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
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: