Ms. Burkhart also gets bonus points for illustrating the best way to deal with tangled extra-long hair. Start at the bottom and work your way up. So many fantasy writers give their heroine butt-length hair and never mention the every day maintenance of it. One cannot get through a sword fight, or run for one’s life without having to deal with hair-related consequences later.

Rose of Shanhasson is a gritty, sweaty great start to what I believe will be a promising trilogy. I’m really looking forward to getting my hands on the next one! This one’s recommended for fantasy and romantic fantasy readers who like a little Conan in their heroes.

The part about the hair really tickled me.  This might sound dumb, but I remember in the first draft a hundred years ago, I had Shannari’s hair loose under the helmet and someone called me on it.  And I was like…yeah…duh.  Loose long hair is ridiculous.  So from there, I tried to make it REAL, as real as possible.

My warriors even wear socks.  (That’s a joke in the epic fantasy world.) 

Read the whole review here.  Thank you, Daisy!

The water became thick, more like Jell-O, and every stroke about pulled my arms out of their sockets.  “Hmmm,” says I.  “Must have made a wrong turn at Albuquerque.”

I knew this scene.  Even in the old terrible first draft from years ago, I’d had this scene.  The key players had changed, of course, but in general, I knew where it was going.  So why was I stuck?  I started going through the mental check list.  Was it a sex scene?  (Sometimes those bog me down.  All those hands to get right, don’t you know.)  Nope.  Was it a fight scene?  (Ditto on the choreography.)  Nope, but it was a violent scene.  Torture.  I need the good guys to torture some of the bad guys…just enough…to get key information out of them.  They need to know who the traitors are. 

But I knew all this going into the scene.  So the problem was deeper.

After struggling to get even 200 words last night, I finally realized what I’d done around 10:00 p.m.  I’d turned my heroine into a weakling.  Shannari couldn’t watch the torture.  Why?  Because that was easier than letting her do what she needed to do. 

She needed to do some of it herself.

I didn’t want her to participate, but oh, boy, she certainly did.  As soon as I backed up and deleted the weak whiny stuff, she took over in a hurry, sliced and diced a while, and now this scene is going somewhere.  Whew.

Back to drowning in the Well, I hope.

No Friday Snippet today, but if you want to read something, go back to yesterday’s character interview.  I’m struggling to get scenes in Road that don’t spoil something…either the key developments at the end of Rose, or how those things worsen in Road.  So I’ll have to think about what I can share through snippets.  If I have time this weekend, I’ll peruse my old files and see if I can spruce up something enough to give away.

Welcome back to the show “Every Character is the Star of His Own Story,” brought to you in order to create more satisfying secondary characters.  The star of the show today is Theo, a very vile villain from the Shanhasson trilogy.  This interview dumped some very startling information into my lap, which I’ll be using as I come down to the climax and resolution of the Road to Shanhasson.

Arnold Vosloo sat down in the chair beside my desk. “Tell me about the role you’d like me to play.”

“Well…” I tried to push away the image of the Mummy and see my character, but Imhotep still stared back at me. “I had you in mind as Theo, one of the villains in the Shanhasson trilogy.”

Imhotep/Arnold smiled and my skin crawled in a delightfully creepy…yet still very Mummy-inspired…way. “I do love playing villains. But…?”

“I’m having a problem,” I admitted. “I see you sitting here and think *squee* Imhotep! Instead of *gulp* Theo. I’m trying to get deeper into his head, and I thought interviewing you would help.”

“Why did you pick me in the first place?”

“Because you’re such a delicious villain and… you’re bald. Theo’s head is mostly shaved except for his prince’s lock at the base of his neck.”

Imhotep/Arnold reached over his shoulder and pulled a long dark braid over his shoulder. “Like this?”

“Not quite. It should be longer, nearly dragging the ground, not braided, and it’s banded by golden rings for each of his birthdays.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty one.”

“Hmmm. Quite younger than myself but I can easily adapt.”

Indeed, he did look quite a bit younger, and now the hair was right, his scalp gleaming just like I imagined. But he was still Imhotep/Arnold not Theo.

“What mannerisms does this villain have?”

That was easy. “He constantly fingers that hair. If he’s upset, he tugs on it. If he’s thinking creepy nasty thoughts, well… You get the idea.”

Indeed, Imhotep/Arnold did: his fingers crawled down the hank of hair, fingers caressing his hair with a wicked glint in his eyes that promised pain and death.

