Fantasy Worlds emag July&august 2016

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Musings from Mistral Dawn NEW RELEASE - Heather R Blair AUTHOR/BOOK FEATURE J BRENNAN Book Feature - Barbara Chioffi Dragon Slayer Book Review STORY SERIAL by Jordan Buchanan BOOK FEATURE - Betreyals of another kindBook Feature - NEWLAND MOONl Short Story - Barbara Chioffi New Serial - part two - Micahel Baker BOOK FEATURE- Julie Nicholls Dragon Slayer Book Review The Genre Tourist - STORY Book Feature -C D Samuda Story Series by Mistral Dawn Book Feature -Various Authors Book Covers by our Graphic Designer

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H T

ey Everyone!

he other day, I started a conversation on Facebook with the question, “If Bernie Sanders were a Vulcan and Hillary Clinton a Ferengi, what would Donald Trump be?” As you might imagine, the answers were quite amusing.

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ut why would such a comparison even occur to me?

Well, because art does reflect reality.

Anyone who has watched Star Trek knows that the various alien species often personify a specific aspect of humanity. The Vulcans of course represent logic, reason, and rational behavior. The Klingons represent competitiveness, aggression, and honor. The Ferengi represent greed, acquisitiveness, and cowardice.

And on, and on.

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T

he same is true of any fictional character, though the symbolism isn’t always quite as stark. When writing a character with specific personality traits, what author doesn’t try to imagine someone they know, or know of, who possesses those traits? By visualizing how that person might act in a given situation, it’s easier to determine how the character will act.

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nd fiction doesn’t spring from a vacuum, either.

Historical events, current events, politics, society, culture, personal experiences, etc, all influence and inform art. One of the most popular questions that I’ve found in author interviews is, “Where do your ideas come from?” Next time you read one of those interviews, pay attention to the answer. You

might be amazed.

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hat’s even crazier in some ways is that fiction also influences reality. This isn’t my opinion; this is actual verifiable fact. For some examples of this, check out the Smithsonian Magazine’s article on Ten Inventions Inspired By Science Fiction. Everything from submarines to cell phones started out as speculative fiction. Of course, these are just a few examples. And it’s not just technology that can be influenced by fiction.

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the meat packing industry were forced to endure, not towards the state of the food product. But the influence was real, regardless of the accuracy of the story or intentions of the author.

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o, why is it that society can be so heavily influenced by what are, after all, only stories? Well, part of it is undoubtedly a receptive environment. The stories were told at the right time and place for them to resonate with the populace. But part of it is also that resonance. If a fictional character is well crafted, they seem “real” enough for us to identify with them. Then, all that’s left is for the story to be engaging enough that we “live” through the same trials and challenges as the protagonist. We experience their dilemmas, feel their pain, and share their anger in a way we rarely do with real, live people we don’t know personally and intimately.

ight here in the Good Ol’ US of A, there are a couple of dramatic examples of fiction influencing political events. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s Uncle Tom’s Cabin is widely credited with hardening popular resolve against slavery, just in time for that moral outrage to be used to help generate the energy needed to propel the American Civil War forward. Upton Sinclair’s depiction oes that make us more of the meat packing industry in his empathetic towards fictional novel The Jungle helped lead to the Meat Inspection Act and the Pure characters than human beings?

Maybe. Or maybe it’s just that we Food and Drug Act. rarely slow down and listen to other ow, the accuracy of Ms. Stowe’s people in the way that we’ll give our descriptions of slavery in the attention to a story. Whatever the American south have certainly been reason, the phenomenon is real. challenged. And Mr. Sinclair’s actual intention was to incite people’s nd it’s not limited to just indignation against the deplorable positive change. The Protocols working conditions employees of of the Elders of Zion is thought to

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A

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have helped prime the populace of much of Europe for the anti-Semitism of the Nazi party to find fertile ground. Was anti-Semitism already a problem in that population? Almost certainly. But again, right time/right place. And as the experience of Mr. Sinclair with The Jungle illustrates, what people will take away from a story isn’t always predictable.

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o, why write about all this?

Well, it seems that we may be at another crossroads in history. A lot of changes are taking place. And a lot of people seem to be pretty angry, at least here in the US. What changes will take hold and by what method remains to be seen. But I certainly think we might want to consider both how our leaders, and prospective leaders, are portrayed in art and what, if any, fictional characters they resemble. It’s worth a thought, anyway.

S

o...what Star Trek character did we settle on for Donald Trump? Well, we didn’t. It seems that Star Trek villains are all either too intelligent, too honorable, or not vicious enough for them to represent Trump. However, we did agree that The Beast Rabban from Frank Herbert’s Dune is a good likeness.

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TOIL & TROUBLE SERIES

For a charm of powerful trouble...

Persephone Gosse just can't catch a break.

Life isn't supposed to be this hard, even for a witch. Facing a trial for a crime she didn't commit, tangling with bounty hunters looking to take her head, and trying to ignore the growing disdain of the magical world, Seph is barely holding it together.

Her confusion about Jack Frost isn't helping. Is her ex trying to save her, or easing her way into an early grave?

With Solstice approaching and judgment looming, Seph has to decide who to trust...and who to kill.

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Eternal Bloodlines by J C BRENNAN

I grew up in a small village in Michigan call Skidway Lake. The small town life was a fantastic way to grow up, but I always wanted more. My life was a difficult one and being a single mother made me realize that will power is a person’s best friend.

I

wrote when I was younger to get away from my life and into another for a while. However, with all that was on my shoulders, I never thought I could publish a piece of my work--I was wrong. It was my husband who got me to start writing my first novel. He said, “What do you have to lose?”

Of course, he was right, and since I started, I have never looked back.

I

currently hold three degrees and live in Arizona where I have found a beauty that is without compare. I have struggled most of my life to get where I am and know that there are more battles yet to face. However, with a will, strength, and the love of my family and friends I know I can accomplish anything.

ETERNAL BLOODLINES Amanda is a small town girl. She was born and raised in Skidway Lake, Michigan. She still lives in the home she grew up in though her parents have been dead now for five years. She has been miserable with her mundane life for some time

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and wants adventure, excitement.

But more than anything she wants love--a new life out of this small town. And though, her mother had warned her to be careful what she wished for; she wouldn’t realize the strength of that warning until she finds the body in the woods by her home. Amanda’s whole life is about to be turned upside down when she finds a body of a young woman. However, the body is not the only one that will turn her and

this small town upside down. The sheriff, Sheriff Hugely, finds more dead bodies and the town is sent into a panic. The disturbing and gruesome deaths generate fear and that disturbingly settles in the heart of the whole town--let the nightmare begin. To make things more profound, Amanda is in a car accident, which takes her best friends life. She begins to believe a dark man is responsible for her friend’s life—at least, she believes it was a man. She begins to see a dark stranger pop up here and there and, for a period of time, she thinks she is losing her mind. Her life has suddenly been spun out of control resembling the horror stories and movies she loves so much. Her dark stranger has to be a figment of her imagination, right? However, that theory is short lives when she finds out who he truly is.

Her humdrum life will never be the same and neither will the lives of those in the small town. Who knew all her dark tales and horror movies would come to life and become a part of her life. Amanda is whisk away on a dark adventure she will never be able to leave but is a tragedy or a blessing.

Become enthralled in the mystery and darkness, as Amanda is absorbed in a world

she once believe to be only fantasy.

What secrets lay in wait for her and will she be able to handle her new reality.

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TRICKERY

IS A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES BY BARBARA CHIOFFITHIS EXCERPT IS FROM

‘PREY’

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ot being able to help myself, I asked, “Who are you?” Pursing her lips and with a malevolent tone, she replied, “My name is Morgana Kunig. I come from a long line of creatures you call vampire, although there is more to our kind than you could ever imagine. Born into a time of turmoil, my family stayed to themselves, venturing out when necessary and in darkness to feed. Humans were so terrified of what they could not understand. They caught and killed many of our kind before we learned to disguise ourselves, hiding away in large metropolises, blending in. Gradually, we were forgotten, relegated to myth and lore, lucky for us. I have lived for six hundred years and in that time have hunted humans for pleasure and when needed, for food. I find the human psyche so easy to control and rewarding to manipulate. You, my dear James, have been especially satisfying and my desire for your blood is growing with every passing moment.”

My thoughts were uncontrollable and trying to move was of no use.

Being encased in spider silk would have given the same feeling. Her long, tapered fingers stroked my cheek and I shivered. Her laughter echoed throughout the room as she drew nearer, grasping my chin in her hand, turning my head to the side as she took in my scent, licking my neck with her long tongue.

