Pathfinder Author Chat Next Monday!

Thursday, September 21st, 2011

Hey there, fiction fans! This coming Monday, September 26th, Pathfinder Tales author Dave Gross has set up an awesome Pathfinder Tales round table discussion in the Paizo chat room. Starting at 6:00pm PST, this is your chance to catch all of the current Pathfinder Tales novelists in one place, to offer your opinions and ask your burning questions (such as the all-important “Who would win, Elyana or Ellasif?”). The floor will be entirely open, and your questions will determine what we talk about, so drop by http://chat.dmtools.org/ on Monday night to chat with Dave Gross (Prince of Wolves, Master of Devils, Winter Witch), Elaine Cunningham (Winter Witch), Howard Andrew Jones (Plague of Shadows), Robin D. Laws (The Worldwound Gambit), and yours truly (Death’s Heretic, Fiction Editor). (Once you get there, be sure to type /join PFTales to enter the side room hosting the discussion.) It’s guaranteed to be a riotous, educational, and undeniably literary affair.

I’ll be there—will you?

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

New Books and Epubs!

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

It's an exciting day over here in the Pathfinder Tales department! Not only does today introduce the final chapter in Erik Mona's "Two Pieces of Tarnished Silver" (which you can read right here for free), but it's also the release date of two things that folks have been anxiously awaiting for a while now.

Illustration by Daren Bader

The first is Robin Laws' The Worldwound Gambit, a rollicking heist novel set in the demonic madness of the Worldwound. Hitch a ride with veteran con man Gad as he gathers the perfect team of scoundrels and thieves to infiltrate a cult's living tower deep in demon-held territory. Together they'll attempt to pull off the biggest job of their lives, saving their home from destruction and keeping business booming. Along the way, they'll have to deal with insufferable paladins, a dangerously seductive priestess, their own quirks and faults—and of course, plenty of demons. By turns hilarious and disturbing, Robin's new book is a dark, witty romp that will show you Mendev and the Worldwound like you've never seen them before.

Illustration by Jason Engle

The second thing we're proud to unveil is the latest batch of Pathfinder Tales ePubs, which includes not just several of the web fiction stories, but the first three Pathfinder's Journals from Pathfinder Adventure Path, available now in compiled electronic form, complete with all their original illustrations! For years, people have been asking for compiled versions of the journals for ease of reading and transportation—in fact, before he worked here, Mark Moreland compiled all the Eando Kline stories into a self-printed chapbook to read on his commute—and we're glad to finally be able to oblige. Appearing in this first batch are "Hell's Pawns" by Dave Gross, which marks the first appearance of Varian Jeggare and Radovan; "Dark Tapestry" by Elaine Cunningham, which follows the adventures of half-elven Pathfinder and desert druid Channa Ti; and "The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline," which presents the entire epic journey of Pathfinder Eando Kline from his first appearance in Pathfinder Adventure Path #1 to the stunning conclusion in #18. Much longer than a typical web fiction story, both "Hell's Pawns" and "Dark Tapestry" are full-length novellas, while Eando's story is roughly as long as a Pathfinder Tales novel! "The Compass Stone" also comes complete with a new foreword by yours truly, discussing the evolution of the Pathfinder's Journal, and of Eando's story in particular. Joining these journals are the compiled web fiction tales "Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers and "The Secret of the Rose and Glove" by Kevin Andrew Murphy.

And this is just the beginning! We hope to unveil the next novel in the Pathfinder Tales line fairly soon, and you can look forward to seeing further batches of web fiction stories and Pathfinder's Journals compiled for your electronic reading enjoyment at regular intervals. Because when it comes to Pathfinder fiction, more is better!

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

What happens in the Academae...

Thursday, April 14th, 2011

	Illustration by J. P. Targete

What's this? Another new story already in the free Pathfinder Tales web fiction? As we discussed in the blog last week, this month brings us two short pieces from Pathfinder Tales superstars Elaine Cunningham and Dave Gross, both of which were recently previewed in Wayfinder #4. This week is "The Illusionist," a totally self-contained one-shot story from Elaine featuring a young Mwangi wizard from the Magaambya who travels to the Acadamae in Korvosa on a sort of study-abroad program, only to discover that the northerners are far less cultured than they pretend...

If you've read Winter Witch, you may notice a few familiar faces in this story. One of the main comments I've heard regarding the novel is that people are really curious about Declan's brother Asmonde, and the backstory with him and the Acadamae—I know I found Declan's relationship with his not-quite-sister-in-law and tiefling niece one of the more compelling aspects of his character. Thus it should come as no surprise that when Elaine contacted me about writing more about that bit of history, I jumped at the chance. And of course, seeing our old friend Jamang in his natural habitat lends that much more life and breadth to the underhanded world of Korvosa.

Click here to read Elaine's new story, and don't forget to come back next week for a rollicking new yarn by Paizo publisher Erik Mona himself!

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

The Illusionist

by Elaine Cunningham

To Oyamba, High Sun-Mage of the Magaambya, from apprentice and sojourner Bonali Kwazeel.

My lord,

I am well settled at Korvosa's Acadamae, in good health and most grateful for this opportunity to learn the ways of foreign wizards. Most of the first-year magic is familiar ground, but an unexpected lesson was taught to me yesterday by a fellow scholar. Though the story does me no credit, I will nonetheless report it faithfully.

My first impression of the Acadamae was, admittedly, not very favorable. The compound itself is impressively large, a walled city within the city, but the buildings are scattered about in random fashion rather than arranged in a sun-circle to focus power. It is strange to walk streets more twisting and contrary than goat paths, to see water contained in wells rather than free-flowing through the dreamwalk patterns of ancient cisterns. There is no symmetry in the Acadamae, and little beauty. It seemed incredible that magic could be called to such a place.

Still, the school is world-renowned, and I felt one might reasonably expect a certain breadth of knowledge in its scholars. To my surprise, little is known of the Mwangi Expanse. We are all one to these northerners. When they express admiration for my gold ornaments and the thread-art on my garments, their manner suggests an expectation of jangar-skin loin clouts and necklaces of monkey bone. On the whole, however, I found my new peers to be cordial and curious, if only in the hope that I might share some bit of exotic magic, or perhaps some jungle spices more potent than those they currently smoke.

I was assigned quarters with one Jamang Kira, a young man of Korvosa. If you can envision a strutting kimboda rooster, endlessly crowing and preening at his black-and-red plumage, you need no further description of the man. Despite his small stature and irritating ways, he stands near the head of our class and shows promise of becoming a powerful wizard. He is a first-year student, no older than my twenty years, but he spends much of his time ingratiating himself with older, more powerful scholars. One of them is Asmonde Avari.

Rumors flourish in any school. I had thought the Magaambya scholars worse than village gossips, but in the Acadamae whispers wander the halls like the unquiet dead. More than a few of them speak of Jamang's mentor.

Shortly after the dinner hour, Jamang, whom I seldom see before midnight, burst into our shared room. "Asmonde is casting a summoning in his chambers tonight," he announced with great excitement. "He allows a few friends to observe. You should come with me."

I put down the herbs I was grinding for the morrow's potions class and turned to face him. "Were I tired of living, I would gladly accompany you."

A smile bent one side of his mouth. "Asmonde is ambitious," he admitted, "and he does tend to overreach. Even so, his reach is long. We could learn much from him."

	"The Korvosans have little knowledge of the grand traditions of southern magic."

With difficulty, I suppressed a shudder. The summoning of demons and devils is bad enough, to my way of thinking. For a mere student to summon devils more powerful than most wizards can contain is hubris. Rumors whispered tales of earlier failed attempts. It was said that most of his family's wealth had gone to shielding him from the consequences of these failings. That Asmonde kept on with these summonings, despite the devastation he'd already wrought, was incredible to me.

To my surprise, Jamang did not press me. He reached for the small pot of herbs I'd just crushed. I caught his wrist before he could raise the pot to his nose.

"That is zumalli," I explained as I carefully reclaimed my property. "It is like mosswort in tincture, but far stronger."

Enlightenment flowed into his small black eyes. "No wonder you best me in potions class," he murmured. "You've access to plants most of us have never heard of. Stronger than mosswort, you say?"

I nodded. "Had you inhaled the volatile oils, you would have become confused and sleepy."

Jamang strode over to the little cabinet where I kept my pots and vials. "And this one?" he demanded, pointing to a jar of snakevine sap.

"Greatly diluted, it is a powerful restorative. In its current state, it is green-death. Deadly poison."

He stared at me, clearly puzzled. "Aren't you concerned that someone might use it?"

A moment passed before his meaning became clear. Horror swept through me like venom.

"That would be... most unwise," I said carefully. "The use of any Mwangi medicinal would swiftly bring the Acadamae's masters to my door."

"My point precisely," he said. "It would be an easy way for a rival student to implicate you."

"Or you." Some instinct I did not quite understand prompted me to add these words. Jamang did not take offense. If anything, he looked amused.

"In that case, we are both safe enough. If Mwangi poison were suspected, a magical enquiry would quickly establish our innocence."

I thought that would be the end of the matter, but Jamang reached for the setoli sitting atop my cabinet.

