The Firebird

By Nerine Dorman

What is true evil? How do you fight it? Since she was little, Lada wanted to be part of the Order of Fennarin, one of the warrior-monks who are the last bastion in a war against the demons and insurgents that threaten her island home. Yet to achieve her dream, Lada turned blood traitor, her decision leading to the death and exile of her family. Her betrayal comes to haunt her now, ten years later, when her elders demand that she oversees her brother Ailas’s trial. Lada feared him lost forever, thanks to his covenant with demons, which makes him anathema to her and her order. Will she deny her blood and uphold the order that’s become her family? Or will she listen to the whispers of the demons? After all, they might just be telling the truth – though a truth that may make her question everything, even the organisation to which she’s entrusted her very soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ba en Ast Books
• Release date: Aug 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781985357297

Nerine Dorman

An editor and multi-published author, Nerine Dorman currently resides in Cape Town, South Africa, with her visual artist husband. Some of the publishers with whom she has worked include Lyrical Press, Dark Continents Publishing and eKhaya (an imprint of Random House Struik). She has been involved in the media industry for more than a decade, with a background in magazine and newspaper publishing, commercial fiction, and print production management within a below-the-line marketing environment. Her book reviews, as well as travel, entertainment and lifestyle editorial regularly appear in national newspapers. A few of her interests include music, travel, history, Egypt, art, photography, psychology, philosophy, magic and the natural world. Her published works include Khepera Rising, Khepera Redeemed, The Namaqualand Book of the Dead, Tainted Love (writing as Therése von Willegen), Hell’s Music (writing as Therése von Willegen), What Sweet Music They Make, and Inkarna. Her short fiction regularly features in anthologies. Titles co-written with Carrie Clevenger include Just My Blood Type, and Blood and Fire. She is the editor of the Bloody Parchment anthologies, Volume One; Hidden Things, Lost Things and Other Stories; and The Root Cellar and Other Stories. In addition, she also organises the annual Bloody Parchment event in conjunction with the South African HorrorFest. She is also a founding member and co-ordinator for the Adamastor Writers’ Guild; edits The Egyptian Society of South Africa’s quarterly newsletter, SHEMU; and from time to time assists on set with the award-winning BlackMilk Productions.

Book preview

matter.

CHAPTER ONE

The Firebird

The afternoon thundershowers have left the ground steaming, and the last great droplets caught in the canopy above spatter down into muddy puddles. The ground is slick, sucking at my boots where I crouch beneath a spreading meria tree. I’ve crushed fallen blooms underfoot like white dead moths, and the scent rises sickly sweet. My nose itches, but I suppress the need to sneeze. Not now.

Too much rides on our mission; I cannot afford to be the cause of failure. My ebon-wood stave is heavy with shored-up power humming along its length. I fear I won’t get to use it. Yet again. It rankles that Ally Melnas has set me to keep watch all the way back, near the gates of the estate, while the rest of our unit slips into the property on silent feet.

My view is of the red-mud wagon track winding down beneath its meria-tree canopy, a tunnel whose roof is spangled with star-like blooms. The estate is situated in a dell, high up in the foothills of Mount Ferion’s range where the tree ferns unfurl their fronds and, if an idle wanderer is fortunate, they might hear, or even glimpse, ghost lemurs.

It’s the lemurs’ eerie, hooting calls that make me shiver despite the mugginess of the day. The bell-like tones echo in this narrow valley—perhaps a maiden in distress, but then the cry rises and ends on an ascending staccato exclamation. A threnody of nightmares, and a tremor passes through me when I recall the nights I lay abed as a child, the shutters pulled closed and locked despite the heat. What if it isn’t a lemur, I’d ask Mama, and she’d hush me, tell me not to fear, that it’s not the spirits of the dead come to fetch me.

It was my brother Ailas who relished the unearthly tales, of the lemurs infested with demons when other, more suitable hosts were yet to be found. If you slept with your mouth open, he would tell me with great relish, the beast would come during the night and stick his hand down your throat and place a demon there, with the night-whistlers sitting on his shoulders, shrieking further lamentations.

Too much here on the estate grounds reminds me of my past. I shift so that I am not so hunched. The blood flow eases to my left leg and the muscle cramps so I have to massage out the prickles. Not a sound, but for the lemurs’ crying and the never-ending frogs—blue-lipped poison frogs and river toads. Little plinking sounds like drumsticks beaten together from the frogs, complemented by the squelching belches of toads. The chorus would be pretty, if we were here purely for the view and the fresh air.

But we’re not.

The orchid farmer and his family have departed for the market, according to our agent. They’ve been gone since this morning and will only begin their return now that the afternoon showers are over. A convenient alibi, I suppose. They can claim ignorance while we close in on our targets.

The insurgents were using Three Bells Farm for the past month before the farmer’s wife developed a conscience and reported them. Or maybe she just became too scared knowing what the insurgents are planning. Elder Saitas has been merciful. He will spare her husband who, at this point, has no idea that his wife has struck a bargain for his life. Idiots this close to the capital can only dream of keeping their treasonous activities secret. The Fennarin has eyes and ears everywhere.

