Seven Princes (64 page)
Authors: John R. Fultz
Who/what would you consider to be your influences?
I could write a whole book answering this question, but I’ll try to contain myself. Lord Dunsany was perhaps the inventor of the modern fantasy tale. His work never ceases to inspire me, and his novel
The King of Elfland’s Daughter
is an immortal classic. His gift for speaking with clever metaphor and concise imagery is stunning, even a hundred years later. Fantasy writers should study his works the way classical composers study Mozart and Bartók. I’m also a big Robert E. Howard and H. P. Lovecraft fan, but Clark Ashton Smith is my favorite of the old-school
Weird Tales
writers. In my opinion Smith invented the whole dark fantasy genre. He had the lost cities, the sorcerers, the creatures from beyond space and time, the mummies, the vampires, the decadent dying empires of Zothique, and the primordial ooze of Hyperborea. As an eleven-year-old I remember discovering Smith’s work in some anthology (probably one of Lin Carter’s Ballantine adult fantasy series), and seeking him out in every new and used bookstore I could find. In the 1990s I was thrilled when Necronomicon Press released the
Book of Zothique
and the
Book of Hyperborea
. Both are wellsprings of sheer inspiration that I turn to again and again, just like the Dunsany stories.
Tanith Lee is also one of my biggest influences, no doubt about it. Her Tales of the Flat Earth are my favorite, but the Secret Books of Venus, the
Secret Books of Paradys
, and the
Lionwolf trilogy are also up there. Everything she writes is brilliant and inspiring. Reading Lee’s work is like drinking fine wine… you get to savor every well-crafted sentence and soak up the dark beauty that only she can invoke. She is amazing.
Anyone who knows me knows how passionate I am for the work of Darrell Schweitzer, especially his
Mask of the Sorcerer
novel, but also his hundreds of amazing short stories. He’s often considered a “stylist” who produces a Dunsany-like effect in his best tales, and that can be very true. But he’s also a bit of a surrealist in his inventive approach to sorcery and magic… I’d call him a metaphysical fantasist. Any single one of his story collections is worth its weight in platinum.
In the past ten years I’ve been drawn wholeheartedly to the work of A. A. Attanasio (his Arthor series), R. Scott Bakker (his Prince of Nothing series), and George R. R. Martin. Martin set a new bar for deep characterization, one that brings readers and characters closer than most other writers are able. Thomas Ligotti is also an all-time favorite of mine—the greatest living horror writer for my money—even though he doesn’t write much anymore. His stuff is pure weird perfection.
I’ll only mention two more authors, both of whom are science fiction icons: Robert Silverberg, whose book
Worlds of Wonder
helped set me on the writing path way back in college (circa 1989)—
Nightwings
is one of my all-time favorite novels; and William Gibson, whose work taught me economy of language and brevity of style. His prose is the epitome of coolness. I’m still amazed at how much detail Gibson packs into a scene with so few words. And his tightly woven plots are superb. The Sprawl and Bridge trilogies are my favorites.
There are
many
other authors whose praises I could sing, but these are probably the most central to my own experience. My favorite Tolkien book is
The Silmarillion
.
Do you have a favorite character? If so, why?
Wow, asking me if I have a favorite character in
Seven Princes
is like asking a father of twelve if he has a favorite child: Hard to answer! I have a particular affinity for Vireon, I suppose. He is the young warrior, supernaturally gifted, who charges head-first into vengeance with no idea what that really means and how it will change him. Without giving anything away, his growth across the first book (and beyond) is something I enjoy chronicling. Vireon also has a special bond with Nature, so there’s something very pure about the character.
I also have a real soft spot for Sharadza, who is perhaps the heart of the book—its female lead. She is headstrong and determined, especially in her pursuit of sorcery and her desperate desire to save her doomed father. She is also the conscience of the book… the one who tries the hardest to prevent the atrocity of war. She is the youngest, but in some ways she is the wisest. Like Vireon, she often dives in with good intentions and goes beyond her depth.
Then there’s Iardu the Shaper, an ancient sorcerer who has spent thousands of years subtly (and unsubtly) molding the world into a vision that has grown unclear even to him. I like writing Iardu because he is the font of all things ancient, mysterious, and magical. Yet he’s not the only sorcerer character in the book, and more sorcerers arise as the series continues. Iardu is there, sometimes behind the scenes, sometimes right in the middle of the action, pulling strings and weaving the fates of Men and their kingdoms. He is a
storyteller. He knows far more than he ever admits, though sometimes his cosmic wisdom spills out. There’s a lot to love about this character—has he given up on the human race, or can the fires of his ambition be rekindled? That’s part of the story that fascinates me and, I hope, will fascinate the readers. Each book in the series will reveal more about the Shaper and his role in historic and current events. Some see Iardu as a benevolent shepherd, while others see him as a scheming manipulator. Both are probably true because people are complicated. Especially ancient wizards.
When you aren’t writing, what do you like to do in your spare time?
I listen to music constantly. Mostly hard rock and blues, but I love just about everything. Huge Black Sabbath fan. I love reading (when I can find the time). I’m a huge comics fan, so I get my weekly comics fix whenever possible. Brubaker’s
Criminal
is my current favorite. I also love movies, though finding time to watch them has been a challenge lately. I play guitar, something I’ve been doing since I was fifteen. As a full-time teacher, I get most of my reading/watching done in the summer… which is also when I get most of my writing done. I also love going to see live music—I’m hitting the Soundgarden reunion tour in SanFran this July, then heading down to Southern Cal to see Kyuss and The Sword in early October. My biggest musical goal right now is to see the Black Keys perform live—I will make it happen! I also blog for
www.blackgate.com
on a semi-regular basis, as well as maintaining my own blog at
http://johnrfultz.wordpress.com
.
If you enjoyed
SEVEN PRINCES,
look out for
Book Two of the Books of the Shaper
by John R. Fultz
1. Three Lives
The colors of the jungle were bloody red and midnight black.
Whispers of fog rustled the scarlet fronds, and the poison juices of orchids glistened on vine and petal. Red ferns grew in clusters about the roots of colossal carmine trees. Patches of russet moss hid the nests of sanguine vipers and coral spiders. Black shadows danced beneath a canopy of interwoven branches that denied both sun and moon. Toads dark as ravens croaked songs of death among the florid mushrooms. Clouds of hungry insects filled the air where red tigers prowled silent as dreams.
Death waited for him in the jungle. There was nothing else to find here. No refuge, no escape, no safety or comfort. This place offered none of those, only a savage end to suffering and a
blinding slip into eternity. Tong expected to die here, and he welcomed it. He would die a free man, his knees no longer bent in slavery. He ran barefoot and bleeding through the bloodshot wilderness.
Yes, he would die soon. But not yet. He would take more of their worthless lives with him. This was why he fled the scene of his first murder and entered the poison wilderness. It was not to save himself from the retribution of his oppressors. He fled so they would chase him into this scarlet realm of death. The dense jungle and its dangers gave him precious time. Time to steal the lives of the men who chased him. He would survive just long enough to kill them all; then he would give his life gladly to the jungle and its cruel mercy.
Only then would he allow himself to seek Matay in the green fields of the Deathlands.
Already he had claimed a second life, leaping from the trees like a wild ape, plunging the blade of his stolen knife into a soldier’s soft throat. The company of nine Onyx Guards had been foolish enough to sleep that first night about a small fire. They had assumed their prey would be sleeping as well, somewhere ahead of them on the crude trail Tong’s passing had created. Some had stripped the plates of black bronze from their chests, arms, and shins. They had even removed the demon-face masks that hid their humanity. For the first time in his young life, Tong saw the raw, sweat-stained faces of his oppressors, the masters of whip and spear and disemboweling blade.
Their flesh was as pale as his own, their eyes and hair the same black. As far as he could see, there was nothing that physically separated him, a slave, from these tormentors of slaves. Nothing except their actions. Far more than enough to damn them all. While the night watcher’s back was turned, Tong
pounced. His short blade ripped the life from a sleeper’s chest as his hand clamped over the dying man’s mouth. His entire weight pressed against his victim’s chest; he watched the man die slowly. When the man’s twitching eyes closed forever, Tong stole his curved saber and a bag of rations. He slipped back into the night, ignoring the winged vermin that gnawed his skin and stung at his blood-smeared hands. He ran south, toward the mountains of fire at edge of the world, making sure to leave an obvious and clumsy trail.
In the morning they found the dead soldier and followed Tong deeper into the jungle. He ran as he ate from the stolen food bag. Salted pork and dried apricots. The vegetation of the jungle was poison, as were most of the creatures who lived here. So finding anything edible was next to impossible. After days of starvation and pain, the meal sent waves of fresh energy coursing through his limbs. The fire of his hatred burned hotter, and he laughed as he leaped over a coiled viper that bared its dripping fangs at him.
O, Pitiful Gods, let them follow me
, he thought.
I will lead them all into death
.
He ran until exhaustion fell upon him like a black cloud. He slept in a hollow depression between two great tree roots, on a bed of ruddy lichen. He called Matay’s name in his sleep, and he dreamed she was near, reaching for him like she did on the day of her death. Rising from the jungle filth, he reached out and grabbed only a fistful of lichen. A colony of red ants crawled across his body, feasting on the dried blood of his lacerated skin. His chest and back were a maze of fresh welts, the work of razor-edged fronds, biting insects, and patches of sharpgrass. He uprooted a fern and used it to brush the ants from his body, wincing at the pain of beating his own wounds in such a way.
Pain was good, he decided. Pain would keep him from sleep… keep him wary… keep him ready to kill.
He climbed a tree as high as he dared, not far enough to breach the lofty canopy, but high enough to see a great distance across the leagues of crimson undergrowth. He waited there until he saw his pursuers, just at the edge of his vision, cutting their way through the jungle. They reminded him of the marching ants he had wiped away, except these black ants were far more vicious and cruel.
The upper mass of the tree’s branches rattled. A great black bird flew from its nest and burst through the canopy. A ray of orange sunlight fell through a hole the bird’s passing had made. It warmed Tong’s face and shoulders. He recalled Matay’s love of the golden sun, how she watched it sink beyond the fields every evening. Sometimes she even halted her work, forgetting the harvest as the glory of sunset burned across the sky, amber and scarlet sinking into purple. More than once her sun-gazing had drawn the whip of the Overseer. Yet it was her daily ritual to watch the sun sink beyond the walls of the black city and into the Golden Sea, where ships sailed to and from mysterious lands. Somewhere in that walled hive of barbed towers the Undying One sat on his throne of blood and tears, dreaming new tortures for his people.
Matay’s eyes saw well beyond the ramparts of oppression. She discovered freedom in the splendors of dawn and dusk.
Tong recalled the morning after their first night together. She had awoken wrapped in his arms inside the wooden shack only to slip away from him into the chill of dawn. He lay on his side on the woven sleeping mat and stared at her sleek body as she pulled on the rough-spun, colorless garment that all female slaves wore. The blackness of her hair shimmered with silver as the first rays of morning peeked through the ragged window.
“Where are you going?” he asked. “We can sleep awhile longer before the work horn blows…”
She paused before the door curtain and looked back at him with sparkling eyes. Her smile was the one she would wear in all his future memories. “I want to watch the sunrise,” she said. She held out her small hand, soft and warm. “Come with me…”
