The Sword of Ixchel- Chapter 1: The Offer

(NOTE: This is an excerpt from my newly released debut novel, The Sword of Ixchel, which is now available in paperback and as an e-book on Amazon)

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Chapter 1: The Offer

The day his wife was stolen would haunt Molan Apraxas until the moment of his death. It happened beneath a flawless sky, rare during the jungle rainy season. Six days of unbroken storms abruptly ceased, and the clouds peeled apart to reveal perfect blue, horizon to horizon. Molan took a break from tilling to knead his aching neck as the sun poured over his maize field. 
    Yields are down, the village lord said the day before. If things don't pick up, Molan, we may need a sacrifice. Get back in the gods’ favor.

    Molan mopped his brow with the frayed end of his pati and exhaled slowly.
   "Xuna," he called to his daughter. She glanced up from the hewn dirt and leaned on her mattock. Her lanky shadow spread across the ground between them. "Not too close to the others."
   "I understood you the last time," she huffed.
   "You're doing very well," he added, feebly. She grunted something inaudible and turned back to the work.

Molan prayed in silence. Give life to these seeds, he pleaded the gods. Let them resurrect the holy maize. He listened as Xuna’s mattock chopped moodily through the soil. And let my daughter’s roots sink deep. Help her grow tall and strong, not bent and broken like me.
    It was this precise moment when a distant scream pierced the perfect day and jolted him from his fieldwork. Seren, his wife and greatest love, was in trouble.
    “To me Xuna!” he cried, casting aside his tools. “Hurry!”
   Molan seized his daughter's hand and together they dashed for home as fast as Xuna's young legs allowed. Every terrible scenario swam through Molan’s head as they ran. There were many demons, gods and wicked men in the jungle whose attention they might draw. At last, they crested the final hill and skidded to a halt with dust eddying around them.

       Below, two enormous men surrounded their cottage door, armor and spears gleaming in that flawless sun.

          "Who are they?" said Xuna, unable to hide the tremble in her voice.

    The two warriors were tall and broad-chested. They packed the space beneath the cottage’s thatched awning. Plates of brine-soaked leather armor hung across their broad chests. They had identical, dark-teak skin knotted with muscle and long, sleek hair as black as a grackle. Each held a jade spear in one hand and a shield painted with a coiled snake in the other.

    The emblem was well known. The Kaan Dynasty.

    "Royal guards. Of Calakmul," he answered. Royal guards were only found with royalty. He squeezed his daughter's hand. "The gods will grant us courage."

    Molan eyed the twin warriors as he and Xuna approached. Up close they were huge. Wider than Molan by half and a full head taller. Their faces were identically grim and emotionless. Molan placed his hand on Xuna’s lower back and guided her between them into the cottage.

    A handsome, majestic woman occupied their family table with a cloud of warriors—twins of the two outside—hovering around her. Servant girls immediately attended to her every comfort. Molan had never imagined so many people in their tiny space.

    “Where is Seren?” he demanded. “What have you done with her?”

    "Molan Tak'aan," the woman said as she swept to her feet. The richness of her attire juxtaposed harshly against the cottage background. A jaguar-fur quechquemitl spilled from her shoulders, hems and straps embossed with jades, opals, and silver. Gold rings decorated each knuckle. Molan recognized her at once. She was Tunial Kin Mai, famed sorceress and high priestess of Calakmul, one of the two greatest cities in the realm. Molan had despised and feared her from the moment they'd met all those years before. “Do not worry about your wife. She is quite safe.”   

    "I insist to see her!"
          "Or what?" said Tunial. Her dark eyes thinned to poisonous slits. Molan couldn’t stand to look at them. She thrummed with power and he was no match for it.

    "Nothing, my lady," he growled, slumping into a defeated bow and gesturing for Xuna to do the same.

    “As I expected, Molan Tak’aan.”

  "It is just Molan, kin mai.” His back cracked painfully as he straightened upright. “I vacated those titles long ago."

    The sorceress smiled hollowly. "No need to be coy, Molan Tak'aan. We both know all about your past."

    Xuna's head tilted in his direction and Molan attempted to catch her eye. Tunial must have noticed, for she appraised his daughter for the first time and grinned, exposing a full row of gem-studded teeth.

    "The kalomte heard rumors of your offspring." She brushed the back of her hand and its many rings over Xuna's cheek.

    "Kalomte now, is it?" said Molan, steering the conversation away from Xuna. "Ka'b Hix has finally grown a spine! I wonder what the King of Tikal thinks of his rival’s self-applied title?"

    "Insulting the High King of Calakmul in front of his priestess? Your famous runaway mouth continues to sow trouble for you!” said Tunial. She restored her too-cunning smile. In a flash, she seized Xuna's chin and turned her face from side to side.

    "Has your father ever told you that he was once the prized pupil of Naranjo?" Xuna glanced again at her father from the corner of her eye. "Speak, girl!"

    "No, mother," Xuna said meekly.

    A servant gasped. "Mother" was a formal address to an older woman but inappropriate for the high priestess. A commoner could lose a head for such a blunder.

    "Your father has no honor, no courage. So afraid of the gods' judgement that he renounced his own lord, his own people, all to retire to... this?" She gestured at the dusty shack.

    “Perhaps you could get on with whatever purpose you came for,” interjected Molan. “The village lord is threatening sacrifice if we don’t meet crop quotas. I quite value my head. I need Xuna and Seren’s help if I plan to keep it attached to my spine.”

    Tunial glowered at him for a moment then nodded to one of her servants, who extended a folded swatch of red material. Molan accepted it tentatively.

    "The kalomte's oldest son has been stolen. This token was left at the scene.” After a pause she added, “Only someone very powerful could have managed the crime.”

    Molan unfolded the material and stared blankly at the woven symbol of a hawk encircled with gold runes.

    "The emblem of your dead king in Naranjo,” said Tunial. “A sigil that has been banned for what? Fifteen years?"

    "I am sure Ka'b Hix has others much smarter than me to figure out his little mystery," Molan responded. He re-folded the material and offered it back.

    "You misunderstand things, Molan Tak'aan. Ka'b Hix has passed into the Underworld. Ka'an Paktik is kalomte now."

    "Sky Witness," Molan muttered, rendering the name into the commoner dialect. Sky Witness was just a young prince when his father and the lords of Calakmul sacked Molan's home city. Young but already shrouded in infamy.

    "Kalomte Sky Witness believes you are most suited to answer this riddle. You are the only one left of the old, dead Naranjo order, after all."

    "Sky Witness is even more of a fool than people in the taverns whisper if he thinks I had something to do with this."

    "I am tired of your words, Molan Tak’aan,” she said with a bored flick of her hand. “Your choice is to follow his orders or watch pain fall on everyone around you." She stepped closer until their noses were almost touching. She smelled sweet, like spices and cacao. "Produce the kalomte's heir or your wife will suffer. That is Sky Witness’s offer."

    Molan swallowed. For a long moment, silence hung heavy in the air. He wanted to resist but couldn’t risk harm coming to Seren or Xuna. Or himself.

    "Tell the boy king I will do what I can," he growled in defeat.

    Tunial grinned. “I knew King Sky Witness could count on you.” She nodded to her guards, and the troupe filed neatly from the room leaving only her sweet lingering scent as evidence they’d been there at all.

(Buy me a coffee: view this novel on Amazon, available as an e-book for only $3.99)

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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions 

This is It, I'm a Published Author, I Guess...

Well, it happened. My first novel, The Sword of Ixchel, as of midnight last night, has been published. It is now available on Amazon… 

It’s a historical fantasy; a coming-of-age tale of swords, gods and sorcery set during the time of the ancient Mayans. The tale explores the myths and history of the Mayans though the eyes of a father and daughter, simple farmers swept into an adventure they didn’t want, as they venture across the Mesoamerican landscape. 

A (Very) Long Time Coming

It was seven and half years ago that I put the first words on the page. At the time, I wrote the original rough draft in just over three weeks, record speed (for me anyway). I felt so inspired, so solid with my idea, that it felt almost like I wasn't creating the story, simply channeling it from the ether. This was not my first attempt at writing a novel. In fact, the very first time I wrote a novel all the way through a completed rough draft was in 2007. Later, feverishly pursuing this dream, I received a degree in creative writing in 2011 from Colorado Mesa University. I've attempted several other novels since. But there was something about this book, the way it was spilling out of me, that made me think this was the one. It had to be. 

Years passed. I plowed through many draft cycles. It was fun at first, but eventually it grew tedious. Life got complicated. We moved to a new state. We bought a house, then another. We had a baby girl. Sometimes the book would sit in its little corner of my hard drive forgotten for months. 

In 2021, four and half years after "finishing" that rough draft, I decided it was finally ready and began the process of querying literary agents. This method, known in the writing world as "traditional publishing" is still the only way to see your work published by a major publishing house. But after dozens, then nearly a hundred, such queries, the best responses I received were a few form-letter rejections, each an echo of the one previous: "We're sorry but at this time... yadda yadda." It was crushing. And after I had queried almost every reputable agent in the fantasy genre and failed, my dream of becoming a publishing fiction novelist, a dream I'd held for fourteen years, essentially died.

Then, on New Year's Eve 2023, I made a resolution that I was going to "publish my novel or else," even if it had to be self-published. It killed me that all that work would go to waste. If only my friends and family would ever see it, that was okay. At least somebody would read it. I spent another eight months poring through yet another draft cycle, designing the layout and the cover, and uploading it onto Amazon Kindle Direct.  

Do I think it is perfect? No. Could I have kept working on it and improving it? Of course. I'm pretty certain I will always find something to change. But as famous photographer/content creator Peter McKinnon (and many others) likes to say, "done is better than perfect." At some point you have to let go and move on, for better or worse. 

Now this novel is done but definitely not perfect. I think I'm okay with that....

On the Dubious Nature of Self Publishing

There is something dubious about self-publishing. You could, after all, type the letter “z” a few hundred thousand times, upload it onto Amazon and call yourself a published author. That a book full of ZZZ's would literally put someone to sleep is another matter. My point is there is no guarantee of quality with self-publishing, and there are a lot of self-published books that feel more like drafts still needing polishing. While I've worked hard to produce quality work that I can feel proud of, there's a distinct possibility that many of you might feel like this book is unpolished or perhaps even just plain bad.

When I tried the traditional method of publishing, I discovered several harsh truths about fiction writing: only about one in 10,000 manuscripts are ever accepted, and timing and trends are everything. In other words, being merely a “good” writer isn’t even close to enough. You have to be the top 99.99%. And beyond that, not only do you have to be the best of the best of the best, but you have to have impeccable, conceptual timing with literary trends in the eyes of the 100 or so gatekeepers that are the (reputable) literary agents in your genre. Simply put, you could have the right book at the wrong time and fail.

Well, It's Done Now and I'm Scared....

There is something unnerving about putting a work of this magnitude into the world. What if people don't like it? What if it comes across as boring, tedious, poorly developed? Will I feel like a failure? Will it make me want to quit writing forever? It's an intensely vulnerable feeling to hand this baby off, this work that represents so many hours, years actually, of hard work and uses every bit of brain power and skills I spent almost two decades developing. And if it is feebly received, will I be able to handle the criticism? 

The hard truth is that I have to accept these possible realities. The "nothing ventured, nothing gained" adage rings accurate. And even if the novel doesn't break the "friends and family 50" curse (that the only people who buy your book are the 50 friends and family members who buy it mostly because they care about you), I can take pride that I undertook this massive effort and saw it all the way to it's conclusion.

Finally, the Sales Plug

Anyway, I am proud of this work. It may not be flawless, but I believed in it for years and it makes me happy to send it forth into the world. The Kindle e-book is available for $3.99, a price akin to buying me a cup of coffee, and the print version is available for $12.99. Personally, I recommend the print book. In my eyes, that is how it was meant to be consumed. 

For those that believed in me from the beginning and read early excerpts and drafts, your support means the world. And for those that might continue to support me in the future, you also are what keeps that creative flame inside me burning. You are the best. 

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If you enjoyed this post, consider signing up for my mailing list. If you do sign up, you will get a once-a-week update on my posts (if there are any) and NOTHING ELSE! No spam, no selling your email to third parties. Okay, if I ever get around to publishing one of these works in progress that are constantly haunting me, I might send out an email letting you know. In the meantime thanks for reading!

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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions