Release date: October 17, 2022
Subgenre: Dark Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, Sword and Sorcery
About Grimnir: Beasts of Waste and Desolation:
This is an Orctober surprise! “Beasts of Waste and Desolation” is a short story from Grimnir’s wandering days. It’s a bit under 5K words, BUT . . . it’s paired with a sneak-peek at the forthcoming Grimnir novel, The Doom of Odin!
All told, we’re looking at 13,772 words of snarling, spitting action featuring our favorite historical orc. So get Grimnir: Beasts of Waste and Desolation today!
Excerpt:
One moment the snow-mantled clearing lay empty; the next, a figure slunk from between night-darkened pines. No sound preceded him, nor was any creature stirred by his sudden appearance — not the squirrel in its dray, the fox in its burrow, or the bird in its nest. Under low scudding clouds the color of ash, this newcomer crept into the open as silent as Death.
There was something eerie about the way he moved, scrithing along like a monster of legend. And if there had been any to witness the figure’s passage, they would have beheld a monster, in truth; a creature of the Elder world: one of the skrælingar, kinsman to the dvergar and cousin to the troll — bandy-legged and long of arm, knotty with muscle and sinew; coarse skin the color of old shale bore a veneer of scars and tattoos. Under a veil of stringy black hair, woven throughout with discs of bone, beads of scrimshaw, silver, amber, and gold, eyes red as forge-gledes glared at the overcast sky.
He bore gear scavenged from dead men: a shirt of iron rings filched from a burial mound; a quilted jerkin of rust-and-blood stained linen, drawn off a corpse in Teutoburg Forest; the hobnailed boots of a Roman soldier. From a shallow Saxon grave, he’d stolen his breeches of poorly-tanned hide, coarse and hairy, and his heavy woolen cloak, edged in tattered embroidery. Belted about his waist, in a scabbard of wood and leather, he carried a bone-hilted long-seax.
“Jutland,” he muttered in a voice like stones scraping together, profaning the silence of a winter’s night. “Wretched place.” It was too cold for his liking, here, too windswept. To the west, the land was flat as unleavened bread, with salt marshes and grassy dunes falling into the turbulent waters of the Western Sea. The path the skrælingr followed, heading north on the eastern side of the peninsula, at least had low hills crowned with dark pine and fir, tangled ash and spruce that afforded him some semblance of cover. Sjælland was off that way, somewhere, north and east across the Kattegat — an island thick with Spear-Danes and Shield-Danes. Thin lips curled into a sneer over yellowed fangs. He’d try his hand against them, someday. He’d teach those whiteskin bastards to fear the dark, again.
Two more hours would find him at Skaagen, a rocky islet on the tip of Jutland, inaccessible on foot save at low tide; there, a stone tower rose above a flat-topped mound with the whole surrounded by a timber palisade — the lot of it taken over by old Gífr, who was his mother’s brother, and some of his trusty lads. That skinflint would give him an earful over slipping off alone like he did, to hunt whiteskins down around the mouth of the Aros River; he’d endure their jibes and catcalls over coming back empty-handed — damn their black hearts! — and then with the peace restored he would glut himself on Danish wine, roasted pork, good bread, and Frisian cheese.
There was something eerie about the way he moved, scrithing along like a monster of legend. And if there had been any to witness the figure’s passage, they would have beheld a monster, in truth; a creature of the Elder world: one of the skrælingar, kinsman to the dvergar and cousin to the troll — bandy-legged and long of arm, knotty with muscle and sinew; coarse skin the color of old shale bore a veneer of scars and tattoos. Under a veil of stringy black hair, woven throughout with discs of bone, beads of scrimshaw, silver, amber, and gold, eyes red as forge-gledes glared at the overcast sky.
He bore gear scavenged from dead men: a shirt of iron rings filched from a burial mound; a quilted jerkin of rust-and-blood stained linen, drawn off a corpse in Teutoburg Forest; the hobnailed boots of a Roman soldier. From a shallow Saxon grave, he’d stolen his breeches of poorly-tanned hide, coarse and hairy, and his heavy woolen cloak, edged in tattered embroidery. Belted about his waist, in a scabbard of wood and leather, he carried a bone-hilted long-seax.
“Jutland,” he muttered in a voice like stones scraping together, profaning the silence of a winter’s night. “Wretched place.” It was too cold for his liking, here, too windswept. To the west, the land was flat as unleavened bread, with salt marshes and grassy dunes falling into the turbulent waters of the Western Sea. The path the skrælingr followed, heading north on the eastern side of the peninsula, at least had low hills crowned with dark pine and fir, tangled ash and spruce that afforded him some semblance of cover. Sjælland was off that way, somewhere, north and east across the Kattegat — an island thick with Spear-Danes and Shield-Danes. Thin lips curled into a sneer over yellowed fangs. He’d try his hand against them, someday. He’d teach those whiteskin bastards to fear the dark, again.
Two more hours would find him at Skaagen, a rocky islet on the tip of Jutland, inaccessible on foot save at low tide; there, a stone tower rose above a flat-topped mound with the whole surrounded by a timber palisade — the lot of it taken over by old Gífr, who was his mother’s brother, and some of his trusty lads. That skinflint would give him an earful over slipping off alone like he did, to hunt whiteskins down around the mouth of the Aros River; he’d endure their jibes and catcalls over coming back empty-handed — damn their black hearts! — and then with the peace restored he would glut himself on Danish wine, roasted pork, good bread, and Frisian cheese.
USA
ePub | mobi | PDF
UK
About Scott Oden:
Scott Oden is a bestselling author of historical fantasy and
sword-and-sorcery. Since his debut in 2005, his books have received
starred reviews from Publishers Weekly and Booklist; he has been an
Amazon Editor’s Pick and has been nominated for a Gemmell Award. His
work has been endorsed by such preeminent authors as Steven Pressfield,
David Anthony Durham, and John Gwynne.
Scott lives in the foothills of the Appalachians with his lovely wife,
Shannon, and a variety of dogs — all of them neurotic and prone to
dancing like no one’s watching.
Before turning his hand to writing, Scott worked the usual slate of odd
jobs, from delivering pizza to stocking shelves at a local grocery. In
his spare time, he likes table-top roleplaying games, reading, and
making the occasional bracelet from old stone beads. He dreams of
running away from reality and living in a Hobbit hole . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment