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
Storm Raiders – Snippet 1
We have a new series, a new book, and a new sneak peek!
P.T. Hylton and Michael Anderle are working on a new series in The Age of Magic world, Storm Magic. We have the first snippet from book one, Storm Raiders today!
Storm Raiders – Snippet 1
Unedited
Abbey rarely went looking for a fight, but fights often came looking for her.
Her father’s shop was quiet that morning. She worked the bellows, stoking the fire hot enough to melt the iron he was shaping into a helmet. They performed their tasks silently, with the efficiency of a team that had been working together for many years. Abbey could tell instinctively what her father needed of her, and she did it before he even had a chance to ask.
The bell in the front of the shop chimed as the door opened. Abbey and her father exchanged an annoyed glance—being interrupted at a fire was a pet peeve for both of them, even if it was a paying customer. He took off his gloves and apron, setting them carefully on the workbench, then he sauntered to the front of the shop. Abbey stayed at the bellows so she could tend to the fire, but she had a good angle to see and hear what was going on up front. Her nose wrinkled in annoyance when she saw who it was: Lawrence and his son Olaf.
Lawrence put his hands on the counter and leaned forward, glaring at Abbey’s father. “Morning, Benjamin. I assume it’s ready?”
Benjamin grabbed a long object wrapped in oilcloth and set it down in front of Lawrence. “Indeed it is. Made to your exact specifications.”
Lawrence unrolled the cloth, his long, knobby fingers working with surprising deftness. Olaf peered excitedly over his father’s shoulder. Soon, the iron sword inside the cloth was exposed. It gleamed in the light as Lawrence picked it up and inspected it. He let out a displeased grumble.
Abbey shook her head. She’d checked the sword herself the night before, and she knew it was perfect. It was well balanced, beautifully decorated with the symbols Lawrence had requested, and sharp enough that a man could shave with it. Granted, it wasn’t quite the equal of her father’s sword, which hung behind the counter, but few swords were.
But this was the city of Holdgate. Grumbling about the product was an expected part of the negotiation process. As was what came next.
“I suppose it will do.” Lawrence’s voice dripped with reluctance as if he was granting Benjamin a favor in accepting this subpar weapon. He reached for the coin purse at his belt. “Twenty iron, then?”
Now Benjamin grimaced. He hated these games, Abbey knew, but after sixteen years in Holdgate, he’d learned to accept them as necessary to doing business here. “Lawrence, you know the agreed upon price was forty.”
“Was it?” He made a show of inspecting the weapon again. “Perhaps for a well-made blade. But this…” His voice trailed off. He clearly couldn’t think of any specific complaint.
Abbey wondered what would happen next. Often the customer would demand negotiation by combat at this stage, but a single glance at the two men on either side of the counter revealed that would not be a smart move on Lawrence’s part. Thick muscles stood out on Benjamin’s arms, and his experience with swords went far beyond making them.
Lawrence, on the other hand, looked like he’d have trouble battling a stiff wind. Like most men in Holdgate, he was a few inches taller than Benjamin, but he didn’t have the usual stocky build of most Holdgatesmen. Abbey knew Benjamin would break Lawrence in half if it came to combat.
Lawrence didn’t take his eyes off the blade when he spoke again. “The sword is a gift to Olaf for his eighteenth birthday. I’ll tell you what. He’ll fight you for the blade. If you win, we’ll pay the ridiculous fee you quoted. But if he wins, twenty is the price.”
From where Abbey stood, she could see Olaf grinning dumbly at Benjamin. Unlike his father, Olaf was sturdy Holdgate stock. He was a few inches taller than Lawrence and nearly as well-muscled as Benjamin. He’d have no shortage of offers of employment on the storm ships in the coming months, Abbey knew.
Benjamin looked the kid over. “I don’t think so.”
Lawrence cackled in surprise. “I never thought I’d see the day Benjamin of Arcadia was afraid to face a Holdgate whelp. Getting old, are you?”
Abbey gripped the bellows to keep herself from marching over there and teaching Lawrence some manners.