"This is a spirit house, yes? A protection against evil?"

The observation surprised me, since Jamang had shown little interest in Mwangi customs before. The reason for his inquiry came to me suddenly.

"I am not sure whether it could contain a devil," I said candidly. "That is not its intended purpose."

He nodded as if he'd been expecting this answer. "If I thought it would come to that, I wouldn't ask. Asmonde promised he would take every precaution known to him. Asmonde is good, but I'd feel better if magic not known to him were guarding the perimeter."

This was a side of Jamang I had not seen. It was clearly difficult for him to ask this favor of me, but his concern for his friend outweighed his pride. I'd dismissed him as vain and shallow, concerned about no one but himself. He was a better man than I'd credited him, and I was ashamed to have judged him unfairly.

All the same, I locked up my medicinal cabinet before we left.

∗ ∗ ∗

Asmonde Avari met us at the door. I saw at once why Jamang followed him like a hound. Power surrounds some men like shadows and mist. Asmonde stood in a dark cloud of his own creation. He was nearly as tall as me and quite handsome, with the dark hair and pale skin common to Korvosans. There was something about his eyes, however, that I did not like.

Still, he greeted us cordially and showed us where we should stand. His chamber was larger than the one I shared with Jamang, as befitted his years and higher standing. The furniture had been pushed back against the walls, and a circle surrounded by elaborate runes had been painted onto the floor. Painted, not drawn—a permanent work of art and magic, clearly the product of considerable time and effort and study.

This was unusual, but I must admit that I breathed a little easier. Clearly Asmonde was not quite as reckless as rumor suggested.

Six of us had gathered to observe the casting. At a gesture from Asmonde, we fell silent.

He began the casting, chanting in a voice as resonant with power as an oracle's as he strode slowly around the circle. When he came to a stop, I noticed that there was a small gap in the circle and an empty place where a rune should have been drawn.

Asmonde drew a small knife from his belt and pressed it to his arm. A line of blood welled up. He knelt, still chanting, and closed the circle with his own blood.

I lack the words to describe what happened next. Imagine that thunder and lightning struck simultaneously, yet without sound or light. There was no roar or flash. There was only the devil.

Several moments passed before I recovered from that first shock of power, and even then my mind could hardly encompass what my senses perceived. I have a half-memory, like something from a fading nightmare, of great size and glistening hide and twisted black horns.

I glanced at Jamang. He stood calmly at my side, meeting the devil's gaze without any apparent difficulty. For some reason, that disturbed me more than anything I'd yet seen. I tore my gaze away. It was easier to watch Asmonde as he intoned the chant that would bind the foul being to his will.

But his words faltered. A strange look came over his face, the expression of a man confused, not by some failing of will or intellect, but by some enchantment. Or perhaps even by green-death...

My gaze flew to the knife in Asmonde's hand. It was small and silver, identical to the blades most scholars carried for magical purposes. Substituting another knife—a knife touched with zumalli—would be a simple matter.

Asmonde continued to chant, but he no longer controlled the spell. Blood spattered the floor as words of power tore free of his throat. He rocked back and forth like a man retching himself dry. Closer and closer to the circle he rocked.

Too close.

A great, black-taloned hand snatched Asmonde by the hair. The devil dragged him into the circle and tore his head from his body.

All of us stood frozen, too horror-stricken for thought or action.

Jamang was the first to recover his wits. He slapped the shock from my face and pointed to Asmonde's body, lying half in the circle, a bridge of mortal flesh.

"The spirit house," he shouted. "Contain the devil now, before it crosses over!"

Whatever Jamang's part in this catastrophe might have been, his reasoning now was sound but for one thing: I was not sure my magic could reach into another wizard's circle.

Nor could I risk setting that devil loose.

I gave a curt nod, more to steel myself than to respond to Jamang.

"When I step into the circle, pull the body out," I said. "Then run for help."

Not waiting for a response, I leaped into the circle, brandishing the spirit house and shouting the word that would activate it.

At least, I think I shouted it. Any sound I might have made disappeared into the devil's shriek. A terrible wind buffeted me with blistering heat and a roar like the screaming of tortured souls. How long it went on, I could not say, for when two of the Acadamae's masters stepped into the empty circle and lifted me to my feet, my ears still rang with the hellish sounds.

One of the masters took the spirit house from my hands and raised it to peer into the window. A look of wonder crossed his face, as if the thing captured within were no more than a pleasant toy. He looked upon me with new respect and said something I could not hear. The other master pointed to his ear. An expression of chagrin crossed the first master's face and he handed me a small amulet.

The cacophony died, suddenly and completely.

"You may keep the amulet," the master said, lifting the spirit house meaningfully.

"A fair exchange," I agreed.

Jamang reached up to place a hand on my shoulder. "That was the most astonishing act of courage I have ever beheld," he said solemnly. "As is custom, Asmonde deeded his personal effects to a younger student, but I think he would want you to have this."

He pressed something into my hand.

Asmonde's knife.

Without thinking, I raised it to my nose. There was no trace of zumalli. For a moment, I knew shame for my suspicious thoughts.

And then I realized that there was no trace of blood on the knife, either.

∗ ∗ ∗

The first thing I did upon reaching my room was to empty all of my Mwangi herbals, every pot and vial, into my jug of asperengi. I did it quickly, before Jamang could return and learn that I possessed a nearly universal solvent. I did not like to imagine what use he might make of such knowledge.

He came in late that night, flushed with self-satisfaction and laden with Asmonde Avari's books and scrolls. I made no move to help, nor did he seem to expect it.

I meant to keep silent, for what good can come of barking at a jackal? And I might have done so, had he not smirked at the sight of the empty zumalli pot on my table. Temper overcame me. I snatched up one of the books, a slender volume bound in blue leather, and hurled it against the far wall.

"I will go to the masters," I promised. "I will tell them everything."

Jamang made a show of yawning and stretching, as if he could barely hold himself awake for such inconsequential threats. "And what exactly is 'everything,' Bonali?"

"You killed Asmonde Avari!"

"A devil killed Asmonde Avari," he corrected me. "Several people bore witness to that fact."

"But the knife—"

"The knife in your possession?" He shook his head in the manner of someone gently chiding a boy too slow of mind to learn simple runes. "If anything is found on it, who do you think they will accuse?"

I was about to remind him of our earlier conversation about our shared access to my store of green-death when my gaze fell on "Asmonde's" spotless knife. I had no doubt that the knife Jamang gave me was not the knife Asmonde had wielded. If dangerous herbs were found on it, it could only be because I myself put them there. Any magical inquiry would reveal this. No one would believe that I did so to bring another man to justice. If I accused Jamang, I accused myself. Bringing the spirit house to the summoning, destroying my store of Mwangi herbals after—these would not be construed as the actions of an innocent man.

But perhaps the masters might listen and believe, if the motive were sufficient. "Are those books so valuable?"

Jamang glanced at the slim blue volume, which he hadn't bothered to retrieve from the floor. "Asmonde's books? I doubt it. He comes from a family of innkeepers. Even his knife—and you do have his knife, by the way—is of middling quality."

A great confusion fell over me. "Then why? What did you gain that was worth a man's life, even such as man as Asmonde Avari?"

He picked up the empty zumalli pot and placed it among the other empty containers in my cabinet. The smile he turned upon me was something I will not soon forget.

"Ask me again," he said pleasantly, "after tomorrow's potion class, when I stand first in the student rankings."

∗ ∗ ∗

Master Oyamba, I am mindful of your desire that I learn the art of abjuration, but with your permission I would like to devote myself to the study of illusion. Perhaps knowledge of how falsehoods are told with magic might prepare me to better perceive the illusions built with words and deeds. That ability, I suspect, might hold me in better stead than anything else I might learn from Korvosa.

Respectfully,
Bonali Kwazeel

Coming Next Week: Erik Mona introduces us to the etiquette of cannibalism in "Two Pieces of Tarnished Silver."

Elaine Cunningham is the New York Times best-selling author of numerous novels in such varied settings as the Forgotten Realms, Star Wars, EverQuest, Spelljammer, and Ravenloft. Her other contributions to the Pathfinder campaign setting include the Pathfinder Tales novel Winter Witch and work on Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Guide to the River Kingdoms

Art by J. P. Targete.

Illustration by Jesper Ejsing. Wallpaper design by Crystal Frasier. Widescreen version here.

If Winter Comes, Can Spring Be Far Behind?

Friday, March 11, 2011

We continue the month with another Pathfinder Tales-inspired wallpaper. This time we present the cover to Winter Witch by New York Times best-selling author Elaine Cunningham. I like all of the covers we've done for Pathfinder Tales, but this is my favorite to date. Something about the varied blues, warm reds, and general feel of the piece is just cool. (Pun intended.) If you haven't already, you should check the book out by getting it here or at your favorite bookstore. You can even read the prologue right here.

And now that winter is coming to an end, spring (and the sun!) is that much closer. Which makes this SoCal native very happy indeed.