“That’s good, real good, but you’re still not Theo.”

Imhotep/Arnold shrugged. “So tell me about him. Why is he the villain?”

“He’s the Crown Prince, now the High King, and Shannari is his competition for the High Throne.”

“Blah blah blah. Tell me about him, the man.”

“He hates Shannari and wants her dead. He sold his soul to the dark side to keep his throne. He’s into torture and pain.”

“Why?”

“She’ll kill him to take the High Throne, so he has to kill her first.”

“No, why is he into torture and pain?”

I shrugged. “He just is.”

“I must know why. He’s evil, fine. He’s a villain, great. But why is he evil? When did it start?”

“The seed was always there. He was born into the royal line descended from Our Blessed Lady, the same as Shannari, but his line is Shadowed. One of his ancestors was evil, and that thread continues in the blood line.”

Imhotep/Arnold narrowed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently. “You’re telling me that one of your major villains is simply the villain because he was born to be bad?”

Gee, it sounded really lame when he said it that way. “Everyone has a choice, a chance at redemption,” I added defensively. “He chooses not to listen.”

“Why?”

Okay, that innocent little question was really starting to annoy me. “It’s too late for him.”

“Why?”

#&*%@!#@ !!!

“Feel better now?” Imhotep/Arnold asked mildly.

“No.”  I sighed, my shoulders slumped. I didn’t want a cartoon villain. Yeah, Theo was nasty and vile and all, but Imhotep/Arnold was right. Why was he that way? Just for my convenient little plot? How stupid was that?

“Tell me about the first person he killed.” When I sat there blinking stupidly, Imhotep/Arnold started to glare at me. “If you want me to play this villain, I get to kill people. So tell me how Theo lost his murdering virginity.”

“He killed his father.”

“Ah, now he’s starting to sound interesting. How old was he?”

Humph, no why question this time? “Young. Six or seven. He pushed him down the stairs.”

Imhotep/Arnold frowned. Funny, with no hair covering his head, I could see the plates and bones of his scalp moving, grinding together in thought. That would be cool to use. “Are you sure?”

At this point I wasn’t sure of anything. “Maybe, maybe not.” I arched a brow at him. “Why do you ask?”

Ah, it was nice to get in a little dig of my own.

“It’s too easy, too clean.”

Until I got his answer, that is, and realized I had a sneaking suspicion he was right. Damn.

“Did his father abuse him?”

“We’re trying to avoid stereotypes here, okay? His father didn’t abuse him, not exactly.” Or did he? Why did Theo hate Shannari so much? It was more than her blood, more than her right to the High Throne… Once I started asking why, I couldn’t stop.

“Skip ahead,” Imhotep/Arnold whispered, his voice sliding into silky menace that he did so well. “What’s the most horrible thing he does in your story?”

“He murders children as sacrifices to the Great Lord, Lygon, Blackest Heart of Darkness.” And what a horrible scene it was. I was going to need to scrub my brain with Clorox once I finished writing it.

Imhotep/Arnold leaned forward, his eyes swirling with something dark. Hadn’t they been blue when he walked in? I couldn’t remember. “That’s a perfectly villainous thing to do. But how can you make it awful for Theo in particular? How is sacrificing children the worst possible deed you could force him to commit?”

A thought gnawed deep in my mind, reminding me uncomfortably of wriggling worms. “He hates slaughtering children…” I didn’t wait for Imhotep/Arnold to ask me why… “Because of what his father did to him when he was a kid. His father was insane, and he thought he could cut out the evil, like it was something living and contained within his son that could be removed.”

The awful truth dawned on me, my mind racing forward, connecting dots I hadn’t even seen in that first draft so many years ago. Oh my Blessed Lady above. I’d come so close…and missed it by a mile. I could add so many things based off this. Mannerisms, horrors, skin-tingling things that had never occurred to me. “He killed his father to save himself. He killed his mother for failing to love him enough to protect him. Killing those kids…”

“…Is like suffering the same torture all over again at my father’s hands. If I’m not already certifiably crazy, I am now.”

I smiled and turned to my laptop. “Thanks, Theo.”

Sliding the prince’s lock through his fingers, he laughed, and it felt like claws had raked down my spine. “My pleasure.”

A period of unrestrained indulgence in an activity; spree; binge: a crying jag; a talking jag.

