"Servant of the King" book cover, by Christian Bentulan. © Permuted Press, 2015. After 2015, it might be years before I next experience the marvellous pleasure of having a book traditionally published. And this is why I give God thanks that today my third book is out. Sure, it’s a rapid publishing schedule. But who knows when I will next get a contract of this nature? My next three books will be the fifth, sixth, and seventh volumes in The Fledgling Account. And it’s very hard to sell a publisher the last books in a series that’s already half done. If your books aren’t selling brilliantly – and I mean brilliantly – you haven’t got a hope.
So I’m very lucky to have the first four releasing this year.
Today Servant of the King is available to the public for international purchase. I wrote this book when I was nineteen, and I’ve surprised myself by still being relatively happy with it (even though I and my editor improved the prose in this book quite a lot). I’m pretty thrilled, actually, to have my tribute to Shakespeare featured on the front cover of the book! The words “alas, poor Yorick” were going through my head when I gave my villain a lucky skull as his talisman. Needless to say, just as Yorick forebodes Hamlet’s end, so the talisman Wilkins points ahead to Sirius’ untimely demise. For all of you who are thinking of this – as my brother does! – as the “bogan” book, the above explanation is more accurate reflection of Servant of the King’s contents.
Today, I’m feeling generous, so I will leave you all with a free sample of book three of The Fledgling Account… a YA epic fantasy thriller that will prove to be a perfectly eye-walloping experience.
Now available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, and Smashwords. Links to a paperback purchase to come soon.
“Two-three-seven, is it not?” Mainte said in Tarhian.
Rafen fought hard to keep any recognition from his face. The other Tarhians had likely received descriptions of him. Yet, it was dark, and they weren’t looking closely at a boy now. Only Mainte had paused, not needing a description to identify Talmon’s most notorious slave.
“I can’t understand you,” Rafen said, in an impossibly crisp Sianian accent. He moved toward Stalim.
“Stop!” roared Mainte. “I know who you are. Do you think you can trick me, two-three-seven? Still think you’re a prince? Check his ankle!”
A nearby Tarhian rushed toward Rafen. Rafen leapt backward, snatching up Wilkins, and hurling him at the Tarhian’s head. The Tarhian threw himself sideways, the skull grazing his shoulder.
“Enough!” the Ashurite shouted in ringing Tongue. He pointed his thin blade at Rafen, and it gleamed white with kesmal. “What is this about?”
“One of your men started a brawl for no reason,” Rafen said innocently.
“I tell,” Mainte said in broken Tongue. “Two-three-seven—”
“Counting, Mainte?” the Ashurite said, eyeing him with disgust. It was clear he thought Tarhians lacked intelligence.
“His name—” Mainte struggled.
“He’s mad,” Rafen bellowed. “I don’t know him!”
“Ra-fen,” Mainte pronounced.
There was a short silence, in which Rafen violently hoped the Ashurite hadn’t understood Mainte. Then the philosopher’s eyes glittered dangerously.
“I knew I had seen your face somewhere. Seize him!”
Two dozen people moved. Rafen whipped his sword out, kesmal warming his fingers.
“TO YOUR POSTS, FOOLS!” someone thundered, and then Sirius was before Rafen, arms spread, his coffee-colored robe making him look like some hideously huge brown bat.
The Tarhians halted, uncertain. A satisfied smile spread over the Ashurite’s face.
“Ha!” Sirius yelled. “And guard your walls; your city’s under attack.”
Stalim’s face was white. Sirius reeked of spirits.
“Get back,” Sirius gestured vaguely to the Tarhians before him, and to Rafen’s surprise, they stepped back. “Get back to your wives. A woman only lasts ten years before she no longer looks like a woman. Gor, the prime over. So fast.”
“Do you have anything else to say, old fool?” the Ashurite said, stepping closer, the point of his blade hovering before Sirius’ nose.
Sirius seized the blade with one weathered hand and grasped it so hard that his dark blood fell in heavy drops to the ground.
“Your light’s out,” he said, and sure enough, after some slight vibrating, the Ashurite’s kesmal had faded from the blade.
The Ashurite moved wide eyes from his weapon to Sirius’ face. Sirius’ mouth was working to produce some intelligible sentence.
“Playersh,” he said. “P-players. Innocent. No charge. TOUCH MY BIRD AND DIE, YOU IDIOT!” he howled at the philosopher. “If you want a fight… start… lose… die. I have you all—” He described a semicircular line with his arm, and the Tarhians recoiled again at this passive sorcery.
“You need more men,” Sirius said.
“I think you are right,” the Ashurite said. “It is too much to take the Pirate King and the Fledgling with twenty-four men.” The philosopher returned to his horses, and the Tarhians rallied to him.