Hyrum Savage
Marketing and Organized Play Manager

Winter Witch Preview

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Illustration by Jesper Ejsing

As you may have already noticed if you're a regular follower of the free weekly Pathfinder Tales web fiction—and if you're not, you should be—this week's offering is a little bit different. Normally, each Wednesday brings you a serialized chapter in a brand-new Pathfinder Tales short story by a promising new author or established fan favorite.

This week, however, we're trying something new. We realized recently that while the web fiction stories have hopefully been rousing some enthusiasm for Pathfinder fiction as a whole, we've ironically shown off very little of our flagship novels. To that end, from now on, each time a new novel releases, we'll choose one of the book's chapters and reprint it here in its entirety as a free sample (usually with additional art—we didn't come up with the idea quite in time to order new art for this round). After that, we'll make the sample chapter available in perpetuity both here and as a free downloadable PDF from the product page.

First up in this new plan is the just-released Winter Witch, for which we've selected the prologue as a perfect example of the kind of barbaric fun this book has to offer. Back when Elaine was first pitching the story to us, this chapter was the first thing she wrote and sent to us as an example of where she was headed. Once you've read it for yourself, I think you'll understand why we immediately knew we had to publish this book.

Normal web fiction will return next week with Ed Greenwood's explorations into the corrupt and combustible politics of Alkenstar, but for now, head over to the web fiction and get a first glimpse at Winter Witch! And as always, don't be afraid to comment on this blog or head over to the Pathfinder Tales messageboards to tell us exactly what you think.

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

Winter Witch Sample Chapter

by Elaine Cunningham

Prologue: The Dancing Hut

In the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, children seldom weep, and the hardy northern women scream only in the rage of battle. Cursing, however, is a celebrated art mastered only once a woman approaches the moment of childbirth.

Marit perfected her art while writhing on her bed, the sheets already sodden with the sweat of her agony. Her only attendant sat hunched on a chair nearby. Ellasif had just entered her tenth winter. Her small face furrowed in concentration as she committed some of her mother’s more inventive phrases to memory.

When the waves of pain ebbed and Marit lay limp and panting, Ellasif dipped a cloth into an infusion of soothing herbs. She wrung it nearly dry and draped it over her mother’s forehead. It was bad fortune that the child had decided to come tonight, when their mother was already weak with fever, but the midwife had not been surprised. Everyone knew that storms called to the unborn.

And such a storm! Wind howled as it stalked through the village, scrabbling at the cottage and snatching away handfuls of thatching. Shards of ice clattered against the shuttered windows. Hailstones tumbled down the chimney to die hissing in the hearth fire. The candle on the bedside table trembled as yet another peal of thunder rolled in from the forest separating the village of White Rook from the eternally wintry land of Irrisen.

It occurred to Ellasif that the distant booming she’d heard since nightfall might not be thunder. The possibility of what else the sound might be stole her breath, and her lips silently shaped one of the curses she’d just learned.

Ellasif had never given much thought to the stories village children whispered of the winterfolk, or to the maze of living fences that kept those fabled horrors at bay. But then, she had never imagined that the fences might fall.

She ran to the window and unlatched the shutter. Standing on tiptoe, she peered out into the clearing.

Illustration by Jesper Ejsing

Rain and sleet fell steadily, a frigid downpour that clung to the roofs and trees in ever-thickening sheets of ice. Undeterred, the people of White Rook continued their work. The bonfire blazing in the village center cast a broad circle of light and—so it seemed to Ellasif—far more shadows than could be accounted for by the human inhabitants alone. There were restless spirits among the houses, long and small.

Most of the village women tended the birch grove, a natural palisade stretching north-south from the cliffs to the river. A lattice of vines connected the trees in an intricate pattern that was both maze and fence. The women went from one groaning tree to another, shaking ice from the drooping limbs. An elder birch faltered under its burden and broke with a sound like a thousand shattered mead jugs. The women scattered as the tree crashed to the ground, bringing with it several of its smaller neighbors and the web of interlaced vines connecting them.

The clatter had not yet died away when another deep report rolled across the village. It was much closer than any previous boom, and there was no mistaking the sound that followed: the slow scream of a falling tree.

Ellasif braced for the impact, her breath frozen as she counted off the moments. The ground-shaking crash signaled the death of an ancient pine, one of the pillars supporting the fence of tree-thick vines White Rook’s people had shaped and tended for generations.

The outer perimeter was coming down.

They could expect no assistance from any king. Opir Eightfingers had shown little interest in defending the border with Irrisen, despite the proximity of his capital, and there were those who said he was no true king for this and other reasons. There had been a time when Trollheim declared the village part of its territory, but Castellan Freyr Darkwine had not sent his Blackravens so far south since the start of the interregnum. The men and women of White Rook stood alone against the invaders.

The village women abandoned the birch grove to guard against whatever might come through the breach. Ellasif’s hands itched for the grip of a weapon as she watched the women scramble into position. She scrubbed her palms against the rough wool of her skirt and tried to push the battle-lust aside. She knew her place was here. Soon she would be an elder sister, with all the responsibility that role entailed.

But the frenzy of battle preparations proved too tempting to resist. Ellasif lingered at the window, watching as men rolled barrels of vjarik, a distilled spirit strong enough to blind a linnorm, into the stone-paved trench that formed a barrier around the village. Warriors took up positions a hundred paces behind the fire moat, weapons in hand and tall wooden shields lying ready on the ground before them. Ellasif’s eyes brightened with anticipation. She’d never seen a shield wall in battle. According to the bards’ tales, few foes could overcome a barrier formed of Ulfen warriors.

Spear warriors formed up a dozen paces behind the front line of warriors, weapons in hand. Several of the older boys dragged bundles of spears from the weapon huts. One had already taken his place beside his warrior, four weapons held ready to pass: two slim throwing spears, a sturdy pike, and a short spear for hand-to-hand fighting.

In the center of the village clearing, behind the warriors and their boys, three old men fed the bonfire. The storm fought them with wind-driven sleet and sudden gusts that dove down to throttle the leaping flames or hurl them up onto the thatched roofs of the surrounding houses. But the huge fire pit contained the blaze, and the circle of stone pillars supporting the conical roof and chimney of the village center kept the wood dry enough to burn. Buckets of pitch stood near the fire pit, bristling with the shafts of fire arrows.

Behind the pit, more warriors gathered, readying weapons ranging from swords to pitchforks to long-handled torches. Any child-stealing winterfolk who came through the sundered fences would have to run a gauntlet of fire and iron before they reached any of the vulnerable children or mothers. Everyone else in the village, spearman or shield maiden, would die before they let that happen.

Nor would those who survived the ordeal find the village children easy to capture. Atop every house was a loft with narrow windows nestled in the gables of each steep roof. The shutters had been flung open to reveal boys and maidens too young to wield sword or spear or battleaxe, but no less deadly with a bow.

Ellasif glanced toward the ladder that led to her family’s loft. A sturdy bow of well-seasoned yew awaited her there. Her gaze shifted to the maidensword over the hearth. A sigh of longing and frustration sang through her teeth. Her mother’s first weapon, despite village custom, would never be hers. Ulfen warriors were famously tall and strong, but Ellasif had always been small for her age, and seemed destined to remain so. No one of her stature would ever become a shield maiden. Never mind that the only boy who’d ever dared to taunt her about it had walked with a limp from full moon to well past new moon.

“Ellasif, come away—”

A pained gasp cut the admonition short. Ellasif spun toward the bed.

Her mother’s night robe, already damp with sweat, was drenched with more ominous stains. Young as she was, Ellasif knew what this meant. The babe must come soon, or mother and child would both perish.

Ellasif knelt at the foot of her mother’s bed. “I will catch the babe, and I will care for it,” she said. “This I swear. Now do your part.”

The ceremonial words were meant for a sister or a close midwife, but Ellasif spoke them with the assurance and conviction of a grown woman. Marit did as her daughter bade her, propping herself up on her elbows and roaring a wordless battle cry as she fought to urge her child out of the warm cavern of her body and into the cold world.

Marit’s pains stopped short of their purpose. She fell back onto the bed, pale as a wraith. She clutched the damp sheets and regarded her bloody fingers. A shadow of despair crossed her face.

“Go, Sif,” she groaned. “Fetch Agithra.”

Ellasif shook her head. “She will not come. She cannot. Midwife or not, if she left her place now, Red Ochme would skewer her with her own spear and roast her over the fire pit.”

“You, my daughter, should not have to watch—” Marit’s voice broke on a ragged cough. She cleared her throat. “You should not have to watch with me, or deliver this babe.”

“Who better?” said Ellasif. “Who tended the goats last summer when they dropped their kids? I lost none of them, not even the white nanny and her tangle of twins! This babe will have fewer legs and, gods willing, no sharp hooves.”

A weak laugh escaped Marit’s chapped lips. “Gods willing,” she said. She lifted one hand to her rounded belly and traced over her babe an ancient rune of protection: a deep crescent bisected by a straight line, the footprint symbol of She Who Watches, the white raven. Most of the villagers would have called the gesture superstition or even witchcraft, but Ellasif nodded her approval. The other villagers might pray only to Torag or Desna, Gorum or Erastil, and that was well. Life would be simpler if gods were the only powers to be appeased, but when was life simple? A thousand spirits interfered with human life every year.

