Revolution – Snippet 1
Snippet 1 – Revolution!
We have the first snippet from Revolution by C. M. Raymond, Lee Barbant, and Michael Anderle. But first a word from Lee…
QUICK!!!
I (Lee) only have a minute, so I’m going to type this fast. I’ve been rocking a crying baby for the last hour, and now that Baby Barbant has finally fallen asleep, I figure I can get in some brief snippet time.
I’m not even changing out of my pee soaked clothes first….so you know I’m dedicated to YOU, the fans.
This parenting thing is no joke. Someone should have warned me.
Anyways, we’re wrapping up book 4, and I am so excited for you all to read it. Basically everything that you (and I) wanted to happen for the last three books finally happens. I got the chance to introduce my new favorite character. A fan favorite (who shall remain nameless but you all know who I’m talking about) finally gets to kick some ass. And some long overdue justice gets served–and despite how long it took to get here, it’s piping hot.
Thanks for your patience, and your reading, and your kind words. You all are the best. Hopefully we get the full book out this week, but in the meantime, enjoy this snippet of Revolution: The Rise of Magic Book 4.
And how about that cover, huh?
Best,
Lee
****
Prologue
[Unedited]
Cold rain fell like a barrage of arrows, threatening to drown what little survived amongst the Boulevard’s charred remains. The Queen that the slums were named for was long gone, but even she couldn’t bring back what had been taken from this place. Though it had been over a week, the rubble still smoldered, a testament to the power at Adrien’s disposal, and the damage his airship could exact.
Adrien’s eyes were fixed on the spot before they meticulously scanned the whole but empty city streets surrounding the Boulevard. The commoners—any who had lived through the Chancellor’s onslaught—had deserted Arcadia with the wizard and his Witch Bitch. And although the success of his airship should have made him feel triumphant, Adrien felt nothing but rage.
They had stolen from him, but victory would soon be his.
Doyle, Adrien’s assistant, cleared his throat from the open door of the Academy tower. “Sir, it’s time.”
Adrien stood for another moment as if he hadn’t heard the man and then finally turned, his long, blood-red robe flowing around him. The medallion of the Chancellor—reserved for ceremonial occasions—hung around his neck.
“They’re all assembled?” he asked, finally turning toward Doyle.
Swallowing hard, he nodded. “Yes, sir. All that remain. Fewer than I expected.”
The rebellion had claimed lives. His soldiers were killed in the streets—along with the Prophet and his faithful. But the Academy had seen its share of casualty, too, mostly by way of recruitment. It appeared that a small number of his own flock had thought Adrien’s actions were too extreme. They fled with the rabble. Their punishment would be even more severe.
Without another word, the two men proceeded out of the tower and toward the great hall.
As they entered the auditorium, Doyle spoke. “Your forces, sir, those who remain faithful, they are more committed than ever. If anything, that pitiful rebellion only culled the weak and spineless. All true Arcadians continue to stand at your service.”
They had better, Adrien thought. Or I’ll flay them alive.
“Thank you, Doyle,” was all that he said. He handed Doyle his notes and turned toward the stage. He had considered his words for days and could recite the speech by heart. Pushing through a set of double doors, he stepped out onto the broad platform lit from overhead with magitech spotlights. The crowd rose to their feet and applauded their leader.
Doyle was right about the size—he could see the empty rows in the back of the auditorium. They had taken some losses, but the look of commitment that washed over the faces of all in the room inspired more confidence than could be expected. Power surged through Adrien’s body; electricity tingled around the surface of his skin. The remaining faculty stood on the stage prepared to follow him wherever he might lead.
Eyeing the empty seats, he finally smiled at Nikola and August and gave them an assuring nod. They would be compensated well for their loyalty—or at least for their intelligence in choosing the winning side.
Raising his hands, Adrien smiled broadly. “Thank you. Thank you, so much. Now, please sit.”
For the first time, his devoted denied his command. They remained standing, and the applause only grew louder.
Seldom given over to these emotions, Adrien’s throat constricted. He was overwhelmed by their commitment. They recognized his power for what it was. Nodding, he said again, “Thank you. Now, sit. There is no time for fanfare.”
The crowd simmered to silence and sat, the faculty followed suit.
“You all know of the cowardly attack against us. The fake Founder and his student from the Boulevard infiltrated these very halls.” Heads nodded in response. “It was an attack none of us could have expected. I had always hoped that Arcadia would stand in the light of peace for all of her days. But peace is not easy to maintain when there are others lurking in the shadows who covet all that you have, who want to destroy you.”
The audience shifted in their seats. His words inspired them, as much as they filled them with fear.
“Your loyalty to Arcadia—and to me—is truly touching. You are my faithful, and I will never forget the faces that are here tonight. But let us also not forget the faces of the others. Of the ones committed to our vision for a beautiful city whose bodies are still cooling in their graves. Magicians, Guards, and Disciples alike bled for the sake of our vision, which was big enough to give their breath to. And now, it is time to hunt down the bastards that destroyed our city. It is time to make them pay.”
The crowd leaped to their feet, and a steady roar hung in the room.
Adrien smiled and nodded. He let them cheer and shouted over the clamor. “Each and every one of you will be key in our victory. Faculty, it’s time to leave behind your books and your offices. Students, consider this your official graduation.”
He paused, and let the frenzy grow.
“School is out, boys and girls. It is time to go to war!”
To learn more about C. M. Raymond and Lee Barbant and their other books: http://www.smokeandsteel.com
Nomad Avenged – Snippet 6
Final snippet for Nomad Avenged!
Nomad Avenged – Snippet 06
Terry Henry Walton Chronicles Book 7
By Craig Martelle and Michael Anderle
Terry breathed slowly and rhythmically, feeling the strength returning to his body. He squinted and concentrated, finally able to make out the crack under the door where one or two lumens crept past. Despite his best efforts he could see nothing else in the room.
He kicked at the dead body, now shriveled to a mere husk of its former self. Terry kicked it away from him so he wouldn’t have to touch it.
In the silence, he heard footsteps, hard soles on a hard floor, clickety clack.