I’m in a writing jag, so deep in the Well that I can’t see the sun.  I don’t want to see the sun.  I hit 1K and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.  2K isn’t enough.  I’d go for 3K but my right arm starts to tingle.

Over 17K in May alone already (not counting this morning).

I just can’t write fast enough.  The threads are tightening so fast they might strangle me if I’m not careful and I can’t use the ivory rahke to hack my way out.  I’ve got to trust that the threads fall into place.

And write faster.

You’ve met Varne before in several of the Shanhasson Friday Snippets.  He asked to stop by the other day for an interview.  Evidently I’ve messed up his entire character arc, and he felt the need to set the record straight.  

Of course my co-host and Muse, Gregar, couldn’t let Varne drone on and on endlessly without putting me in a coma, so he stops by for a little while, too, to antagonize his old friend slash arch enemy.  Something Gregar does very, very well.   

Fine Print:  The host makes no warranties as to the validity of the character’s statements herein.  I can neither confirm nor deny future impact on Story.  No characters were maimed in the recording of this interview either, no matter what he may claim later.

Interview:

My hand trembled as I flipped open my notebook and picked up the closest pen. I couldn’t help it. This character always made me nervous.

Varne, Khul’s nearest Blood, stared back at me. His face was chiseled planes of granite, hard, unyielding, his eyes dark, his mouth grim. “I’m pleased to be here this day.”

I blinked to hide my surprise. This was pleased? Varne was rather like Eeyore most days, so perhaps this was the happiest he ever got. “Um, thanks. Why did you…” I almost said demand, but I couldn’t afford to lose control of this interview so quickly, “ask to meet me today?”

Varne leaned forward, his eyes locked on my face. “I have to set the record straight. Your accounting of my kae’valda is lacking.”

“Okay,” I replied slowly. “Go right ahead.”

“You are going to take notes, aye?”

“Aye,” I tried not to be sarcastic, honestly, but it was so very…Varne…of him to think I wouldn’t be able to remember this if I didn’t write it down.

“He’s not here, is he?” His voice dripped disapproval, his knuckles whitening where he gripped his thighs.

“Who, Gregar?” Just the mention of his name made the other warrior flinch. My lips twitched toward a smile but I forced my face smooth. Beneath the desk, I crossed the fingers on my left hand. “No, I sent him away. He won’t bother you today.”

You promised, I thought loudly, and I knew Gregar heard.

Varne released his fierce grip on his thighs and leaned back slightly in the chair. “Some have not told you the complete story.”

His eyes flickered toward the pen lying lax in my hand, so I tightened my fingers appropriately and put the tip to paper, waiting expectantly.

“I’m nearest Blood.”

“I know.”

“He’s not. He’s not even her nearest Blood.”

I had to close my eyes a moment so he wouldn’t see me rolling them. “I know.”

“When he was Kae’Had-Mangus, he nearly terminated Rhaekhar before he could claim the honor of becoming Khul of the Nine Camps of the Sha’Kae al’Dan.” Varne’s voice rumbled with menace, his hand dropping down to clutch the rahke on his hip. “I stopped him.”

“Really?” Hmmm, that wasn’t how Gregar remembered the story. “He says you didn’t even know he was there.”

“I knew. I should have killed him then. I didn’t know how much heartache he would cause Khul at the time, or I would have been honored to kill him.”

I didn’t think anybody could ever actually kill Gregar. I mean, he was already mostly dead anyway. All Death Riders were, and Gregar was a sight more than the everyday normal assassin. “Rhaekhar has no complaints with how Gregar performs as Blood or in his…”

Ooops. Varne’s cheeks flooded a dark red. This evidently wasn’t the appropriate line of questioning. So I skipped ahead to ask him something that had been bugging me a long time. “Why don’t you ever join the Death Riders? I mean, with your rahke skill, I always sort of assumed that’s where you’d end up after…”

I could swear I heard his teeth grinding together. Again, another sticky subject. He didn’t like to be reminded of any failure, let alone the greatest failure of all. Damn, this interview was a lot harder than I expected. Gregar wasn’t nearly this touchy.

Something cold trickled down my neck but I refused to shiver. I thought, Stop it, very hard and the cold disappeared. I forced my attention back to the warrior sitting before me.

Varne held his rahke cupped in his open palms, and he stared at the knife, his mouth twisted as though something had died on his tongue. “Never. I shall never be a Death Rider. How could you think such a thing?”

