Category Archives: The Chalice War

Blogging, Case Files of Justis Fearsson, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, The Chalice War, Thieftaker Chronicles, Winds of the Forelands, Writing

New Year’s Musings: Good To Be Back

The keyboard feels strange beneath my fingers. That’s how long it’s been. My typing is rusty — typos come with almost every word. But I am writing. Something, anything. I am writing. Again, finally.

It’s been two months since I wrote so much as a blog entry. I haven’t written a word of fiction since the earliest days of April. I haven’t started a book that was entirely my own (as opposed to tie-in/work-for-hire) in way more than a year. For a long time now, I have wondered if I am still a writer, or have become someone who used to write. On that last, I suppose, time will tell.

But for now, I am writing this, and I thank you for coming back to my site to read it.

The year just passed began with grief, in a dark, painful place that seemed inescapable. It ended differently, and while we all continue to miss our beloved Alex, we are, all of us, on a healing path.

Young male lion, Greater Kruger National Park, photo by David B. Coe
Young male lion, Greater Kruger National Park, photo by David B. Coe

Nancy and I traveled a good deal in 2024, including two epic trips, one to Italy and one to South Africa. We stayed with friends in the Pacific Northwest, visited Nancy’s family in Idaho, spent time with Erin in Colorado, and traveled several times to the Hudson Valley in New York for real estate purposes.

Venice. Photo by David B. Coe
Venice. Photo by David B. Coe

Those last trips bore fruit, and I write this today from my new computer table, in my new office, in our new home, in upstate New York. Since mid-August, we have been busy nonstop with travel, but also with cleaning, throwing away old stuff that we no longer needed or wanted, packing, moving, unpacking, painting the new place, and, of course, dealing with banks and title agencies, etc., etc., etc.

View of our new house from the back yard
View of our new house from the back yard

We are settling in, though there are still plenty of boxes sitting here and there, unopened, hiding things we need or want or simply have forgotten about. Our new house is smaller than the old one, and so we have downsized a bit (hence the culling of possessions before the move) and it is in need of a little TLC. But we like it very much, and we LOVE the setting — six-plus acres with a small pond, fruit trees, a view of Taconic Mountains, and plenty of open space for gardening. Nancy envisions a wildflower meadow up near the pond, a vegetable garden nearer the house, and flower beds all around. We have a pair of Great Horned Owls living nearby, a huge flock of turkeys that passes through the yard now and then, and a local Cooper’s Hawk who seems eager for us to put up bird feeders to bring in his next meals.

Erin came for Christmas and the start of Hanukkah and stayed with us for a week. We feared she would not warm to the new house. The one we sold was the only family home she had ever known. On the other hand, all of us found the old house too full of memories and sadness. We were all ready for a change. And it turns out that Erin likes the new place a lot, which made us very happy.

So, we have traveled, we have moved, we have grieved and processed and taken time to begin healing. What is next?

That’s a fairly easy question for Nancy, who, as of midnight on New Year’s is officially retired. She has so many interests and hobbies — gardening, knitting, making music, drawing, writing, reading, and — her latest — weaving. She will have no trouble keeping busy and enjoying this next phase of her life.

I have been asked repeatedly whether I am retiring as well.

I am not.

I miss writing. I miss diving into a new world, a new narrative, the hearts and minds of new characters. I miss my editing work. And after a year of . . . well . . . other stuff, I feel ready to get back to all of it. I don’t know yet what my next project will be. I know that I have spoken often of reissuing my Winds of the Forelands series, and I still intend to do that. I have spoken of writing new Thieftaker books. I would like to do that as well. I would love to return to the Fearsson and Radiants worlds. I have an idea for a new Chalice War project. And I have ideas for things unrelated to anything I’ve written before. And yes, I fully intend to begin taking on new editing clients in the near future.

With one exception, I don’t yet know what conventions I will be attending this year. The exception is ConCarolinas in Charlotte, May 30 through June 1. I will definitely be at that one.

I hope to see many of you in person during the coming year. And I hope as well to be blogging on a more regular basis now that we are settling into our new digs.

Happy 2025 to all of you. It’s good to be back.

DBC

Baen Books, Bell Bridge Books, Blogging, Case Files of Justis Fearsson, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, The Chalice War, Thieftaker Chronicles, Tor Books, Writing

Monday Musings: Introducing the Toothbrush Principle

We have a Sonicare toothbrush — one of those rechargeable ones that vibrates, like, a trillion times per second and essentially buzzes plaque and tartar into submission. (That might not be exactly the science behind the technology, but that is certainly what it feels like.) The toothbrush has a built-in timer that changes the tone of the buzz every thirty seconds, to let us know it’s time to abuse a different part of our mouths (top front, top back, bottom front, bottom back, or whatever) and so we generally brush for about two minutes every morning and every evening. (Stick with me; there is a point to this.)

If we do the math, two times a day at two minutes per brushing comes to twenty-eight minutes per week, or 1,460 minutes of brushing per year. That’s twenty-four hours and twenty minutes. So, put another way, each year, we spend the equivalent of one entire day brushing our teeth. We can do calculations like this for all sorts of things. I do a workout each weekday morning before I take my morning walk. That workout lasts about forty minutes and I do it five days a week (except for when I’m traveling). So, that’s 200 minutes a week for, let’s say, forty-five weeks out of the year. That means I spend the equivalent of slightly more than six full days a year working out, just so that I can eat a bowl of ice cream at the end of the day and not feel too guilty about it.

But for the purposes of this post, let’s stick with the toothbrushing example. Assuming, of course, that you’re still reading. Certainly by now you’re wondering what the hell this is about.

Allow me to explain.

Speaking with beginning writers at conventions (as I did at ConCarolinas a week or so ago) I often hear that they are ready to start work on a novel, but they worry about carving out time in their already-busy lives for a big project. Such an endeavor feels overwhelming, frightening, impossible.

The Loyalist Witch, by D.B. Jackson (Jacket art by Chris McGrath)And in part, this is the fault of professionals like me, who talk about our work habits and, perhaps, create unrealistic expectations that writers with less experience then apply to themselves. I write full time. I demand of myself that I write 2,000 words per day. I am asked often how long it takes me to write a book, and the honest answer is that it takes me about three months, which is pretty quick, I know. Writers who are at the outsets of their careers should not necessarily expect to do the same.

Because I didn’t always write this fast. For the first ten years of my career, I was pleased to complete a book a year. And that pace is much easier to maintain than you might think. Let’s do a bit more math.

The Chalice War: Sword, by David B. CoeWe’ll begin with the assumption that the book we’re writing will come in at around 100,000 words, which is the approximate length of most of the Thieftaker books, the Chalice War books, and the Fearsson books. Epic fantasies tend to be somewhat longer; YAs tend to be shorter. But 100K is a good middle ground.

Let’s assume as well that at most we can afford to devote an hour a day to writing. And in that hour, we can only expect to write one page — about 250 words. That pace may sound way too slow, and you may be saying to yourself that at that rate we’ll be writing forever.

Well, no. At that pace, even allowing for missed days along the way, we can be finished with our 100,000 word novel in a little over 13 months. If we can up our production to five hundred words a day just on weekends, we can be done in closer to eleven months, under a year.

Feeling more ambitious? Say we can write for ninety minutes each weekday, and can manage to average 500 words a day, while taking our weekends off to recharge. Well, now we’re writing 2,500 words per week, and that novel will be done in less than nine months. Willing to write on weekends, too? Now we’re down to seven months.

I can go on, but by now you get the idea. Applying the toothbrush principle — which says simply that small efforts on a daily basis add up quickly — we can transform the very idea of writing a novel from something daunting — a challenge that feels too huge to tackle — into something manageable, doable.

Now, to be clear, I am not suggesting that anyone exchange brushing their teeth for writing. The day is long enough to get both done. And four out of five dentists surveyed tell us that the world will be a better, fresher place if we all continue to brush our teeth . . . .

Have a great week!

Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, teaching, The Chalice War, The Chalice War: Sword, Writing

Monday Musings: The Emotional Challenge of Writing

Whenever I work with writers who are at the outsets of their careers — whether I’m editing their work for freelance or for an anthology, or teaching them in a workshop, or just talking shop on a convention panel — I try to stress the importance of delving deeply into emotion when telling our stories. There are so many elements that make a book or story effective. We want to create fascinating worlds, imbue those worlds with breathtaking magical systems or mind-bending imagined technologies, and give those worlds rich, complex histories, cultures, and religions. And, of course, we want our plots to be twisty, unpredictable, fun, and, ultimately, deeply satisfying.