A blast of wind rocked the cottage. The shutter Ellasif had unlatched flew open and cracked against the outer wall. The candle flame jumped like a startled cat and vanished into the dark.

Ellasif ran outside. Sleet stung her face, and the wind whipped her skirts around her legs as she wrestled the shutter back into place. She shot the outer bolt to hold it closed and turned just in time to witness the birch grove’s destruction.

Already bent low under their weight of ice, the slender white trees could bear no more. Icy gusts ripped away limbs and sent them spinning across the hard ground between grove and village. Whole trees came crashing down, leaving splintered stumps or holes clawed up by their roots. Only the strongest remained, including the enormous birch whose white trunk had been carved with the image of the bird that gave the village its name.

“The fire moat!” cried a village man. “Light the fire moat!”

Ellasif’s gaze darted toward the man who’d shouted the warning. Beyond the birch grove, the forest was alive with pairs of gleaming eyes. Someone threw a torch into the moat. Blue flame leaped toward the sky and raced along the stone trench—a firewall meant to frighten the wolf pack into retreat.

“Those are no mere forest wolves,” Ellasif whispered to herself. Ordinary wolves came singing to the moon. These creatures attacked as silently as they’d gathered. Great white monsters as big as ice bears, they broke from the shadows and charged the fire moat in a double line formation as ordered as any Ulfen shield wall.

“Spears away!” bellowed a female voice.

Ellasif’s heart lifted at the sound. Red Ochme’s command soared above the storm as surely as her raiding ships had once crested the wild waves. Nothing could vanquish the old warrior.

The warriors in the front line dropped to one knee and snapped their shields into position, edges overlapping to form a solid wall. Behind them the warriors raised their spears, ran three steps, and unleashed a thicket of death.

Ellasif’s gaze followed Agithra’s spear as it soared over the kneeling warriors and flew straight toward the fire moat. Twenty spears or more followed it, and all disappeared through the fire. Sharp yelps from behind the fiery barrier proved the truth of their aim.

The first rank of winter wolves leaped through the flames, fangs bared and eyes glowing with eldritch blue light. Ellasif held her breath at the sight of them. They were as beautiful as they were terrible, and for an instant she wondered how it would feel to plunge her hand into that dense white fur.

Bowstrings sang in twanging chorus from the cottage lofts. A storm of arrows swept toward the fire moat. Most bounced off thick pelts, but three of the winter wolves stumbled and went down. Two rose and ran again despite the arrows protruding from their bodies. The third wolf lay twitching, a white shaft protruding from its eye socket.

Ellasif’s heart triumphed as the children of White Rook made good their first volley. There would not be time for a second.

“Brace!” howled Red Ochme.

The warriors ran forward and set their pikes against the shield wall, iron points angled toward the charging pack. All the warriors, shields and spears, braced for impact.

But the wolves did not challenge the wall. To Ellasif’s astonishment, the first rank slid to a stop and reared up on their hind legs. They set their forepaws on the upper edges of the shields, and at last they sang, but not to the moon. They sang to winter.

Crystalline clouds poured from the wolves’ jaws, shimmering in the firelight as they spread out into icy fog. The frost riming the creatures’ mouths whitened the faces of the warriors who crashed backward to the ground, rigid as felled trees.

The second wave of winter wolves struck, hurling themselves against the shields before the surviving warriors could recover from the freezing blast. The wall jolted back, slamming into the swords the warriors raised. Savage jaws snatched away the warriors’ weapons, many tearing flesh the icy breath had welded to frozen metal. The disarmed warriors reached with ruined hands for the daggers in their boot sheaths.

But the winter wolves had already retreated. As they loped away, Ellasif prayed the creatures would disappear into the forest. Defying her hope, they stopped just short of the guttering vjarik flame and wheeled about for another attack.

Ellasif caught her breath. The fallen spearfighters left gaps above the shield wall, breaches the winter wolves could easily leap through. The enemy saw their chance. On they came in a chaotic rush.

“Shields up!” shrieked Red Ochme.

The surviving spear throwers fell back, and the warriors in the shield wall stood as one, raising the wall to meet the charge.

Not all of the wolves leaped. Some came in low to attack the warriors’ booted shins, while others worried the edges of the shield wall with their enormous jaws. One of the smaller wolves scrambled up the steep cliff on the village’s north border, only to fall back among the pack.

In the chaos that followed, Ulfen battle cries mingled with the snarls of the monsters, but these were not simple beasts. The sound of human voices emerging from the slavering jaws of the winter wolves sent a cold drop of fear oozing through Ellasif’s guts. A huge wolf bitch hung off to one side, adding to the confusion by shouting commands in mimicry of Red Ochme’s voice. Ellisif had never seen the winter wolf before, but she had heard its legend. If this were the dread wolf huntress of the winter witches, then this night could surely be the doom of White Rook.

The shield wall held. Warriors stabbed at the wolves who reared over the shields. They reached down to fend off snapping jaws from below. When one warrior fell, others shifted to closed the gap. The villagers dragged away those of their wounded whom the wolves had not yet torn from their reach. Ellasif tried desperately to ignore the horrible rending sounds from the far side of the shield wall as the enemy desecrated the village defenders.

But the shield wall was shrinking, and soon it would no longer fill the gap between the cliff and the river. The warriors behind the shield wall readied weapons for the inevitable breach.

Ellasif’s friend Jadrek ran past clutching a cut-off bill in his hand. Its broad head curved in a hook to one side, a perfect weapon for cutting the hamstrings of foes across a shield wall. Jadrek jolted to a stop and spun back toward Ellasif. His expression was so fierce that for a moment Ellasif expected him to throw the weapon in her face.

“Attend your task,” he growled, reciting Red Ochme’s first rule of battle.

A wave of shame swept Ellasif. Everyone in White Rook knew what to do in case of an attack. She was expected to be in the loft, greeting anything that crossed the fire moat with an arrow to the throat. Nothing, not even tending her mother, should have kept her from her battle task. Everyone in the village had already obeyed his or her duty.

Everyone but Ellasif.

She acknowledged Jadrek’s reproof with a curt nod and ran back into the house. She barred the door behind her. Straight to the bed she strode, pausing only briefly when she heard Red Ochme call for fire arrows. She longed to be in the battle, not on its edge.

Marit bowed her back in another fit of agony. Her breath came in faint gasps. Ellasif hurried to the foot of the bed and saw that the babe was finally emerging. She cradled the crowning head and slipped her fingers around the tiny neck to make sure the cord wasn’t entangled. All seemed well. There was no reason the child could not be born now.

“Once more,” she urged.

Marit’s eyes fluttered open. Her gaze focused on her daughter’s face. Ellasif smiled with more confidence than she felt and gave her mother an encouraging nod.

Her mother gave one final effort, and the newborn slid into her sister’s waiting hands.

“A girl,” Ellasif exulted, holding the infant up for their mother to see.

Marit smiled and fainted dead away.

And so it happened that Ellasif was the only witness to her infant sister’s first breath. What followed was not a newborn’s wail but merry peals of laughter.

Shock froze Ellasif’s limbs, and dread gripped her heart with fingers of ice. Everyone knew that first-breath laughter was the sign of a tiren’kii.

She stared at the bloody infant still tethered by its birth cord, still laughing. She wondered how this could be her newborn sister, this tiny creature so new to life and so soon fated to die. She was cursed.

The folk of White Rook would sooner carry a haunch of venison through a sow bear’s den than allow so dangerous a child to live. No one knew exactly what the tiren’kii were, nor why they occasionally possessed Ulfen newborns, but understanding such mysteries held little allure for Ellasif’s people. What they did understand was that such children were dangerous, their spirits tainted by the fey powers harbored in nearby Irrisen. No such child could be suffered to live among the Ulfen.

And yet, Ellasif thought, this was her sister. She had sworn to protect this child.

A new voice joined the chaos of storm and battle, a sound born of the unholy marriage of a beast’s roar and an eagle’s cry. It reverberated in the deepest recesses of Ellasif’s body, chilling her liver and paralyzing her lungs. It was a sound she had heard before only from a great distance, a sound that had made her huddle under her blankets and recite the three prayers she remembered over and over until dawn.

It was the shriek of an ice troll.

Marit’s eyes snapped open, the reflex of a warrior coming fully awake at the sound of danger.

“Ellasif, to the loft,” she croaked. She sounded even worse than Ellasif had feared earlier.

Ellasif laid the infant down on her mother’s belly. Marit gripped her eldest daughter’s wrist with startling strength. Her fever-bright eyes burned.

“Take the babe to the loft,” she commanded. “You swore to care for her. I hold you to your oath.”

Before Ellasif could respond, her mother slipped back into unconsciousness.

Ellasif set her jaw and went to work with sure hands. Everything lay ready: a knife to cut the cord, clean linen thread to tie it off, a soft blanket in which to wrap the babe. Moments later, Ellasif climbed the ladder to the loft, one hand holding the rungs, the other clasping the bundled infant to her shoulder.