He’s afraid, the thought shimmered deep in my mind, not my own, but I knew it for truth. “Is it the killing?”

“Nay,” Varne whispered. A fine tremor began in his hands. “It’s the blood.”

“I’ve seen you kill before. I’ve seen you get blood on you. Surely–“

“Nay, not that blood.”

My teeth ached as though I’d bitten down on a strip of tinfoil. “Hers.”

I might as well have slapped him in the face. He bared his teeth in a vicious grimace, and this time, I welcomed the touch of cold on my neck, dripping down my back. I might need Gregar’s Shadow after all. “Shannari is not for you.”

“Good,” he bit the word off, his jaws so tight he could barely speak. “The last thing in this world I want is her. That was one of the most ridiculous ill-advised thoughts you ever had.”

Ouch. Agreed, though. “What do you want?”

His shoulders were shaking now, the tendons and muscles standing out in rigid lines down his arms. “I tried…” He drew a long, trembling breath, forcing the words out. “I tried to climb the Mountain. I stood at the base of the jagged slope and stared up at the top. Gregar had made it to the lake of fire. Why couldn’t I? I could do anything he could do.”

He dropped the rahke onto his memsha and buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t have to climb to the top. I couldn’t–“ With a snarl, he jerked his hands away from his face, raking his own flesh with his nails. His eyes were bubbling pools of death and self recrimination.

I reached out to him, thinking to comfort him, but something hard touched my neck, hovering over my jugular, a slight nick. Gregar didn’t want me touching the Blood, and I couldn’t disagree with that, either.

“Why do you hate him so much?” I whispered. “He never–“

“Don’t you understand?” Varne surged to his feet, the rahke gripped in his hand, his eyes black with murder. “He Sees, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it!”

“Sees what?” I hated sounded stupid, but I didn’t know if Varne was being deliberately vague or just obtuse. He wasn’t the sharpest rahke on the Plains, if you know what I mean. “What did you see?”

“I couldn’t!” He roared, his neck cording as he jerked the blade up over his head. “I couldn’t bear to See what I would do!”

His shoulders drooped as suddenly as he’d leapt out of his chair. Lowering his arm, he stared at the rahke in his hand. Stricken, he looked into my eyes, and I knew, then, exactly what he’d Seen on the Mountain. Until I’d climbed the Mountain myself, I’d never completely understood the real cost, the real sacrifice.

Blood was always the key, but without the heart’s full conviction, an ocean of blood would never be enough.

He’d Seen himself, his true self, and he couldn’t bear to look that deeply. Few could.

He most hates that which he fears in himself, Gregar’s voice echoed through my mind again. Varne hated the Shadowed Blood most of all.

“Don’t let me do it,” Varne whispered, the closest to begging I ever thought he’d get. “Kill me first.”

“We all have to do things we don’t want to do, that we regret, that we wish we could have done better or different. That’s part of,” I was going to say growing up, but changed it to “being a warrior.”

“Why show me such horrors if there’s nothing I can do to stop it?”

His voice sounded so forlorn that I tried to explain it to him one last time. “Because you can change it, you can stop it, but you’ve got to admit it first. Don’t you see? You had a chance to be her Ninth when she comes for help in book 3, but your own hatred planted a seed of Shadow in your heart instead. The choice was always yours.”

[Besides, Mykal as her Ninth is way cooler than Varne ever will be, at least my Beloved Sis thinks so. But that’s a character you shouldn’t know about yet.]

Varne still didn’t understand, and I didn’t know how to explain it to him. It was his culture, his belief, yet to see why he couldn’t die with honor would make him see the Shadow in his own heart that he refused to acknowledge. “I can’t simply kill you and make it all better.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

I pushed my chair closer to my desk and firmly turned my attention to my laptop. The current Road file waited, ready and open, and I burned to continue the story. “This interview is over now.”

“Coward.”

Clenching my jaws, I refused to even look at him. To think I wasted Clive Owen as inspiration for this jerk. “Go away, Varne, or–”

“What?” He sneered. “You’ll send your pet Shadowed Blood after me?”

I knew that’s what he wanted. He wanted Gregar to kill him so he could sit around bitching at me the rest of my life about how I’d screwed up his story. “No. Gregar’s too busy enjoying his heart’s desire to bother. If you don’t go away right this minute, I’m going to make you watch.”

“You wouldn’t.”

