Richard H. Stephens's Blog
April 21, 2020
The Publishing Experience
It’s That EasyStart at: https://kdp.amazon.com/en_US/Set-up profileCreate new book option to upload book content and book cover.Wait up to 72 hours for it to be approved by Amazon.Voila. You’re a published author. Well, Maybe Not That Easy.Points to Remember
When uploading manuscripts, be sure to do the due diligence your masterpiece deserves. Simple editing conventions like page breaks (that’s a biggie) need to be adhered to, but by and large if the manuscript is done on Word (DOC/DOCX), HTML (ZIP, HTM, or HTML), MOBI, ePub, Rich Text Format (RTF), Plain Text (TXT), Adobe PDF (PDF), or Kindle Package Format (KPF), the upload is generally easy. Most fonts are accepted, so whether you are artsy-fartsy or downright serious, it should take the font of your choice. Heck, I use Old English, Edwardian Script, Garamond, and Times New Roman in each of my books. (No wonder traditional publishers run screaming when I come their way!)
Uploading your manuscript is easy. As to the cover, maybe not so much. E-covers are fairly straight forward, but print covers come in an infinite amount of sizes; dependent on the page length of your book. (You have to allow for the thickness of the spine.) My experience with covers created by cover artists is that they are usually very easy to work with and will send your full wrap cover in the correct size as long as you provide them with the appropriate information: type of paper, CORRECT number of pages, and book size—4x6, 6x9, and many sizes in between. Make sure your cover artist/designer is in for the long haul. They should have the means to resize your cover with ease. Here is a handy little link to figure out your print cover size: File Setup Calculator Don’t worry, it’s safe. It’s from KDP.
June 23, 2019
When you think of yourself as an author, what do you see?
Hunched behind a cluttered desk in a dim, dusty room; or perhaps on a veranda overlooking the ocean typing away on a laptop. Both scenarios an easy lifestyle?
Whatever you see, the reality for most of us is this.
There are many days when a writer has no time to write. Running an author business may, on the surface, seem like an idealistic way to spend your time. While it is such a gratifying career, there are many challenges and learning curves constantly pulling an author away from the craft of writing.
Writer's block
Yes, it’s real. Your desk is set up and surrounded with pieces of art, scribbled post-it notes, and dust collectors that are designed to motivate and inspire. On top of the desk sits a steaming cup of java that typically remains ignored and grows cold. You sit and stare at the screen not able to find the words to link the next scene.
To move beyond this, I encourage you to, “Write one word. Then another. Visualize what you are trying to achieve and write it. Don’t stress about grammar, spelling or sentence structure, just get the words down. The editing process comes later.”
Dealing with imposter syndrome
Do you doubt your amazing accomplishment as an author? Worry that people won’t like your story? Terrified of a bad review?
Fear of failure is a very real thing and stems from your reaction to circumstances or certain situations. Imposter syndrome can be debilitating; can impact your self-confidence and limit your courage to publish your book.
Your book is worthy. If you don’t write it, we can’t read it. There will always be people that don’t like it, but so many more that will love it. That’s life. You can’t please everyone, so start with the people you can. You will get a bad review and yes, it’s going to hurt, but it’s not the end of the world.
Repeat...
“You are brave for publishing your book. It's stronger than you think. You are smarter than you give yourself credit for and everyone deserves the privilege of reading your work.”
Mumbo jumbo of marketing
280 characters on Twitter. Image size for different social media platforms. Keywords. Hashtags. Passive voice. Target audience. Choosing the right social media platforms. Advertising. Sales funnels.
You just want to write! What’s all this stuff? It can be so overwhelming when you are starting to figure out how to sell your book. The learning curve is off the charts and the options, rules, and technological pieces that come into play are so vast.
If you have the means to, hire someone who can set up and manage your ads and social media marketing. If you don’t have the means, start small. Begin with learning one platform at a time and build on it from there. Ask questions in author groups and remember, YouTube is your friend!
A few things that pull an author away from writingAn amazing idea for a book is lost because you’re already running late for an appointment.Have to get to the looming deadline on the paperwork for a grant or to secure a table at an upcoming event.Responding to messages from readers and other authors via your Facebook author page.Distraction of social media.Formatting the book properly.Amazon keeps rejecting the upload and can’t figure out why.The cover artist is delayed.There’s no response from the book printer regarding the deadline for publication.Mulling over the wording on a writers’ grant application.Have no clue where to begin to set up an email list for a newsletter.Setting up an advertising campaign.Researching keywords.Writing back cover blurbs that resonate.Creative thinking for setting up a book table for events.
Authors supporting authors
Many authors starting out have to figure out how to survive financially until their writing pays off. Some work full-time and in addition, try to carve time for writing. Others write full-time, and make the best of what they have, hoping that someday their hard work will pay off.
Some are involved in writing communities, whether it be via social media groups or writer groups in their community or both. These relationships are powerful and can be extremely helpful in your writing career.
Why reviews break the sense of isolation
As an author, you may sometimes feel isolated as you spend so much time alone, in front of a screen with fictitious characters. Maybe you worry that people think all you want is for them to buy your book. While that may be true (in part) what you really want is for people to recognize your hard work and hours spent creatively weaving a story that you hope resonates with them. You're following your passion by doing something you love. You're brave enough to write, and courageous for publishing your story. You're stronger because of it and readers - we’re grateful to you for reading it.
To our valued readers:
Thank you for buying our books! Positive reviews are every authors performance evaluation and essential to the growth of their business. Please take a moment and leave a review on Amazon, Good Reads, or wherever you purchase your books.
Whatever you see, the reality for most of us is this.
There are many days when a writer has no time to write. Running an author business may, on the surface, seem like an idealistic way to spend your time. While it is such a gratifying career, there are many challenges and learning curves constantly pulling an author away from the craft of writing.
Writer's block
Yes, it’s real. Your desk is set up and surrounded with pieces of art, scribbled post-it notes, and dust collectors that are designed to motivate and inspire. On top of the desk sits a steaming cup of java that typically remains ignored and grows cold. You sit and stare at the screen not able to find the words to link the next scene.
To move beyond this, I encourage you to, “Write one word. Then another. Visualize what you are trying to achieve and write it. Don’t stress about grammar, spelling or sentence structure, just get the words down. The editing process comes later.”
Dealing with imposter syndrome
Do you doubt your amazing accomplishment as an author? Worry that people won’t like your story? Terrified of a bad review?
Fear of failure is a very real thing and stems from your reaction to circumstances or certain situations. Imposter syndrome can be debilitating; can impact your self-confidence and limit your courage to publish your book.
Your book is worthy. If you don’t write it, we can’t read it. There will always be people that don’t like it, but so many more that will love it. That’s life. You can’t please everyone, so start with the people you can. You will get a bad review and yes, it’s going to hurt, but it’s not the end of the world.
Repeat...“You are brave for publishing your book. It's stronger than you think. You are smarter than you give yourself credit for and everyone deserves the privilege of reading your work.”
Mumbo jumbo of marketing
280 characters on Twitter. Image size for different social media platforms. Keywords. Hashtags. Passive voice. Target audience. Choosing the right social media platforms. Advertising. Sales funnels.
You just want to write! What’s all this stuff? It can be so overwhelming when you are starting to figure out how to sell your book. The learning curve is off the charts and the options, rules, and technological pieces that come into play are so vast.
If you have the means to, hire someone who can set up and manage your ads and social media marketing. If you don’t have the means, start small. Begin with learning one platform at a time and build on it from there. Ask questions in author groups and remember, YouTube is your friend!
A few things that pull an author away from writingAn amazing idea for a book is lost because you’re already running late for an appointment.Have to get to the looming deadline on the paperwork for a grant or to secure a table at an upcoming event.Responding to messages from readers and other authors via your Facebook author page.Distraction of social media.Formatting the book properly.Amazon keeps rejecting the upload and can’t figure out why.The cover artist is delayed.There’s no response from the book printer regarding the deadline for publication.Mulling over the wording on a writers’ grant application.Have no clue where to begin to set up an email list for a newsletter.Setting up an advertising campaign.Researching keywords.Writing back cover blurbs that resonate.Creative thinking for setting up a book table for events.
Authors supporting authors
Many authors starting out have to figure out how to survive financially until their writing pays off. Some work full-time and in addition, try to carve time for writing. Others write full-time, and make the best of what they have, hoping that someday their hard work will pay off.
Some are involved in writing communities, whether it be via social media groups or writer groups in their community or both. These relationships are powerful and can be extremely helpful in your writing career.
Why reviews break the sense of isolation
As an author, you may sometimes feel isolated as you spend so much time alone, in front of a screen with fictitious characters. Maybe you worry that people think all you want is for them to buy your book. While that may be true (in part) what you really want is for people to recognize your hard work and hours spent creatively weaving a story that you hope resonates with them. You're following your passion by doing something you love. You're brave enough to write, and courageous for publishing your story. You're stronger because of it and readers - we’re grateful to you for reading it.
To our valued readers:
Thank you for buying our books! Positive reviews are every authors performance evaluation and essential to the growth of their business. Please take a moment and leave a review on Amazon, Good Reads, or wherever you purchase your books.
June 12, 2019
The Power of Collaborative Author Relationships
In September 2017, I was excitedly ready to publish my first book, The Royal Tournament—a prequel to the Soul Forge Saga.The self-publishing process seemed daunting and I had several questions, not to mention, the many roadblocks that appeared when attempting to publish my book.
Through a Facebook group I belonged to at the time, I posted a request for advice about getting through the more complicated aspects of Amazon and getting my book uploaded. It’s not easy the first time you do it!
A fellow member, Science-Fiction author, David M. Kelly, reached out. We had a lengthy discussion through private messaging and eventually, he gave me a call to walk me through the upload process, as well as tackle the treaty part of the financial aspect with the U.S. based Amazon.
That phone call lasted over an hour. David’s long-distance phone bill, I am sure, suffered as a result!
We discovered that we live 5 hours apart, me in Cambridge, Ontario, and Dave in Sudbury, Ontario.
Soon, through that simple act of collaboration and support, we became fast friends.
Today, we find ourselves attending book events together. If we are in the Sudbury area, David and his wife, Hilary, kindly open their home to me and my wife, Caroline. In turn, we open our home to them when they travel in our area. It helps keep costs down and allows us to enjoy many long chats about books, our experiences, and things we have learned along the way. Our wives and biggest supporters, share social media strategies and promotional ideas while sipping wine or Sangrias! We even have a shared Dropbox folder where we pool resources and share photos of the events we attend.Another great thing about our friendship is our mutual enthusiasm for Corvettes! Dave has a black one, “The Dragon” and I have a yellow one, “The Minion.”
A simple act of kindness and willingness to help a new, fellow author has led to a wonderful, cherished friendship.
On the road to realizing your dream of becoming a published author, don’t be afraid to reach out to the writing community. Together, we make each other better. Check out the amazing books of: To discover more about my books: David M. Kelly Richard H. Stephens
January 24, 2019
From Idea to Kindle…
And the incredible people behind the scenes! As I am wrapping up the third book of the Epic Fantasy series, Soul Forge, I am humbled by the many people who come together to bring my fantasy books to publication. I also wonder how I actually find the time to write with all the other tasks I need to attend to. That’s where my team comes in. A team that I am so fortunate and grateful for.
At age 51, the decision to leave my position in the police sector for a full-time writing career was not easy. The pay, the pension, the health benefits, the vacation time was all great, but the stress was killing me. I’m grateful for the opportunity to follow my dream and passion for writing and now this is my full-time job. No pay, no pension, no health benefits, I work at least 12 hour days and can’t afford a vacation!
But I am happy.
Reflecting on this as I take a break from polishing the suggested edits, I realize just how much people power it takes to put a book out there.
Once I have an idea for a story, I sit and write. Plotting along the way, details and timelines are on a second screen that I refer to and modify as the story unfolds. I aim to write about 2,000–3,000 words each day. The following morning, I spend editing those words, doing a little social media and then the afternoon and evening I am back to writing again. The cycle continues. It helps to have this kind of routine.
Personally, I love images in books. They provide a deeper connection with the story and visuals of important scenes can make the reader’s experience that much more immersive. Not to mention, it helps the amazing artists out there who are in the same poor boat as me!
I have two incredibly talented artists on my team. Marco Pennacchietti from Italy and the multi-talented, Ian Bristow from the United States.
Once the manuscript is completed, my entrepreneurial wife (she left her job the same day as me!) does a complete read through with line edits, spelling, grammar and punctuation checks to prepare it for the editing stage.
Next, my editor from Scotland, Michelle Dunbar, gives the book a thorough review.
Now my work gets tougher. I take her suggestions and decide whether to accept or reject them. It takes many hours of combing through some 400 pages of text to ensure that everything lines up and flows well.
It's not over yet. Enter the beta reader stage. Family, friends and past co-workers are so giving of their time. They are provided with a copy of the manuscript and have one month to read it and return to me with their hardcore opinions and reviews. As a thank you, I acknowledge them in the book and provide them with a signed copy upon publication. I hope they are worth something someday!
After I take the beta readers’ suggestions into consideration, I place the wonderful images inside the book. Then my wife handles the final proofreading, polishing, formatting and with loving hands passes it back to begin the process of self-publishing the completed manuscript.
So many steps. So many people. So much money. So worth it.
At age 51, the decision to leave my position in the police sector for a full-time writing career was not easy. The pay, the pension, the health benefits, the vacation time was all great, but the stress was killing me. I’m grateful for the opportunity to follow my dream and passion for writing and now this is my full-time job. No pay, no pension, no health benefits, I work at least 12 hour days and can’t afford a vacation!
But I am happy.
Reflecting on this as I take a break from polishing the suggested edits, I realize just how much people power it takes to put a book out there.
Once I have an idea for a story, I sit and write. Plotting along the way, details and timelines are on a second screen that I refer to and modify as the story unfolds. I aim to write about 2,000–3,000 words each day. The following morning, I spend editing those words, doing a little social media and then the afternoon and evening I am back to writing again. The cycle continues. It helps to have this kind of routine.
Personally, I love images in books. They provide a deeper connection with the story and visuals of important scenes can make the reader’s experience that much more immersive. Not to mention, it helps the amazing artists out there who are in the same poor boat as me!
I have two incredibly talented artists on my team. Marco Pennacchietti from Italy and the multi-talented, Ian Bristow from the United States.
Once the manuscript is completed, my entrepreneurial wife (she left her job the same day as me!) does a complete read through with line edits, spelling, grammar and punctuation checks to prepare it for the editing stage.
Next, my editor from Scotland, Michelle Dunbar, gives the book a thorough review.
Now my work gets tougher. I take her suggestions and decide whether to accept or reject them. It takes many hours of combing through some 400 pages of text to ensure that everything lines up and flows well.
It's not over yet. Enter the beta reader stage. Family, friends and past co-workers are so giving of their time. They are provided with a copy of the manuscript and have one month to read it and return to me with their hardcore opinions and reviews. As a thank you, I acknowledge them in the book and provide them with a signed copy upon publication. I hope they are worth something someday!
After I take the beta readers’ suggestions into consideration, I place the wonderful images inside the book. Then my wife handles the final proofreading, polishing, formatting and with loving hands passes it back to begin the process of self-publishing the completed manuscript.
So many steps. So many people. So much money. So worth it.
January 12, 2019
Here it is! Sneak peek to a breaking new fantasy series!
Reecah's FlightLegends of the Lurker Book One An excerpt...
Several days had passed since Poppa departed dressed much differently than normal, a rope over his shoulders, his old sword buckled to his belt and a black quarterstaff in hand.
Reecah watched Grammy sitting before her loom in the flickering candlelight, never once pushing down on the foot pedal to operate the cumbersome machine. Grammy’s faraway gaze told Reecah her mind was elsewhere.
“Where’s Poppa?”
Grammy looked up from her idle loom and blinked a couple of times, a grim smile fluttering amongst her wrinkles. “He’s off hunting with the villagers.”
Reecah frowned. Poppa often hunted for food, but he usually took his bow. “He’s been gone a long time.”
“Come here, flower bud.”
Grammy held her arms out for Reecah to climb into her lap.
“Remember when we told you about the seasons?”
Reecah put a finger to her lips in thought, her big, hazel eyes searching Grammy’s face. “I think so.”
Grammy kissed Reecah’s forehead and gave her a patient smile. “Let me remind you. Every three years around this time, we must be extra careful with the dragons. Fishmonger Bay has the biggest population of the beasts anywhere.”
“Why Grammy? What happens?”
“Hmm. I’m not sure how to explain it so that you’ll understand. You see, every creature, be they mice or people or dragons, find someone to love. When a couple loves each other, they become close and, um, well, they mate. And then they have babies.”
Reecah frowned deeper. “What does mate mean?”
“Well, heh, let’s just say they snuggle close.”
Grammy’s face reddened. Reecah turned her head sideways, having no idea what snuggling close meant. She wrapped her arms around Grammy’s thin body and hugged her tight. “You mean like this?”
“Yes, something like that.” Grammy cleared her throat. “But that’s not what’s important here. The point I’m trying to make is that during the dragon mating season, the beasts become overly protective of their territory. Fishmonger Bay lies within dragon territory and that means other animals, including people, must be extra careful.”
“Is Poppa hunting dragons?”
Grammy didn’t respond right away. “Poppa is with a bunch of men trying to keep the dragons from encroaching on our lands.”
Reecah nodded, not really knowing what that meant. She did, however, understand Grammy’s serious tone. “Is Poppa going to die?”
Grammy pushed Reecah to arms length. “Gosh, child, no. Don’t you ever think that.”
Reecah smiled and snuggled back in to Grammy’s bosom. “I like when we mate, Grammy.”
She felt Grammy stiffen and begin to stutter, but the sound of boots clomping on the new porch had them gaping at the door in anticipation.
Reecah flew off her lap as the door banged open and Poppa stomped inside.
Poppa’s glum face brightened when Reecah jumped into his arms. He lifted her off her feet in a tight embrace.
“Poppa’s back!” Reecah kissed him several times all over the face before she leaned back and studied him. “You’re stinky, Poppa.”
“Hah!” Poppa put her on the floor and hugged Grammy who had walked up behind them.
Lying awake in the dark cabin, Reecah hugged her wooden dragon, stroking its scaly spine and listening to snatches of her grandparents’ conversation from their pallet on the far side of the hut.Grammy’s voice sounded sad. “Why must you go back out again? I thought you showed them where to go?”
“Aye, but Jonas is afraid there’ll be trouble. He wants as many swords as possible.”
“He can’t be serious. If he provokes them, he’ll risk bringing the entire dragon community down on us.”
“I agree, but you know Jonas. You can’t tell him that.”
Silence settled over the hut. Reecah’s thoughts drifted. She wasn’t sure she dreamed her grandparents next words or not.
“I don’t like it, Vili. What would we ever do without you?”
“Shh, it’ll be okay Lizzy. I won’t let that happen. I promise.”
Early the next morning, Grammy hugged Poppa by the door, tighter and longer than usual, her face damp.“What’s the matter Grammy?” Reecah pulled on Grammy’s apron.
Grammy let Poppa go and smiled, sniffing. “Nothing, child. Just saying good-bye to Poppa.”
Reecah looked from Grammy to Poppa, confused. When her eyes met Poppa’s, his face broke into a wide grin.
“Come here, poppet. Give Poppa a big hug.”
Reecah held out her arms and was whisked off her feet in Poppa’s loving embrace. He opened the door and walked outside into the cool morning air with Reecah proudly sitting in his arms. Without looking back, he strolled down the path
“Viliyam.” Grammy called after them.
Poppa said loudly, “It’s okay. I’ll send her back when we reach the trail.
Reecah watched Grammy over Poppa’s shoulder—her grandmother didn’t look pleased.
At the end of the trail Poppa put Reecah down and reached inside his tunic to pull out a walnut sized, crimson gemstone Reecah had never seen before. He crouched down to her level.
“Wow.” Reecah accepted it in her small palm. “For me?”
Poppa smiled. “That was your mother’s. I need you to take care of it for me until I come back. Can you do that?”
Reecah nodded.
“Promise me you won’t tell anyone else about it.”
“Not even Grammy?”
Poppa’s response surprised her. “Especially not Grammy.”
Reecah turned the multi-faceted stone over in her hands, running a finger along its one flat side. “What’s it do?”
Poppa swallowed, his eyes on the verge of tears. “There’s no time to explain it to you now. When the time comes, it’ll all become clear, okay?”
She nodded.
“Promise me. No one.”
“I promise, Poppa.”
Viliyam knelt on one knee. “Good, now give me a hug. It’s time I was going.”
Reecah hugged him around the neck, so hard she heard him gasp. “When are you coming back, Poppa?”
She felt him tense, but his soft voice calmed her.
“I will always be in your heart, little poppet. Don’t ever forget that.” He held a hand over her chest. “As long as I’m here, it’ll be like I never left.”
Coming May 2019!
January 10, 2019
On Writing Fantasy: An Imaginary World
It occurred to me today that as a fantasy author, one of the reasons I love to write this genre is to experience the journey of the characters and see what is around the next corner. To experience their world through their eyes is truly remarkable.
My full-time job writing is such a joy and, if I’m honest, it’s an escape from the world today! Creating stories for readers to enjoy and take pleasure from is a privilege.
For me, writing is a form of therapy, a calming passage of time that I truly get lost in as the characters, places, scenes, beasts, dragons and magic transport me to another realm.
When I write, I listen to music through a headset. I am completely immersed in the sounds and everything else around me is lost. Music fuels my creativity and passion and with each vision, step and moment in time, I lose myself in a fantasy story of epic proportions.
I feel grateful to be able to write full-time, following my passion to craft stories for fantasy enthusiasts. As an insatiable reader myself, it truly is a fantastical honour.
My full-time job writing is such a joy and, if I’m honest, it’s an escape from the world today! Creating stories for readers to enjoy and take pleasure from is a privilege.
For me, writing is a form of therapy, a calming passage of time that I truly get lost in as the characters, places, scenes, beasts, dragons and magic transport me to another realm.
When I write, I listen to music through a headset. I am completely immersed in the sounds and everything else around me is lost. Music fuels my creativity and passion and with each vision, step and moment in time, I lose myself in a fantasy story of epic proportions.
I feel grateful to be able to write full-time, following my passion to craft stories for fantasy enthusiasts. As an insatiable reader myself, it truly is a fantastical honour.
December 11, 2018
Into the Madness (Book 3)
Knowing now what they did of their heritage, Melody found herself full of unanswered questions about her mother. Why hadn’t their mother told them of her lineage? If the Grimward could be trusted, and she saw no reason why the old spirit would lie, Mase Storms End descended from a long line of magic users. Sure, her mother would’ve been discreet with that knowledge. Had she been found out, she would’ve been hunted and killed by the ignorant, idol worshipping, peasantry.
Melody sniffled, wiping her wet cheeks on her robe. In the end, what difference did it make? Death at the hands of the people, or being murdered by Helleden’s minions? Either way, her parents were dead. They had lived a lonely life in exile from their own people.
“It’s not fair.”