It wasn’t Kirkus unless he’d swapped his soft-sole slippers for cowboy boots.
The door was thrown open and the light turned on. Terry blinked and squinted against the brightness. Kirkus stood next to an incredibly beautiful Chinese woman, tall and shapely, skin like alabaster. Her over-sized almond-shaped eyes were dark as she visually explored the body of Terry Henry Walton.
“How nice of you to bring your pet kitty,” Terry said in a low voice, tensing with the expectation of what she was there to do.
Kirkus stepped aside without a word. The young-looking woman started to undress, slowly, seductively. A lesser man may have been lulled into enjoying the show, but with each article of clothing removed, she was one step closer to turning into a Weretiger.
TH couldn’t defend himself. He’d seen Aaron in Were form too many times to count and knew the damage that would be wrought by a Weretiger’s claws.
Kirkus chuckled softly to himself, but didn’t tell the woman to hurry. He was enjoying the anticipation of pain that filled Terry’s mind.
Once fully naked, she turned one way, then another to show her curves and her pride in her body. Terry only saw the muscles of a fighter. He closed his eyes for a moment trying to block her out while all the muscles in his body tensed.
When he felt hot breath on his face, he opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with the orange furred Weretiger. He didn’t try to head butt her; she was just out of range. He remained still while she sniffed him.
He saw her eye twitch as a paw blurred in how quickly it raked its claws across his stomach. He didn’t feel it at first, then it was like fire burning through his skin and into his very soul.
The Weretiger stalked back and forth, sizing up her prey while TH worked through the pain. He chanced a look, saw the shredded skin and torn muscle beneath.
Terry consoled himself by believing that Kirkus needed him alive for some reason. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be playing games.
“Damn, kitten. Look what you did to my beach body?” Terry taunted, flexing himself in anticipation of another slash. She jumped up, and he flinched.
She landed with the pads of her paws on his shoulders. She was heavy and his shoulders screamed with the strain. The shackles dug deeply into his wrists.
The Weretiger leaned close. Her feline eyes studied him. She licked his face from chin to forehead with her wide and raspy tongue.
“Come on, kitten. You’ve been eating too much ass lately. Maybe try a breath mint every now and again,” Terry grumbled.
She sniffed and nuzzled his face, then nibbled his ear. He froze. She clamped down, driving a fang through the cartilage.
Find Craig Martelle at http://www.craigmartelle.com
Nomad Avenged – Snippet 5
Nomad Avenged Snippet 5
The latest from back of beyond, Alaska. Every day is above freezing, so that must mean it’s summer! Enjoy your weekend, a frosty beverage, and a snippet!
Nomad Avenged
Terry Henry Walton Chronicles Book 7
By Craig Martelle and Michael Anderle
Unedited
“My! What brings you to my doorstep?” Jonas said warmly to the purple-eyed Werewolf standing before him. She was still in Were form. She dropped her clothes bundle and changed into human form.
Jonas leered at her. “You decided that you needed a real man, that the human couldn’t satisfy you?”
She stopped reaching for her clothes, frozen for an instant, before rotating and driving the heel of her hand into his chest. He flew backwards, crashing into a wall.
Char didn’t bother with her clothes. She launched herself at him, pounding his face with punch after punch. She pulled him to his feet so she could step back and send a sidekick into his belly button that slammed him against the wall a second time. With a spinning roundhouse that caught him on the side of his head, he went down.
She dressed while she waited impatiently for him to wake up. His eyes fluttered, and she pulled him roughly to his feet and slammed him against the wall.
“You always were a limp dick piece of shit, Jonas. I should probably just kill you, but first, I need to know why you did it. Tell me!” she demanded.
“What do you think I did?” he stammered.
“Sold us out, you whiny bitch. I want to know why. And while you’re telling, I want to know where they took him.” Char emphasized her question by slamming the Werewolf into the wall.
“Who did I sell out?” he asked, clearly confused.
Char started to believe it wasn’t him, but she was certain he’d done something to deserve a beating. He always deserved to have his ass kicked.
She let him go. “A dozen Forsaken flew in here and took Terry Henry prisoner. They escaped before we could get to them. I know you’re in bed with the evil of this world. You had something to do with it, because that’s the fucked up shit that you do.”
She jabbed a finger into his chest hard enough to make him wince. She felt gratified seeing him in pain. She did it again, smiling at his anguish.
“Although I’ll be the first to congratulate the sonofabitch that kills your husband, I had nothing to do with this. If you find them, let me know. Tell them the first round is on me,” Jonas sneered.
Char had had enough. She turned into him with her arm raised, fist in hand as she rocketed her elbow into his face, crushing the bones beneath. She punched him twice for good measure. He didn’t go down until she kneed him in the groin hard enough to lift him off his feet. He landed in a crumpled pile, barely breathing but alive.
He’d live. Char shrugged, removed her clothes, and changed into Were form for the long run to downtown Chicago in search of the Forsaken, Joseph. Learn more about Craig Martelle and check out his other books at http://www.craigmartelle.com
Under My Heel Audiobook is here!
Listen up!
The audiobook for Under My Heel, Book 6 in the Kurtherian Gambit series is now available.
Europe is erupting is tension and violence.
David is only adding to the conflagration by setting a trap, one that our team will travel to save those people still alive.
There is one thing every enemy of Bethany Anne finds out. They will be ground down under her heels.
THE DARKEST NIGHT – Snippet 10 of …
Michael saw his two charges out in the storm, arguing by a boat he knew hadn’t been there when he had left the ship. He had obviously failed to detect the intruders on the way to the pirates’ ship. He wanted to roll his eyes in frustration.
Didn’t the two of them realize they were in a Gott Verdammt storm?
They needed to get over their damned issues and become friends or partners or something. This dancing around was for the young.
Which they were, unfortunately.
God, he missed Bethany Anne.
The ship was in trouble and he had to make a fast decision. Considering their height, he could catch it before they hit the seas below.
He took the two humans onto the ship and rematerialized in the middle of the bridge.
—
“What do ya mean we lost the left bank of batteries?” the Captain yelled as he helped his first mate get back to his feet. The engineer’s voice replied over the speaker, “I mean we blew out our capacitors and they sunk the power safely to the grounds. Unless you got a handy recharging unit, Captain, we just lost half our power!”