The hint of a smile played on Benjamin’s lips. “Perhaps I am. Young Olaf deserves a real challenge. He doesn’t want to fight an old man like me.”
Lawrence set the sword down on the oilcloth. “Excellent. We’ll be taking it for twenty iron, then.”
“Sure. But you’ll have to earn it at that price. You can have it for twenty if Olaf can defeat my daughter.”
Now it was Abbey’s turn to smile.
To find out more about P. T. Hylton and his other books visit:
Alpha Class: The Etheric Academy, Book 2 audiobook release!
Woohoo! Audiobook release!
Alpha Class: The Etheric Academy, Book 2
Wide open spaces. Ancient ruins. Pissed off governments. Five adventurous students.
What could possibly go wrong?
Tag along as we follow Alpha Class as they study with Jeo, the lead of the Engineering team, and learn about engineering by reviewing important marvels across the earth.
Without getting permission.
If they thought the moon was dangerous, wait till they return to Earth.
A Kurtherian Gambit Adventure for younger listeners…or those who are young at heart.
The audio book of Alpha Class: The Etheric Academy, Book 2 is available at:
Nomad Avenged – Snippet 2
Terry Henry Walton Chronicles Book 7
Massive reveal in this snippet, so if you want to wait until the book is ready, do not read on! We are shooting for a May 29 publication date.
Our big news is that we’re getting our driveway leveled out. It gained an inconvenient dip which made for a steep climb at the end. The fuel truck couldn’t make it up as they jammed their back bumper against the hill. The paving contractor will be here today to take care of it. Phyllis will let them know of her dismay with their big truck noises.
Snippet 2
Unedited
Billy leaned heavily on his cane. Marcie fussed over her toddler while Kaeden carried the baby. Felicity still looked young and vibrant. Like Char, she appeared to be a sister to her daughter, not her mother.
And definitely not a grandmother.
“Had I known that you received the gift of nanocytes, I wouldn’t have changed anything,” Billy said, his rough voice barely more than a croak. His hard life had caught up with him as he approached sixty-five years of age.
“I honestly never knew,” Felicity drawled. One day I was hiding in the ruins. Someone came and I ran. I fell and was badly injured. When I woke up, I was different. Healed but different. When Terry showed up, I sensed that he had something similar, but so much greater. I never wanted to be different like that. I wanted to be young and beautiful, but that was a stupid teenagers dream.”
Felicity hugged her husband, holding him to keep from pushing him down.
“This is the part that makes me question how worthwhile it was. I’m going to lose you, Billy and here I am, living on without you. Marcie doesn’t have them and neither do the kids. My greatest fear is that I’m going to outlive them all. Be careful what you ask for, because you may get it.”
A tear trailed down Felicity’s beautiful cheek. Her hair was styled and she wore make-up, like she always did. That was her persona, perpetually beautiful, the mayor’s wife, but no longer.
She was simply called the mayor, now.
Without Billy, time was losing its luster. She thought about stepping down and moving on, but that wasn’t what she wanted either. Felicity only wanted to grow old.
She laughed out loud.
“My how times change, don’t they Billy dear?” she quipped, not expecting a response. He looked at her and smiled.
“I’ll sit here and watch you play with the kids,” he told her. They’d installed a bench outside the mayor’s building a long time back. It was Billy and Felicity’s favorite place. They watched the entire community pass through Mayor’s Park at one point or another. It hosted all the best social gatherings of North Chicago.
Felicity patted Billy’s arm and ran down the steps to join Kaeden and Marcie.
Kaeden had turned into a stout young man, barely taller than Billy, but wide and strong. He worked on the fishing boat most days, but not today.
The baby fussed in Kae’s arms. “Do you need your mommy?” he asked little William, but Marcie gave him a full stink eye. He reconsidered his position, before adding. “No you don’t!”
He turned and walked away, bouncing the baby merrily.
“Just like his mother, that one,” Felicity suggested. Marcie furled her brow.
