Today I am delighted to have a slice of cake with author Samuel Z Jones, author of The Riflewomen's Regiment series of books.
What kind of books do you write?
A genre-free elevator pitch?
Generational war has wiped out 90% of the male population, leaving women to rebuild the ruins of a pre-industrial society. The Riflewomen’s Regiment is among the most powerful factions, forming the backbone military of the new Realm, closely allied to the Paladin government.
A generation in, the gender balance has started to naturally correct. A new society arises, with new challenges. The war-torn wilderness gradually returns to tilled farmland and safe highways. The Paladin government are idealists, wedded to utopian notions of building a future society that they themselves will never see and cannot even describe. The Regiment are pragmatists, securing their influence and political clout long into the future. Other factions push for the restoration of the old monarchies, or for the establishment of a new nobility.
Meanwhile, a cabal of immortals wage a secret war across time involving dragons, wizards, monsters, and a ship from the future trapped in a perpetual loop.
Can you describe your writing why?
“I am in ink steeped so far, to turn back were as hard as to go on.”
I’ve been doing this for... fifteen years now? I honestly don’t know how to stop.
Share with us your favourite passage from the book you enjoyed writing the most
I could not begin to even consider which book was the best to write... They don’t happen in a linear fashion. They happen in batches of half a dozen all being written together over years, it’d be impossible to separate all the works in progress that way.
After long consideration though, I can share a popular prologue from a work in progress, which illustrates my style, the themes of the story and summarizes the setting at a hit (see below).
High in the western mountains of Kellia, Anayis Fel dwelt in a cave alone. She had no fire, and almost no possessions: sturdy boots, plain black jacket and trousers, two long knives thrust through the belt, a few things in her pockets and a rifle propped near at hand, were all she owned.
Even so, she did not feel the cold. Born to the icy wastes of Kellia, she sat cross-legged in her cave, eyes closed and hands composed in Dacoit mudra. Even in meditation, the set of her face remained stern as the cold land she called home. Otherwise, she would have been quite beautiful; white-blonde hair cut savagely short, ivory pale skin and aristocratic features, marred only by a small tribal tattoo on her left cheek.
Her mind was far away, roving the mountains and the wide wastes. Anayis was mildly surprised therefore when she sensed the presence of a visitor at her door. Few could come to Anayis' hermitude without her sensing them from afar; fewer still would have ever been seen alive again, or even known what had killed them. Even the inhuman Mordu who haunted the mountains further south, the terror of mortal men, avoided Anayis Fel.
She did not open her eyes nor cease her meditations; the presence of the stranger was as a tree reflected in a still pool, a mere feature of the landscape.
“Depart from me,” Anayis said, calmly.
“I apologise for disturbing you.” The voice was not quite human, speaking Kellion with a strange accent. “I heard rumours of a great mistress of combat, dwelling alone in the mountains.”
Anayis opened her eyes at last. Her midnight stare revealed that her visitor was a Hrin, one of the feline people from the deepest south. Hrinori wanderers were rare: Even among their own people, it was considered madness for any Hrin to leave their paradisal islands to explore the world. Anayis had never seen one before, only heard of them.
The Hrin traveller, what she could see of him, was furry; white and black stripes decorated his face and hands like warpaint. He wore heavy winter clothes, fur-lined and padded, but of a foreign style that Anayis had never seen before, a riot of bright colours and complex embroidery. The bag on his shoulder was equally garish, and he leant upon a long staff festooned with bright pennants.
He smiled, baring feline fangs but still achieving warmth and greeting. Anayis' face remained impassive, her stare unblinking. The Hrin sat down at the threshold of her cave, folding his legs beneath him to match her cross-legged pose.
“I am Kor The Far Wandering,” he began, “but I have been told by those who had heard of you that it is perilous to speak your name...”
“Those you spoke to did not know my name.”
“Among my people, it is the custom to give new names to new friends. If I were to presume so much, I would call you...”
“Know me by my own name and no other,” Anayis replied, the first edge of emotion entering her voice. “I am Anayis Fel.”
“In my language,” Wandering said, unruffled, “that translates almost directly to 'Perilous Name'. Thus shall I know you.”
“Speak swiftly or know me better hereafter. Why have you found me?”
“Mistress Anayis, in my long wandering from the islands where I was born, I came to the ancient homeland of my people, where every skill of mind and hand is considered art, and venerated so. Highest of all they cherish the art of combat, and this is their sole sport when all other work is done. They invite to their land all masters of the arts, exchanging their knowledge for new learning. So I am come, with other travellers, seeking this fabled plateau of mighty warriors. You are the first that I have found.”
The ghost of a smile twitched Anayis' lips, but she withheld whatever had inspired her amusement, and questioned her visitor instead: “There are others with you?”
“Not here; to the south. I parted from them to find you. Will you join me to seek them out again?”
“Whither do they go?”
“To the castle of him that is called the Lord Protector; this name I understand, by the customs of my people...” he paused, marking that Anayis' smirk had become silent laughter. He stood up when she did, moving back as she advanced from the cave. Outside, the bitter wind of the high mountains tore at their clothes and snatched at their voices.
“You have bought your life, Kor The Far Wandering,” Anayis said, “for it is death to seek me out. But I will go with you, and see the outcome of your folly: It can only be the will of Dacoi that you have found me here.”
What is your favourite cake?
Is lemon meringue a cake?
Find out more about Samuel's Riflewomen books here:
Gunpowder Rouge: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1914174003
The Baron Moruna: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1914174011
The Guns of Fort Jiar: www.amazon.co.uk/dp/191417402X
Smashwords: www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/37954
Join me next week when I will be having a slice of cake with Suzie Tullett.
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Claire Buss is a multi-genre author and poet, completely addicted to cake. Find out more about her books on her website clairebuss.co.uk. Join the discussion in her Facebook group Buss's Book Stop. Never miss out on future posts by following me.
