just as sour to the appearance of unexpected Knights-Illuminant as anyone, but harmless. Just as he’d come to know.

Already in the centre of town, he spied a sign hanging from one of the few two-storey buildings the village could boast of. The Twin-Headed Thistle, it read. The words were painted neatly, once in Estrian and once in New-Torathi. He smiled again to himself. That small but visible effort to welcome travellers to their village brought Bel a rare feeling of warmth. A very good sign, in all meanings of the phrase.

The inn looked quaint, warm, and dry, but he’d best make sure his business was tended to before he saw to getting out of his wet socks. Discomfort, Vernack always reminded him, was a key sign of humility.

He was also never served by letting news of his arrival get ahead of him, and word was likely at this very moment spreading through the village like wildfire. His task here was simple and straightforward, but that only made failure all the more unacceptable. Failure was not an option.

His thumb rubbed idly at his palm. Once he got what he came for, he’d dry his socks out over lunch. Then he’d ride on with all haste to the next village across the lake. What an accomplishment that would be, he wondered in a daze, to ensure the compliance of two villages in a single day. That surely would mean going above and beyond the expected standard of success. With any luck, he would maintain a quick and efficient rhythm of duty for his entire stay in the Eastern March. One that would prevent him from thinking too much.

Instead of tying Hush to the post and stepping inside, he turned to the woman striding forward from the village’s only other two-storey building, the Chapel of Ove.

“Sir Knight-Illuminant,” she called warmly.

He was expecting a priest, but the absence of a ring betrayed her lower rank.

“Deacon,” he answered in a similar tone, making sure to swiftly dismount. There was something about the air once you got down onto the ground in these little villages. They smelled a little more clearly of dung. The sharp smell shattered the lie of idyllic pastoralism he’d painted over Amberstolt in his own mind. He was lying to himself a lot these days. Still, he mustn't let the disdain show. He needed to be ever the smiling voice. Ever the gentleman. That was what his duty demanded.

She had by now closed to a more conversational distance and held up one hand in greeting. “A pleasure to have you visit our humble flock, all the way out here in the Eastern March.”

She seemed a sturdy woman, despite her lithe frame. He could see the anxiety behind her pale green eyes as she waited to confirm why he was here without actually demanding an answer from him outright.

“The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.” And he made certain to give her a deeper bow than her station demanded. “I’m just in from Murskosk. I must say the weather here is far more accommodating than in the Frostpines.”

The deacon gave a light laugh as the rain stuck her stringy red-brown hair to her cheeks.

“Where are my manners? I’m Deacon Alleslev.” She reached out a hand to shake.

Bel liked making people laugh. It happened so rarely.

“Bel Esha’Ir.” He gave her another wide smile, shaking her hand with a grip not too soft, not too firm. “But you may call me Bel, please.”

“Well, Sir Bel, won’t you follow me inside to dry off? I can have my acolyte tend to your horse. And what of your—”

“I have no squires, madame. And I would be grateful for your hospitality, but first I have business to attend with the alderman. Lorn, I believe?”

“That is he,” she confirmed, voice tinged with painfully visible unease. “Wouldn’t you rather come in and dry off first? I’m sure your business can wait a few minutes for the rain to pass? You’ll find, Sir Bel, that everything happens more slowly out here than it does in Trost or Essen.”

To that point, a boy of maybe sixteen stumbled out of the chapel, fumbling to get his acolyte’s robe over his head. He was halfway down the steps when his eyes landed on Bel. He stood there and blinked, confused at the sight of dark skin in the white jacket of a Knight-Illuminant and afraid of the sight of both.

“Just the horse, please,” Bel confirmed to Alleslev. “The sooner I can speak to the alderman, the sooner I can go about my other business.”

He felt his wet toes chafe against the tip of his boot. Discomfort was key to humility.

Alleslev deflated a little at his refusal. “Jard, get the good knight’s horse stabled away.”

“Right away, Elsa, I mean uh, Lady Alleslev — or Lady Deacon, rather.” He rushed forward to take the reins from Bel’s palm.

“Be careful with her, and tell her hush if she gets rowdy,” he instructed.

The boy nodded sheepishly as he led the horse away.

“Now, my Lady Deacon, if you wouldn’t mind pointing me to the alderman?”