At the end of the day, though, the key to a successful story, at least in my opinion, thirty novels and nearly as many years into my career, is character. Every other element of our storytelling can be perfect, but if our characters are flat and our readers don’t connect with them, we can’t consider our narratives successful. On the other hand, imperfections in our world building and our prose and even our plotting can be overcome with believable, memorable, relatable character work.

And I would argue that successful character work demands that we tap into the emotions of the people about whom we’re writing (even if they’re not technically “people”). Emotion is a writer’s bread and butter. Emotion is how we connect with readers, how our readers come to love (or hate) our characters, how our characters give meaning and purpose to our narratives. Emotion is everything. Without it, we might as well be writing shopping lists, or relating our stories in bullet points.

Why am I telling you this? Many of you aren’t writers, and probably don’t care about the craft of writing. And those of you who are writers have probably heard me talk about this stuff before. As I said at the outset, these are points I make at every opportunity, because I deem them so important to the success of any story.

Infusing our prose with emotion, capturing and portraying the feelings of our characters, using emotion as a tool to propel our plots — all of these things are really hard to do well. Writers spend entire careers perfecting the techniques. But sometimes — for me right now — it can be an overwhelming challenge simply to mine our own emotions so that we can draw upon them in our writing.

“Write what you know,” writers are often told. As a writer of fantasy, I approach this bit of wisdom with a healthy dose of skepticism. If all of us ONLY wrote what we “know” the literary world would be a drab, boring place. But “write what you know” does have some relevance for emotional writing. All of us have felt anger and contentment, fear and resolve, love and hate, sadness and joy. We are emotional creatures. And by drawing on our own emotional experiences and memories, we can bring authenticity and power to the emotions we impart to our characters.

The problem is, sometimes we don’t want to go there.

The Chalice War: Sword, by David B. CoeIn the last year, I have written two pieces of original short fiction. That’s it. I haven’t written a novel since I finished The Chalice War: Sword, late in 2022. I have recently started work on a tie-in project (I can’t really say more than that, right now), a novel. It is coming slowly, and because I am essentially playing in someone else’s world, the emotions I’ll be mining are somewhat removed from my own. I spent the first half of last year doing a bunch of editing, for myself and for others, figuring that when those projects were through, I would dive into a new book of my own.

Then our older daughter’s health took a dramatic turn for the worse, and that was pretty much it. I couldn’t write fiction anymore. I didn’t want to write fiction anymore. Because my entire existence outside of writing was about pain and grief and loss, and the last thing I wanted to do was a deep dive into my own feelings for the purpose of bringing life to new characters.

Now, a couple of things. First, fear not — this is NOT a permanent condition. I will write again, books and stories both. I have ideas I want to explore and projects I want to complete. I’m just not ready yet. And second, notice I said, “I couldn’t write FICTION anymore.” I did not stop writing; I have not stopped being a writer. Not entirely. I am writing posts again, and I have been journaling all this time. I have also been writing to friends. In all of this writing, I am processing and prodding. I may not be willing to delve deeply into my emotional world at this time, but I’m not ignoring it completely. I’m being careful. The way we might favor a twisted knee or avoid contact with a bruise on one side.

Because I am bruised, wounded. And I am far from alone in this regard. Lots of you write with and through emotional pain all the time. Which, I suppose, brings me to my final, larger point. Another thing writers are told constantly is to write as much as possible. “Professional writers write.” I’ve said this myself. And it’s true. But it doesn’t mean we can or should always be forcing ourselves to work on the next thing we want to sell. At times, we need to write for our own purposes. At times, we write not to make money, but to survive, to heal, to find peace. At times, we can only ask so much of ourselves.

This is such a time for me. As much as I would like to be “productive” again (whatever that means) I’m simply not there yet. Emotional writing may be our professional currency, but it’s not always possible. Admitting that, honoring that, is a step toward healing.

Have a great week.

D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Islevale Cycle, Radiants, The Chalice War, Thieftaker Chronicles, Writing

Professional Wednesday: Writing Work-For-Hire Projects

Love what you write.

I say it a lot. It is the single piece of advice I always offer when asked what tips I would give to young writers (young of age, young of career). And I believe the advice is sound. Love what you write means a few things. It means love the process, love the act of creation, because writing is hard and isolating and, for most of us, not very profitable. It means write the story that burns in your soul, the story you ache to write, because if you write a story for which you have little passion in the hope of matching the market, chances are you will write an inferior story (and still miss the market, which is a moving target). And it means take time to appreciate your achievement in completing a story, in writing a great scene, in creating something entirely your own, because, as I say, writing is hard, and so is the publishing business, and we need to recognize our own successes.

But here’s the thing: We can’t always love what we write, and we certainly can’t always write what we love. Writing is an art, of course. It is creation. It can be fun and thrilling, soothing and healing. It can feed the soul.

It is also a business, a way of making a living. I am happiest when writing stuff that excites and nourishes me. Writing the Radiants books and the Chalice War trilogy was incredibly fun, and also a balm in a time of emotional turmoil. In the past, though, I have also written not for joy but for a paycheck. That is part of what I do. I have written media tie-in books that I would never, ever have written if not for the promise of money at the end of the process.

That may sound crass. So be it. I am a professional, which can mean a lot of things, some of them positive and dignified, some of them mercenary. I bring this up today, because I am on the verge of signing a contract for new work-for-hire writing. I can’t talk about the particulars right now. At some point, I’ll be able to. But I can discuss the process in general terms and even give some tips for dealing with this sort of work.

The thing about work-for-hire writing and media tie-in projects is that they are, in many instances, not necessarily what we would choose to write if left to our own preferences. Obviously this is not always the case. I have several colleagues who spend a good deal of time writing in the Star Wars universe, or the Star Trek universe, or some other genre franchise. And they love the work. They enjoy playing with characters they have grown attached to over the years, much as I enjoy playing with Thieftaker characters in new situations.

Robin Hood, by David B. CoeBut the media work I have done in the past wasn’t like that. Back in 2009-2010, I wrote the novelization of Ridley Scott’s movie Robin Hood, starring Russell Crowe and Cate Blanchett. The movie wasn’t out yet — I worked from a script — and I didn’t know whether or not I would love it. (I didn’t.) In 2018, I wrote a novel that tied in with the History Channel’s Knightfall series about the Knights Templar. In this case, I got to see all the episodes of the first season before the series was aired. I liked the show well enough.

In both cases, though, I always felt as though I were playing with someone else’s toys, which made the writing a bit challenging. I didn’t have the freedom I feel when working on my own stories in my own worlds. So, how did I make the work tolerable? DID I make the work tolerable? Good questions.

1) Look for something — anything — that allows you to take ownership of the project. This was particularly tough with the Robin Hood book, because the studio with whom I contracted maintained a death-grip over every element of the story. I could not add or delete ANY dialogue or scenes from the screenplay. I was utterly at the mercy of the script and the shoot, although the studio heads were so secretive, they would not allow me to see the movie!! I had to work from stills and from a couple of two minute movie-theater trailers. That was it!

So how did I take ownership? Point of view. I was in the minds of the characters, and since no internal monologue can be scripted, I could do with those passages whatever I wanted (to a point). There is one scene in the book of which I’m particularly proud — it’s written from the point of view of an old and fading Richard the Lionheart and I believe I nailed it.

Knightfall: The Infinite Deep, by David B. CoeWith the Knightfall book, I had a good deal more freedom and control, and so I enjoyed the process much, much more. But still I was mostly writing from the viewpoint of someone else’s characters. There is one point of view character, though, who I made my own — a child who appears later in the series as an adult. But her childhood POV was mine and gave me that sense of ownership, of personal investment in the book.

2) Take pride in what is yours and acknowledge the limitations placed upon you by what is not. Put another way, write the best book you can given the flaws inherent in the larger franchise. Robin Hood is not a great book. Robin Hood was not a great movie (though I believe it was better than many critics said). I believe I did as much with the book as I could under the circumstances, and that is all I can ask of myself.

3) Accept that work-for-hire makes possible the stuff we WANT to write. There is nothing wrong with writing for money. Hell, that’s what nearly all of us strive for when we begin this professional journey. When people ask me which of my books are my favorites, I never mention Robin Hood or Knightfall. But I don’t shy from talking about the experience of writing the books. I’m not ashamed of having written them. I’m a professional writer, and in both cases the media work provided a necessary financial bridge between personal projects. Without Robin Hood, I might not have written the Thieftaker books. Without Knightfall, I might not have written the Islevale Cycle.

