eBook: 978-1-78099-626-4 | $0.99  |  £0.99 for ONE week only from 15/05/13 - 22/05/13 on all supported platforms

What others are saying about this book.

A first class adventure which moves with a pace and panache rarely seen these days. If you like good future fantasy youll love this. Reminiscent of M. J. Harrison or China Miéville at their fascinating best. I enjoyed Stealing Into Winter a lot.  

Michael Moorcock, Author

Jeniche is a complex and central character in this novel. With her companions, she leads you into a difficult world, where keeping alive and finding food, clothing and shelter are daily priorities. Avoiding the occupying soldiers is a continuing life-threatening struggle. While her friends become important, those characters she mistrusts, you begin to keep at arm's length.

The world of Jeniche is complex and sometimes bewildering. As you travel the countries of the plot, there are hidden puzzles which the imagination struggles to solve. Some episodes provide tantalising glimpses of other plots to follow, encountering characters, places and time frames the reader hopes to eventually revisit.

Stealing into Winter is a really good read and I am already looking forward to the sequel.

Janet C. Coyle, The Guardian

Extract: Chapter One

The wall opposite the door exploded inwards. Thick, stale dust billowed into the dark cell, particles of grit ricocheted about the confined space, and lumps of rubble spilled in noisy profusion across the stone floor, tipping the bed on its side. Fast asleep at the time, Jeniche found herself sprawling in the debris, confused and in pain. Dust settled into her mouth and she spat. Grit settled into her eyes and tears lay grimy tracks down the hollows of her dark cheeks.
She pushed herself into a sitting position while stones and chunks of mud brick cascaded from her hair and clothes, more dust drifting into the air. Resisting the temptation to rub her eyes, she blinked and winced, blinked again. And then began to cough as the pervasive dust caught the back of her throat.
Hunched in the deep gloom with her eyes streaming, still not understanding what had happened, she hacked until her lungs hurt and she felt weary. Perhaps it had been an earthquake. She had heard such things happened in Makamba now and then. For the moment, as she sat waiting for the air to clear enough for light to filter through the barred window in the door, it was all she could think of by way of an explanation. Only when she had fallen silent, drawing cautious breaths of still dusty air through her nose, did she begin to hear distant sounds.
They reached her through thick walls, long corridors, and many locked doors, through heaps of shattered masonry and thick dust. Disturbing sounds that filtered into her cell. Shouts. Screams. Faint exhalations, like sudden gusts of wind, followed by crushing thuds that made the ground tremble. Perhaps not an earthquake after all. She listened for anything closer, but just beyond her prison door, all was silent.
Feeling about her legs, she pushed lumps of crumbling mud brick away from her bruised shins and pulled herself upright. Grit cascaded to the floor stirring more dust into the air. She listened again, expectant, tense; the smell of fear mingling with the stale odor of sun-baked clay. Even the distant noise had subsided.
Placing her bare feet with care, she picked her way across the dark space to the metal door. Faint light showed through the iron bars at the small window. From a few paces back, she went up onto the tips of her toes. There was little to see. Blinking away the haziness of tears, she stepped forward again.
The area beyond the door was filled with a haze of fine dust, illuminated by the pale flame of a lamp on the far side. Apart from that, the room seemed unchanged. An arched entrance to a corridor. Rows of cell doors. In the window of one, large hands appeared, grasping the bars. She heard a heavy metallic rattle and tried the same with her own door, but it seemed as firmly locked as ever.
Only then did it occur to her that if the wall had collapsed…
Peering back into the gloom, she surveyed the damage. The splintered remains of her bed poked out at odd angles from a landslide of rough bricks and fragments of masonry. She looked at it, calculating. Somewhere beneath it was a lump of hard bread she had been saving as well as her sandals. All she managed to retrieve was the thin blanket.
Beyond, the wall seemed intact, mostly coarse bricks and cheap mortar. The corner furthest from the bed bulged near the ceiling, as if something had hit it from outside, causing the inner section of wall to collapse. But bulge was all it did. There was no way through to the outside and the wall did not move when she pushed against it.
With a sigh, she moved away, pulling the blanket round her shoulders. The sighing sound continued, even after she had expelled the air from her lungs. Became a rushing whistle. That grew louder.
Swearing in the dust-filled darkness, spitting grit, and counting more bruises, Jeniche pulled herself out from under fresh debris. Something sharp snagged on her tunic and she pulled herself free. Dazed again, it was several long moments before she noticed that it was brighter. That the door to her cell hung at a crazy angle from just one hinge.
Once she noticed, she did not hesitate. The gap was small, but she was used to that. Head first, twisting part way, she squirmed out into the room beyond and was on her feet. Wiping grit from her soles with a quick flick of her fingertips, she moved across the stone floor to the entrance to the corridor. At the far end, lantern held high, a prison guard approached with keffiyeh held across his mouth and nose. She dodged back, wondering if she could get past him.
Instinct made her go for height and she climbed on the table where the guards placed the food before pushing it through the feeding slots. Crouching ready to leap, she heard another loud crash and, as she fell, was astonished to see the guard expelled from the corridor into the room.
He hit the wall hard, his lantern crashing to the floor. The flame guttered, dust in the oil. From the floor, Jeniche watched the guard for a moment, but he was either unconscious or dead. Nothing she could do.
“Keys.”
The hoarse voice came from the cell where those large, pale hands once more gripped the bars.

“Get his keys and let me out.”
Jeniche was many things. A thief mostly. A liar when needed. Sometimes she was unlucky. This was, after all, a prison that was collapsing around her ears. And she was young. But stupid, she was not. And there was no way she was going to release the evil hulk on the other side of that locked door – a psychopathic rapist due for public execution.
She made a rude gesture in his direction before retrieving the keys from the unmoving body of the guard. A stream of lurid insults and threats poured from the darkness of the cell and the door rattled loudly. Jeniche picked up her blanket, wrapped it round her shoulders, told the rapist what he could do to himself in the confines of his firmly locked cell, and stepped toward the corridor and freedom.
Freedom was not forthcoming. Instead, there was another loud crash and more debris poured into the space. Jeniche felt the floor tilt and fell, rolling against a wall hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. She lay gasping for air that was saturated with more dust, wanting to scream with frustration and fear.
Silence settled as the air began to clear. And in the darkness, she could see a pale, shimmering speck. Blinking, she looked again through more tears. A patch of different darkness. Filled with stars.
With hurried movements, she began pulling the bits of shattered brick and broken wood off her legs, wiggling her toes to check that nothing was badly damaged. Everything seemed to be working, but her left foot was trapped at the ankle. She leaned forward, feeling into the rubble and finding what must be the remains of the table, pinned firmly by large lumps of masonry.
A tear rolled free and she made herself calm down, scenting the fresh, night air. Distant voices, shouting, other sounds she could not identify wove a picture of chaos. If she could only free her foot…
Shuffling forward, she began to work again at moving the wreckage. Swift movements, quiet so as to avoid attracting anyone’s attention. Her foot moved. If she could just twist it to the left. Or maybe bend her knee, just so. And as she contorted herself, feeling freedom edge closer, there came a grating noise from behind her, followed by an enormous metallic crash.
“So, I can go fuck myself, can I?”
A dark shape loomed between Jeniche and the patch of starry sky. She pulled again at her foot.
There was a long silence and Jeniche saw the anger on his face turn to puzzlement and then an evil sneer. She looked down and realized her tunic had gaped, revealing far too much.
“How about,” grunted the hoarse voice, close to her face, “I fuck you, instead.”
A hand groped at her, found her leg.
Her own hands clawed at the stony rubbish as the broken table was pulled from her trapped foot and she was dragged across the floor. Sour, urgent breath hissed into her face and she saw his pale, angry face in front of hers. Her feet were trapped again as he sat on her legs. Hands fumbled with her tunic.
Frustration, anger, fear, and a blind desire to hurt powered the swing of her arm. He saw it coming and moved his head back. He didn’t move quickly enough. The torn metal base of the lantern caught his nose and ripped it from his face.
Jeniche could hear him screaming as she scrambled up the loose scree of brickwork and stone toward the patch of sky. She could hear him screaming above the shouts that were louder now she was outside. Even when she climbed stone stairs up out of the courtyard and found herself on a flat roof, she could hear his howling. But the immediate and very personal threat he posed faded as she looked around and saw the city of Makamba on fire.

For long, precious moments she ran from edge to edge of the roof, turning, looking, and trying to understand. In the darkness above her, things she could not see whistled past and tore into buildings in the Citadel and beyond, throwing debris in all directions. Arrows trailing flame arced in the night, finding dirt and oblivion, awnings and wood piles, jars of oil, flesh.
All through the Citadel, across the docks, up along the great ridge of the Old City, and beyond to richer enclaves, buildings burned. Flames leapt and cast angry light into the dark parts of the city. And everywhere she looked, people ran; shouting, crying, and brandishing buckets and weapons.
Arrows fell with a clatter onto the roof where she stood, waking her from the distant nightmare.

Wasting no more time, she ran and leapt the narrow gap between buildings onto a shallow-pitched pantile roof. The clay tiles clattered beneath her bare feet as she went up over the ridge and down the other side, her eyes trying to make sense of the roofscape as flame-shadows danced.
Running along the edge of the roof, she looked down to the ground three floors below. The only way out of the Citadel was by one of the gates, and she knew she needed to get there quickly. There had been a lot of people down on the river front, pouring off barges. She doubted they were ships’ crew.
At the corner of the building was a buttress. Without stopping to think about how narrow it was, she slipped over the side and shinned down, rolling into a small pool of shadow when she hit the ground.
With a yelp of pain bitten off behind tight clenched lips, she took a moment to massage her stubbed toes and survey the scene. The Citadel did not have a complex layout, but it was haphazard. With all the confusion and the need to look as if she belonged, she hobbled across to a main path where a bucket chain had been formed. As one bucket passed, she slipped across, grabbed another that had dropped and headed toward the small customs house; found herself being jostled toward the main gate just as she had hoped.
Torches flared in great iron brackets, lighting the main parade ground and gateway. The space was filled with men and horses and, to her astonishment, the main gates seemed wide open. For a moment she thought it was too late, that the Citadel had fallen, but then she saw that the great press of men were soldiers and members of the Autarch’s guard, newly arrived. And she also saw that the heavy gates were now slowly closing.
A horse stepped sideways and pushed her against a wall before its rider calmed it. Used to the great beasts, she waited anxious seconds so as not to startle it again by dashing off. And then, with one eye on the gates and the other on the melee of dismounting soldiers, she began to weave her way across the parade ground. Dodging booted feet and pikestaffs, bumped and jostled, she pushed her way to the ever narrowing gap, tripping as a clear run opened up in front of her.
Hauled to her feet by a rough hand grasping her tunic, she turned ready to fight.
“Get out, lad,” said the soldier, not looking properly. He marched her across to the gatehouse. “No place for you here,” he added and pushed her out into the street. The gates slammed loudly behind her and she heard the first of the great locking bars fall into place.
“May your gods protect you,” she called as loudly as she could. And then ran off into the mayhem in the streets of the Old City.

 

Stealing Into Winter - being the first adventure from the chronicles of Jeniche of Antar

Graeme Talboys
When Jeniche, a sometimes successful thief, found her prison cell collapsing around her, she knew it was not going to be a good day. Certainly, the last thing she wanted once she had escaped into the war-torn city was to become involved with a group of monks and nuns on pilgrimage. Even less did she want to help them escape and guide them through the desert and into the mountains so they could get home. Of course, the last thing you want is often the first thing you get.

In a world growing painfully from the ruins of a long past catastrophe, it is not just the Imperial ambitions of the Occassan nation that worries people; it is the all too real danger of the past rearing its vicious and mysterious head. What did happen all those centuries ago? What has it do with a thief? And why are the Occassans so interested in her skills?

 

Paperback
978-1-78099-625-7 | $16.95  |  £9.99 | 249PP

eBook
978-1-78099-626-4 | $9.99  |  £6.99 (normal price will resume after promotional period)

Categories:

0 comments on this article

This thread has been closed from taking new comments.