Miles ground his teeth. Losing half their power meant they were effectively screwed. He would need to decide whether continuing on would be better, or just letting the ship go down. The storm had been heading west, so trying to retreat would just putting them back in the path of the storm. Maybe the girl had been right, and waking the vampire is what he should have done. Now he had damned everybody.
That’s when three people materialized on his bridge.
—
The shared pain from his charges pissed Michael off, so his sudden appearance—eyes glowing as bright as those on the bridge had ever seen—wasn’t the gentle arrival he had hoped to accomplish.
“These two,” Michael spoke, “are good people. Find out what they can do and use them. I’m done with this fucking storm.” With that declaration, he pivoted and exited the bridge.
The Captain looked at the people Michael had dropped, their confusion matching his own.
“Ok,” The Captain barked, “what did you do on your ship?”
—
Michael left the bridge through the hatch to the deck. He turned the lock and slammed it shut.
His two charges, he noticed, looked weak, but seemed to be dealing with their sudden electrocution.
He darted over to them and pressed his hands together, rubbing them and willing the power to generate. There was no waiting or coercing. This time it would obey him.
Or he would go into the Etheric and rip that dimension a new asshole.
He pressed a hand against both Mark and Jacqueline, pushing energy to them to allow their nanocytes to heal them. Mark recovered first, his eyes darting to Jacqueline. He noticed Michael’s hand on her and moved his gaze up the arm to Michael himself. Mark swallowed.
The Master was apparently in no mood to talk.
Jacqueline gasped a breath, then moaned. “Oh God that fucking huurrrrtttt.” Her eyes popped open. She glanced over to see who was touching her, then back at Mark.
She slapped his arm. “What the hell, Mark? What did you do to get us electrocuted?”
“You two,” Michael ground out, his voice richer and deeper than normal. Both of them peered at him, but he was looking up at the clouds, his face a mask of extreme displeasure. “Just kiss and get it over with.”
He stood up, noticing neither Jacqueline’s surprise nor Mark’s narrowed-eyed look of determination.
—
The Captain sent the new people down to the engine room. Apparently they had helped in that area on the old ship, being useless anywhere else. They wouldn’t fight, but ability to work with technology trumped bloodthirsty every time.
Miles watched Michael help his two youth, then stand up and stride to the middle of the deck. Michael looked around as if he were seeing something no one else could.
All at once his eyes flashed red, bright enough to cause shadows as he threw his arms into the air. Blue energy left his hands to attack the weather, but lightning fought back and struck the figure on the deck. Mother Nature was not pleased with him, and didn’t take to his machinations to manipulate her will lying down.
—
Michael ignored the disintegration of his body as the Etheric healed him at the atomic level. He had spent over a hundred years inside the Etheric being put back together molecule by molecule.
He and the Etheric were old associates. Perhaps not friends, but certainly intimate nonetheless.
Michael kept his hands raised, pulling in the power of the storm and shunting it into the Etheric. At the same time, he pushed power back out into the air to change the temperature.
He was in the middle screaming at the storm. Although close, neither Jacqueline nor Mark could hear as they clutched each other. The power being unleashed mere steps from them was more than their minds could take in.
“You think you are worse than an Atomic Bomb?” Michael screamed, “YOU NEED TO BRING MORE THAN THIS!”
So Mother Nature hit him with three lightning bolts at once as he pulled in power.
“THAT TICKLES, BITCH!” he shouted back. If he had thought about it, he would have had to admit he was lying.
The pain was enormous.
His eyes narrowed, his will reinforced, his voice a whisper, “I promised her I would be back. I am the Dark Messiah, I am the ArchAngel, but more than that, my name is Michael Nacht and I stayed together for her. You are in no way more powerful than my fucking love.” Michael grinned maniacally as he remembered his friends from the past and what they might say in such a situation as this.
“SUCK IT!” he yelled, and started laughing as he pushed more etheric energy into the atmosphere. The lightning struck less, and the winds started decreasing.
Bethany Anne certainly wouldn’t get the same Michael back, but all things considered?
That was a good thing.
FROM MICHAEL >>> GOD BLESS THE JIT TEAM.
In the last three (3) weeks, they have made at least 3 books much better.
Including: Ell Leigh Clarkes AWAKENED, Craig Martelle’s Nomad Avenged and my The Darkest Night. Not only that, but they jumped on The Darkest Night so damned fast…
WE ARE RELEASING EARLY!
The Darkest Night will release tomorrow, NOT Friday like we thought.
(Thank you JIT TEAM!)
Michael
Nomad Avenged – Snippet 4!
Here’s your daily hit of Terry Henry Walton!
Nomad Avenged – Snippet 4
Terry Henry Walton Chronicles Book 7
By Craig Martelle and Michael Anderle
Unedited
Akio saw them clearly in his mind. Five Forsaken and six humans, two of which were kept for their blood, although by Forsaken logic, any human life was forfeit if the Forsaken were hungry enough.
Not today, Akio thought as he descended the stairs, silent as a ghost.
The most dangerous Forsaken was on the top floor. Akio decided to forego the stealth approach and walked into the hallway and toward the room where his enemy would be found. The Forsaken was pacing.
Akio opened the door casually and walked in. He was surprised to see a westerner.
“My name is unimportant,” the Forsaken started with a dismissive wave. “I expect you are the famous Akio, slayer of my kind. A shame. We didn’t choose to be what we are. That decision was made for us, and we have to live with it, the best we can.”
Akio didn’t reply. He kept his distance as he took stock of the room, noting the furniture, tripping hazards, possible traps.
Despite his words, the unnamed one carried a long curved blade with an ivory hand grip. A filigree was engraved down the blade. Akio had only seen one other like it. A Mameluke, the sword carried by United States Marine officers in the before time.
The kaleidoscopic color of the steel suggested it was a Damascus blade, one of the very best.
Akio’s appreciation of his enemy’s steel was limited to what he needed to do to kill the creature and then move through the building to eliminate the rest. Akio still didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. He gripped his katana in both hands as he approached, sidestepping without crossing his feet.