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N.W. Moors is an author and reader based in Portland, Maine. She reviews for Netgalley, Bookvetter, BooksGoSocial, and other websites as well as her own, The Antrim Cycle http://www.antrimcycle.com/

She has written her own Fantasy series called the Antrim Cycle and her book, The Black Swans, has been chosen as a 2015 IndieBrag Medallion honoree and as a 2015 Wishing Shelf Independent Book Award finalist.

LINK:FANTASY WORLDS EMAG.COM

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RAINBOW DREAMS by Mistral Dawn

Petri Dish is a freelance dolly, a prostitute in the Under City, the slums section of Up World. She is a hybrid species though most of her clients don't know it. They would hate and fear her if they did because Petri has a secret: she feeds off the emotions of others.

When she accidently takes too much from one of her clients, Petri must go on the run. With the help of her best friend, Chessie, she escapes to Up World, but then runs into more trouble and must get off planet.

This was an interesting beginning to a somewhat unique SciFi/Cyberpunk world. Petri, the others who befriend her, and the ones who don't are clearly defined in their characteristics and speech. I got most of the language used and didn't find the terms an impediment though the author does put a helpful glossary in the back with lots of good information about each character.

Petri is a dolly and the sex is graphic.

There is also a trigger warning because of some violence that takes place in the story. I look forward to the next book in the series and Petri's further adventures.

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JORDAN BUCHANAN writes erotica with heart and heat.

Her first book, a collection of short stories entitled 4Play, was published in 2014. But she’s branching out in to fantasy, just for us. She’s going to give us a chapter each month to a new story she’s writing. If you like some hot sex with your fantasy, continue reading.

A Cuckoo in Whitecross Castle

Episode 2 – Magick in the Night

Frozen in place, Jairyd tried to determine from which direction the voice had come. “As you command,” he called and focused on locating the source of the anticipated response.

The cuckoo bird is a brood predator. “Show me your hands…slowly.”

The words, rough and raspy, came It lays its eggs in the nest of another from behind him, the speaker disbird, leaving the unsuspecting host concertingly close..

Jairyd raised both hands into the with an intruder to hatch and feed. air, conscious of his knife at his side.

It was his only weapon but useless

By

JordanBuchanan

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at a distance in the pitch black.

“Turn your cloak, boy.”

The bugger was only paces behind him! He’d moved quiet as a cat, nary a twig had snapped. Jairyd flipped one fold of his cloak, revealing the fine outer covering of crimson and white.

The man chuckled softly. “And what is a guard of Whitecross doing out here in the Dead Wood all alone?

Strayed a bit from your post, have you?”

“Aye, you could say that.” Without moving his head, he glanced down at his knife and tried to formulate a plan of attack…or at least one of defense.

“I don’t see your sword. Has the king spent the realm’s coffers on wine and must needs be stingy with steel as a result?’

The voice now came from in front of him. He bit back a groan of frustration. “I lost my sword.”

His unseen tormentor laughed again. “You’re destined to be captain of the guard someday, aren’t you?”

“One can always hope.”

Again the laughter, this time with more enthusiasm. “This is the most entertainment I’ve had in some time. I’m fortunate to have stumbled upon such a funny fellow.”

Jairyd forced a chuckle himself and nonchalantly tried to drop one hand, but the voice barked at him.

“Don’t try it, boy! I see the firelight glinting off your blade.”

His hand shot back up above his head. Not only was this man stealthy, he evidently possessed the night vision of an owl.

“Now…with the thumb and forefinger only of your left hand, toss your knife over here on the other side of your campfire.”

The young guard sighed and did as he was bid. No sooner had the knife hit the ground than the tall, stocky figure in a plain woolen cloak stepped from the darkness and snatched it up. Dark eyes regarded him warily, but the older man appeared confident in his control of the situation.

“So,” he squatted down near the fire and looked over the flames at him.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Jairyd.”

“Jairyd what?”

“I don’t have a surname. I’m the son of a smith, not a nobleman.”

“I see. Your father must be proud.”

“Not any more,” he replied, regret and bitterness coloring his tone.

“You must possess decent skills to be appointed to the guard, seeing as how you’re a young sprout. Yet here you are with no sword and cloak turned inside out. You must have done something unbelievably daft…or cowardly.”

“I’m no coward!” Jairyd’s eyes blazed as he leapt to his feet, fists clenched at his sides.

His own knife was instantly pointed at him, and the man motioned for

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him to resume a seated position.

“Alright then, lad. Don’t get your dander up. We’re just getting acquainted is all.”

Jairyd blew out a breath as he lowered himself back to the ground.

“Might I have the pleasure of our name then, as I’ve given you mine?”

“Fair enough. Marten Wardlow, at your service.” He bowed his head slightly. “So, what did you do then?

Fuck the queen?” He grinned, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

Jairyd snorted. “No…the princess.”

Marten guffawed loudly and slapped a large palm on his thigh.

“Well done! I never had much use for princesses myself. What happened, she couldn’t keep her mouth shut any tighter than her legs?”

“The king walked in on us, and I went out the window. No time to grab my sword belt, it was either climb down the castle wall or lose my head.” He could almost smile about it now; it did make a good tale.

“Well, I’m sure fleeing certain death is hungry work.” Marten stood and tossed the knife over to him. “Kick out your fire and come along with me. My wife will find you a bite; she’s uncommon fond of strays.

We’ll figure out what to do with you in the morning.”

Toeing dirt onto the flames, Jairyd nodded. “How’d you know I was here?”

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“I could smell smoke. Living as deep in the Dead Wood as we do, I’m always on alert for fire. Follow me, we’re not that far off my horse path.”

He stumbled along behind his new host, unable to see in the dark as well. “I had no idea anyone lived here. I’ve been told all my life this forest is haunted.”

Marten looked over his shoulder and chuckled. “Aye, and I do my best to make sure people continue to believe it.” **** Lanette lounged on her bed and watched Orren as he stood in front of her large framed looking glass. He pulled a small pouch from a pocket hidden in the voluminous folds of his robe and poured a smidgen of powder from it into the palm of one hand. Muttering unintelligible sounds, he blew the substance at the reflective surface; immediately, it began to shimmer and became wavy like ripples on a lake.

She sat up, fascinated by the images appearing and transforming each one into the next. The small cottages of the village became farmers’ fields then finally a road that led to a forbidding dark forest.

Orren spoke again, more vehemently this time, but the mirror offered up no additional visions. He sighed and turned away as the mirror gradually resumed its normal appearance.

“Did you see what you wanted to see?”

“Up to a point. I was attempting to track the flight of your young lover.

It seems he has taken shelter in the Dead Wood and my magick cannot follow him further.”

“Why not?”

“It’s protected by someone. A spell blocks it, a strong one.” He joined her on the bed, sitting on the edge beside her. “I must go into the village and visit one with greater powers than mine.”

She shuddered and pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her. “Then I must hide in my chambers until you return.”

Taking a golden curl and wrapping it around a finger, he nodded. “I’m afraid so, my dear. I’ll try not to be gone overlong. At least you’ll be able to tell when I’m back.” He leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before rising to take his leave.

“Please be careful, Orren. You know how I worry when you leave the safety of the castle.”

He tilted his head to the side, a smirk on his lips. “Your concern is touching. I’m sure your sentiment has nothing to do with the fact that if harm befalls me, your life, as you know it, will be over.”

She had no response. If she lied, he’d know it so why make the attempt.

He chuckled at her silence and promised to return before dawn at

the latest.

Lanette rose from the bed and smoothed the soft velvet fabric over her hips. As with all her clothing, it was sewn by the finest seamstress in the realm and fashioned from the most costly fabric obtainable.

Yet, should Orren meet with an untimely end, her gowns would be of no more use to her than rags.

Sounds from the inner courtyard below drifted up to her window and she stepped nearer to look out. Barely visible in the torchlifht, a kitchen girl had slipped out to meet one of the stableboys, and they were kissing, wrapped in each other’s arms. Giggling, they ran off, hand in hand, in the direction of the stable. Lanette smiled at their sweetness.

Stretching out a lock of hair in front of her eyes, she noted it had already begun to darken. The farther Orren went from the castle, the more the enchantment on her would dim.

She wouldn’t revert to her true appearance completely, but the change would not go unnoticed should anyone see her.

She recalled the day he’d revealed her true identify to her, resulting in her feeling a perpetual unease.

Until that moment, she’d had no inkling she wasn’t Lanette, Princess of Whitecross. Her every whim indulged for as far back as her memory could stretch, she had pouted when Orren rebuked her

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for a poor showing at her lessons.

“I don’t need to read, Orren. I’ll simply order people to read to me!”

“And how will you know if they’re telling you truthfully? Suppose you are queen someday and Barden bribes your “reader” to lie when a message arrives from Fair Haven?”

She had scowled as only a ten year old can. “They wouldn’t dare!” But she wasn’t so sure.

He’d pulled her over to the mirror; that was the first time he showed her the power of the spell cast upon her and what happened when it was removed. “Should you not choose to apply yourself as a princess should, child, you will no longer deserve to be one.”

It had frightened her dreadfully; she did not really understand completely the ramifications of what he’d said and done, but his desired end result was achieved.

She studied, she read, she learned her lessons in more ways than one.

When she reached fifteen summers, he repeated the demonstration and explained more fully who and what she was.

“The true princess died, along with the queen, shortly after childbirth. I found you, newly born, in a nearby brothel and convinced your mother to relinquish you to my care. The realm needed an heir and with the king being a useless sot, there was no guarantee he’d sire another even if he were to acquire a new wife.

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As long as I live, Whitecross has a princess and future queen.”

She suspected then, and even more so now, Orren hadn’t divulged the entirety of the story, but she didn’t press. “What became of my mother… and what is my true name?”

“Your mother took the coin I gave her and left the realm; I have no knowledge of where she went. She had not yet given you a name. The only one you’ve ever had is the one given to the dead princess by her dead mother.”

Sinking down onto the windowseat and staring out into the black night, she remembered his words well and they still pierced her heart as keenly as when first heard. That same day, Orren had begun “training” her in the ways a woman could please a man and how a man could, if so inclined, give her pleasure in return. He claimed her body as his instrument, and he played it skillfully with fingers and tongue, wringing cries of release from her for months before finally taking her virginity. Her mind, as well as her body, was taught to obey his will and to deny him nothing.

Except for one thing…the knowledge her displays of lust for him were a means of self-protection only. She lived in fear that if he learned she loathed him, he’d remove the enchantment permanently, and she’d be left to her own dubious devices to make

her way in the world. When he was not in her presence, he held no sway over her mind, body, or desires.

She could not say the same of the guard--Jairyd. He was a strapping young man with curling brown hair and soulful eyes that spoke to a heart she was unaware she possessed until the moment she first saw him. She had not expected to feel for him; after all, Jairyd was intended to be no more than a pawn in Orren’s scheme.

“You must be with child as soon as possible,” he had announced one evening as they lay together.

She fought to hide her anxiety, having learned it was never wise to show her true emotions. He always found a way to use them against her or taunt her for them. “Why? Am I not pleasing to you as I am that you wish to see me swollen and waddling?”

He chuckled at the idea. “Of course not! But a princess pregnant out of wedlock is more easily married off to a lesser nobleman…even to a physician.”

She had stared at him, eyes wide.

“You wish to marry me?” She was stunned; he used her body, yes, but she was under no delusion that he cared for or about her.

“Your father will not live forever. In truth, I fear any number of illnesses may take him from us. With no son, you are heir to the throne.

Considering your lack of, shall we

say experience, you will need a strong and wise man to advise you and rule by your side.”

“I see.” It was all she could manage to say; it was all she believed it was safe to say.

He trailed his fingers across her shoulder and down to her breast.

Cruelly twisting a nipple, he continued. “I have arranged for a new guard to be assigned to your door. You will like him, I’m sure.

He’s a comely lad and close to your age. You’re to seduce him as soon and as often as you have opportunity to do so.”

Orren never knew she’d fallen in love. Instinctively, she knew to keep it to herself. Tears fell on her cheeks as she wondered what had become of Jairyd and prayed he was safe.

She had betrayed him, but what choice did she have? If she’d tried to protect him, Orren would have revealed her as a fraud and she and her love would both have been in dire peril.

Rising from her seat, she opened the wooden chest in the corner and dug under layers of bedding and linens until she found the item she wanted. She tugged out a dark blue woolen dress; it was the plainest she owned and became more so as she pulled the silver threads and decorative beading from it. One of the things Orren had oft repeated to her was “hope for the best outcome but always prepare for the worst.”

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Should she lose her princess façade, she’d need something appropriate to wear as she attempted to escape the castle. She had yet to plan where to go, but at least she’d have a dress to wear.

She’d also need a name. As she yanked on a stubborn thread, she remembered a book Orren had forced her to read, and she’d surprisingly enjoyed it. One of the characters was named Rosalynd which she thought beautiful. “As my mother did not see fit to name me, I’ll name myself if I must.”

She paused for a moment to see if her hair had returned to shades of gold but saw it was the color of mud.

It was safe to work on her gown a little longer. **** At the edge of the village proper, a small stone cottage stood nestled in a coopse of trees. The nearest neighbors had laid eyes upon its inhabitant very few times, but he caused no trouble and no one was bothered by him.

A single candle was burning in the window as Orren hurried up the overgrown path. He rapped on the weathered door and waited impatiently for the old man to respond. A few moments passed before it creaked open to reveal a frail figure in a roughspun robe, his back slightly bent with a wrinkled

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face ancient beyond telling.

“What are you doing here?” he croaked.

“I am in need of your help, Lewthor.”

Orren knew enough to appear humble in his presence.

The old man sighed heavily and stepped back to admit him. “What is it this time?”

Once the door closed behind them and there was no longer any danger of being seen by curious eyes, Lewthor straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, his piercing black eyes studying Orren with contempt. “Did you not learn anything under my tutelage?

You constantly return to me for assistance.” He snorted in derision.

Orren bowed his head respectfully.

“I have tried my best, Lewthor, but there are other forces at play, I fear.”

Lewthor walked over to a sturdy wooden table, his soft slippers whispering on the stone, and placed his gnarled hands on its surface.

“What were you attempting, and obviously failing, to do?”

“Track a young guard fleeing the castle. I can follow his path all the way to the Dead Wood but no farther.”

The old man snorted again and began mixing and grinding a powder with his mortar and pestle.

Once it was blended and ground to his satisfaction, he poured it out in a ring on the table and clapped his hands sharply three times. With a

whoosh, the powder ignited into a cylindrical wall of flame, burning steadily without ebbing.

“What is the young man’s name?”

Lewthor demanded.

“Jairyd.”

Orren watched as the same images he’d conjured earlier appeared in the orange flames. However, this time they did not stop at the edge of the Dead Wood as they had for him. The unseen eye continued moving deep into the forest until it stopped on a small farm. The final vision was of a horse barn; Orren stared at it until it faded away.

“At least now I know where he’s gone. Thank you, Lewthor. But why couldn’t my will penetrate the Dead Wood?”

The wizard stroked his silky white beard and smiled knowingly. “You know as well as I do that there is another possessing the same powers as you. It would seem he has something to protect from you, Orren.”

The physician’s head fell back as he gave a hearty laugh. “I should have known! So that’s his hidey-hole.

Marten, my brother, I’ve found you at last.”

To be continued …

You can read the first part of this fabulous story in our May Issue of

Fantasy Worlds Emag

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BETRAYALS OF ANOTHER KIND

N

o one pays attention to the sidekicks, the apprentices, the stable boys, the second class characters, and they're tired of it. Now the ones considered the heroes will become the victims of betrayal; whether deliberate or accidental, it makes no difference.

See the products of these betrayals in stories by: Joann M. Shevock, R. Judas Brown, Angel Blackwood, Melissa Robitille, Daniel Eastman, Layne Calry, Gary Lee Webb, Sydnie Beaupre, Adele

IN OUR JULY ISSUE, WE’LL BRING YOU A FABULOUS SNEAK PEEK FROM THIS BOOK

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Rites of Heirdron Excerpt Chapter Two Beyond Any Other

“Have the others made you comfortable in your chambers?”

“They’ve assigned me a place.” Her gaze lowered. “It’s away from where they rest and gather. Z’retaa forbid me from joining the others.”

“That’s understandable. They were not pleased with your arrival. I’m allowed but a dozen, and you’re the thirteenth. Some have been with me for many years and don’t desire to share such bonds with another.

Z’retaa was my first and favored.

She would consider your arrival an insult more so than the others.”

Zrahnz looked at her again, feeling an overwhelming warmth. He sucked in a sharp breath and then immediately shuddered. It had been the same when the ship arrived.

That warmth, that draw he felt then

continued to grow the longer she was with him.

“Are you well, my Praahl?”

“I am.” He cleared his throat. “Did the others inform you of your importance to me?”

“Z’re — Z’retaa told me why I was here and how I was to be used.”

“Used? No, this they say from jealousy.

I haven’t called for them in many lunar cycles and they feel slighted.

They wish to frighten you from me.”

He reached and stroked her cheek.

“I use no one. I offer myself to you and together we provide pleasures for each other. The benefit is mutual, as is the gratification that I promise to you.”

“We—we are your concubine?”

“In a manner; albeit, on Triaxeyn, yours is an honored position.

