A YA fantasy book series currently underway. Young Rose Olmsdottir discovers the wizarding world of Albion, where magical powers are derived from birds, the guardians of the skies. But all is not well, as sinister forces conspire to bring down the world of men and wizards–and Rose Olmsdottir is their primary target!
An excerpt from Chapter 1 (draft):
Watchtowers to the Sky Series (book 1)
Steven Kuehn
Chapter One
After seven days and nights, the storm broke and the sun appeared in the skies over the rolling hills of the Shire of Cornovii. Freed from her enforced imprisonment in the large roundhouse she shared with her extended family, young Rose Olmsdottir scampered across the yard and through the palisade gate into the great wide world beyond.
Through spring fields wet with dew and down muddy lanes she flew, and soon she passed beyond the farm fields and into the wild meadows and forests beyond.
As always, Rose made a wide circle around the squat stone tower of Magda, the bird mage. Some called her wizard, some healer; others sky-witch, but never in her presence.
A sharp cry broke in the sky above her, catching her attention. Rose stumbled and fell as she glanced skyward. A large gannet circled above, drifting high on the warm currents blowing in from the south.
If the gannet took notice of Rose, he didn’t show it. But a shiver ran down her back nonetheless. The Olmsdottir farm lay several miles inland, even farther from the sea than the town of Chamsford. Gannets were seen here, but very rarely.
Rising, Rose increased her pace across the meadow toward the dark forest that lay to the south.
Behind her, in the doorway decorated with feathers and bird skulls, Magda watched.
*****
Reaching the edge of the woods, Rose paused to catch her breath. She looked cautiously skyward, but saw no trace of the gannet. The only sounds were those of songbirds and insects, and the gentle creak of the smaller trees that struggled for existence among the huge oaks and beeches of the forest.
Rose played happily in her secret spot for several hours, free from the chores and drudgery of the farm.
Far to the north, the clanging peal of the farm bell caught her attention. She listened carefully, noting the repeating pattern of two dings, then one. The family was called in, and it was time to leave. Rose glanced sadly at the forest, her forest, uncertain when she would next be able to return.
Before she left, she gathered together a good-sized bundle of sticks and secured it with a cord from her pocket. Returning home empty-handed would invite a scolding, if not worse.
Idleness was not looked upon kindly at the Olmsdottir farm, after all. Besides, kindling was always in short supply in the farmhouse.
Moving at a brisk pace, Rose lugged her burden north across the meadow. She had traveled approximately five-hundred paces when she saw it.
Rose stood at the edge of a large circle of crushed and matted grass, roughly twenty feet across. In the exact center lay the sprawled corpse of a raven. And not any raven, but the largest raven Rose had ever seen. The spread wings were as long as those of the golden eagles that occasionally took a newborn lamb from the Olmsdottir farmyard.
Setting aside her bundle of sticks, Rose cautiously approached the raven, as if afraid to disturb its unending slumber. There were no marks anywhere on the giant bird. Except for the stillness of its form, one might think it was soundly asleep.
Rose reached down to touch it but drew back when she saw its eye. Deep, dark, and cold, it seemed to be watching her, waiting. But within it was a warning.
She stepped back, still staring at the dead raven, until she was near her collection of kindling.
When Rose turned, she saw a large raven feather sticking out of the top of the bundle.
It wasn’t there when she dropped the sticks.
She looked back at the dead raven.
She returned her gaze to the bundle. The feather twisted slowly in the breeze, as if beckoning her.
Rose reached down and pulled the feather from the bundle. It felt warm in her hand. She tucked it into her pocket and stole one final glance at the raven.
Retrieving her bundle, she left the circle and raced for home as fast as her legs would carry her.
High above, the gannet let out a raucous krok krok krok before arcing westward toward the sea.