She laid the baby on the straw mattress to free her hands and dragged the ladder up into the loft. A rope and pulley attached to the ceiling secured a heavy wooden door. It was scant protection from troll invaders, but it was the best Ellasif could offer her sister.

The boards beneath her feet shuddered as the crash of another doomed tree shook the village. A moment later, the door burst open.

Ellasif’s father, Kjell, lurched into the house. Blood streaked his yellow beard, and his wild gaze swept the room. At the sight of his empty hands, Ellasif knew true fear.

Her father had left his place. He’d put aside his axe before battle’s end. Ellasif could imagine no surer proof that White Rook was defeated.

Kjell ran to the bed and swept his wife into his arms, blankets and all. He whirled toward the loft.

“Hurry, Ellasif!” he shouted. “The north pine is falling.”

Their house stood at the northern end of the village crescent, closest to the forest. The groaning creak of a falling tree grew louder. There was no time to push the ladder back down. She could jump and roll, but not with the baby in her arms.

For the first time, Ellasif noticed the bleating of her goats outside. The byre stood separate from the cottage, but the roof and loft ran over both buildings. A second, smaller hatch led down into the pen.

She was reaching for the baby when her father’s shout drew her attention back to the cottage floor. A huge winter wolf crouched in the doorway, blocking her parents’ escape.

“You slew my mate,” the beast said in the rough female voice so like Red Ochme’s. “Now watch me kill yours.”

A defiant curse bubbled to Ellasif’s lips, but the oath she’d sworn forced her to silence. She clutched the baby tight to her breast and ran.

Ellasif slid down the ladder into the goat byre and waded through the milling herd. She unlatched the door and burst into the clearing amid a small stampede of panicked animals. The north pine had broken free of its halter of vines and tilted swiftly. Wind shrieked through its branches as it plummeted toward the house.

Ellasif ran through the storm, ducking under the swing of an ice troll’s club as she headed for the weapon shack closest to the hot spring. It was stone-built and solid, and it would be warm inside. The baby would be as safe there as she could be anywhere in White Rook.

The tree crashed with an impact Ellasif felt in her bones. She chanced a quick look back to see if her parents had escaped.

One glance told the tale. She heard herself whimper, but was too heartbroken to be ashamed of the sound.

“I’ll take that bundle, bitch cub,” growled a familiar voice.

Ellasif had not heard the wolf approach. She stumbled and fell hard on one knee.

Steel swept over her head, and the wolf yelped in pain. Ellasif scrambled aside and rose in time to see Red Ochme bury her sword in the hump of the winter wolf’s shoulder. The tough old warrior jerked the weapon free and held it at guard, but the sword’s task was finished. The wolf’s legs folded, and she fell heavily on one side. The blood pouring from the wound stopped when the wolf drew a breath. She had suffered a sucking wound, and soon her own lungs would drown her.

Bloody froth spilled from the creature’s jaws and froze on her muzzle. She fixed her strange blue eyes to her killer’s face.

“Die, old woman,” she cursed. “Drown in a pool of your own piss. Perish, forgotten by your pack.” The wolf turned her head to Ellasif, and her lips curled in a canine sneer. “Die weaponless, like the bitch cub’s sire.”

Something deep within Ellasif cracked, and something else slipped free. She snatched a dagger from Red Ochme’s belt, thrust the baby into the warrior’s arms, and leaped upon the dying wolf. With one blow she severed the plumy white tail, not caring that no one in the village, not even Red Ochme herself, had ever dared to take a winter wolf trophy. Ellasif brandished the grisly talisman at the wolf that had killed her parents.

“Die, you miserable old bitch,” she snarled. “Die and know your tail hangs from this cub’s belt.”

“Ellasif!”

Ochme’s tone told Ellasif that she’d uttered the girl’s name more than once before Ellasif heard it. Ochme took her knife back and pressed the baby into Ellasif’s arms. The expression on the battle leader’s face was impossible for Ellasif to read.

“Go, child,” she said. “Take that babe to shelter.”

Ellasif ran, the wailing baby clasped to her chest. Hail pelted them as she wove a path through the ruins of the battle. Most of the winter wolves had fallen. A steaming puddle of gore told of ice trolls and fire arrows, but two of the monsters still lumbered through the village. Small packs of ice goblins ran here and there, singing cheerful obscenities as they swarmed cottage after cottage.

Ellasif darted between two of the small houses and skidded to a stop. An eight-foot-tall troll blocked her path, the monster facing off against Agithra and her spear. The creature swung its club in a pendulous arc. The blow snapped Agithra’s weapon like an autumn twig and lifted the midwife off of her feet. She bent in half and dropped to the ground like a rag doll.

Three axe-wielding warriors pushed past Ellasif and converged on the troll, hacking it limb from limb. Behind them came children who picked up the smaller troll pieces and ran them to the fire pit. Not every piece of a dismembered troll would grow back into another monster, but the villagers of White Rook had learned to be thorough. Ellasif darted off to find another path.

A hand clutched at her feet. She stumbled but ran on. Her stomach clenched when she realized the hand still gripped her ankle, fingers digging into her boot leather. She set her jaw and kept going, dragging along the huge blue hand and its severed arm. The armory was just ahead.

She tucked the baby into a wooden bin and closed and bolted the hut door. Her charge secured, she looked around for a weapon. A woman’s corpse lay nearby, so mangled that only her long red braids identified her as Tanja, mother of Ellasif’s friend Olenka. The woman’s short sword was buried to the hilt in the body of the winter wolf she’d died slaying.

Ellasif braced her free foot on the wolf’s bloodied white pelt and tugged the sword free. She dragged her burden closer to the fire pit, where the battle-churned ground was as soft as summer loam, and stabbed through the blue hand. She leaned on the sword to thoroughly impale the troll limb before jerking her foot free. Lifting the skewered arm and hurling it into the fire took every bit of strength she could muster.

Oily flame leaped up around the severed arm. Perhaps twenty paces away, a blue head screamed in agony, still attached to one arm and a mangled chunk of shoulder, but little else.

Ellasif caught a passing lad by the arm and pointed at the troll’s head. “Missed one,” she said. The severed head had already begun regenerating a windpipe and a dark pulsing bud that would become a heart. The boy nodded and hurried to dispose of the head.

For a moment Ellasif simply stood by the pit, at a loss for what to do next. Everyone else seemed to know his task and place. Two children with pitchforks stabbed a troll hand and ran it back to the fire pit, where elders ensured every scrap of their enemies was destroyed.

Ellasif’s gaze fell on Jadrek. He stood with his back to a cottage wall, knife and bill whirling as he fended off a pair of goblins. A surge of feral joy filled her heart. Ellasif hauled the sword up high over one shoulder and charged toward her friend.

Jadrek’s eyes widened as he saw her approach. One of the goblins turned toward Ellasif. Her first wild thrust cut his startled cry short as she stabbed the little monster directly in the mouth. Then she turned her body and directed her momentum and the weight of the sword into a leg-slashing cut. Bright blood sprayed from his severed artery. The goblin’s disbelieving expression would have been comical in other circumstances. It looked down at its wound, then up into Ellasif’s face with an expression of supreme pique. Then it died and fell to the cold ground.

The second goblin wailed and crumpled, Jadrek’s bill stuck deep in its craw. Jadrek knelt on the goblin’s narrow chest and slit its throat with his knife.

A goblin pack boiled toward them as he rose. Jadrek offered his bloody knife to Ellasif. “Want to trade?”

Ellasif scoffed and kept her sword.

She ran to meet the foremost goblin. Her first strike knocked aside its pike, giving her an opening to kick the creature between the legs. The goblin squealed and doubled over. Ellasif’s backswing missed its head but sliced the leather jerkin of the next goblin. The creature jumped back, tripping the three behind it.

Ellasif lunged, sword thrusting deep between a goblin’s ribs. She was dimly aware of a knife scoring her arm, of filthy claws and fetid breath and horrible high-pitched curses, and Jadrek fighting at her side, his knife flashing again and again.

She felt as though she were in paradise. There were no troubling thoughts, no doubts, no uncertainties. She wanted to live, and to live she had to kill. Nothing in the wide world was more glorious.

When the pile of goblins lay silent—and perhaps more thoroughly slain than necessity demanded—the young warriors rose and regarded each other for a timeless moment. Jadrek’s lean body shook with the exertion of his own breath. There was terror in his heart to be sure, but he radiated even more power and courage, and Ellasif felt something within her stir and move toward him. She hesitated, and their gazes locked for a moment. Ellasif licked her dry lips. Jadrek glanced away, his shoulders slumped. The moment was gone.

“It’s over,” said Jadrek. His voice was mingled relief and regret.

Ellasif wasn’t so sure it was over. The night was filled with the muted groans of the dying, the rattle of hail against the roof thatching, the indignant demands of a toddler who could not understand why his mother would not rise to hold him. Beneath it all lay a silent, trembling energy that Ellasif could not name.

A deep thump resounded through the forest, then another. By the time Ellasif could identify the sound as footsteps, they had accelerated into a charge. She looked up at a shadow upon the snowy trees and saw a thatched hovel flying incongruously above the ground.

No, she realized. It was not flying. Rather, the hut was perched upon two enormous scaled legs. Ellasif’s first impression was that they were the limbs of some emaciated golden dragon, but then she recognized the avian angle of the joints and the black talons of a chicken. This was no mere monster.

The walking hut stepped over a fallen birch and strutted into the village. No one uttered a command. No one raised a weapon. None dared defy Baba Yaga, the mother of the Irrisen queens, or whatever dread emissary the great witch had commanded to direct her dancing hut.

At the southern edge of the village, a baby wailed. The hut whirled toward the sound. Its sudden movement broke the spell. Warriors forgot their injuries and rushed to attack.

Fire arrows streaked toward the hut and bounced away without touching the shingled walls. A white-braided old warrior charged with battleaxe raised high. One enormous talon flicked him away with no more effort than Ellasif might expend on a gnat. The hut crushed two spear warriors underfoot as it stalked toward the house containing the child whose cries had alerted it.

The infant was quiet now, no doubt hushed by its siblings. The hut stopped beside the house and tilted to one side like a bird listening for worms. Faster than thought, it lifted one clawed foot and tore away half the roof.

More axe-wielding warriors closed in. A lump rose in Ellasif’s throat as she recognized her father’s weapon in another man’s hands. The hut trampled the men into bloody ruins with its scythe-like talons as it strode to the next cottage.

A dark square on the ground caught Ellasif’s eye. She stooped to pick up a wooden shingle, larger than those on the village homes. She sniffed it. It smelled of cooking smoke and herbs, old blood and the skin of reptiles. It smelled exactly how Ellasif imagined a witch’s hut to smell.

She broke it in two and tossed one half onto a smoldering wolf carcass. The shingle flared into light, just as any ordinary bit of dry kindling might do.

Ellasif ran to Jadrek, who was stitching a deep gash across the face of Ivanick, his father. Waving the shingle as she ran, she shouted, “It’s wood! Baba Yaga’s hut is wood!”

The boy scowled and reached for a flask of vjarik. He poured some onto a rag to clean the wound.

“It’s wood,” Ellasif repeated. She threw the shingle at Jadrek.

He batted it away. “So? What else would it be?”

“Woods burns,” she persisted. “The fire arrows can’t get past Baba Yaga’s magic. None of our attacks can get past. But if we send fire into the hut in a different way, we might surprise it.”

Ivanick considered her for a moment, his blue eyes peering out from a mask of blood and matted pale hair. Then he took the flask from his son and removed the cork with his teeth. “I will try.”

The warrior snatched a torch from a nearby stand and strode toward the walking hut. Before he could get close enough to throw the torch, the hut snatched him up in one mighty talon and flung him atop the nearest cottage. The hut tilted precipitously at the motion, and through the flapping shutters of a window, Ellasif glimpsed a strange sight. In the center of the hut, bound to a plain wooden chair, sat a tiny white-haired doll. Silver-blue eyes and a porcelain face were all the detail Ellasif saw before the hut righted itself, scratching up deep furrows in the frozen ground with its gargantuan chicken talons.

Dry thatch exposed by the hut’s explorations caught fire. Ivanick staggered to his feet, limned with blue vjarik flame. He ran along the wooden roof ridge, flaming brighter with each step, and hurled himself at the hut.

He caught the edge of a shuttered window, lost his grip, and slid down the shingled wall. Somehow he found a handhold, and then another. How, Ellasif could not say. The fire surrounding him blazed furiously, its greedy flames devouring his clothes and gnawing at the flesh beneath.

The hut whirled and spun, trying to throw the man off, but Ivanick clung like a burr despite the flames surrounding him. The wood beneath his burning body blackened in the shape of his shadow.

Ellasif reached for Jadrek’s hand and gripped it hard. “He’ll fall,” she cried, half hoping that he would.

The burning man pulled a dagger from his belt and drove it through the sleeve of his other arm, pinning himself through flesh and bone to the smoldering wall. Almost immediately he slumped, overcome by flame and smoke.

Still the hut did not burn.

Ellasif ran to Red Ochme and seized her arm. “Lamp oil!”

Understanding widened the old warrior’s eyes. She shouted the order. Several women came running with vessels and hurled them at the hut. The pottery shattered against the hut’s magical shields, but some of the oil splashed through. Flames licked at the hut’s shingles and sped upward toward the thatch. The hut twisted away and ran, flaming, toward the river. It plunged over the steep bank and disappeared with a great splash, then bobbed to the surface, a halo of flame around the crest of its roof.

It disappeared again. A flicker of orange light touched the surface a moment later and then vanished. The villagers watched for another emergence.

It felt to Ellasif that the entire world held its breath.

Vapor burst from the gulley in a hut-shaped cloud and soared off toward the east. The storm clouds fell in behind it like obedient hounds following their master home. Hail and darkness surrendered to a silver sky crowned with a wisp of rosy sunrise.

In the silence that followed, villagers stood blinking, unable able to comprehend that the terrible night was finally over, that they had survived.

Ellasif ran to the armory, her throat tight with dread. The baby’s cries brought a smile of relief to her face. She unlatched the door and swept up the red-faced infant.

“I’ll milk the white nanny as soon as I can catch her,” she promised the babe. “You can drink as much as you like.”

She kept crooning to the baby as she joined the knot of children gathered near the fire pit. The sight of her sister—her ward now, her child—soothed some of the anguish of the loss of her parents. Some of the other children were already being led away to new homes by villagers all too accustomed to the orphaning of their neighbors’ children, but there were more orphans than families to take them. To Ellasif’s surprise, Red Ochme walked along the line of children, inspecting them as a war leader might eye recruits. She paused before Olenka, tall and flame-haired like her warrior mother.

Of course, Ellasif thought. Olenka is the very image of a shield maiden, everything I am not.

But Red Ochme moved on. She strode directly to Ellasif and looked her up and down. Ellasif’s face flushed. She was afraid she had shamed herself before the village’s greatest hero when she mutilated the corpse of the defeated winter wolf commander. Still, Ochme’s gaze lingered on Ellasif’s dry eyes and bloody hands, which clutched her swaddled sister.

“If you work hard, I will take you into my home. I will train you. You will become strong.”

Ellasif could only stare. The dream taking shape before her was too large for any words she knew. Red Ochme saw the answer in Ellasif’s eyes and sealed the deal with a curt nod. Then she added, “First you must find a home for that child.”

“No.” The word burst from Ellasif’s throat unbidden. “You must take both of us, Liv and me together.”

And just like that, her sister had a name.

The warrior frowned and shook her head. “Anngard has a babe at breast. She can feed another.”

“Liv drinks goat’s milk,” Ellsaif said firmly. “She will not be the first warrior of White Rook to be raised on it.”

“And who will tend those goats and raise this baby?” Ochme demanded. “A warrior’s training is nothing easy, and you will have many chores.”

Ellasif lifted her chin stubbornly. “I will do it all.”

A long moment of silence passed as the two warriors, the old and the young, took each other’s measure. Red Ochme shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Emotions too powerful to name tore at Ellasif’s heart as she followed Red Ochme to the cottage they would share. She would become a warrior, trained by the village war leader. She would claim her mother’s maidensword, and someday she would temper a sword of her own in the blood of her enemies. As a sword maiden of the Lands of the Linnorm Kings, she would be respected and feared. She could claim the place that was written in her nature, as much a part of her as a nestling bird’s yearning for the sky. But how could she be glad of this—of anything—when her parents lay dead in the ruin of their home?

And what of the uncanny storm and the attack that followed? All the stories Ellasif had heard about Baba Yaga’s hut suggested that its purposes might be unknowable, but not capricious. It had come to White Rook for a reason. It seemed to be looking for a baby.

She knew then with certainty that it had been looking for Liv, now her daughter as much as her sister. Liv, the child who’d laughed to welcome the tiren’kii.

Try as she might, Ellasif could find no other explanation. The tiren’kii had drawn the winterfolk’s attention. They would come again, for everyone knew that once a tiren’kii possessed a child it did not leave as long as the child lived. For the safety of everyone in White Rook, Ellasif should tell the village elders what she had seen and heard at Liv’s birth.

Even as the thought formed, Ellasif’s arms tightened around her tiny sister. She’d sworn an oath. Her duty to Liv came before anything else, anyone else, even her own ambition.

Silence, Ellasif decided as she padded along behind the old warrior. Silence would protect her sister today.

Read the rest of the novel here.

Coming Next Week: Ed Greenwood takes us on a foray into the seedy underbelly of the Mana Wastes in "Guns of Alkenstar."

About the Authors: Winter Witch is a team effort between New York Times best seller Elaine Cunningham and fan-favorite author Dave Gross. In addition to the adventures of Channa Ti in "Dark Tapestry," the Legacy of Fire Pathfinder's Journal, Elaine has also published novels and short stories for the Forgotten Realms, Star Wars, EverQuest, Spelljammer, and Ravenloft. Dave Gross is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novel Prince of Wolves, as well as the novels Black Wolf and Lord of Stormweather, the Pathfinder's Journal "Hell's Pawns" from the Council of Thieves Adventure Path, and the web fiction story "The Lost Pathfinder."

