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❝His heart sank as a great shadow loomed over him, enveloping the land around him...Darkness descended❞
It is the epic journey of a group of legendary heroes in the history of Wothlondia that set forth in an attempt to quell the invasion of Ashenclaw and her Dragon minions. If you like fantasy, RPG's, Dungeons & Dragons, Game of Thrones and the like, you may find yourself enjoying this page-turner too! Oh, and enjoy the rather large sample below...US ミ★ http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CLVLCF8
UK ミ★ http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00CLVLCF8
It was a day’s
journey to Summerbank and as they neared, Figit realized that the town had
indeed grown some since last he visited some years back. They had an inn! At
least that’s what it looked like from his perspective.
As the group
came rolling up and over the hill, Figit leaped onto Twarda’s back, causing her
to stumble forward before her sturdy legs were able to right herself again.
“Watch
yerself!” Twarda yelped, regaining her balance quickly. “”I coulda’ fell…and with
ye' atop me, too!”
“I’da been
fine,” Figit quipped, getting comfortable on her broad shoulders.
“An’ I’da
ne’er fell. Yer missin’ me point.”
“It looks like
the town has literally doubled in size since the last time we seen it. I’m
seein’ maybe two dozen structures now!”
Azbiel laughed
heartily while Triniach and Jon strode along quietly. As they made it to the
bottom of the hill, Figit noted that something in the town did not seem right.
“Hey, guys,”
he announced, leaping from Twarda’s shoulders to land on all fours like a cat.
“Somethin’ ain’t right about this. Where are all the people?”
They all
looked about and noted that none of the fishermen were on their boats or
fishing in the bank and not a soul was outside. It was almost mid-day again and
the lack of activity was both telling and disturbing.
“I don’t like
it one bit,” Figit declared as he withdrew both of his daggers. The sound of
leather on steel sounded again as Jon withdrew his hand and a half sword and
Twarda removed her axe from her belt.
“I don’t like
this at all,” Figit stated as he slipped down the remainder of the hill and
proceeded ahead of the others.
He got up to
where he could see things more clearly, his eyesight allowing him to see great
distances, another gift of his fey blood. What he saw was distressing. He waved
the others to within a few feet of him and told them to wait there at the base
of the hill.
“What is it,
half-man?” asked Jon.
“Shush,” Figit
called back in a whisper. He wanted to whisper back to him that he was no man
at all. Instead he was a creature born of fey blood, distant cousin to the
elves and that he could tap into the regenerative plane much as a druid would
and use the gift to heal; albeit sparingly.
He stole
through the village and made it to the far western side of the town. Confirming
what he saw, he made his way quickly and quietly back to the group, who awaited
him on the shaded side of a storefront.
“What is it!?”
asked Azbiel, his arms held out wide before returning to cross over his chest.
He yawned and Figit could smell the wine on his breath from where he stood.
Typical Azbiel, he thought.
“Kobolds. And
lots of ‘em! And…they ain’t alone either. There are some crazy robed figures
with marks of the dragons on their garments.
“Dragon
cultists,” Triniach stated as if everyone should know. “They are amassing here
as they sense something, a shift in the weather or some such. I cannot quite
put my finger on it just yet.”
“So, they are
worshipers of which dragons?” Jon asked. “All of them?”
“I would say.
It is a dragon cult. Their symbol is something of a dragon claw. Is that
correct, Figit?” Triniach asked.
“A claw of
red, one of blue, another of white and a black one, too. All in a circle, or a
cross or some proportioned pattern. Can’t really see it too well.”
Triniach waved
his hands about and stood silently, the white of his eyes shifted in hue to yellow, like that of an eagle’s.
“That is it
exactly,” the mage announced with confidence.
“If you can do
that, then why do ya’ make me—never mind,” Figit said with a sigh and a shake
of his head.
“It is to keep
your skills intact. You never know when you will need them. Magic does not
solve everything,” he stated in a lecturing manner with a sideways glance
toward him and then added, “almost. But not quite.”
“Well, whatever. The four-clawed dragon
cultists have taken over the town for whatever reason,” Figit exclaimed, willing
his body into the shadows.
“Then we be needin’ ta’ take ‘er back!”
proclaimed the dwarven warrior, tapping her axehead upon her shield three
times.
“Let’s gut ‘em
and save the day. Like usual,” stated the halfling.
“Nothing like
rescuing damsels in distress!” Azbiel proclaimed, rubbing his hands together in
anticipation.
“We are ready
then?” inquired Triniach, adjusting his robe.
All of them
nodded and Figit stayed to the shadows, moving ever closer to the commotion.
After a moment or two, he could hear the words of the cultists.
“We shall make
sacrifice for the scorching drakes and so that Ashenclaw will spare us,” he
heard one man say.
“The queen of
the scorching drakes will let us live if we show her gift,” said one of the
dozen kobolds lurking about. A pair of women were both tied to stakes that were
planted firmly inside a large amount of tinder. Their clothes were torn and
they were bleeding from several wounds already, though none of them looked
fatal to the halfling. But, it certainly seemed as though they were going to
roast these two ladies alive.
“We need them
all to burn,” stated another kobold, confirming Figit's obvious fears.
Figit looked
from where they'd come from and, held captive inside the inn that he could see through the window pane, were several more of the villagers bound and gagged. And there were even
more of the kobolds in there.
He hated the little lizard things. Whenever they gathered, there were always too many of them around, he thought with a grimace.
He hated the little lizard things. Whenever they gathered, there were always too many of them around, he thought with a grimace.
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