Teasers and Excerpts from
The Order of the Silver Sword
Would you like to get a sneak peek at The Order of the Silver Sword?
Here, you can find teasers and excerpts from upcoming books in the series, beginning with the debut novel, The Sword and the Spark.
Excerpt from
Song of the Starborn
“Not our republic, not our voice!”
Major Ian Lucas Marlowe looked away from the angry, shouting Tetranese mob to ask his fellow Sword, Lieutenant Ben Buckler, “These fools do realize that we came here to help them, right?”
Ben’s shimmering barrier was all that separated the crowd of rain-soaked islanders whose Tetranese-accented anti-republic slogans continued unabated from the line of Swords guarding the carrier meant to deliver emergency aid to the victims of the second tropical storm to hit Tetran in less than a year.
“The Senate does not rule my home; Thebanova has no throne!”
“The false Swords will fall; the true heir will return!”
“Bring back the crown, bring back the power!”
Ben glowered beneath his hood as sheeting rain battered the carrier. “Think we should tell these soggy folks that there hasn’t been a crown, a throne, or a monarch in over a decade?”
“Not sure it’ll do much good,” Ian replied. These elite Tetranese were among the republic’s wealthiest citizens, and they had managed to form the most organized imperialist protest Ian had encountered so far. They were also proving to be a real pain in the ass.
“Stars’ sake, Ian, this is ridiculous,” Ben grumbled. “There are people out there who need us!”
“Yeah, I know,” Ian said, seizing the transmitter that would activate the carrier’s loudspeaker, before stepping onto the ramp and into the downpour. Ben followed with his arms crossed in front of his chest, and the barrier visibly intensified.
“People of Tetran,” Ian spoke into the transmitter. His amplified voice cut through the rain and swept over the wet, protesting mob as he repeated, “People of Tetran! I need you to listen to me right now!”
“Senate slave!” someone shouted, and others took up the cry.
“Go back to Sylvanore, militant magicians!” hollered another.
Ian scoffed into the transmitter before saying, “Tempting. Very tempting. But, no. So, once again, I need you to listen.”
“Who are you to give us orders?”
Throwing back the hood of his cloak, Ian let the rain fall onto his black curls. “I’m Major Ian Marlowe of the Danimese Defense Corps and master shield of the Order of the Silver Sword.” The people began to quiet as a ripple of recognition swept the crowd. “Oh, good, some of you know who I am. Saves me the trouble of having to list all the reasons why I should be the one talking while the rest of you shut up and listen.”
“He’s the Sword who fought Mace Ealdor,” someone said, and another added, “He helped kill the usurper.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Ian replied with a grimace. Using his Gift to fatally stab a former Sword in the back was not exactly high on the list of things he was proud of, even if that former Sword had become a homicidal dictator. Regardless, the deed had earned him the reputation that now quieted the crowd. “And I guess that makes me a big damn hero, one that you should be paying attention to.”
The sound of the rain was not quite loud enough to cover Ben’s snicker.
“Here’s the deal,” Ian continued. “We are here to help you. The Swords are here to help you. I am here to help you. And you, my dear people of Tetran, are standing in our way.”
“Thebanova is a thief!” cried a voice. “She needs to be stopped!”
“Okay, can you all save the political dogshit for when there hasn’t just been a natural disaster?” Ian hollered back.
“The Senate stole our sovereigns!” someone shouted, and another yelled, “You’re only doing the Senate’s bidding!”
Rainwater dripped into Ian’s widening eyes. “You’re damn right I’m doing the Senate’s bidding! Because I am sworn to protect the people of Danim, and that’s what the Senate sent me here to do! Stars almighty, there is a time and a place for this, and right now is neither! So, just get out of the Star-damned way and let us get to work!”
Ben uncrossed his arms and silently indicated with one hand that Ian might want to tone it down just a bit.
Ian responded with a dark glare and a discreet, single-digit gesture of his own before he went on, “I understand that you’re all angry. But so am I, because there are people who need our help. So, all I’m asking is for everyone to just go home so that we can get to work.”
“But you fought for the last true ruler of Danim, and now you fight for her?”
This cry was met by another voice from the crowd shouting, “You’re a traitor!”
Ian saw the warning look in Ben’s black eyes and the tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Don’t let these assholes get to you, his expression seemed to say.
