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Showing posts with label epic fantasy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label epic fantasy. Show all posts

Saturday, September 20, 2014

HIGH MAGA #Excerpt by Karin Rita Gastreich @EolynChronicles #AmReading #Fantasy #Fiction

Lord Mechnes set his hard gaze upon Adiana. “And who are you?”
“My name is Adiana.”
“You are Maga Eolyn’s scullery maid?”
She swallowed, bit her lip. Adiana had learned how to lie during her youth in Selkynsen, after her parents were killed and she fled to the piers. Lies must be presented on a bed of truth, or they lose their seductive power. “No, I am not a servant. I am a musician from Selkynsen. Maga Eolyn brought me to Moehn to teach music to her students.”
“Music?” A smirk broke upon the commander’s face. He seemed genuinely surprised. “What interest do magas have in music?”
She searched for her breath. “Music is also magic, according to the traditions of Moisehén. It’s a form of Primitive Magic, the oldest and most sacred of all. Magas and mages use music in their ceremonies, their spells, sometimes even in their healing.”
“So you are a maga?”
“No, I’m not a maga.” The thought came, terrible and unbidden, that now she would never be. “I simply play music.”
“Then she was trying to protect you by saying you were a scullery maid? How curious.” He draped one end of the bloodied cloth over the woman’s disfigured face. “I can assure you a musician will find a much better place among the Syrnte than a scullery maid.”
“I don’t intend to find a place among the Syrnte.” Her breath stalled under the look he gave her, a strange mixture of amusement and menace. “What I mean is, my home is here, in Moisehén, not with the Syrnte.”
“It’s all one kingdom now. Or perhaps better stated, will be soon.” He nodded to the guards. “Unbind this woman.”
In an instant, the cords that secured her wrists were removed. Adiana cradled her hands against her breast, rubbing the places where the leather straps had left her skin raw.
Mechnes closed the distance between them in two strides.
“You will have to find a place among us, Adiana, or you will perish. That is the way of conquest.” He took her hands in his and studied them carefully, strong fingers tracing the fine delicate length of her own. “What do you play?”
Adiana’s skin crawled at the intimacy of his touch. His aroma was sharp, like coals on the hearth, and laced with the smell of blood. She wanted desperately to look elsewhere, but could not. Mechnes’s massive frame filled her vision; his presence, at once sinister and magnetic, demanded all her attention.
“The cornamuse.” Her voice had dropped to a nervous whisper. “The dulcimer, and the lute, the short wood, as well. Among others.”
He pressed her hands between his. Adiana was visited by the sudden image of him snapping her fingers one by one, as if they were nothing more than dry twigs.
“I see you are telling the truth, in this much at least,” he said. “You have beautiful hands, Adiana. We must be grateful they were not damaged during the attack on Maga Eolyn’s Aekelahr. And we must also hope they will come to no harm here, under my care.”
A heavy silence followed. Adiana understood the unspoken threat that hovered between them. Who else would he ask? The children, the survivors of the siege, the members of Lord Felton’s household, if any of them still lived. What would Adiana’s deception gain for Eolyn in the end—fifteen minutes? Half an hour? It did not matter. Every additional moment could mean the difference between Eolyn’s escape and her death. Adiana had already lost one friend tonight. She would not betray the other.
She lowered her eyes and held her tongue.

Lands Ravaged. Dreams destroyed. Demons set loose upon the earth.
War strikes at the heart of women’s magic in Moisehén. Eolyn’s fledgling community of magas is destroyed; its members killed, captured or scattered.
Devastated yet undaunted, Eolyn seeks to escape the occupied province and deliver to King Akmael a weapon that might secure their victory. But even a High Maga cannot survive this enemy alone. Aided by the enigmatic Mage Corey, Eolyn battles the darkest forces of the Underworld, only to discover she is a mere path to the magic that most ignites their hunger.
What can stop this tide of terror and vengeance? The answer lies in Eolyn’s forgotten love, and in its power to engender seeds of renewed hope.
HIGH MAGA is the companion novel to EOLYN, also available from Hadley Rille Books.
Buy Now @ Amazon & Kobo
Genre – Epic Fantasy
Rating – PG-13
More details about the author
Connect with Karin Rita Gastreich on Facebook & Twitter

