Time for another post! It’s been a busy month. I’m in the process of switching day jobs, reading five different novels, and still being a functional human being (from what I can tell).   

My debut novel, Morvelving, is being dissected and chopped to pieces gently by readers. The characters have received the most praise in the story, which makes me a happy writer! I’m having a great time receiving all the feedback and critique. I look forward to revising the story in the third draft to make the prose as great as the characters.   

I’m currently reading three novels that I’m critiquing and offering feedback on. All of which have huge potential and have been a joy to read. It has been a constructive experience. I’ve learned a lot about my writing in the process. There’s this funny thing that happens where you find yourself giving criticism about prose, only to realize you do the same thing in your work. That’s me!   

For pleasure and education, I’m reading A Little Hatred by Joe Abercrombie. It’s the first book in the Age of Madness trilogy. I greatly enjoy Abercrombie’s characters, complex and morally grey. I finally started reading works by Robin Hobb, starting with Assassin’s Apprentice. Don’t know why I’ve waited so long. And picked up a local writer’s work, Illyia by E. A. Bagby. It’s a literary science fiction and fantasy coming-of-age story that I’ve been enjoying.   

Besides reading to improve my craft, I’m researching self-publishing and staying as up-to-date as I can with traditional publishing. I’m looking into different Copy Editors, Development Editors, and other marketing tools I can access for self-publishing.   

As promised, I have the first chapter of the novella I’ve been working on. It has been a fun exercise to apply what I’ve been learning from the critique I’ve received from readers and writers. It’s a high fantasy mystery and a soft thriller story.   

I wanted to write something short for the blog to keep writing while I’m reading and revising so much. If you enjoyed the chapter don’t be afraid to give it a like, comment, and share! This will really help me out and I’d love to hear what you thought of the story.  

A Cold Task 

By C. J. Switzer 

Razi, Katafrant of the realm, investigates the brutal attacks made on the town of Magalayi. What he discovers forces Razi to commit atrocities in the name of duty. He must find the attacker and redeem himself. 

Chapter 1

Smoke stung his eyes. Razi squinted and blinked the gathering moisture away.   

The winter sun was warm. In the vast Jungle of Phanu, it was always so. It had been less oppressive on the road which wove under the dense jungle canopy than in the town of Magalayi. Here, the boundless trees had been cut down leaving no shade from the tangled forest. Providing the resources to build homes and walls to protect against the many predators which lurked in the jungle, it left the town naked to the sun’s unforgiving rays. Razi scanned the length of the twelve-foot-high palisade. From within the city, it seemed a thin, small defense against the tall encroaching banyan trees, which surrounded the town like an army of giants laying siege. 

Razi removed his helm and ran his hand through his dark, sweat-soaked hair. His shoulders stooped. Not from the weight of his lamellar cuirass – but of his failed duty. He released his painful grip on his shamshir, the sword shamefully unused in its wood and leather wrapped scabbard.  

He was a Katafrant – a protector of the lands ruled by the Royal Mamluk family, Turmank. Prince Tubram, Suzerain of Bangthros, sent Razi to find who or what attacked Magalayi and deliver them to justice.  

“There was nothing we could have done,” Razi’s partner, Anmeli, said. He had a vexing knack for knowing what Razi was feeling. “We were in Danhid,” Anmeli reasoned, and he was right. Razi doubted he could have altered the outcome even if he had been here. One man rarely made a difference in extreme events. His mind wondered to past battles where he failed to save his fellows from death’s touch.  

Bodies lay before him in a row, each covered with white blankets. Razi had stopped counting at twenty. The smoke rose from embers of what had been the town’s inn. They stood inside the main gate. Guards were behind them, heads bowed, showing the weight of their shame. The Priests of Jirthankaran, ready to take their mournful procession to the burial mounds, waited motionless like the corpses next to them.  

