u/Small-Sample3916

Been a while since I had this thing formally up, so giving it another shot. :-)

Blurb:

SHEPHERD OF THE DEAD is a​ dark, literary fantasy; 2 person ​PoV, standalone with series potential. SHEPHERD will resonate with the readers who loved Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir and Nettle and Bone by T. Kingfisher.

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Themes explored: otherness through biology and cultural context​, the cost of grief, life​ choices dictated by the circumstances, whether people can build a working relationship on a foundation of lies and magical coersion.

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Red loves her best friend Niko—whose attention is the only thing keeping her human. Too bad he doesn’t appreciate her gifts, with or without the limbs attached.

When a collapsing portal spits out a solo mage, Red and Niko’s escort job gets strange. Serick can’t flick a fireball, collects a discreet tail of​ undead, and is getting way too cozy with Niko. And how dare he practice his wicked neck-romantic sorcery on Red herself?

Stranded in dubious company, Serick is on a vital mission to preserve his dying branch of necromancy. That, just like his current false identity, can surely be sorted out by sensible people in Ferncrest… if he does not get skinned by his colleagues first. Red is lively as a lark and practicing on the living is not done.

Ferncrest is two weeks away. T​here are no sensible people in sight.

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Chapter 1

Red

I chirp with excitement, because life on this sodden trail just went and got interesting.

“—Red?”

The hump-backed black thing, not much bigger than a child, is crouching over a pile of overturned earth, the customary pokey stick in one paw. Its round ears flick towards us as it registers the sound of our movement on the wooded slope; only then does it turn its squirrely face to our company. Fifty feet, maybe closer.

Gremlin.

Halting mid-pace, I finish the step ever so slowly, coming down on the ball of the foot with exaggerated care. My knees give way into a micro-bend just as my boot touches down, and I am beginning to smile because it really is a gremlin. We haven’t been lucky enough to see one on the way to the Gap these past few times even though I looked, looked plenty. Meeting one now is just wonderful, just the bee’s knees.

“Red!” Niko calls again and bites off Mother’s name. “Hey. It’s not time for that yet. That’s just one. One is almost none.”

I hear his heavy steps rapidly closing in. Of course he would say that. He often says that, and then excuses it as looking out for myself. The hand of my dearest is heavy on my shoulder, fingers digging in, and that is alright, because the smell of the gremlins is in my nose now; it is the musky undertone to the fresh rain-soaked hills. My bottomless joy.

“One is almost none, girl. Keep off. Red. Red?”

I sink into a crouch, feeling the rhythm of blood in my ears, coiling tighter and tighter upon myself as I work my way out of the travel pack’s irrelevant straps.

“Don’t you do this to me again,” groans my Niko.

“Why are we stopping?” asks his Elizabeth from three steps behind, because she is clueless nine days out of ten.

The sourwood is blooming, and the rain is raining, and that gremlin is mine. These are the facts of life. I stare at the gremlin and the gremlin stares at me with its pink, watery eyes. It knows me, because of course it does, they all do.

Its maw opens, producing my favorite word.

“Hweet?”

I make a happy-sunny sound, because that word is my word—always has been. Niko’s tightening grasp could be a hundred miles away, as is the thud of my discarded pack. He is talking more, low, urgent, and absolutely uninteresting.

A second hunched shape joins the first, then the third one pokes its nose out of the brush…

“Hweet!”

The trio rounds and bolts, and it’s too much, because that’s just so, so many more than “none”. I uncoil and spring, leaving Niko’s heartfelt expletives and his mage’s confused questions behind.

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The gremlins take me to their warren, of course they do. I know to let them get a running start so they can lead me right into their beautiful home. Over logs and behind bushes, over-under-around rocks, through a million spiderwebs. Away from Niko and the rest, who cares about those, those are no fun, no fun at all.

The opening of the tunnel is a snug little hole, cozy as can be, just the right fit for me. Off go the boots and down I crawl with delighted abandon, to a place where I belong. It doesn’t take long to catch up to the first squirming sweetie, and then life becomes simple.

I abandon the twitching take and slither down, skimming the walls with elbows-knees so as to not miss any sudden side tunnels. The knife’s out, no room to swing a sword just yet. Folks say it’s supposed to be pitch-black here but it never is. There’s a vague half-light on the ceiling or around the corner, just enough to see what I need to see.

The ceiling hangs real close at first, and I go on the tips of fingers and toes, slinky-stretchy, flowing on all fours. When in the all-warren, you gotta do as the gremlins do. The tunnels are intersecting corkscrews, worm holes drilled to the very heart of the earth. The only thing you need to know to get around is… what? I dunno. Nothing much.

An all-warren is all one, and it is as simple as an egg. As tricky, too—things here wait to see what you do. So when I hit the mounds of rotting garbage, I hug the wall tight, keeping an eye out for the big ones, those big-clawed moles of the deep.

Under the garbage and the big ones are more open spaces, where the warren’s big pink is tucked away into her downy nest, a wobbling mass of flesh ringed by squirming pups. I wouldn’t dream of raising a hand against such; run the other way as quick as can be, calling out a “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” for disturbing her important work.

No big pinks means no littles, and no littles means no fun.

Snaring a wayward little, I drag the faintly squirming critter to the swell in the tunnel, to the last upwardly slanted stretch. Here are two-three-four, piled on the sticky floor. Still warm, pretty bits, best toys you’ll ever meet. A good haul for the best warren creeper.

I mantle over the gathered pile, picking and choosing, feeling with fingers, toes, nose the prettiest bits. Niko needs a gift, he always does; he is waiting, always waiting out there, on the edge of light.

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Completion level: 8 betas finished through the various iterations; 4 drafts.

Fair warning: Shepherd ​will not have the ​bullet points with the complete character descriptions and ​the plot in the first page. It is not a fast paced, action forward commercial fantasy. It is morally gray.

It is also ​my dandelion on Pratchett's grave, though the humor is more on the dry side.

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Timeframe: I'd like to do another round of querying on this thing in the fall, so basically the summer months. ​

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Swap: Can do ​other literary fiction, with the caveat that the swap request PM lists the themes your manuscript is tackling.

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Type of feedback requested: what bits snag, what bits leave you confused, especially at the front end. Any stray typos. ​E​n​ough people binged this ​at the tail end ​​for me ​to be comfortable with the underlying ​structure of the thing.