Media tie-in, work-for-hire — call it what you will. This sort of work is part of the business, and while it may not be my favorite sort of book to write, it is part of what I do to maintain my career and to pay a few bills. If work of this sort comes your way, jump at the opportunity. The money is good and the publications bring exposure and possibly more jobs. Just remember to make the work your own in some way.

Keep writing!!

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, Case Files of Justis Fearsson, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, Radiants, The Chalice War, Thieftaker Chronicles, Writing

Professional Wednesday: In Defense of Simplicity

Today, as I was sitting at my desk, staring at a blank screen, trying to decide what I could possibly have left to write about when it comes to giving writing advice, a familiar song came on my Apple Music stream: “Rocket Man,” by Elton John and Bernie Taupin. Nancy is a huge Elton John fan, and has imparted an appreciation of his music to me over the years. We saw him live many years ago at the Shoreline Amphitheater in Mountain View, California, and it remains one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen. He closed with “Rocket Man,” and the place went nuts. It is a truly terrific song, one of his best, an iconic work of pop/rock.

It is also a deceptively simple song. It runs about four and a half minutes — a bit on the long side given when it was recorded — but lyrically it has just two sets of stanzas: each stanza four lines with a simple rhyme scheme. The two couplets of stanzas are separated by a chorus that is repeated twice. At the end of the song, the chorus is repeated twice more, and then the first line of the chorus is repeated several times as the song fades. That’s it.

As I mentioned in Monday’s post (not for the first time), I am a dedicated amateur photographer and a student of landscape and nature photography. One of my favorite artists is a guy name John Shaw, who is a renowned nature photographer and the author of many instructional books. In one of those books, he says this:

“Define your subject precisely and specifically, then include within the viewfinder only what fits your definition. My friend David Middleton [another accomplished nature photographer] has an analogy that applies here: he compares a photograph to its written description. It takes several paragraphs to describe a bad photograph, a few sentences for a mediocre photo, one sentence for a good picture, and just a phrase for a great photograph.” 1

The Chalice War: Stone, by David B. CoeI have written a lot of books and stories over the years. The truth is, I love all of them. I can tell you a hundred things I like about every book I’ve published, and I believe if I could convince people to read each of them, the books would be very popular. But the fact is, as is true with most authors, some of my books have done far better commercially than others. And, as it happens, the ones that have tended to do well are those that are most easily and succinctly described. The Thieftaker books are my most successful. How do I pitch them to interested readers? “These are magical mysteries set against the backdrop of the American Revolution.” The new series, the Chalice War, is also easy to describe — “It’s a modern urban fantasy steeped in Celtic mythology.” These books, I have found, are as easy to sell as the Thieftaker books, and that is saying something.

INVASIVES, by David B. Coe (Jacket art courtesy of Belle Books)The three books of the Case Files of Justis Fearsson and the Radiants duology might well be my favorites of all the books I’ve written. They are exciting, emotional, filled with great characters, and paced within an inch of their lives. But they are far more difficult to describe in a single sentence than other books and, likely as a result, they have never done as well commercially as I hoped they would.

All of this by way of saying what ought to be obvious by now. Simplicity is good. We writers love to come up with twisty plots that surprise and thrill our readers. And yes, there is much to be said for a few good plot twists. And there are plenty of books published every year that are purposefully complex and meant to blow readers’ minds. Some of them do very well.

I would argue, though, that complexity for complexity’s sake is unnecessary, and perhaps even counterproductive. I know, I know. Publishers and agents are constantly saying that they want to see something new and innovative, something that turns expectations on their head. And when they say this, I think they believe it. But I can’t tell you how often I hear of writers who have ideas that are truly different and mind-bending, but who can’t sell them because publishers don’t know how to market them, or fear that readers aren’t ready for what the authors are trying to do. Indeed, it’s happened to me; I’ve had works rejected for those reasons.

I’m not saying that you should jettison a story because it is inherently complex, or because your plot has too many twists and turns. Far from it. If that’s the book you’re writing, the idea you have nurtured and developed, great. Enjoy! And I wish you every success with it.

But if you have a story that seems “too simple” (whatever the hell that means), embrace the simplicity. Complexity comes from many sources. Your plot and concept don’t have to be complicated for your book to have merit. Sometimes a straightforward story line allows us to delve into the complexities of character and relationships, which can be every bit as rewarding for readers, not to mention easier to follow.

Again, simple is good. Make your narrative only as complicated as it needs to be and no more. Or, put another way, just write your story and make it as good as it can be on your terms.

Keep writing!

—-
1 John Shaw, John Shaw’s Nature Photography Field Guide (Amphoto Books, 2000), p. 98.

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, editing, The Chalice War, The Chalice War: Cauldron, The Chalice War: Stone, The Chalice War: Sword, Writing, Zombies Need Brains

A Word of Thanks, and a Bit of Bragging

My summer of releases continues tomorrow!!

So far this year I have had releases in May (The Chalice War: Stone, the first book in my new Celtic urban fantasy), June (The Chalice War: Cauldron), and July (Artifice and Craft, which I co-edited with Edmund Schubert, and Dragonesque, which includes my short story, “Reenactment”). Now we’re into August, and tomorrow sees the release of The Chalice War: Sword.My Summer 2023 releases

Yes, I say all of this with tremendous pride. I have been productive over the past year. And over the past three years, going back to 2021, I have published four short stories, edited three anthologies, and produced five novels and a trilogy of novellas. That’s nothing to sneeze at. The truth is, my work has been a balm and a welcome distraction from other things. Being productive has been a form of therapy for me.

I want to thank you all so much for your support of my work, and of me personally. I’m more grateful than I can say. The past few years have not been easy, but your interest in my new books and stories, and your willingness to read my blog posts and social media screeds has meant the world to me. No, I’m not going anywhere. I have more projects to work on, more blog posts to write. But I wanted to pause and say thanks. I wish all of you the best.

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, The Chalice War, The Chalice War: Cauldron, The Chalice War: Stone, The Chalice War: Sword, Writing

Professional Wednesday: One Last Teaser, and a Plea For Help — Please Read

Believe it or not, writers don’t particularly enjoy asking you to buy and read our stuff. We are not, as a rule, good at sales or comfortable touting our own work. We prefer to write, to spend time with our characters, in our settings, thinking up new and exciting plot lines. If we had wanted to be businesspeople we would have gone into business. For many of us, promotion and marketing are necessary evils that facilitate the creative endeavors we truly love.

The Chalice War: Sword, by David B. CoeAnd so, I undertake the writing of this post, this latest plea for help, with a good deal of reluctance. The thing is, though, I want this new series to do well. I love the books, the world, the characters, the storyline. And I have wonderful ideas for what might happen next in this universe. But if this first series doesn’t sell, I won’t get to publish more books featuring Marti and Kel, Riann and Carrie, Quinn and Orla, Manannán and the Furies. That’s the way the publishing world works. Our publishing reputation is really only as good as the sales of our most recent project. A harsh reality, but a reality nevertheless.

Therefore, before I offer you one last free teaser excerpt from The Chalice War: Sword, the third and final book in my Celtic urban fantasy trilogy, The Chalice War, I would ask the following of you:

1) If you have not started reading the series, which begins with The Chalice War: Stone and The Chalice War: Cauldron, please do. The books are exciting, fun, and filled with memorable characters. If you’re reading this blog chances are you’re A) a fan of my work, or B) a friend who follows me because of that friendship and has not yet read any of my books. To fans, if you like my other work, you’ll love these books. They’re among my best. And to my friends, maybe you’re not really fantasy readers. I totally get that. But these books are set in our real world and the magic is based on Celtic mythology. These are as accessible as any fantasy I’ve written. Give them a try.

2) If you have already read the first and/or second book(s) in this series, thank you. But there is more you can do. Please, please, please consider leaving a review of the book(s) on Amazon or at other reader/bookseller sites. Reviews, even not so great reviews, help writers enormously. The way Amazon works, the number of reviews for a book is far more important than the content of those reviews. So, if for some reason you didn’t enjoy the book(s), leave a review anyway. Every review helps. Of course, if you loved the book(s), a glowing review is especially helpful.

3) If you have already read the books AND left reviews, you have my deepest gratitude. And yet, I have a request for you as well. Maybe you know a reader who is not familiar with my work. Maybe a fantasy reader you know has a birthday coming up. Maybe you’re looking to get an early jump on your holiday shopping. Books make marvelous gifts. Just sayin’.

The Chalice War: Sword comes out the day after tomorrow, Friday, August 4. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. And now, a final teaser!

The Chalice War trilogy, by David B. Coe
*****

“There’s our guide,” Carrie said, as soon as the woman entered the pub.

