J.W. Webb's Blog

Beyond, and Below … A Search for Who We Are …

Imagine your entire world snatched away. Leaving you redundant, cold, and lost. No one can hear you. You’re receding. Caught like a fly on a spider’s web, muffled or choked on a dark trip that tugs you down through midnight water. Everything you took as tangible and normal pulled apart, revealing a gaping hole where the dark things creep out.

How to fight back … ?

Such is the challenge that faces Sir Garland and Queen Ariane of the Swords in the final book comprising the Journeyman Trilogy. A darker thread to the ongoing Legends of Ansu series.

The Sea God’s Woman concludes the trilogy that started with The Emerald Queen and continued through The Voyage of Carlo Sarfe. Our stalwarts find themselves deep underwater and weaving through the cosmic wilderness to confront …

The Orb of the Shadowman.

A faceless entity hiding an army of demons. A rising tide of menace impossible to define. A star devouring scar created by a fallen god.

How can our stalwarts battle a phenomenon so intangible?

The answer lies with courage, destiny, and hope. A belief that the universe will prevail. Mend itself, like a body heals its wounds. By focusing on a knowing … or perhaps just a feeling … that it will be okay. This is all part of a pattern.

I like to call that … knowing… a dance. The dance of life and death. The Sea God’s Woman hints at that dance. The sliding gateways to what lies beyond. I recently spent a month looking at a hospital ceiling, unable to move. The only break in the monotony was the nurse coming in to suck more blood from my veins. I drafted three books in my head, focused on cold beer, cussing and my wife’s lovely eyes. A minute becomes an hour. The challenge keeping one’s head above the drowning waves. But there’s a key. A neat trick we all can employ. Positivity. That’s the answer. It’s who we are. That self belief and faith whatever form it takes – this is your journey and yours alone. 

So keep going …

Ariane must confront her demons beneath the ocean. Sir Garland––named in honor of the late JRR Tolkien artist, my friend Roger Garland––must conquer his doubts when looking deep into the abyss.

Here’s a glimpse of what he’s up against:

Garland was out of time. The darkness sucked at him as spiderwebs clung to his breath, rasping and coughing, the slippery ground beneath him crumbling away.

“Where is this?” His voice echoed around his ears.

No reply. His friends were gone. And it was coming. The beast. Growling, slavering, loping toward him. A shambling shadow. Hard to define. The few glances back he’d risked had revealed a doglike shape. A huge shaggy hound, blacker than the darkness clinging to his face. Except the eye. A solitary lobe, slanted and sloped and red as a candle-bright ruby.

Black Schuck is hunting you …

The voice echoed inside his head. He shut it out and ran, legs heavy, exhausted. Chest thudding, heart pounding, the rasping shuffling noises behind reaching out to smother his courage. Panting, padding, claws scraping on the bone cracked floor.

The Schuck comes, and he comes for you, Sir Garland …

“Dunrae!” He fought off the rising panic.

He’d lost them, his companions. The big man in the coat with his shoulder-cannon and the small twisted imp he knew as Zorc. A creature from another time. I’m trapped in Limbo. That was the only explanation. He’d taken a wrong turn. The game was almost up.

His legs were slowing, heavy like molten lead. His feet felt like they belonged to someone else. Remote and far away, the veins connecting, burning like hot treacle, the stifling air sucking away the last of his breath. Was he dying?

I can’t go on …

The panting behind deepened to a hungry growl. It’s closing behind me … I’m … Against his will. He turned and saw it.

 The hound. 

Taller than him, shaggy and dark. So dark it made a hole in the black. The one red sloping eye. But this time there were teeth. Slavering broken yellow knives, the stench of that breath almost choking him senseless.

Garland staggered, veered away, somehow staying on his feet. He summoned strength, but none came. Tried to move, but his feet cracked open on the bone-strewn ground. Glancing down, he saw his boots were rotten and white eel-like worms spewed from the torn melting leather.

This is not happening …

The hound leapt upon his back, its claws ripping his flesh like a harrow raking a dry wheat field. The cloying darkness swallowed his scream.

Meanwhile, Ariane faces a different challenge

Queen Ariane walked the path approaching the first hut. Her heart leaped as she saw a hunched figure huddled by a small fire, mending fishing nets and smoking a pipe. She approached slowly, hands held out so she didn’t alarm him.

“It’s Ariane, your queen. How fares my city? Is all lost?”

The man ignored her working on his net. A second fellow appeared and called him. He waved and nodded.

“It’s Ariane! Your queen. I’m addressing you, man. Didn’t you hear me?”

But he hadn’t heard and showed no sign. Perhaps he was deaf? She waved at the second man. But he looked right past her, as though seeing something arriving in the harbor. She turned and saw the ship enter. 

Kraken Girl.

She approached the seated man and made to slap his shoulder, but her hand passed through him as though he wasn’t there.

She felt her heart thudding and panic rising. What had happened to her? What had Rann done? The bitch. Was she dead? She made to grab the man’s collar, but again, her hands gripped nothing. She kneeled down and yelled in his ear. He didn’t respond.

The second man reappeared with two tankards of ale. He passed one to his companion, and they laughed as they watched Kraken Girl clear the gate rocks.

My friends will see me.

She walked along the quay as the ship approached. She saw Taic at the helm. Cale and Doyle standing beside him. She waved, but they didn’t react. She quelled her panic and waited, watching as Kraken Girl docked. She heard the banter between the Northmen crew, and the stevedores and longshoremen waiting to see what they’d brought. They all seemed in high spirits.

But the city …

Ariane walked the gangway as Taic signaled his men to purchase goods stored at the harbor shop. They were laughing. She heard Cale joke and stare right at her. 

She yelled in his face, but he didn’t respond. She ran at him, spat, punched him, but her fist found nothing. They couldn’t see her. For them, she didn’t exist.

Rann. What have you done to me …?

Want to know how the queen and her champion fare? Sea God’s Woman is available for pre-order on Amazon here:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D7WK35LX

You can book your copy of the trilogy boxed set edition here:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D7WYSMMY

That’s it from me! I hope you enjoy my rambles on this blog. Please leave a comment if so. It’s always great to know what readers think. Want to know more about the Legends of Ansu. Check out our website by clicking on the link below:

https://jwwebbauthor.com

Thanks for reading! Take care, it’s wild out there!

J.W.W.