He shifted from right to left, looking for the side that the Forsaken favored. The unnamed didn’t give it away. He smoothly matched Akio’s moves.
The first blow came as each swung toward the head of the other. Akio turned his blade slightly to catch the cutting edge of the Mameluke on the flat of his blade, letting it slide the length and past his head. Akio ducked low and swung low, diving to the side as he saw the glint of a redirected slash.
The unnamed barely missed Akio, but the master Japanese swordsman’s aim was true. The tip of his katana tore through the Forsaken’s thigh slicing a notch into the femur as it passed. Blood spurted from the sliced artery.
Akio returned upright and bounced away, ready for a counterstrike.
But the Forsaken held his leg with one hand, while he backed up slowly. He twirled his sword in front of him, carving a figure eight in the air. Akio saw a door, and he ran at the unnamed.
The Forsaken turned to bolt, but his leg deceived him, and he stumbled. Akio’s first slash removed the Forsaken’s sword arm. In less than a blink of the eye, the unnamed’s head was rolling on the floor. The body remained upright for a moment, then toppled.
Akio looked at the blade on the floor. He picked it up and studied it briefly. A fitting sword for a man he would call a friend. Akio cleaned it on the couch, then drove it home into its silver and gold scabbard. He slipped it next to the katana’s saya and hurried into the corridor and toward the steps.
Follow Craig Martelle and check out his books on his website http://www.craigmartelle.com
The Darkest Night – Snippet 09 of …
“The two of you,” the male voice told him, “are all that is left of the Folly.”
Amanda tried to keep ahold of her courage and asked the disembodied voice, “Are you Death?”
The chuckle that came back to them didn’t reassure Amanda at all, but his words did. “No, although some have called me different versions of Death over the centuries. My name is Michael.”
Amanda interrupted, “You are the ArchAngel!”
There was a pause in the communication. “No, not the ArchAngel Michael you are thinking of. I am not Christianity’s High Angel for God.”
“But, you saved the two of us when you could have easily killed us for being on the ship,” Amanda argued. Arnold fell in love again with her voice, the purity of her heart evident in her simple questions. Not that she was simple, but she never failed to ask the hard questions. “Why?”
Michael kept one part of his mind focused on the power sources to facilitate the return to the ArchAngel as he pondered her question. Why had he saved them? The old Michael would have killed everyone and not thought twice about it. They were on a pirate ship, obviously then trusted by the pirates.
His voice softened. “Because Love is more powerful than deceit and selfishness. One cannot love as you two do, not only each other but also family and friends, and be truly evil.” They continued to speed towards the ship barely discernible in the clouds. “And because I myself have been changed by Love, and I’ll stay on the path as best I can.”
The two of them allowed their host’s answer to wash over them as they pondered what the hell they were doing when it seemed the Heavens opened and God’s own lightning surrounded them.
The ship they were approaching was hit multiple times, and as their speed increased, Arnold noticed an explosion in the aft section.
Right where the anti-grav technology should be located.
—
“Find me that ship,” Akio ground out. While their technology was substantial, even with a hundred and fifty-plus years of improvements since Bethany Anne had left they had trouble locating a ship in a storm over the ocean. Separating the power sources from the large natural disturbances was not something Eve had developed any algorithms for yet.
“I am trying, Akio-san,” Eve answered. This time, Akio detected a bit of fluctuation in her answer.
He was stressing the AI too much. Akio pondered his obligations to everyone in a blistering second. His honor to his Queen. His responsibility to Eve, and his friendship, he realized, with both of them.
The grim line of his lips said he was surprised at himself, if you knew this man well enough to tell.
Akio had an AI as a friend. Over fifteen decades, and only now was he willing to accept even he could learn a new trick or two.
“Do not stress, Eve.” He replied. “We will be successful; the Queen is assured.”
Eve, her voice back on track, responded, “We lost the ability to speak to the Queen a long time ago, Akio. How can you be certain?”
“Because, little one, it is time I teach you,” he told her, his reflexes pulling the ship he was piloting hard to the side as he dodged a group of clouds that seemed to be roiling more than usual, “about a human concept called faith.”
—
“The fact that you took out two other people should have alerted you to the fact the second asshole pirate was mine!” yelled Jacqueline.
They were still arguing out on the deck. Each had a hand on the pirates’ second craft. Captain O’Banion had tried to call the two of them in after their successful eviction of the four pirates. When he opened the door to talk to them, they both turned to look at him.
One set of red eyes, one pair of yellow.
Family arguments weren’t his problem. He shouted, “Thank you!” and shut the door. He told those who had been ready, if not exactly willing, to help them that they could go back to their tasks. Those two were arguing with each other and it was best to let them get the arguing of their system.
Five minutes later, all hell broke loose.
“What the fuck?” Jacqueline screeched as the ship lurched to the side. Both she and Mark slammed their other hands onto the slip of a ship and grabbed hold.
Jacqueline failed to grab anything useful. A second and third bolt of lightning cracked, the sound blasting through their heightened senses, and the electricity ran along all of the metal around the deck. The ship’s capacity for capturing errant lightning bolts had been temporarily overwhelmed.
Mark grabbed Jacqueline’s loose hand, locking on as if he would be her safety belt. He easily moved her whole body to place her second hand on a bar on the craft.
“Goddammit!” he yelled at her. “Don’t you fucking think about falling off or I’ll jump after you and cuss you out the whole way down!”
Jacqueline’s expression was one of maniacal glee as the adrenaline hit her senses. The two of them enjoyed the wild ride as the humans inside fought to keep their ship afloat in the sky.
“Not if you fall first, Vamp Boy!”
Then one last lightning bolt hit the ship and the two of them screamed in incredible pain.
—
Michael saw his two charges out in the storm, arguing by a boat he knew hadn’t been there when he had left the ship. He had obviously failed to detect the intruders on the way to the pirates’ ship. He wanted to roll his eyes in frustration.
Didn’t the two of them realize they were in a Gott Verdammt storm?
They needed to get over their damned issues and become friends or partners or something. This dancing around was for the young.
