QSFer Joseph Gorne has a new MM dark fantasy romance out, Belarythm’s Branches: The Vessel’s Blood.
The Vessel. The great hope of the Vahndriin people. His is the body through which their Lord, Vahndestrus, might return to the world and bring with him promised salvation. A sacrifice. And the one to fulfill that role at long last, Vulfrey, a freckle-faced youth with the reddest of hair. But to Vulfrey, unyieldingly pious, there could be no greater an honor. He had prepared his entire life to see it done.
He was ready.
However. On the eve of his twentieth birthday—the day that should have been his last—tragedy befalls the mountain temple he’d lived his entire life caged within. Now for the first time, he’s thrust out into the world. Alone and broken, fleeing for the very life not belonging to him.
It’s then that he finds an unlikely ally in Kaill, a farm boy and son of the man who’d betrayed and nearly killed him. With no choice but to trust him, the two set off together across country—Vulfrey searching for a means to fulfill his duty and mend the wound torn in his people’s faith, Kaill seeking penance for his father’s deeds, and both falling prey to feelings doomed by the journey’s end.
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Excerpt
“Pretty bad one, even for Pryanthes.”
The voice was that of a young man, and overtly friendly, but that didn’t set Vulfrey at ease. No, it only served to make the paranoia worse. The wound in his chest had come from one he had trusted. And if Treillim of all people could do such… Vulfrey started to tremble. He steadied himself against the crates and looked desperately out into the blackness of the cobbled street, unsure what he hoped to find.
“No mood for chatter, huh?” The shadowed man said, followed by a heavy sigh.
Vulfrey began to back away, though the man remained perched atop his barrel. He glanced again into the streets, this time for some place to flee, but nowhere seemed safe. There were people everywhere, their voices trailing through the dark, their footsteps splashing. Thunder growled from above as he took another trembling step backwards, and his heel kicked against a stone block. He stumbled over it and fell backwards into a puddle, gasping with pain as his side caught on the corner of a stray box.
“Hey, you alright?” The shadowed man rose from his seat.
“S-stay back—stay away from me!” Vulfrey grasped madly at the boxes and clutter around him, trying to pull himself back to his feet, and failing.
“What’s got you so flustered?” The shadow asked, lumbering nearer, and Vulfrey flailed even harder.
His feet kicked through the murk and mire, pushing himself away. The dark silhouette became Treillim, looming over him, readying his sword to strike. Terror flooded through him, he kicked madly, desperately. Rain began pelt down upon him once more as he pushed himself out from beneath the shelter, still on his backside. His hand fell upon a rock and without hesitation, he grabbed hold and flung it into the dark. A growl of pain rang out from beneath the rickety shack.
“What the—are you damned insane!”
“Y-you’re one of them—aren’t you!” Vulfrey’s voice quaked. “Stay away!”
“What in Dylinthae are you on about?! Calm down, damn it!”
A strong hand grabbed Vulfrey by his right shoulder, just above the wound, sending a terrible jolt of pain through him. A shriek tore from his lips, the hand jerked away, then he rolled over onto his side, drawing into a trembling, little ball and began to sob; not just from the pain, but every maddening thing that had happened—and also for his death, which was sure to be imminent.
“I didn’t mean to—” The man crouched down beside him. “I didn’t grab you hard… What is it? Are you hurt?”
The softness of his voice quieted Vulfrey’s tears, though his body continued to shake. He looked up at the figure crouched over him, petrified. And yet a slight curious. But no matter how close he was, the night still veiled the man’s face.
“The temple isn’t far from here. Was just heading that way actually…I could help you there, if you wish? Maybe the priests can—”
“No!” Vulfrey jerked back to life. “I can’t go—I won’t!”
“Whoa, calm down, it was just a suggestion. Would do you better than this storm at least.”
“I can’t go back,” Vulfrey rasped, followed by a sharp cough. The taste of blood filled his mouth once more. “I can’t!”
“Go back? Here, let me help you from that mess at least, then you can tell me what’s wrong.” The silhouette of a hand extended toward him. “I’ll help if I can.”
Vulfrey struggled to suck a breath of air, pain stabbing through him, and his eyes still burning. He longed to believe the man genuine, wanted so badly to take hold, but he was far too frightened to follow through. All he could think of was Treillim and how much he had trusted him. And yet, if this man truly wished him harm, there was no way he would be able to escape. His strength was too far gone, his body too broken. Then another thought occurred to him. What if…what if this man, this kindly stranger, was the answer to the endless prayers that had carried him through the madness? Could Vahndestrus have sent him?
It was foolish, but it was all he had left to hope.
He raised his trembling, reluctant hand and felt it become swallowed in the stranger’s grip. It was strong, but gentle. And warm. Almost comforting.
“There you go,” the man said as he hauled Vulfrey back to his feeble footing and braced him with an arm around his back. “Here, let’s get you under the shack and out the rain, then maybe we can speak sensibly. I’m Kaill, by the way. Kaill Weksor. My—”
“Weksssor!” Vulfrey hissed and wrenched his hand free of Kaill’s grip with a force that sent him stumbling backwards a few steps into the street.
“Ah damn—what now?” Kaill huffed before stepping out into the rain after him.
“Y-you stay back!” Vulfrey shouted. His mind flashed to the day before when he and Gajdren reported the arrow attack. Treillim had been arguing with someone in his office, and the voice, though a faint memory, echoed in his head anew. It was the same. “You—you’re his son, aren’t you? You’re the bastard’s son!”
“Are you callin’ my Pa a bastard?”
Vulfrey shrank back and glanced over his shoulder. Curious voices carried through the night, drawn by the spectacle, but between them, he heard the sound of sloshing footsteps fast approaching. Assassins. They must be. The Weksor boy was working with them. It was a trap—of course it was!
Author Bio
Joseph Gorne is a lifelong fan of fantasy, drawing characters and weaving outlandish stories for them one of his favorite pastimes. He resides in North Carolina with his husband as well as several impish, little bundles of fluff(read: cats). Creative endeavors aside, his hobbies include language learning, video games, and tormenting those aforementioned bundles of fluff.
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