“You’re saying I was a fussy baby? That’s not how I remember it,” she retorted.
“People thought I was a mutant with a permanent attachment on my hip,” Felicity replied, smiling. “You always needed to be bounced. If that’s the worst of it? You’re going to be just fine.”
________________________________________________________________________________
So much going on! Twenty-five years have passed since Nomad’s Justice. We are in a race to finish the 150 total years since the WWDE. You aren’t missing anything. I intend to write plenty of short stories to fill in any gaps with missing characters.
In the interim, spring has sprung. The moose are feeding ravenously on the willow leaves as you can see this cow doing just off our back porch. Otherwise, the paving contractor is coming this morning to fill a rather extensive dip in our driveway. My tractor kept getting stuck when I was trying to clean off the snow this past winter. We shan’t have a repeat of that. And the fuel truck isn’t able to make the steep slope, so we’re having everything leveled out.
And no, the tractor still is not fixed. I heated the nut mercilessly and then tried to crack it. All it did was make my wrench hot. The nut and idler wheel are still in place. I’m going to have to to pay for reinforcements. One freaking nut.
That’s my excitement for the day. I’m sure Phyllis will bark up a storm when the contracting crew is working, but then she’ll sleep well for the rest of the day:).
To find out more about Craig Martelle and his other books visit: http://www.craigmartelle.com
ACTIVATED – The Ascension Myth Book 02 – Snippet 02 of …
Molly looked like she wanted to beat a hole in the wall if Paige was about to add to Brock’s delusion. “What are you talking about?” she asked in her most practical, even keeled voice.
“Demons,” Paige answered, just as seriously. ”Dimensional Etheric Mediums Of the Next Sector,” she answered as she pointed towards the door.
Molly replied, “You mean, evil things like ghosts and spirits and—”
Paige shook her head, “No. You’re thinking of the ancient human myths, I think,” she explained. “Although those stories were thought to have stemmed from the same phenomenon as Estarian Dimensional Walkers.”
Joel looked confused. He carefully placed a box down next to the new pile they’d been making. He stopped to listen to Paige until he felt the sudden and sharp pain of Molly’s elbow in his ribs. He swiped at her head, which she ducked easily, then went back to the boxes.
Brock noticed that the disarray was making his otherwise tidy workshop look like a dumping ground again.
Molly wasn’t done debunking. “Are you fucking with me?” she asked, now looking at Paige, eyes narrowed.
Paige shook her head playfully, smiling slightly at the reaction of the three humans around her.
Joel jumped in before Molly could quiz Paige. “So what are these dimensional traveling things?” He casually wiped the sweat off his forehead with his forearm. That last box had been a challenge.
“They’re called dimensional travelers, locally, or DEMONS officially. They’re ascended persons who can travel in and out of neighboring dimensions,” Paige explained.
“I didn’t think you were into all that?” Molly probed, thinking back to their conversation back on Estaria.
Paige had made it very clear that even though she was descended from a very spiritually powerfully line, she was in no way interested in continuing the family traditions.
Of course, this heart-to-heart had taken place over a few too many beers, so it was entirely possible Molly had misunderstood.
“I’m not,” she agreed, “but this part is well known and scientifically documented. It’s the bit about what you need to do to ascend that I’m just not into.”
Brock, absently wiping the dust off his hands with a rag he’d pulled out of his overalls pocket, took a step closer to the circle of intrigued crew that had formed around Paige. “You mean you know how to ascend?”
Paige pursed her lips, “Yeah. I mean, my grandmother taught me some stuff. But I think it’s mostly a load of quack-a-doodle. Plus, I’m not interested in spending my life meditating as I wait for death. That’s why I dropped it as soon as I was allowed to. But it’s totally doable.”
Unknown Location
A man smoking a cigar, wearing civilian clothing in a room full of military personnel, leaned into his screen. He was carefully watching something unfold that might just tip the scales in world events a few—or a lot—of systems away. He always was annoyed to have to place these damned locations. A perfect ring of smoke wafted up past his head from his most recent drag of the coveted Earth product.
