Two young women—one an African warrior, one a Viking princess—become important allies in Black Shield Maiden, a new medieval fantasy that’s the first in a new series from musician turned debut author Willow Smith, co-written with Jess Hendel. io9 is excited to share a vivid first excerpt from the book today.
“I’m so grateful to bring the story of Black Shield Maiden to the world,” Smith said in a statement provided 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 more info about Black Shield Maiden, followed by a look at the cover. The art is by Josh Woods, and the design is by Scott Biel. Then, the excerpt follows; it introduces the book’s fierce but impulsive protagonist as she learns a crucial lesson about picking one’s battles.
BLACK SHIELD MAIDEN is the first book in an epic, medieval fantasy series that makes visible the histories and mythologies of medieval African peoples, and women of the Viking age, which have been erased by dominant Western narratives in media and education. Championing intersectional feminism, freedom of gender expression, and dialogue across cultures, BLACK SHIELD MAIDEN confronts the most pressing subjects of our time, and shows a path forward, through connection and community.
BLACK SHIELD MAIDEN is the story of Yafeu, a defiant yet fiercely compassionate young warrior who is stolen from her home in the flourishing Ghanaian Empire and thrust into the world of the Vikings. There she discovers a strange new world of savage shield maidens, tyrannical rulers, and mysterious gods—but also a kindred spirit in Freydis, a Viking princess, who also wants the same thing: to forge her own fate. With Freydis at her side, Yafeu will alter the course of history—and become the revolutionary heroine of her own myths.
Finally, with the frenzied shouts of bargainers and the scratch of cart-wheels on the ground as a greeting, we enter the brick walls of Koumbi Saleh. Kamo and Goleh race ahead, kicking up dust in their wake.
Koumbi Saleh never ceases to inspire me. I’ve been to many cities around Wagadu, and even a few outside the empire’s borders, but I’ve never seen one so splendid as Koumbi Saleh. Little wonder, given that the Ghāna himself lives here.
Papa once told me that our Ghāna is the richest king of all the kings in the world. Looking around, it’s easy to believe. There’s gold everywhere: carved into the wooden doors of the massive stone palace, forged into sword-mounts for the Ghāna’s many sons, plaited in the hair of his daughters, embroidered in robes of his diviners. Not to mention the protection that gold can buy: Royal soldiers with gleaming swords and spears stand guard at every turn.
We pass the Ghāna’s cavernous stables on the way to the market square. Even the horses are treated like royalty, with reins of silk and soft furs for them to sleep on.
It sets my blood on fire to know that horses live in such luxury when there are people in Wagadu who are struggling just to survive. I’ve gone to bed without food myself more nights than I can count—and we’re some of the luckier ones. At least my uncle lets us stay in the village. Those without tribes don’t last very long; they either starve or get picked up by slavers.
The square is already teeming with peddlers and packmen and other nyamakalaw, so I lash my focus to finding an empty plot among the horde of stalls and carts to set up our things. Ampah waves goodbye and saunters off with her mother to search for their own space.
After a while, a luckless potter decides to leave early and we slide into her plot. Kamo and Goleh are given the task of finding Fàré some water as I arrange our goods on the selling cloth. Mama sets another cloth over our heads to shield us from the violence of Lisa, now at his highest peak. I lay out Mama’s creations: her beautiful beaded necklaces and a handful of stone pendants of different shapes and pigments, intricately carved in 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 finish setting everything up, we wait for someone to perceive our creations as worthy of being coveted. Soon, three men start toward us.
I study their unfamiliar tunics, trying to place their origin. The man on the right looks about my age, small and slenderly built compared with his older, broader companions. Like many here today, their skin is the color of the lightest shea nuts. A heavy nyama radiates around them, seemingly pushing others from their path. My stomach twists; they move like they expect others to move out of their way.
I look to Mama. Her face is calm, but as they approach, 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 in the center runs a callused finger down my throwing knife. He has a round face with close-set eyes and a lumpy nose that curves at an unnatural angle, like it’s been broken too many times to set straight.
“This one isn’t as bad as the others. Which of your boys made it?” He speaks our language with an accent I can’t place, holding the dagger up to examine it in the sun.
I clench my jaw but say nothing. He’s only insulting us to get a better price.
Mama shoots me a wary glance. Kamo and Goleh are roughhousing in the dirt a few paces away, paying no mind to the men at our table.
“They are too young for such fine handicraft,” she replies smoothly. “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.”
Heat rushes to my face.
He’s haggling. He’s just haggling.
But I hear my uncle in his scathing words. I see Masireh in the cruel twist of his lips. And something inside me refuses to be hidden any longer.
“What if I told you it was me?” I blurt out before I can stop myself, looking straight into the man’s beady eyes.
He shares a look with the man on his left, and the two of them burst into laughter. The smaller man nudges him on the arm and mutters a few words in a language I don’t recognize, seemingly rebuking him. But their laughter only grows louder. A molten ball of anger forms in my chest.
“Don’t be silly, little girl,” he replies, his tone mocking.
I hear a flinty ringing between my ears, like a hammer striking a blade. The ball of fire in my chest breaks apart and flows down my limbs, flooding them with energy.
I spot a goshawk soaring in the air behind his head. Quick as a flash, I snatch the dagger out of his hand and hurl it into the sky. The blade skims his hair as it whizzes past.
Wide-eyed, all three men turn to watch the bird drop out of the sky.
Dead.
I have only a moment to relish their shock before those callused fingers wrap around my neck.
The burly man lifts me off the ground like a doll.
“How dare you!” he snarls. Mama screams and lunges for me, but the man on the left steps between us and swats her to the ground. Hard. I cry out to her, but only a choked gurgle comes out.
I struggle to get air back into my lungs as I watch him turn to the cloth, grabbing fistfuls of Mama’s necklaces along with my daggers and shoving them into a pouch on his belt. The smaller man seizes the thick arm holding me up, hissing some urgent words in their strange tongue, but the burly man simply laughs and tightens his grip.
My eyeballs feel like they’re bulging out of my head as I scan the square for help.
Everyone—from the nyamakalaw, to the merchants, to the beggars on the street—averts their eyes. Even the Ghāna’s soldiers do not intervene. After all, I’m no one worth protecting.
I’m no one at all.
The smaller man is shouting now, turning back and forth between his two companions.
They both ignore him. They don’t even seem to hear him.
Blue spots creep into the edges of my vision.
Just when I think I’ll never breathe again, the burly man lets go of my neck. I drop to the ground, gasping and sputtering.
“Let this be a lesson to you,” he says.
My vision returns to normal as I suck the dusty air into my lungs. Kamo and Goleh cling to Mama, crying softly. She wraps her arms around them, keeping her eyes down as the men finish stuffing their pouches. When they finally leave, all three of my daggers and most of Mama’s necklaces and pendants are gone.
I glare at their backs with half a mind to go after them, to show them what else my father taught me. But then a group of diviners walks between us, their flowing white robes obscuring the trio of thieves.
When the crowd clears, they’re gone.
Excerpt from Black Shield Maiden by Willow Smith and Jess Hendel, copyright © 2024 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 part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Black Shield Maiden by Willow Smith and Jess Hendel will be released May 7, 2024; you can pre-order a copy here.
Update, April 23, 2024, 9:45 a.m.: At the request of the publisher, the previously published excerpt has been updated to current text, as well as the book’s updated cover and release date.
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