Ian rolled his shoulders back and lifted his chin to address the Swords who had been forced to become a human blockade by the crowd on the other side of Ben’s shield. “Swords, take two steps back.”
As one, the Swords obeyed.
“Now, listen up, folks,” Ian said. “My next order is going to be the one to lower the barrier that stands between you and us. You have two choices. You can respond aggressively, in which case you’ll deal not only with the full might of the Swords you see in front of you, but also your own Island peacekeepers, whose actions will be entirely outside our jurisdiction. Or—” he paused for emphasis “—you can go back to your homes and let us help your fellow islanders, whose situation has grown increasingly dire while you’ve kept us here. Decide.”
The crowd went silent, and Ian silently counted to ten. Then he lowered the transmitter from his mouth and said to Ben, “Drop your shield.”
The shimmering barrier vanished, and to Ian’s relief, the people made no move toward either the Swords or the carrier.
“Wise choice,” he said, and even without amplification, he knew the protesters could still hear him. Then he stepped closer to Ben. “Okay, you know the assignments. Send out the teams on the designated barges to set up those relief stations. And make sure everyone knows that they are to report any damage or risk assessments of level 3 or greater immediately. The rest can be logged and filed upon return for follow up. Comm me if anyone runs into any trouble.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben replied. “And where will you be?”
“Right here.”
Ben whipped his head around so quickly Ian felt the rainwater from the other Sword’s hood splash his face. “Right here?”
“Yeah, right here.” Ian clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder and said, “You see, this is what’s called ‘delegating,’ Buckler. Also known as a damn good reason to get that promotion you keep dodging. Now get busy while I get out of this rain and do all the mission-commander-like stuff.”
“Aye, Major,” Ben sighed before stepping onto the wet landing pad.
“Major,” called a female voice from inside the carrier, and Ian turned his head to see a slender silhouette approach from the direction of the cockpit. Sergeant Lissa Field, a young Healer and Reader, emerged into the watery sunlight where Ian was standing. “Senator Gardener is on the comm.”
Ian swallowed back the surge of anger that threatened to choke him and slammed the transmitter back into its cradle with a little more violence than was warranted. The Tetranese senator was the very last person he wanted to talk to while already in a temper, and he stalked toward the front of the ship, shedding his dripping cloak and sword belt. Tossing both onto an empty chair in the cramped cockpit, he took a second to bring his emotions under control. A verbal altercation with the vile politician would get him nowhere.
“Major, we have a small problem,” Ben’s voice abruptly interrupted over Ian’s personal comm just as he was reaching for the main transmitter on the console.
“Damn it, Ben, what?”
“One of these assholes decided to take a swing at Sergeant Marcus.”
Ian rubbed the bridge of his nose as his sodden cloak dripped rainwater onto the cockpit floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. “And?”
“We grabbed the assailant, but Marcus needs a Healer, and I need the big damn hero to get his heroic ass back out here.”
“Marcus is a fucking Shield!” Ian growled. “How the hell . . .” He broke off, turning to the young Sword manning the helm. “Garrisan, tell Gardener I’ll be with him once I’ve dealt with this little shitshow his own people have started. Field, come with me.”
Garrisan blinked up at him. “Sir?”
“Quote me,” Ian snapped before snatching up his sodden cloak and heading back out.
“Sir, you forgot your sword.”
“No I didn’t,” Ian replied. He didn’t need it. He was a man of peace now. His fighting days were long gone.
And he prayed to the Stars it would stay that way.
© C. E. Groom, 2024
All rights reserved.
Excerpt from
Prologue:
The Witch
The Sword and the Spark
“I didn’t take your stupid doll, witch!” shrieked mousy-faced, mousy-haired Sami from the tree branch upon which he had sought refuge within tiny Sarn Park.
Five-year-old Greta faced the large tree and said nothing, but a crack appeared at the base of the branch, and the little boy perched upon it screamed as the entire tree shuddered. Beneath him, the flames Greta had ignited grew hotter.
“I swear!” Sami cried in terror. “I didn’t take it!”
“You’re lying,” Greta said, her voice soft, her expression impassive. “Give it back.”
“I don’t have it! Swords’ honor, I don’t have it!”
Greta frowned. “Where is it?”
Sami didn’t have a chance to answer. The crack widened, the branch upon which he was perched broke free, and he screamed again, wrapping his arms around the limb as it plunged downward, as though somehow his grip could prevent both himself and the branch from falling into the fire below.
“Greta!” hollered one of the children on the other side of the wall of flame that separated them. But Greta had already stopped the boy’s fall, catching him in an invisible grip with a rush of power that stirred the air around her and whipped her bright red hair about. The branch, and the boy clinging desperately to it, hung in midair several feet above the still-roaring fire. She had never meant to hurt Sami. She had only wanted to frighten him into giving back her doll.
“Where is it?” Greta repeated.
Sami was sobbing now. “Please! I don’t want to die!”
Greta made no gesture, but the fire vanished, leaving only smoke and the stench of charred earth. The flaming wall that encircled them both, however, remained.
“Tell me where my doll is, and I’ll put you down.”
“Dani has it,” Sami blubbered, snot and tears dripping onto his arms.
Greta looked over her shoulder and heard a voice shout, “No, I don’t! He’s lying!”
She turned her attention back to Sami. “He’s telling the truth. You’re not.” She took a single step toward the hovering branch. “Don’t make me rip the truth out of your head.”
Sami’s blotchy, snot-covered face paled. “You can’t!”
“I can,” she warned.
“The lake,” Sami blurted. “I tossed it in the lake when I heard you were looking for it.”
The wall of flame went out, and Greta’s lip quivered. He was not lying anymore.
She released her invisible grip on the branch. Both it and the boy hit the ground, and Sami yelped as his arms and knees met the smoldering earth. He began to scramble away from the branch to safety, but he froze as Greta spoke.
“You’re a very mean boy, Sami,” she said. Then she turned on her heel and headed home, wiping the tears from her eyes before they could fall and ignoring the whispered voices of the other children as she passed.
When she had put enough distance between herself and the park, she broke into a run. Half-blind with tears, she sprinted down the narrow pedestrian alleys that provided the fastest route between the small park and her parents’ modest apartment, located just above her father’s small hardware shop on the shabby side of Sarn.
She bolted out of an alley and onto her street, and she skidded to a halt. Even through her tears she could see that something wasn’t right. Traffic wasn’t moving. Her neighbors were all gaping at the red Imperial flag dangling above the luxury autobus parked in front of her father’s shop. Beside the vehicle stood several people dressed all in gray and silver, their expensive-looking cloaks hanging limply in the still, humid air. Greta wiped her eyes to see that standing amid these regal strangers, appearing tiny and poor in comparison, were her parents.
Without thinking, she dashed toward them, ducking through the arms and legs of the gathered throng until she had positioned herself resolutely between her mother and father.
“And this must be little Greta,” a kind voice spoke from somewhere among the cluster of gray cloaks.
Greta did not look up. Instead, she stared straight ahead, her gaze locking upon the silver sword at the hip of the person in front of her. The scabbard was elaborately decorated, as was the pommel, and everything gleamed in monochromatic silver. Even the grip was wrapped in shimmering silver cloth and trimmed in silver cording.
Her eyes darted left. More swords on hips. To the right, there were still more, each bearing different designs. As she returned her gaze to the sword in front of her, a woman knelt to bring her face into the very center of Greta’s line of sight.
“Do you like it? The sword, I mean?” the woman asked, smiling. Her skin was brown and smooth, with a deep dimple in each rounded cheek and sparkling eyes so dark they seemed like the nighttime sky. Her hair was invisible beneath the hood of her silver cloak, but Greta imagined it was probably as dark and as pretty as her eyes. The woman’s age was impossible to guess.
Greta gripped her father’s hand.
“She’s a very quiet child,” her mother said, and Greta could hear nervousness in her voice. “Shy. She has few friends.”
“Speak plainly, Bera,” Greta’s father interrupted. “She’s bullied. Has been her whole life. The other children don’t understand why she’s,” he took a lengthy pause before finishing, “so different. So special. They call her a witch.”
The owner of the silver sword still glinting at the edge of Greta’s vision spoke, “And how old was she when the Spark first appeared?” Greta allowed her gaze to drift upward toward his face. He was old, with wrinkled pale skin and a white, neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were gray or blue; Greta could not be certain.
She liked the woman better.
“She was two,” Greta’s mother answered.
The woman, still kneeling in front of Greta, took an almost imperceptible breath of surprise. “Quite the early morning flower, aren’t you?” the woman remarked, still smiling.
“Indeed,” spoke the pale man. “Two years is remarkably young. What proof have you of the girl’s Gift appearing at such a tender age?”
“She spoke as well as she does now, and she knew things,” answered Greta’s father. “Things no toddler could have known.”
“Such as?”
The kind woman stood and interrupted, “Perhaps you would prefer to discuss such things in private, Eyarr. My apprentice and I would be happy to spend some time with the girl while you continue this conversation with her parents.” She looked back down at Greta. “What’s up on the roof of this building, child?”
“Nothing,” Greta replied. “It’s just a roof.”
“Perfect. Summon us when you are ready, Eyarr,” the woman said. “Now, Greta, lead the way.”
Greta refused to budge until her father pried her fingers from his hand. “Go on, sweetie. You’ll be safe with the Silver Swords.”
Silver Swords. Of course. That’s who these people were. The elite guardians of the Empire. Knights. Magicians. Warriors. Those who had been Gifted with the Spark of the Celestials.
Greta allowed herself to be steered toward the door, which she pulled open. Stepping aside to allow the woman through, she was startled to see a tall boy behind her instead. He did not smile, and his freckled face seemed cocky and arrogant. His own gray hood had been pushed back to reveal a head of close-cropped black hair. He thrust out a hand to her. “I’m Mace,” he said, letting his hand hover in the space between them.
Greta did not take it.
The freckled boy, Mace, scoffed and seized Greta’s fingers, giving them a curt shake. “This is how you greet someone properly in the Capital.”
Greta yanked her fingers free from his grip and pointed up the stairs that led into the building’s main corridor. “I don’t care. There’s a lift up there that goes to the roof. At the end of the hall.”
Mace threw a look over his shoulder to the woman standing behind him before heading up the stairs. “Don’t think she likes me, Master Skye.”
The woman he had called ‘Master Skye’ had a gentle, unassuming quality, but Greta knew that it was not the elegant sword dangling at the woman’s hip that made her a member of the elite Silver Swords. That was just an outward symbol, like the silver cloak she wore.
No, what made the woman a Silver Sword was the power she wielded. It was a power that Greta could feel. She could almost hear it. It seemed to resonate, like a low hum, from deep within the woman’s core, like music. “After you,” she said. “And I won’t make you shake my hand.”
Greta turned away and climbed the stairs. Mace was waiting by the open lift door, and when the three of them had entered, he hit the button for the roof. The lift door closed, the floor beneath Greta’s feet rumbled, and moments later, the door opened onto an empty, sunbaked, asphalt terrace. “We’re here,” she said.
She watched as Mace skipped over to the cistern that stood beside the lift and gave a single, sharp rap with his knuckles against the metal side. It made only a deep, muffled sound. “Rainy season,” he said with a grin.
“You can take the boy out of the tropics,” the woman said with a chuckle, shaking her head.
The tropics? Greta wondered. Like Sarn? “Where are you from?” she demanded of the boy.
There was a moment of hesitation before he answered, “Vorra.”
She could tell that he was lying, just like Sami had. “And how old were you when the Swords showed up?”
“Eight.”
Another lie.
She turned toward the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Melodie Skye,” the woman answered. Like the woman herself, the name was pretty and gentle— but strong. Greta liked it.
“And how old were you?”
“Seven,” said Melodie Skye. Unlike the boy, she was speaking the truth.
“And where are you from?” Greta pressed.
“I’m an Islander. From Tetran.”
Greta whipped her head back around to glare at the boy. “Why does she tell the truth when you lie?”
Mace whistled. “Wow! She’s powerfully perceptive, Master Skye.”
The Silver Sword chuckled. “She is, indeed, my dear Mace. And you still need a good deal of practice in deception.”
“You teach people to lie?” Greta asked in disbelief.
“The Silver Swords are taught to discern the truth in others and to keep their own secrets from being discovered,” the woman answered. “For the protection of the Empire.”
Greta frowned again. “You two were testing me.”
“Perhaps,” Melodie Skye said.
Greta’s frown deepened to a scowl. “My parents petitioned you for an Audit.”
