Two younger girls—one an African warrior, one a Viking princess—turn into necessary allies in Black Shield Maiden, a brand new medieval fantasy that’s the primary in a brand new sequence from musician turned debut writer WILLOW, co-written with Jess Hendel. io9 is worked up to share a vivid first excerpt from the guide at present.

“I’m so grateful to bring the story of Black Shield Maiden to the world,” WILLOW mentioned in a press release offered to io9. “At their core, the issues we’re facing now are the same issues we’ve faced time and again throughout our history. That’s why we create new narratives, from different perspectives and even look back into history for deep wisdom that can inspire and help us evolve. My hope is that this story will do that for readers.”

Here’s a little bit extra information about Black Shield Maiden, adopted by a take a look at the quilt, revealed earlier at present by WILLOW herself. The artwork is by Josh Woods, and the design is by Scott Biel. Then, the excerpt follows; it introduces the guide’s fierce however impulsive protagonist as she learns an important lesson about selecting one’s battles.

BLACK SHIELD MAIDEN is the primary guide in an epic, medieval fantasy sequence that makes seen the histories and mythologies of medieval African peoples, and ladies of the Viking age, which have been erased by dominant Western narratives in media and schooling. Championing intersectional feminism, freedom of gender expression, and dialogue throughout cultures, BLACK SHIELD MAIDEN confronts essentially the most urgent topics of our time, and reveals a path ahead, by means of connection and neighborhood.

 BLACK SHIELD MAIDEN is the story of Yafeu, a defiant but fiercely compassionate younger warrior who’s stolen from her house within the flourishing Ghanaian Empire and thrust into the world of the Vikings. There she discovers a wierd new world of savage protect maidens, tyrannical rulers, and mysterious gods—but in addition a kindred spirit in Freydis, a Viking princess, who additionally desires the identical factor: to forge her personal destiny. With Freydis at her facet, Yafeu will alter the course of historical past—and turn into the revolutionary heroine of her personal myths.

With the frenzied shouts of bargainers and the scratch of cart-wheels on the bottom as a greeting, we enter the brick partitions of Koumbi Saleh. Kamo and Goleh race forward, kicking up mud of their wake.

Koumbi Saleh by no means ceases to encourage me with awe. I’ve been to many cities round Wagadu with Papa, and even just a few exterior the empire’s borders—however I’ve by no means seen one so splendid as Koumbi Saleh. Little marvel, provided that the Ghāna himself lives right here.

Papa as soon as instructed me that our Ghāna is the richest king of all of the kings on this planet. Looking round, it’s simple to imagine. There’s gold all over the place: carved into the picket doorways of the large stone palace, solid into sword-mounts for the Ghāna’s many sons, plaited within the hair of his daughters, embroidered within the clergymen’ robes. Not to say the safety that gold should buy: Royal troopers with gleaming swords and spears stand guard at each flip.

We cross the Ghāna’s cavernous stables on the way in which to the market sq.. Even the horses are handled like royalty, with reins of silk and comfortable furs for them to sleep on.

It units my blood on fireplace to know that horses reside in such luxurious when there are folks in Wagadu who’re struggling simply to outlive. I’ve gone to mattress with out meals myself extra nights than I can rely—and we’re among the luckier ones. At least my uncle lets us keep within the village. Those with out tribes don’t final very lengthy; they both starve or get picked up by slavers.

A small domed constructing stands out from the homes of brick and acacia that line the perimeters of the market: the “mosque” for the Muslim merchants.

I bear in mind the primary time I noticed it—the primary time I ever got here to Koumbi Saleh. It was earlier than we had settled within the village for good. I used to be younger sufficient that I needed to carry my hand above my head to carry Papa’s.

“What is that building for?” I requested him, pointing to the grey dome.

“It’s for the Muslims,” he replied. “They worship their god inside.”

“Which god?”

“Every mosque is for the same god, their Supreme Creator. The Muslims call him Allah, and they do not worship any other. They say Allah is the only true god, and that he is all-powerful.”

I couldn’t imagine it. Did the Muslims not really feel Sogbo’s may within the rumbling of thunder, within the cracking open of the sky earlier than the heaviest rains? Did they not sense Agé’s essence coursing by means of the wilderness and all of the animals that reside inside it?

I stared on the unusual constructing and contemplated the god being worshipped inside. “He must be a very busy god,” I mentioned to Papa. He laughed and knuckled my head.

The glad reminiscence brings a lump to my throat, so I lash my focus to discovering an empty plot among the many horde of stalls and carts to arrange our issues. Ampah waves goodbye and saunters off along with her mom to seek for their very own house.

After some time, a luckless potter decides to depart early and we slide into her plot. Kamo and Goleh are given the duty of discovering Fàré some water as I prepare our items on the promoting material. Mama units one other material over our heads to protect us from the violence of Lisa, now at his highest peak. I lay out Mama’s creations: her stunning beaded necklaces and a handful of stone pendants of various shapes and pigments, intricately carved within the likenesses of the gods. Beside them my daggers look rugged and uninviting.

“If anyone asks—” Mama begins, turning to me.

“I know,” I say fiercely, rolling my eyes. “Papa made these weapons. Not me.”

After we end setting every thing up, we wait for somebody to understand our creations as worthy of being coveted. Soon, three males with pores and skin the colour of sand amble towards us.

I acknowledge the headwraps, the hooded dashikis with the slit down the center of the chest, and the pointed footwear poking out from below their trousers.

Amazigh.