An audio feed hailed him. “Sir, the generals are ready for your input, if you’d care to join them.”
The room hummed with quiet activity, holo feeds pulling intel from all over the galaxy. The outside world thought there was peace, but one man knew otherwise. He was waiting. Preparing. Playing the political cards as he had to, but all the while biding his time until the human race needed defending again.
The man took another draw on his cigar. “In a minute, ADAM. This is getting damn funny.” He chuckled away gently to himself, nodding politely to an ensign who recognized him as he hurried past the console he was occupying.
“Very well, Sir,” ADAM replied. “I’ll let them know you’ll be a little while longer.”
“Thank you, ADAM.” The man watched the holo feed in anticipation. “I’m just waiting to see how long it’s going to take Ms. Bates to try the door handle.”
There was a slight pause in the audio feed.
A moment later the audio feed came back online and ADAM spoke. “I calculate, based on her behavior observed thus far, using a decision heuristic designed for human cognitive abilities, she is four seconds away, within a tolerance of point three seconds.”
The cigar-smoking man took another drag and started to smile, as if challenged by a young buck. “Care to put a wager on that?” he asked, seeing if he could needle the AI into putting his money where his heuristic was.
ADAM didn’t hesitate. “One hundred credits.”
“Done,” the man said. “I think longer. And if I win, it’s coming out of your allowance. You’re not to just adjust the figures in my account. You hear me?”
“I hear, General,” ADAM agreed in an even tone. “I understand the psychology of betting. There has to be a downside disincentive for me for this to be a true game.”
The man grunted and waved his cigar.
FROM ELL >>> When the comments for a section of BOOK 2 got bounced back to me, MA had inserted some random stuff about the Central Systems, and how the planets were organised around Sark.
I tried to convince him to take it out.
Ellie: It’s superfluous, and it’s getting in the way of the story.
MA: Yeah, but even I’m still not clear on how these damn planets are organised. The fans aren’t going to know from what we’ve written.
Ellie: Ok, but it’s not important for this part of the story. They know there is Estaria and the asteroid. That’s the important stuff.
MA: Right but they need to know. Go ask them on fb what they think…
MA: And don’t do some clever shit to weight the question to get the answer you want!
**Ellie goes away to ask the question**
—
—
**Comes back to Slack a few hours later**
Ellie: FUCK.
MA: ????
Ellie: You were right.
MA: Sorry, what was that?
Ellie: You were right, dammit. They want maps, diagrams, prologues and the whole goddamn enchilada. And you were right.
MA: 😊
**Ellie gets to work again**
Check out more conversations on Ell’s FB Page here: https://www.facebook.com/ellleighclarke/
Shades of Light – Snippet 3
Snippet 3 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!”
To find out about Justin Sloan and his books: http://www.justinsloanauthor.com/
FROM JUSTIN >>> This is a bit of a long snippet, but I wanted to really get you into it. Why hold back, right? Guess what? I’ve been reading the Brandon Barr and PT Hylton books that fall under the Age of Magic (like this book does – and they’ll all intersect in cool ways), and guess what? They are AMAZING. I love those writers. Fun characters you care about, good humor, and great times all around.
Stay tuned for more snippets from me, and soon some from them!
Also, check out their other books:
THE DARKEST NIGHT – Snippet 08 of …
UNEDITED
The flash of lightening was bright enough, the flash as it vaporized the attack ship with Marc and Stephanie nearly blinded Terek. “Land this fucking thing already, or I’m going to throw up all over you!” Terek yelled as his partner, Leon whooped and yelled as they flew from The Folly over to the prize.
“God damn, did you see the explosion? That could have been us!” Leon exclaimed.
“That isn’t helping, Leon.” Terek muttered, as he refrained from slapping his pilot in the back of his head.
The CLANG of their landing did little for Terek’s stomach. He patted himself down quickly, not caring too much if he lost a couple of items if he could just get the fuck out of this small death trap.
He’d kick the shit out of Leon later.
The canopy on their little anti-grav ship cracked open and he reached up to push. The damned thing absolutely couldn’t get open fast enough for him.
The sudden BANG from Leon’s pistol inside the canopy startled the shit out of him as well as a female yelling from right next to him.
“Motherfucker that’s my most comfortable shirt you just put a hole in!”
Terek heard Leon’s scream as an arm reached into the cockpit and crushed Leon’s hand. His screams turned to gurgles when she beat him in the head three times, then chopped him in the neck. Once for each word she yelled out.
“That…Hurt…You…Bastard!”
The fourth chop to Leon’s throat caused his final choking.
Terek was busy yanking out his pistol to pull it up and aim at the woman. He saw her yellow glowing eyes and new immediately that he was fucked.
He had no silver bullets in his pistol. There weren’t supposed to be any werewolves flying over the fucking sea so who needed silver?
Apparently, he needed silver.
She had glanced over at him as she was beating the shit out of Leon and didn’t seem too worried. Terek found out why when another arm reached over and grabbed his wrist, easily breaking it, the pistol hanging limply from fingers he couldn’t control.
The screaming was now coming from his own mouth.
He grabbed his wrist and turned to look up into the eyes of a male standing next to me and his spirit gave up. “Oh, fuck me!” Terek grunted when he noticed his red glowing eyes.
“Not my type,” the young vampire answered as he popped the belt off of Terek and casually pulled him from the skid and tossed him, screaming, over the side of the ship.
“He’s not?” Jacqueline asked as she unbuckled the first pirate and pulled him out of the little craft. She pulled the pirate out with two arms, “How the fuck did you make this seem so easy?” She grunted, then turned towards the middle of the craft and heaved the pirate’s body back over her head, sending it off the side of the ship.
There was no yelling from this body.
Mark smiled as he answered. “Practice.”
—
Captain O’Banion swallowed as he and those on the bridge watched the casual way the two youth took out the four would-be pirates. No one on the bridge said a word, but all could feel the fear cross with the gratitude.
Without these two, they might have had deaths on the ship as they fought pirates they wouldn’t have known were sneaking aboard.
Who tries to land those damned anti-grav slips in a storm? There was no one stupid enough to try that.
Except these pirates who had just all been greeted then casually thrown over the ship to fall to their deaths.
And the one Jacqueline had beat the shit out of for shooting her.
“I think the young woman is going to need food,” Miles spoke into the quiet of the bridge. “Timms, take care of that. Someone also needs to make sure that Mark is ok. I didn’t see if he got hurt, but we need to make sure he is ok.” The Captain turned to Sasha who had spoken before, “Are you up to making sure Mark is ok?”
This time, the infatuation Sasha usually displayed when talking about Mark was absent.
It was replaced with fear.
—
Michael had spent the better part of fifteen minutes locating the heartbeats, the heavy breathing and finally the people who were doing both.
Twice, he had heard gunshots that didn’t come near him. Later, he found those who had taken their own lives. For those, he made the sign of the cross over their bodies.
They had come to grips with their own sins.
Now, he had only the final location, the engine room, to deal with. He moved down the hallway and started slowly walking down the steps to the lower level.
Click, click, click, click.
Behind him, the ship was deathly quiet.
Engine Room on the Folly
Cholly Jake hadn’t been able to raise the bridge in over five minutes. It told him all he needed to know.
The anti-Christ had found them, just like his mother had told him thirty years before, from her deathbed.
“You be careful you not be doing what you ain’t supposed to be!” She had said, “Or the dark Christ will take you out one day!”
He was busy wrapping the wire around his dead man’s switch as his mind replayed that last conversation, the touch of his mother’s hand caressing his cheek as a tear tracked down the face of the younger version of him.
He reached up and wiped it off, again.
“I might be joining you soon, mom,” he whispered. “But I won’t go down without taking the devil with me.”.
He pulled hard, busting the wire and turned around as the steps kept coming closer to his engine room.