Thursday, June 5, 2014

Galatia Radio: Nick Armstrong Interviews Michael Penn @CDVerhoff #AmReading #Fantasy #Fiction

Transcript of Michael Penn’s Radio Interview.
as conducted by guest DJ, high school student, Nick Armstrong.
-Courtesy of Galatia Radio–
Good Morning, Galatia! I’m Nick Armstrong and I’m here today to interview the one and only, Mr. Michael J. Penn. As most of you already know, Mr. Penn is one of our respected elders. He has lived through the end of the world twice now—three times if you count the destruction of our underground bunker. Welcome, Mr. Penn.
Just call me Mike. Thank you for having me.
Since our airtime is limited, and there are so many questions I’d like to ask you, is it okay if we get right to the interview questions?
Fire away, Nick.
I was hoping you would say that, Mr. Penn. Er, I mean Mike. How much do your remember about your life in the modern age, when humanity was at it’s peak, before the plague toppled civilization?
I was only eight-years-old when the Celeruns dropped their alien plague on our planet. Before that time, I took everything for granted, especially my family. But isn’t that what an eight-year-old is supposed to do—assume everything will be okay and not worry about the future?
Of course.
I’m in my fifties now, but I remember the pre-plague days with child-like wonder. Driving around at Christmas to look at the lights, Easter egg hunts on freshly mowed lawns, Bey Blade battles at recess, riding my bike to Kewl Jack’s for a cheeseburger and curly fries without worrying about being attacked by bouncing wumpers, poisonous snuffies, or hungry flowers. Those were carefree days, good days, good days…
How are the experiences of your own children different from your experiences?
While I’ll always be grateful for the life Galatians Bunker provided them, there was a trade off for living under the ground. Some of my children have gone from the cradle to having children of their own without having felt the real sun on their faces, without ever getting lost in the depths of the starry sky. Up until recently, they had only known the bland taste of food grown in depleted soils. They grew up in a heavily regimented environment, not because the adults were mean, but out of necessity. In our underground city, resources were scarce. Activities were limited. All they knew was school and more school. For fun there were the movies, books, video games and organized indoor sports coached by adults. They never knew the kind of freedom that comes from walking on an empty field in a sunny day, or climbing to the top of a hill, and watching the road disappear over the next one in the distance.
When the bunker was destroyed, they came to the surface for the first time, the whole world stretching out before them. I can’t imagine what must have been going through their heads.
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
My jewelry collection. I spent my boyhood hunting for the shiny riches left behind after the fall of civilization. Even then, I understood it as a divine calling, but I didn’t understand why. I collected so much; my adopted father used to complain that our house was beginning to look like Smaug’s lair. He forbade me from taking all my loot to the bunker, but I convinced Father Bob to help me find a way to smuggle it all in. Now that it’s been used to fund the building of a new nation, my compulsion has been vindicated. I didn’t expect to find it so emotionally difficult to part with it, especially since I knew it was going towards a noble cause.
What is your idea of perfect happiness, Mike?
I don’t think perfect happiness is achievable in this world, Nick. The closest I could get to it is to be surrounded by my family, in a home of our own, surrounded by gardens and fields, and not having to worry that it is all going to be taken away from us at any second.
What is your current state of mind?
Pensive, worried, anxious, concerned—take your pick. The Western Alliance has warned our people to leave the Northlands. If we don’t comply, they’ve threatened to destroy us. My brother, the mayor, has no intention of leaving. My other brother, Barrett, is vehemently opposed to his decision and he’s not alone. Did I mention that I hate conflict?
Everybody kind of knows that, Mike. So, tell us, what is your favorite occupation in the whole world?
Farming. My charisma allows me to make plants grow in and out of season at an accelerated rate, which has been a godsend to everyone. I love using my talents to feed people.
I know my family certainly appreciates it. I had my first pumpkin pie last week and it was wonderful.
I’m glad you liked it.
What is your most treasured possession?
The Wittlesbach Diamond. As I youth, I rescued it from an abandoned museum. God is saving it for a special purpose. I don’t know what exactly, but time will tell.
What is your most marked characteristic?
I’d say my bulky physique and blond beard. I’ve been compared to Grizzly Adams and the Vikings. Although I look fierce on the outside, I’m a big softy in the middle.
When and where were you the happiest?
The happiest day of my life was the day of my First Communion. I was eight. My parents threw me a big party with silver and white balloons, streamers, cake and big glass bowls full of pink punch. Presents wrapped in fancy paper and exploding bows covered the table. There I was in my suit and tie, feeling so proud and special because everybody that cared about me had come to celebrate. I had never felt so loved.
Three months later, every person who had attended my party was dead. But I don’t like to talk about it. Can we move to a different topic?
Sure. What is it that you most dislike?
I don’t like speaking in front of a crowds, but being on the radio isn’t so bad. Probably because I don’t have a million eyes staring back at me.
What is your greatest fear?
My greatest fear is losing my family. I went through that once when I lost my parents and siblings. If something were to happen to Jessica or the children…I don’t know what I would do.
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Right after the plague, I wandering the streets in a bewildered state. Hungry, alone, afraid—those were some dark days, dark days. Then a woman named Elizabeth saw me and took pity. She had lost her husband and two boys to the disease, so she was pretty messed up herself. I needed a mother’s love, she needed to give it, and a bond was instantly formed.
What qualities do you look for in a friend?
Honesty, courage, loyalty and dependability.
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
I have no leadership skills. Time and time again, people look to me for guidance. I’m just not that guy.
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Is know-it-allness a word?
I don’t think so, but I think everyone knows what you mean. Moving on, what do you most value in your friends?
The ability to forgive.
Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Wonder Woman, but not just because she looks good running around in a bathing suit. She’s my favorite because of her lasso of truth. In my opinion, the ability to separate truth from lies is the greatest superpower of all.
Interesting answer. I wasn’t expecting that at all. Who are your heroes in real life?
My adopted father, the late great Red Wakeland the First. He showed me what it means to be a man.
We’re running out of time, so excuse me for rushing through the questions. I have to get through them all of I want an A+.
Well, by all means, let’s pick up the pace.
Which living person do you most admire?
My adopted mother, Elizabeth. I was a boy lost in the darkness and she became my guiding light. And to this day, I’m convinced she’s the only reason my brothers haven’t killed each other.
What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Self-confidence.
On what occasions do you lie?
I plead the fifth. Wait, does anyone even know what that means anymore?
I think it was an amendment or something. Anyway, if you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?
I’d be a great orator.
How would you like to die?
Happy.
If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
That’s a weird question, Nick. I don’t know. A dog, I guess.
Why a dog?
I like dogs.
Um, okay. Any words of wisdom on how to deal with everything that has happened to us since leaving the bunker?
When a man loses what he thought was his forever, he comes to realize that nothing really belonged to him in the first place.
I’d like to respond to that, but they’re telling me I’m out of time. Thank you for a great interview, Mike.
I hope you get your A+, Nick.
Me, too. Now back to Jessica, the weather forecaster who never gets it wrong.