“How do you know?” Marti asked, twisting in her seat.

“It’s the woman I saw at the river this afternoon.”

“You’re sure?”

She was. And the small, knowing smile the woman offered as she approached their table made her that much more certain. Seeing her close up, Carrie noticed things she’d missed earlier. The woman’s eyes were blue, and while there might have been thin lines around her mouth and eyes, her hair was satiny and black. She didn’t look as old as Carrie had thought by the river.

It helped that instead of wearing the long gown and shawl she had on this afternoon, the woman now wore a tight black leather skirt, a low-cut and yet somehow tasteful blouse, and ankle boots for which Carrie thought Riann would have killed.

Every person in the pub, regardless of gender, followed the woman with their gaze as she sauntered past. She kept her eyes riveted on Carrie. It was unnerving and, Carrie had to admit, just a little bit provocative. Perhaps reading her thoughts, the woman broadened her smile, revealing perfect, sharp teeth. Also provocative.

She halted beside Carrie’s chair, angling her body so as to show her back to Marti and Riann, and stuck out her hand.

“I believe you’ve been expecting me,” she said in a strong alto and a lilting brogue. “I’m Enya.”

“Um . . . Hi. I’m Carrie. Enya, you said? Like the musician?”

“It’s pronounced Enya, but spelled E-i-t-h-n-e.” She shrugged, tipping her head just a bit. “These days no one can make heads or tails of that version of the name. I should probably change it for simplicity’s sake. But I don’t like to make things too easy on anyone.”

Her eyes remained locked on Carrie’s, and she didn’t release Carrie’s hand. Her thumb gently, subtly caressed the skin between Carrie’s thumb and forefinger.

Carrie pulled her hand from the woman’s grasp and indicated the others at the table. Her skin tingled where Eithne had touched her.

“These are my friends. Riann, Marti, and Kel.”

“Hello, Kel,” Eithne said, turning unerringly to the conduit. Again, she proffered her hand, though she didn’t hold Kel’s for more than a second or two. She nodded to Riann and Marti. That was all.

She flashed a dazzling smile toward the men at the adjacent table. “Are you using this chair?”

The men practically fell over themselves positioning it for her. Carrie thought they would have built her one had there not been an extra.

Eithne sat, crossed her legs, and raised a hand. Within seconds, their server stood at the table, out of breath, her cheeks flushed.

“Wine, please,” Eithne said. “Whatever Sauvignon Blanc you have from New Zealand.”

“And I’d like another . . . .” Riann trailed off. The server was gone already, having given no indication that she heard. “Beer.”

She turned back to the newcomer, her expression icy. “So, Eithne, what qualifies you to be our guide?”

“Your ‘guide?’ Is that how the Furies characterized what I’d be doing?”

“You’d use a different word?”

“First of all, I was under the impression that only Carrie would be entering the Underrealm.”

Riann shifted in her chair. “Well . . . yes.”

“And I would call myself her protector. Her champion. Her lifeline. Any of those will do nicely.” She faced Carrie again. “The dingo out front: she’s your conduit?”

“Yes.”

“She’s beautiful. And powerful. I can see why the Morrigan chose you for this.”

Riann bristled. “Why the Morrigan— They didn’t choose her for anything. This was our idea. Marti’s idea. The Morrigan knew nothing about it until we went to them. And the only reason Carrie is going down there is she’s the only one of us who’s Fomhoire.”

She cringed, seeming to grasp too late that she’d basically said Carrie had no value to them beyond her heritage. She chanced a glance in Carrie’s direction.

Carrie looked away pointedly, too hurt and angry to meet the woman’s gaze.

She would have struggled to explain her reaction. She knew it was true. She had Fomhoire blood, which meant she could enter the demons’ realm. Compared to the others, she had no magical ability to speak of, little knowledge of Baelor or Cichol or their servants, and even less sense of what she would find Below. And yet, hearing the woman she loved, who she thought loved her, speak of her in those terms left her feeling denigrated and dismissed. Not for the first time on this trip.

“Care to elaborate?” she asked Riann. “Give a few examples of the different ways I’m unqualified to go?”

Riann stared at her empty glass. “No. I’m sorry.”

Carrie nodded, tight-lipped. Eithne appeared to be enjoying herself.

“Where are you from, Eithne?” Marti asked.

“North of here. No place you’ve heard of.”

“I know Ireland well. Try me.”

“Noughermore.” She pronounced it “noffermore,” but with a hint of something guttural in the middle of the word.

Marti’s mien soured.

“As I said, no place you’ve heard of.”

The server returned with Eithne’s wine and this time lingered long enough to take refill orders from the others. After she left, a frosty silence settled over the table. Again. Carrie couldn’t remember the last time the four of them had simply gotten along, without conflict, or worry, or intrusions from others in the Celtic . . . . Community, she decided, was too generous a word.

Eithne was odd and clearly determined to sow as much discord among them as possible. But that hardly differentiated her from the Morrigan. And as flattering as her attention might have been, Carrie didn’t trust her even a little.

“So, how is it you know so much about the Underrealm,” she asked the woman. “I mean that’s not a usual tour guide thing, is it? There isn’t a tourism institute in—Where was it? Noughermore?—there isn’t a school you went to that offers lessons in navigating Cichol’s lair?”

Eithne’s lips curved, and she covered Carrie’s hand with her own. “Keep your voice down,” she whispered.

Carrie pulled her hand away. “Why should I? This is just a pub. We’re just talking. Who do you think might hear?”

Eithne’s smile ossified. “What does it matter? The Morrigan trust me completely.”

“But we don’t completely trust them,” Marti said.

“Heard that.” A distant voice, possibly Badbh’s.

Most of the time these days, Carrie felt beyond her depth, as if the others were privy to information she didn’t have. This once, though, she was anything but. She’d seen this woman first, and without knowing why, she already had a sense of her, of her motives and origins.

“You’re Fomhoire,” she said, leaning in, intent on those crystal blue eyes. “You’re not from Noughermore. You’re from Below.”

The others watched and waited, riveted. Eithne sipped her wine, her hand steady.

“Actually, it’s possible to be from both. I’m living proof.”

Carrie said nothing. She thought if she kept silent long enough, the woman would tell them more.

Eithne reached for her glass again, but stopped herself. “You know Noughermore as East Town,” she finally said, addressing Marti. Her voice had flattened, and she’d switched off the charm. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

“East Town. On Tory Island.”

“That’s right.”

“So, Carrie’s right. You are Fomhoire.”

“There are Milesians from East Town. There are even Sidhe from East Town.” When no one responded, she made a small gesture, something between annoyance and acquiescence. “Like I said: I have roots in both worlds. What matters for you is that I can lead your friend here right through Cichol’s home and to the Sword. I know where it is. I know how to reach it. I know how to get us out once it’s in hand. Nothing else should matter to you.”

“Like hell it shouldn’t,” Riann said. “You want us to believe you’re helping us out of the goodness of your heart, or because you love Sidhe so much?”

“I don’t care what you believe. But no, I expect you to think there’s something in it for me, that I’ve got my own agenda. Because there is, and I do.”

“And what agenda is that?”

Eithne’s silken smile returned. “None of your damn business.”

The sounds of the pub abruptly vanished—the din of laughter and conversations, the clink of plates and glasses and cutlery, the background drone of the television. All went silent. Carrie glanced around, as did her friends. Eithne drank more wine, apparently unconcerned. The pubs other patrons had gone still. Literally. None of them moved or spoke. One man at the next table was frozen with his glass of stout at his lips. A drop of Guinness hung suspended between his grizzled chin and the table.

“What in God’s name . . . .” Kel said.

And then the Morrigan were back, in the flesh this time, seated in chairs that materialized with them. They wore black sequined dresses and black satin stilettos, and their hair was teased into matching buns. They looked stunning. And pissed.

“Are we having trouble getting along?” Macha asked archly, crossing her legs with the grace of a dancer.

“They don’t like me,” Eithne said.

Badbh dismissed this with a wave of her slender hand. “No one likes you.”

“You need a guide,” Macha said to Marti. “Or rather, she does.” She jerked a perfectly tapered chin in Carrie’s direction. “We got you one. End of story.”

“She’s Fomhoire!” Riann said.

Badbh chuffed a laugh. “Yes, darling. We searched far and wide for a Sidhe who could tell us what Cichol’s lair is like, but all of them are dead, so . . . .”

