Here is a little snippet of my upcoming short story in the SKULLDUST CIRCLE ANTHOLOGY, due out mid-September.
(Yes, mid-September as one of our contributors has had some unexpectedly bad luck in his personal life, so please be patient with us!)
That being said, keep your eyes peeled for the upcoming anthology and be sure to snag it on kindle as soon as it becomes available! It will include such authors as Jeremy Laszlo, Ben Martin, William Kenney, Ross Kitson and yours truly! And there are some new guys being introduced to the world of 'author-hood' in this anthology, so please welcome them as well! I am personally excited beyond words as to what this may mean for our little group and we are all psyched to have you, the reader, introduced to all of us in one book!
We hope you will enjoy it! So, without further ado, here is the intro to my story.
The Legend of Ashenclaw
It was an especially
hot summer this year. That fact was well known by all.
Triniach
leaned upon his staff and peered skyward, seemingly searching for something.
The always-aloof wizard rubbed his chin thoughtfully, penetrating the thickening
and white beard that grew upon it. His bright robe was made of the finest
silken fabrics offered by a Veldennian seamstress and consisted of brilliant
blues and purples. The woolen garments beneath however, were soaked with sweat
and threatening to spill forth any moment, but Triniach did not seem to notice
or care.
The calendar
year was 414 according to the Wothlondian timekeepers and the heat had never
been worse. Where was it coming from, thought the mage, dabbing his brow with a
piece of cloth, though it did no good as more beads took their place
immediately.
“It seems the
summers are broadening,” he spoke aloud, calling over his shoulder to his
companions.
“It is getting
to be more than I can stand,” spoke Jon Veinslay, a paladin in service to The
Watcher. The symbol of the god of the sky, a stylized eye, was proudly
emblazoned upon his plated armor and shield, colored in pale silver with
accents of deep blue and white.
“No wonder,”
quipped the sorcerer behind him, Azbiel, who sat upon a flat rock that jutted
slightly from the hill upon which they stood at the base of the Chaos Crests in
the region of Hartsdale. “It's all that damned armor you’re wearin’.”
Jon simply
raised an eyebrow at his adopted brother, who smiled sarcastically and genuinely
through the heat and together they shared a laugh.
“I trust the
cold feel of steel in my hands over magic any day, brother,” Jon rebutted. “At
least I can rely on that which I can touch with my very own hands and this
armor will protect me more so than that robe you wear.”
“Against
swords and tangible weapons most assuredly, brother. But, I could roast you
alive in that very armor in which you place so much trust. Does this look real
enough to touch?” Azbiel said, gesturing and holding an outstretched hand face
up as a flame burst forth from his palm, burning just as the campfire they set
last eve. For a moment, the fire mounted in the mages hand until it was a
sphere shaped ball of fire hovering just above his hand. It spun like a ball of
yarn and was growing in size until it was the size of a ripe melon.
“Go ahead and
touch it,” Azbiel said. “It’s as real as the steel you carry at your side,
alright. It will melt your skin and turn that very shell you wear to slag.”
“Enough,
boys,” called a very gruff but very female voice from behind them. Twarda, a
dwarven warrior with arms the size of an ogre’s, made her way over to them. She
lumbered slowly in her plated hauberk and her arms hung with a light chainmail
over them, barely containing the muscles below. Her shield reflected the symbol
of an anvil, the crest of the family Stoneshell from the Mountains of Crescent
Ridge in the northeast.
“The both of
ye’ can argue ‘til yer both dead fer all I care,” she added, taking a tall
drink from her waterskin, no doubt full of ale. “We got more important things
ta’ be talkin’ on.”
“Yeah, like
where in the blazes is this fraggin’ heat comin’ from,” called a high-pitched,
yet male voice, like that of an adolescent boy. Breaching the crest of the hill
and plopping to the ground was the halfling, Figit Tallshadow. His long dark
hair was tied back in a ponytail to keep the heat from his neck and his leather
sleeveless jerkin was open, revealing his pale, hairless and very skinny chest.
A pair of daggers was belted to his hips; one on either side, but the
companions understood that the rogue carried many more hidden on his person. He
was a worthy adversary despite his outward appearance, which they all knew he often played to
his advantage.
Please join me and the other amazingly talented authors over @
Skulldust Circle where we have formed a Writer's Circle that must be seen--a collection of brilliant, up & coming independently published speculative fiction authors with much to give both now and in the future!
See you in Wothlondia! Cheers!
Please visit
MY HOME PAGE to enjoy an extended reading experience, see direct links to purchase my full length novel, Covenant of the Faceless Knights, the short stories: Wothlondia Rising, and to see what else Ashenclaw Studios, LLC has in store in the future!
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