“Jami tests us,” Anmeli said quietly. He stood straight, arms folded, his tall lance leaning against his right shoulder. Leave it to Anmeli to consider the divine hand in everything. Razi wasn’t confident this was the Great God’s plan. Jami provided order and peace from the besotted turmoil the western gods wrought. From what he could see, what happened at Magalayi was the work of one those lesser gods. It was too random and horrific to be the work of the Great God.  

“Or his hand had no part in it,” Razi whispered to Anmeli, who rolled his eyes. Razi cleared his throat. Magalayi’s elder, Belkhanti, waited for Razi or Anmeli to address him. The old man stood by the aid of his walking stick, his arms bone thin and skin taut. His hair was still dark despite his age.   

“Belkhanti, good citizen,” Razi addressed him, his voice soft. “Tell us what happened.”  

Belkhanti faced Razi and Anmeli, bowed with fingers touching the two red circles tattooed on his forehead. The symbol of his status as a Theti, a Selhikan commoner, and subservient to them. “Mamluk Katafrant, it was a day as any other. Trading from the river, the good people of Magalayi performed their duty and tasks with the greatest of diligence in service to Turmank and Great Jami. You know, we prepare for the end of winter, and the Jirthankaran is stuffed with livestock for the required sacrifices. We -”  

“The night of the attack please, Belkhanti,” Razi interrupted the old man’s rambling. “Other attacks have proceeded this one, and lead to Magalayi. We must know, who has done this?”  

The old man nodded several times. “Who? It was a Grenh, Katafrant. It wasn’t among us, then it was. Butchering young and old, man and women, before it was gone as suddenly as it appeared.”  

Razi spared a glance at Anmeli.  

“Danhid and the river villages were the same,” Anmeli stated with a shrug.   

 A Grenh was a great wolf that chased the goddess Saraswati across the night sky. When the Grenh grew tired of the chase, it came to the world and hunted humans under the silver light of the moon. Its bite was venomous and turned its victims into lesser Grenh. He had heard Western traders call them Kukran. A few had terrorized Phanu before, his Yuzbhan Katafrant had retold the tale of fighting one many times after training.  

“You must believe me,” Belkhanti pleaded, fearful their glances were for doubt.   

“We believe you,” Anmeli said, stepping up to the elder and placing his free hand on his shoulder. “Where did the Grenh first attack?”   

“At Issabil’s inn,” Belkhanti pointed up the main road to where charred beams and smoke were visible.  

“Thank you,” Razi said, he faced Anmeli. “Find any victims of the attack who were wounded by the beast and bring them here.”  

Now Anmeli slouched – he didn’t complain though. It had to be done, they did the same at Danhid and the other villages. He motioned for town guards to follow him.  

Razi continued up the road alone. The task was taking a toll on him. He felt tired of his duties. It worried him for he wasn’t past his thirty-fourth summer. Killing a man, no matter how just, takes its toll, His father had warned him when he chose to become a Katafrant. A Grenh he wouldn’t hesitate to kill for it was a monster. He wished it was here, so he could cast himself at it, and not have to deal with anything else.  

Townsfolk watched him from windows and open doors. The adults were grim and children clung to them with fearful eyes. Razi’s heart clenched at what they had endured. A child should never fear for their safety in their own home. The clatter of his armor and the stamp of his boots on the dry road were the only noise. He walked up to what was the town’s inn. It was burnt down, but the stables and stores separated by a stone wall had survived.   

One man knelt in front, and the white and orange linen folds of his clothing was spattered with charcoal and ash. He didn’t move or acknowledge when Razi stood next to him. Razi sympathized. The man’s livelihood had been destroyed. He couldn’t imagine the man’s pain.   

“Tell me what happened here, Issabil?” Razi asked, making his voice gentle, afraid to disrupt the man’s grief.   

Issabil took a shuddering breath. After a moment, he looked up at Razi. Tear stains smeared his cheeks, and his eyes were glossy. He placed his fingers on his brow. “It was a normal day,” He croaked. “I was talking to my cook about the shortage of turnips, when the Grenh was suddenly among my patrons, tearing at and gorging on them.”   

