The Brittle Riders, by our very own Bill McCormick, has won consistent accolades as one of the best modern versions of world building. Reviewers have said it is “masterfully written with attention to detail and it sympathetically manages to bridge the gap between faith and technology.” While it’s a dark satire presented in a violent burlesque, it is also tome filled with hope.
This is scene from Book III when Nak, a fabled warrior, has retired from the army and doesn’t participate in ceremonies honoring war, and his wife questions why.
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Nak and, his bride of four Suns, Welhern, were in their private study quietly reading. The smalls were at her sister’s house for a party and they were enjoying some much needed calm time. They’d heard the news about Kalindor and Nak had to admit he was glad he was nowhere near that disaster. He could see no good thing coming from that. At least not until the armies of the north scorched the place and started over.
It was going to be a bloody battle and he wanted none of it.
He was one of the four Vice Lords for the Fierstans and that provided him all the excitement he needed. Better to duel with paperwork than swords. His wife heartily approved of his attitude or so he thought.
“Nak?”
He looked over to see his wife looking at him quizzically.
“You knew Sland, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I still do. I see him from time to time when he stops by. He wouldn’t have been my first choice to rule Kalindor, but who knows what actually happened?”
“Do you miss it? The action and all.”
“No. It’s not like in the songs they sing for feasts. Battle is hard, bloody, work. Brands die. I buried more of my friends after the battle with Xhaknar than I care to think about.”
She considered him for a while and then continued.
“You don’t talk much about it but I know it haunts you. Some evens you moan and toss and I can almost hear the sounds of war coming from you. You should talk about it with someone, even if it isn’t me.”
It was his turn to consider her. She was right, he knew that. The dreams weren’t going to stop on their own, although he’d hoped they would. And now that the topic was open he could think of no one better to tell than her. After all she’d agreed to share her life with him and that had to count for something.
“We were barely a clik outside of the city when we were confronted by a squad of very angry Mayanoren ….”
He talked for three solid cliks without pausing. He told what he saw, what he felt and why it haunted him. He told of the training with the BadgeBeth, his friendship with Zarn, the blood cascading across the parched lands, the death of Pord – bravely trying to hold off the wall of Naradhama as they were coming down upon him, he told it all. When he was done he felt about as empty as anyone can feel, but he also felt better.
She’d listened to every word without comment. When it was clear he was finished she poured them each a small snifter of eastern brandy and sat back down.
“When I was a small, the mals in the village would play warrior and villain. They would wave their sticks, since no one was stupid enough to give them real swords, and then one of them would scream AAARGH and another would yell “Got you, you blighter” even though I doubt if any of them knew what the word meant. Then, when it was all over they’d stand up, dust themselves off and go home friends.
“As much as it pains me to admit this that was the only way I ever thought about war. Somehow civilized and honorable. I am sorry for that now.
“Unlike you, I grew up here within the walls. Xhaknar was outside, not here. Yontar was there, not here. All of the things everyone else worried about were there, not here.
“And now I find that all my life I’ve just been a silly little fem wondering why you didn’t want to hoist a flag or wear the uniform on Feast Turns. If I’d endured a tenth of what you survived I probably would have taken my own life to stop the pain. Until now I never realized how brave and how strong you must be to put those things aside. To keep them away from me and the smalls. To keep them inside you to save us the pain.
“You deserve a better wife than I.”
He shook his head no, he certainly did not believe that and then got up and hugged her tightly. The pain gone he felt alive again in ways he’d thought long buried. He felt his love for her as a burning thing, something inside of him that would warm him on the coldest evens. They barely made it to the floor before they were both naked and panting.
Fortunately for all her sister was a wise woman, three Suns older than Welhern, and she knocked before bringing the smalls in the house.
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You can start The Brittle Riders by picking up Book I, or dive into the deep end and grab the Complete Omnibus.
