Merry Christmas

To all my readers, friends, and family: Merry Christmas, Nollaig Shona. GER

Fellow author's free preview

http://terrycsimpson.wordpress.com/the-fantasy-works-of-terry-c-simpson/aegis-of-the-gods-series/

November 11, 2011

Happy Veterans Day to all and especially to our daughter Tabetha (army) and son Christopher (Air force). My heart swells with pride. Also found another of my fave authors on twitter: Dennis L McKiernan, author of the Mithgar novels. Great day.

another excerpt from book 2

Cannivone followed the whim of the sword, saying goodbye to the temple and thanking them for the hospitality. Head Priestess Bekka kissed his cheek and wished him well. His journey took him west toward the small town of Belton. His uncle once mentioned it as the place of his birth and he decided it was as good a place as any to start his search for the foul man who had raised him.

            He entered the village, glancing at the snow covered humps of huts, smoke drifting lazily to the sky. The streets were a quagmire of mud and ice that threatened to send him sprawling.

            “What a shit hole,” the voice spoke to him. He grabbed the hilt to ease his depredation.

            “You wanted blood,” Cannivone replied. “This is as good a place to start as any.”

            “There is nobody here,” the sword complained. “What good will it do me? I can’t believe I have been reduced to feeding on blood like a….”

            “Please shut up,” the boy grumbled. “I’m trying to think.”

            “I wish I could let you experience the pain that I went through when I wielded the blade.”

            “Seriously,” Cannivone warned, “I can just leave you to rust in the snow.”

            “Why don’t you?” the sword dared him. It should be easy, he thought, to drop the annoying blade and walk away. Why couldn’t he? Was it the guilt he felt for the blood on his hands? Would he feel alone without the voice constantly urging him on?

He shook his head, violently and groaned.

            “Give me some peace,” he pleaded. The sword snickered, but said nothing more. Cannivone made his way through the mud toward the only tavern, called The Broken Wheel. He had no money to purchase a meal or a bed, but he would try and find out all he could about the place he was born, since he remembered nothing about it.

            Inside, the inn was warm. A roaring fire blazed beneath a wide stone hearth and the succulent smell of roasting meat filled the air. A large table sat near the fire, a single man sitting amongst a pile of empty cups and dirty plates, his face in his hands.

            The man was old and dressed in ragged robes. He seemed to be muttering to himself turning his head in his palms. Cannivone slowly approached the man, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

            Grumblings from the robed man brought a small smile to Cannivone’s face.

            “We should do the man a favor,” the sword hissed, “and put an end to his grumblings with a quick stroke.”

            Cannivone ignored the sword’s request. He vowed to take no innocent lives and the man had done nothing to wrong him.

            “Get bent,” he whispered to the blade.  He got the impression the sword wasn’t happy, but it was being silent for the moment so the lad would enjoy the moment.

            He approached the wine stained man, cautiously.

october 24, 2011

Need more reviews for Goodreads, B&N, and Amazon. Anyone interested?

October 19, 2011

No news, they say is good news. I have nothing to report.

RIP

A heartfelt R.I.P. to my grandma Violet who passed on Friday night, October 7, the same night , ironically as the owner and founder of the hated Raiders, Al Davis, a team she taught me to despise (being a Broncos fan and all)

New Review from author Shay Fabbro

ShayFabbro

The Chronicles of the Sentient Sword

The Chronicles of the Sentient Sword tells the tale of Pantania Pommel and her wicked awesome sword. Well, wicked awesome if you like a sword that's alive, can speak to you in your mind, and has a strong thirst for blood...
Gerald Black spins a complex tale of greed and something much darker, something unexpected. As Pantania uses the sword and the power it gives her to attempt to overthrow a rival guild, the sword is in fact using her to its own ends. It would seem that nothing can stop the possessed guild mistress and her magical sword.
But as if often the case, man finds himself a pawn in the games of the gods. And it would appear that the gods have their own plans. And they don't include letting Pantania or the sentient sword win. Priests from the Church of Alinard, a couple of rouge fighters, a drunken bard, a druid, a half-ogre, and a young priest-in-training are all that stand between Pantania and her victory.
I am looking forward to reading the second installment. The ending was not what I was expecting at all! I love cliff-hanger endings and this doesn't disappoint!

Vegas bound.

Off to Lost Wages, NV to renew our vows. Send some luck my way.

sept 21, 2011

In two days I leave for Vegas, so there will be no posts as i will be busy.

Sept 19, 2011 progress report

Just started chapter 14 of book two. Was busy with footballall day Sunday, but managed to get some writing done early today. A pleasant day to all the fans of the Sentient sword.

