Cephrael's Hand Blog Tour: excerpt & giveaway
Please enjoy this excerpt from Cephrael's Hand, a spellbinding epic fantasy by Melissa McPhail. Then read on to learn how you can win huge prizes as part of this blog tour, including a Kindle Fire, $450 in Amazon gift cards, and 5 autographed copies of the book.
About Cephrael's Hand: Two brothers find themselves on opposite sides of a great battle, neither knowing the other is alive... A traitor works in exile while preparing for the disaster only he knows is coming... A race of beings from beyond the fringe of the universe begin unmaking the world from within... And all across the land, magic is dying. Cephrael's Hand is the first novel in the award-winning series A Pattern of Shadow and Light.
Ean hugged the shadows as he tried to find his way back to
le Comte’s estates. He feared they’d hurt his head worse than he thought,
for the twisting alleys of the city disoriented him now. He was sure he’d
passed the last street corner already once, and he had the uneasy feeling that
he was walking in circles.
Trying to break the cycle, he turned into a long and
shadowed alley, spotting a streetlamp at the other end. Abruptly a form reared
out of the shadows. Ean reached for his sword—
“…Ean?”
The prince halted with his hand around the hilt. “Fynn?”
“Balls of Belloth!” Fynnlar crossed the distance in a rush
and grabbed him by both shoulders, giving him a shake. “What are you doing out
here, you wool-brained fool?”
“I might ask the same of you, cousin.” Pushing a hand to his
throbbing head, Ean closed his eyes. He’d seen so much death since the last moon…so
many lives lost, and for what? He couldn’t fathom the events that spun
violently around him, only knowing they somehow had him caught in the
whirlwind.
“Ean, are you unwell?”
“Hit my head pretty hard,” the prince murmured, lifting
tired eyes to refocus on his cousin. “I’ll be all right.”
“Come on. We’d best keep moving.”
The prince shook off the numbness edging his thoughts and
followed his cousin. Fog was rising from the river as they headed back toward
le Comte’s villa, fat fingers sliding through the streets to leach the color
from the night. They reached a corner, and Fynn paused and looked warily
around.
“Fynn, what are we waiting fo—”
But the words stuck on Ean’s tongue, for he heard it then: a
strange whispering, the whisk of silk across the rough edge of glass. The sound
had prickly tentacles that pierced into the soft flesh of Ean’s inner ear and
twisted there, making him cringe.
Something flew out of the shadows and Ean swung his head
after it, straining to make out what he’d seen. “What in Tiern’aval
was that?”
Grimly, Fynn held his sword before him. “A Wildling—a
Whisper Lord.”
The whispering continued, tormenting, growing soundlessly
louder until it shrieked inside Ean’s skull, shattering any hope of focus.
The Wildling shot out of the shadows again, and Ean forced
his eyes to follow, to find him in the shadows where he hid.
There.
He saw him lurking against the wall, smiling around big
white teeth. His leathery skin was pitch black , and his eyes were golden like
the desert sands. The man locked gazes with him, and—
Suddenly they were nose to nose. Ean felt the heat of his
breath in the same moment that the fiery sting of steel pierced his flesh.
Shade and
darkness!
“Ean, he cut you!”
“I’m all right.” But Ean grimaced as he gingerly probed the
wound. “Shadow take the abominable creature.” Fynn gave him a long look. “Be
ready,” and he rushed to meet the Wildling.
The fight turned instantly vicious. Whisper Lord fought with
long, stiletto daggers that speared like claws out of his gloves. His hands
crisscrossed with amazing speed, never failing to find their mark on Fynn’s
person, while his body twisted and spun. Fynn’s thrusts in turn only seemed to
meet with the slashed silk of his garments. So fast did the Whisper Lord dart
and cavort that Ean at first felt helpless to join in, for he could barely see
the Wildling move until after it had happened, as if the sight had to bounce
off the back of his eyes…as if he could only see the man’s reflection.
Then Ean found his focus and rushed to help Fynn.
The Whisper Lord marked him before he even got his blade
around, a long swipe at the joining of neck and shoulder that burned bitterly.
Ean realized that trying to use his sword alone would get him killed, so he
pulled his dagger and dove in again. The Whisper Lord dodged like a jumping
spider and managed in the same maneuver to slash a deep cut across Ean’s thigh,
his daggers flashing first with the silver of steel and then dark with blood.