Winter Witch is Off to See the Printer

Monday, August 30, 2010

Illustration by Jesper Ejsing

August is always a weird time for us, as we alternate between manic, panicked productivity and post-Gen Con recovery. As a result, sometimes we get so wrapped up in our projects that we forget to tell you what it is we're even working on! Such was the case with Elaine Cunningham's new Pathfinder Tales novel, Winter Witch, which after a long run-up finally shipped to the printer two weeks ago!

While I won't spoil the plot, (which you can check out here), Winter Witch is primarily the story of two characters: Ellasif, a shield maiden from the Lands of the Linnorm Kings who's determined to rescue her little sister from the witches of Irrisen, and Declan, a young Korvosan wizard-turned-mapmaker who gets drawn to Irrisen's capital of Whitethrone when the girl he's infatuated with gets kidnapped by weird ice magic. Together with the help of a Varisian caravan, gruff Ulfen barbarians, and a plucky pseudodragon named Skywing, the two make their way across hundreds of miles of dangerous landscape in order to infiltrate the witches' stronghold. Yet it quickly turns out that nothing about their quest is as simple as it appears...

Speaking as the editor, this book is a lot of fun. Though I adore Dave's Prince of Wolves and the gritty, noir-ish feel Radovan and Jeggare brought to Ustalav, I was glad that this book presented a very different voice. In my opinion, Winter Witch has more of a traditional epic fantasy flavor, with a solid dose of Slavic fairy tale thrown in there. I think people will enjoy the characters a lot, and particularly Skywing—it's hard to resist falling for a tiny, overconfident dragon.

And since the subject of Prince of Wolves came up, I think it's high time to reveal a closely guarded secret: Elaine wasn't working alone. It's true! Though the book was originally solicited as being by Elaine, back when she created the characters and outlined the plot, as the writing went on—and as she saw her old friend Dave's excellent work on Prince of Wolves—she decided to bring him in on the project as well, turning it into a collaboration. Given how happy we were with Prince of Wolves, the idea of having two awesome authors on the book sounded fine to us, and together Dave and Elaine wrote what I think is going to be an instant fan favorite.

This post also wouldn't be complete without mentioning that in Winter Witch, and in each Pathfinder Tales book going forward, there's also going to be an excellent new map at the front of the book, detailing the areas where most of the action takes place. For Winter Witch, that map was hand-drawn by our own Crystal Frasier, and it looks marvelous!

Winter Witch should be available in November in time for the holidays, and I sincerely hope you all enjoy it as much as I have. Elaine and Dave have done a bang-up job, and I can't wait to see what they do next!

James L. Sutter
Fiction Editor

Winter 2010 Releases: An Early Look!

Thursday, February 18, 2010

This week Paizo posted new product descriptions for dozens of products to be released in the third trimester of 2010, including new hardcover books, a revision of the Pathfinder Campaign Setting, and a brand new line of Pathfinder novels!

We've been hard at work on these items for months, and even though you'll have to wait until at least September before they hit your game table, we're thrilled to finally be able to discuss some of this stuff in public. The suspense has been killing us!

Folks are already discussing some of our new releases on the paizo.com messageboards, but as the commentary has been flying fast and furious over the last couple days, I figured it might be helpful to post a broad overview of our new offerings here on the blog, with direct links to the products in question.

So without further ado, let's plug ourselves into the future-caster time machine and take a journey forward to September through December 2010. Bring your dice and a few character sheets. You're going to need them!

PATHFINDER FICTION
The biggest announcement is a brand new line of Pathfinder novels written by some of the biggest names in fantasy fiction! The first book, Winter Witch, by New York Times best-selling author Elaine Cunningham, explores the tale of a barbarian shield maiden who ventures from Varisia to the winter-locked land of Irrisen to rescue a possessed sister—and the canny young cartographer who follows her into that haunted land. The book formally releases in September, but we'll have copies on hand at this year's Gen Con Game Fair as a special preview. October sees the release of Prince of Wolves, by former Amazing Stories and Dragon editor Dave Gross, which revisits the Pathfinder agent Varian Jeggare and his tiefling assistant Radovan, last seen in the Pathfinder Journal section of the Council of Thieves Adventure Path. Additional novels will follow in 2011 from well-known authors including Paul S. Kemp and other familiar faces. Stay tuned for more info!

NEW HARDCOVERS
Following up on the forthcoming GameMastery Guide and Advanced Player's Guide, 2010 will see the release of one more hardcover rulebook in the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game line: Pathfinder RPG Bestiary 2! Like the first Bestiary, Bestiary 2 will include more than 300 monsters for use with the Pathfinder RPG, including old favorites like the hippogriff and new planar creatures like the aeons and proteans. This book will cover most of the standard monsters from the history of the game that we couldn't fit in the first Bestiary, as well as tons of other great monsters you've never seen before. Each monster will receive a full page or a 2-page spread, using the same format as the original book.

Supplies of the Pathfinder Chronicles Campaign Setting hardcover are dwindling faster than we can count, so in September we'll release a revised edition in the form of the Pathfinder Campaign Setting World Guide: The Inner Sea. Fully updated to the Pathfinder RPG rules and with expanded coverage of nearly every nation, the latest version of this book contains a new cover from Wayne Reynolds, an updated map, fixed errata from the first edition, and more than 300 pages packed with tons of information about the lands, peoples, beliefs, and cultures of the world of Golarion. Paizo Creative Director James Jacobs is giving this project his personal finish, making sure our campaign setting book is a solid bedrock of our publishing operation for years to come. We're really pleased with the early development of this book, and think it will be an ideal resource for all Pathfinder players and game masters.

PATHFINDER CHRONICLES
In addition to the revised campaign setting, in late 2010 we'll release the Inner Sea Map Folio, a massive 32-panel map of the Inner Sea region containing all "canonical" locations from every Pathfinder product published to date! This monster is sure to brighten up the gaming room or man-cave of any Pathfinder enthusiast, and its "four poster" format will even allow for easy reference at the game table for those lacking the wall space to do it justice. The Campaign Setting product line will also see a new Classic Monsters-style book in the form of Misfit Monsters Redeemed (and you won't believe what that's about until you read the description, believe me) as well as Lost Cities of Golarion, which explores six adventure locales from throughout the world of Golarion.

PATHFINDER PLAYER COMPANION
We can't let the GMs have all the fun, after all, so we've also planned a couple of sure-fire player's guides for the last third of 2010 that will be must-buys for Pathfinder RPG players. October sees the release of the Inner Sea Primer, a slimmed-down overview of the Pathfinder world designed specifically for players. This book will include tons of new character traits tied to the regions and religions of Golarion, and will provide a perfect "gist" of the setting for those looking to dip a toe in the water without needing to buy a big hardcover book. December sees the release of Halflings of Golarion, which rounds out the player's guides to the standard "demihuman" player character races in the Pathfinder RPG with plenty of details on how to integrate them into Golarion campaigns. Lots of fun equipment and lore in this one for fans of halflings (and everyone else, too)!

PATHFINDER MODULES

Gamers have been asking for a high-level Pathfinder adventure since the very beginning, and now I'm pleased to report that the time has come at last! Shipping in September, The Witchwar Legacy takes 17th-level player characters to the snow-shrouded witch kingdom of Irrisen to thwart a plan by the Ice Queen involving the insidious Baba Yaga herself! If that's not enough, in November we'll release a brand-new 1st-level starter adventure called The Godsmouth Heresy, set in the shadowy city of Kaer Maga, site of June's City of Strangers sourcebook!

GAMEMASTERY ACCESSORIES
Paizo's popular map products keep on coming in the last part of 2010, including the first-ever crossover between the Map Pack and Flip-Mat lines! Everything starts innocently enough in September with the release of Flip-Mat: Forest, but things really get interesting in October, with Map Pack: Shops. This 18-tile map set includes the interiors for several different stores, apothecaries, taverns, and the like, but things become super-special when you combine this pack with November's Flip-Mat: City Streets, which details a mercantile district suitable for use with other city Flip-Mats. The roofed buildings on this Flip-Mat (suitable for rooftop chases) correspond exactly to the interiors presented in Map Pack: Shops, providing a uniquely immersive tabletop experience. And if that's not enough to impress your jaded players, spring December's Map Pack: Ambush Sites on them. They probably deserve it.

GameMastery Cards keep coming as well, this time in the form of new GameMastery Condition Cards, handy reference cards for all of the various conditions in the Pathfinder RPG rules.

PATHFINDER ADVENTURE PATH
And, of course, we haven't forgotten the date that brought us to the big dance in the first place. The last trimester of 2010 will see plenty of action in the Pathfinder Adventure Path line, as the Serpent's Skull Adventure Path takes a jungle trail toward its stunning conclusion! Ruined Azlanti cities, Red Mantis assassins, monkey-men, the Pathfinder Society, ancient serpentfolk, and one very, very angry Gorilla King are all in store in a quartet of adventures by Tim Hitchcock, Kevin Kulp, Greg A. Vaughan, and Graeme Davis! The Serpent's Skull is a return to classic-style adventuring in the Pathfinder tradition, and we can't wait to get you guys into the jungle!

