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thebainherald2010-01-16 11:14 am
starlady) wrote in thebainherald2010-01-16 11:14 am
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Two months until Lord Sunday!
In case anyone was wondering, Google's search-within-websites function doesn't find Facebook status updates. Despite that, however, I have extricated all the bits of Lord Sunday that Garth Nix has posted to his Facebook page since he announced the book's release...which is two months from today, 16 March 2010, in the States, and in two weeks, 1 February 2010, in Australia. \0/
In honor of which, I am not only reposting all of those same bits, as well as this link to an interview Nix did with Tor.com last November. It contains further information about Imperial Galaxy and its accompanying novel, as well as lots of Nix's thoughts on writing for various age groups and a little bit of information about his future projects.
The Australian cover, with synopsis visible, can be viewed here. (The bits below are in reverse chronological order: earliest last.)
“She lives yet, for all I know,” said Dusk. “But she was taken with the advance party to the Middle House some hours ago.”
It was a very big dragonfly. Its body was about sixty feet long, and each of its multi-part, buzzing wings was easily twice that length [...] there was something on its back, a kind of cabin or deckhouse, with stained glass windows and a roof of wooden shingles.
She screamed, but the creature simply danced across her, its hundreds of legs exerting no more pressure than a small child, though that was enough to temporarily knock the wind out of her.
It was a commonly held belief in the rest of the Army that the Moderately Honorable Artillery Company’s artillerists and engineers were always on the verge of blowing themselves up by accident and that only good luck spared them.
The heavy chatter of the turret machine gun stopped, and over the internal speaker, the driver’s panicked voice shouted, “It’s not stopping. I can’t—”
Together they tumbled through the air, the Denizen's wings thrashing wildly.
“Hmmm . . .” he said. “The large creature was grown in the Incomparable Gardens and is not precisely a Nithling, as such, but a sorcerously-manipulated native of some Secondary Realm. The smaller being is a mortal . . . not a cocigrue—”
Ominously, there was also a shaded circle drawn on the map. Centered on East Area Hospital, it was labeled INITIAL KILL ZONE and its outer circumference ran across the front of Friday’s building.
“Strike at the glimmer in their chests,” said the Reaper.
“We always get the worst jobs,” admitted the Sorcerous Supernumary. “You know what the higher ups call us? Maggots, that’s what. At least that’s what one called me once. . . .”
“They may suffer spontaneous conflagration if subject to a concentration of the Piper’s sorcery,” said Dr. Scamandros. “That is, if the sound is too close.”
“Not entirely,” said the Will. “There are several elevator positions within the Maze. Some of them are black. The one I chose is a little tarnished, and the verdigris is spreading, even in this short time.”
Her long, elegant fingers snapped with a crack that was loud as a small cannon, and several Denizens rushed forward bearing a samovar, an enamelled tea caddy, a silver teapot, and fine porcelain cups.
The next attack came from a dozen small Nithlings that had the general shape of crabs, though each had a human face upon the back of its shell. . .
But the Denizens were beginning to fight back, bolts of fire from their umbrellas sizzling across the Newniths' armor.
“When the elevator goes ping and the doors open, we rush out.” “Sounds good,” said someone. “Easy to remember.”
A Denizen wearing a one piece coverall of soft tan leather and a kind of hunting hat with a feather threw a long rope ladder down from the tail of the dragonfly.
“You know the weird stuff . . . does it involve anyone with . . . uh . . . wings?”
The tentacle reappeared as she spoke, questing around the corner. It was followed by another, and another, and then the main body of the creature rounded the corner.
“I am commonly called The Reaper, and that will suffice,” replied the Denizen.
. . . including a small wheeled artillery piece that was being pushed over by another half dozen artillerists, its bronze barrel coming into alignment with the door of the elevator.
... the now all-too perfect face, so handsome that even a beard of frost could not lessen his unearthly beauty.
“That’s one of Noon’s sets,” said the Supernumary. “We can’t touch that! Besides, I failed chess.”
In honor of which, I am not only reposting all of those same bits, as well as this link to an interview Nix did with Tor.com last November. It contains further information about Imperial Galaxy and its accompanying novel, as well as lots of Nix's thoughts on writing for various age groups and a little bit of information about his future projects.
The Australian cover, with synopsis visible, can be viewed here. (The bits below are in reverse chronological order: earliest last.)
“She lives yet, for all I know,” said Dusk. “But she was taken with the advance party to the Middle House some hours ago.”
It was a very big dragonfly. Its body was about sixty feet long, and each of its multi-part, buzzing wings was easily twice that length [...] there was something on its back, a kind of cabin or deckhouse, with stained glass windows and a roof of wooden shingles.
She screamed, but the creature simply danced across her, its hundreds of legs exerting no more pressure than a small child, though that was enough to temporarily knock the wind out of her.
It was a commonly held belief in the rest of the Army that the Moderately Honorable Artillery Company’s artillerists and engineers were always on the verge of blowing themselves up by accident and that only good luck spared them.
The heavy chatter of the turret machine gun stopped, and over the internal speaker, the driver’s panicked voice shouted, “It’s not stopping. I can’t—”
Together they tumbled through the air, the Denizen's wings thrashing wildly.
“Hmmm . . .” he said. “The large creature was grown in the Incomparable Gardens and is not precisely a Nithling, as such, but a sorcerously-manipulated native of some Secondary Realm. The smaller being is a mortal . . . not a cocigrue—”
Ominously, there was also a shaded circle drawn on the map. Centered on East Area Hospital, it was labeled INITIAL KILL ZONE and its outer circumference ran across the front of Friday’s building.
“Strike at the glimmer in their chests,” said the Reaper.
“We always get the worst jobs,” admitted the Sorcerous Supernumary. “You know what the higher ups call us? Maggots, that’s what. At least that’s what one called me once. . . .”
“They may suffer spontaneous conflagration if subject to a concentration of the Piper’s sorcery,” said Dr. Scamandros. “That is, if the sound is too close.”
“Not entirely,” said the Will. “There are several elevator positions within the Maze. Some of them are black. The one I chose is a little tarnished, and the verdigris is spreading, even in this short time.”
Her long, elegant fingers snapped with a crack that was loud as a small cannon, and several Denizens rushed forward bearing a samovar, an enamelled tea caddy, a silver teapot, and fine porcelain cups.
The next attack came from a dozen small Nithlings that had the general shape of crabs, though each had a human face upon the back of its shell. . .
But the Denizens were beginning to fight back, bolts of fire from their umbrellas sizzling across the Newniths' armor.
“When the elevator goes ping and the doors open, we rush out.” “Sounds good,” said someone. “Easy to remember.”
A Denizen wearing a one piece coverall of soft tan leather and a kind of hunting hat with a feather threw a long rope ladder down from the tail of the dragonfly.
“You know the weird stuff . . . does it involve anyone with . . . uh . . . wings?”
The tentacle reappeared as she spoke, questing around the corner. It was followed by another, and another, and then the main body of the creature rounded the corner.
“I am commonly called The Reaper, and that will suffice,” replied the Denizen.
. . . including a small wheeled artillery piece that was being pushed over by another half dozen artillerists, its bronze barrel coming into alignment with the door of the elevator.
... the now all-too perfect face, so handsome that even a beard of frost could not lessen his unearthly beauty.
“That’s one of Noon’s sets,” said the Supernumary. “We can’t touch that! Besides, I failed chess.”
no subject
And similarly, things are looking bad for Leaf, if the hospital's within the death zone of that nuclear strike.