My duty this day is to keep watch in case the farmer returns early or, in a worst-case scenario, more insurgents arrive with reinforcements. Either way for me, this mission has mostly been a case of hurry up and wait. Like the last one. And the one before. Apparently, despite my skills with the stave and in unarmed combat on the training grounds, I’m still a liability in the field. According to Ally Melnas, that is, despite me besting him and a generous handful of the other allies on more than one occasion.

I’d like to say that it’s because I’m a woman, but in the eye of the Illuminant, all are equal within our order of the Fennarin. Or so it is said when our Most Esteemed makes his utterances. Yet I’ve heard what the others have said when they think I’m not within earshot. Shiwen peasant trash, that woman. Their jealous gazes slide over me, evaluating and finding a woman of common birth wanting because they’re too afraid to admit they themselves might be less than worthy.

Jumped-up Shiwen, they say. As if the Binmah class of tradesmen, priests and soldiers is somehow one step above the peasantry and bondsmen. They like to forget that their Shiwen grandmothers and great-grandmothers spread their legs for our Oran slavemasters before the Emancipation. Just because the mixed-blood Binmah were never shackled like the native Shiwen doesn’t mean we’re not all Adari people—Shiwen, Binmah and Oran alike—of the island; just some have a little more of the old blood in us than others, old blood we should be proud of. Even the Ora nobles have a little dip into the mud somewhere along in their clans, though they like to hush that up while they powder their faces with cerussa.

The frogs fall silent, and I’m instantly alert, my breath pinched in my throat. Not even a bird stirs in the boughs above me, though some creature was rustling the foliage only a heartbeat ago. Another ululating lemur call, but this time from higher up in the valley. My skin prickles, my veins constrict.

The animals and birds know danger is afoot. I’m vigilant, ready for anything.

A man’s shout down by the house is muted by the dense undergrowth. I’m not to move, and the frustration has me grinding my teeth. Something must’ve gone wrong. My unit was supposed to box them in, apparently in one of the storage sheds where the insurgents have planned to meet and collect supplies, as they do every other market day.

The impact of the explosion thuds through the earth, more felt than heard, and as one a swarm of birds takes flight. Flying foxes screech as they flap heavily into the air, shaking loose a deluge of meria blooms.

I dare to rise from my hiding place and curse my position. I have an excellent view of gate leading from the main road, but not further down to the farmstead. More shouts, followed by muted thuds. There is fighting, while I dither here like a fool. Every instinct, every desire in my whip-taut muscles urges me to rush down that wagon track to join, but I must hold.

The patch of sky darkens with roiling black smoke.

I stand firm, my knuckles turning white on the staff.

Footsteps rush up. Bare feet.

None of the allies goes without shoes.

My stomach turns, my throat suddenly parched as I step into the track to meet my opponent. The

Reviews for The Firebird

[maryalice411 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book isn't the same action book as the first two books of the series. I liked the book, but would have liked the action of the first two. This book was more like a love story. I very interesting love story with a twist, but a love story.

[staceyhh · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Unlike the first two novellas in this series, which leaned much more towards SF/F than Romance, Bleeder is unapologetically a Happily Ever After (or Happy For Now) romantic fiction. Still, I think it would be a mistake to classify it completely as either Paranormal Romance, or Urban Fantasy, and in truth, I probably never would have read this except for the strong science fiction and fantasy influences that were present in Space Junque and Spiderwork.

All of this makes Bleeder both wonderfully and frustratingly unexpected.

Wonderfully: I am not a particular fan of the romance genre, for many reasons, primarily because beyond my teens (when I read mostly gentle classics,) I've read so few romances that were worth my time, being jammed full of brainless twits making bad decisions, having clichéd misunderstandings, in ridiculous situations, and still getting the guy (or girl) in the end. Bleeder had no brainless twits, although it did sport the requisite underdeveloped villain-as-catalyst. In fact, the story relied on very few of the typical romance ploys to move the story along, instead it developed an actual story – the remaking and recovery of a destroyed and nearly barren world – told from a limited viewpoint. As such, it works very well to drive a satisfying romance.

Frustratingly: There are such Big Ideas in this story. You have the concept of womb slavery, an idea that Margaret Atwood treated with such disrespect in The Handmaid's Tale. You have caste systems, and environmentalism. Oh gods! you have emergent religions! progressive and regressive politics! Eugenics! But each of these ideas are seen as if through the window of a speeding train. It was these ideas that really got me excited about the story, and ultimately so, so frustrated at the tease.

That's not to say I didn't enjoy the story. In fact, I enjoyed the hell out of it. The writing is excellent, and the lack of clichéd expressions in a romance novel, refreshing. Storyline loose-ends from the previous novellas were definitely addressed, deftly woven into the story. Definitely recommended.