“This isn’t a meet and greet,” Macha said. “And it’s not a dating service. We honestly couldn’t care less if you get along. You have a task; you need help completing it. This is your help. Work together or don’t. But if you don’t, be prepared to fail. Navigating the Underrealm alone would be perilous. Entering Cichol’s demesne alone is suicide.” She indicated Carrie with another twitch of her head. “If you want this one back, you’ll let Eithne guide her.” She considered each of them one by one, appearing every bit the Battle Fury. “Are we clear?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Good. We’re leaving. It’s going to take hours to get the pub smell out of my hair.”

“Why bother?” Badbh asked. “It matches your singing.”

Macha glowered.

“What? You expect me to pass up an opening like that?”

They winked out of view. The bar noise resumed. A wave of dizziness crashed through Carrie, and she gripped the table. “Whoa.”

“Tell me about it,” Kel said, doing the same, her cheeks blanching.

Only Eithne appeared unaffected.

Marti eyed the woman, suspicion and resentment in the set of her jaw. “Fine. You’re one of us, for now. Do you need a place to stay?”

That of all things made Eithne laugh. “Hardly. And I won’t need a ride either. Your car is too crowded as it is. And,” she added, with glances at Riann and Carrie, “pretty though your conduits might be, I have no desire to smell dog all day. We’ll work together, but we needn’t make things more unpleasant than necessary. Get to Tory Island. I’ll meet you there.”

Carrie half expected her to disappear as the Morrigan had. She didn’t. She drained her wine, pulled a twenty Euro note from within her blouse and tossed it on the table, and sauntered to the door and out, her exit from the pub as attention-grabbing as her entrance had been.

“I don’t like this,” Riann said to Marti.

The other woman shook her head. “Neither do I. We could try talking to Manannán. He’s likely to know someone with knowledge of the Underrealm. Someone we can trust more than—”

“No,” Carrie said.

They all turned to her.

“We’ll go with Eithne. That’s who the Morrigan have chosen, and they’ve been in on the planning from the start.”

“Just because they’ve—”

“I said no.”

Riann looked like she’d been slapped.

“It’s my life on the line, so it’s my choice. I don’t like her, and I’m very glad she has her own way of getting north to the island. But she’s the guide I want—not some friend of Manannán who none of us has ever heard of.”

Marti didn’t respond. Clearly, Riann wanted to. Carrie had no doubt this argument would continue later, when they were alone. For now, though, her declaration was met with silence. At first.

Kel drained her glass. “And once again, snaps for Carrie for saying what needs to be said. I should invite you to all my arguments with Marti.”

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Special Friday Post — THE CHALICE WAR: SWORD Teaser!!

The Chalice War: Sword will be published on August 4, one week from today, and so as you did last week, you get to enjoy a lengthy excerpt from the book, another teaser to whet your appetite for the third book in my Celtic urban fantasy trilogy! Have fun!!The Chalice War trilogy, by David B. Coe

***

The Chalice War: Sword, by David B. CoeHanging out with magical beings, Kel had decided some time ago, reminded her of being in middle school and trying to keep up with her cool, athletic friends. She was always lagging behind, struggling to do at all what her friends could do with ease.

The wall protecting the Knowth heritage site had to be eight feet high, and while she had little doubt Marti and Carrie would scale it with little effort, Kel didn’t think she could get over it. And she wondered what Carrie intended to do with her fearsome conduit. Kel was a cat person. Dingos—even reformed Dingos like Orla—terrified her.

They stood in silence for some time as the sky darkened and crickets serenaded them. No one passed them on the walking path, not so late in the evening. They were alone. For now.

Marti checked the clock on her phone for the tenth or twelfth time since Riann’s departure. Carrie whispered something to the dog and kissed its massive head.

Kel eyed the wall. “I’m never going to make it over.”

“I didn’t realize you’d tried already,” Marti said, her tone breezy.

Being Marti’s conduit was a bit like living with the world’s worst life coach. Encouragement through snark.

“I’m not a climber,” she said. “I don’t like heights. This surprises you?”

Kel had struggled with anxiety of one sort or another for most of her life. She really didn’t like heights. Or brushes with authority. Or the mere thought of treating with ghosts or undead spirits or whatever the hell this guy Lugh was.

She was learning to control the worst symptoms of her anxiety disorder. Coming to terms over the past year with the fact that she possessed power, that she not only could become a conduit for a Sidhe sorcerer but could make a material difference in a magical battle for the future of her world and the protection of humanity, had allowed her to confront her mental health issues as never before. The truth was, Marti had been enormously helpful in this regard, bolstering her self-esteem as they trained together to increase her capacity to fuel the Sidhe’s spells. But there was no real cure for general anxiety disorder or panic disorder, both of which afflicted her. She could control her anxieties, but not banish them entirely. And climbing stone walls? Dodging security in sacred Celtic landmarks? Still not for her.

“When was the last time you tried to climb anything?” Marti asked. “I’ve never seen you do it. And since in my experience everything you try to do you succeed at, I’m going to assume you can climb. That is, until you prove me wrong.”

Okay, maybe not such a bad life coach.

“I have no idea how we’re going to get Orla over,” Carrie said in her rich Australian accent. “She really doesn’t climb.”

Marti regarded the dog and then the wall. “It would help things quite a bit if you could develop a talent for levitation magic.”

Carrie grinned. “Yes, so I’ve gathered. I’m working on it.”

“Will she stay here if you climb over?”

“I expect so. But obviously I won’t have access to her power.”

“You shouldn’t need it. But we will need every pair of eyes on the grounds.” Marti glanced at her phone again. “Riann should be in position by now, and I don’t want to wait any longer.”

Marti climbed over first, leaving Carrie to help Kel up. Kel surprised herself, as Marti had known she would. Carrie offered to boost her, but the problem wasn’t physical—she could get herself over. The problem was psychological. And as it happened, she got over that, too. Within moments she had pulled herself up, swung her legs over, and climbed down the other side. Seconds later, Carrie dropped down beside her, silent and solid.

Orla gave a low whine from the other side, and the women winced.

“I hope she quiets down,” Carrie whispered.

Marti scanned the grounds. “Let’s make this quick in case she doesn’t.”

They set out through a fringe of forest before emerging into a shorn field. As soon as they were in the open, Kel stopped again, frozen and struck dumb by the scene before her. The moon hung just over the eastern horizon, orange and full and so huge she could barely comprehend it, as if the gods had dragged it closer to the earth just for this night. Beyond the first field and a second smaller one, stood several huge, grass-covered mounds. The central one was the largest by far, but all of them pulsed with power, carrying within them the weight of centuries. A light wind stirred the grasses, and the gossamer touch of moonlight made them glow as though lit from within.

Carrie and Marti had halted, too.

“Holy shit,” Carrie said, breathless, speaking for all of them. Wind touched the woman’s short, dark hair, and moonlight accented her high cheekbones, her square, handsome features.

Usually, even in a place like this, Marti would have tried to lighten the mood with a joke of some sort. Not this night.

“Let’s get this done,” was all she said.

They strode on, covering the distance to the huge central mound in awed silence. Marti made her way to a gravel trail that led to the top of the mound, but Kel and Carrie paused to examine the huge stones encircling the base of each grass structure. All were carved with ancient symbols and runes. Again, Kel was struck by the nearly oppressive force of history in this place, by the raw power that seemed to flow from the ground beneath them.

“Come on,” Marti called from the path. She glanced around, a frown creasing her brow. “I don’t want to be here when it’s fully dark.”

“Moon like that,” Carrie said, tipping her head eastward, “it won’t be dark tonight.”

“You know what I mean.”

They joined her on the trail and together they climbed the mound. By the time they reached the top and the ruins of the structures that once stood there, Kel was winded. Even Carrie was breathing hard, her cheeks pink.

Kel turned a full circle, taking in the vista, and stopping when she faced that incredible moon. “Are you sure this is where we’re supposed to be?”

Marti gazed eastward. “As opposed to . . . ?”

“I don’t know. The tomb, or one of the smaller mounds.”

Marti shoved her hands in her jean pockets, another gust of wind ruffling her hair. “Honestly, no. I’m not sure of anything. But I think this is all hallowed ground. If we summon him here, he’ll come here.”

“Will he be able to see us?” Carrie asked. “We’re still spelled, right?”
 “We should be. As to what he can see—” Marti’s shrug was eloquent. “Let’s find out.”

Marti set her feet, still facing the moon, and Carrie and Kel backed away from her, positioning themselves so that the three of them were equal points on a triangle. Marti raised her arms, tipped her face toward the moon, and closed her eyes. She looked beautiful, as always, but small atop the mound, with the Irish countryside stretching away in every direction.