It was a shame he wouldn’t be able to see the explosion from the outside. He had always wanted to know what happened when you fused all of the power in the anti-grav core.
—
Amanda, shivering next to Arnold spoke into his chest as they huddled outside on the deck of the ship. “The screaming has stopped.”
With the screaming dying, so had the fear. Now, to Arnold, it felt like the danger was walking away from the two of them.
Not that he could do one damned thing about it.
He had been trying to figure out how they could get inside, and the only solution, that he could figure out was unhooking some of the equipment and trying to break the windows to get back into the ship. Well, probably a window so that Amanda could get back in.
He was usually too big for that.
Plus, he could probably hold her over the sharp edges to protect her. He would get scratched, but with some protection, nothing too bad.
He was starting to look around, to figure out which equipment might work when the ship dropped probably ten feet, the two of them slamming back down on the deck.
“Oh, fuck…” Arnold whispered.
There was no way he would be able to save her from a fall this high.
—
“I know your here!” Cholly yelled out, his eyes darting all around the engine room. “I’m ready to answer for my sins, are you?”
The maddening voice came back calm, cool and without any rushing. “If I could die, I would have a long time ago, Cholly Jake.”
“How the hell do you know my name!” Cholly looked behind him and up, just to make sure the bastard hadn’t figured out a way to slip in there somehow. His left hand gripped the dead man’s switch feverishly. “You know neither of us are getting out of this, right?”
“No, Cholly Jake,” the voice replied, “I’m not so sure of that.”
Cholly licked his lips, “My momma warned me about you, but I didn’t believe her. We all thought she was slightly damaged in the brain. The stories she would tell after her dreaming.”
“Stories? People have told dream stories for centuries, Cholly. I should know I’ve heard them for over a thousand years.”
Cholly whispered a curse as he decided to let go. A vise like grip wrapped around his own hand on the dead man switch, keeping his grip tight.
“Now,” the voice whispered to Cholly, who had closed his eyes, expecting the ship to blow apart. “The problem with a device like this is the person you are playing with might be able to read your thoughts.”
Cholly opened one fearful eye and took in the visage of the man in front of him. He was holding a sword in his right hand, his left hand wrapped around Cholly’s own.
He grinned at Cholly.
“If he can read your thoughts, he will know if you intend to truly kill yourself, and when. Then, he gets to play you.” Michael looked down at the dead man switch. “You won’t be needing this anymore.”
Michael slashed down, severing Cholly’s hand at the wrist. He moved to Cholly’s left as the man screamed, grabbing his bleeding stump and dropping to his knees so he was out of the way of the spurting blood.
“So, dead man’s switches only work…”
The ship dropped suddenly, and Cholly gasped as he lost his balance. Michael looked around and back at the switch. He chewed his lip and finished his statement, “If you release them, or apparently do a piss-poor job making them in the first place.”
The ship dropped a second time and Cholly looked back to grin at the man. Looks like Cholly was going to win with or without his hand.
Except the devil wasn’t there anymore.
—
The ship dropped a second time and Arnold let go of the handle on the door to hold Amanda in his arms.
“Why now you big ox?” Her muffled voice cried, “Now that we are going to die, you have the courage to hold me.”
“I’ve told you before,” he answered, playing with her hair a moment until the ship lurched. The two of them went sprawling back ten feet. Arnold yelled for Amanda and grabbed her leg. There was a clang from the door as it slammed open.
Good thing the two of them weren’t there, or they would absolutely be dead at the moment.
Then, he felt Amanda, himself and … another … as they floated away from the ship. Arnold’s vision was focused on their ship as they sped away. The ship was falling slowly when a large black circle encased it, all of it shrunk for a split second, then shattered and exploded out. An invisible wave causing massive disturbances in the clouds around the ship, before it was lost to his sight.
“Arnold?” Amanda’s voice called out, gentle in the night.
“I’m here, Amanda.” he replied, trying to get a lock on where her voice was coming from.
That’s when a third voice entered their conversation, and Arnold’s blood, if he had any still, chilled.