Silurian stopped clearing the unmarked graves and looked her in the eyes. “No, it’s not, but I’m damn well going to make someone answer for their deaths. Mom and dad were quiet, unassuming, caring people who never did anybody wrong. Mom’s only crime was being born a Storms End. Dad’s only fault was loving her.”
Melody put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close. His words sparked a feeling deep inside her she hadn’t known herself capable of. Revenge.Inside the Earthwyrm
Melody’s mind whirled. She crept inside of the throat of a creature claiming it would destroy the world, searching for a talisman her dead mother referred to as the Tang Stone. She felt trapped within a nightmare—cognizant of her actions and able to exert her freewill, but confronted by an impossible dilemma. She rued the day she blew up her home on Dragon’s Tooth.
She had no way to tell time within the beast. The creature’s size was incomprehensible, marked by how far she travelled down its throat. When the staff’s light illuminated a widening in the tunnel, she balked at leaving the constricted passageway.
The Gimcrack’s throat widened into a cavern four times the size of its mouth. Lining the floor of what she perceived to be the Gimcrack’s stomach was a tumble of broken rock. The tunnel continued beyond the cavern’s far end, its opening half as large as the throat.
She shored up her courage and set foot onto a large rock and looked around. Other than random chunks of debris undulating ever so slightly, there was nothing remarkable about the lining of the stomach’s floor. Her mother’s words echoed inside her head. Seek out the Gimcrack. At its bottom lies the Tang Stone. At its bottom. Its bottom.
She swallowed. Did that mean she had to wiggle her way into the creature’s…? She shuddered to even think about it.
Glancing at the red rune confirmed her fear. It pointed into the intestinal tunnel. A shiver of revulsion gripped her, making her teeth chatter.
The floor of the stomach lurched and tossed her toward the smaller opening. She landed hard amidst a jumble of crushed stone, scraping her palms and bruising her knees. She lost hold of her staff and scrambled sideways to rescue it from a bank of churning rocks.
Her eyes widened at the significance. The rocks were being digested.
Another convulsion threw her farther along the stomach’s floor. She hung onto her staff at the cost of bashing her elbow.
She screamed when the stomach lurched a third time and barely avoided being crushed by the layer of rock behind her as she slammed into the back wall.
She was being digested.
Melody sniffled, wiping her wet cheeks on her robe. In the end, what difference did it make? Death at the hands of the people, or being murdered by Helleden’s minions? Either way, her parents were dead. They had lived a lonely life in exile from their own people.
“It’s not fair.”
Silurian stopped clearing the unmarked graves and looked her in the eyes. “No, it’s not, but I’m damn well going to make someone answer for their deaths. Mom and dad were quiet, unassuming, caring people who never did anybody wrong. Mom’s only crime was being born a Storms End. Dad’s only fault was loving her.”
Melody put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close. His words sparked a feeling deep inside her she hadn’t known herself capable of. Revenge.Inside the Earthwyrm
Melody’s mind whirled. She crept inside of the throat of a creature claiming it would destroy the world, searching for a talisman her dead mother referred to as the Tang Stone. She felt trapped within a nightmare—cognizant of her actions and able to exert her freewill, but confronted by an impossible dilemma. She rued the day she blew up her home on Dragon’s Tooth.
She had no way to tell time within the beast. The creature’s size was incomprehensible, marked by how far she travelled down its throat. When the staff’s light illuminated a widening in the tunnel, she balked at leaving the constricted passageway.
The Gimcrack’s throat widened into a cavern four times the size of its mouth. Lining the floor of what she perceived to be the Gimcrack’s stomach was a tumble of broken rock. The tunnel continued beyond the cavern’s far end, its opening half as large as the throat.
She shored up her courage and set foot onto a large rock and looked around. Other than random chunks of debris undulating ever so slightly, there was nothing remarkable about the lining of the stomach’s floor. Her mother’s words echoed inside her head. Seek out the Gimcrack. At its bottom lies the Tang Stone. At its bottom. Its bottom.
She swallowed. Did that mean she had to wiggle her way into the creature’s…? She shuddered to even think about it.
Glancing at the red rune confirmed her fear. It pointed into the intestinal tunnel. A shiver of revulsion gripped her, making her teeth chatter.
The floor of the stomach lurched and tossed her toward the smaller opening. She landed hard amidst a jumble of crushed stone, scraping her palms and bruising her knees. She lost hold of her staff and scrambled sideways to rescue it from a bank of churning rocks.
Her eyes widened at the significance. The rocks were being digested.
Another convulsion threw her farther along the stomach’s floor. She hung onto her staff at the cost of bashing her elbow.
She screamed when the stomach lurched a third time and barely avoided being crushed by the layer of rock behind her as she slammed into the back wall.
She was being digested.
Into the Madness (Book 3) - coming soon!
Knowing now what they did of their heritage, Melody found herself full of unanswered questions about her mother. Why hadn’t their mother told them of her lineage? If the Grimward could be trusted, and she saw no reason why the old spirit would lie, Mase Storms End descended from a long line of magic users. Sure, her mother would’ve been discreet with that knowledge. Had she been found out, she would’ve been hunted and killed by the ignorant, idol worshipping, peasantry.
Melody sniffled, wiping her wet cheeks on her robe. In the end, what difference did it make? Death at the hands of the people, or being murdered by Helleden’s minions? Either way, her parents were dead. They had lived a lonely life in exile from their own people.
“It’s not fair.”
Silurian stopped clearing the unmarked graves and looked her in the eyes. “No, it’s not, but I’m damn well going to make someone answer for their deaths. Mom and dad were quiet, unassuming, caring people who never did anybody wrong. Mom’s only crime was being born a Storms End. Dad’s only fault was loving her.”
Melody put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close. His words sparked a feeling deep inside her she hadn’t known herself capable of. Revenge.Inside the Earthwyrm
Melody’s mind whirled. She crept inside of the throat of a creature claiming it would destroy the world, searching for a talisman her dead mother referred to as the Tang Stone. She felt trapped within a nightmare—cognizant of her actions and able to exert her freewill, but confronted by an impossible dilemma. She rued the day she blew up her home on Dragon’s Tooth.
She had no way to tell time within the beast. The creature’s size was incomprehensible, marked by how far she travelled down its throat. When the staff’s light illuminated a widening in the tunnel, she balked at leaving the constricted passageway.
The Gimcrack’s throat widened into a cavern four times the size of its mouth. Lining the floor of what she perceived to be the Gimcrack’s stomach was a tumble of broken rock. The tunnel continued beyond the cavern’s far end, its opening half as large as the throat.
She shored up her courage and set foot onto a large rock and looked around. Other than random chunks of debris undulating ever so slightly, there was nothing remarkable about the lining of the stomach’s floor. Her mother’s words echoed inside her head. Seek out the Gimcrack. At its bottom lies the Tang Stone. At its bottom. Its bottom.
She swallowed. Did that mean she had to wiggle her way into the creature’s…? She shuddered to even think about it.
Glancing at the red rune confirmed her fear. It pointed into the intestinal tunnel. A shiver of revulsion gripped her, making her teeth chatter.
The floor of the stomach lurched and tossed her toward the smaller opening. She landed hard amidst a jumble of crushed stone, scraping her palms and bruising her knees. She lost hold of her staff and scrambled sideways to rescue it from a bank of churning rocks.
Her eyes widened at the significance. The rocks were being digested.
Another convulsion threw her farther along the stomach’s floor. She hung onto her staff at the cost of bashing her elbow.
She screamed when the stomach lurched a third time and barely avoided being crushed by the layer of rock behind her as she slammed into the back wall.
She was being digested.
Melody sniffled, wiping her wet cheeks on her robe. In the end, what difference did it make? Death at the hands of the people, or being murdered by Helleden’s minions? Either way, her parents were dead. They had lived a lonely life in exile from their own people.
“It’s not fair.”
Silurian stopped clearing the unmarked graves and looked her in the eyes. “No, it’s not, but I’m damn well going to make someone answer for their deaths. Mom and dad were quiet, unassuming, caring people who never did anybody wrong. Mom’s only crime was being born a Storms End. Dad’s only fault was loving her.”
Melody put her arm around his shoulders and pulled him in close. His words sparked a feeling deep inside her she hadn’t known herself capable of. Revenge.Inside the Earthwyrm
Melody’s mind whirled. She crept inside of the throat of a creature claiming it would destroy the world, searching for a talisman her dead mother referred to as the Tang Stone. She felt trapped within a nightmare—cognizant of her actions and able to exert her freewill, but confronted by an impossible dilemma. She rued the day she blew up her home on Dragon’s Tooth.
She had no way to tell time within the beast. The creature’s size was incomprehensible, marked by how far she travelled down its throat. When the staff’s light illuminated a widening in the tunnel, she balked at leaving the constricted passageway.
The Gimcrack’s throat widened into a cavern four times the size of its mouth. Lining the floor of what she perceived to be the Gimcrack’s stomach was a tumble of broken rock. The tunnel continued beyond the cavern’s far end, its opening half as large as the throat.
She shored up her courage and set foot onto a large rock and looked around. Other than random chunks of debris undulating ever so slightly, there was nothing remarkable about the lining of the stomach’s floor. Her mother’s words echoed inside her head. Seek out the Gimcrack. At its bottom lies the Tang Stone. At its bottom. Its bottom.
She swallowed. Did that mean she had to wiggle her way into the creature’s…? She shuddered to even think about it.
Glancing at the red rune confirmed her fear. It pointed into the intestinal tunnel. A shiver of revulsion gripped her, making her teeth chatter.
The floor of the stomach lurched and tossed her toward the smaller opening. She landed hard amidst a jumble of crushed stone, scraping her palms and bruising her knees. She lost hold of her staff and scrambled sideways to rescue it from a bank of churning rocks.
Her eyes widened at the significance. The rocks were being digested.
Another convulsion threw her farther along the stomach’s floor. She hung onto her staff at the cost of bashing her elbow.
She screamed when the stomach lurched a third time and barely avoided being crushed by the layer of rock behind her as she slammed into the back wall.
She was being digested.
November 19, 2018
Don't think about it, just do it.
For me, the process of writing a story is an adventure. As a writer of epic fantasy, people often ask, “How do you world build? How do you establish plot lines? How do you create characters? How do you build magic systems?” To each and every one of those questions the answer is simple. I don't.So many people devote countless hours (some take years!) building a fantastical world. They spend days and weeks fretting over magic systems. They agonize until the sun comes up about plot. I get it. There are a lot of people who require structure. Hey, if that works for them, great, but I don't have the patience, nor the time to devote to these things when I could be writing instead. I don’t need to stress over things my characters are going to sort out for themselves anyway.
What do I mean by that? Well, in some circles, I am called a ‘pantser.’ I had never heard of this term until a few months ago. It means I fly by the seat of my pants. Truth be told, I like to think I fly by the seat of my character's pants.When I sit down to write, I haven't spent weeks agonizing over scene development or crisis management. Heck, I don't even know what the land looks like around the next bend in the trail. The beauty is, I don't have to. My characters tell me everything I need to know as they experience it.
My worldbuilding consists of maintaining two detailed excel spreadsheets, which, by the way, are made and added to as the story progresses. Nothing is done beforehand. One spreadsheet, THE PLACES SPREADSHEET, has a tab for everyplace, road, river, etc. I put in the story—each with their own description. The other spreadsheet, THE PEOPLE SPREADSHEET, lists almost every character mentioned, with 3 subcategories: Physical Description, Clothing, and Other. (The obligatory guy that shows up and becomes collateral damage, doesn’t count.)
At some point I generate a map, but not before the story is well underway. Why, because the characters haven’t told me what’s on the map yet. And magic systems? Huh? I write fantasy. Magic is an inherent part of the story. I don’t explain how people stay alive by describing the intricacies of breathing: oxygen enters one’s lungs via a tube called an esophagus and then passes through…you get what I’m saying? You just accept the fact that the character’s body is capable of breathing. That being said, I don’t need to explain how magic works—by definition, it’s magic!
There are days when the writing process doesn’t flow. Those days are tough. Some people like to hide behind the security curtain many refer to as writer’s block. I refuse to let myself do this. On the days writing doesn’t come naturally, my word count suffers for sure, but I still get a count. I force myself to write the word, ‘The,’ and then the next word, and then the one after that. You might surprise yourself. Once you change your mindset from “I can’t do it” to “I am doing it”, more often than not, the so called ‘writer’s block’ disappears. Don’t worry if it’s not Pulitzer prize winning material—that’s what editing is for!
For me, writing a story is simple. I put a character in a room, or on a trail, or in a boat, and all I need to do is have them place that first foot in front of the other and give them a shove. The rest is easy. The land and their story will evolve before their eyes. My job as a writer is to keep up and tell the reader what my characters are experiencing.
Life is short. Don’t let it pass you by with your characters locked inside your head. If you don’t write it, no one can read it. Sit in front of your keyboard, look through your character’s eyes, and take part in the wondrous adventure awaiting them.
What gets you motivated to write? Post in the comments below...
November 13, 2018
Wizard of the North Book Blurbs
Opening scene:
A storm was imminent. It promised to be a bad one. It would rain hard, and with the rain would come death.
Within a grotto, high atop an active volcano, a wizard hunkered over a vision within the flames of a modest campfire, holding back long wisps of golden hair.
Something strange was occurring hundreds of leagues south of the cave. Something catastrophic. Tears dripped from the tip of the wizard’s nose. The omens foretold the return of a devastating power. A power that had annihilated the unspoiled tracts of the Innerworld a few moon cycles earlier. The same power that had besieged Quarrnaine Svelte and her expedition four years ago, but this time it was different. This time, the signs pointed to an absolute apocalypse—a total annihilation of Zephyr, and there was nothing the wizard could do to prevent it.
A cold wind swirled ash into the wizard’s face, burning small holes in the silken robes fluttering about the magic user’s slight frame.
Ignoring the acrid smoke, the wizard leaned closer to the flames, willing the vision to reveal a deeper understanding. Helleden Misenthorpe was at the root of this storm, of that there was little doubt, but there were other participants involved this time. One bigger than the malign sorcerer himself. If this magical storm of doom wasn’t strange enough, there was also something familiar about it. Something that shook the wizard to the core. The flames burned with more intensity than they had a right to, given the meagre fuel they fed upon. They flared up to singe the wizard’s hair and abruptly went out.
The wizard quickly uttered an incantation to relight the fire, anxious to witness the unfolding storm, but the flames refused to come back. The wizard frowned and chanted again, paying attention to proper enunciation. Next to a divination invocation, a vision spell was the hardest one to enact correctly. The embers flickered with promise before fizzling out again, but the wizard had felt that familiar presence again. It was as if someone had mentally reached out, desperate for the wizard’s attention.
“No,” the wizard bemoaned the unresponsive ashes and made a frantic search of the dank interior. Passing over a pile of tattered tomes and brittle scrolls, the wizard found a grimy vial of green ichor—handling it with the utmost of respect. A little hesitant, but with no time to waste, the wizard thought, why not?
Pulling the cork stopper loose, the wizard shook the vial in an effort to hurry the gelatinous substance from the container. Excruciatingly slow, the ichor dripped once, and then a second time, sizzling as it oozed into the embers.
The wizard replaced the stopper and dropped the vial into a robe pocket. With both hands free, the wizard intoned the magical phrase of vision, pronouncing each word exactly as they had been learned.
At first, the smouldering fire hissed and sputtered, but as the wizard panicked anew, a small flame caught, quickly rearing to engulf the entire pit—threatening to climb out of its confines and onto the stone floor.
The extreme heat forced the wizard back against the cave wall. Concentrating like never before, the wizard drew from an unknown reserve, and the vision reformed within the leaping flames. The scene of a bloody battle waged in virtual darkness, except for the fires burning in the fields around a river and the sporadic bursts of what could only be magic, took shape, but this was not Zephyr.
It was difficult for the wizard to determine where the battle took place; certainly nowhere familiar. Immense birds of prey flitted in and out of the vision, swooping down upon hapless victims and then flying out of sight. Men, women, and small misshapen creatures battled for their lives along the banks of a wide river, against an insurmountable number of red demons wielding tridents and other malicious instruments of death.
The familiar sensation reached through the flames, taking the wizard’s breath away.
“Silurian?”
Unseen in the background of the image until now, a cylindrical mountain blazed to life. So intense was the illumination that the wizard cowered behind an upraised arm.
The wizard’s raging fire pulsed once in warning—the wizard oblivious to the omen.
The wizard locked onto the compelling pull from within the flames, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening.
The image of the blazing mountain exploded, erupting like a volcano. A visible concussion shot outward, the intensity of the blast obliterating the wizard’s vision.
A violent wind emanated from the centre of the fire pit, stoking the wizard’s flames, a harbinger of the fiery maelstrom that suddenly engulfed the cave.
Scene: Emperor Krakus awaits Helleden's return.
Krakus glared at the tent flaps, daring them to open. His imminent meeting with Helleden Misenthorpe loomed over his head. Word reached him that the sorcerer had come down from his hiding spot on the mountain.
What did the skinny wretch do up there, anyway? Did he spend his waking hours reading those dusty old tomes like wizards were wont to do? Did he preform those strange rituals and sacrifice animals or worse? Did he even sleep at all?
No matter. Krakus the Kraken be cowed by the sallow-faced, finger-wagger a second time. No one told an Emperor how to handle his affairs. Not if they preferred their head where it was.
He looked over at the hulk of Karvus lovingly whetting the edge of his colossal battle-axe. Krakus had never seen one anywhere near as large as his son’s. He doubted anyone else could even swing the beast. He should have allowed his son to dispatch the pasty freak yesterday. It would have spared him a sleepless night.
He didn’t plan on losing sleep tonight. The guard had been tripled around his pavilion. His elite shock troops had taken over the responsibility of escorting the sorcerer through the fortified camp.
Karvus’ hounds lay restlessly by his side, occasionally snarling for no apparent reason, perhaps unsettled by the close proximity of more of the demonic hounds surrounding the pavilion. It would be good sport watching the robed malcontent try to cast his witchery fast enough to deal with a pack of dybbuk hounds.
The emperor smiled at that. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He couldn’t wait to see the pompous spell-caster grovel. If Helleden begged hard enough, perhaps Krakus would allow him to serve in his personal bodyguard. With the sorcerer as a protector, who knew what an emperor with Krakus’ ambition could achieve?
When the tent flaps parted marking the entrance of one of Karvus’ shock troops, Krakus almost yelped.
“What is it, man?” Krakus barked.
The man dropped to a knee upon the entrance rug, a nasty looking cudgel in hand. “My emperor, the sorcerer has entered the camp.”
“Alone?”
“Nay, my emperor.” The man kept his eyes to the mat.
Krakus frowned at the unanticipated response.
“No? Who else? How many?”
“Just one, my emperor.”
“And? Who is this second person? Another sorcerer? A guard? A whore? What?”
“A demon, sir.”
Krakus swallowed. Helleden’s army were all demons of one persuasion or another. The big, red, trident bearing ones were the worst of the lot, but his own shock troops were their equal. One, by itself, shouldn’t prove to be too much of a concern, though the morose tone of the man on the carpet suggested otherwise.
“Obviously a demon, you buffoon. So, what of it?”
The man, a seasoned warrior, looked up into the emperor’s eyes, fear evident in his own. “This is no ordinary demon, my emperor. It is huge.”
Krakus shrugged. He had enough muscle to deal with a huge demon.
“It’s huge? Is that all?”
“Nay, my emperor. I can’t explain it, but—”
“Try, dammit!”
The man lowered his head. “It seems to shift about. One moment it is behind the sorcerer, the next it is beside him, and before you blink it is on his far side.”
Krakus scowled. Surely Helleden must know he can’t intimidate a man such as he. “The wretch is playing with your mind, you fool. It’s an old sorcerer’s trick to distract you from concentrating on him. Now get out!”
“Aye, my emperor.” The man rose and rushed from the tent.
Karvus’ bulk rose slowly, battle-axe in hand. The dybbuk hounds jumped up, instantly alert. Karvus grunted a command to settle them.
“I will see to this magic man.”
Krakus looked at him with wide eyes. “No. You remain here with me.”
Karvus glared at his father. He thought he saw a trace of fear in the emperor’s eyes. He slumped heavily into his chair, scowling. He would have to do something about that.
From the Chapter named after the picture: SADIE
Walking across blackened farmland, the unlikely trio espied the high hills southeast of their position, marking Lake Refrain, still another day and a half away.
Passing outlying farmsteads, their optimism that Millsford might have survived the widespread devastation of the sorcerer’s wrath quickly waned. The absence of human life around all the burnt-out farm houses and collapsed barns did little to sway their mounting despair.
By midday, the desecrated wooden palisade that until recently had protected Millsford on its two landlocked sides, stretching from the Madrigail River’s eastern bank and running north to meet up with the southern shore of the Canorous River, came into view. From their vantage point on the far side of the mighty Madrigail, the burnt and shattered sections of wall had done little to shield the citizens within.
Millsford Road crossed the Madrigail on the back of an arching stone bridge, but the dilapidated state of the bridge gave them pause. Half of the stone structure lay scattered beneath the river’s surface, the tumbled stonework creating rapids in the river.
“Enough t’ floor ye,” Olmar said, shaking his head at the devastated span. “I be thinkin’ we’d best wade across.”
“Aye, you could use a bath,” Sadyra said. Before Olmar could reply, she vaulted up the side of the ruined bridge and agilely skipped across the blasted remains, effortlessly hopping gaping holes. Reaching the far side, she called out, “You two coming anytime soon?”
Alhena and Olmar looked at each helplessly. There was no way either of them were about to replicate the archer’s path.
Alhena sized up the rapids created by the fallen bridge rock, thinking to himself how he hated getting his robes wet—they took forever to dry. Sadyra’s shining face, watching them from across the expanse, ruled out the thought of disrobing.
Beside him, Olmar sat upon the riverbank, removing his huge boots. The sailor then shrugged from beneath his tunic, unlaced his sweat stained shirt and pulled it over his head. Rolls of Olmar bounced and hung over the man’s tightly cinched, leather belt. When he unclasped the buckle, Alhena feared the earth would move beneath their feet.
A piercing whistle sounded across the river. Sadyra stood with her hip stuck out, two fingers in her mouth and a mischievous look on her face—clearly enjoying the spectacle.
There was no way in hell Alhena was about to disrobe now.
Olmar, in his altogether, spread out his tunic and wrapped all of his belongings in it, except his cap and massive warhammer. Turning to Alhena, no humility evident in his beaming jowls, he said, “here Pops, take this.”
Alhena wasn’t given time to respond as Olmar thrust his burden into his arms.
“Now, get on.” The great mass of human flesh bent his head and shoulders to the ground.
Flabbergasted, Alhena backed away a step. “What the? You want me to climb on your head?”
“Me ‘ead? No, Pops. Git yerself on me shoulders, and be quick about it. Don’t want lassie over there ‘avin’ a conniption.”
Sadyra sat upon the far bank, laughing like she was being tortured with a goose feather.
“But, but…it’s okay, I will swim. Don’t you worry about me. I’ve crossed bigger water than this, let me assure you,” Alhena said, thinking back to his plunge into Lake Madrigail with Rook Bowman.