“Lugh, Shining One, bearer of the Spear, bane of Baelor, I summon thee. Awake from your slumber, venture forth from your resting place, join me on this holy ground. I seek counsel, I foreswear trickery, I swear allegiance to your ancient cause. Heed my call and come!”

Her voice sounded weak amid the wind and whispering grass. Kel had heard her call for gods and ancients in the past; this summons, she thought, lacked power and reach. She hoped this was just a function of their location, and not some indication of what would result.

Carrie sidled closer to Kel. “I’ve seen Riann summon gods and living spirits but never a ghost. Will this summons work the same way?”

Kel regarded Marti, who stood motionless, her arms held high, her eyes closed. “Marti seems to think so,” she said, her voice low. “She didn’t draw on my power at all. It had better work, because I don’t think she knows any other way to get Lugh’s attention.”

They shared a pointed glance before Carrie reassumed her spot in the triangle. Still nothing happened — no change in the wind or the light, no sounds other than the susurration of the grass. Carrie and Kel shared another glance, and Carrie quirked an eyebrow. Kel shook her head.

Voices drew their gazes to the site entrance. Two uniformed security men entered the grounds, watchful and grim-faced. Kel didn’t think they were armed; back in the States they would be, but not here. Still, she and Carrie followed the men with their gazes as they circled the grounds and then climbed to the top of the same mound. Closer up, she could see that one of the men was older, sandy hair generously sprinkled with silver. The younger man was tall and brawny but clearly less sure of himself. They walked around the ruins, passing within just a few feet of the three women. Marti remained as she had been, oblivious, rapt in supplication. Carrie appeared as nervous as the younger guard.

As the two men completed their orbit of the top, a glowing figure appeared before Marti.

Carrie let out a small gasp. Kel managed to check herself before doing the same. Marti opened her eyes and lowered her arms. She eyed the gleaming man, then cast wary glances at the guards.

The man—the wraith?—was tall and lean, clad in a tunic of mail and dun cloth leggings. His hair, a pale, reddish gold, flowed to his shoulders; his face was chiseled and lean. He was, frankly, completely gorgeous. His eyes burned bright, like embers in a fire. And he held a spear loosely in his right hand. The Spear, Kel realized, her mouth going dry. The Spear of Lugh, which was said to make armies invincible. A sword hung from the other side of his belt, as did a slingshot; she wondered why he would need any weapons besides the Spear.

At first, the guards didn’t seem to notice him, and they started back down the gravel path off the mound. But as they walked away, the younger man glanced back.

“Holy shit!”

Both men stopped. The young guard pointed at the ghost, his hand shaking.

“You see that, right?”

The older man nodded.

Lugh leered and gripped the spear with both hands, brandishing it threateningly.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” the older guard said. Both of them hurried away. They peered back repeatedly, and Lugh stepped to the edge of the ruins, where he could be seen from below. Sooner than Kel would have thought possible, the guards were out the main gate. She heard car doors slam, the rev of an engine, and the squeal of tires.

Lugh rounded on them, still grinning. “That was fun!” His voice was higher than Kel expected, his brogue nearly impenetrable, his words thin and stretched, as though they came from a great distance. “What can I do for you lasses?” He sauntered toward Kel, his brilliant gaze raking over her boldly and lingering on her breasts.

Her cheeks burned. Of course, the one exquisite man who preferred her to Marti was three thousand years dead.

“We need your help,” Marti said.

He continued to ogle Kel. “So I gathered.”

“The Fomhoire have Nuadu’s Sword.”

At that, he whirled. “What?”

“I take it we have your attention now.”

“How did this happen? Who gave it to them?”

“No one gave it to them. They took it. They’ve been opening portals from the Underrealm, attacking us where we’re weakest. The wars you fought never really ended, and now they have the advantage.”

“The Spear is safe?”

“For the moment.”

“Where is it?”

Marti shook her head. “I have no idea. Which is as it should be.”

“What of the Stone and the Cauldron?”

“They’re safe but only just. Lives were lost protecting them.”

“You know where they are?”

“I do. I won’t tell you.”

The warrior hesitated, nodded. “Yes. Very well.” He pivoted back to Kel, his expression less lustful but every bit as intense as it had been earlier. He opened his free hand, lifted and dropped his broad shoulders. “What is there that I can do for you? I cannot fight.” He regarded with a scowl the glowing spear in his hand. “This . . . thing . . . is no more substantial than I am. It is useless. One might argue that I am as well.”

“You’re not useless at all,” Marti said. “You could be incredibly important to our people. Again. You’ve defeated Baelor once, and more to the point, you are a creature of both the mounds and the Underrealm. You are both Sidhe and Fomhoire.”

The warrior rounded on her. “That is a lie!” His voice shook the ground on which they stood. He pounded the butt of his spear on the dirt, and the earth trembled a second time.

Carrie and Kel shared another anxious look. Marti appeared unconcerned. Wind lifted her raven hair, and moonlight made her face almost as luminous as Lugh’s.

“You done with the tantrum? Or do you want to fuss a bit more?”

“I am of the Tuatha Dé Danann! The Fomorians and I are enemies sworn! I am Lugh of the Long Arm! Wielder of the Spear! Slayer of Baelor!”

“Baelor lives. He slumbers most of the time, but he lives. What’s more, I’d guess you knew that already. So what is this really about?”

He lifted his chin and glowered. “Release me!” To Kel he said, “I wish we had more time, you and I. But your companion is as rude as she is brazen. If all she brings are insults and lies and accusations, I will not treat with her further.”

“Shall I summon Buach, or Nás, or Deichtine, or one of your other wives?” Marti said. “Shall I ask them what they know of your heritage? Shall I summon your Fomhoire mother?”

His glare deepened, but he hunched his shoulders, saying nothing.

“Don’t you see?” Marti said. She might have been speaking to a sulky child. “This is why we need you. This is what makes you so valuable to us. We’re going to retrieve the Sword, and we need to know how to get into the Underrealm. You can help us with that.”

“It would be madness for a Sidhe to enter the Underrealm. You will be found before you can walk a hundred paces. They will torture you for a millennium, kill you for the pleasure of it, and dance around your corpses drinking demon whisky.” He glared at each of them, daring them to argue.

“I’m not Sidhe,” Carrie said mildly. “I’m Fomhoire. Like you, I gather. And I’m the one going down there.”

He pressed his lips into a hard line.

“We didn’t come here to accuse you of anything or to besmirch your name or even to coerce you into helping us.” Marti walked a few paces, planting herself in his line of sight. “We came to ask your help. You’re the greatest of Sidhe heroes, and it really doesn’t matter to me who your parents were. You possess knowledge that we need. And I summoned you hoping you would share it with us. I honestly had no idea you would react as you did when I mentioned your Fomhoire heritage.”

“It is my shame.” He kept his voice so low that at first Kel didn’t understand what he’d said.

Marti shook her head and smiled. “It is not. You’re still celebrated in Sidhe history, in the history of all Ireland. None speak of this as a cause for shame. Please believe me. Us.” She nodded encouragement to Kel.

“She’s right,” Kel said. “Since I became a conduit, I’ve read many histories of the Tuatha Dé Danann. In all of them, you’re described as a hero, as the hero of the Sidhe.”

The warrior straightened. He even managed a faint smile. “My thanks.” He eyed Carrie again. “I would not have thought you a Fomorian.”

“Because I have two eyes, you mean?”

“Because you are beautiful.”

Her cheeks pinked. “Well . . . trust me, I am. At least enough that I can enter the Underrealm, retrieve the Sword, and come back here. But we need to know how and where to create a portal.”
 “You will need to go to Toraigh, to the Dún Bhaloir at the very east end of the isle.”

“Toraigh,” Marti repeated. “Tory Island.”

Lugh nodded. “Aye, just so.”

“And the place there—”

“Dún Bhaloir.”

Kel pulled out her phone and typed in the name. Seeing what her search produced she looked up at Carrie and then at Marti. “Baelor’s Fortress.”

“Aye,” he said again. “What is left of it. For the Fomorians, it is the most powerful place in your world. If you cannot open a pathway to the Underrealm from there, you cannot do it at all. You should be there on the night of the new moon. That is when you are most likely to succeed. Use torches—none of your modern contraptions. And bring food.”

Kel and her companions exchanged glances.

“Because we’ll need to make an offering?” Carrie asked.

“No. Because food in the Underrealm is disgusting. They are demons. They do not eat as we do.” He frowned again. “Did.”

“All right,” Marti said, her tone unnaturally bright. “Is there anything else we need to know?”

The ghost nodded, grave again. “Cichol’s lair in the Underrealm is a maze of stone and shadow, and it is well-guarded. Souls are lost there, bewildered for all time by the labyrinth or killed by demons. Even your Fomorian here will need a guide.”

