Welcome to author Matthew J. Metzger! He’s joining us today to celebrate the upcoming release of his latest novel, Walking on Water, from NineStar Press. I’m so excited to share this exclusive excerpt with you—it’s a dramatic high point of the novel—so enjoy!
About the Book
Title: Walking on Water
Author: Matthew J. Metzger
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: November 13, 2017
Genre: Fantasy, Romance
Word Count: 80,000/Pages: 276
Identities: bisexual, transgender
Blurb: When a cloud falls to earth, Calla sets out to find what lies beyond the sky. Father says there’s nothing, but Calla knows better. Something killed that cloud; someone brought it down.
Raised on legends of fabled skymen, Calla never expected them to be real, much less save one from drowning—and lose her heart to him. Who are the men who walk on water? And how can such strange creatures be so beautiful?
Infatuated and intrigued, Calla rises out of her world in pursuit of a skyman who doesn’t even speak her language. Above the waves lies more than princes and politics. Above the sky awaits the discovery of who Calla was always meant to be. But what if it also means never going home again?
Pre-order Walking on Water: NineStar Press || Amazon || Barnes & Noble || iBooks || Kobo
The Excerpt
THE FIRST SHOT came some two hours after they had sailed.
The king’s ships had come together again, forming a great line between their home and their aggressors. The enemy had echoed the action, their iceberg banners now visible and clear to the naked eye—yet still too far. Naval warfare was a close thing, acted out in bloody clashes and bursts of action separated by thousand-yard threats and endless waiting. Until the whites of their eyes could be seen, the Vogel would be ineffective.
But the first shot rang out all the same. A distant boom, a puff of smoke, and a great splash some two hundred yards before them. The sound of drums ghosted after it. The hustle of men aboard the enemy ships gathered together, and the men upon Janez’s own snarled like dogs. A warning.
And the first ships—their sisters, shouting in their tongue above all others—kissed.
It was an explosion of action and noise. Smoke billowed from decks. Shrill screams followed every crack and boom of the great guns. A sail was torn asunder; a mast buckled dangerously. A dark shape—flailing, a man—fell from a railing, and was lost. Great splinters burst like seed heads from hulls.
And the Vogel inched nearer, ever nearer.
Yet Janez saw the panic in the faces of the men as the first ships began to engage, and the Vogel began to turn to starboard. He saw their uncertainty. He saw their hesitance that could swiftly turn shy, and he drew his sword. A great fleet, indeed, but they had defeated greater. A warning of death, to be sure, but they had all been warned before. And what, in the end, was death? Merely to sleep. To have peace from the world at last, where no enemy could be found.
The coolness of courage settled upon his soul, and he raised the sword aloft.
“For the king!”
The men took up the cry and echoed with one great voice. And then they saw the whites of the enemy’s eyes.
“At the ready!” the captain boomed.
The man rallied.
Janez took a breath.
And— Another man’s whites. Another. And another. The Vogel’s great sweep to her starboard brought her into line with a ship under an iceberg flag, and the captain roared the order.
“Fire!”
The explosion was deafening. The guns bellowed, one after another after another down the line. Their battle partner was raked, and raked them in return. Their sisters answered—and then the men rolled the guns back in and fired anew.
It was hot and smoky work. The acrid stench coated the air. By the fourth round, the enemy could not be seen but for the flashes of lights about her decks as she fired. Blind, they battled. Deafened, they fought on. Senseless and stupid, they warred by muscle memory and sheer luck alone, praying for their respective gods to save them.
Yet they had fought enough that the men knew the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. Their foe fired with great accuracy—for every flash, great splinters burst from their masts and railings. For every boom, great holes were torn in their sails. The deck was slippery with blood under Janez’s boots.
But she had no great engineers, and her ships were weak-hulled. The men aimed their returning fire low, concentrating on sinking her rather than slaughter. They would not defeat her by strength of numbers, but by the strength of the sea. She would be felled through her belly, and only there. They survived if they sank her, and all her vile sisters, and only then.
It seemed an age and a mere moment. Janez slipped amongst the guns, issuing orders, replacing lost boys where he could, dragging the wounded below where they might stand hope. It was a lifetime, and a second. His shoulder was torn open by a splinter the length of his arm. A lucky escape brought a fourteen-pounder ball within inches of his face, its heat melting a clump of his hair like butter in the sun.
He breathed death and fire and carried on. He slipped in other men’s lives and continued. He heard them fall and die about him, and pressed through. Cheered with the gunners when their enemy was finally breached and began to take water. Bellowed with the officers to bring the ship about, and renew their efforts on her sisters. Here was no prince. Merely a man, desperately clinging to his own survival. There was no arranged marriage. No miserable future. No war in the home—only this war, in his heart and lungs and head. He could fight his best, and die all the same.
Nothing stood in his way, but fate.
And then—
It came so suddenly that for a moment, he simply wondered.
Wondered why the men were dragging him to the deck, and shouting over one another at his side. Wondered why Held had left the spot he’d ordered him to occupy, and was clutching at his hand and arm. Wondered why he could hear that musical language that Held spoke as his birth-tongue, with no stuttering attempts to make Janez understand.
Janez wondered.
He’d heard the great boom of a gun, and the deck had rocked beneath his feet, but what was the matter? This was a ship in the midst of a battle. Had they not all felt it so?
Someone—someone was crying his name.
And then he felt the bite of rope about his knee, tight and hard, and looked down.
Oh.
About the Author
Matthew J. Metzger is an asexual, transgender author dragged up in the wet and windy British Isles. He writes queer characters living all manner of lives, but especially likes to write the stories from the pub, the beautiful game, and the terraces where he lives and works today. Although mainly a contemporary romance writer, Matthew has recently been found straying out of his zone and playing in other genres’ sandboxes.
When not writing, Matthew is usually at his day job, working out, or asleep. He is owned by an enormous black cat, so should generally be approached with either extreme caution, or treats.
He can be primarily found on Twitter and Facebook or over at his website, and is always happy to hear from readers.
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