FROM MICHAEL >>> WOOHOOO! Now, I get to take you to the next scene w/ Akio and Lightening! (Michael get’s a bit perturbed at the storm.)
I am in Cabo San Lucas at the moment, but WRITING! I wrote chapter (13? 14?) yesterday on the plane flight down and about to do a sprint this morning before a meeting. Then two more I think this afternoon, minimum.
For those who have read the first Ascension Book, WE HEAR YOU. Yes, the connection to the Etheric Empire isn’t explained (or VERY vague) in the first book and that was on purpose. However, I can tell you when I finished Ellie’s story, I had goose bumps.
She wrote that last scene like a witch.
You WILL know that there is a connection, and I think you will find it to be pretty kick ass.
Michael
ACTIVATED – The Ascension Myth Book 02 – Snippet 1 of …
Prologue
Those on the QBBS Meredith Reynolds fought for the Queen who became their Empress. In time, as the battles and the fighting were reduced and new generations were born to those in space, humans left the Meredith Reynolds and settled on planets both within and outside of the Etheric Empire.
To the human settlers in the Sark System, the Milky Way became known as the Pan Galaxy, because that was what it resembled when viewed from the far edges of the aging Sagittarius Dwarf Galaxy. What the humans of Earth called Sagittarius had no meaning without that constellation. To those who had lived on the other side of the Annex all their lives, their home was known as the Loop Galaxy because of the way it circled the Pan.
The Sark System had four planets. Two were close to the star Sark, their sun, and two orbit in the farthest reaches. In between there was an asteroid belt with a particularly interesting asteroid known to a tiny population of inhabitants as Gaitune-67.
The two inner planets were called Estaria and Ogg; the two outer planets were Secoria and Teshovia.
By the time the third generation of human settlers was born in the Sark system, news came down that the Etheric Empire was done with their wars on the Kurtherians and were seeking to become the Etheric Federation. This third generation of humans who settled on Estaria included a little girl.
Her name was Molly.
Broken in spirit, she didn’t understand that the future is determined not by your mistakes, but by the depth of your ability to make things happen and the power of those who believed in you.
This set of stories explains how Molly and those who came to love the broken young woman would challenge the might of the political and powerful and find out the truth.
The truth of the Ascension Myth.
CHAPTER ONE
Gaitune-67, Safe House, Basement Workshop
Brock and Molly stared at the reinforced metal door.
Molly took a deep breath. “Brock, it’s a door.”
Brock tapped the door with his wrench. “With demons or hellz knows what else behind it!” His voice rose half an octave over the course of just one sentence. Brock had piled boxes up against it after his minor freak out and they showed telltale signs of having been disturbed: his handprints in the dust, and a slight haphazardness to the stacking.
“Well, I don’t know what’s behind it, but there are a fuck-ton of boxes in front of it.” She looked over at him. “That’s a lot of boxes for a boogie man to get through.” She mused a moment more. “He’d likely get a hernia, I’m thinking.”
Brock detected a hint of irony in her voice.
He looked sideways at her. “You…you! Don’t be shittin’ me, girl. This demon—this is for realz, and I don’t want no ancestors up in my face when I’m working down here.”
His face had paled, and Molly had to stifle a rising laugh.
She couldn’t help but feel that this was akin to a youngster being afraid of what was under the bed.
A grown man, trained in the arts of science and engineering—one motherfucking badass with a spanner or a hammer—had a big-ass fear of what might be behind an average creepy-looking door that he couldn’t find a way to open.
At some point over the last week he had also set up an array of temporary lights that had helped him feel more comfortable when he was down there alone.
Molly studied the dusty boxes as if they were a three-dimensional logic puzzle. Her brain ticked as Brock waited in anticipation of her verdict.
She had arrived back at the base hours ago, but had declared that she needed rack time before dealing with whatever “motherfucking drama is going on in the basement.” He had let her sleep and caffeinate before she inquired as to what the problem was.
Joel agreed; Brock had made the right call by waiting.