Women of my world train their bodies and vie for acceptance into the laranhge of the Praahl.”

He noticed the troubled expression that crossed her face and the tears that welled in her eyes.

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“What is wrong?” her eyes.

“I—I—,” she shook her head.

“Then, this’ll be the first for the both Zrahnz raised her to face him and of us.” Zrahnz helped her rise and wiped a fallen tear from her cheek. loosened the tie around her waist.

“You’re beautiful, Melanie.” His hand He slid the thin robe off her shoulcaressed her face, leaving a tickle of ders and exposed the nakedness warmth in its wake. beneath. When she tried to cover “From the beginning, I was drawn to her breasts, he gently took hold of you. It was not merely your physical her arms, moving them away. beauty; it was, and is deeper than “Never have I witnessed such beauty.” such trivial matters. All of those in He kissed her again and more pasmy laranhge are beautiful women. sionately than before. When his But your beauty surpasses theirs. It tongue entered her mouth, she radiates from within, with a warmth whimpered, causing his excitement that I’ve never known.” to grow.

She blushed.

“Come, Melanie. I desire for you “Your eyes,” he said and caressed her to learn of my body and for me to face again. “They sparkle as an earth learn of yours. We will not rush.” stone I once saw and admired. It’s She nodded nervously and followed called an onyx, and the deep beauty where he led. Her body continued of it can’t be matched. When I look to shake as he laid her down upon into your eyes, I am reminded of the cushions. this stone and how captivating it “Never before have I tasted one from was, and is. You captivate me even Earth,” he said, taking position more.” between her thighs. She could feel Zrahnz drew her near and placed his warm breath against her woma kiss upon her full lips. He could anhood as he spoke. feel her tremble beneath the gentle “You will be my first, as I will be the touch. first to share myself with you.”

“Do I frighten you?” He whispered.

She shook her head in response, COMING SOON! still trembling.

“I can feel your fear and…and doubt.”

Follow Newland Moon His head cocked, not understandand don’t miss out on ing how he could feel such emotions the release date for this from her. fabulous new series “You are pure? You are untouched by any other.”

Twitter She nodded as the tears spilled from

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THE MIRACLE by Barbara Chioffi

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er mother belonged to a group of women affectionately known as the Eight Ladies. They were all middle-aged and belonged to the local Methodist Church. Being together for over twenty years had given them the perspective of time and wisdom. Bobbie always wondered what they discussed and always received the same cryptic answer, “Whatever happens to fall out of the sky”.

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ne Saturday morning, Bobbie woke early, made coffee, and left for the local

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church where her choir was to give a concert. Upon arriving, she discovered the air conditioner wasn’t working. It was the middle of June, one of those early hot days that you don’t expect, one that takes your breath away with its arrival. If it was something Bobbie couldn’t tolerate, it was being hot with no possible escape.

She was miserable. Also, having to sit on a narrow windowsill in one of the church windows didn’t help.

Increasing agitation combined with the heat brought on an all too familiar feeling. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, trying to calm herself, not wanting anyone to know of her anxiety attacks.

Deep breathing and envisioning happy moments warred with her physical discomfort. Soon, her state eased, and she kept her eyes

closed, listening to the drone of the pastor’s voice, warning of certain damnation if the prescribed path was not followed.

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here was a sudden cool breeze and opening her eyes, she looked around in amazement.

Where was she? The trees formed a canopy overhead and the sunlight played over the leaves making ever-changing patterns on the forest floor. Calm and peace she had never felt before replaced her feeling of fear. The silence of the woods comforted her, broken only by the occasional birdcalls. The smoky smell of the woods assailed her senses, bringing happy memories from childhood... chasing rabbits and butterflies through the trees.

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he clearing where she stood was small and covered with moss. She smiled as she removed her shoes, reveling in the feel of the ground beneath her bare feet.

She was a child of nature in her heart, loving the fresh air and the rejuvenation for the spirit that the earth provided.

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ooking around her, she saw a path through the trees. It seemed to call to her. Walking slowly, she found she could name each tree… oak, elm, dogwood, and maple. Stopping under a large oak, she looked up. A hawk

looked down at her. She smiled, having always loved to watch their daily aerial display as they searched for food. As if to answer, the hawk took flight, rising above the trees, circling overhead. A sudden movement caught her eye.

Startled by the hawk’s departure, a tiny rabbit scurried to his hideaway, safe for the moment.

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s Bobbie continued her walk, the sunlight faded somewhat, giving a soothing green shade to the woods. The path led down a gradual incline and widened, ending at a pool.

A huge rock was at one end with smaller rocks scattered around the perimeter. Trees and bushes enclosed the pool, giving it a feeling of privacy. Bobbie sat on the largest rock looking into the water. Deep and green, it seemed to call to her, as if nature had created this place for her enlightenment.

Her consternation at what lay beneath the surface faded as a silent voice beckoned. The longer she sat, the more the pool gave its siren’s call and no longer able to resist, she slipped into the water. It was warm and caressed her as she sank. She experienced something she would seek for the rest of her days… perfect peace.

Every negative thought, every worry, every physical discomfort faded until there was only warmth, silence, and the water.

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er eyes opened and widened in surprise. No longer in the pool, she found herself sitting in the windowsill of the church.

The director was standing in front of the choir, waiting for them to assemble. Everything was in slow motion. She could hear the coughs as the choir members rose and cleared their throats, readying for the performance. Shoes clicked on the risers and everyone stood.

Bobbie joined the rest, taking her place on the back row. As time returned to its usual pace, she wondered what had happened.

Had the vision been given by someone present? What did it mean? As the music began, she sang with the others, and when her solo began, she reveled in her talent, rejoicing as never before in the pure joy of singing.

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fter the service and goodbyes to fellow choir members, Bobbie couldn’t wait to tell her mother what she had experienced. Living far from home, she and her mother talked often, mostly on the weekends when the rates were lower. They discussed everything. Her mother had always encouraged Bobbie’s natural inclination towards fantasy and her love of nature.

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he hurried to her apartment, made a cup of coffee, and called her mom. As she related what had happened, her mother remained silent, making no comment. When Bobbie completed her wondrous revelation, her mother uttered five words that would affect Bobbie for the rest of her life… “I’ll be damned. It works”.

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er mother and her group had created a ‘soul pool’ in which they placed all their children and the people on their prayer list.

They did this each morning at the same time, faithfully, through their many years together. Bobbie had described the pool and surrounding woods perfectly, down to the smallest detail.

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he and her mother shared many psychic connections through the years. Those waned when Bobbie’s son was born. The soul pool, however, remained vivid, a testament to her mother’s spirit, her quest for knowledge, and her belief in a rewarding hereafter.

END

Lycan Heart Mystic Hearts Series

by Barbara Chioffi Julia Monroe has been wandering all her life...from one foster home to another, then one job to another. She meets a wealthy man, Robert Flannery, who becomes her employer. His son, Justin, is attracted to Julia and reveals himself to her; first as his wolf persona, then in his human form.

As their relationship develops, Julia learns more about the secrets the Flannerys hold...ones that will lead to love, friendship, and danger.

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TRUST IN ME - PART 2 A SERIES BY MICHAEL BAKER

inally. The sprawling portrait of civilisation greeted me, painted into the landscape. I was tired, having spent three days on the roads with my prizes. The Caul’s wings were feather-light, splattered with dark-purple blood from my blade, but it was the scavenged arms and armour which weighed me down the most. The rain didn’t relent the entire time; not even my magei arts did much to help. All I could think about was the coin I could make from my prizes, and settling into an inn with some good meat, and maybe a woman. That’s one of the flaws of travelling alone like this; you don’t get many opportunities for fucking. Not often do you come

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across damsels wandering the wilderness. he safety of the waiting hamlet of humanity loomed before me in the dying hours of the day, after an uncomfortable night’s sleep under a tree stump, in a little grove four miles south. The rains had been terrible, making my travel even harder. By this time I was desperate for a rest, but my spirits rose when I recognised where I was.

Tarantine,” I said to myself. I was pretty deep into the Maegnor then, one of the many regions within the great Mer Empire. This was the Southern Realm. This town I’d been to only twice in my life; once under my father of the

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neighbouring province of Titala, and another when I stopped by on my way south into the Syndicate to take up my maegi training. But it was the first time in six years I’d even returned on this route. The smell of horse dung was pungent as I walked down the road entering the main gate, my bag straining with the loot I carried from the Luster Grounds. It had me thinking. The Caul. I must have been mad to take up the job. A chill went over me as I remembered the ambush, and the slaughter by the feral beasts. I was the only survivor, and had to slay another Caul to ensure my survival, a pure-breed. We must always strive to survive, at any cost. That’s always been my code. I recognized the banners of Maegnor straight away on the gates, in great standards overlooking the walls. They were the same coat of arms as the patrol I joined inside the Caul’s lands.

