Book 1: ★★★★★ — 4.95/5
Novella 1.5: ★★★★★ — 4.9/5
Book 2: ★★★★★ — 4.99/5
In Loving Memory of Howard Andrew Jones; Author. Scholar. Mentor. Friend. Never to be Forgotten.
Some writers give you fine books. Some give you entire worlds. But only the rarest give you themselves — their spirit, their kindness, their generosity — long before they ask you to buy a story. Howard Andrew Jones was such a soul. He wasn’t just an author I read. He was a man I met — even if only through digital space — and he gave without hesitation. Always ready with advice on writing, cheering on fellow readers, or lifting up those walking the long and lonely road of creativity, Howard was that rare blend of humility, grace, and tireless moral compass. In a literary world where ego and bitterness can run rampant, he stood apart: a man of principle — a mind and heart shaped by a life of wonder, history, and the belief that good storytelling can still lift the soul. His death leaves the world smaller. But his legacy? Immeasurable.
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(“The Desert of Souls” | “The Bones of the Old Ones” | “The Waters of Eternity”) — ★★★★★ !!!Forever Treasured!!!
It’s hard to separate Howard’s gentle, shining spirit from the fiction he gave us — because the man and the art were made of the same rare stuff. I confess: had I read these novels years ago, I might have missed much of their quiet, sacred depth. One reason I fell so hard for this series now is simple — I’ve loved Middle Eastern myth, history, and culture for years. The tales of jinn, ghuls, lost cities, and cursed scrolls are familiar comforts to me. Without this love, much of the whispered power in these pages might have slipped past unnoticed.
But Howard knew — knew — how rich this world could be, and wrote it with reverence. Like his literary ancestor Harold Lamb, he honored the past, giving it new breath without modern cynicism or insult. Lamb’s spirit of distant cities and grand adventure looms large here — but so does something else: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Because at the burning, beating heart of these stories stand two men: Asim — our sword, our voice, our Dr. Watson of the East. Noble, strong, wonderfully human. His warmth, self-doubt, and humor make him unforgettable. His strength is not in genius, but in heart — and it is the heart that makes these stories live. Dabir — the mind, the Holmes of the desert sands. Not cold, not cruel, but sharp as Damascus steel and brimming with curiosity. He is both scholar and sorcerer, scientist and skeptic, blessed with Doyle’s mystery but none of Holmes’s lonely arrogance. Their friendship is the sugar and spice of this series — crafted so carefully by Howard’s loving hand that every scene feels like tea poured slow at sunset. They quarrel, banter, doubt, believe — and always stand together against the dark. If you’ve ever longed for Sherlock Holmes in Baghdad, this is your dream.
"The world is full of mysteries we may never understand, my friend. But that does not mean we should cease trying."
— The Desert of Souls
What a line. Pure Doyle, pure Lamb, pure Jones. The mysteries they face are grand: evil cults, forgotten gods, cursed ruins, riddles in dead tongues. The Bones of the Old Ones raises the stakes — blending cosmic horror worthy of Lovecraft (but never so hopeless), where ancient things stir in the desert and man must find courage or die. And in The Waters of Eternity, even the “in-between” novella brims with grace, giving quieter insights into the cost of power and the weight of loyalty. Jones never wasted a page.
But the real treasure? His pacing — slow when it must savor, racing when the swords flash. It reminds me of the long summer nights of childhood — devouring books until the dawn, eyelids heavy but heart racing, whispering "just one more chapter." Few modern writers give that gift anymore. And like Doyle before him, Jones knew the value of mystery itself. He honored the Sherlockian tradition — the puzzles of: The Musgrave Ritual, The Speckled Band, The Sign of Four, and perhaps even The Devil's Foot are all somehow honored at various parts in these 3 brilliant works! ...all woven, somehow, into these desert sands and bazaars, shaded tombs and burning palaces. Yet this was no mere copy — this was resurrection. Fresh life in old myths.
I am — and always will be — on the HAJ train. Blessed to have shared breath with this man while his soul wore its earthly meat suit. And I’ll return to these books, again and again, because they carry more than story. They carry him. Gone from this world... but his spirit, his goodness, his joy for tales well told — that stays. Always. Thank you, Howard. For friendship. For wonder. For teaching us that swords, minds, and hearts all sharpen together.
Rest well. Never forgotten.