“Are you offering to accompany her?”

“I am not. I cannot. I can only manifest in certain places, none of which can be found in the Underrealm. No, you will need another to guide you.”

For several seconds, none of them spoke. Until at last Marti ran a rigid hand through her hair and said, “Well, crap.”

 

 

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Professional Wednesday: The Last Book of a Series

The Chalice War: Sword, by David B. CoeA week and a half from today, on Friday, August 4, The Chalice War: Sword, the final book in my Celtic urban fantasy trilogy, will be released by Bell Bridge Books. (The first two books, The Chalice War: Stone and The Chalice War: Cauldron, are already out and available. If you haven’t already gotten them, please consider doing so. And if you have read them, please consider leaving reviews at your favorite book sites.)

I won’t bother telling you that I’m excited for this release (though I really am). The fact is, I get excited for every new release (but especially this one — really!). Even after so many published books (Sword will be my 30th) the thrill remains much the same. And there is something extra special about the concluding book in a series. A couple of weeks ago, near the end of my “Beginnings, Middles, and Endings” feature, I wrote about the things we want to accomplish with the final chapters of our novels, including bringing our story to a satisfying and thrilling culmination, completing our character arcs, and tying up our remaining loose ends. We want to do this with any novel, but to state the obvious, it is absolutely crucial to nail the ending of a final book in a series.

The Chalice War: Stone, by David B. CoeThe premise of The Chalice War trilogy is fairly simple. The four treasures of the Sidhe — the Stone of Fal, the Spear of Lugh, the Daghda’s Cauldron, and the Sword of Nuadu — are chalices of magic. As long as they remain in this world, the Above, the Sidhe sorcerers living in our midst can continue to protect our world. But the Fomhoire, masters of the demon Underrealm, seek to take the chalices from our world into the Below, and if they succeed, magic will cease to exist in our world and demons will overrun the face of the earth.

The first two books are set entirely in the Above — our world — where Sidhe sorcerers do battle with Fomhoire demons to protect two of the chalices (the titles give away which ones). But I wanted to do something different with the third book. And honestly, for a long time, I didn’t know what exactly that would look like.

The Chalice War: Cauldron, by David B. CoeYou see, I wrote the first iteration of book one, Stone, more than a decade ago, when I was in a lull in my career and was looking for something to write for the fun of it. I loved that first draft, but it needed work, and around the time I finished it, I signed my first Thieftaker contract, putting an end to the aforementioned lull. I started work on the second book, Cauldron, about seven years ago, hit a wall, put it away, came back to it four years later and finished it. Now, usually when I write a series, I know as I begin book one how the last book will end. Not with this series, because when I wrote that first book, I was playing around. I had no idea what it would become. So even after I finished the second book, I still wasn’t sure what to do with the series, because I had no idea how to write the third book without making it simply a repeat of one of the first two.

Except that’s not quite true. Early in the series, I reveal that the Fomhoire have already succeeded in stealing one of the chalices. The Sword of Nuadu is already in the Underrealm; the future of our world is poised on the edge of a blade. So, naturally, book 3 had to be about a journey into the Underrealm, the demon world, to steal back the lost sword.

But the idea of this intimidated me. I had no idea what the demon realm was like. I had no idea how to write such a book. So, I put books 1 and 2 back in a drawer, and I wrote the Radiants books, which was fun and great. I LOVE those books.

But the Chalice books haunted me. And the challenges of that third book called to me. I needed to create the demon realm, making it believable and tangible and rich and compelling, but also menacing enough to carry its share of the plot. I needed to have an exciting, engaging second plot line set in our world so that the characters who don’t go to the Below are still busy with Important Stuff. And, as mentioned earlier, I needed to nail the ending, to hit all the right emotional notes while tying off every one of my plot threads from the three books.

No pressure.

The fact is, not knowing what to write is an impediment to starting a project. But perceiving challenges? Seeing in a potential novel tasks that are going to force me to grow as a storyteller? That right there is incentive. And once I started working on the third novel, once I overcame that sense of intimidation, the book flowed quite easily. The result, in my biased opinion, is a strong, successful conclusion to what I believe is one of my best series yet. I hope you agree.

I posted a teaser last Friday, and will post another one this Friday. I hope you enjoy all three books. Thank you, as always, for your support of my work!

Keep writing!!The Chalice War trilogy, by David B. Coe

Bell Bridge Books, Belle Books, Blogging, D.B. Jackson, David B. Coe, The Chalice War, The Chalice War: Sword, Writing

Special Friday Post — THE CHALICE WAR: SWORD Teaser!

The Chalice War: Sword, by David B. CoeThe Chalice War: Sword will be published on August 4, two weeks from today! And so today, and again next week, you get to enjoy a couple of lengthy excerpts, teasers to whet your appetite for the third book in my Celtic urban fantasy trilogy! Have fun!!

***

Brilk’s home stood on a headland overlooking the river. It wasn’t a large structure, but it was more than he needed. As the day fires began their long dimming, he paused on the walkway to his front door, savoring the view, the colors in his garden, the flutter of bats around his chimney. He liked having so much space. Another reason to dread the impending takeover of the Sidhe world. With the diminution of his influence would come a reduction in his pay. How could he hope to find such a fine home in the Above?

He had skills, talents; he had authority and he knew how to wield it, as he had proven again today. All of this would be worthless in the Above. There was talk of leaving some behind, of maintaining the Fomorian realm even after the Sidhe were defeated and the God had his vengeance, but that was no more enticing than life Above. He didn’t wish to be relegated to a lesser world. Why couldn’t everything simply stay as it was? Why did Baelor have to pursue this foolish fixation with the Sidhe world?

Brilk gave a small gasp and turned a complete circle, abruptly uncertain as to whether he had merely thought that last or spoken it aloud. He saw no one nearby, though his neighbor, Mrs. Clatch slanted a glance his way as she watered her dahlias. He smiled weakly, raised a hand in greeting, and hurried into the house.

Once inside, he breathed easier. He also double-bolted his door. After depositing his briefcase in his office, he poured himself a generous glass of whisky and retreated to his den, where he could enjoy the view and not think about what Mrs. Clatch might have heard.

He sat, put his feet up, closed his eyes. This had been a good day. Not the day he anticipated, but the best days never were. He had faced a challenge and prevailed, as was his wont. Whatever the future might hold—for the Great One, for the Fomorian people, for Brilk—he would face it with a firm belief in his own abilities and intellect. For now, that would have to be enough.

He sipped his whisky, tried to get comfortable in his chair.

A noise from the front of the house made Brilk open his eyes, sit up, listen.

He heard it again. A footstep. Perhaps several. He set his glass on the table beside him and stood, trying to keep silent. His heart hammered, which was ridiculous. He was a Fachan. His kind were fearsome in battle. He recalled the tales his father told of his great-uncle Uvar, whose heroism during the Sluagh Uprising of 3457 saved countless lives. Brilk would face down this intruder, whoever it might be. Woe to those who dared to enter his home without his leave.

Or he could remain where he was, make not a sound, and hope the intruder kept to the other half of the house. Most of the good stuff was there anyway.

What if they didn’t come to steal? What if it’s a minion of Baelor, here to mete out punishment for traitorous thoughts?

Many Fomorians, he knew, displayed on their walls ancient swords and pikes and axes, mementos from the great wars fought by their forebears. Brilk had always preferred art. Right now, this struck him as a particularly poor choice.

“Hello?” A voice from the common room. A female voice. “Anyone at home?”

How threatening could a female be?

Quite, actually. He’d once seen a Fideal rip the arms off an Urisk to win a battle tournament.

He thought he heard a second voice, also female.

“I’m sure he’s here.”

“Maybe he’s hiding from us.”

“Maybe he’s seen you dance. That would scare anyone.”

Curiosity got the better of him. If the arrival of these females presaged his doom, so be it. He would not hide.

“I’m here,” he said, raising his voice so it carried through the house. “Come in and do your worst, if that’s your intent.”

More footsteps, now growing near. A moment later, three of them entered his den.

“Honey,” said the middle one, “if we wanted to do our worst, we wouldn’t need your permission.”

The Chalice War trilogy, by David B. Coe

They were Fachan, like him, and yet nothing like him at all. These might have been the most exquisite creatures he had ever seen. The one who had spoken had fiery red hair and a large eye the color of dew-kissed grass. She was—there was no other way to put it—voluptuous, and her clothes accented her broad shoulders, the round perfection of her breast. The two who flanked her were stunning as well. Brown hair, eyes of sapphire. They were taller than their companion, but every bit as desirable.

