The Wilusiad Sample Excerpts
Now that you've seen a little about the Wilusiad, I thought it was about time you were able to read a little of it. I've selected the four samples below, all spoiler free, but they hopefully give you a tanalising taste of what you can expect from the book as a whole. If you like what you see, please follow the links below to pre-order your copy now!
Samples:
Agamemnon as imagined by Sarah Milteer
Agamemnon's Vow, Chapter 5
Port of Aulis, Off the Eastern Coast of Akhaea:
It is over.
Smoke from the pyre filled Agamemnon’s face and set his eyes to streaming whilst the thought recurred.
It is over.
Done. A memory. Unpleasant, to be sure, but finished and no more to be dwelt on.
Mighty Agamemnon, Sacker of Cities, Wanax of Mykenae and Overlord of the Akhaeans has more productive uses for his time.
Agamemnon’s eyes betrayed him and slid back to the flames. A slim shape stood stark black amongst the fiery tongues that lit up the Western sky.
His rage smouldered. That pillar of charcoal had once been Princess Iphianassa of Mykenae, daughter to Agamemnon, Lord of Akhaea; now her throat was slit and her body burned for the pleasure of the Immortals like that of any common slave girl. Even the wind seemed to mock him. His red cloak may stream out behind him, but that rendered him impressive only if you ignored the sparks billowing into his face. When they threatened to ignite his silver-speckled beard, Agamemnon turned away with a curse.
He glared around his men. Everywhere his glower met averted eyes or servants too engrossed in preparations for the voyage to look up.
His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the fleet, now so large the ships threatened to overfill the bay. The red flash of a cloak like his own identified his idiot brother Menelaos, scratching into the wax of a writing board in full view of the men as if he were a common scribe.
Was he doing the same whilst his wife snuck away with her pretty foreign swain?
The knowledge that Agamemnon was not alone in wondering this (he’d been forced to execute several veterans for voicing similar thoughts) fanned his rage anew.
Next to Menelaos stood Odysseus and Idomeneus. Piratical snakes the pair of them, Wanakes of small Kingdoms they were ever of a mind to make larger. This expedition had baulked those ambitions, but like snakes trapped under a forked stick they were looking to wriggle free. Moreover, Idomeneus’s honeyed oaths couldn’t hide the fact that his niece Andromache was wife to Wilusa’s heir. But for all their self-interest, Idomeneus and Odysseus had the fate of their Kingdoms to consider, which was more than could be said for many in this company.
Agamemnon turned to the Myrmidons, men dispossessed and dangerous, now drilling on the beach under the watchful eye of their latest champion, Akhilles Piyamaridu. The man’s hair shone almost as bright under the flickering torchlight as the royal armour that encased him from nose to knee. He was once heir to the Kingdom of Thessaly; indeed, had his father not been such a fool, the boy would even now be Wanax of Wilusa itself.
As if aware of Agamemnon’s thoughts, Akhilles’s blonde head turned. A pair of surprisingly dark eyes met Agamemnon’s. Was that a smirk Agamemnon detected as the mercenary’s glance flickered towards the pyre?
Can better be expected from one of the boy’s pedigree?
Agamemnon ground his teeth. The whelp was nothing but the son of an Asiatic adventurer lucky enough to marry his way to an Akhaean throne, only to get himself killed by an enraged mob after one sun-scorched harvest too many. Not that Thessaly had been any great prize; indeed its people had more in common with the marauders that plagued its northern borders than with civilised Akhaeans.
Agamemnon jumped at a crash from behind him. What remained of his daughter had slipped from its stake and collapsed into the blaze. His rage swelled as he fought to smother a cloud of sparks that landed in his beard. Then, to his relief, a messenger coughed discreetly beside his shoulder. The time to sail was at hand.
Agamemnon, Sacker of Cities, Wanax of Mykenae and Overlord of all the Akhaeans, gave the man a wordless nod before turning back to the flames.
“Lady of the Winds and Lord of the Sea, Immortals both, hear me. I, Agamemnon, Lord of all the Akhaeans, make you this promise. All the royal daughters, mothers and wives of Wilusa I consecrate as your sacrifice. Let the honour of my house be avenged by the blood of those who dared to offer it insult.”
Agamemnon swung away from the smouldering pyre to his honour guard, who stood ready to escort him aboard the flagship. He marched down the cliff path, rigid as if he were inspecting his troops before the Lion’s Gate back home whilst other men fought to keep their footing. Once at the harbour, he mounted the jetty. His men raised their eyes from ropes, crates and all the preparations for war. Agamemnon froze. The rigging creaked as the ocean swelled under the vessel’s hulls. Everywhere, cloaks and loose canvases flapped in the wind. The men made no sound.
When their Lord drew his sword, the red-cloaked men of Agamemnon’s honour guard followed suit, crashing them as one into the bronze discs of their shields.
The silence splintered. Marching to the metallic rhythm, Agamemnon processed up the gangplank, turning to face the army just before stepping onto his flagship. Sweeping the huge company lining the shore with a burning glare, the High King of Akhaea raised his sword high and bellowed.
“On to Wilusa!”
Agamemnon as imagined by Sarah Milteer
Kassanda of Wilusa, as imagined by Sarah Milteer
The Scrying Game, Chapter 6
Kassanda’s conscience quailed at Wilusa’s likely fate should her actions stir Appaliunas’s wrath. She flicked at a chestnut curl that escaped from under the cylindrical cap every royal lady wore under her veil, then took out Laiku’s ebony writing board and tore at the scrap of linen tying it closed with hands that shook.
When the boards fell open, they revealed a layer of beeswax onto which Laiku had scratched the High Priest’s greetings. Kassanda skimmed it but concentrated upon a strip of bark tucked against the wax.
Laiku is a resourceful one.
As Andromache had promised, scrawled in charcoal across its surface was a chant of blinding. Kassanda fought an urge to throw the thing into the brazier coals that glowed as close to the bed as its fleece hangings would permit, then swallowed hard. This incantation may be blasphemy, but it was also vital, for it promised to turn divine eyes away from the caster and all their works.
She stared at the bark strip, the words upon it searing themselves into her soul. Guilt knotting her insides, she pulled the wooden shutters framing her chamber window closed. She took a breath, then filled the bronze bowl she stowed on a small table underneath with rainwater from the nearby pitcher.
Too many ill omens fly about Wilusa to expect her traditions alone to keep her safe.
Kassanda pulled the silver jar gifted to her by the High Priest before the Royal Feast from the wooden chest in the corner. She wrinkled her nose at the now familiar stench that clung to it, ice filling her chest. She closed her eyes, then began the spell Laiku had brought her.
What is Wilusa if her traditions are set at naught?
The smell intensified when Kassanda opened her eyes, unstoppered the bottle and emptied it into the bowl. Tendrils of purple dye curled around themselves in the clear water, blooming and spreading until the whole surface darkened.
It is time.
Laiku’s blinding chant delved so deep into Wilusa’s old tongue that even Kassanda hesitated, but she hadn’t spent her childhood studying the language of the divines for nothing. She completed the incantation and pulled at the pins that secured her hat, veil and hair as the spell demanded. Chestnut curls tumbled down her shoulders and face, surrounding the bowl as she gazed into the dark mixture.
The water sat quiet, already stygian to Kassanda’s eyes. She leaned in, fighting against a parched mouth to speak the words that fused it to the underworld, inviting the dead to come forth. The surface remained smooth as obsidian.
Part of Kassanda longed to turn away, pretend this blasphemous experiment had never taken place, but her memory of sea-cleaving ships filled with ahhiyawan warriors drove her to grit her teeth and start the summoning anew.
Ripples formed in the water, then banded together. A central bubble bent and elongated into an aquiline nose not dissimilar to Kassanda’s own, whilst on either side of it two thin waves formed into eyes. The face of an old man came together.
“Who? Where?” The voice gusted through Kassanda’s chamber. Her heart froze, but she continued her chant to the end. If she lost control now, who knew what spirits might force their way through even this small portal into Wilusa. Another face formed, a woman this time, who shoved the first to one side, crushing its cheek against the rim of the bowl.
“In my wine? Couldn’t marshal the guts to slit his own wife’s throat; he had to resort to poison?” she hissed.
“Where is my son? I saw him but now . . . Where?” The first face pushed back, carving itself half a bowl’s worth of space.
“Please, I need your help.” Kassanda glanced towards the chamber door.
“What can the living need from the dead?” A third face bubbled up between the two.
“I need the truth of what is to come. I must know what dangers Wilusa is facing and . . .”
The laughter of all three chimed from the bowl, then the female face surged, its teeth bared. The bowl rocked, threatening to spill its waters into this world.
Kassanda’s breath came in gasps. She grabbed at a pouch dangling from her belt and tipped it into the snarling face, pouring a cascade of salt into its eyes. The shade screamed, then collapsed into the purple water.
“My own wine!” it moaned before sinking back to the underworld. Another face, round, female, pushed its way into her place.
“How could they tell me it would go otherwise? What fool would not fear a tenth childbed in her forty-third summer?”
“Please,” Kassanda sobbed in frustration. “I need to know. What of the Ahhiyawans? Will they take Wilusa? Does Piyamaridu’s heir also sail to reclaim our city?”
“Piyamaridu is gone; I saw to that.” The male face that first answered her summons forced itself to the centre of the bowl. Kassanda made out the imprint of thin curls wisping about a mostly bald pate. She gasped. Her family revered this man as their founder, but he had gone to the depths when Kassanda was still with her wet nurse.
“But what of his son? Grandfather, how do we defeat him if he has the might of Ahhiyya at his back?” Kassanda pressed, her heart racing.
“He’s gone; the emperor saw to that. I saw to that.”
“I know of the past, but what of the future?”
“What would the dead know of the future? You need the fates for that.” The female shoved back, flattening Kassanda’s grandfather against the side of the bowl like a dough man. “The fates, or their man - the Gulzanziti, only him . . .”
The female face dissolved, replaced by one that looked less like a spirit than a reflection anyone might cast in a pool. The new face was that of a man with a long face, brown eyes that rounded in wonder as they stared into her own. Kassanda’s heart leapt in triumph.
“Gulzanziti?”
Another surge, the man’s face splintered as Kassanda’s grandfather whooshed upwards, his face hovering inches from her own. She forced herself not to flinch despite her every nerve screaming in shock.
“Where is my son? Where is Priya-muwa?” the dead man demanded.
“He’s in the Palace, Grandfather. He’s the King now.”
A slash opened through the face’s eyes. Its mouth gaped, but no sound emerged, just a fountain of water dark as curdled blood.
Kassanda staggered back, scattering salt in all directions. Purple water splattered across the painted flowers of the floor tiles. She gasped at the golden light that permeated the back of her mind and pulsed in confusion. The Sunlord’s bafflement awakened a rage that threatened to rise like the dawn as the blinding spell grew thin.
Dashing the last of her salt into the roiling waters, Kassanda garbled the incantation of closing, sealing off the underworld and all spirits trapped within.
Kassanda of Wilusa, as imagined by Sarah Milteer