Enjoy this Book?.
.
.
.
Enjoy This Book?
.
.
.
.
Thank you for spending time in the world of the Lost Land. I hope you return for the next installment, Broken Oaths (and excerpt is included after this page), which will release in 2018.
If you enjoyed Birthrights, I’d be grateful if you could spend a couple minutes to leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. And don’t feel pressure tow rite a novel. A sentence of two to share your enthusiasm can do wonders to spread the word.
Also, I’d love to have you join my mailing list. I’ll keep you updated on news, specials, and will be offering subscribers exclusive access to short stories from the Lost Land and sneak peaks into future books. Sign up on my website: www.jkylemcneal.com.
Broken Oaths Excerpt
.
.
.
..
.
.
.
..
.
.
.
Broken Oaths
Excerpt
Coming 2018
.
.
.
THE ENDLESS SAND
Prior to the Allyrians’ arrival in the Land of Amon
.
.
.
.Jin crept like a shadow lengthening in the late afternoon, his arm raised, his fingers tight around a slender rod. Another step and he’d be within striking distance of the sunning lizard. He slid his foot forward, through loose sand.
Thwap! The skink dropped from the leaning, marble column, and lay twitching on the sand.
Jin snatched the stunned lizard and twisted until it snapped. It was smaller than the other two he’d caught that morning, but small was better than nothing. Nothing was what he’d eaten the two days prior to finding the buried Fei ruins.
From behind, Nevin, Jin’s younger brother, cheered. He hurried to inspect the catch, but stopped short and pointed, his other hand covering his gaping mouth. “What is that?”
Jin dropped the skink in his catch sack and turned to see what had unnerved Nevin. Several paces away, nearly hidden by a fallen arch, the ground radiated a sulfurous light. With cautious steps, he moved toward the spot. “Maybe something’s buried here,” he ventured as he edged closer, dropping to his knees beside the glow. Tentatively, as if testing the temperature of a pot handle on hot coals, Jin took a pinch of sand from the spot. The grains were no different from the countless others covering the dry landscape.
Nevin peered over his brother’s shoulder. “Maybe there’s gold.”
“Better water,” Jin chided. “We’re lost in the desert. Gold’s just more weight to carry.” He leaned forward to clear the sand with wide sweeps of his arm, building two small mounds beside the strange light. A hand’s length down, his forearm scraped against something rough. Weathered wood showed through the cracks of a faded yellow coating. As he blew away the sand, the glow intensified.
“I found something!” He plunged his hands into the loose grains and wiggled his fingers deeper until he reached an edge. Then he pulled, straining muscles weak from starvation. When the object loosed, Jin fell backward with a grunt. The wooden chest landed on his stomach and rolled off to the side.
“It could be magic,” Nevin whispered. “Something to lead us to the green land.”
Jin scoffed despite enjoying his brother’s youthful exuberance—a sharp contrast to the despondency that had taken root among the other survivors. Nevin was eight. Jin was six turns older—old enough to realize they were all doomed to die in this arid wasteland.
Rolling to the side, he pushed to his knees, taking in the half-buried columns and piles of wind-weathered stones, all that remained of the Fei city. Though he no longer believed in miracles, without one, the Tunga—his people—would leave even less of a mark on the world than the Fei. They would starve. The sand would cover their emaciated corpses. They’d be forgotten.
“But it could be magic. You don’t know.” Nevin crossed his arms, his lower lip stretched into a pout. “It could be from the gods.”
Head shaking, Jin rotated the chest to face him. He pulled it close. Unfamiliar symbols spiraled around the latch, their size diminishing with their distance from the center. “The gods.” He spit the words. The Tunga had followed their leader, the Bone Reader, into the Endless Sand based on the gods’ promise of a fertile homeland far from their persecutors. Yet unrelenting hunger had forced the exiles to eat their animals, depriving the Bone Reader both of the sacrifices he needed to curry the gods’ favor and of the carcasses he used to interpret their guidance. In the moons the Tunga had wandered, the merciless desert had claimed more lives than their persecutors had over generations.
“Just open it,” Nevin urged, weaving his fingers together in anticipation.
Jin lifted the metal latch. He raised the lid. Inside, a sphere of Fire burned on a bed of white sand. He stared into the flame, transfixed. Sacrifice—the word formed on his lips and burned into his mind as he viewed the visions in the flames.
“What is it?” Nevin asked.
When he stepped around his brother to see inside, Jin banged the lid shut and looked up.
“Your eyes. The images—” Nevin backed away, quaking. “Don’t! Please, don’t!”
.
.
The sun had reached its apex by the time Jin returned to the Fei ruins, the Bone Reader in tow. He paused at the end of a line of columns. “It’s there,” he said, pointing toward the wooden chest with a raw, pink hand, scrubbed clean with sand until the pain had numbed his guilt.
“What have you done?” the Bone Reader gasped and rushed to Nevin’s disemboweled body.
“Spoke with the gods, same as you,” Jin answered, his voice detached, his aspect distant. He knelt behind the chest. “I used Nevin in place of an animal.”
The Bone Reader whirled around to face Jin. “I’ve never—” He stopped mid-sentence when Jin raised the lid. A sphere of Fire burned on a bed of white sand. The leader of the Tunga stared, unblinking.
Jin remained squatted, holding the lid open to allow his leader to see what the Fire had revealed to him that morning—justification for what he’d done to his brother. But the visions reflected in the man’s eyes were different from those he’d seen before. “No,” he choked and slammed the lid.
Blinking, the Bone Reader looked up, his eyes blazing.
“Please! No!” Jin pleaded as he stood. He spun to flee, but in his haste, his foot slipped. He fell, landing on his knees and elbows.
The Bone Reader dove atop him.
Acknowledgements
.
.
.
.Acknowledgments
.
.
.
.I am forever indebted to the following people for their contributions to this book:
.
Marty McNeal, for being both my staunchest supporter and most trusted critic.
.
Jan, Kristen, Matt, and Bill (Jr.) for loving Whym, Quint, and the others from the very beginning…and for tolerating me. Your support and constructive criticism are much valued.
.
Bill Eleazer, for the internal illustrations that bring the words to life.
.
Niccola Thomas, for giving me your verse, the inspiration for the Dragonborn (used on page 391).
.
My early readers and critique group colleagues, whose questions and suggestions resulted in countless hours of rewriting and a much-improved final product. In particular, I’d like to thank:
.
Dr. Terry Norton and D
r. Trent Guerrero, whose critical insights proved invaluable, and whose detailed reviews went beyond what I would have ever dared to request.
.
Mark Sims, for wading through the way-too-early-to-share draft and being willing to say, “I don’t believe.”
.
Amy Powell, for liking the story enough to read it three times…and counting.
.
Jeanne Bandolina, for the many introductions and the constant encouragement.
.
The editorial and production teams who helped to bring this book to life. In particular, I would like to thank my editors, Anna McHargue, Jana Good, and Rachel Rant for the input that helped fine-tune Birthrights, Bobby Kuber, who believed so deeply in my story, Todd Carman, who kept the production process moving forward, and Aaron Snethen, whose design made my words tangible.
.
Dagmara Matuszak, for an outstanding and eye-catching (pun intended) cover and two illustrations.
.
And finally, Viki and Mia, my wife and daughter, for the delightful interruptions that kept me (mostly) sane throughout the process of creating the Lost Land.
About the Author
.
.
.
.J. KYLE McNEAL
.
Kyle grew up on the side of a mountain in Western North Carolina, far enough from neighbors that imagination was often his primary companionship. He discovered a magic there—along the winding logging trail, beside the backyard stream, and within the hidden hemlock fort—that instilled a dream to one day share that magic with the world. Thus, while meeting with recruiters during his graduation year from Georgia Tech, he answered the “five-year plan” question with his intention to write fantasy. But first, five years turned into twenty. He worked in management consulting and private equity before tackling the challenge to start and run an operation in China. Seasoned by his many travels and experiences, and eager to write full-time, he resigned his management role abroad and returned to the U.S. From his home in Fort Mill, South Carolina, he strives to merge the nuances of the real world with the magic of imagination, to weave stories that both entertain and provoke reflection.
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 47