Breaking dimensions with good intentions

During the last eighteen months we’ve been lashed to the mast in a Force Niner, the wind howling and rain soaking. An exaggeration … oh, sure. This geezer’s a fantasy writer. Suffice to say, it’s been a tad grim.

But bad storms, like gallstones, pass. We’re climbing back out into the sunshine like a blinking, yawning prairie dog who got lost in his own tunnels. It happens – ask my cat. All that dark soaking served as a neon flashing roadsign pointing to where my world––Ansu––and its warped dimensions, were heading, or evolving, and what the grubby occupants were up to.

We’ve had time to think, the guru, cat and I. About the journey, and the folk we’ve encountered along the way. Our mission––to create and neatly spread marmite through the chaos. Cut a track through the circles within circles––such is the frantic dance of life. Without help, it’s easy to get lost sometimes. Flail like a windmill sail, and ultimately fail. The important thing is not to waver. Be bold in your confusion. Let the Force come to you. It always does if you allow enough time. And are fluent in Jedi mind speak.

To chart a course ahead, you need a good map––right? So … quoting the movie Field of Dreams: ‘If You Build It He Will Come’ I asked the wonderful Cartographer and Gamer, Francesca Baerald, to ‘build’ me a map so the next stories will come. A beautiful bespoke world map watercolor of Ansu showing some of its gods and creatures. Pictured below.

Legends of Ansu by Francesca Baerald

Twenty years ago, the above world was much simpler. Just a forest and a village and a bad tempered, scruffy Celtic warrior type, trudging and grumbling with a big unwieldy sword slung over a sore shoulder. The plot was nonexistent. Dude was going home to Finnehalle, his village, to get drunk after a hectic and stressful few years braining bad guys. That was it. A future classic––yeah? His name was Corin an Fol. He crept out the back of a dingy pub in my trucking days. Could have been Suffolk, or maybe Wiltshire, England––I had a few gloomy boltholes back then. But no map – just a road.

The road widened, twisted and forked, and the world developed as more folk wandered in without invitations. Good Guys and Bad Guys but mostly confused messed up Guys. I wanted to shape people as I found them. No shiny-ass knights permitted here. In Ansu, even the good faeries sting and cuss. You don’t want to meet the bad ones.

The world grew bigger, breaking dimensions as the gods flexed their biceps and messed with time and space. We spanned three millennia with the blink of an eye. Corin’s saga ended and others took the descaled limelight. Sir Garland the Journeyman trudged further afield into pastures new. He’s still out there. Jaran Saerk the Berserker hewed a hole in the north with his shapeshifting lover, Savarna, while being spat at by the hellcat witch Sheega. And lately Gujun the Slayer and his nemesis, Arraleen––shiny boots––Caze (She’s my current favorite, btw) bit and chewed their way south and east, pushing the boundaries and creating the Slayer Trilogy.

Starring Arraleen Caze and Gujun the Slayer

What started out as a walk through tangled woods has led to a maze of carnage and mayhem. A journey which will conclude in a few years, unless one or two of Ansu’s more rebellious crew insists on not dying. It’s been twenty years of mostly doing things back to front and inside out. But thanks to Francesca’s map and the other folks mentioned below. I feel that we’re finally on course to wherever … In Jimmy Buffett’s words, ‘Forget that blind ambition and learn to trust your intuition. Plowin’ straight ahead, come what may.’

I’ve dedicated this rambling scribble to three marvelous people who have helped Ansu and its moving parts take shape:

First there’s Ravven, whose glorious cover designs and stalwart support have been a constant treasure.

Next there’s John Jarrold, whose substantial knowledge of the fantasy genre, constructive advice and ninja editing skills have proved invaluable to a headstrong ex-trucker.

Finally, Francesca – who has brought the world of Ansu to vivid life with her dazzling watercolor world map creation.

Thanks for reading.

J.W.W.

Glancing back

First up, apologies for the long gap! It’s been over a year since last I scribbled random thoughts on this blog. There are reasons. 2022 was not kind to us, and I’ll not delve into that here. But the power of positivity shines through if one allows. And as Mercury spins retro this New Year, it seems a good time to focus on inspirations looking forward and back. Love will always shine through, even in the darkest of times.

Our stoic optimism and inspiration may drive us forward, “… say, if I only could – I’d be running up that hill – with no problems …” sang the wonderful Kate Bush. Looking back can help too. Especially on a dull January afternoon. Once, long ago, I used to walk through hazel and birch woods in Netherfield, East Sussex. An Angle Saxon name meaning the field of the adders––and during summer there were many curled and sleeping in sunny spots. England’s only venomous serpents are lazy and fat, but handsome fellows with their diamond stripes. I liked them, but I digress as memory wanders.

For me, those creaky, misty groves held the magic of Lothlorien. My dreamy strolling would lead to tingling streams where an elf would wait, or perhaps Tom Bombadil and Goldberry, maybe even Strider himself––a teenage bookworm’s imagination has no bounds. Later, around ’78, I purchased an album by Sally Oldfield called Water Bearer. I’d heard her hit Mirrors on the duke box in the local pub while arm-wrestling with my crew. My friend Paul loved Bright Eyes by Art Garfunkel. Funny, he was a tough toothless lad, but that song always made him weep. Must have been the rabbits.

Every decade holds some magic for those gazing fondly back from afar. The 70s gave us Prog Rock – bands like Yes, Genesis, The Moody Blues, and toward the end, Marillion, named after The Silmarillion, Imho Tolkien’s finest work. It was a time of musical exploration, Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells, Oxgene, by Jean-Michel Jarre, Vangelis, etc. Incredible distinctive sounds. But Water Bearer is unique. Sally’s first album takes us on journeys through Middle Earth. Her beautiful, evocative voice lifts the enchanted listener to magical realms. Like books and art, music feeds the muse. Sally Oldfield’s Playing in the Flame album cover inspired my Jaran Saerk stories, with its mystical east meets west vibe. Like Tolkien, Sally has been a huge influence on my ongoing Legends of Ansu series.

I remember one morning in 1980, on guard duty at Lothian Barracks, Detmold BFG. A dour place, at one time used by the SS. Bad vibes. I used to escape into the town, which I loved. That morning I’d been feeling down and was walking to the NAAFI when I heard Sally Oldfield’s Night Theme––one of my favorite tracks from Water Bearer. It seemed so strange and wonderful to hear her voice in that bleak surrounding. A treasured memory. Apropos, I recently heard Sally speaking on a podcast about her music and early times when she and brother Mike started out. A wonderful listen and she kindly allowed me to share the link with you here: https://youtu.be/Yf2vysFKzec

Water Bearer by Sally Oldfield

Gazing forward

Decades on and14 books later, my twist on the fantasy genre has evolved, thanks to inspiration from Sally and JRRT, and legendary fantasy artists like Rodney Matthews and Alan Lee, and of course our friend Roger Garland sadly missed. The world I named Ansu after too many beers has evolved, shifting backwards and forwards in time, crossing dimensions, dancing dreamily towards … goodness knows what. I have no control over this, but I’ll let you know when we get there.

This year we’ll have a new world map created by the same terrific cartographer who worked on the intricate charts for Game of Thrones, WarCraft and many others. More on Francesca later! Aside from that, there’ll be two more books out completing Gujun’s trilogy, and we’ll be moving on to conclude Garland and Queen Ariane’s voyage of misadventure in The Sea God’s Woman – release planned next Spring. After that, I’m moving back to Gol and beyond. To Ansu’s beginning, when the truculent gods lived amongst us mortal folk. Archer’s Moon (long planned) will appear late 2024 and replace Gol as the first in the series chronologically. I’ll also be sharing a time line as we’ve covered two thousand years between Gol and Gujun, so clarity is called for!

Archer’s Moon Coming Soonish …

If you’ve not yet delved into Ansu, now’s a perfect time. My latest book – Dreamslayers, the first of the Gujun (Slayer) books and a spinoff from the Jaran Saerk (Berserker) Trilogy will be available for free this week, as will indeed that trilogy – Jan 4th through 8th. Click the link to view these books on the Amazon Author Page: http://bit.ly/JWWEBB You can also hear me talking about the first of Jaran’s books in this podcast interview by The Authors Show. Click here to listen: http://bit.ly/AuthorsShowBloodFeud

Afterthought … Writers I know strive for the art of creating worthy literature. Producing highly disciplined, neatly oiled tomes of this and that. They confer and confess with their peers, sharing weakness and strength, and their determination for the right word. Oxford Comma – what do you think? Show Don’t Tell! Heavens forbid! What does Stephen King say? Kevin, I wrote 10’000 words this morning, and before coffee. And so they go … That’s great, but for me it’s all about the story.

The Story.

A gift from above that we fable weavers can stretch and enrich before sending back into the Universe. We live on a spinning ball of gas that my cat seems to understand. The greatest blessing is to make someone smile who’s sharing our voyage through time and space. We don’t get long. I never know how many words I’ve written. Sometimes I’ll remember the amount of beers I’ve drunk. All that matters is that the song inside writes the book. The Muse must be free to dance! The story tells itself. And, hopefully, the editors will carve the unruly leviathan into a readable tome.

Happy New Year Everyone!

Jim – JWW –

How’s your Christmas week been? Hope you had a good one! Not very yule like here in Georgia. Storms raging outside, rain drenching fields, lightning blazing silver through the gloom. Booming thunder, pets scurrying nervously under the bed. Ouch. A touch unseasonal, but hey – define normal during these tumultuous times. Here’s a whimsical moment to lift you away from the hectic holidays whirl. A dream of snowflakes and swordplay. A ponder. Or a winter’s wander, if you like.

‘As snow settles, you walk through woods, an owl watches you pass. You see shapes, hints of movement through the murk. You pass a stream that gurgles and splashes washing rocks strewn with weed. An otter dives for cover. What’s that? A lantern gleaming gold in the distance.

Who is there?

The lantern fades, flickers, vanishes. You walk on quicker, excited, and yet … Wary. You’re not alone in the deep wood. Your spine tingles. The lantern glow appears to your left. A woman’s face stares back at you as lightning rips through trees. She vanishes as the black returns. You call out, rushing. Who was she and what did she want? You reach the spot where she had stood. No one there. The owl settles and watches you from a branch. But I saw her …‘

What if we are never alone? Could there be other dimensions than our own? Mirror worlds and places? Other planes and levels where people like us, and animals, many beings, live out their lives alongside ours, like two faces inside a mirror never meeting. Linked by the ley lines and dusky pathways threading the universe within and without.

There are places I’ve been where I’ve felt this connection. Wayland’s Smithy on the Ridgeway, an ancient bridal path in Wiltshire, England, was one such. Uncanny vibe. The crows were broody in the wintry-bare ash trees, the cold barrow stones empty and dark. Eery Chanctonbury Ring in Sussex is another. A circle of beech trees high on the South Downs. No birdsong. So quiet up there. A feeling of disquiet pervades the atmosphere within the woody ring. A hill fort. There are dark tales, rumors. A gateway to another place? Dare you imagine? Climb the hill and listen to the shouting silence? Can you feel their presence, those others? Watching and waiting from different realms. Could these places hide time portals, dimension gates?

What happens if something breaks through?

Let’s imagine a cosmic player tangles the world thread, allowing those outside our confines to enter. What would follow? Chaos and discovery? Death and rebirth? War? Everything is out there all the time. There is no ending or beginning in the majesty of space. Time itself is a confine created by the need for rules. Where would we be without rules?

My ongoing sub-series journeyman focuses on these ambiguous concepts. Our lost hero, Sir Garland, finds himself caught between worlds, trapped inside time itself. His only choice, keep moving, and don’t question. Stop the raging thoughts from unravelling his mind, as unworldly demons tear upon him.

The Voyage of Carlo Sarfe is the second thread in this new Legends of Ansu twist. With Corin, I wanted to focus on unruly behavior – rebels, warriors, heroism, quests. A Celtic vibe with customary fantasy tropes, but with added spice, scrappy violence, and caustic wit. The Berserker Trilogy was born of my fascination of Norse sagas and masterworks by Poul Anderson, and Stephan Grundy, but with an added Oriental side as culture-clashing continents collide in war. The Journeyman series lies even closer to my heart. Asking questions of why we are here, where we’re heading. And for what purpose? If you’re curious, I’ve shared another excerpt below.

Great. But that’s convoluted, you say. Too damn deep. Give me swordplay, not dreamflakes. How about a good old Sword & Sorcery yarn?

And you’d be right. That’s why I’m working on two new series, Journeyman and Slayer.

If you’ve read any Legends of Ansu books (Thank You, you’re fabulous.) You will know my focus on strong character interaction amidst solid world-building. Having recently completed the Berserker Trilogy, I left a few characters stranded in the battle for Ta Shen. One of these reprobates survived against all odds.

Gujun the Slayer will star in a new spin-off series called … guess what? Slayer. The renegade assassin finds himself hunted by the new emperor in Shen, the entire Cardalan Republic, plus vengeful Vendeli warrior priests, and mercenaries paid to kill him. Worst of all is the Dreamslayer, Arraleen Caze, the Vendel spymaster’s daughter. More than anyone, she wants Gujun the Slayer dead. And what Arraleen wants, she gets. So expect a playoff between two lethal assassins in a dizzy dance of death. Dreamslayer will be on sale this spring.

More on that soon.

Can Carlo Find Gol Before It Sinks Below The Waves? Back to Journeyman Book 2. An Excerpt.

Following on from The Emerald Queen and also out this spring. Yep, it’s going to be a busy one! FYI, you can pre-order The Voyage of Carlo Sarfe here: https://bit.ly/ScimitarDude Pre-order your copy at a bargain price: $1.99 only. Jumps to $4.99 once on sale. Below is the snippet I promised.

The Hunted

Carlo cursed and staggered onto the ridge of stone, where the stream met the rock slide. Beyond that, a dark pond seeped into murky, weed-covered banks, its coal-black surface cloaked by dead looking bulrushes. The water stank and clogged his nostrils. He looked around, saw a track skirting the right side of the pond. 

He could make out what looked to be steps of stone winding up into the low-hanging cloud above. Perhaps he could get above the cloud and mist if he climbed those stairs? The hills’ crowns had been clear when last he’d seen them from the Arabella, the rain having passed.

He took the track, skirting the rancid water. Stopped again, hearing a shrill call to his right. Carlo blinked and saw a large black bird settle on a nearby tree. A raven. It watched him in silence. He shook his head and moved on, following the track toward the broken steps. These he took two at a time, pausing often and peering up through the gloom. The weariness was draining him, and he felt a compelling urge to give up this climb and rest in the bracken framing the edges of the steps.

I’m tired, that’s all.

It must be the rank atmosphere in this place. Perhaps something large had died in that pond and was decomposing. Carlo wiped sweat from his face. He regretted coming here, but determined to make the visit worthwhile. If he could get high enough, the air would be fresher. There would be prey up there. With all this water, there had to be. Once he could see, he’d whistle Stogi and the girl. He didn’t want them to choke on the pond’s foul fumes. He hoped they were having more luck, maybe Tai Pei had found her rabbits?

He forced a smile to his lips. I’ll turn this day around yet.

A soft sound to his right. Laughter? He heard it again. 

Someone’s watching.

And a third time. An ironic chuckle, as though a hidden eavesdropper had heard his thoughts, as if he’d uttered them out loud.

Damn this.

 Carlo slid the scimitar free of its scabbard. He circled slowly, gazing back down the steps. He could no longer see the pond or stream. Neither could he see the ocean beyond, the steamy fret having gotten so thick. 

There was movement below. He was certain of it this time. A vague, shapeless figure was inching up the steps towards him. Carlo felt an overwhelming sense of dread as his gaze remained fixed on the apparition. Stogi had been right. They should never have come here. 

It was rising slowly like smoke, its form shifting and changing, until he saw what looked to be a man with the face of a boar, a single horn protruding.

Carlo forced movement into his trembling legs and turned, started climbing, as swiftly as he could, up through the mist. He didn’t stop or look back, but sensed whatever it was closing the gap behind him.

He could hear a hissing sound like the venting of a kettle. The creature’s breath? The pig thing was gaining on him fast. Carlo broke into a panicked run. He reached a crest and tripped, as the loose stones rolled under his feet.

He sprawled on his face, tried to roll and lift the sword, but something hard struck his back and pinned him on the spot.

“We have him,” a dry hollow voice said, and Carlo blacked out as the steel-shod boot struck the back of his head.

What to expect Next Month Slayer: A New Ansu Sub-Series Starts Next Spring

The first Gujun excerpt.

Some news on audiobooks and another Corin misadventure. Perhaps something on myth and legends too.

I hope you’ve enjoyed reading these random scribbles on swords and shenanigans, daydreams and winter. I’d love to hear what you think. Thanks for dropping by.

I wish you the very best for 2022! It’s going to get better next year, my cat told me. Stay Strong! Be Healthy and Happy!

Better Days Are Coming.

JWW

As Autumn waxes and leaves change hue, lifting away, beginning the tumble and dance in their drifting journey down from the trees. This writer’s mood shifts to reflection. Time readies those trees for their long cold rest before Spring. Time … the silent watcher who marks us every hour.

What if there was no time?

You’ve somehow slipped beyond its lore? How would that feel? Like freedom? Terror? You can’t age when there’s no time, but neither can you rest. Trapped and lost in a fathomless void. A place where people and things cross dimensions, passing through invisible gateways and portals leading to who knows where. Is time an illusion to keep our lives structured? My latest Ansu legend dabbles with the surreal. It’s all about Time …

Carlo’s time dilemma’s the central theme for Journeyman 2 – Available for pre-order here: https://bit.ly/ScimitarDude

The Voyage of Carlo Sarfe is a journey through dimensions and space, as well as across the oceans. It picks up after The Emerald Queen where Carlo discovers he’s in the future and that his home, Gol, is no more. He needs to get back there and prevent that disaster.

But what of his new friends here in the future? How can he change the past without destroying their very existence? Learning of his quest, Queen Ariane must intervene and stop Carlo. Before that she must find the Journeyman, Garland, her lost champion. But where is he? In the future, or stuck in the past? The Queen, the Knight, and the Sailor. All three caught in a chase through time and shifting worlds, as a new menace emerges from the shade of Old Night.

The forthcoming Journeyman 2 continues the legends of Ansu, bridging Corin’s time with Gol 1000 years earlier. Introducing new concepts and characters, focusing on who we are, what lies beyond our ken and the nature of good and evil. Here’s a teaser from the beginning:

http://jwwebbauthor.comExcerpt From The Voyage of Carlo sarfe:

“What is it?” Marei followed Garland’s gaze. Her jaw dropped open as a shape floated out from the fire. A man framed by mist stood before them, his features shifting like the fading flicker of smoke. Almost he appeared as an etching carved out from the rock, hard to discern with the years having dwindled. The dark features were handsome, and a curved sword rested at his hip. 

Marei stared at the figure in the fire. Clearer now. A fighting man garbed in gaudy colors, a red sash covering his head, the black smoky curls spilling over and around. He was standing with brawny arms folded, the hint of a grin on his handsome face, but she saw the haunted gleam in those nut-brown eyes. The stranger appeared to be moving up and down. Marei heard seabirds mewling and guessed he was on a ship. The vision faded, the sailor vanished, and the smoke dissipated from the room like venting vapor, leaving no trace as fresh draft sighed through the gap in the door as the wind cried louder from without. Marei stared at Garland, whose face had paled to gray.

“That was Carlo Sarfe.” He stood shakily, his eyes filled with dread.

“Who?” She’d scarce uttered the word before a loud rapping turned their heads to the door. Dafyd’s eyes blinked open. He yawned and reached for the bow.

“Please, help me. Dafyd!” 

A woman’s voice. Rosey?

“Stay back, it could be a trick.” Garland unsheathed his sword and approached the door. “Who’s out there?” he yelled angrily. Marei noted the sky had paled in the yard. Dawn must be close. At least the storm had passed.

“Let me in, Sir Garland!”

“Rosey!” Dafyd rushed to the door, and he and Garland removed the bars. The girl stood soaked and shivering outside. She’d been weeping and her red-rimmed eyes were wide with desperation. Dafyd pulled her close in his brawny arms. Desperate, she broke loose.

Queen Ariane must keep her promise to the Sea God in Journeyman 3

“Rosey, dearest. What’s happened to you?” Marei stood with fists on hips.

“They took Dalreen, Marei,” Rosey almost screamed the words out. “My Dally’s gone!”

“The baby?” Garland glanced Marei’s way, and she nodded, biting her lip.

“Wait, wait! Poor child. Come in, you’re soaked. Were they raiders, or from the Hall?” Marei asked, as Rosey slumped like a dead thing into her lover’s arms. Dafyd glared at his mother, his eyes blazing with rage.

“They came to the village,” Rosey sobbed. “Said they were from the Hall. A man with cold gray eyes like smoky glass, and three others. Bastards. One wounded. They snatched Dally from my grasp. Glass Eyes told me he was going to feed her to the Kaa. And that it was all your fault, Marei.”

“Fuck this,” Dafyd thrust Rosey aside and vanished outside. 

“Wait, boy––it’s still dark,” Garland yelled after him, as Marei comforted the wailing girl.

“We’ll get her back,” Marei told Rosey. “Sir Garland is a legendary warrior in his own land. And he alone has returned from the Hall. Be calm, Rosey. You must stay calm. We can address this awful situation if we keep our heads. Yes?”

Rosey nodded amid sobs. Marei glanced at the door. “Dafyd?”

“He’s taken a bloody horse,” Garland said, having just reappeared. “Best I follow, catch him up before the fool reaches the Hall.”

“What about my daughter?” Rosey wept.

“I’ll get the child back.” Garland glared at Marei. “And your son too, if he’s gone inside.”

“We’re coming with you,” Marei said.

“No, no!” Garland held out his hands.

“They’ve got my granddaughter and this girl’s child,” Marei yelled at him.

“I know I can survive inside that place, Marei. But only if I’m acting alone. I’ll seek Earle Graye––he helped me before.”

Marei gripped his hand and let go, brushing moisture from her eyes. Rosey was weeping again. “What are we to do while you’re gone?”

“Go to the city.”

“I’ll not leave my tavern.”

“Go to the city, Marei. Take Rosey and seek a miller called Randle.”

“What…? Who?”

“Randle’s not who he appears and will help you if you mention my name. Promise me you’ll leave.” She nodded after a moment and Garland left them without further word as he made for the stables. 

“Wait!” Marei rushed after him and caught his arm before he vaulted into the saddle.

He turned and stared at her. “I love you,” Marei told him.

“I know.” Garland stroked her face with a gloved hand. “I’ll find your rash boy and the wee bairn, lass. That I promise.”

“I know you will––you’re the best of men.”

“And it’s best that you leave within the hour,” he told her, urging the beast forward toward the lane.

“Just you be careful, Sir Garland!” Marei called out to him. Garland waved and heeled his horse canter out toward the road, threading the ten twisting miles north to the sea. And Graywash Hall and Rosey’s village beyond.

Marei returned to the tavern and found Rosey staring at her, dry-eyed and resolute. “We have to leave here,” Marei told her. The girl nodded grimly and Marei went to prepare some fare and fuel for a three-day ride. Like Graywash Hall, there were rumors surrounding the city. Few of them were good.

Currently available for Pre-order at this bargain price: $1.99 https://bit.ly/ScimitarDude

The Journeyman must help his Goddess in the final showdown against Old Night: Journeyman 4 coming soon.

Have you ever walked past a dark space at midnight? A gaping hole in an empty building, or a shed or cattle store – the wind battering the steel roofs above, rain washing the cobwebby window panes? At such moments, it’s easy to feel the darkness stir and manifest. As you pass, and pick up your pace, icy hands reach out hungrily. Your imagination senses someone waiting inside.

But who’s to say there isn’t someone in there? Like the iceberg, more’s hidden than seen. What’s in there – you ask? Your questing jittery mind wonders as you wander hastily past. A child might see a monster or moving shadow. For adults, it’s more subtle – perhaps a villain, or thief, or a reflection of our other darker self. Echoes and memories of the deeper dark when light fades as daylight diminishes. The time of mist and damp settles in valleys. Dusky lanes cast shapes as the wind rakes the trees bare, their leaves spilling and spinning down as the ghost-horse harbinger of winter gathers pace. At such moments, spirits leak their secrets to any soul caught out alone.

The Washer at the Ford by Roger Garland

Halloween, or All Hallows Eve, the Equinox, call it what you will, is the shift from light to dark leading to the opening of some doors and the subtle closing of others. Portals and gateways. Hidden paths that cross dimensions. The ghostly highwayman riding the Ley Lines to Stonehenge. A time when those souls at rest, yet still restless, can waken, gather, and perhaps reach out to us waiting on the other side. They’ve crossed the bridge beyond the time gates and know what we have yet to learn. Samhain or the Feast of the Dead – there are many names for this time of year. In Ireland you might hear the banshee cry, or on the walls of York see the old dead Duke standing alone, his severed head clutched in his hands. Shadows within shadows. Echoes of memory.

Most of us greet Halloween as a time to have fun. Great for the kids out Trick & Treating. Grown ups too. Dress up and go party, laugh and tell tall spooky tales by a roaring blaze. All that’s terrific, but let’s not forget the deeper, darker meaning. That hidden truth, like the gaping hole concealing something inside. The monster’s name? Our future… What awaits us all beyond the grave? The world fabric thins as October fades into November. A time to think. To steep… Light a candle, watch it flicker, burn and dwindle. We are dancers on a ball of gas hurtling through time and space. Everything is possible and nothing forgotten. We are part of the universe, as it lies both Within you and Without you, as George Harrison once sang.

The Shaman – Roger Garland

For me, Halloween is a poignant time. A period to reflect and ponder. I lost my first wife- Rae close by the Hunter’s roving moon, as Halloween crouched a day or so ahead. She loved Autumn, and its strongest moon took her away, freed her from the prison of cancer. I was angry. I wrote Gol a book where cruel people hurt the weak, but love ultimately prevails. I also penned The Haven – a Cornish ghost story for Rae – she so loved spooky yarns.

I’m no longer angry, but believe everything happens for a reason. We dance and fade, like the Candle in the Wind, as Watford Elton sang. Who can measure a time brief as ours? We are but bird song in an oak the hour before lightning strikes it down. We are the desert flower peeping out every three hundred years when the rains pummel sand to clay. We are everything and nothing, spinning through eternity from nowhere to everywhere. Lost and found, seeking and searching. Part of the pattern. Whether you dabble in mysticism or take comfort from religion. Belief, Faith, or mere intuition all hint at who we are. Why we’re here. Halloween reminds us of the gateway. Dare you venture closer and learn more?

eBook Version free on Amazon

Back in 2013, I scribbled out an echo of Halloween vibes. A novella if you like. The Haven has nothing to do with my ongoing fantasy series. Based on one of Rae’s watercolors, it’s a lonely, ghostly yarn, melding present and past, set amidst the North Cornish coast, and focusing on the fragile threads of vengeance, jealousy and loss. But most of all LOVE. The greatest gift we mortals possess. Without love, we are but shadows and dreams. There lies both light and darkness within each of us – twin battling wolves, or dragons. The one you feed the most grows stronger and devours its twin. I choose the light.

The Haven is FREE through Halloween. Grab your copy here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00UW3RKG2 Follow poor confused Richard as his world spirals into the deeper dark and her shadow rises to claim his trapped soul. Read the Haven today if you dare! She is out there on the beach at midnight, her hair whipped by rain and storm, the cold bloody knife gripped by white vengeful fingers. Is it you who she waits for …?

Rae on Trundle our canal barge near Cambridge sometime last century

Next month it’s the forthcoming Ansu tale, and more Corin an Fol disasters. Plus a touch of History & Mystery. Take care, enjoy your Halloween fellow Earthlings

JWW

“The prose drips with visceral imagery and descriptions, complimenting the deep world-building Webb has laid the foundations for in his eight previous Ansu novels. The creativity embedded in every aspect of Blood Feud is impossible to deny; even the basics of the world, its history and magical mechanisms have few parallels in the genre. Webb has developed an immersive world within this Ansu saga, and this first book in a fresh trilogy bodes very well for all that is still to come.” Self-Publishing Review, ★★★★½ bears and Berserkers – a saga of vengeance, love and shapeshifting

Stories have never been bigger. After the last 18 months it’s good to escape any way you can. More, it’s essential for one’s well being. Stories can help, carrying the troubled mind off to a new place, where wonder and magic prevail. Where better than the fantasy genre? Realms where tales have no boundaries and anything is possible. And what a time for fantasy with Amazon spending trillions on the new JRR Tolkien tales, the forthcoming Robert Jordan Wheel of Time streaming, and the new movie version of Dune––to mention but a few of the many exciting events on the horizon.

In 2021 you can read, listen and watch––even play, and role model, become a character in your favorite book. Heck, you can almost live in these worlds! And that’s a lot more fun than watching the news. Fantasy has never been bigger than today. Whether you choose to watch, listen, read, or play them, stories are the release valve on the human pressure cooker mind. We need to vent. We have to dream …

Sketch by JRR Tolkien Artist Roger Garland

And stories weave more stories. As for my world- Ansu, the cuss & steel muddle-maze of Corin’s life was influenced by JRR Tolkien’s works, and other stalwarts such as Jack Vance’s Lyonesse, Guy Kay’s Tigana, Moorcock’s Eternal Champion series ( I think there’s to be an Elric movie soon.) But there was one book that had such a profound effect on me as a young reader, and day-dreamer. A tale of raw energy and power- the like of which I’ve not discovered since.

The Broken Sword by Poul Anderson.

A smallish novel written in the 1950’s around the same time as The Lord of the Rings, and, (IMHO) still one of the best fantasy sagas out there. The Broken Sword was the main influence for my latest trilogy– a pseudo Viking meets KungFu Oriental, demon-djinn dance of myth and mayhem. The Berserker Trilogy echoes some of the raw energy oozing from that aforementioned book, while adding it’s own helter-skelter Ansu groove. Want to learn more about the first book in this latest saga? Click on the play arrow below the next image and hear me talk about Blood Feud on The Authors Show …

Click play below to listen Now also available on Audible

FYI – Blood Feud and the other two books in the new Berserker Trilogy are all available on Audible. Fancy a look and listen? Visit the Books Page of my website: http://jwwebbauthor.com

On to Corin …

Episode 9: Soggy Boots. A Corin an Fol misadventure.

Grey skies overhead, an icy wind whistling his ears, and gulls crying and whirling above, as the sloop pitched east through slatey seas. To his right grim cliffs were half visible as lowering cloud stole the horizon. Corin shivered. After years in the south, he wasn’t ready to face the cold again.

Morwella in winter. Bleak and stark, with the promise of wet snow building in those dark clouds ahead. Feet braced on the prow, Corin watched as the sloop changed course and made for those towering bluffs. They parted, and the sloop angled into the wide inlet where the River Falahine greeted the sea. Vangaris lay twenty miles upriver. The sloop’s destination but not Corin an Fol’s.

