As I continue to try to make real headway on the rewrite of MAGE STORM,
here’s a snippet from BECOME: TO RIDE THE STORM, which releases in ten days:
Having lost his memory, Gaian has been living alone in the forest, trying to wipe out the bandits whenever he can find them, and completely unaware that others are now looking for him. Rose is a girl he rescued from some of those bandits a few chapters back:
Gaian stopped and crouched to stare at the ground, trying to decipher what he was seeing. The tracks of the stag he’d been hunting were completely demolished by the tracks that crossed them. Not that he couldn’t pick up the deer’s trail on the other side. But first he needed to understand what had happened here—and decide if he needed to do something about it.
He followed the tracks for a little distance. Five—no, six—men. Bandits, most likely. Which was very much his business. Headed toward the south side of the forest. He hadn’t been that way in perhaps too long. That much was easy. It was the sixth track that gave him pause. The others walked in a reasonably straightforward manner, varying only a little to adjust to changes in the terrain or to avoid walking into trees or bushes.
The sixth man’s steps weaved like a drunken man’s. Gaian stopped to study a place where that man had fallen and been dragged for a short distance before he got to his feet again.
An injured man? Bandits weren’t known for taking care of their own wounded, in his experience. Gaian cocked his head studying the prints in front of him. And even a wounded man would instinctively put out his hands to catch himself when he fell. Unless, of course, his hands were tied behind him. A captive, then. Bandits didn’t usually take captives, either—not male ones, anyway. But the signs were clear.
That decided him. Hunting for food could wait. It was time to shift to hunting bandits and rescue their wounded captive. Then backtrack and see if there were any other wounded or dead to be taken care of. He was reminded of Rose’s warning. Might these bandits have found this other fellow, the one who looked something like Gaian? Then why take him south? Well, no matter. He could solve those mysteries when he caught up with them.
The tracks were hours old. He’d need to hurry. Tracking, stopping to find the trail where the marks were not as clear as they were here, was inherently slower. On the other hand, their injured captive might slow these men down, too. He could hope.
~~~
Gaian ran, the lion’s-head hood of his cloak pulled up against the afternoon drizzle. He’d lost the trail twice over dry or rocky ground, losing too much time. He was sure now that his quarry was making for the very edge of the forest and he had to catch them before they could leave the cover of the trees, because he’d never managed to go beyond that point.
There they were, ahead of him, surrounding a staggering man with bound hands. And much too close to the last of the trees. Gaian redoubled his speed, shouting a war cry. If he could get them to turn and fight, they wouldn’t get a chance to step beyond the forest boundary and he could still rescue their captive.
The rearmost of the men turned at his cry. “Rot! What is that? It has the head of a lion and the body of a man!”
“Never mind what it is. Run! Run for your lives!” another cried.
They dragged their prisoner off his feet, pulling him forward.
Gaian stopped, just within the shadow of the last tree, frustrated, every muscle straining to keep running and complete the rescue. But he stopped. He didn’t understand it. All he knew was that leaving the forest would cause greater harm than allowing these bandits to escape with their captive. He didn’t know what, but it seemed he’d always known that truth. Something very bad would happen if he left the forest. Or . . . something bad would happen to more people before the right time—whenever that would be. He roared his frustration, though.
He quickly slid his bow—already strung from hunting that stag—into his hand and pulled an arrow from his quiver. He might not leave the forest, but that didn’t mean his arrows couldn’t. The first shot took out one of the two men dragging the prisoner away. His fall swung the captive and the second man around. Perfect. Gaian nocked a second arrow to his bowstring, taking aim on the second man.
The captive looked up toward the forest and his eyes widened. “Gaian! Gaian, you’re alive!”
Gaian stared back, for the moment forgetting his target. This man knew him? The name sounded right—more right than the name he’d given Rose. The face looked familiar, somehow. But he couldn’t remember . . . .
And then, suddenly, he did. The face he remembered was younger, the man barely out of his teens, if that. Not in a forest. Mountains. High mountains. And a cave. Fire. And a . . . a dragon!
Gaian took several steps back into the dense forest, dizzied by the abrupt onslaught of such a vivid memory. Backing away as if to gather himself for an attack on—or by—the dragon. Lightning flashed. Wind swirled. Thunder cracked and boomed. And Gaian fell to his knees, overcome with a vision . . . a memory. Too real. Too . . . . much. Everything faded into blackness, punctuated by bright flashes of lightning or dragon fire and thunderous booms or the roar of a dragon. Gaian could no longer tell which, only that he was overwhelmed by it.
Merry Christmas (or Happy Holidays, if you prefer)
Meredith Mansfield, Author 