Which they were, unfortunately.
God, he missed Bethany Anne.
The ship was in trouble and he had to make a fast decision. Considering their height, he could catch it before they hit the seas below.
He took the two humans onto the ship and rematerialized in the middle of the bridge.
FROM MICHAEL >>> Ok, we were ‘Words Complete’ on Sunday night (I believe) and we have been working on the edited, beta reading and more editing since then. We have the files ready for JIT for tomorrow morning and release is within 72 hours baby!
YEAH!
Plus, I’m 1,200 words into Forever Defend…Which, actually, is a first.
Like, ever. I’ve never started the next book before hitting ‘publish’ in the book I’m on and their are multiple reasons. I’ll get more into those later.
Hope you liked the snippet… I’m off to go load the next one!
Cover Reveal and Snippet 2 for Storm Raiders!
Cover reveal and Snippet 2 – Storm Raiders
Check out this cover, folks!! It’s awesome, right? Storm Raiders is the first book in the Storms of Magic series which takes place in the Age of Magic universe.
Snippet 2
Unedited
Abbey marched to the front of the shop, a dull-edged practice sword in each hand.
Olaf scoffed when he saw them. “Practice swords? Is the girl afraid to face me in real combat?”
“The girl is not,” Abbey said.
Benjamin held up a hand. “I won’t have bloodshed in here. It’s practice swords or full price.”
Olaf looked questioningly at his father.
Lawrence shook his head, as if disgusted. “Do as they ask, son. They’re southerners. They don’t understand our ways.”
Abbey ignored the comment. Even though she’d lived in Holdgate since she was three years old, she heard similar statements all the time. Her father had come from the city of Arcadia and set up shop here after his wife’s death, a young Abbey in tow. The topic of why Benjamin would have left the wealthy city of Arcadia and chosen a life in the harsh climate of the Kaldfell peninsula was fiercely debated in town. Benjamin wasn’t forthcoming with answers, even with Abbey. All he ever told her was that it was too painful to stay in Arcadia after Abbey’s mother died. He’d needed a change.
So, Abbey had grown up here in Holdgate, an outsider from the time she was three. She’d spent most of her life in this blacksmith shop, playing with swords like other kids might play with blocks. Her father had schooled her himself, drilling her on reading and mathematics as they worked the iron together. Holdgate’s educational system seemed to be focused on throwing axes and navigating by the stars, and Benjamin said he wanted a daughter who could read.
Now, she was nineteen. Many of the girls her age were married, but Abbey still worked in her father’s shop. She still loved making weapons as much as she had when she was a child. Perhaps she’d open her own shop someday. Until then, she was content to be near the weapons she loved.
Abbey held out both swords to Olaf, offering him his pick. He looked at them for a few moments like they were a particularly challenging riddle before finally grabbing one.
Though she hadn’t spent a lot of time with other children, she’d seen Olaf around enough to know he was a bully. He was big, even by Holdgate standards. While his beard still had a wispy, boyish look, the rest of him was fully developed. His arms were as big around as Abbey’s legs.
Abbey stood six inches shorter. Her slight frame hid her lean but strong muscles. Her black hair was pulled back with a ribbon as it always was when she worked in the shop.
She took ten paces back and turned to face Olaf. She raised her sword and held it at the ready.
“You’ll fight until we signal it’s over,” Benjamin said.
“Yes,” Lawrence agreed. “Keep going until Benjamin signals his surrender, Olaf.”
Olaf held up his sword and smiled at her. “I’m going to enjoy tussling with you. Maybe we can do a bit more of it later. When our fathers aren’t around. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Abbey wanted to laugh at the way he held his sword. He gripped it tightly in his ham-like fist as if it were a snake trying to wiggle free. There was no finesse in his stance, either. Clearly, he was used to winning battles with sheer strength. “Somehow, I think I’m going to be the only one who enjoys this. Call the start, Father?”
Benjamin crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall behind him. He wore the easy expression of a man preparing to watch something amusing. “Begin.”
The instant the word left Benjamin’s lips, Olaf charged.
He held his sword two-handed, raised over his head. It might as well have been a club.
Abbey’s instinct was to rush to meet him, but she remembered her father’s most frequent instruction: Patience. It was something he reminded her of nearly every day in her sword practice.
She’d been sparring against her father for more than a decade, so she was no stranger to facing bigger and stronger opponents. She’d learned to use her smaller size as an advantage. Your opponents will underestimate you, her father had often reminded her. Don’t let them see what you can really do until it’s too late for them to stop you.
So, she waited with sword raised as Olaf charged. Then, when he was almost to her, she made her move. She thrust her practice sword forward, driving it into Olaf’s stomach. The air rushed out of him in an audible oof. She then spun out of the way as his momentum sent him careening past. The young man stumbled to a stop, dangerously close to the kiln and put his hands on his knees as he tried to regain his breath.
Abbey could have gone after him and finished it then and there, but she was having too much fun. “Are you enjoying tussling with me?” she asked sweetly.
Benjamin laughed.
Lawrence threw his hands up in the air. “What’s wrong with you, boy? Get after her!”
Olaf slowly rose to a standing position. There was fury in his eyes now. “Gladly, Father.” He moved toward Abbey again, more slowly this time, his sword held in front of him.
Abbey jabbed her sword forward, testing his defenses, but he batted it away. It looked like he was done underestimating her. He fired back with a surprisingly quick thrust. Abbey parried, but the deflected sword still managed to whack her upper arm.
Shit! If these had been real swords, she’d have blood pouring out of her arm right now. As it was, she’d have a nice bruise on that arm tomorrow.
Enough messing around. It was time to end this.
Abbey swung her sword in a wildly obvious attack. When Olaf took the bait and raised his sword to block, she pulled back, and thrust her sword under his defenses, again jabbing him in the stomach. He managed to keep his feet, but she had him off balance. All she had to do was keep attacking.
The time for finesse was over. She let loose a barrage of blows, hitting him in the arms, the chest, the stomach. He managed to block some of them, but he was desperately off balance, so she easily knocked his blade aside again and again.
“Enough!” Lawrence called. “The price is forty. We’ll pay forty!”
Abbey immediately stopped her assault. She held out a hand to Olaf. “You all right?”
He looked at her hand like it was covered in shit. “Like I’d shake hands with a piece of Arcadian filth.” He threw down his practice sword and stormed out of the shop.
After Lawrence had paid and left with his sword, Abbey allowed herself to rub the spot on her arm where Olaf had stuck her. “That went well.”
Benjamin stroked his short beard. “Not bad. Your defense was a bit sloppy. If you’d been fighting a skilled swordsman, you might have been in trouble.”
Abbey picked up the other practice sword off the floor. “Perhaps you’d care to test me?”
Benjamin laughed. “After what I just saw you do to Olaf? No thanks. The boy is going to be sore for a month.” He picked up his apron off the workbench and put it on. “We’ve got a lot of work to do before the festival tonight. Let’s get to it.”
If you like this then check out other books by PT Hylton and catch up on news at http://www.pthylton.com
Snippet 3 from Nomad Avenged!
Nomad Avenged Snippet 03!
It’s summer in the sub-Arctic and there’s so much stuff to do. I even had to cut my grass already. Last year, I had to cut it a month earlier as it was colder and snowier for much longer this year. The tractor is fixed and moved to the shed. The picnic table is next to move out of the garage. Buying some plants at the Farmer’s Market today to put in the greenhouse. Go us! We’ll see if we get any tomatoes before the frost comes. It’s going to be a race. The rhubarb has come back in which is good – we just planted it last year to see if it would take. It has and quite well.
Break’s over – back to doing Alaskan stuff. See you in a couple days when Snippet 04 drops:)
Nomad Avenged – shooting for a May 29 release – stay tuned, same bat station, same bat channel.
UNEDITED
Nomad Avenged – Snippet 03
Terry Henry Walton Chronicles Book 7
By Craig Martelle and Michael Anderle
“You are one sad fucker,” Terry mumbled, blinking away the sweat and blood to better see his tormentor.
“Terry Henry Walton. You are renowned in many circles for your ability to sling a phrase, and the best you can come up with is ‘sad fucker?’ I am truly disappointed,” Kirkus complained with a half-smile.
“My apologies to your sensibilities. Methink’st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee,” Terry quoted in a gravely voice from Shakespeare. “Or maybe, you are a gorbellied, fen-sucked coxcomb?”
Terry’s mind was a jumble, but the mental exercise of stringing Shakespearean words together to create insults comforted him. It reminded him of his daughter, named after one of Shakespeare’s characters.
Cordelia. He saw the toddler in his mind’s eye. He thought he heard something, but it faded into the distance. The only thing before him was his daughter.
She was barely walking, but fearless. Once she saved their lives after the wolverine attack, the wolf pack took to following her around. The former alpha walked at the child’s side, letting her wrap her hand in the heavy neck hair to help her balance, help her run.
Terry looked away for only a moment. When he looked back, Cory was on the wolf’s back, riding the bitch as nine others ran alongside. They disappeared into the woods on the south side of the former base that the people of North Chicago now called home.
He ran after them, jogging at first, but when he entered the woods, he couldn’t hear the wolves at all. It was like they never passed through there, like they never existed.
Terry ran, as fast as his enhanced body would carry him, but he found no sign of the pack. He turned and ran home, needing to rally the people and search for his daughter.
When he entered Mayor’s Park, he found Cory riding the wolf. They were running in circles.
“How’d you get back here?” he asked, wondering whether it was a dream or a memory.
“We made a loop!” Cory said excitedly. The pack knew that she was a child and since they had adopted her, they were teaching her their ways, while also playing like a bunch of puppies. Terry Henry could not have been more proud.
Cory was growing up to know both the way of the pack and the way of humanity. As she matured, those lessons would keep her safe, but Terry always worried.
Terry’s memory clouded for an instant and when it cleared, it was more than a decade later.
Thirteen-year-old Cordelia was a beautiful young lady who looked too much like an adult. The men had too much to drink. Alcohol reduced one of them to being a savage. He grabbed Cory by her hair and tried to kiss her.
Terry watched from a second-story window, unable to move. The young man needed to be taught a lesson, harshly enough that the young man would learn what civilization was all about.
What bothered Terry the most was that the man looked at Cory like a piece of meat and not an intelligent human being.
Cory kneed the man hard, being tall like her parents, she was able to leverage more power into her move. The man came off the ground and crumpled, laying in the fetal position and crying. “BITCH!” the man yelled through gritted teeth.
Terry was angry and demanded retribution.
Cory kicked the man in the face, not a roundhouse, but a snap-kick using a well-practiced technique. She laughed, musically, in a way that naturally drew others to her. She smiled, tossed her hair over her shoulders, and strolled away. Terry smiled.
Until someone slapped him.
“Come back to me, TH. I don’t give a shit about your mutant spawn. Show me the woman with the purple eyes,” Kirkus demanded, wiping Terry’s sweat and blood from his hand with a rag.
For more from Craig Martelle and to check out his other books: http://www.craigmartelle.com
Shades of Light-Snippet 4
FINAL snippet!
Shades of Light is really close to release…like, really close! In the meantime here is Snippet 4 from Shades of light!
Unedited
Alastar had just finished wiping a smudge of dirt from his gold-rimmed, pure white armor when his sister, Rhona, entered. She gave him that look he always hated—a raised eyebrow, a gaze that dared him to look away from her green eyes, and a hint of a smile at her lips. It was the look she gave him whenever she was about to knock him back down to size and remind him of their humble beginnings.
“Let me stop you right there,” he said, fastening his gold cloak over his shoulders and turning to the mirror. Damn, he looked good. Not in a conceited, sexy sort of way, but as a strong paladin who deserved every bit of honor the High Paladin, Sir Gildon, was about to bestow on him.
Making eye contact with Rhona, he attempted to match her confidence as he said, “I earned this.”
“Oh, and I had nothing to do with it?”
“You were there when I needed you, aye. But I was the one who caught the warlock. I am the paladin here, don’t forget.”