This could be ticklish. In the fields surrounding the city, I could see many farmers work, ploughing the land with great oxen, big hulking beasts of burden. The stench of horse manure in the air was pungent, used as fertilizer for the fields. The closer you get to civilisation, the greater the stink. With a chuckle to myself, I approached the main gate, guarded by half a dozen soldiers.

All carried the same crest on their clothing; a giant’s hand closing over a struggling trout.

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State your business, outlander,” barked one of them. I looked at him coldly, feeling their judgemental gaze. Outlander? Foolish man.

As much as I wanted to drive my sword into his gut, I couldn’t. There were too many around, Nor could I show them my power, not here.

Maegnor was close to the threat of the Cauls, and across the borders of the Yerinyees mountains, the Igster Syndicate; the true sorcerers of man. he Mer Empire and the Syndicate used to be one nation, a long time ago. Hundreds of years ago, the Syndicate then decided to study the school of sorcery under Valia, and war began. Too much bad blood existed between the two powers now, centuries of bloodshed although I wasn’t aware of all the history between them; reading wasn’t really my thing. Magic was seen by many in the Empire as an outrage, something inhuman. I’d heard horror stories of fellow maegi being hunted down by bands of Empire kinsman and exterminated like cattle. If I tried revealing my sorcery here of all places, I’d likely be swarmed by superstitious madmen and killed. They’d happily welcome mages into their fold in times of war, but not now. I may be a formidable fighter, but I’m not a god, nor am I stupid. I twisted my lips into a wary smile as I bowed my head at the guards in greeting.

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Wish to enter the town. Personal business,” I said. Well, to offload my prizes of war and fuck your women, I left that part unsaid. They looked at me suspiciously.

Toll to enter Tarantine,” grunted another gate-guard. “Forty Senns.”

He held out his grubby palm. It looked like a dirty mountain ape’s.

A toll? Never been a toll here,” I asked. That was news to me. Only the capital Beruno held a toll to enter the city, although that made sense; it was the fucking capital, with a population of half a million.

I expected it from them.

Are you deaf or dumb, outlander?

We have a toll now. Cough up for fuck off back where you came from,” said the first. His friends laughed crudely. I flexed my sword hand, feeling my fingers click.

The temptation to kill was getting stronger. I took a few deep breaths to calm my anger.

No outlander, I’m from the Empire.

It has been a while since I’ve been here though,” I tried to say. One of the guards drew his sword then, but his commander shook his head, and he desisted, though still glowered at me as though I was a lump of shit under his shoe. Your pathetic life got saved, soldier. Be grateful for that. I couldn’t let my anger show, not now. Wrong time to pick a fight.

No need for that soldier.” He turned to me, an apologetic look

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in his gruff, scarred face. “I’m sorry.

We’re in a border dispute with Titalia, and we’re at brink of all out war; The Countess of Dumpair has called the banners. In order to fund the army, we’ve set a toll on the city, under the orders of Count Armitim.

Not to mention one of our patrols has gone missing in the Luster Grounds. What our General Itme was thinking with that,” he broke off, shaking his head. His teeth were clenched so tight I thought them likely to shatter. Even so, the toll to enter the town was extortionate.

Still, I needed some rest. I reached into my pocket, pulling out some coins.

I hope this will suffice,” I put on a grimace, handing it to the captain.

I made sure not to pull the coinpurse out. That’s suicide, to show men you have money. Many will try and steal it with words. More daring folk will try and take it by force. Many times I’ve had unsuspecting scum try and rob me, then they think I’m an easy kill. The captain bowed his head.

He’s paid. Let him through. May be some work for you, if you need it. We’re recruiting at the barracks should you need the coin, and some rest.” ar with Titalia. My father. It was a strange feeling to me.

I hadn’t seen my father in years, since I left his lands in search of a new purpose. I wondered what it’d be like seeing him again. Hembar

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Colst, the Corsair. I’d shed my last name when I cut ties to my family to pursue my path. He was a powerful man though, and not one to kneel over to subordinate provinces. I wasn’t surprised at all that he was fighting again. My childhood was filled with him riding to war against the other powers in the Southern Realm. Both Maegnor and Pentia brought the brunt of the Corsair’s wrath. That certainly hadn’t changed. War never changes. he first thing I noticed when I stepped through the great stone gates was the amount of soldiers in the courtyard. This is a bad sign. They were being drilled by bellowing captains, divisions of footman sparring with each other while a line of longbows fired their loads into targets. There were few commonfolk in the street; the rest was made up of surly men training for war, and a smattering of apprentices working on the anvil. It dawned on me quick that remaining in one spot was a bad idea; I could see many giving me strange looks. I need to find a tavern. wave of tiredness broke over me, making me yawn. It was foolish to remain. I may have severed ties with Titalia, but I’d still make a useful hostage if caught. That’d be their hope though. I should leave.

But I was exhausted, and in need of some rest. It always clouds my better judgment. Leaving the training

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militia to their frolics, I left the noise behind, winding through narrow streets caked with shit and rubbish until I found an inn. A few seedy looking buildings hung over my head, and I could hear the catcalls of waiting whores. Ah brothels, my love, I thought with a smile. They were truly a man’s greatest gift. The outside looked small and dingy, with a rusted sign bearing the name of the inn. The Rattled Ork, I thought to myself. Why name your business after the orks, of all things?

The Empire hated the orks, and for good reason; the barbaric savage bastards. They were good fighters however… huckling, I entered the inn; what a dark and dreary place it was. It was small, certainly not for the wealthy. A typical hideout for the commoners, the peasants; after hard and backbreaking work in the fields amongst the broken man’s life, they’d crawl into the wineskins for cheap ale and gossip. I knew the kind all too well. The walls were cold, unyielding stone, although a welcoming fire had been lit in the hearth. Small crowded tables were packed into the room, just a singular dwelling. Not much comfort I’d find here, but it was rest and food I needed, not fucking royalty. Finding myself a seat in the far corner away from watching eyes, I watched the comely barmaid saunter over; nice curves and a friendly, yet wary face.

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Bread and meat, whatever you have. And a room for the night, if you have one.”

We have rooms. Twenty Senns that’ll be, lad.” She smelt of strawberries and soap, her brunette hair in a tight bun. ’m no lad. “Reasonable.” I reached into my tattered cloak and handed her the money, caressing her calloused fingers for a moment.

I smiled as a dull red flush appeared on her cheeks before she snatched the hand out of my own. “I’ll be back with your food, just stay comfortable,” and off she went.

There were many patrons in the inn, a mix of men and women of all shapes and ages; from hairless grown boys to elderly, grey ravens.

I knew all the sorts. he evening was pleasant as I enjoyed my meal. It was just a simple affair of hard baked bread, fresh mature cheese and joints of sizzling pork dripping with meat off the skewers, along with onions baked in dripping. They crunched in my mouth, along with the supple taste of the gravy. The talk was thick in the air and stifling fumes as I listened. One of the most important things about being a sellsword is you need to learn how to listen to talk around you. I learnt that a long time ago; knowledge is power. I was on my own; nobody came over to talk to me. That was fine. The Tarantine’s were a pretty isolated

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and cautious bunch; they didn’t see much use in talking to outsiders. It suited me. I didn’t like many people. hile I drank ale from my tankard, I paid attention to some of the conversation; the townsfolk often found interesting stories. Someone had gone travelling into the Kilto ruins, far to the east of Magenor and found ancient Mammoth bones, so large that he could ride his horse through the skeleton. He was laughed at by his peers. Mammoths. That must have been from the older times, when the Mammoth King still raged in the Magenor. He was asking for help to travel back to the ruins and bring the bones back to the city markets, but was shot down in a gail of laughter, and he stormed out of the inn in a rage. The Mammoth King was an old legend. That was during a different time of course, when Valia was just a fledgling realm and the Mer had colonized the Uldur, after the events of the Cataclysm in the south. Harloph and Klassos, I remembered from the teachings of the elders. That was hundreds of years ago now, the smoking ruins of what remained of the lands to the far south; the wildlands now, as the Syndicate had decreed. I made a mental note to find out more about it. The capital Beruno has the largest library in the Empire, with millions of books. If I could get access to it, then maybe I would be able to do

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it. I began to ponder the ways in which I could enter their ancient and guarded secrets. ther conversations turned to the war against my father, while many just discussed their daily, monotonous lives. I felt some sympathy for them. I would rather banish myself rather then sink to their level of such peasantry barbarism. Some were complaining of being drafted up into the army, called into service

by Armitim. Others were relishing the prospect. I had to fight back a laugh as two burly, hulking farmers got into a bare-knuckled brawl over their fighting boasts, forcing the red-faced innkeep to kick them out, bellowing. I learnt many things, although stories differed into how the war began. Some elderly crones whispered that the war began when the “Bastard Corsair” raided the Magenor and their villages, and they had fled to the safety of Tarantine, while others claimed it was just how things always were. That was certainly true, I reflected, as I felt drowsy from the ale. Relations in the Lacel had always been strained between the three main families, and the three provinces fought often like a rabid dog gnawing a bone. War was never far away in this world, but it’s what kept men like me alive. eeding sleep, I finally got to my feet, making sure to keep

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my belongings with me. The inn was starting to clear around this time; though it was still full with stumbling drunkards. Weak men, drinking their woes away, before groggily going back to their chores of the day. It was hard work, but I made my way to the side door leading to the rooms, and up a tight winding flight of creaky wooden stairs to my assigned room. It was small and cramped, with a low ceiling and a goose-down mattress.

It sagged as I set myself down on the bed. My eyes itched with tiredness.

Not bothering to strip my clothes, I lay back and fell asleep at once. ……………………………….

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t was a dream, the same one. I found myself standing on a clifftop in the mountains, overlooking the world below. I knew where it was.

The Chan Dwel. It was where I learned my art. The air was freezing cold, and I was naked. The chill was bone-crushing, and all I could do not to scream in agony. Then I heard a voice. It’s ghostly rattle surged through my consciousness, making me shudder. If anything, it was colder than the wasteland of the Chan Dwel. I knew who it belonged to. Only one could make that voice.

You need to hone your power, your art, Mortarc. That’s the only way.”

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Then a push from behind, I was falling, falling, falling…. ith a start, I awoke, banging my head on the low ceiling beam. “Fuck,” I muttered loudly, rubbing my forehead. The pain ebbed away but the feeling of an ache still remained. I didn’t know the time of day; the little inn-room had no window. Grumbling to myself, I got changed and grabbed my bag of belongings. It was time to see what the market had in store.

I had to be careful though. Selling Tarantine wears was surely asking for trouble, particularly to the smiths. They’d ask questions, and I wasn’t going to commit murder in broad daylight to draw attention to myself. However, the seedier trade merchants in the dregs would be less complaining. All places had the sort. Where wealth came, gray morality came with it.

I grinned as I remembered the wings, still bloodied and stuffed unceremoniously into my bag. It didn’t matter for their condition; I knew they would make a fine price if I found the right buyer. I wasn’t quite ready to part with them yet, however. They were trophies of my success. I liked collecting trophies of my kills, though I was never in one place long enough to truly enjoy them. All of them were lost at some point. Either forced to leave them behind, a couple stolen, but most of them had been sold. It was

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my living. Wine and whores were expensive, as was learning. reaking my fast on a mug of ale, more hard bread and cheese, I nursed my morning headache, thinking about my next move. The good thing about sellswords is that as long as there is war, you will always have work. I never enjoyed the other professions. Farming, hard labour and servant jobs were for just that, servants. I was no low sparrow, fit only to work and die under the thumb of a greater man.

Nor was I interested in the dull tasks of a courtesan. Ruling over such serfs and rabble was below me.

Leading is something I was never born to do. I was born to fight, and kill. The Octane gave all of man the tools to become the greatest warrior race of this world. That’s why they broke free of the Torn Realm, shattering the hold of the Messeahs, the sentinels of the dead.

It was supposed to be a legend. hough the corpse of the south is no lie, I reminded myself. It was over a thousand years ago, ancient history to most, but still something to remember. As I brooded over my morning drink watching the embers of the fireplace grow dimmer, I thought of the event, one which changed Uldur forever. Everybody had a different name for it; some called it the Eternal Drowning, some the Counterbalance. The First Men, who settled here after

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the destruction of their home called it the Creed. Somebody had manipulated a great war between the two superpowers of the south, brought the Messeah’s back into the living plane, and brought chaos and destruction to the world. So long ago, yet it could happen again.

I looked down at my own hands and clenched them. No. That was my purpose. To fight and kill. It was always my purpose. ounting the coins in my pouch, I was disappointed with the amount remaining. Only two hundred Senns in total, the shitty little bronze coins, no bigger than a gnat’s arse. I really had underestimated my funds. A couple of miserable looking bastards in the corner gave me some greedy looks, but neither dared to move closer. If they had, I would split them apart in a heartbeat. Any man who wants to rob you better be prepared to lose their life. I’d have to get more money somewhere. It’d be enough to last me a few more days, but when it ran out, what then? I’d have to look for more mercenary work.

The war against your father. That was an interesting thought. The war between the two families seemed to be escalating, and swords would be needed. It would be amusing if I took up arms in my father’s army, especially if he didn’t know who I was. Or I could fight against him.

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was still distracted by that thought when I left the pigsty inn, giving the name a final amused glance.

“Rattled Ork” I chuckled to myself, startling a couple of crippled beggars sat by the doorway. Ignoring their feeble pleas for gold or food, I began to make my way down the narrow street. Another day, I told myself.

Then movement from the mouth of the alleyway, and before I knew it, my path was blocked by a ring of steel points. I stopped dead. I knew it’d come to this.

Morning, soldiers.

There something I can help you with?”

One of them lowered his helmet; a shy, rat-like face peeked out as though he was scrabbling for cheese.

Even his nose had whiskers. Maybe the tales of the Rat-breeds were true after all. I suppressed a smile at that.

You. You came into the city yesterday, did you not?” He barked, pointing a filthy finger at my chest. Hurried footsteps from behind me, and I turned my head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another half-dozen guards. I was surrounded.

I asked you a question,” repeated Ratface. I tried to keep my anger calm as I turned back round to face him.

You did, soldier. And you asked without any manners. So I chose not to answer.”

I’m no soldier, but a commander.

Know your place, outlander,”

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Ratface said coldly. I smiled at that.

“If you know, why ask me then? Now, let me pass. I’ve done your kin no harm.”

“Then explain the arms of our kin,” another guard shouted, pointing.

I looked down. I’ve been careless.

The bag had split under the strain; the glint of the unmistakable coat-of-arms of the scavenged tools from Caul. And the wing.

“A Caul wing. You were a survivor of Itme’s expedition,” Ratface drew a scroll from under his immaculate black cloak and unravelled it. “We have a warrant for your arrest, signed by the Countess. And we see you’ve pillaged our dead. The fun we’re going to have with you.”

“I’m a sellsword, not one of your own. It’s what we do,” I replied, fully aware of the men behind me.

“Looting your dead is no crime.”

“Maybe not, but we know who you are, Mortarc of Colst. Son of the Corsair.” Ratface took a step forward, and I saw two men behind him wind their crossbows. Damn it.

There was no way I was going to be able to talk my way out of this one.

“Son of our enemy.” A smirk snaked across his fat, slobbery lips.

“So, a prisoner of war then. But do you have proof of that? I’m an innocent man,” I said. Then I heard a low cackle, and the guards parted.

A small, thin man draped in golden robes stood there, smirking all over his face.

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“I know your truth, Mortarc. You cannot fool us, and your lies are no use. I had the Rattled Ork give you a room while we of the Tallorcourt...investigated. We have ways of finding a man’s origin. A man leaves traces, particularly one of your...caliber. You are the enemy of the Maegorlands.”

The Tallorcourt. Another group of maegi, although they had savoury reputation in the Syndicate. “The Maegorlands despise magic, yet here you stand. And they say sellswords have shit for honour. You’re no different, are you, Commander.” I felt a surge of triumph as Ratface’s ugly eyes darkened further.

“They are here at the acceptance of Dumphair herself. Now come quietly, or pay the price.”

I laughed even harder then, turning myself against the wall so I could see down both sides. The men behind me were inching nearer, their blades drawn. Above me, a waiting whore cooed to the men.

“Fuck off back in, wench, or you can join this bastard,” Ratface snarled.

A crossbow bolt later, and the bitch retreated back to her kennel, screaming. I was alone.

“That was rude of you,” I said coldly.

They weren’t amused.

“Surrender, or else!” A man grunted.

“You sound as though you have this all planned. But do you really think I’ll give myself up without a fight?” I drew my sword. Nothing for it now.

“Don’t be a fool,” The leader of the guards of my right was smirking.

I’ll kill him first. “We have twenty men.”

“Twenty gnats are nothing to me,” I said. My fingertips were tingling.

“Are you a fool, Mortarc?” Ratface called in his weedy, irritating voice.

“I might be. But you’re dead.” Aiming my hand at the men behind me, I felt the searing heat leave my fingers, heard the screams and roars of fury.

Pick one side, destroy them. I had no choice now but to flee the city, if I could. But I wasn’t one to give up fighting. I’d take as many with them with me as possible. The Tallorcourt scum was thrown off balance, Ratface screaming orders; his men charging towards me. The stench of burning flesh raw in my nostrils, I attacked, gathering another ball of fire in my hand.

Concentrate the source, release the power. Those were the words, the drumbeat of sorcery. I focused in my hand, then it was gone, smoke billowing from my hand as it vanished before me; a heavy weight i could feel pressed over my eyes. Through the glinting of the smoke and chaos, I made out the Tallormage kneeling on the ground, face ghastly white and bleeding from the corner of his mouth, his hands clasped before him and his mouth moving. I couldn’t hear his words, but knew what he had done.

He had suppressed my magic.

So be it. They were coming in on both sides, the alleyway a storm of war as more and more guards came into view. I had to be quick. Pick a side, attack one. There were too many to fight fairly, if that was even a word in war. In battle, there is no such thing as being fair. You killed or be killed. My sword was in a great, wheeling arc, meeting the blade of one of my foolish attackers. I was less well armoured then these men, that was certain. I wore only boiled leather and some steel, while they were in white, full enamel plate, so all I had was speed.

Don’t kill him!” I heard Ratface screech.” The Mistress wants him alive!” Cowards. I dodged the first attack by my opponent, even as another struck, his blade scraping the wall. All around us, fires smouldered. My cut was parried, sloppily, then my second one was true; he let out a pitiful gasp as my point went through his throat. All that armour, and they don’t bother to fucking protect their necks. I couldn’t tug it out, so I grabbed my favorite dagger by my side; a vicious Valian blade called the Kerning, and shoved it into the eye-socket of another. That’s when I felt my legs give way, and a horrible, burning sensation run through my body. I could only scream as I felt onto my knees, felt only a dim pain as a full mailed first collided with my head.

I felt my tooth break, blood pooling

“

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in my mouth. The burning was indescribable, my chest in a smouldering, searing vice. Then I knew; the bastard Tallor. I felt myself being roughly forced onto my feet, a flurry of punches and kicks reigning down. Still no gall to use their blades. I tried smiling a broken smile, a final act of defiance, but my jaws were locked. Then darkness began to fall over my eyes, the cover deepening. My throat burned, the taste of bile rancid in my mouth. I had failed in my duty, my promise to myself.

I had lost a fight. And now I was going to pay for it.

YOU CAN CATCH UP WITH MICHAEL ON:

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ANGEL WITHIN 2nd book in the FALLEN ANGELS SERIES by JULIE NICHOLLS An epic fantasy romance - Angels, Fallen Angels, Witches and Magic The story of angels and fallen angels continues from the first book in the series, Demon Within, Kai of Darkmide, a once feared warlord and Eloise of Brightstone, a timid princess, face danger once more from the fallen angels who seek revenge on man, although this time there is an added complication when the fallen are aided by a witch.

Jana, a powerful witch, and Tigan, a deceitful mercenary from Sabe and Kiera’s past, join forces to summon Samyaza, one of the most powerful of all fallen angels. The witch strikes a bargain with the fallen angel to possess Tigan, making him indestructible in battle.

Sian, a young witch, naĂŻve but powerful, aids our trusted warriors, and in doing so is given refuge at Black-

hill. Reluctantly becoming entangled in more secrets, she listens to the advice of Nazar, a new warrior who recently joined with Sabe and his sister, Kiera.

Kai and Sabe join Brightstone and Blackhill’s forces to rid the world of the powerful witch, and Tigan. Once again the seraph comes to the warrior’s aid, yet at what cost? The final battle culminates with the transformation of Eloise from a timid queen to a feared warrior as her husband fights for his life, and freedom from bondage once more.

The story continues and is not just a romantic tale of a princess and a slave. This epic story has another chapter to reveal and only in the final book will it become clear who controls man’s fate on earth.

Get ready for the battle between good and evil, angel and fallen angel, and learn what the heavens have in store for Kai and Eloise.

Demon Within & Angel Within are the first two books in the Fallen Angels series, Ascension Within is the final chapter...available now...also get all three books in one ebook.

Box Set Fallen Angels Complete Set. The full series is also available in paperback and Audiobook

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N.W. Moors is an author and reader based in Portland, Maine. She reviews for Netgalley, Bookvetter, BooksGoSocial, and other websites as well as her own, The Antrim Cycle http://www.antrimcycle.com/ She has written her own Fantasy series called the Antrim Cycle and her book, The Black Swans, has been chosen as a 2015 IndieBrag Medallion honoree and as a 2015 Wishing Shelf Independent Book Award finalist.

LINK:FANTASY WORLDS EMAG.COM

A SPELL IN THE COUNTRY BY MORGAN SMITH A Spell in the Country is another story in the Averraine Cycle. I had already read (and reviewed) Casting in Stone and enjoyed it very much.

This book is much the same.

Keridwen is the youngest of a large family. She would have been expected to marry a young lordling but she is interested in fighting and swordplay

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so she enters the army instead. Despite her young age, she is put in command of a troop whose leader commits treason against his overlord.

Keridwen is captured by Prince Tirais and is lucky enough to impress the Prince and his advisors instead of hanging.

Keridwen has a number of adventures, both in battle and in the Prince's court. She is a strong, smart, and lucky heroine who manages to prevail despite the odds.

The battle and fighting scenes are well-written and so are the scenes that take place in the soldiers barracks. The plot is intricate but moves right along. I enjoyed that many Welsh names were used in the story and look forward to more tales from the Averraine Cycle.

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The Genre tourist has provided us with a short story for this month.

No Good Deed

By Morgan Smith Copyright 2015 Morgan Smith

It was true that Sherry had been drinking since 1 pm Friday, and that by 2 am Saturday, she was well into pink-elephants territory.

It was also true that she had always claimed to see things, even when sober. Not extraordinary things.

Not dead relatives or gigantic ferrets. Just things that shouldn’t be there, like a blue Camaro parked in Mrs. Walker’s weed-infested driveway on a Sunday morning, or the check-out girl from the grocery

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store drinking London Fogs in Banjo’s Café long after Banjo had hung up the “Closed” sign. Things that were out of place, things that were improbable, and things that no one else ever saw, even when she pointed them out.

But this time, when she noticed that in the alley behind Rajiv’s mother’s garage there was a man in a plaid plastic raincoat, she really tried to get Joanne to look at him, tried to tell Rajiv’s mother that there was someone there.

Rajiv, unfortunately, was a lost cause; he’d passed out an hour before, after misquoting Alfred, Lord Tennyson and sloshing most of his drink onto the carpet. And that was a shame, because he was the only one who took her reports of oddities seriously. He never saw the things she saw, but he at least acted as if he believed she’d seen them.

Joanne just tossed back the last of her gin and tonic and said that she didn’t care of an entire army of plaid

raincoats marched themselves across the back yard. She wanted another drink and there was no gin left.

Rajiv’s mother asked if she wanted another samosa.

Sherry looked out the window again.

The man still stood there, staring back at her. It was not upsetting. It seemed to her he was familiar, like she’d seen him before. Often.

He wasn’t a big man. He seemed a bit frail, to be honest, and it occurred to her that he looked cold and wistful, and that perhaps he wasn’t one of her weird “seeings” but someone in a jam, down on his luck, even a homeless vet.

And Sherry, although she hid it well with loud pronouncements about lazy people and never encouraging beggars, was, underneath, a bit of a softy. She thought about what it would be like to go to war, and come back broken and have no one who cared, and she could feel the tears welling up.

But that might have been partly the gin.

When she looked again, he’d moved a little closer in from the alley onto the lawn. He looked very, very familiar. She closed her eyes and tried to remember, but couldn’t.

Possibly, she thought, he was one of the derelicts who hung out near the train station on her way to work.

She had never looked at any of them too closely. In fact, she always

hurried past, face averted, because she had the feeling if she noticed them, really noticed them, well, then, that would be it. It would be all over, and she’d be out of every bit of loose change she had, because it would be impossible not to give just that once.

And once would never be enough.

The man, though, when she glanced out the back window again, was still staring, almost hungrily, straight into the house. Straight at her, as if she held the key to some unfathomable mystery.

And then Sherry did something unexpected, something quite unSherry-like, because Sherry rarely put herself out, physically, for anyone.

She heaved herself out of the scratchy velveteen armchair, marching over to the back door and wrenching it open, with some vague intention of asking the man in for a samosa, because it looked as if he hadn’t had a decent meal in a while, and God knew, there were enough bloody samosas. Rajiv’s mother always made triple batches.

He was gone. In that tiny moment, when she’d looked down at the door handle, because she was a bit hazy about where both she and everything else was by that point, he’d disappeared. She stood, feeling a little silly for a moment or two, and then shut the door again.

She returned to the armchair. Joanne,

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too, had passed out now, slumped on the floor in a graceless heap. She heard Rajiv’s mother, getting ready for bed: water running, the sound of teeth being brushed, a door softly closing.

She looked back to the window.

The man had returned. He was still standing just at the verge, hunching into that oversized red and black and beige patterned raincoat as if the night’s chill was seeping into him, and he was still watching her.

All right, let’s face it. That was creepy.

She tried to shut the sight out, to ignore him. She found the remote and turned on the television and watched intently, for a full five minutes, something about hunting deer with assault rifles in Wisconsin.

She couldn’t help herself. She looked up and over and out the window, and there he was, a few feet into the yard, watching.

Watching her.

None of Sherry’s “seeings” had ever done that. She began to feel not merely creeped-out, but a little angry. If this was a real person, they had no business behaving like a stalker.

If it wasn’t…Sherry cut that thought off like a gangrenous limb. None of her oddities had ever had any personal bent, and none had ever been that animated. It was the booze. Maybe it was a good thing the gin had run out.

The hunters had now given way to

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an infomercial about a miraculous knife that could slice through both ham bones and Kleenex tissue without losing its edge. $19.99 each, and if she ordered now, they’d send her the cute little paring knife for free. She concentrated on this as if she actually intended to pick up her phone and order one.

When she did look back at the window again, almost without any conscious participation of her own, she was relieved to see the yard was empty once more. He was gone, that grey-faced old man, gone to wherever homeless men go to on cold, dark nights.

The thought of where that place might be, though, began to gnaw at her. Underneath a highway bridge or behind an industrial trash bin at a construction site, someplace like that. He’d be cold, and hungry, and it was beginning to rain: he’d get wet, even in that plaid plastic coat. She found she was a little teary-eyed again. People shouldn’t have to live like that.

She went to the door. She opened it, and stepped out into the drizzle, and took in a lungful of cool, damp air. Maybe, she thought charitably, if he was still nearby, she could offer to let him sleep in Rajiv’s mother’s garage. At least it was dry. She could give him a couple of samosas.

She was halfway to the end of the lawn when she heard the door close softly, and the unmistakable sound

of the deadbolt being pushed home.

Sherry looked down at her hands, which were worn and calloused and a little dirty, with ragged nails on stubby fingers that pushed out from the sleeves of an old plastic raincoat. She looked back into the window and could see herself, sitting on the velveteen armchair, the television still flickering in the background. She could even make out the shape of the empty gin bottle on the coffee table. She could still taste the memory of the spices of that last samosa Rajiv’s mother had insisted she eat.

She could feel the rising anger, but she knew it would do no good. She flipped the collar of the raincoat up against the chill of the night, and turned to wander back down the alley towards the train station and the seedier parts of town.

Oh, well, she thought. It had been nice while it lasted. ###

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With a shaky hand, she reached out and touched his silky raven hair. Her hand tingled with electricity. He opened his eyes questioningly and she inched closer as she whispered the word, “T’razscein.” She was finally able to pronounce it.

“Yes, T’razscein it is my love,” he whispered back, coming close to her.

The energy field that opened up with her evaporating anxiety threatened to pull her into a vortex, but she kept her gaze upon Mirsux and allowed him to take the lead. They were lying facing each other. He was close enough to touch her but he searched her face for confirmation.

She gave him that by closing the inch gap and pressing her lips to his. A bolt of lightning zapped through her body, almost lifting her from the bed. She opened her mouth and allowed him entry of his tongue. The lightning electrocuted her once more, and with it came gushes of hot liquid between her thighs.

His hand found her nipple through the thin silky fabric and his thumb brushed an already taut peak. She wanted to touch him and feel his skin next to hers. She broke the kiss to wiggle from her garment and dropped it on the floor beside the bed. Mirsux removed his shorts and she gasped as his member bounced before her eyes.

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If you missed our May issue... you can download it here

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THOTH’S JOURNAL A NEW STORY BY MISTRAL DAWN Department for the Preservation and Confirmation of Intelligent Life (DPCIL)

Agent Thoth Personal Log 50

Day Twenty-Eight:

I

have now been on this planet for nearly one full lunar cycle, and every one of those days I have been offered the exact same food.

My hominid-servant is faithful about making sure I am properly provisioned, I’ll give her that. All I have to do is call her attention to the fact that the level of food in my bowl is low enough that I can see the bottom of the bowl, and she promptly refills it. But always with the same thing!

A

gain, I do need to give her credit, the brown, pellet-like food she provides is palatable, if a bit unappetizing in appearance, and meets all my nutritional requirements. But she never varies her offering, and it is becoming a bit tedious. This is in spite of the

fact that her own food changes stands under it for an extended not only from day to day, but from period of time. When she emerges meal to meal. from the waterfall, she smells different than she did before. She tried to point out this disparity is also invariably soaking wet, to her by demonstrating my which, astonishingly, she doesn’t interest in what she eats. Much of seem to mind. it smells appealing and I believe it would be compatible with my own t first, I thought this was an system. But she failed to take the effort at self-harm and I went hint and instead waved her hand to great lengths to try to save her in front of my face as if to imply from becoming saturated. But, as I that I should refrain from close said, she performs this ritual daily examination of her eatables. and does not seem to suffer any ill effects apart from the altered reposterous, of course. I’m scent. So I have settled on close here to observe and study the scrutiny of this strange behavior. local life forms, after all. How can I be expected to do that if I’m not he conclusion I have reached allowed access to all aspects of is that she is making an their daily lives? Since my nose effort to groom herself. As you tells me the food eaten by the know, hominid tongues are local hominids would be eatable woefully inadequate for the task for DPCIL agents, it seems to me of grooming, lacking as they do the simplest method of sampling the necessary texture. I have it would be to taste it. Doing so attempted to at least demonstrate would also help liven up my own the proper grooming protocol for boring fare. her, but so far she has taken no interest in my demonstrations. I ut she did not seem to agree, will continue my observations. and instead guarded her food most zealously. I will have to Day Sixty-Three: redouble my efforts to obtain a believe my hominid-servant sample in the future. has been mocking me. At first, I thought she was making an Day Forty-Two: attempt to learn to speak properly y hominid-servant has a and I endeavored to assist her curious habit. Every day, she by instructing her in the correct activates a fall of warm water and pronunciation of the DIPCIL

I

A

P

B

T

I

M

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language. But, in spite of my best efforts, she continues to make nonsense sounds while contorting her face at me. Considering my superiority, I find this behavior quite irritating.

Day Ninety-One: ne thing I was assured of before I arrived that actually functions as promised is the Pacification by Unconscious Relaxation Revolutions device.

The P.U.R.R. never fails to soothe my hominid-servant and make her more suggestible and pliable.

The fact that she is so susceptible to manipulation is one more argument against ascribing true intelligence to such creatures.

O

O

ne thing I have found the P.U.R.R. most helpful for is when I wish her to remain still so that I can monitor her vital signs during testing. By activating the P.U.R.R., I can often induce her to sit down. I then pin her in place by the simple method of sitting on top of her. This also provides the necessary proximity for accurate readings to be taken.

.

T 52

o be continued....

SUMMER MAGIC & MAYHEM Time to be free, time to be alive, time to live, time to die!

School's out, the rains come, the rains go, the ever-present heat, the stifling heat that claws at you and makes you want to kill someone!

And yet, there is hope during the summer, hope for the future, for growth, for better times yet to come, time to do things before the slowdown of Fall and Winter set in.

The Day is strong and long, beating back the night...

The Season of the Sun is Nigh!

Featuring stories by: Frank Montellano, Michael Baker, Dan McAteer, Natalie Vorare, Max Xavier, Benny Hill, Anthony D Farr, Derek Stedman, Cheryl Toner, Christine McIntosh, LR Broberg-Mofitt

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Covers for ebooks, paperbacks and audio books a dia sites and websites. Head over to her official w and check out ou

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low cost cover then speak to graphic l receive excellent value for money and the best cover for your novel.

are all available, plus banners for your social mewebsite www.julienicholls.com or visit our website ur Author Services

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LOVE YOUR PROOFREADER You’ve written a great, imaginative story, and you’re ready to publish.

So what if you can’t remember half the grammar rules you learned in school. Nobody will notice right? Guess again. Do you think you can’t afford a good proofreader? Guess again. I spent 40 years in the business world and every position held required literate and grammatically correct written communication. As a self-published author, I know it’s impossible to accurately proofread your own work. I know first-hand how tight a budget can be. If you can’t invest in a professional editor, please at least consider working with a proofreader and stop guessing your fantasy/ erotica/romance manuscript is clean.

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