“This will do,” Corin hinted towards the closest bank where a ramshackle dock showed flimsy through the murk. “I’ll need a splendid fellow to row me ashore.” The skipper nodded and bid his scowling mate lower a craft. Corin thanked him and slapped some coin in his palm. Then, after slinging Clouter’s harness across his back and strapping up, Corin lowered his chilled bones into the smaller vessel. The mate slipped in beside him and, after deftly fiddling with pulley and ropes, swiftly lowered the boat to water. That done, he freed the ties, took an oar in each hand, and began rowing rigorously shoreward, his primary aim to dispose of their passenger soonest and reach Vangaris before the taverns closed. The mate’s urgency not lost on Corin, who sat his plank despondent as those snow clouds mustered ahead. He wasn’t looking forward to this job.

Corin studied the bank where willows hugged the shore, their bare fingers brushing water. Beyond these, a strand of shingle and random rocks faded off into murky distance. The gap narrowed as the bank loomed close. The rowboat scraped and ground onto shingle. Corin grunted thanks to his pilot and leapt ashore, holding his cloak up to keep it dry. He clambered onto the jetty. On closer inspection, the timbers looked half rotten. This proved to be the case as the third plank split and Corin crashed through the gap, plunging into the Falahine’s murky chill. A cloud of splinters and rusted nails bruised and grazed his arms as he slid between timbers, his trousers and boots drenched as the icy brine washed over them.

Flailing, Corin gripped a slimy post and clung on dismally as the water filled his boots. That water crept higher, inch by icy inch, as Corin’s grip on the stanchion slipped. Worse, his cloak was tugging at his neck, doing its best to strangle him as — caught by current — it threatened to pull him out to sea again. Meanwhile, his longsword, Clouter was weighing him down like an anchor. That combination of factors half drowned Corin. Mercifully, he found a loose nail sticking out from the post and used this tenuous purchase to heave his soaked hide back up onto the jetty. There Corin lay for a brief time, gasping and flapping like a freshly hooked carp.

Corin checked his scrapes and bruises. No bones broken. Just dizzy, cold and wet — nothing untoward. After several soaking moments, dripping and shivering, and wondering if things would ever go to plan, Corin staggered to his feet again. Time for a walk. Corin scanned the shore. If Hagan was watching, he’d be pissing himself. At last satisfied no one had witnessed his calamity, Corin found his feet and tentatively made his way along the jetty, checking the rotten timbers one by one with the heels of his soggy boots.

He made the strand without further mishap and quickly vanished into the deep brush of thorn and bramble above. Once hidden, Corin unfastened Clouter’s harness and let the big sword drop. He freed his cloak and tugged off his boots, upending them to spill out, the water squelching inside. Boots drained, Corin rolled the cloak as tight as he could, wringing and squeezing out droplets. That achieved, Corin slipped back into his boots, slung the crinkled cloak across his shoulder and pinned it with his wolf broach. He was half frozen and stiff with inactivity, but at least he was alive, which is always a good thing. Focus on the positive.

Coming soonA new blog post every two weeks.History & Mystery sections from my newsletter archives.Corin shorts – a diary of disasters.More banter about the fantasy genre and Myth and LegendsMaybe an odd cat or dog photo

If you’d like to discover more about J.W.Webb and the ongoing Legends of Ansu fantasy series (11 books and growing) join my VIP Lounge newsletter claim your free bespoke copy of The Crimson Lady here: http://jwwebbauthor.com. Look forward to seeing you there

Take care, see you soon!

Jim –

J.W.W

Thanks for visiting my blog – do drop by and say hello

“The prose drips with visceral imagery and descriptions, complimenting the deep world-building Webb has laid the foundations for in his eight previous Ansu novels. The creativity embedded in every aspect of Blood Feud is impossible to deny; even the basics of the world, its history and magical mechanisms have few parallels in the genre. Webb has developed an immersive world within this Ansu saga, and this first book in a fresh trilogy bodes very well for all that is still to come.” Self-Publishing Review, ★★★★½

An Author Interview By Hidden Gems

HG: How would you describe yourself to somebody who isn’t familiar with your writing yet?

JW: I’m a storyteller who learned to write. That took time – I drove big rigs for years.  But as the decades rolled by the stories echoed louder in my head. I love the fantasy genre. The joyous release magical tales award the reader, helping them escape the norm – especially in a year like this one. New realms, magic, heroism – how anything can happen. As a child I was found loitering by the lamppost in CS Lewis’s Narnia, or else hanging out with my best pal Strider in Bree – part of the reason why I’ve spent so many hours lurking in dark pubs .

That passion for magical stories was arc-welded to a merciless imagination, forcing me to scribble misadventures badly with a biro. That drunken spider-crawl of words took form (over time) becoming the Legends of Ansu Series – 11 books so far. Around AD 2000 I wrote The Shattered Crown, the first Ansu book. Since then I’ve gone backwards and forwards in time. You can do that in this genre.

The Emerald Queen – Roger Garland http://lakeside-gallery.com

My love of 70’s epic fantasy fused with newer grittier works, like those of GRRR Martin and Joe Abercrombie. My goal with Ansu has always been to fuse the myth and grandeur of Tolkien with robust argumentative characters, set in a brutally-real (fantasy) realm. My dudes are 3 dimensional, often foul-mouthed and don’t usually like each other.

HG: That’s so fascinating! Where does the inspiration come from?

JW: Heck, that’s hard to say. My head’s an exploding wardrobe – the clothes are the stories flying off the hangers. I scoop them up, try to iron them neatly. As I write, unexpected things occur. Tis strange … plots divert, protagonists vanish and return grinning inanely in another book. The truth is that my characters take control and treat the writer very badly – until I kill them off. It’s a power thing …

Aside from reading, music was an early influence, classical mostly. I used to daydream fight scenes while my folks played Scheherazade on the antique record player – we didn’t have a telly back then. Art was an influence too, as a youth I had Rodney Matthew’s fab calendars on my walls – posters of Michael Moorcock’s Eternal Champion fighting dark elves riding giant wasps. Heady stuff. Twas the 70s. My dad couldn’t stand them. Rodney is a brilliant artist. I was fortunate to know another wonderful fantasy artist when I lived in Cornwall. The late Roger Garland created sketches, images and maps for Ansu. Roger is best remembered for his JRR Tolkien book covers and posters. Great bloke.