“How could I ever?” Her brow furrowed into a glare that lasted only a moment. “I’m simply looking out for you.” She stepped up beside him and reached a hand over to smooth out his cloak. “It’s just… there’ve been too many times we thought he was preparing to send you on the holy quest.”
“I have proven myself.” Alastar turned, voice rising in his excitement. “Why shouldn’t Sir Gildon send me on the next expedition?”
She shrugged. “He should, there’s no doubt. But that doesn’t mean he will. You don’t notice the way he eyes me.”
“The High Paladin? His holiness?” He waved her off, then approached the table at his bedside, where he had his sword and sheath laid out. “I won’t hear it again.” He strapped on the sheath, then hefted the sword and felt its balance. The jewels in its hilt made it seem gaudy to some, but the Order of Saint Rodrick believed swords above all else held a spiritual connection. They should be adorned, but it was more than that. When the Saint blessed their prayers in times of combat, these precious stones would glow as if they had a light of their own. Proof of the Saint’s miracles.
“Brother…”
“He is the head of this order, the senior paladin in all of Roneland,” Alastar said, sheathing his sword. “He does not covet my sister.”
She nervously glanced around, as if the walls had ears, then wrapped an arm around herself as her free hand fidgeted with the blue cloth of her dress. It complimented her strawberry hair nicely, giving her a playful look that most paladins might not agree with, but simply reminded Alastar the joys of their youth.
“Well, let’s not keep them waiting then,” Rhona said, heading for the door.
With a brush of his hair, he turned to follow her. They would be toasting to him this evening, and he certainly couldn’t be late in such a situation. It ate at him that the High Paladin hadn’t seen fit to send him on the holy quests, but he would get his chance, he was certain of it.
Finding the Holy Sword of Saint Rodrick would give the paladins the power to fight off the invaders from the sea to the north, thereby earning their place at the King’s right hand.
And if Alastar was the one to find it for his lord, he would be second to none in the Order of Saint Rodrick, except Sir Gildon, naturally.
He passed halls lined with armor and images of the Sword of Light. Its likeness was in these paintings and embroideries and elsewhere throughout the castle on shields and more. Its hilt was encrusted with the mystical green rock known as jade, giving its blade a distinctively green glow when blessed, a rarity, as other blades would always simply glow a whitish-gold, regardless of the stones they were adorned with.
This was all speculation, however, as the real one had gone missing over one-hundred years before, when Saint Rodrick led the attack on the creatures of Madness who populated Sair Talem, the large island to the west.
A pleasant aroma came from the main hall—the scent of roast pheasant cooked with thyme, apricots, and in white wine, if he had to guess. It made his mouth water. He could tell his sister must have noticed the scent as well, because she had stopped, one hand on the wall.
But as he approached, he realized that something must be wrong. His armor clanked as he darted to her side and reached up to touch her face.
“You’re cold.”
“It’s…” She looked up at him with dark gray in her normally green irises, shadows under her eyes over pale skin. “I’m fine.” The prayer was already on his lips as he reached for her, but she pulled back. “No, keep your energy.” She smiled, and already the darkness seemed unnoticeable, the color returning to her cheeks.
“Your health means more than anything to me. Are you getting enough sleep?”
She nodded, but a distant look in her eyes made him wonder if she was holding something back.
They had never kept secrets from each other, at least, not that he knew of. Ever since their parents were killed in the magic wars and the Paladin order had agreed to take the two of them in, it had been so. He had promised to take care of her and to always be everything she needed in an older brother.
So now, too, he looked into her eyes and said, “If you need me to take you to your bed, all of this can wait.”
“No, I’m feeling much better now.” She put on her best smile and added, “Honestly.”
A gnawing feeling in his gut told him to refuse to believe that. But she was his sister. If she said it was so, she was old enough to know the difference. She had reached her nineteenth birthday just two weeks prior, after all.
“Let’s get in there and overindulge, shall we?” She took his arm and smiled up at him, waiting.
“I’m famished,” he replied, and led the way, wondering the whole time if she was using him for support because she was still feeling weak.
The large, oak doors were wide open, so that the flickering torchlight cast a warm glow on the stone walkway as they approached. Inside, Alastar noted his brothers in arms at the head table, their ladies in waiting, men at arms, and servants occupying the rest of the room. It wasn’t arranged like the King’s great hall down south in Gulanri, but more like a church with a large tapestry at the front of the room that had on it the image of the glowing sword of Saint Rodrick. It framed Sir Gildon’s seat nicely, situated at the top of the stairs, alone, with his own personal table for meals.
An approving glance found its way to Alastar as he entered, but just as quick, the High Paladin had returned to his meal, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.
“Come, I’ll escort you to your table,” Alastar said to his sister.
She pulled her arm free and shook her head. “That would make me appear weak. We can’t have that.”
He frowned, but nodded. “If you have any troubles…”
“You’re half-way across the room, not off in the highlands or something. I’ll be fine.”
She patted his arm and walked off, leaving him to watch her go. He knew no other love like this. His last living relative, sharing the blood of the mother and father the two would never know.
He had his paladin brethren, but would otherwise feel lost without her.
But as she had said, this was his night. His opportunity to finally shine like so many had before him and, he hoped, have a chance to fulfill his holy duty. He wanted nothing more than to go on the quest, recover the Sword of Light, and earn the respect of Sir Gildon.
“There he is, the warlock hunter of the hour!” Sir Taland stood, the tallest of the paladins, with flowing blond hair. He motioned Alastar over to a seat on the bench at his side. Others nodded their respect as he sat, many of them having been in his spot before, but not all.
“Do tell—” the dark-skinned, gaunt paladin sitting across the table, Sir Bale, leaned forward, eyes glimmering in the torchlight “—what form of the dark arts did he manifest against you?”
Alastar relished the moment. He leaned back, letting the anticipation build as the others waited for his answer.
“Fire,” he finally said, and motioned with his hand as if creating fire himself. “The barn was already aflame when we arrived, and when I stepped in to defend the lady Sera, he threw a wall of flame first, followed by an actual ball of fire.”
