Bloodtide & Bloodsong Extract

i have an extract for you guys!!! Two blog tours in two weeks - I know how to spoil you, yes? And yes, even when I am meant to be on a blog break! 

We have the complete duology of Bloodtide & Bloodsong by Melvin Burgess, a dark dystopian inspired by Norse mythology, where London is a gated wasteland, cut off from the country and run by two warring families: the Volsons and the Conors. 

I don’t want to say any more. This is giving huge Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve vibes and I am here for that! 

Now, before I hand you over to the extract, I was to that Blue from Kaleidoscopic Tours for asking if I wanted to be involved and allowing me to do an extract! And, if the extract wets your appetite, you can find more information at andersenpress.co.uk or uk.bookshop.org (if you fancy using an affiliate link). 

Now, ONTO THE EXTRACT!!!

So Odin’s knife became a sword. Regin forged it from a steel alloy, stretching and folding the metal over and over like a ribbon to make it strong and flexible. As he hammered and folded, he dusted in the remains of Odin’s knife wrapped up in microscopic packets of Sigurd’s own DNA, treated to stand the heat. The DNA held the dust secure, the metal alloy held the DNA secure. The result was a slim, elegant, flexible blade that could cut through any known substance – except for the flesh of its owner.

But it had one small flaw. As he was working the bellows, a blowfly landed on Regin’s forehead and stung him on his eyelid. With a yelp, the old pigman dropped the bellows to swat it off and wipe away the blood – only for a second, but in that second the heat lessened. Afterwards, he examined the blade closely and could see nothing, but he knew there was a chance of a hidden flaw deep inside the metal, halfway along.

Regin had done his work well and nothing on this earth could melt the metal now that it was mixed with the dust, so he said nothing of it to Sigurd. He could only hope that the damage was small and that the blade was still strong enough to do its work.

When he handed the sword over to Sigurd, Regin felt as if he were offering a prayer. The boy was so bright and perfect, at the beginning of everything. He was handing the golden child the future – not just his own future, but the future of his whole people. He was certain that Sigurd was capable of performing any task asked of him.

Sigurd gripped the handle and the weapon gripped his hand back just as it had gripped his father’s hand over a hundred years before. It was more than his; it was a part of him.

The boy’s first concern was simple. Turning to the wall beside him, he pushed the point lightly against the brickwork. The sword slid easily in with a slight, grainy hiss.

From his pocket, Regin plucked a small handful of fleece that he had plucked off the barbed wire during a walk the day before, and let it fall on the edge of the blade as Sigurd held it out. The wool fell through the air and across the blade, and without even changing speed, fell in two neat halves towards the ground under its own weight. Nothing could stand in the way of that blade but Sigurd himself. He tested that too, trying to slice through his hand and arm. Soon he had Regin striking him with some force, but the blade just slipped off, fell to the ground point first and stuck in the rock like something from a fairytale.

They made preparations to leave.