Razi placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “It was not your fault, good citizen. Can you recall anything abnormal about the day? I must know so I can find the Grenh and kill it.”  

Issabil shook his head and controlled a sob. “Yes, the foreigners.”  

Razi watched Issabil, and he could tell he wasn’t lying. The only foreigners who entered the Phanu were merchants and they arrived from the south, journeying to great city markets not small towns like Magalayi. He had seen commoners lie – Issabil, however, was laid bare, vulnerable. “Foreigners? In Magalayi? Tell me about them.”  

“They arrived the day of the attack,” Issabil stood, strengthened by a scapegoat. “Two western men, a dwarf, and a woman, Nurgi from the far east. One Western man was sick. They came from the eastern road, bartered work for food and room.”  

“What a strange pairing,” Razi said, curious. “The dwarf, where was he from?” 

“Southwest, I guess by his manner,” Issabil answered. “He was fair and reasonable, unlike the westerner and Nurgi. He was like the Oyakium wine merchants I’ve seen in Bangthros. His beard and hair were short though. Never seen a dwarf like him.” 

“Yet, they came from the east?” Razi was puzzled and excited to receive useful information. He had never heard of a dwarf who would wear his beard short. Dwarf wine from the rich valleys in the Oyakium Kingdom were the finest. Sought for among the Mamluk Royalty. 

“Yes.” 

“The others were rough, brigands? Describe the two men and the woman.” Finding foreigners wouldn’t be too difficult if they passed through any town or city. 

Issabil nodded, “Not brigands, they looked lost. Both western, from the Empire, I think. I couldn’t see the sick one’s countenance. They had him covered, looked like he had a fever from the heat. The Nurgi woman fretted over him. The other was a fighter and spoke as their leader yet listened to the others. His head and face were scarred, many scars, as if he wrestled with a tiger. But, I guess, the old wounds were from their travels. He tried to trade his Bedri saber.” 

“Bedri?” Razi asked to make sure he heard correctly. Bedri were nomads from the Nurgalen Desert who often raided villages and towns on the eastern border of Phanu, and sold Nurgi slaves. Razi had dealt with a few in his life and never enjoyed the experience.  

“Yes, it wasn’t worth much. The blade was uncared for, so I hired him for his labor.” 

Razi thought it was odd a fighter wouldn’t care for his weapon. “Were any killed in the attack?” He asked. 

“I can’t say,” Issabil said. “Our guards and the brave men who chased the beast out also chased the foreigners out. We assumed -”  

“It was them,” Razi finished for Issabil. It was highly probable. He cupped his chin in his hand. “You said one was sick?”  

“Yes.”  

“What happened to him?”  

Issabil shrugged, “Sorry, I don’t know. If the captain of the guard is alive, he may know if all the foreigners escaped.”  

“The captain is alive. Thank you, Issabil,” Razi said and fished out four shiykha from the small satchel attached to his belt. Two months’ pay for him would have to be enough. He only had one more shiykha in the satchel saved. “Here.” The small click of the silver coins resounded more than their weight. “To rebuild and live.”  

Razi left Issabil in shock. Magalayi was built along a hillside. He could see the people gathered at the gate as he made his descent. Anmeli’s lance glimmered like a lone torch in the dark above the cluster. He considered what he learned as he made his way back. Two Imperial men were the most confounding. Trade rarely came from the Lindarc Empire since slave trade was outlawed there. Why would they approach from the east unless they were lost? A Nurgi slave wasn’t rare, but meant they had wealth for they were highly valued. Perhaps they fled into Phanu from the Bedri. But they had no reason to return to the Empire with a slave. Razi couldn’t place their intentions yet. There was no evidence it correlated to the Grenh, but all of it was an odd coincidence he couldn’t ignore.   

“What did you learn?” Anmeli asked as Razi approached.  

“Issabil housed four foreigners,” Razi answered Anmeli. “One was sick, and all of them escaped the night of the attack.”  

“Our likely suspects.” 

“I agree,” Razi put his helm back on, and the world became two ovals. “We’ll have to go town to town to see if the foreigners were seen. I want to return to Bangthros first. Call the captain over.” 

“Bangthros so soon?”  

“Yes, I’ll have to report to Prince Tubram,” Razi didn’t share Anmeli’s distaste for cities. He enjoyed the liveliness and festivities. Admittedly, he didn’t care for the Prince’s gaudy parties. Anmeli preferred the quiet and stillness found in solitary mountain fortresses or the border outposts.  

Anmeli stood in front of five people, who were sitting on their knees. Three men, one woman, and a child. The child was nine or ten years old. Guards stood behind them.   

Each suffered from a wound, white bandages now soaked black and red. One man’s injury was on his right shoulder, and his left side had five open wounds. Flies hummed around the oozing rends. The other man’s face was completely wrapped except for his eyes which watched Razi. The woman sat straight, despite the bandages that covered her shoulder and arm. Razi couldn’t bear to look at the child leaning against the woman.   

 Anmeli waved for the guard captain. He was a tall man, dressed in town watch whites, a shamshir at his side. His spiked cap-helm with cloth wrapping held a pink feather signifying him as captain.   

“You chased the foreigners out of Magalayi?” Razi stared unblinking at the man. The captain nodded. “What can you tell me?”  

“They were fighters,” His voice was hoarse and tired. “The dwarf and one western man were able to defend themselves against seven of my men at once.”  

“How many of your men were killed?” Razi asked, Issabil had stated the scarred man as the fighter. Razi listened intently.  

The captain shook his head, “Only two, their slave killed them.”   

“Were the dwarf and man after their slave?”  

“I can’t say. When the attack happened there was word the foreigners were the cause. We sought to capture them for questioning.”  

Razi nodded. “This is all we’ll find here, Anmeli.”  

Anmeli waved his hand for the captain to return among his men, who kept the townsfolk from the five wounded.   

Razi remained still. He didn’t want to confront what needed to be done. Glad the mail from his helm masked his face. Mamluk Katafrants were supposed to protect the people. He wasn’t a violent man, never wanted to be. Violence in defense was just and honored by Jami. Razi was no executioner.   

Anmeli leaned close to him, “You want me to do it?”  

“No,” Razi shook his head. “There will be more, I’m afraid.” He drew his shamshir, sharp metal scraping against the scabbard like a whimper. It was as reluctant as Razi.  

The five wounded townsfolk shuddered and began to sob. He tried to ignore it. Each cry was a dagger slowly breaking his skin. Their families’ protests drummed against his ears, as the guards held them back.  

“They have been bitten by Grenh,” Razi announced above the pitiful cries, his voice deafening in his helm. “They will turn into Grenh under the light of the moon, slaying all near them. There is no cure, only a quick death.”  

Razi stepped forward. He adjusted his grip; for his glove was soaked with sweat. The first wounded man tried to run. Amneli caught his legs in his lance and roughed him to his knees before Razi. There was no further ceremony. Every moment he delayed reason and empathy would take control. He had to end their lives. If he didn’t, they would turn and slay many others in the town. Better to get a task done than stand thinking about it being done, his father had said many times. Razi was sure his father wasn’t referring to executions.   

He narrowed his focus. Muscles tensed till release with each swift stroke. Cold steel on soft flesh five times. Razi didn’t think about where the dark mud came from, or why bodies lay limp separated from heads.   

Pulling an oil-stained rag from his belt, Razi wiped the blood from the blade, his hand shaking visibly. He held back the bitter vomit, his stomach heaved, making him shudder. He looked at Amneli and was alarmed. Amneli stood in a fighting stance, both hands on the lance. Razi realized the crowd was hushed, their eyes on him and Amneli. Their eyes shone, not with anguish or despair, but with disgust and anger. Those eyes saw a monster.  

Razi sheathed his shamshir, the clamp of scabbard and hilt an audible finality. He wasn’t the monster. There was more reason now beyond duty to find and slay the Grenh. He had to redeem his honor and prevent more killings.