“Odd how he hasn’t used a lick of magic down there in the dungeons,” Taland said. “The minute we capture them, nothing. Which makes me wonder…”
“He’s one of them,” Alastar said, affronted at the implied accusation, “you can see the singe marks on my other cloak, if you’d like.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust your word, brother,” Taland said. “It’s that these bastards are all the same. They use magic against us and our countrymen when out there, but once they’re surrounded by a bunch of paladins? Nothing.”
“They know magic, sure enough,” a rough voice said from behind, and Alastar twisted to see that Sir Gildon had been listening and actually joined in the conversation. “But they are evil, as all magic users are. Evil is like the darkness. How can it continue to exist when surrounded by such light as ourselves?”
The others nodded and murmured their agreement. It was known that magic users were evil. If they were wrong, why would the Saint give them blessings so? It was certainly a holy sign of their true beliefs.
Alastar couldn’t help but notice a darkness cross his sister’s expression as she turned back to look at the High Paladin. Was she offended at something he had done? While the High Paladin was pure and a true knight to look up to, Rhona often heard tales of him mistreating servants, and let them get to her.
Alastar brushed it off as not important for now, but made a mental note to ask about it later.
Sir Gildon’s eyes turned to the nearest torch, where he lost himself in thought for a moment. For Alastar, this man was everything he wanted to be. Honor, devotion, and a direct line of power to their saint. All the man had to do was pray over water to make it holy, and run his hand over gem stones in their armor or weapons to bless it with the Saint’s powers. There was none more deserving of the paladins’ devotion in all the land, and none better suited to lead this war against the evils of magic.
As the flames flickered in his eyes, the High Paladin blinked, then rose to stand. The hall fell silent.
“My warriors of the Saint, my paladins, and our followers, today another blow has been dealt in the war against evil. A user of magic, a warlock, was reported to be within our territory, and justice was dealt swiftly. He sits in our dungeons as we speak, awaiting punishment. Who do we owe this to?”
The room turned their gaze to him intently, Alastar straightening up with anticipation.
“First and foremost,” the high paladin continued, “the almighty Saint Rodrick. For all deeds are done through his favor. But we must not forget our own, our servants of the light, and today that honor goes to Sir Alastar Blackthorne!”
Cheers erupted from the paladin table, mugs clanking against wood and feet stomping.
The high paladin smiled down at him, the tapestry with its shining sword standing out strong in an almost halo effect. “Tomorrow, he joins the next group in the holy quest. Let it not be said that I forget those loyal to the cause. Let it not be said that practitioners of magic are allowed to roam freely. They will all be punished!”
More cheering rose throughout the great hall.
“But tonight, we celebrate!”
With that he lowered his head and said a prayer under his breath. He opened his eyes, still glimmering gold from the prayer, and then motioned to the great hall where, at once the torches went out, but a brilliant, gleaming light spread across the stone ceiling.
No matter how many times the men at arms and servants saw this small miracle, it awed them. Hell, Alastar’s prayers were often answered, and yet, he still found these miracles inspiring.
Servants began to pour out of the side-doors with the platters of food Alastar had smelled on his way in. Everything from the roast pheasant to mounds of potatoes, fruits, alternate main dishes of blood pudding and sausages.
The men at arms were given jugs of ale and other spirits, though the paladins abstained, as was their holy duty. Men regaled each other with war stories, such as the time Sir Taland had stood up to a dozen clansmen by himself and bested their witch, a woman who had conjured a water spirit and attempted to drown him with her evil magic.
Alastar wasn’t sure he believed such stories, but he went along with the laughter just like the men to his right. More than once, however, he found himself glancing over to his sister to make sure she wasn’t feeling ill again. So far, no negative signs aside from the annoyed look she gave him the fourth time she caught him.
As they ate their dinner and laughter surrounded them, Alastar’s friend, Stone, leaned over and held his knife like a sword. The man was built like a pile of stones, but that’s not the only reason he got the name—one day they’d come across a wind mage who had attacked them without warning and, while the rest were clinging to the nearest tree for their lives, Stone had charged the man. He was lifted into the air by the winds, but not before managing to cleave the mage’s head from his shoulders. That, they all had figured, proved the man had some massive stones between his legs. So it had stuck. Some of the ladies of the castle had tried to find out if the legend was true, but he stuck to his oaths, far as Alastar could tell anyway.
“You been training, Al?” Stone said. “You go out there on the holy quest at my side and don’t know how to swing your blade, me and you got a problem.”
“Last time we were on the sparring field, what happened?”
Stone grunted and jabbed his knife into the chicken breast before him, but grinned. “Luck’s what happened, and we both know it.”
“Let me say this, Stone. The two of us go into battle, I’m not leaving your side for a minute. I promise I won’t let the big bad remnant hurt you.”
The others nearby laughed at that and Stone grinned. Alastar, for his part, didn’t find the idea of remnant humorous at all. They were like men, but wild, crazed, and as far as the stories went, focused entirely on violence. They could not be reasoned with. They only wanted to wreak havoc.
But he grinned at Stone, and nodded. The two had become friends in the training yard, as Alastar and Taland were the only ones able to truly take him down, and Alastar had only done so twice. Anyone that could take down Stone soon became his friend, which meant he only had the two friends. Everyone else still had to earn their place with him.
“You really think the boy’ll be going?” Taland said, lowering his voice with a sideways glance up to the High Paladin. “Come on, Alastar. So you took down one fire mage. You didn’t kill him.”
“Lady Death has her hands full after all the gifts you’ve given her,” Alastar said, jokingly. But then he added, “And the mothers and widows left behind have enough names to curse without adding mine to the mix.”
Taland sneered. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were on their side.”
“Because I don’t want to see lives taken needlessly?”
“They are the enemy. Their lives don’t matter.”
The others had grown silent now, but Stone tore off a chunk of bread with his teeth and, with a full mouth, said, “All lives matter.”
Soon the talk had returned to laughter, ignoring the little confrontation. It wasn’t until the meal had been cleaned away and dessert was before them that the first shouting came from outside.
“The hell?” Taland was the first to stand, reaching for his sword. “Men, to arms!”
Check out Justin Sloan’s other books at: http://www.justinsloanauthor.com