“I will be back,” the Ashurite sneered. “You won’t get into the city, Sirius. And you won’t get away. The Lashki will know about this.”
~ Excerpt from Servant of the King, by Y. K. Willemse. © Permuted Press, 2015. All rights reserved.
So I’m very lucky to have the first four releasing this year.
Today Servant of the King is available to the public for international purchase. I wrote this book when I was nineteen, and I’ve surprised myself by still being relatively happy with it (even though I and my editor improved the prose in this book quite a lot). I’m pretty thrilled, actually, to have my tribute to Shakespeare featured on the front cover of the book! The words “alas, poor Yorick” were going through my head when I gave my villain a lucky skull as his talisman. Needless to say, just as Yorick forebodes Hamlet’s end, so the talisman Wilkins points ahead to Sirius’ untimely demise. For all of you who are thinking of this – as my brother does! – as the “bogan” book, the above explanation is more accurate reflection of Servant of the King’s contents.
Today, I’m feeling generous, so I will leave you all with a free sample of book three of The Fledgling Account… a YA epic fantasy thriller that will prove to be a perfectly eye-walloping experience.
Now available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, and Smashwords. Links to a paperback purchase to come soon.
“Two-three-seven, is it not?” Mainte said in Tarhian.
Rafen fought hard to keep any recognition from his face. The other Tarhians had likely received descriptions of him. Yet, it was dark, and they weren’t looking closely at a boy now. Only Mainte had paused, not needing a description to identify Talmon’s most notorious slave.
“I can’t understand you,” Rafen said, in an impossibly crisp Sianian accent. He moved toward Stalim.
“Stop!” roared Mainte. “I know who you are. Do you think you can trick me, two-three-seven? Still think you’re a prince? Check his ankle!”
A nearby Tarhian rushed toward Rafen. Rafen leapt backward, snatching up Wilkins, and hurling him at the Tarhian’s head. The Tarhian threw himself sideways, the skull grazing his shoulder.
“Enough!” the Ashurite shouted in ringing Tongue. He pointed his thin blade at Rafen, and it gleamed white with kesmal. “What is this about?”
“One of your men started a brawl for no reason,” Rafen said innocently.
“I tell,” Mainte said in broken Tongue. “Two-three-seven—”
“Counting, Mainte?” the Ashurite said, eyeing him with disgust. It was clear he thought Tarhians lacked intelligence.
“His name—” Mainte struggled.
“He’s mad,” Rafen bellowed. “I don’t know him!”
“Ra-fen,” Mainte pronounced.
There was a short silence, in which Rafen violently hoped the Ashurite hadn’t understood Mainte. Then the philosopher’s eyes glittered dangerously.
“I knew I had seen your face somewhere. Seize him!”
Two dozen people moved. Rafen whipped his sword out, kesmal warming his fingers.
“TO YOUR POSTS, FOOLS!” someone thundered, and then Sirius was before Rafen, arms spread, his coffee-colored robe making him look like some hideously huge brown bat.
The Tarhians halted, uncertain. A satisfied smile spread over the Ashurite’s face.
“Ha!” Sirius yelled. “And guard your walls; your city’s under attack.”
Stalim’s face was white. Sirius reeked of spirits.
“Get back,” Sirius gestured vaguely to the Tarhians before him, and to Rafen’s surprise, they stepped back. “Get back to your wives. A woman only lasts ten years before she no longer looks like a woman. Gor, the prime over. So fast.”
“Do you have anything else to say, old fool?” the Ashurite said, stepping closer, the point of his blade hovering before Sirius’ nose.
Sirius seized the blade with one weathered hand and grasped it so hard that his dark blood fell in heavy drops to the ground.
“Your light’s out,” he said, and sure enough, after some slight vibrating, the Ashurite’s kesmal had faded from the blade.
The Ashurite moved wide eyes from his weapon to Sirius’ face. Sirius’ mouth was working to produce some intelligible sentence.
“Playersh,” he said. “P-players. Innocent. No charge. TOUCH MY BIRD AND DIE, YOU IDIOT!” he howled at the philosopher. “If you want a fight… start… lose… die. I have you all—” He described a semicircular line with his arm, and the Tarhians recoiled again at this passive sorcery.
“You need more men,” Sirius said.
“I think you are right,” the Ashurite said. “It is too much to take the Pirate King and the Fledgling with twenty-four men.” The philosopher returned to his horses, and the Tarhians rallied to him.
“I will be back,” the Ashurite sneered. “You won’t get into the city, Sirius. And you won’t get away. The Lashki will know about this.”
~ Excerpt from Servant of the King, by Y. K. Willemse. © Permuted Press, 2015. All rights reserved.
"Vladimiēr" from Y. K. Willemse's map. © Y. K. Willemse, 2011.
