The Raider Literary Magazine
Spotlight
Spotlight
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We once again are excited to present you with some excerpts of our favorite titles. You can find excerpts from the books Chronicles of Aidario: Aliatra, Infernal Adversary, Indian Summer and Duchesses of Ravensdale: The Beginning all here. If you like what you see, please purchase a copy of your own and maybe even one for a friend from the Raider Book Shop or anywhere fine books are sold.
Chronicles of Aidario: Aliatra
A.M.T. Lebron
A.M.T. Lebron
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Prologue
To the north was the Land of Alerica, a land of pure magic, to the east was Arcania, a land of feared Elementis and the forgotten beast, and to the west was Aliatra, a land of great fighters and other creatures. In Aliatra is where our story begins.
The great races of the elves, the mazons, the elders, and the eduxes ruled Aliatra. These four races were able to live in harmony; they dominated Aliatra and all the people there. Their four Riders oversaw the ruling of the land, until their hearts were corrupted.
“Although the land was divided amongst the four races, we are able to live together as equals. We the elves are the wisest, the purest, and the fairest of them all,” an elf said to a young child.
“We are beings of great beauty. Our long golden and sometimes silvery hair does not stop shining, even during the darkest of nights; but when our mood changes, the colour of our hair and eyes also changes.”
“That explains a lot,” the young boy said, following the elf into a large and elaborate library full of leather-bound books.
“In war, our hair is typically a glimmering scarlet. No matter the colour of our bright eyes, we can see far on the horizon, and our pointy ears allow us to hear things that others cannot,” the elf said as he walked around the circular room, the young elf following the older elf’s every step.
“Our bodies are weightless like the wind, which gives us tremendous flexibility, and our skin is as soft as the morning breeze,” the elf finished as the young one rubbed his face.
“Why can we die?” the young elf lord asked his counsel.
“Death cannot be defeated,” the lord consul told him.
“Your Highness, you are young and have much to learn. The high lord started your education because soon he will pass on and you will take control. For thousands of years he has ruled. Soon it will be your time.” “I am ready.”
“We are pure, so pure as to achieve immortality. No matter how old we get, we never age. An elf a thousand years old can easily look like as if he was twenty, and due to our purity we are immune to all diseases. We are able to recover from wounds which would normally kill any of the other races, yet because of the blood from our ancestors we can be slain if mortally wounded,” the lord consul said as he passed in the large library. “An arrow through the heart would take an elf’s life.”
“That rhymed,” the young lord said with a smile, but after a quick glance from the lord consul, he fell silent.
“Elves can also go through the pain of ageing, but only if grief and weariness overtake their minds and souls.” He resumed. “These qualities are envied by all the other races, both major and minor. We are the masters of the minor Lands of Lythe, Claire, and Malum as well as the Land of Udoros, which is the elf motherland from where you will be able to control all the elf minor lords,” the lord consul said.
“What are the other races?” the young elf lord questioned.
“You have the mazons, the elders, and the eduxes.”
“Can you tell me about them?”
“You thirst for knowledge is great,” the lord consul said with a smile. “I am glad that I am here to satisfy it.” He added, “The mazons are a race of warriors with grave temper, which easily changes from mad to furious in seconds. They always think that war is the only solution to any problem, no matter how small or large. Your father was very careful when dealing with them, and so should you.”
“Noted,” the young elf lord said, desperate to hear more.
The lord consul looked into the young elf’s eager eyes and continued. “Their skin is a light shade of black, and it is as rough as a stone, which helps them in battle by preventing them from being easily cut. Their hair resembles the night sky when it is jet black and no star can be seen. Their eyes are mainly deep blue, yet a few of them have eyes a light shade of yellow, which give them the ability to see during the darkest of nights.” The lord consul paced through the great library, the young elf hanging on his every word.
“Yet the mazons with blue eyes have the capacity to see very clearly under water, salty or fresh. All of them have cute curled ears, and their noses are pointy. The mazons have power over the minor Lands of Lynn and Ersit, as well as the motherland of Arning, from where their high chief is able to command the minor chiefs.”
“How do you know so much about them?” the young elf asked.
Infernal Adversary
C. A. Peters
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C. A. Peters
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1
Standing, on the porch of the family home, Sam blinked repeatedly. A strange refracted light drew his attention to the sky. It was an unusual illumination, and out of character with the surrounds. Just as he, the day was young. It would be memorable, one that would alter the course of his very young life. His destiny would unravel in mysterious, wonderful and terrifying ways.