The last survivors of the human race are riding out nuclear winter in an underground bunker when disaster strikes. Forced to the surface centuries ahead of schedule, what they find blows their minds. Who can explain it? Two social misfits work together to unravel the mystery.
After living in a posh underground shelter his entire life, Lars Steelsun is plunged headfirst into a mind-blowing adventure on the surface of the Earth. As Lars and his displaced bunker mates are led across the grasslands by Mayor Wakeland, a man of questionable sanity who claims to talk with God, they discover a primitive world where human beings are no longer welcome. Even more mystifying is the emergence of new senses and abilities from within. Learning to use them has become a priority, but his biggest challenge comes from the vivacious Josie Albright. Her lust for glory is going to get them both into trouble. Sparks fly when her gung ho ways clash with his cautious personality. Can they overcome their differences to find love and a homeland for their people?
May not be suitable for younger readers. Contains mild profanity, sexual situations (infrequent), and violence. 
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre - Epic Fantasy
Rating – R
More details about the author
Connect with C. D. Verhoff on Facebook & Twitter

Saturday, May 17, 2014

Wings of Dragon (Dragoon Saga) by @JoshVanBrakle #Fantasy #BookClub #Fiction

Everyone in the room leaned forward, desperate to hear Amroth’s strategy. The Quodivar were the greatest threat to Lodia’s economy in more than a century, and the vast majority of the nobles gathered here had strong ownership in at least one merchant company. Amroth provided hope not only for peace, but for fat wallets as well.
“My plan requires great risk, but it is the only hope we have. Large armies do not work against the Quodivar. My last mission proved this. Instead, I will assemble a small team, an elite force of Haldessa’s finest. With this team we shall seek out the Quodivar and battle them the way they battle us: with stealth and cunning. I come here tonight to name the two men with whom I intend to enter battle. I will trust these two with my life, and with the fate of Lodia itself.”
A young boy near the front cried excitedly, “Who? Who will save us along with you, Captain Angustion?”
Amroth smiled kindly at the child, apparently not begrudging the interruption at all. “The first is a man whom you all know as a fine swordsman, a capable leader, and a loyal companion: Sergeant Balear Platarch!”
The crowd cheered heartily, and Balear, seated about midway between Amroth and the back of the room, stood and waved his hand with an embarrassed gesture. He bore the vacant expression of someone who had clearly drunk too much. Amroth motioned for him to come to the platform and stand beside him. Balear tripped more than once, but in the end he reached his beloved commander.
Across the room, Iren arrived at the chandelier’s cord. He spun the knife in his hand expectantly. He would time it just as Amroth finished his speech. The moment they stepped off the stage, he would cut the cord and drop the chandelier. It would crash horrendously behind them, everyone would gasp, and he would have the pleasure of watching both Amroth and Balear pick themselves off the floor.
When the cheers calmed, Amroth became contemplative as he said, “The second person I have chosen you all know well, and yet, I would guess, also do not know at all. I have thought long and hard on this choice. I do not make it lightly. I make it for the sake of Lodia, for we must have the best to succeed in this endeavor. For the final of my group I have chosen Iren Saitosan!”
The shouts of praise died in the crowd’s throats. Iren whipped his head up, utterly shocked, and then it happened. As his body jerked to face the captain, his hand swung downward. The sharpened carving knife sliced through the chandelier’s rope without pause.

From fantasy author Josh VanBrakle comes an epic new trilogy of friendship, betrayal, and explosive magic. Lefthanded teenager Iren Saitosan must uncover a forgotten history, confront monsters inspired by Japanese mythology, and master a serpentine dragon imprisoned inside a katana to stop a revenge one thousand years in the making.
Lodian culture declares lefthanded people dangerous and devil-spawned, and for Iren, the kingdom’s only known Left, that’s meant a life of social isolation. To pass the time and get a little attention, he plays pranks on the residents of Haldessa Castle. It’s harmless fun, until one of his stunts nearly kills Lodia’s charismatic heir to the throne. Now to avoid execution for his crime, Iren must join a covert team and assassinate a bandit lord. It’s a suicide mission, and Iren’s chances aren’t helped when he learns that his new katana contains a dragon’s spirit, one with a magic so powerful it can sink continents and transform Iren into a raging beast.
Adding to his problems, someone on Iren’s team is plotting treason. When a former ally launches a brutal plan to avenge the Lefts, Iren finds himself trapped between competing loyalties. He needs to figure out who – and how – to trust, and the fates of two nations depend on his choice.
“A fast-paced adventure…led by a compelling cast of characters. Josh VanBrakle keeps the mysteries going.” - ForeWord Reviews
Buy @ Amazon & Smashwords
Genre – YA epic fantasy
Rating – PG-13
More details about the author
Connect with Josh VanBrakle on Twitter

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Dora Machado's The Curse Giver #Excerpt #AmReading @DoraMachado #Fantasy