“Bah!” Olmar grunted, straining to hold his pose, his face brushing the ground. “Ain’t you I’s worryin’ about. I’m hopin’ yer t’ keep me stuff dry, is all.”
Swallowing the little pride left to him, Alhena hiked up his robes, exposing his bone white, stick legs. Sadyra’s wolf whistle gave him pause. Straddling a naked man’s neck was the last thing he ever thought he’d find himself doing, but as the mountain known as Olmar waded out into the current, he appreciated the fact that, other than the lower hems of his voluminous robes dragging upon the water’s surface as the river depth reached Olmar’s triple chin, the majority of his own clothes remained dry. Had it not been for the woman rolling upon the far bank in tears, he might even have enjoyed swaying above the water’s surface on the shoulders of a giant.
Olmar only stumbled twice. On the second occasion, Alhena thought for sure he would be thrown into the cold river, but the sailor steadied himself on his well-versed, bowed-legs and laughed heartedly, himself caught up in Sadyra’s hysterics as she watched their progress.
Once upon the far bank, Alhena immediately retreated, red-faced, to a safe distance down the road to allow Olmar some dignity.
Sadyra, however, gave the unabashed sailor a thorough once over, before she dragged herself to her feet and said through another round of laughter, “I’m glad I took the bridge. By all appearances, that water is colder than it looks!”
Unfazed, Olmar took his time drying himself and getting back into his clothing, his white skin riddled with goosebumps. “Och, lassie, ye be a real peach. ‘Tis a good thing yer mam ain’t here seeing ya behave like this.”
The unbridled merriment the two younger ones shared was replaced by the somber realization that Millsford, like The Forke and Madrigail Bay before it, had been annihilated by Helleden’s firestorm. Only a handful of the stone structures still stood beyond the toppled city walls, their interiors gutted by fire. Farther along what had once been the main road, another collapsed row of walls surrounded the largest stone structure in the city—the baron’s manor. The edifice, originally three stories high, had fallen in upon itself. Not a soul stirred within the ruined city.
“Where is everybody?” Sadyra wondered aloud, turning in circles, not quite sure what to make of the destruction.
Alhena swallowed, his breaking heart. The devastation went on forever. He shuddered to think about the state of the capital of Carillon and Castle Svelte, praying that King Malcolm had somehow survived the maelstrom. If Zephyr’s monarch hadn’t…
Tears rolled unabashedly down Sadyra’s face as the finality of what they witnessed hit home.
Alhena’s heart broke even further seeing how deeply it affected her. He was about to go to her, but Olmar loped over and scooped her from her feet like she was his little girl. He held her against his massive shoulder, patting her back ever so softly. “There now, Sadie dear, it’s alright. Let it out. Olmar’s got ye.”
A storm was imminent. It promised to be a bad one. It would rain hard, and with the rain would come death.
Within a grotto, high atop an active volcano, a wizard hunkered over a vision within the flames of a modest campfire, holding back long wisps of golden hair.
Something strange was occurring hundreds of leagues south of the cave. Something catastrophic. Tears dripped from the tip of the wizard’s nose. The omens foretold the return of a devastating power. A power that had annihilated the unspoiled tracts of the Innerworld a few moon cycles earlier. The same power that had besieged Quarrnaine Svelte and her expedition four years ago, but this time it was different. This time, the signs pointed to an absolute apocalypse—a total annihilation of Zephyr, and there was nothing the wizard could do to prevent it.
A cold wind swirled ash into the wizard’s face, burning small holes in the silken robes fluttering about the magic user’s slight frame.
Ignoring the acrid smoke, the wizard leaned closer to the flames, willing the vision to reveal a deeper understanding. Helleden Misenthorpe was at the root of this storm, of that there was little doubt, but there were other participants involved this time. One bigger than the malign sorcerer himself. If this magical storm of doom wasn’t strange enough, there was also something familiar about it. Something that shook the wizard to the core. The flames burned with more intensity than they had a right to, given the meagre fuel they fed upon. They flared up to singe the wizard’s hair and abruptly went out.
The wizard quickly uttered an incantation to relight the fire, anxious to witness the unfolding storm, but the flames refused to come back. The wizard frowned and chanted again, paying attention to proper enunciation. Next to a divination invocation, a vision spell was the hardest one to enact correctly. The embers flickered with promise before fizzling out again, but the wizard had felt that familiar presence again. It was as if someone had mentally reached out, desperate for the wizard’s attention.
“No,” the wizard bemoaned the unresponsive ashes and made a frantic search of the dank interior. Passing over a pile of tattered tomes and brittle scrolls, the wizard found a grimy vial of green ichor—handling it with the utmost of respect. A little hesitant, but with no time to waste, the wizard thought, why not?
Pulling the cork stopper loose, the wizard shook the vial in an effort to hurry the gelatinous substance from the container. Excruciatingly slow, the ichor dripped once, and then a second time, sizzling as it oozed into the embers.
The wizard replaced the stopper and dropped the vial into a robe pocket. With both hands free, the wizard intoned the magical phrase of vision, pronouncing each word exactly as they had been learned.
At first, the smouldering fire hissed and sputtered, but as the wizard panicked anew, a small flame caught, quickly rearing to engulf the entire pit—threatening to climb out of its confines and onto the stone floor.
The extreme heat forced the wizard back against the cave wall. Concentrating like never before, the wizard drew from an unknown reserve, and the vision reformed within the leaping flames. The scene of a bloody battle waged in virtual darkness, except for the fires burning in the fields around a river and the sporadic bursts of what could only be magic, took shape, but this was not Zephyr.
It was difficult for the wizard to determine where the battle took place; certainly nowhere familiar. Immense birds of prey flitted in and out of the vision, swooping down upon hapless victims and then flying out of sight. Men, women, and small misshapen creatures battled for their lives along the banks of a wide river, against an insurmountable number of red demons wielding tridents and other malicious instruments of death.
The familiar sensation reached through the flames, taking the wizard’s breath away.
“Silurian?”
Unseen in the background of the image until now, a cylindrical mountain blazed to life. So intense was the illumination that the wizard cowered behind an upraised arm.
The wizard’s raging fire pulsed once in warning—the wizard oblivious to the omen.
The wizard locked onto the compelling pull from within the flames, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening.
The image of the blazing mountain exploded, erupting like a volcano. A visible concussion shot outward, the intensity of the blast obliterating the wizard’s vision.
A violent wind emanated from the centre of the fire pit, stoking the wizard’s flames, a harbinger of the fiery maelstrom that suddenly engulfed the cave.
Scene: Emperor Krakus awaits Helleden's return.
Krakus glared at the tent flaps, daring them to open. His imminent meeting with Helleden Misenthorpe loomed over his head. Word reached him that the sorcerer had come down from his hiding spot on the mountain.
What did the skinny wretch do up there, anyway? Did he spend his waking hours reading those dusty old tomes like wizards were wont to do? Did he preform those strange rituals and sacrifice animals or worse? Did he even sleep at all?
No matter. Krakus the Kraken be cowed by the sallow-faced, finger-wagger a second time. No one told an Emperor how to handle his affairs. Not if they preferred their head where it was.
He looked over at the hulk of Karvus lovingly whetting the edge of his colossal battle-axe. Krakus had never seen one anywhere near as large as his son’s. He doubted anyone else could even swing the beast. He should have allowed his son to dispatch the pasty freak yesterday. It would have spared him a sleepless night.
He didn’t plan on losing sleep tonight. The guard had been tripled around his pavilion. His elite shock troops had taken over the responsibility of escorting the sorcerer through the fortified camp.
Karvus’ hounds lay restlessly by his side, occasionally snarling for no apparent reason, perhaps unsettled by the close proximity of more of the demonic hounds surrounding the pavilion. It would be good sport watching the robed malcontent try to cast his witchery fast enough to deal with a pack of dybbuk hounds.