Shafts of weak golden light interacted with the occasional blue, creating a lustreless green. The emerald glow bounced off darkening clouds and bathed the municipality of Thomaston, in an unusual light. The tops of tall coniferous trees reflected the light, a rare colouring dominating the canopy. Shades of dull and dark green, the drifting gold and brown of autumn leaves were painted by some incomparable hand.
Proudly, it was spread on the widely stretched canvas of Thomaston.
In the approaching gloominess, Sam saw beauty and wonder, and felt the touch of simple magic, that for him was the most beautiful place on the planet. Thomaston was, and had been his home for the past decade of his life. He was eleven years old, an outsider by birth, but Scandic in every other way. He would challenge anyone who denied him that status. The land, the forest and the lake were intermingled with his unique and particular perception of life.
Sam spread his hands in an emotion filled gesture and hugged his town. To him no place on earth could equal the charm, comfort and beauty of Thomaston. It was to him the true home of Viking lords.
He would strut the edges of the forest imagining he was one!
The unusual light flooded the municipality, the departed summer another cherished memory. Gallantly, the last rays of autumn glow were attempting to penetrate gathering clouds. Almost black over wispy grey, they were heralding in a rapid change in season.
The land, lamented the passing of warm and luscious days of the forgotten summer, weeping silently, for the modesty of the disappearing autumn.
It was not many weeks ago that the surrounds of the beautiful Nordic forest and the simple, but lovely, lake, were bathed in soft autumnal luminescence. The character of the normal light had altered and a change was at hand.
Soon, pale blue Scandinavian skies would be concealed behind a constant overlay of ever present dark grey clouds. Nature was preparing to unleash Her winter child and spread an unblemished blanket of pure white over a drowsy land. Another impending cold season was about to envelop the charming region. Days had progressively been shortening in duration. The inevitable winter was beckoning. In an annual ritual of a cyclical certainty, the seasons paraded impatiently behind one another. White clouds, warm and gentle winds, fragrance of wild flowers and the summer aroma of a coniferous forest, were now a distant memory. The autumn, in a sleepy mood, was about to be shelved in the corridors of the seasons and winter was planning a triumphant entrance. It would be a while before the breath of summer winds graced the land once again. Snow, ice and howling winds would soon be at liberty to invade and conquer in a characteristic Scandinavian manner.
The intervention of a short autumn was a mere prelude to an arriving winter, which, as always, would be ferocious at times and uncompromising in character.
The oncoming season of frost and ice waited gloatingly to make an impression. Leaves drifted sadly in the wind. Bare branches were unprotected, the deflated red and withered rust indicating the end of another seasonal cycle. Winter was ruthless; but at its best, winter was beautiful in majesty and presentation. The exclusivity of the Scandinavian winter meant that a carpet of certainty covered the land. It would be unfurled, in spring, and reveal intricately woven patterns in fascinating colour. The region would then expand with pride and glory.
Winters were a fortification of hibernating life and spring, merely a consequence. Without winter spring would be uniform, colours taken for granted, constant and uninspiring. With winter came the longing for spring and a promised awakening that exploded into glorious life.
The unusual nature of the light made Sam frown. He parted his long, silky brown hair, dangling from under a strawberry patterned cap that partly covered his forehead. He sheltered his large doe shaped amber, and penetrating eyes with a capped hand. His cheeks were burning with the unseasonal cold and he knew, as usual, they would be bright pink.
Shafts of weak golden light interacted with the occasional blue, creating a lustreless green. The emerald glow bounced off darkening clouds and bathed the municipality of Thomaston, in an unusual light. The tops of tall coniferous trees reflected the light, a rare colouring dominating the canopy. Shades of dull and dark green, the drifting gold and brown of autumn leaves were painted by some incomparable hand.
Proudly, it was spread on the widely stretched canvas of Thomaston.
In the approaching gloominess, Sam saw beauty and wonder, and felt the touch of simple magic, that for him was the most beautiful place on the planet. Thomaston was, and had been his home for the past decade of his life. He was eleven years old, an outsider by birth, but Scandic in every other way. He would challenge anyone who denied him that status. The land, the forest and the lake were intermingled with his unique and particular perception of life.
Sam spread his hands in an emotion filled gesture and hugged his town. To him no place on earth could equal the charm, comfort and beauty of Thomaston. It was to him the true home of Viking lords.