I'm saving our Planet Stories releases for tomorrow's blog, so be sure to tune in then for some of the biggest Planet Stories news we've had yet!

So much is happening here at Paizo these days that it's difficult to remember the uncertainty and horror of the last few years, with major changes to our business, our game system, and our lives. All of us really appreciate the support you have shown us so far, and we look forward to more exciting products in the months and years to come!

Erik Mona
Publisher
Paizo Publishing

Fact and Fiction

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Those of you who recognize a striking similarity between the title of this blog post and Pathfinder Adventure Path #29's editorial have no doubt already inferred what I'm about to say, but I've been waiting almost a year to say it, so here goes:

Pathfinder Fiction is here.

Not here in the warehouse, of course—you'll have to wait until Gen Con Indy to get your hands on the first book in the line. But for the first time ever, you can now visit the Pathfinder Fiction page, post on the Pathfinder Fiction messageboards, and preorder both of the new books that have been announced.

And what an announcement it is! First up, releasing officially in September but with early preview copies slated for a Gen Con release, is Winter Witch from New York Times best selling author Elaine Cunningham. Journey to the icy land of Irrisen with a barbarian shield maiden and her ne'er-do-well (but magically gifted) accomplice on a quest to save the woman's sister from the sinister daughters of Baba Yaga!

Immediately after that, we have the triumphant return of Dave Gross's mystery-solving duo, half-elven noble Varian Jeggare and the tiefling Radovan, in the gothic adventure Prince of Wolves. Something is rotten in Ustalav, and only Egorian's greatest detective team can delve into the haunted hills to uncover the truth—and make it out alive...

Each Pathfinder Fiction novel is a mass market paperback, completely standalone, and costs just $9.99. What's more, very soon we'll be launching the ability to subscribe to the line, with subscribers receiving a free PDF of each book they buy.

While we've only announced two of the books so far, I can also say with authority that the party is just getting started. In addition to several fabulous authors currently in negotiations and development, it's my pleasure to also introduce the addition of fan favorite Paul S. Kemp to the line. Though we're not ready to share any details about books beyond the initial two just now, rest assured that more news will continue to come as we get closer to the line's official launch at Gen Con Indy.

In the meantime, rather than joining me in counting the days until the release, why not head on over to the Pathfinder Fiction messageboards and let us know what you think? Who would you like to see writing in the line? What regions seem ripest for a novel? As with everything we do at Paizo, we're always listening.

James Sutter
Fiction Editor

Illustration by David Bircham

Half-Elf, All Druid, No Tree Hugging

Monday, April 20, 2009

When you think of characters in game-world fiction, what first comes to mind are the fighters, wizards, and rogues. Priests are fine if they're sufficiently powerful and conflicted, otherwise, not so much. Bards generally play second fiddle, you should pardon the expression, and paladins are seldom cast in starring roles. The druids, apparently, are too busy communing with nature to bother with fiction.

Since the publication of my first shared-world book, Elfshadow, in 1991, I've hit most of the character classes with the exception of the druid. Channa Ti, the protagonist of the Pathfinder's Journal fiction in the Legacy of Fire Adventure Path, is my first.

I started with a typical D&D druid—a serene mystic who dwells in emerald groves, nurturing the woodland creatures and healing hapless passersby with potions brewed from rare herbs and crafted from recipes learned at the feet of wise, benevolent elven mentors. And then I put him in a cage match with Channa and observed while she stomped him into organic fertilizer.

Sometimes the creative process takes interesting turns.

Once I started thinking seriously about druids, one of Tennyson's more famous quatrains came to mind:

Who trusted God was love indeed
   And love Creation's final law—
   Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shrieked against his creed—

Why should druids embody calm serenity and selfless love rather than "Nature, red in tooth and claw"? Surely some druids would be more closely attuned to nature's predators. This notion was central to Channa Ti's creation. To her way of thinking, "A paladin's noble steed must eat, but then, so must a crocodile."

Another inspiration came from Pathfinder's ingenious addition to the druid class: the Nature Bond, which allows druids to specialize in one of the domains—Air, Animal, Earth, Fire, Plant, Water, or Weather—rather than forming a partnership with a companion animal. Since Channa is a loner by nature and circumstances, this suited her perfectly. An affinity for water also gives her considerable value in a desert clime. An expert dowser, she occasionally pays her way as a "water witch." Her ability to sense a coming rain is highly valued in a culture that still mourns the passing of the Age of Prophecy and is always seeking some way to foresee the future. Finally, her affinity with water gives her skills that interest people obsessed with an ancient, sea-swallowed realm.

Nature Bond offers intriguing potential for character development and storytelling, not just for fiction, but also for campaign use. For those of you who've never played a druid—and I'm guessing that's most of you—the Pathfinder setting is a great place to start.

Elaine Cunningham
Contributor

Snagged from the Vault: Ratsheek

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

For those of you who have been following the adventures of the druid Pathfinder Channa Ti in Elaine Cunningham's "Dark Tapestry" Pathfinder's Journal, as featured in the , we bring you the visage of Ratsheek, the villainous gnoll, as depicted by artist David Bircham...

Vadid and Nahk
Preview Purloiners

Illustration by David Bircham

Osirion, Land of the Ph-rickin' Awesome

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Part of the joy of being an editorial intern is getting to read all the goodness that is Pathfinder. For free. And before the rest of the world. Recently, I was asked to give an editing pass over a few chapters of the new Pathfinder's Journal, "Dark Tapestry," penned by the prolific and outrageously talented Elaine Cunningham (seriously, who wouldn't want this job?!).

Set in the desert realm of Osirion, this new Pathfinder story does everything a piece of fiction set in an RPG campaign world should do: it reveals believable and interesting characters, it brings the setting to life, and most of all, it makes me want to play a Pathfinder campaign set in Osirion right now.

Really though, the story highlights for me everything I really enjoy about Pathfinder. There is a touch of the familiar, but at the same time, never once can I say, "Hey, I've been here before." While reading the Pathfinder's Journal, I recognized many well-known aspects—a magical item here, a class-name drop there—and even though I have been playing RPGs since I was in junior high, never once did I feel like it was just another tired rehash. And while Osirion clearly draws inspiration from ancient Egypt, never once does it feel like a shallow interpretation of real-life history. While reading Elaine Cunningham's words, it truly felt that if I could somehow peel back the crawling desert sands, it would reveal the bones of countless centuries, a deep, rich, and lived history filled with epic stories and sweeping tales of heroism and tragedy, of which the PCs' adventures comprise only the latest chapter.

So I think I'm going to slip on some sandals, slap on some sunscreen, and head on back over to Osirion. See you there!

Hank Woon
Paizo Editorial Intern

Eando's Final Bow

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

When we first started the Pathfinder's Journal, back in Pathfinder #1, we really didn't know what it was going to be. Was it a travel guide? An in-character support article? A series of standalone short stories?

By the time we reached Pathfinder #2, however, it was clear that what Pathfinder really needed was something different—a straight-up epic fantasy story with a familiar character who would give us fun world details, yes, but who would also pull people through them via a fast-paced narrative. Something that GMs, players, and even non-gaming fantasy enthusiasts could pick up and use to immediately get a sense of Golarion. And to do that, we needed a protagonist. Enter Eando Kline.

Eando's story arc has taken numerous directions since those early days, as we grew ever more ambitious with his destiny. What started as standalone travel journals became adventure-path-spanning short stories and finally a full 18-part novella leading him halfway across our world to confront the mysterious leaders of the Pathfinder Society—and all stemming from that mysterious little box he runs across in his first episode.

Many quality authors have helped to shape Eando since his conception two years ago, and through his adventures shaped parts of Golarion: before Eando's travels took him there, we knew next to nothing about Belkzen, Kaer Maga, or any number of other locations in northwest Varisia. Moreover, he gave us an archetype to work from in designing the Pathfinder Society. It wasn't always easy reconciling so many different voices and styles—something that's been my department since The Hook Mountain Massacre—but in doing so Eando became a living, breathing character, chock-full of flaws and little moments of heroism.

And now, after 18 episodes, his story is coming to a close.

It was my honor to write the final chapter in Eando's saga, and I hope that when it arrives in your mailbox or local game store you'll find it a fitting conclusion for Golarion's first action hero. Along with the story, you'll also find a two-page NPC write-up with Eando's post-conclusion stat block and featuring this awesome character portrait from Jason Engle—a little thank-you present to all those readers who've been asking us "So is Eando a bard, or what?" for the last 18 months.

Starting with Pathfinder #19, all of the Pathfinder's Journals in a given adventure path will be by a single author, and feature a single story arc with a new protagonist. For Legacy of Fire, that's New York Times bestselling author Elaine Cunningham, who'll be introducing us to Channa Ti, a half-elven, half-Mwangi water druid making her way through Katapesh and Osirion in search of a lost city and an imprisoned god. Talk about exotic—even Eando would approve.

Eando Kline may be back someday—his type always tends to pop up just when you least expect it—but for now, at least, his sun has set, and it's time for some new heroes to take the stage. I hope you've enjoyed his story. I know I have.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have something in my eye...

James Sutter
Pathfinder Editor