Throwback Thursday: ‘Aria: The Sentry Stone’ by JM Landels

Where in the world is JM Landels? At the writing desk? In front of the easel? On horseback? Behind the sword?

As an author, artist, editor, and equestrian swordswoman, Jen wears many hats and travels with many tools, from words to weapons. Co-founder and managing editor of Pulp Literature Press, she is a frequent lecturer, blue penciller, keynote speaker, and workshop facilitator for local writing events. As well, she has travelled to France, Germany, the UK, and the US to speak and teach at conferences. In addition to her literary activities, she teaches swordplay from horseback at Academie Duello at Cornwall Ridge Equestrian in Langley BC.

But no matter where she might roam, one thing is certain: she can always be found within the pages of Pulp Literature. Excerpted here, from Issue 21, Winter 2019 and the just-released novel Allaigna’s Song: Aria, is ‘Verse 18: The Sentry Stone’.

Now let JM sweep you away to another time, another place … .

Previously in Allaigna’s Song: Aria

Fourteen-year-old Allaigna’s ability to sing music into magic has taken a deadly turn when, defending herself from rape, she accidentally kills her betrothed-to-be. With the help of travelling singer and father figure Morran Rhoan, she flees Aerach, still unwilling to return to her family, and still hoping to find her true father. Poor judgement on the road from Werrancross leads the pair into the Sandhorn desert, where they have been walking for two days, Allaigna leading her lame horse.

Allaigna’s Song: Aria
Verse 18: The Sentry Stone

Rhoan’s tall back and the black tail of his mare were wavering twin gateposts ahead of me. The rest of the Talwis’s dust-covered body faded into the red brown of the late afternoon light. I didn’t know if Rhoan was aware of how far behind I’d fallen, but I hadn’t the voice or energy to call for him to wait. It didn’t matter. He’d stop eventually, and I’d hardly lose him in this vast plain.

Keeping my head up was too hard, and the glare of sun on sand hurt my eyes, so I let my gaze fall, focussing only on the tracks Rhoan and the mare left behind. His feet were so much larger than mine, I mused, and his stride so much longer, that I took three steps to his two. I played a game for a while, matching my right foot to his, then my right foot to his left, counting how many man-strides I’d made.

I stopped, nearly staggering against Nag, and slid down his leg to peer at the ground. Beneath the tracks of Talwis and Rhoan were more hoofprints. I stood to call Rhoan, but my voice could do no more than croak. And the black tail and tall dark form had vanished in the heat haze ahead.

My heart did triple time. Where was he? Had he found a way down? Torn between his safety and Nag’s foot, I paced in circles for a moment before urging my feet and my poor horse into a bobbing trot. I loosened my sword in its scabbard, following the bay mare’s tracks as well as the smaller sets of hoof prints beneath them.

A minute or two of our pained, stumbling trot brought us to a rock, about four feet high and half again as wide, standing on the canyon lip like a sentinel. That must have been what Rhoan was heading for. I dropped Nag’s reins, hoping his fatigue and unsound hoof would keep him ground-tied.

The sets of prints were those of Rhoan’s mare, Rhoan’s human feet, and at least two smaller horses, all leading around the corner of the rock. 

It was indeed a sentinel, or a marker. A narrow path wound down the side of the ravine, and the hoof prints followed for at least a few paces, until a sudden confusion of marks marred the trail and another set of human prints joined in.

I flattened myself against the ravine wall, glancing around for other eyes, but the canyon seemed utterly empty of life except that of a bird — eagle or vulture, I couldn’t tell which — circling high above. 

The other human tracks were smaller than Rhoan’s but larger than mine, and soft-shod. Someone watching here had waylaid Rhoan. If the meeting had been friendly, Rhoan would have waited for me. So I had to assume it was not. But where had they gone so quickly?

I was just about to set foot on the downward path when a faint grumbling reached my ear. I dropped to the ground and flattened myself against the rocks.

A figure, clad in grey and tan to match the desert sands, appeared seemingly out of nowhere on the trail below. The person had a clump of brush in hand and was sweeping the path with a grudging motion.

Luckily she or he was looking down at the path, not up it, and didn’t seem to react when I slid back behind the curve of the tall rock. I had already cursed my dark garments for the heat they drank in and trapped near me; now I hated them for their contrast to the pale desert earth. At least the long shadow of the rock was dark enough to soak me up, and a heavy layer of dust had brought my blacks and russets closer to the grey of sand.

The figure proceeded slowly with their brush, giving me time to think. It seemed as if they were going to sweep the whole trail free of tracks — but if that were the case, why not start at the top and work down? Unless they weren’t planning on going back down?

I examined the shadowed ground around me. There were tracks other than those made by feet, implying that someone had rested here, sat in the dust, stretched their legs and even, I realized, dropped tiny crumbs of bread or hard-tack. All this musing, while the sweeper inched closer, only served to delay the decision of what to do when they finally got here.  My sword was still strapped to Nag’s saddle. That thought reminded me that Nag’s tall withers would soon be visible to the advancing figure, even if I would not. It forced my decision.

I slipped my father’s dagger from its home at the back of my belt. I was less sure with the hooked blade than I was with my straight and simple hunting knife. But the dagger looked more threatening, and I felt bluff could be as important to my next move as prowess.

“Worry about the weapon first,” Edris had always told me. “It’s no good landing a killing blow if your opponent delivers one at the same time.”

While the sweeper didn’t seem visibly armed, there was no telling what lay beneath the sand-grey robes, and the makeshift broom could certainly cause me trouble on the narrow path.

So instead of jumping down behind the sweeper as I’d first planned, I launched myself in front of them, landing with one foot on the brush. I snapped the broom handle away with my right hand, while my left shot forward, hitting them in the chin with a warding arm.  The dusty figure reeled backward on the narrow path, slipping, rolling, and sliding off the edge. I lunged forward and grasped their wrist. I was yanked to my knees as my victim’s weight nearly dragged me down the steep-sided slope with them.

It was an idiotic impulse:  I should have just let them fall instead of risking my own skin. But I was grateful, too, for the thoughtless instinct that made me react. I wasn’t ready to have another death on my conscience yet, or ever.

To find out what happens next, pick up your copy of Allaigna’s Song: Aria here!

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JM Landels is torn between travelling the world to teach writing and swordfighting, and never leaving her idyllic farm in Langley, BC. Her first book, fantasy bestseller Allaigna’s Song: Overture, is available from Pulp Literature Press and Amazon, and the sequel, Aria, was released April 2020. You can follow her adventures with pen and sword at jmlandels.stiffbunnies.com.