He would strut the edges of the forest imagining he was one!
The unusual light flooded the municipality, the departed summer another cherished memory. Gallantly, the last rays of autumn glow were attempting to penetrate gathering clouds. Almost black over wispy grey, they were heralding in a rapid change in season.
The land, lamented the passing of warm and luscious days of the forgotten summer, weeping silently, for the modesty of the disappearing autumn.
It was not many weeks ago that the surrounds of the beautiful Nordic forest and the simple, but lovely, lake, were bathed in soft autumnal luminescence. The character of the normal light had altered and a change was at hand.
Soon, pale blue Scandinavian skies would be concealed behind a constant overlay of ever present dark grey clouds. Nature was preparing to unleash Her winter child and spread an unblemished blanket of pure white over a drowsy land. Another impending cold season was about to envelop the charming region. Days had progressively been shortening in duration. The inevitable winter was beckoning. In an annual ritual of a cyclical certainty, the seasons paraded impatiently behind one another. White clouds, warm and gentle winds, fragrance of wild flowers and the summer aroma of a coniferous forest, were now a distant memory. The autumn, in a sleepy mood, was about to be shelved in the corridors of the seasons and winter was planning a triumphant entrance. It would be a while before the breath of summer winds graced the land once again. Snow, ice and howling winds would soon be at liberty to invade and conquer in a characteristic Scandinavian manner.
The intervention of a short autumn was a mere prelude to an arriving winter, which, as always, would be ferocious at times and uncompromising in character.
The oncoming season of frost and ice waited gloatingly to make an impression. Leaves drifted sadly in the wind. Bare branches were unprotected, the deflated red and withered rust indicating the end of another seasonal cycle. Winter was ruthless; but at its best, winter was beautiful in majesty and presentation. The exclusivity of the Scandinavian winter meant that a carpet of certainty covered the land. It would be unfurled, in spring, and reveal intricately woven patterns in fascinating colour. The region would then expand with pride and glory.
Winters were a fortification of hibernating life and spring, merely a consequence. Without winter spring would be uniform, colours taken for granted, constant and uninspiring. With winter came the longing for spring and a promised awakening that exploded into glorious life.
* * * *
It would not be long before muted days of autumn would be replaced by a short constant twilight. Dark days of an Arctic winter would become an everyday event. Long periods of darkness would follow.
It didn't concern Sam greatly, having lived nearly all of his life in the environs of Thomaston. Winter, for him meant routine darkness, a part of everyday life, some days being as dark as nights. Only the electric clock in his room would regulate daily life. Winter brought uniform darkness. Periods of daylight occurred intermittently, as the thaw progressed week after week into its depths.
Sam was, nonetheless, in keeping with Nordic seasons. He had an equal fondness for aspects of the long winter as he did for the fleeting summer, the very short autumn or the glorious spring. He would not change the seasons of Greenland, the land he loved and the inhabitants who loved him, for all the gold in the world.
Indian Summer
Juilet Syms
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1
Spring 1980
Midsommer Monckton Central
England UK
She was in love! Breathtakingly, truly, madly, deeply. Just turned forty and for the first time ever. It was not how things were meant to happen. This had definitely not been in the script for Claudia Elliott’s well ordered, some would even say, charmed life. Wrong time, wrong place. Well...wrong everything really. The feelings though were so extraordinarily and painfully exquisite; there were simply no words to describe them. Nothing quite as exciting as this had ever happened to Claudia before.
`Have you got the smoked salmon starter prepared? Our guests are due around seven.`
`What Charles? What did you say? I can’t hear you.`
`Have you got the smoked salmon starter prepared for hors d’euvres? I can’t spot anything remotely aquatic, piscine and of the freshwater variety, smoked, steamed, poached or otherwise, within the immediate range. I’m reading left to right from your list headed menu suggestions: ‘paupiettes of smoked salmon, served with dill.’ Underscored. Right at the top of the starters column. Once you’d put a line through the foie gras. The Parker-Snells will be here within the hour.`
Charles Elliott’s exasperation was beginning to take hold. As well as being slightly deaf, Claudia was quite somewhere else, most of the time these days. The top London Transport executive couldn’t quite fathom his wife’s latest woolly headed behaviour, even after twelve years of marriage.