The woman arched her dark brows, and they disappeared beneath her hood. “Did they tell you this?”
“No,” Greta answered. “They didn’t have to. You’re here.”
Mace spoke up. “Do you know why?” he asked.
“Because I know things,” Greta snapped in reply.
The boy grinned back in patronizing amusement. “And what else?”
This Mace, this apprentice, was irritating her. “Are you asking me what else I can do?”
In an obvious effort to emulate his master, he answered, “Perhaps.”
Greta flexed the fingers of her right hand. This cocky apprentice needed to be taught a lesson. Instead of a sword, a small silver dagger hung from his hip. She focused on the weapon and pulled, and it went flying into her waiting palm.
Mace gasped. “What the…”
Melodie Skye chuckled. “Young Greta has a rather impressive mastery of her Gifts!”
Greta was not to be placated by the woman’s words, and instantly the dagger’s blade ignited in white flame.
Mace took a small step backward. “She’s a Pyro, too! Amazing!”
Greta held the burning blade in front of her. “So, did I pass your tests?” she snarled.
“Put out the fire, Greta,” Melodie Skye said gently.
Greta was not about to obey. “Why?”
“Because you have already shown us all that we need to see. You have just displayed a mastery of abilities well beyond your years. So put out the fire and return Mace’s dagger.”
Hot tears stung Greta’s eyes, but like before, she was not about to let them fall in front of strangers. “And if I don’t?”
“Then you will never be a Silver Sword,” Melodie Skye answered. “You will never be among those who understand you and everything that makes you different. You will never be taught how to truly master your Gifts.” Her expression turned sad. “Instead, you will have to wear one of these.”
The woman raised her hand, displaying a simple, silver cuff with two needle-like prongs on the inner band. Greta had never seen it before, but it filled her with terror.
“This is a Silver Dampening Cuff,” said Melodie Skye.
Mace added in a grim voice, “Most of us call it a Silencer. It silences your Spark, makes it disappear, makes you just like everyone else. Normal. Forever.”
Greta shivered. “I don’t know what normal is,” she said in a whisper.
“Give back the dagger, and maybe you will never have to find out,” the woman told her.
Greta took a moment to consider the woman’s words, and then she snuffed out the flames. Tears had slipped from her eyes without her consent, leaving one dangling just under her right nostril, but she did not wipe it away as she held Mace’s dagger out to him.
The apprentice did not immediately take it, instead crouching down so that they were eye to eye. “Thanks, Greta. I’m sorry I made you shake my hand, and I’m sorry I lied,” he said with a small smile, and only then did he reach out to take the dagger from her outstretched hand. Once he had secured the weapon to his hip, he pulled out a small, gray cloth, lifting it toward her face. “May I?”
She sniffled and allowed him to dab at her damp cheeks. When he was finished, Greta held her hand out to him as he had done downstairs.
Mace’s smiled widened, and he took her hand. Then he released it and whispered, “I don’t really know what normal is either. I was five when the Swords came for my Audit, right here in Sarn, just like you. Well, maybe not exactly like you. I’m not a natural Pyro.” He shrugged his shoulders as though that didn’t matter, but Greta could tell that it did. For some reason, he wanted to be what he had called a “Pyro,” too, and it made him angry that he wasn’t. “Maybe you’d be able to help me with that?”
To her own surprise, Greta found herself returning his smile despite his arrogance.
“Well, what do you know?” he remarked. “She can smile, Master Skye.”
His master approached and crouched down beside her apprentice, looking at Greta. “And she is quite pretty when she does.”
In that moment, Greta knew she wanted nothing more than to go with these people, to leave behind the children who bullied her and the neighbors who gave her dark looks and her own parents who could not understand her no matter how hard they tried. These people—this kind woman with the dimples on her cheeks and the silver cloak and silver sword and pretty name, and her pretentious apprentice with his dark hair and dark eyes and freckled skin—these people were her people. They had tested and angered her, but they understood her, appreciated her, and wanted to help her. And she belonged with them.
A chirping noise broke the moment. Melodie Skye pulled out a small silver square. Her smile disappeared.
“I thought you said it would take a while,” Mace said.
The woman did not acknowledge his remark. Instead, she stood and held out her hand to Greta. “They want us to go downstairs.”
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Read More in The Sword and the Spark
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© C.E. Groom 2021