Chapter One
Dread stared at Lusielle from the depths of the rowdy crowd. Concealed under a heavy hood, only the stranger’s black eyes dared to meet her gaze among the growing throng. The man’s eyes refused to flinch or shift from her face. His stare was free of the hatred she had gotten from the others, but also devoid of mercy. He held on to her gaze like an anchor to her soul, testing her fortitude, knowing full well her fears’ vast range.
She had always been meant for the fire. Even as she had escaped the blaze that killed her parents and burned the inn to the ground, Lusielle had known that the flame’s greedy god would return to claim her life. But she hadn’t expected it to happen after days of torture, surrounded by the raging mob, found guilty of a crime she didn’t commit, betrayed and condemned.
The town’s cobbler, one of her husband’s best customers, tightened the noose around her neck until it cut off her breath. She had waited on him countless times at the shop, and had always padded his order with a free measure of coriander to help with his wife’s cough.
But none of the town’s inhabitants seemed to remember any of her kindnesses as of late. On the contrary, the crowd was booing and jeering when they weren’t pelting her with rotten fruit. They treated her as if she were a common thief.
The brute who had conducted her torture shoved the cobbler aside, tying her elbows and wrists around the wooden stake. Orell. She remembered his name. His bearded face might have been handsome if not for the permanent leer. Like the magistrate, he wore the king’s burgundy colors, but his role had been more vicious. Had he been granted more time, he might have succeeded at extracting the false confession he wanted, but the magistrate was in a hurry, afraid of any possible unrest.
Orell yanked on the ropes, tightening her bonds. The wound on her back broke open all over again. She swallowed a strangled hiss. It was as if the thug wanted her to suffer, as if he had a private reason to profit from her pain.
But she had never seen him until three days ago, when he and the magistrate had shown up unannounced, making random accusations.
Lusielle couldn’t understand any of this.
She knew that the king’s justice was notoriously arbitrary. It was one of the main reasons why she loathed living under King Riva’s rule. But she also knew better than to express her opinion. Ruin and tragedy trailed those who dared to criticize the king. That’s why she had never mentioned her misgivings to anyone.
What had she done to deserve this fate? And why did they continue to be so cruel? After all, she wasn’t fighting them anymore.
True, she had resisted at first. Out of fear and pride, she had tried to defend herself. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered. Her accusers had relied on the testimony of the devious liar who had turned her in—Aponte Rummins—her own husband.
The mock hearing had been too painful to bear, too absurd to believe. Aponte swore before the magistrate that Lusielle was a secret practitioner of the forbidden odd arts. It was ridiculous. How could anyone believe that she, who had always relied on logic, measure and observation to mix her remedies, could possibly serve the Odd God’s dark purposes? And how could anyone believe Aponte’s lies?
But they did, they believed him as he called on his paid witnesses and presented fabricated evidence, swearing that he himself had caught her at the shop, worshipping the Odd God. In the end, it had been her husband’s false testimony that provided the ultimate proof of the heinous charge for which Lusielle was about to die.
Burning torch in hand, the magistrate stepped forward. Still in shock, Lusielle swallowed a gulp of bitter horror and steeled for the flames’ excruciating pain. She didn’t want to die like a shrieking coward. But nothing could have prepared her for what happened next.
The magistrate offered the torch to Aponte.
"The king upholds a husband’s authority over his wife in the kingdom," the magistrate shouted for the crowd to hear. "There can be no protests, no doubt of the wisdom of royal justice if a husband does as he’s entitled to do by his marital rights."
Aponte could have forgone her execution. Considering the magistrate’s proclamation, he could have chosen a different punishment for her. Instead, he accepted the torch and, without hesitation, put the flame to the tinder and blew over the kindling to start the fire.
"Go now," he said, grinning like a hog about to gorge. "Go find your dark lord."
Lusielle glared at the poor excuse for a man who had ruined her life many times over. She had known from the beginning that he was fatally flawed, just as he had known on the day he claimed her that she couldn’t pledge him any affection.
But Aponte had never wanted her affection. He had wanted her servitude, and in that sense she proved to be the reluctant but dutiful servant he craved.
Over the years he had taught her hatred.
His gratification came from beating and humiliating her. His crass and vulgar tastes turned his bed into a nightmare. She felt so ashamed of the things he made her do. Still, even if she loathed him—and not just him, but the slave she had become under his rule—she had tried to make the best of it.
She had served him diligently, tending to his businesses, reorganizing his stores, rearranging his trading routes and increasing his profits. His table had always been ready. His meals had been hot and flavorsome. His sheets had been crisp and his bed had been coal-warmed every night. Perhaps due to all of this, he had seemed genuinely pleased with their marital arrangement.
Why, then, had he surrendered her so easily to the magistrate’s brute?
Aponte had to have some purpose for this betrayal. He was, above all, a practical man. He would not surrender all the advantages that Lusielle brought to him—money, standing, common sense, business acumen—without the benefit of an even greater windfall.
Lusielle couldn’t understand how, but she was sure that the bastard was going to profit handsomely from her death.
The scent of pine turned acrid and hot. Cones crackled and popped. The fire hissed a sinister murmur, a sure promise of pain. She didn’t watch the little sparks grow into flames at her feet. Instead, her eyes returned to the back of the crowd, seeking the stranger’s stare. She found him even as a puff of white smoke clouded her sight and the fire’s rising heat distorted his scarred face’s fixed expression.
The nearing flames thawed the pervasive cold chilling her bones. Flying sparks pecked at her skin. Her toes curled. Her feet flinched. Pain teased her ankles in alarming, nipping jolts. Dear gods. They were really going to burn her alive.
Lusielle shut her eyes. When she looked again, the stranger was gone from the crowd. She couldn’t blame him. She would have never chosen to watch the flame’s devouring dance.
A commotion ensued somewhere beyond the pyre. People were screaming, but she couldn’t see through the flames and smoke. She flinched when a lick of fire ignited her shift’s hem. A vile stink filled her lungs. Her body shivered in shock. She coughed, then hacked. Fear’s fiery fingers began to torment her legs.
"Come and find me," she called to the God of fire.
And he did.
Curse Giver
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre – Fantasy/Dark Fantasy
Rating – PG-18
More details about the author
Connect with Dora Machado on Facebook & Twitter