`Yes, yes. Well no. The smoked salmon didn’t look terribly good in Waitrose yesterday. I’ve settled for celeri remoulade instead. Delicious and simple enough to prepare. It shouldn’t take me more than a few ticks. Rob persuaded me to try it last time I was over at theirs when we popped out to eat at ‘Le Jardin de Manger.’`
`Mm. Oh well. You’re the cook.` Charles thought it expedient not to argue.
`Yes. Quite. I asked their chef for the recipe afterwards. In my best French, of course.`
Claudia Elliott was no world traveller, having a real terror of flying. She would, nevertheless, grit her teeth at least once a year to board a plane that would take her the short flight over to Nimes, to visit her cousin Rob and his lovely French wife, Camilla. And to be driven to their sizeable villa, in the heart of Provence.
`Everything else is in the oven, Charles, and under control. Now please would you mind getting out of the kitchen?`
Claudia needed time alone to steady herself for their social engagement that evening and to avoid having to face any more awkward inquisitions from her husband, to further bewilder and distract her. Yesterday, if Charles had only realized, his wife had never been anywhere near Waitrose or the bustling, lively, brand new Milton Keynes city centre. They had moved with their three growing children, to Midsommer Monkton, a village on the eastern outskirts from Guildford, only a year or so ago.
Claudia travelled into town almost daily on her smart, sturdy, latest Honda scooter. Yesterday she had, as usual, braked quite sharply as she sped past the gates of the local Rectory, attached to her and Charles’s new Anglican church, where Reverend Simon Barclay and his wife, Vivienne Barclay, lived.
Unable, as always, to resist a sideways glance, Claudia, this time, had not been disappointed. She had spotted her. The one who, as well as being the new minister’s wife, had also, very recently, become her employer.
And as a consequence of all this, the one who now consumed an endless amount of space in her lively imagination and extra large loving heart and upon whose account she would frequently sit, on a rather uncomfortable wooden bench, outside St Mark’s Rectory, overlooking the Grand Union canal, on one of her occasional days off. Sometimes until a whole hour had gone by. In the hope that she might catch, even a glimpse, of the one that she burned with unrequited passion for, day after long agonising day.
Charles Elliott’s wife had always been of the opinion that it was one of life’s disguised blessings that she had failed her car driving test on all of the three occasions that she had put herself through the essential, though nerve racking rituals that are necessary to acquire a full driving licence.
Claudia was not one of life’s quitters though, in any sense of the word. The motorcycle test she had sailed through. And her flamboyant, well camouflaged, though slightly masculine streak, was suited far better, she was convinced, to her more recently adopted mode of transport. She loved zooming over all those newly constructed roundabouts, confusingly identical in appearance. Yet each given some measure of character by their absurd and strange sounding names. ‘Bottledump’ being about the strangest that Claudia thought she had ever heard.
Duchesses of Ravensdale : The Beginning
Ellodie Rose Renoir
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1
Ellodie Rose Renoir
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1
A light, cool mist lay across the cabbage-green fields, carpeted with wild, colourful flowers that swayed and swirled like ladies in multi-coloured gowns on a ballroom floor. The wind whistled hauntingly around the coach as it thundered down the road like a great lumbering beast. The trip had gone by in a blur of rolling fields with the occasional village and posting house. Maddy thought that the speed set by her cousin Edward’s driver was far too punishing for a lady; anxiety and fear battled within her, churning her stomach into a queasy froth. She silently prayed that the trip would soon come to an end. She was irritable, hungry and downright thirsty from all the dust. Sleep, in the bouncing coach, was impossible, even if she did doze off; the frequent holes in the road threw her against the panelling. Her head ached, her legs ached and her bottom was pins and needles. She felt that there wasn’t a piece of flesh on her body that hadn’t been bruised by the hazardous journey. She struggled to offer every appearance of listening attentively to her travelling companion, her grandmamma, who droned relentlessly on about nothing that interested Maddy. Anywhere, Maddy couldn’t help thinking, would be preferable to being here. Well, anywhere except, perhaps, listening to recitation of the dreadful poetry of her girlfriend, Wilma.
The low, heavy sky weighed like a cold black lid across the wide horizon. Their boots encased in silvery mud, Alex and Jackson stood beneath the old weeping willow, as the horses drank from the pond. Spiders were spinning their sun-lit webs, when suddenly, a thunderous roar leapt forth into the air, hurling a deafening uproar across the sky. Alex and Jackson turned instinctively to see a coach speeding dangerously along the ocean road…..the horses wild and reckless like bats in daylight. A surge of uneasiness instantly came upon Alex.