Now, effectively the next day, she had hauled her “lady-boss ass”—as he called it—down to the basement to assess said drama.
Molly exhaled again. There was no easy way to do this.
“Okay, help me.” she told him, stepping up and tugging at one of the middle boxes.
“Girlfriend, you are signing our death warrant, if my Grindle-senses are right.” Brock attempted to sound playful, but anxiety still laced his voice.
“The hell is a grindle?” she asked, hands still on the first box.
Brock stopped a moment, scratching his head with his wrench. “They are kinda small and have ten legs around a central body. I read about ‘em one time. They sit inside of a little hole they build, and then when they sense something above them, they jump out and attack. Wrap ‘em up and eat ‘em.”
“Sounds like a spider from my old holo-documentaries,” she mumbled.
Molly pushed one of the middle boxes slightly with an eye to moving the whole stack, but found that it was too damned heavy.
Brock lifted the top one down.
“If we have ancestors and demon-shit coming after us, it’s on you.” He eyed her knowingly, like a witch doctor who has seen the future.
He carried the first box over to a space in the center of the workshop, as he had done only a matter of days ago.
Paige and Joel emerged from the stairwell, catching some of the conversation. Paige stopped to observe the unfolding events.
Joel pitched in with lifting the boxes. “Whatcha mean, demons?” he asked, curious as to what he’d missed. “I didn’t think Ms. Molly believed in ghosts and ghouls and all that kind of thing?”
He caught her eye and made a face at her as he turned with a box.
She picked up a box from the stack, and catching the look he gave her, rolled her eyes back at him.
Brock dropped another box out of the way. “No, I’m talking about those dimensional-traveling bastards. I get a feeling like I’m being watched around that door, and I just know there is something up with that shit.”
Brock stopped and leaned to the left. He balanced on one leg and shook the other, then resumed walking.
Joel opened his mouth to give Brock grief, but Paige piped up, interrupting him. “Yeah, that could be true,” she agreed.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her.
FROM ELLIE >>>
So MA and I are on Zoom, chewing the fat and chatting about ADAM. MA was musing what might happen if ADAM ever got his own body, and he randomly asked:
MA: Would Molly ever want Oz out?
Ellie: No.
MA: Why?
Ellie: Because she loves him.
MA: Why?
Ellie: Because he’s useful.
MA: … That’s such a Molly comment.
**Ellie’s head hits desk**
— AS SEEN ON ELLIE’S FACEBOOK PAGE
(you have to go there to see ALL of the replies, but this one was kind of out of context, and funny!) FB Page URL : http://www.facebook.com/ellleighclarke
ELLIE >> Question: Hey Ascenders! I need your help with something, if I may?
Just been having a “discussion” with MA about something in Book 2. Do you guys understand the layout of the Sark System: two inner planets (Ogg and Estaria), two outer planets (can never remember their names but we mention them in a car ride), asteroid belt in the middle? Or is this something we have to explain in Book 2??
(Skipping some awesome answers…)
😐 I will be back to check on you later. After I sleep. Please make sure you have the accomadations ready for the Pixie delegation. Do not worry about designating a spot for their embassy…they prefer to pick their own spot. If they find you do not have space enough outside they will grudgingly take a room over in your home but they require you to fill it will potted plants. *shrugs shoulders* what can I say…it is in their contract. Which reminds me, please do not attempt to subvert them to your side, they are under contract to The Horde and they take their contracts very seriously.
😉
The Pixies do best when they hear the joyful sound of typing. Do try to keep them happy. Their new contract required we replace their spears (I believe MA likened their encouragement to ant bites, but I digress…) we replaced the spears with tiny pitchforks. My humble suggestion is to type faster…it lulls the pixies into a peaceful mindstate. *tilts head to the side and slowly smiles* Angry pixies have a tendency to prod you back into the house to type more. This actually makes getting the snippets to The Horde a bit difficult. *evil laugh* I will send Bowser around for a snippet later.
*brightly colored portal begins to open*