The emperor smiled at that. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. He couldn’t wait to see the pompous spell-caster grovel. If Helleden begged hard enough, perhaps Krakus would allow him to serve in his personal bodyguard. With the sorcerer as a protector, who knew what an emperor with Krakus’ ambition could achieve?
When the tent flaps parted marking the entrance of one of Karvus’ shock troops, Krakus almost yelped.
“What is it, man?” Krakus barked.
The man dropped to a knee upon the entrance rug, a nasty looking cudgel in hand. “My emperor, the sorcerer has entered the camp.”
“Alone?”
“Nay, my emperor.” The man kept his eyes to the mat.
Krakus frowned at the unanticipated response.
“No? Who else? How many?”
“Just one, my emperor.”
“And? Who is this second person? Another sorcerer? A guard? A whore? What?”
“A demon, sir.”
Krakus swallowed. Helleden’s army were all demons of one persuasion or another. The big, red, trident bearing ones were the worst of the lot, but his own shock troops were their equal. One, by itself, shouldn’t prove to be too much of a concern, though the morose tone of the man on the carpet suggested otherwise.
“Obviously a demon, you buffoon. So, what of it?”
The man, a seasoned warrior, looked up into the emperor’s eyes, fear evident in his own. “This is no ordinary demon, my emperor. It is huge.”
Krakus shrugged. He had enough muscle to deal with a huge demon.
“It’s huge? Is that all?”
“Nay, my emperor. I can’t explain it, but—”
“Try, dammit!”
The man lowered his head. “It seems to shift about. One moment it is behind the sorcerer, the next it is beside him, and before you blink it is on his far side.”
Krakus scowled. Surely Helleden must know he can’t intimidate a man such as he. “The wretch is playing with your mind, you fool. It’s an old sorcerer’s trick to distract you from concentrating on him. Now get out!”
“Aye, my emperor.” The man rose and rushed from the tent.
Karvus’ bulk rose slowly, battle-axe in hand. The dybbuk hounds jumped up, instantly alert. Karvus grunted a command to settle them.
“I will see to this magic man.”
Krakus looked at him with wide eyes. “No. You remain here with me.”
Karvus glared at his father. He thought he saw a trace of fear in the emperor’s eyes. He slumped heavily into his chair, scowling. He would have to do something about that.
From the Chapter named after the picture: SADIE
Walking across blackened farmland, the unlikely trio espied the high hills southeast of their position, marking Lake Refrain, still another day and a half away.
Passing outlying farmsteads, their optimism that Millsford might have survived the widespread devastation of the sorcerer’s wrath quickly waned. The absence of human life around all the burnt-out farm houses and collapsed barns did little to sway their mounting despair.
By midday, the desecrated wooden palisade that until recently had protected Millsford on its two landlocked sides, stretching from the Madrigail River’s eastern bank and running north to meet up with the southern shore of the Canorous River, came into view. From their vantage point on the far side of the mighty Madrigail, the burnt and shattered sections of wall had done little to shield the citizens within.
Millsford Road crossed the Madrigail on the back of an arching stone bridge, but the dilapidated state of the bridge gave them pause. Half of the stone structure lay scattered beneath the river’s surface, the tumbled stonework creating rapids in the river.
“Enough t’ floor ye,” Olmar said, shaking his head at the devastated span. “I be thinkin’ we’d best wade across.”
“Aye, you could use a bath,” Sadyra said. Before Olmar could reply, she vaulted up the side of the ruined bridge and agilely skipped across the blasted remains, effortlessly hopping gaping holes. Reaching the far side, she called out, “You two coming anytime soon?”
Alhena and Olmar looked at each helplessly. There was no way either of them were about to replicate the archer’s path.
Alhena sized up the rapids created by the fallen bridge rock, thinking to himself how he hated getting his robes wet—they took forever to dry. Sadyra’s shining face, watching them from across the expanse, ruled out the thought of disrobing.
Beside him, Olmar sat upon the riverbank, removing his huge boots. The sailor then shrugged from beneath his tunic, unlaced his sweat stained shirt and pulled it over his head. Rolls of Olmar bounced and hung over the man’s tightly cinched, leather belt. When he unclasped the buckle, Alhena feared the earth would move beneath their feet.
A piercing whistle sounded across the river. Sadyra stood with her hip stuck out, two fingers in her mouth and a mischievous look on her face—clearly enjoying the spectacle.
There was no way in hell Alhena was about to disrobe now.
Olmar, in his altogether, spread out his tunic and wrapped all of his belongings in it, except his cap and massive warhammer. Turning to Alhena, no humility evident in his beaming jowls, he said, “here Pops, take this.”
Alhena wasn’t given time to respond as Olmar thrust his burden into his arms.
“Now, get on.” The great mass of human flesh bent his head and shoulders to the ground.
Flabbergasted, Alhena backed away a step. “What the? You want me to climb on your head?”
“Me ‘ead? No, Pops. Git yerself on me shoulders, and be quick about it. Don’t want lassie over there ‘avin’ a conniption.”
Sadyra sat upon the far bank, laughing like she was being tortured with a goose feather.
“But, but…it’s okay, I will swim. Don’t you worry about me. I’ve crossed bigger water than this, let me assure you,” Alhena said, thinking back to his plunge into Lake Madrigail with Rook Bowman.
“Bah!” Olmar grunted, straining to hold his pose, his face brushing the ground. “Ain’t you I’s worryin’ about. I’m hopin’ yer t’ keep me stuff dry, is all.”
Swallowing the little pride left to him, Alhena hiked up his robes, exposing his bone white, stick legs. Sadyra’s wolf whistle gave him pause. Straddling a naked man’s neck was the last thing he ever thought he’d find himself doing, but as the mountain known as Olmar waded out into the current, he appreciated the fact that, other than the lower hems of his voluminous robes dragging upon the water’s surface as the river depth reached Olmar’s triple chin, the majority of his own clothes remained dry. Had it not been for the woman rolling upon the far bank in tears, he might even have enjoyed swaying above the water’s surface on the shoulders of a giant.
Olmar only stumbled twice. On the second occasion, Alhena thought for sure he would be thrown into the cold river, but the sailor steadied himself on his well-versed, bowed-legs and laughed heartedly, himself caught up in Sadyra’s hysterics as she watched their progress.
Once upon the far bank, Alhena immediately retreated, red-faced, to a safe distance down the road to allow Olmar some dignity.
Sadyra, however, gave the unabashed sailor a thorough once over, before she dragged herself to her feet and said through another round of laughter, “I’m glad I took the bridge. By all appearances, that water is colder than it looks!”
Unfazed, Olmar took his time drying himself and getting back into his clothing, his white skin riddled with goosebumps. “Och, lassie, ye be a real peach. ‘Tis a good thing yer mam ain’t here seeing ya behave like this.”
The unbridled merriment the two younger ones shared was replaced by the somber realization that Millsford, like The Forke and Madrigail Bay before it, had been annihilated by Helleden’s firestorm. Only a handful of the stone structures still stood beyond the toppled city walls, their interiors gutted by fire. Farther along what had once been the main road, another collapsed row of walls surrounded the largest stone structure in the city—the baron’s manor. The edifice, originally three stories high, had fallen in upon itself. Not a soul stirred within the ruined city.
“Where is everybody?” Sadyra wondered aloud, turning in circles, not quite sure what to make of the destruction.
Alhena swallowed, his breaking heart. The devastation went on forever. He shuddered to think about the state of the capital of Carillon and Castle Svelte, praying that King Malcolm had somehow survived the maelstrom. If Zephyr’s monarch hadn’t…
Tears rolled unabashedly down Sadyra’s face as the finality of what they witnessed hit home.
Alhena’s heart broke even further seeing how deeply it affected her. He was about to go to her, but Olmar loped over and scooped her from her feet like she was his little girl. He held her against his massive shoulder, patting her back ever so softly. “There now, Sadie dear, it’s alright. Let it out. Olmar’s got ye.”