“Now that’s entertainment!” Jackson said mockingly.
Alex’s personal horse-trainer’s words made him uncomfortable. Although he was careful to conceal his feelings, in his gut he sensed trouble, knew it was imminent. His dark eyes filled with worry and concern as he mounted his black Arabian thoroughbred. Maddy’s grandmamma had been a total bore the entire trip, lecturing her and re-lecturing her on the rules of society. The duchess had also listed all the eligible noblemen who would be in attendance at Edward’s upcoming ball in Cornwall. The nobility list apparently included one duke, three marquis, with barons a plenty; also five earls had accepted, which appeared to make her grandmamma happier than her, as she was to celebrate her eighteenth birthday one week prior to the ball.
Marriage: her grandmamma hadn’t stopped talking about it since they had boarded the blasted coach in London. Maddy had no intention of getting married. She wanted to tour France and Spain and possibly Italy; she wanted to have some fun before she was forced into the duty of marriage and a family. With her inheritance due on her eighteenth birthday, the door was finally opened; no one could stop her then…..not even her grandmother. Fortunately for Maddy, Grandmamma had been unable to find out, even from her cousin through correspondence, anything about the new Duke of Cornwall. Apparently he was something of a recluse. In the two years since taking over the dukedom from his deceased father, he had not been seen at any of the elite society functions that the aristocracy held in London.
As the coach rolled on, Maddy studied her grandmother in silence: a small, curvaceous woman with large hands and a slightly reddish, heart-shaped face, pert lips, that were never made to laugh, a straight nose, a double chin and a mammoth shelf-like bosom. However, it was her sour disposition and her beady blue eyes that constantly unnerved all those with whom she came in contact. The scandal-mongering dowager was today attired in a magenta gown with delicate lime-green stripes and a matching bonnet perched on a stunning cascade of gleaming gold ringlets. She favoured clothing combinations not unlike those of the women of her age and distinction. Definitely not to Maddy’s taste at all.
The dowager stiffened, and went quite pale. “Maddy, they’re driving too fast,” she snapped.
Maddy suppressed a smile. Her grandmamma’s face now matched the colour of her gown and bonnet; she shuddered furiously and flicked some dust off her arms. Anger, swift and unexpected, flared in the duchess’ eyes.
“I vow, I simply cannot bear it! I loathe rusticity, cows, dust and insects! The blasted country. Blah! If it wasn’t for your party, Madeleine Hayes, and Edward’s ball, I wouldn’t be here,” she barked. “Although I have never been of a nervous disposition, it is something of a wonder, under the circumstances, that I have managed to avoid succumbing to this utterly horrid journey. I thought this could get you started with your very own set of society memories, however, I will find myself excessively relieved when it is over, young lady!”
Alex sat motionless in the cold, dishevelled air. His eyes narrowed, his anger and disgust directed towards the lunatic driver who showed no respect or consideration for his passengers or his horses’ team. “Damnation, what a blasted fool,” he said as he shifted in the saddle.
“They’re definitely heading for trouble, Alex.” The devilish crack of the driver’s whip again echoed on the wind. With remarkable restraint, Alex schooled his expression to blandness. The air suddenly cracked with high-voltage tension.
“Aye, that they are, Jackson.” Maddy held onto the edge of the seat as the carriage went left then right, careening uncontrollably from side to side. She watched her reticule fall off and almost bounce out of the window before its contents were strewn across the coach floor.
“Oh! That’s just dandy,” she said. She thought that she heard a thump on the roof of the coach and she looked up expecting to see Thomas, their head footman, through the hatch.
“Hold on!” came a hysterical scream from above.
“What is that deranged idiot up to now?” asked the duchess. “I think we are out of control… Grandmamma.”
“Well, his driving is way too fast, Maddy; he has no respect for a lady’s disposition. I will talk to Edward, if the fool doesn’t damn well kill us before we have a chance to arrive!”
Another violent lurch rocked the coach, followed by another; then a thunderous crack before it jerked violently sideways, throwing Maddy into the panelling of the door before she ricocheted off, landing unladylike upon the now dangerously tilting floor. With a groan, she closed her eyes and clutched her aching head. With a deafening screech the coach finally came to a shuddering stop, throwing the duchess momentarily on top of her as everything in the carriage flew around them.
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All of these titles can be purchased online at the Raider Book Shop or wherever fine books are sold.