LIVE Short Story Reading

My fantasy short story Feverfew will be read LIVE on Wednesday, December 30th 2009 at 6:30 pm Pacific by P.G. Holyfield on video at http://www.stickam.com/pgholyfield.

The story is set in the world of Murder at Avedon Hill (available in print in 2010). The Tales of the Children anthology provides looks at the Children of Az. These gods are born into the world as men, unaware of their own origins and with their powers dormant until someone or something awakens them.

Here’s a quick look at the opening to Feverfew:

Feverfew Flowers

In a land of magic where gods are born to men the concerns of both must mingle.

The five curved peaks of Darsun’s Claws, beyond the mountains of Anarin, marked the boundary of man’s reach. Though an adventurous few sometimes risked the steaming vents and climbed among the rainbow hued pools to trade across the mountains, no one called it home. When the winter storms blew from Drakesmont, the tallest of all the Claws, strange-smelling mists hid beasts that stalked man’s tenuous claims.

The fury of one such blizzard echoed the storm that raged in Rondac Whitestaff’s heart. He leaned into the whipping winds. His feet crunched through layers of blowing snow. His breath puffed out in icy crystals that the wind greedily snatched away. On his back lay his son Alastair. The boy’s whining and crying had stopped and he had become so quiet that not even shivers disturbed him any longer. Rondac, the mighty warrior, was afraid to look back.

He rubbed a shoulder against his fleece collar to scrape away the ice that sagged over his brow. The frown of concentration remained as he studied the crystals of snow that blasted the land into uniform whiteness. “I’m losing them,” he whispered, and the wind raised a gleeful howl. He took a shuddering breath and collapsed onto his knees. His gaze hunted like a trapped thing, pacing between the white walls of the gorge and back as he tried to find a clue that would guide him. He had never failed. This was his place, where no one else belonged but he somehow thrived. He had brought his family to show them the mysteries; Alyssa had begged to see the colored smokes and bubbling hot springs.

He laughed harshly, thinking of his beautiful wife. The storm had caught him, that was the mistake that started it all, and they had been searching for shelter when the beast stole her away. He was Rondac, the man whose will carved a trading trail through these mountains. He led strangers safely through the mysteries of Darsun’s Claw. How can I fail my own wife?

. . .