Saturday, December 28, 2013

The Curse Giver by Dora Machado @DoraMachado

Chapter Eight
PROPELLED BY SHEER WILL, BREN GRABBED his saddlebags and made it to the top of the stairs. His blood pounded in his temples. The scar on his face burned like a glowing chunk of coal.
Eleanor had a way of stirring his angry blood into a rapid boil. He was tired of listening to her complaints. No matter how much he allotted to Tolone, it was never enough.
Even so, he was used to enduring her gripes. It was her daring that perturbed him most. She should be smart enough to refrain from tempting him, but she had always been even bolder than all of her audacious ancestors put together. If it would have been in his power, he would have released her from her obligations years ago.
He shouldn’t have come, but a man was entitled to a dry bed and a warm meal, especially if he was paying generously for it. The rainy season had made a mess of his camps and his men deserved a proper roof and a dry pallet every once in a while.
There was also the matter of the woman. She shouldn’t have to spend her last days on a wet horse and her last nights on the soggy ground. She didn’t deserve to be murdered coldly in a back alley among paupers and whores or in the forgotten wilderness of a wind-swept ridge.
There he went again, trying to justify the absurd delay. But he was done delaying. Eleanor’s lewd dance had stirred up his wrath. Wrath was good, the ultimate motivator. A stoked up man was the most efficient killer, a hunter worthy of Laonia and the house of Uras.
He had to do it, now, before he changed his mind.
He entered the room he kept at the seed house of Tolone and dropped his saddlebags by the door. The chamber was still warm, but the fire had died down into a pile of glowing embers. The chamber’s gloom matched his bleakness.
Not for the first time, Bren wondered what type of weakness had earned his father the curse that plagued his house. He might never know, because his father was dead and so was the rest of his line.
He wasn’t feeling very merciful tonight, a change that was bound to help. He came upon the bed in two strides. There was no point in explaining, no benefit to warning, coaxing or compelling. He was angry—at himself, at his fate. He clutched the hilt of his sword and ripped off the blankets from the bed.
The woman was gone.
He stared at the empty mattress in disbelief. A most improbable line was neatly written on the sheet, a flowing trail of ink on white linen.
Whether it was kindness, courage or charity, I thank you, my lord. Farewell. L.
Curse Giver
Award-Winning Finalist in the fantasy category of The 2013 USA Best Book Awards, sponsored by USA Book News
Buy Now @ Amazon
Genre – Fantasy/Dark Fantasy
Rating – PG-18
More details about the author and the book
Connect with Dora Machado on Facebook & Twitter