I set my fingers to the keyboard and typed, speaking out loud. “Varne walked…no stalked…into the tent, his face as grim as ever, and took his spot against the wall. ‘Enjoy the show,’ Shannari said sarcastically, and turned to the two warriors lying before her.”

I risked a quick flick of my gaze up to the steaming warrior standing beside my desk. Varne actually trembled with rage. Without a word, he slammed his rahke back into the sheath on his hip and stalked…yes, that was exactly the right word for him…out of the room.

Whew. I took a deep breath and rolled my shoulders.

“Do continue, Lady.” Gregar leaned down over me to read the screen, a curtain of sable hair sliding down to pool on my keyboard. “I beg you, read it aloud.”

“You need to be there,” I said, nodding at the screen. “I can’t write this scene without you.”

“Agreed, yet I must correct a slight mistake.” Laughing softly, he whispered in my ear. “Mine is bigger.”

I whirled around and shoved him in the chest. “Gregar!”

“My rahke, I meant my rahke.” He winked at me, his eyes dancing with shadowed mischief. “And my word is glide. I glided from the room.”

Oh yes indeed, he most certainly did. I turned back to the story and typed faster.

This week, more of the same.  I’m getting pretty high word counts so far in May, nearly 1900 a day, so I hope to keep this pace until Shannari finishes her business in Shanhasson.  I do have another round of revisions to complete on BD this week, so I might take a slight hit in word count.  We’ll see.

May is looking to be a NaNoWriMo type of month.  I easily have 40K to write yet, even though I feel like I’m on the downhill slope.  What do you hope to accomplish this month?

So last night was our little adult dinner get-together with That Man’s brothers and their wives.  We had a little surprise:  his parents arrived unexpectedly from the Lake of the Ozarks.  We left the monsters with their cousins and headed to the Metropolitan Grill, my choice this time.  We’re having a lovely time visiting, when Aunt BB left to use the restroom.

She came back glowing with excitement.  “They have a bidet!  You’ve got to try it!”

Now this wasn’t any boring old bidet by any means.  This one was programmable with a heated seat.  Oscilliate or pulse?  Front or back?  Dry? 

I’m not kidding.  We giggled and laughed throughout the rest of the dinner, with BB encouraging all of us to drink faster so we could all try the restroom.  She challenged me to try it, and you know I never refuse a challenge.  Write a zombie love story?  I’m there.  Try an electronic bidet?  Ooookay.

They had a sign in the restroom with instructions on how to work the thing, and the header was “To Bidet or Not to Bidet.”  That cracked me up and I was sold.  Of course I tried it.

I don’t think they’re going to let me go back to the Metropolitan Grill.

Kidding.  I didn’t blow up anything.  But you know my history with power cords…

Those are just two words to describe “The Rose of Shanhasson” by Joely Sue Burkhart. Joely expertly blends Fantasy and Romance in a novel that will make your heart thump thump thump as mine did. She produces characters that pull at your heart-strings and you’ll ache just as they ache. They are well put together and absolutely magnificent.

She ends with a special request:

I want more! ….and a Gregar doll.

hehehe  I’ll keep my eyes open for a Gregar doll, but if I find one, I’d have a very hard timing letting him go!

Thank you so much, Clarissa!

May the thunder of the Great Wind Stallion’s hooves carry you home to His Clouds.

There your hooves and feet will never tire.

Your body will never falter or fail.

You will gallop across the sky at Vulkar’s side,

and we who remain will hear your thunder, and remember.

First draft, edited for content to reduce spoilers to the first book in the series. 

From the eager look on Dharman’s face as she faced him with a rahke, Gregar had certainly been correct. The boy looked more than happy to receive the same kind of punishment that she’d given the Blood yesterday.

“It was not punishment, Khul’lanna. You honored me greatly.” Gregar laughed, shaking his head ruefully. “You honored me so much that now Khul demands to drill with you as well as these lads. Soon even Varne will demand the chance.”

“She shall refuse.” Dharman bit off each word, his jaws straining.

Gregar gave him a considering gaze and nodded. “Aye. I should not like to see Khul’lanna drill with Varne any time soon.”

How dare they dictate whom she drilled with? As though either of them had any say in what she intended to do. “I believe I’ll march back to Camp, find Varne, and demand he drill with me immediately.”

Dharman blanched, his hand fisted on his rahke, but Gregar bent over laughing. Shaking his head, he straightened and slapped the boy on the back. “You have my sympathies, Dharman. Watching you attempt to order her about will prove quite amusing.”