The Amazigh are harmful on their greatest day. They have little regard for anybody who doesn’t worship the Muslim god—and even their very own tribes are all the time at conflict with each other. Back once we traveled the desert with Papa, we took additional care to keep away from crossing their path. The desert is lawless, and people who don’t journey below the safety of the Ghāna can fall prey to Amazigh thieves and slavers, typically disguised as innocent retailers. Everyone has heard the tales: vacationers crushed to inside an inch of their lives by the Amazigh, waking solely to search out their wagons pilfered and their our bodies chained to a caravan. After what occurred to Jenne, increasingly more Soninke have began constructing their very own mosques and worshipping the one god, if solely to keep up peace with the Amazigh. The Ghāna largely appears the opposite approach, as a result of Wagadu depends on the Amazigh to convey salt from throughout the desert. Much as I need to, I can’t fault his reasoning: Gold makes a person wealthy, however salt retains him alive.

The man on the best catches my eye. He appears about my age, small and slenderly constructed in contrast together with his older and sturdier companions. His beard, in contrast to theirs, is shorn shut. As he attracts nearer, I discover with a shock that his eyes are as golden as any of the gold I’ve seen right here at present. They burn, too, like molten gold. They’re framed by thick, darkish eyebrows and a gracefully sloping nostril. Everything about him is swish, from the tufts of hair curling out from below his headwrap to the flowing actions of his limbs. Next to him, the opposite males appear to be lumbering giants.

I really feel a blush rising to my cheeks as he holds my gaze. I look to Mama, severing the connection. Her face is calm, however as they strategy, she takes a shaky breath.

“I greet you, gentlemen,” she says, smiling politely.

They say nothing, scanning our creations with furrowed brows. The burly man within the heart runs a callused hand down my throwing knife. Unlike his fine-featured companion, his face is sort of brutish, with eyes that look comically small above a big, lumpy nostril that curves to the left, prefer it’s been damaged too many instances to set straight. I battle the urge to slap his hand away.

“This one isn’t as bad as the others. Which of your boys made it?” He speaks our language with a thick, grating accent, holding the dagger as much as look at it within the solar.

I clench my jaw however say nothing. He’s solely insulting us to get a greater value.

Mama shoots me a cautious look. Kamo and Goleh are roughhousing within the dust just a few paces away, paying no thoughts to the boys at our desk.

“They are too young for such fine handicraft,” she replies easily. “My husband made it.”

The man smirks at Mama, then at me. “No wonder he sends you to the market alone. He hopes your pretty faces will make up for his lack of skill.”

A distinct form of warmth rushes to my face.

He’s haggling. He’s simply haggling.

But I see my uncle in his scornful eyes. I see Masireh within the merciless twist of his lips. And one thing inside me refuses to be hidden any longer.

“What if I told you it was me?” I say earlier than I can cease myself, wanting straight into the person’s beady eyes.

He shares a glance together with his hulking companion, and the 2 of them burst into laughter. The golden-eyed man stays silent, however I can really feel his gaze locked on my reddening face. As their laughter grows louder, a molten ball of anger varieties in my abdomen and rolls up my chest. I begin to tremble.

“Don’t be silly, little girl,” the person replies, his tone mocking.

I hear a flinty ringing between my ears, like a hammer hanging a blade. The ball of fireside in my chest breaks aside and flows down my limbs, flooding them with power.

I spot a goshawk hovering within the air behind the burly man’s head. Quick as a flash, I snatch the dagger out of his hand and hurl it into the sky. The blade skims his hair because it whizzes previous.

Wide-eyed, all three males flip to look at the fowl drop out of the sky.

Dead.

I’ve solely a second to relish their shock earlier than a hand wraps round my neck. The burly man lifts me off the bottom like a doll.

“How dare you!” he snarls. Mama lunges for me, however his companion swats her to her knees and holds her there. I cry out to her, however solely a choked gurgle comes out.

I battle to get air again into my lungs as I watch the opposite massive man ransack our items. The golden-eyed man shifts on his toes and murmurs some pressing phrases of their harsh tongue, however they each ignore him.

My eyeballs really feel like they’re bulging out of my head as I scan the sq. for assist. Everyone—from the craftsmen, to the retailers, to the beggars on the road—averts their eyes. Even the Ghāna’s troopers don’t intervene. The Amazigh are as mandatory as they’re feared, and I’m nobody value defending.

I’m nobody in any respect.

The golden-eyed man shouts and tries to pry the burly man’s arms off my neck.

Blue spots creep into the perimeters of my imaginative and prescient.

Just once I suppose I’ll by no means breathe once more, the person lets go of my neck. I drop to the bottom, gasping and sputtering.

“Let this be a lesson to you,” he says.

My imaginative and prescient returns to regular as I suck the dusty air into my lungs. Kamo and Goleh cling to Mama, crying softly. She wraps her arms round them, conserving her eyes down as the boys end stuffing their satchels. When they lastly depart, all three of my daggers and most of Mama’s necklaces and pendants are gone.

I glare after the boys with half a thoughts to go after them, to point out them what else my father taught me. But there are three of them, in opposition to me alone . . .

As if studying my ideas, the golden-eyed man appears again and catches my livid gaze. He holds it for an extended second, and for some motive the painted wolf from this morning flashes in my thoughts.

Then a gaggle of clergymen walks between us, their flowing white robes obscuring the trio of thieves.

When the group clears, they’re gone.

Excerpt from Black Shield Maiden by WILLOW and Jess Hendel, copyright © 2022 by Willow Smith. Used by permission of Del Rey, an imprint of Random House Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. All rights reserved. No a part of this excerpt could also be reproduced or reprinted with out permission in writing from the writer.

Black Shield Maiden by WILLOW and Jess Hendel can be launched October 4; you possibly can pre-order a replica here.

Wondering the place our RSS feed went? You can decide the brand new up one right here.