Sneak Peek of Embers Origin

I ntro

The arrival of five thousand Others onto the blazing sands of the Mojave Desert could signal the end of life on Earth as we know it.

Clair

When I agreed to consult with the military on a top-secret project, I never dreamed my job would take me out of the lecture hall and into a world filled with orcs, nagas, and minotaurs.

Ashok, the mysterious orc warrior blessed with the power to unravel languages at a touch, is the key to discovering why they’re here and if they plan to harm us.

Though shocking, the liberties he takes with my body aren’t too high a price to pay to protect the lives of everyone on Earth. Except how can I pretend this is a sacrifice when I can’t wait for his next “download”?

Ashok

The power of my magic is rivaled only by the intensity of Clair’s gentle touch. I’m drawn to her in a way I’ve never felt before, but my excursions into her mind hint that she might be hiding plans to destroy my people.

Although we may be enemies by day, by night she warms my bed and makes me forget anything but her.

C hapter One

Twenty-Five Years Ago

Ashok

Every muscle in my body strains as I put all my strength into arm wrestling Groth. I’m not the largest orc in my clan, nor the most muscular, but I’m strong. Still, I’m no match for Groth, who is one of the Flameheart clan’s most powerful.

After a few more moments of struggling, the veins on my neck popping, my thighs taut as I give it my all, Groth presses my hand to the stump. Grunts of approval circle the group of males who’ve been watching us.

“Nice match.” Groth gives me a nod. I did well, considering his towering height, broad shoulders, and that his forearm is almost as thick as my calf. “You might yet have another growth spurt.”

I doubt that, but I don’t argue. It’s been a decade since I’ve grown an inch. I just accept his compliment for what it is, a genuine sign of respect.

Instead of watching Groth’s next match, I grab my half-drunk mug of ale and wander to the clearing where an impromptu band has sprung up around a bonfire. I wish I had the talent that minotaur male has as he plays the khuur’in . How can he coax such sounds out of a small wooden box?

The musicians had played a lively dancing tune while I arm wrestled, but they’re playing something different now. It’s dramatic and fills me with power. When the minotaur sings with that special ability some of his species have to make the words resonate from the back of their throats, I stand almost hypnotized.

This is why I love coming to The Gathering. Clans of many different species gather twice a year to trade, revel, and look for mates. I come for that, but as a kezja , I have other duties. Because of my special ability, I come to see if there are those here who speak any languages I haven’t yet learned. If there are, I seek them out and perform the linoch to learn them.

I hold a special place of respect among not only my own clan, but all the clans. In fact, all the species treat me with high regard. I translate, mediate, and help us all live in harmony.

Thunder cracks and a deluge starts out of nowhere. Then lightning strikes. It comes in waves, streaking across the sky brightly, each one following in quick succession. It’s as bright as day—brighter. It hurts my eyes.

Families run for cover where they can find it. Children are ushered inside tents while those of us close to the Goddess say a prayer to the heaving sky.

Orcs are closely attuned to nature. A thunderstorm of this magnitude has never snuck up on me before. By the surprised shouts of those around me, none of us saw this coming.

The horses picketed in the trees are screaming in terror. I run to soothe Bataar, my stallion, who is panicking. If this odd weather is scaring me, the poor beast is probably terrified.

The sky is silvery, shimmery bright as I sprint to the trees. People are shrieking. Babies are crying. There’s a strange smell in the air that clogs the back of my throat. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

Thunder is rolling. I’ve heard it like this before, those long, seemingly endless rumbles that seem ominous. But even this is different. It’s so loud it’s vibrating in my head.

Just before I reach the trees, I glance up. There, in the middle of the noon-bright sky, is a black hole. It’s as though a giant sank his knife into the sky and made his mark. I know Bataar needs my soothing touch on his soft muzzle, but I stand transfixed as I gaze into the black eye that pulses in the heavens.

The opening clenches open and shut like a mare in heat and then shimmery threads shoot to the ground. They’re random. Some come singly, some come so thickly they’re almost braided together.

My balls tighten against my body, one of the many signs of my terror as the hair on my arms stands on end and my legs stay riveted in place. Everything is so astonishing, so bizarre, I’m hardly surprised when each string, each strand, grips one of the revelers and yanks them heavenward.

I run to Bataar, remove his picket from the ground, and leap upon his back in one smooth move. Needing no reins, no saddle, with the picket still in my hand, I jab my heels into his flanks. He rears and lurches forward, not needing any more direction from me. He wants to run from this place as much as I do.

When I glance behind me, I see the silver threads slicing down, wrapping around males, females, children, young and old, orcs, wolven, minotaurs, and nagas. The threads don’t discriminate.

I feel somewhat safe here under the cover of trees, the canopy of leaves thick above me. Without warning, without even seeing it coming, a thread wraps around me.

Thin as spider’s silk, strong as metal, it circles my waist and chest, binding my arms to my sides and lifts me up through the canopy, yanks me above the trees, and into the black hole.

Continue reading EMBERS' ORIGIN here.