Another project I am working on-Wizard's Bane

Rundoric Bloodblade, son and one time heir to the chieftain of the Fian, held aloft the torch to afford him a better view of the yawning cavern. Eyes of pale blue surveyed the stone covered walls and the blood smeared along them.

          Violence had been done here, a fact made clear by the torn corpses of the goblins strewn about the trail. He knelt to investigate the pile of rags, crumpled into a heap at his feet.

          “Another goblin,” he muttered. There were no signs of life, merely disheveled footprints in the thick dirt. He gripped the leather wrapped hilt of his broadsword and stood.

          A slight breeze ruffled his shoulder length, chestnut hair and his cerulean eyes narrowed at the scent that assailed his nostrils. Sulphur. His scalp tingled at the revelation. Only two things could produce the smell: fire or magic.

          He growled deep in his throat at the prospect of having to face the dark arts. As a youth growing up in his village of Twin Oaks, he had learned to fear and distrust sorcery, a power only wielded by the shamans of the tribe or secretive witches who hid themselves away from prying eyes so they could practice their foul craft.

          He had watched many a witch be put to the sword, spewing their defiance to the last breath. Ever since, he could sense the way the air became charged with energy whenever magic was present.

          Rundoric hesitated for a moment, but his curiosity overtook his judgment and soon he was following the foot prints and patches of blood barely visible to most, but standing out like a beacon to his well-practiced tracker’s eyes. He moved like a hunting cat despite his considerable bulk and huge muscles.

          Before his face he held the torch, a gnarled limb he found and wrapped with oil soaked rags, and continued down the path. He spied a lone arrow, shaft cracked and head blunted, lying against the far wall. He took it in his hands and admired the craftsmanship. The arrow had been painstakingly made with perfectly balanced shaft of yew and fletching of some blue feather he did not recognize.

          Useless, he thought as he tossed it aside. He came across the corpse of a strange cat-like creature with several tentacles jutting from its shoulders. Several arrows of the same make riddled the corpse and it bled from many deep wounds. He knelt to touch the body.

          “Still warm,” he mumbled. Whoever had killed the beast was not far ahead.

          “Taros’ beard,” he cursed. He transferred the torch to his left hand, his right gripping the hilt of his broadsword, the torchlight glinting from its gold engraved blade as he slowly removed it. His hands, wound in strips of bear hide holding tightly the sharpened bear claws affixed to his knuckles.

          He sensed danger ahead. It simply was an innate ability to taste the air about him and set the hairs on the back of his neck to stiffen.

          “Blood and bones,” he cursed. What have you gotten into now? He asked himself. He could smell the magic growing closer as the corridor twisted deeper into the side of the mountain.

          The Peaks of Mists were riddled with catacombs. His tribe’s legends told of the Earth Movers, an ancient race of man that lived far below the surface, extracting its rock and building vast cities in darkness. Rundoric took no faith in legends, but he could not ignore the underlying current of foreboding that wafted in the air.

          The corridor widened and he could hear shouts echoing from somewhere ahead. A resounding peal of steel on stone reverberated through the caverns. His blood heated at the thought of battle. He was raised a warrior and would, he hoped, die in the throes of battle. Amalek willing.

          His was not a god that listened to prayer only the song of steel as it sang in battle; the crunch of bone and the spattering of blood. Rundoric’s proficiency in battle would earn him a spot at his deity’s side. Any other death would insure him of an eternity of wandering the outer planes in search of release.

          He rounded a corner just as an errant spark of magic flew before his eyes. He cried out and ducked and the spell exploded against the stone behind him carving out a deep niche. Rundoric growled and surveyed the scene.

          There were four of them; three men and an attractive, dark haired woman wearing tight leathers and tumbling beneath the slavering maw of the worm. Foul, viscous saliva dripped from the creature’s fangs. She struck out with a short sword that seemed to grow from her fist. The worm hissed as it was struck and green blood gouted from the wound.

          A tall man armored in a suit of pure metal, his face enclosed in a helmet, stepped toward the worm, swinging a large mace. Large chains were wrapped about the man’s shoulders. Rundoric could not understand how the man could breathe encased in all that iron.

          Another man, short and portly and covered in armor of interlocking iron scales, swung a huge axe at the worm, its keen edge bouncing from the creature’s thick hide.

          Across the cavern, dressed in fine robes of a dark green, several pouches hanging from his chest, a man with hair the color of rust threw balls of fire from his outstretched hands. Rundoric snarled. Here was the source of the magic.