Roger Garland drawing

HG: Incredible. I love the wardrobe analogy. Tell us a little bit about your writing process. Has it changed since the pandemic? Where and when do you write?

JW: No, I’m spoilt. I have a sumptuous office, complete with swords and cat – a long way from the caravan where I penned the series prequel – Gol – when my late wife was very ill and we were renting out our house and living in a field. These days my routine is usually: see to pets’ needs (we have 5), a few chores or errands, cup of tea (has to be British), get some words down. After lunch some more words, walk the dogs, prepare dinner for (code name) Mindy and myself, have a cold beer or odd glass of wine or four, listen to bad 70’s music on FB, or watch the latest mini-series.

I don’t dissect the stories much, or analyze the plotting with ninja precision like some writers. I find it easier not to overthink. Better to get the first draft down – like the broad wash on a watercolor, or foundations for a building. With the second draft comes the magic, the story takes shape. Third draft introduces punctuation. After that it’s over to the eagle-eyed editing and proofing squad. Then promo, post and launch. Away we go! Rinse and repeat. My goal is two books a year, slower than some, quicker than others. I don’t stress over word count – I’m a storyteller not a mathematician.

Map of Ta Shen by Linda Garland http://lakeside-gallery.com

HG: Sounds like a routine that works. By the way, your book covers are fantastic! How much are you involved in the creative direction of those?

JW: I know! The artist’s called Ravven and I’m lucky to have found her. She’s terrific. I’m very involved, come up with the design and setting, the mood, and characters. The vibe is crucial. Then it’s over to Ravv to work some magic.

HG: Magic indeed! Your next book,  The Giants’ Dance , Book 2 in the Berserker Trilogy, is due out on December 17th. What can you tell us about that story? What type of readers would enjoy it?

JW: The Giants’ Dance is the second book in my latest trilogy, set 1000 years after the other stories. It follows right after Blood Feud (FYI, that’s on offer when ‘Dance is released December 17th.) Blood Feud concludes with a cliffhanger, hence this one picks up with everybody knee deep in the proverbial. The result is a fast-paced energetic eclectic mix of pseudo-Norse meets pseudo-Oriental. It’s dialogue driven Sword & Sorcery, set around four maverick protagonists. The key figure is the Northman called Jaran Saerk – a feared berserker seeking vengeance against the Ice Witch who killed his kin and stole his island. Yes, his entire ……. island – Sheega is that nasty. Readers who enjoy complex epic fantasy tales fused with passion, earthy dialogue, brutal fight scenes, and wry humor, will love this latest Ansu tale.

HG: Wow! How do you come up with your character names?

JW: My best-known character is Corin an Fol who features in 6 of the novels. His name and many others are a mixture of invention and Celtic Myth – one of my interests. Other names like Savarna, Valgarn, and Gujun are drawn loosely from various cultures. I have a grubby little character called Gribble (a winged goblin) who was named after my dad’s mirror dinghy. I don’t name characters after my cats – their egos are large enough already.

HG: Cats and their egos. LOL. What do you like to do when not writing?

JW: We have some land here in Georgia, I like landscape gardening and have built sheds, gazebos and chicken houses etc. I enjoy watching things grow. I’m somewhat arty farty, prone to rolling boulders around, building stone walls and planting wild grasses, which frequently results in a trip to the chiropractor. I used to practice Kungfu and medieval archery, it’s mostly creaking yoga these days.

Aside from that, we love to travel (Excluding 2020!) I try to get back to Cornwall, and the UK most years, and we usually take a few trips this side of the Pond. I love the States, coming from England the sheer size of America has always fascinated me. I hitch-hiked from Ketchikan Alaska to Key West FLA, via Ventura, LA, and North Carolina back in 1986. Got that out of my system and now enjoy room service.

HG: You’ve done it all! Thanks so much for taking the time to allow us to get to know you deeper! For readers that want to find out more about your stories and future projects, where should they go to connect or learn more?

JW: I send out a monthly newsletter (the VIP Lounge) that has all the book info, plus links to giveaways and interesting articles on Celtic Myth and British Dark Age History, among other things. Anyone signing up gets a free copy of my novella: The Crimson Lady. A Corin an Fol story for VIP Lounge Members Only.

Readers can follow JW Webb on Amazon, Goodreads and BookBub. There’s also the author website, FB Page and Twitter. I always like to respond to my readers’ questions and comments promptly, as they are the rock stars who feed my furry friends. Seriously, storytelling is a gift. I am blessed, and it’s great to share the love. If reading my books has made a reader smile, or whisk her away to somewhere special – that’s all that I can ask for. Here’s to 2021! Stay Strong!

Thanks for Reading! JWW

The title of this post is dedicated to the memory of John Lennon who would have been 80 this month, December 2020 – lived for 40 years gone for 40 years … Imagine …

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Reading Fantasy As An Antitode to 2020 …

It’s good to write fantasy fiction during a turbulent year like 2020. It helps focus the mind, knowing, however crazy the plot you’ve weaved, it gets surpassed by the news that evening. What a year we’re having! As a writer, I’m fortunate enough to squirrel away inside with the cat, penning tomes about nasty people cussing and hitting each other with sharp objects. I’ve got a few swords and swing them upon occasion, trying not to hit the ceiling fan––I find this helps with fight scenes and allows me to relax

Do you believe in spirit animals?

Many ancient cultures did. And why not? More’s hidden than seen in this life. What if shapeshifters live amongst us still––individuals with the ability to change from person to beast, or bird, and then shift back again without detection? Useful, huh, if you could master without calamity or malfunction! Stressful, too, I would imagine. I’ve dabbled with this concept in my new novel, Blood Feud. I have three characters with these particular skills, which I’d like to introduce today. First, though, I have another question. How are you bearing up during these portentous times?

Just a random thought here. Positivity is key! Have you ever wondered if there is another you on some distant galaxy, facing the same problems, and defeating them every day. Winning, laughing, and crying, smiling up at a sun that looks like ours? Asking the same questions, dreaming, hoping, wondering what will happen next? A mirror world. Everything in life is connected, and anything is possible if you allow your dreams to lift you there.

It’s easy to let your mind wander down strange corridors in 2020, the most surreal year many of us can recall. It seems that today–whatever way you turn––the gloom is growing, and a strange Orwellian vibe has filtered down amongst us. I call this shadow Sheega’s breath after the big villain in my new Ansu book. More on that witch in a mo