Eye on Ashenclaw: Legend of Ashenclaw

Showing posts with label Legend of Ashenclaw. Show all posts

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Legend of Ashenclaw Sale!

This weekend, I am reducing the price of my ԼЄGЄƝƊ ƠƑ ƛSĦЄƝƇԼƛƜ
novella to a measly 99 cents for Amazon's kindle only! Don't have a kindle? Download the App for your PC or tablet right HERE.

❝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/B00CLV LCF8

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.

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!

All of my work can be found on AMAZON -- Kindle versions here

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!

All maps, names and content copyright Ashenclaw Studios 2012 unless otherwise noted.

Monday, September 3, 2012

Excerpt of The Legend of Ashenclaw

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.