“Who are you?” he managed to ask, his voice unsteady.

The redhead approached him, placing one foot before the other so her hips swayed. Brilk swallowed.

“We’re friends, honey.”

“We. Come. In. Peace,” one of the others said, enunciating each word.

The redhead glared back at her. “He understands you fine, Nellie. You don’t have to talk to him like he’s hard of hearing.”

“Well, I don’t know.” This second Fachan held out a hand in front of her eye. “I can’t get used to seeing this way. I can’t tell what’s where and which things are closer.” To Brilk she said, “How do you do it?”

“Um . . . .”

“Don’t worry about her,” said the redhead, commanding his attention again. “We want to talk to you. We need your help.”

“I still don’t know who you are.”

She looked back at the third one, who shrugged in response to whatever she saw on Red’s face. The more Brilk watched and listened to them, the more convinced he became that they were sisters. The two with brown hair could have been twins, and the redhead resembled them.

“Is there a place you can sit down, honey?” she asked.

“I’m not sure I want to invite you to sit until I understand why you’re here.”

“Not us. You. We prefer to stand.”

“I’ll say,” the third one added. “I can’t imagine sitting in this dress. I’d bend at the waist and boom! Out I’d pop.”

Brilk felt his cheeks warm.

“More fun for you than me, doll.”

The three of them stared and Brilk stared back.

“A chair?” Red prompted.

“Ah! Yes.” He grabbed the nearest chair from his dining table and sat.

Red began to orbit, tracing a finger across his shoulders as she passed. He nearly sighed aloud.

“Have you ever heard of the Morrigan?” she asked.

Brilk didn’t move. Obviously he knew of the Morrigan. How could anyone not? But he sensed that any answer to her question invited peril. Her implication was both clear and incomprehensible.

These three were the Morrigan? The Battle Furies? Impossible. Though it would explain their ability to enter his home as they had, through locked doors and bolted windows. And the Furies were said to be a trinity: Macha, the eldest and most powerful, Badbh and Nemain, her twin sisters. They were also said to be hags, ancient and withered, hideous and terrifying. These three were none of those things. Nor had they appeared to him in their true forms, Macha as a great horse, the twins as ravens.

“Honey?” Red said, setting her fist on a cocked hip. She seemed to be losing patience with him. Not good, if these three were truly the Morrigan.

“Maybe he doesn’t hear so well,” said the second Fachan. “You should try talking loud and slow like I did before.”

“He heard us just fine.”

“You claim to be the Morrigan?” Brilk said. “I would see proof.”

“Really?” the third demanded, steel in her tone. “We tell you we’re the Furies, and your response is to suggest we’re lying? Not smart, demon.”

Brilk wet his lips and stared at the floor. Perhaps she was right.

“Calm down,” the first one said to her fellow Fury. “Think like a Fachan for a minute. Would you believe us? Wouldn’t you want proof?”

“I squeezed into this damn dress for him. I’m not going full-on raven for him, too.”

“We don’t have to. Look at me, honey.”

Reluctantly, he lifted his gaze to Red, and his mouth fell open. She wasn’t Fachan anymore. She was human, or maybe Sidhe. Two eyes, two . . . bosoms. He could only assume she would be considered as glorious in the Above now as she had appeared to him seconds before. He understood that for her purposes, and his, the transformation itself was what mattered.

He flung himself out of his chair and prostrated himself before her, before them.

“That’s more like it,” said the third.

“No, it’s not. Get up.”

Brilk wasn’t sure he ought to.

“It’s okay. Get up. Sit in that . . . that comfortable-looking chair, and tell me about yourself.”

He pushed himself up to his knees. At her nod of encouragement, he climbed back onto the chair. The other two appeared bored.

“What’s your name?” Red asked.

“Brilk, Your Highness . . . Great One . . . I don’t know what to call you.”

“If he’d seen our act, he wouldn’t call you ‘Great One,’” said the third sister.

Red glowered, the expression even more intimidating in her Above form. She turned to Brilk again and favored him with a smile. “You can call me ‘Goddess.’ Would you like me to go back to being Fachan?”

“Y-yes, Goddess. Thank you.”

With a sweep of her hand and a ripple in her appearance, she assumed again her earlier, more pleasing form.

“Better?”

He nodded.

“I’m Macha.” She indicated the second and third sisters. “This is Nemain, and this is Badbh. My sisters and I are here for a reason. We believe you can help us and, by doing so, help yourself. You’d like to help us, wouldn’t you?”

“Can we move this along, please?” Badbh asked. “We have a rehearsal, and it’s going to take me a least half an hour to shower off the Fachan stink.”

Macha closed her eye briefly, then focused on Brilk again. “Would you like to help us, Brilk?”

“I’ll do anything I can, Goddess. But I’m hardly in a position—”

“No false modesty now. You have influence, authority, skills. You’re more important than you would have us believe.”

His cheeks burned again, and he fought to keep a smile from his lips. He couldn’t deny that her words swelled his heart. The Morrigan knew of him. They thought him important, a significant figure in Fomorian society. The Goddesses had come to him for help.

“I suppose I have some small influence among my peers.”

Badbh rolled her eye. Nemain examined her nails. Macha, though, brightened at his response.

“Of course you do. Now, I want you to answer a question for me, and I want you to be honest. What do you think of Baelor’s attempts to take over the Sidhe world?”

The heat in his face vanished, leaving him chilled and terrified. He felt as though his soul had been laid bare, as if the Great One himself had flayed the skin from his body, leaving only muscle and bone, blood and viscera. He couldn’t hide. He couldn’t answer. He could hardly breathe.

“I think you broke him,” Badbh said, leaning closer, studying his face. “Seriously. He’s totally wigging out.”

“Brilk—”

“Please, Goddess,” he whispered, dropping off the chair to his knees. “Don’t make me answer. I beg you.”

Nemain’s brow furrowed above the bright blue eye. “Awww! He’s kind of cute when he begs.”

“No one can hear you but us,” Macha said. “You have my word. You’re under our protection. Not even Baelor can reach you right now. He can’t hear or see or know what you’re thinking or saying. Now, answer the question.”

“I dare not.”

Badbh stepped closer so she was shoulder to shoulder with her sister. She gestured and Nemain hurried forward to stand with them.

“You need to ask yourself, doll,” the third fury said, “who is the greater threat: Baelor in his palace, leagues and leagues away, or the three of us, standing right here, holding your life in our hands.”

He looked to Macha, but she merely quirked her eyebrow, this once appearing in no mood to temper her sister’s remark.

“He hears all,” he said, breathing the words. “He knows all.”

“Oh, good lord, he does not,” Badbh said. “None of us do. We wouldn’t have known to come here if not for your stupid diary, which you left open, and which we found while searching—”

Macha put a hand on her arm. “Enough. But she’s right, honey. He doesn’t know all. Omniscience is a convenient myth for beings like us. But really there’s no such thing. Now, I’ve shared a little secret with you, and I need you to return the favor. So, answer the question, or risk trying our patience.” Her tone hardened as she said this last.

He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“I . . . I am not as enthusiastic as some Fomorians I know.” He grimaced, expecting to be struck dead by a bolt of lightning or crushed by some giant unseen fist. When he wasn’t, he relaxed fractionally.

“‘Not as enthusiastic,’” Macha repeated, her voice flat. “It goes a little deeper than that, doesn’t it?”

“I . . . I suppose. We’re quite comfortable now, aren’t we? And we have worked hard to become so. My family—we’ve helped to build an agricultural paradise in the Below.”

“I think maybe ‘paradise’ is a bit much, don’t you?”
 Macha slapped Badbh’s arm, earning a scowl.

“And so you would rather live here?” Macha said.

“I don’t want to see this all go to waste. And . . . .” He dropped his gaze. “And, I don’t wish to see my influence diminished. I matter here. I’m a figure of some importance. Not a lot. I don’t deceive myself in that regard. But I have a fine home, a position of responsibility, a decent wage. In the Above, I would be . . . no one.”

“We understand, don’t we?”

Badbh nodded. Nemain looked doubtful, but when Macha scowled her way, she pasted a smile on her lips and said, “Sure we do.”

“The question is, what can we do about it? All of us, working together.”

He couldn’t bring himself to speak. He didn’t want to hear more, but neither did he wish to incur the wrath of these three. Somehow, through no fault of his own, he had drawn the attention of powers beyond his reckoning. What had he done to deserve such a fate?

Badbh had already answered this question. He had written—

“Wait, you read my diary?”

Badbh leered. “Welcome to the conversation.”