Ean snarled a curse and staggered into the wall, teeth clenched against the
pain, for the wound was angry and deep.
Abruptly Fynn threw himself backwards, himself narrowly
avoiding a deadly thrust to his gut. Those spine-like blades sliced a chunk of
flesh out of his side instead. The royal cousin clenched his teeth and held one
hand to his midriff, using the other to pull himself out of reach.
Ean dove at the creature with renewed determination, his
battered head forgotten in his haste to keep the man away from Fynn. He wore a
malicious grin as they battled, and his golden gaze was flecked and sparkling
against his face of leathery pitch. As Ean’s strength failed, the Wildling
grinned even broader and began to chant in a voice like
sand, “Tur or’de rorum d’rundalin dalal! Tur or’de
rorum d’rundalin dalal!” Over and over while he pressed Ean on
the retreat; gleefully, like a madman.
And then he made a sudden thrust, and Ean jumped to avoid
the slashing daggers that barely missed his throat. He came down unevenly on
his bad leg, and his knee buckled. Stumbling, he hissed a curse and the man
bore down on him. A swipe of his hand, and three spiny daggers cut deeply
across Ean’s back with their sharp fire. The Wildling’s other hand darted for
his throat again, but the prince veered and twisted so the blades caught his
chin and cheek instead. Ean rolled and thrust upward, but the Wildling merely
laughed and arched out of his way; the weapon met only the whisper of silk.
Ean lay panting. His dagger seemed lost along with his will,
and desperation could no longer drive him on.
The Whisper Lord advanced slowly wearing a grim smile. With
the shrieking noise still accosting his skull and the loss of blood and nausea
in his stomach, Ean felt only numb acceptance. Shaking, he lowered his head—
A tall form pushed past him, knocking Ean aside as it rushed
to engage the Whisper Lord, driving the Wildling back and away, taking the
battle out of Ean’s hands.
Ean fell onto his back, gasping as the last of his strength
bled out of him, and lay watching his rescuer take offensive control.
The woman’s brown half-cloak floated behind her as she
advanced with long, fast strides, forcing the Whisper Lord on the retreat
beneath two short swords wielded in a flashing figure-eight.
The Wildling smiled no longer. Every thrust and swipe of his
daggers was blocked by the woman’s whirling black blades. She matched him
stride for stride, spinning when he spun, darting as he did, dodging as he
lunged. They performed a ferocious, twisting dance of death where both knew the
steps intimately and took them with ease.
As Ean watched, the Wildling slashed his daggered gloves in
a motion that should’ve gutted the woman, but she flipped out of his reach,
thrusting long as she landed. Her sword met with the flesh of his side, drawing
a hiss as he jumped back. He glared malevolently at her and pressed one palm to
his side.
“Merdanti,” he snarled, his golden eyes hot as they assessed
her black blades.
Arching brows with a predatory smile, she twirled her blades
and lunged for him again, and once more the dance began, the meeting of their
deadly weapons a rhythmic beating that seemed in time with Ean’s still-racing
heart.
And then—
Ean thought he must’ve dreamed it, his tortured mind
inventing an impression for what clearly defied explanation. The woman and the
Wildling seemed to shift and slow, their cloaks floating as if suspended on the
wind. Then the woman launched out of her turn so quickly that Ean lost sight of
her, only to spot her again as she stood squarely before her opponent, blades
crossed. With naught but a grimace of effort, she chopped her short swords
crosswise through the Wildling’s neck, removing his head completely. His body
toppled to the stones at her feet, paying respects to her skill.
Silence hung in the street, a palpable blanket sewn of
incredulity fringed with pain.
The woman lowered her dripping blades and leveled tawny eyes
on the prince...
To win the prizes:
- Purchase your copy of Cephrael's Hand for just 99 cents
- Enter the Rafflecopter contest on Novel Publicity
- Visit today’s featured social media event… Blogaganza on Novel Publicity. We’re kicking-off on the Novel Publicity Free Advice blog. We’ll ask Melissa a few quirky questions and give her the opportunity to answer via video interview! Leave a comment or question in response to the post, and you may win an autographed copy of Cephrael’s Hand. That’s here.
Meg, Caitlin and Laurie, thank you so much for hosting me and my novel on your wonderful blog. I greatly appreciate your generosity in helping to promote my fantasy novel to your followers.
ReplyDeleteHi Melissa,
ReplyDeleteYou're welcome! Happy 2013!