Irritated, she turned away and started walking back toward Camp. She didn’t much appreciate Gregar’s sense of humor, not when he backwards encouraged the boy to try and give her orders. A boy! She–

A footfall behind her was the only warning. Arms locked about her, one hand about her throat, another pinning her arms to her sides. Fear curdled her stomach, until she recognized the boy’s sweet scent of buttered honey.

Because he’d made her afraid, she quaked with rage. She fought him, slamming her head back, kicking his shins, raking at his face with her left hand.

Her left hand. He’d only pinned her right. She reached across her body and dragged the rahke from the sheath. It felt awkward, even more so than when she’d first taken the small six-inch knife into a hand well-used to a sword.

“Good.” Gregar glided around in front of them. His eyes glittered in the sunlight, faceted obsidian and shadows, his voice cold and hard. “Most men are right handed and so typically eliminate that threat first. Since you’re a woman, a man will likely want your throat in his hand, too. He won’t consider your left hand a threat at all.”

Dharman kept his hand firm on her throat, but he didn’t close off her wind. He actually held her very carefully indeed, which only pissed her off more. Her best effort had done nothing but make the boy sweat more of that sweet innocent cookie scent. “The rahke feels strange in my left hand. I don’t know how to hold it so I can stab him.”

A small tremor flickered through the boy at her back. Not fear. Anticipation. His fingers tightened minutely, his body shifting slightly as though in…welcome. Her stomach clenched with dread.

“It shall be easier once you carry my ivory rahke,” Gregar said. “You should wear it on your left. You’ll know when to use it rather than the black.”

“I’m not going to carry your rahke,” she retorted. “This is pointless! I’m not going to stab anyone.”

Gregar lifted her left hand and turned the rahke in her grip so the blade pointed down and back along her wrist. “This is the position for rear defense. You can hide the blade relatively well by keeping your hand down and holding the rahke flat along your forearm. When you strike, let the blade drop into your grip at right angles, like this.” He demonstrated, wrapping his fingers around her hand firmly.

Stepping closer, he moved her arm back slowly until she felt the blade point dig into the boy behind her. Her palms were so sweaty she likely would have dropped the blade without Gregar’s fingers on hers. Dharman held himself very still. As tall as he was for his age, she could only imagine exactly what body part she threatened with the vicious rahke.

“Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. If someone grabs you, unsheathe a rahke and smoothly stab backward, like this. Then drag the rahke up with all your strength. Slash side to side if you have time.”

The thought of maiming the boy like that made her light headed. Breathing shallowly, she closed her eyes and concentrated on deeper, slower breaths so she didn’t thoroughly embarrass herself and faint.

“Although it hurts like the Three Hells, this is not necessarily a killing blow,” Gregar continued. “The more you scramble his intestines, the better your chance at escape and his death.”

Her eyes flew open, locking on his face. “If I did this to you, you’d die.”

He smiled slowly, flames flickering to life in the dark shadows of his eyes. “Do you think so? As a Death Rider, I’m already half dead. Some argue more than half dead. To win this ivory rahke, I climbed the jagged slopes of Vulkar’s Mountain and sliced my body to ribbons. Thankfully, Vulkar accepted my sacrifice, else I would have died on those black slopes. I saw the fiery lake at the center of His Mountain, but the cost was part of my life. I’m very, very difficult to kill, Khul’lanna. All Death Riders are. If one were to grab you thusly–”

His jaw worked, his teeth grinding together. Dharman gathered her closer to his body, his grip comforting, now.

“Gut him like this, but don’t assume he’s disabled. The best way to kill a Death Rider is to slit his throat and offer his own blood sacrifice to Vulkar as quickly as possible. Aim for the large veins in the neck and groin. If you don’t finish him quickly, he’ll slaughter you with his own intestines tangled about his legs. We do not stop. Not for anything.”

“You did,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes.

“Nay.” He stepped back. “I have not stopped, Khul’lanna. That is why we shall do the drill again and again and again, until you would stab even Khul if he dared seize you from behind unawares.”

“I can’t do this.”

“Aye, you can, and you will.” The look in his eyes made her skin crawl. It was as though he looked into the future, reading the weft and weight of some tapestry she was only vaguely aware of. “Your life depends on it. If Dharman doesn’t bleed from a dozen wounds within the hour, I shall be severely disappointed.”