          The entire cavern was lit by small lanterns that swung from the ceiling on rusty chains. The barbarian threw his torch to the ground and gripped his blade with two hands.

          The woman cried out as the worm’s head struck her, knocking her aside as if she were weightless. She landed to the side and groaned.

          “Darieth,” cried the metal clad man, “shoot for the mouth.”

          The robed man nodded and began muttering the words to a spell. Rundoric felt his hackles rise. A stream of blue light shot from the man’s palm, searing a gash into the worm’s side.

          Rundoric growled deep in his throat. How he detested magic. He yelled a fierce war cry and rushed toward the towering monstrosity. The combatants were surprised by the arrival of the half -naked man clad only in the hide of a cave bear. It nearly cost the armored man his head as the worm snapped forward, huge mouth closing. At the last moment, the man realized his danger and ducked, but the momentum of the huge worm sent him sprawling.

          The barbarian leaped over the fallen man, his sword slicing a grey streak through the air. The worm screeched as the steel sliced deeply through its mottled body with a spray of thick green blood. The fallen man scuttled away on his backside toward his mace.

          Rundoric stood fast, knowing no fear. Death was a means to join the armies of Amalek where every warrior strived to be. Another swipe from his sword scared a deep gash in the worm’s abdomen and he jumped aside to avoid the slavering jaws.

          “Who comes to our aid?” the woman asked from where she staggered to her feet near the far wall. The scaled man struck the vast worm with his double bladed axe, cutting deep. He stood beside the huge barbarian and looked at him with a sidelong glance.

          “A timely arrival, stranger,” he said.

          Rundoric merely grunted as he avoided yet another strike from the worm. He rammed his blade deep into the warm, his fist covering with sticky green blood. The giant beast began to sway and convulse.

          “It is falling,” the axe wielder cried. “Get back.”

          Rundoric rolled from the path of the convulsing worm with the agility of a panther. The others retreated to the cavern’s opening as quickly as they could move. The woman limped, visibly, a bruise showing dark upon her side. The armored man grabbed her arm and aided her taking her weight against his bulk.

          The worm swayed and convulsed. The robed man held out a clenched fist and muttered a word. A ring on his middle knuckle flashed and a ball of fire struck the worm full in the thorax, engulfing it in flame. With a final shriek, it collapsed in a burning heap to the cavern floor.

          The axe man leaped forward and with two heavy blows, cut the beast in half. The body convulsed as they stood and watched, breathing heavily.

          “Dwas must surely be guiding our journey,” the armored man said, “if he sent you to our aid.”

          Rundoric grunted. “Nobody sent me. I followed your trail of destruction and the stink of sorcery.”

          The man in the robes chortled. Rundoric turned his feral gaze upon him.

          “Have I said something to amuse?”

          The robed man smiled. “My magic helped to kill the creature,” he said, arrogantly.

          “A feat done just as easily with cold steel.” Rundoric sneered at the frail looking man.

          “Do not mock the arcane arts,” the wizard said. “They take years to master.”

          “A coward’s tool,” the barbarian growled. “I trust only in my own abilities and this.” He patted his gore covered blade.

          “Peace,” the armored man said. “Let’s not spite the aid that this man has given us.”

          “What in the seven virgins are you doing here?” Rundoric asked. “Traipsing about in a cavern in the Peaks of Mist.”

          The large man chuckled. “The same could be asked of you.”

          “I merely followed your trail. A blind man could have.”

          “Do you have a name, friend?” the woman asked, rubbing her sore ribs with a slender hand.

          “Rundoric of the Fian,” the barbarian replied. “Named Bloodblade on my naming day. Wanderer and outcast.” His gaze wandered to the floor.

          Lacie,” the woman said, extending her hand. “These are my companions. The cleric wearing the chains is Glond. The warrior is called Mennan. The wizard is Darieth. “She smiled, slyly. “But I think you have already become friends.”

          Rundoric’s eyes narrowed. He spat into the dirt at the base of the wall. “You still did not answer my question.”

          “In time, Rundoric of the Fian,” the cleric Glond said. “Our business is our own. How do we know we can trust you?”

          “You can’t.” The barbarian sneered. “The only thing you can trust in is steel.”

          “Do you not trust in the Gods?” Glond replied. This elicited a chuckle from Darieth. The priest glared at the robed man.

          “Scon is not to be mocked,” the cleric growled.

          “The Gods have done me no favors,” the wizard muttered. “All I have I earned on my own.”

          “What is it that you think you have?” asked Mennan. It was the first time he spoke and Rundoric noticed the man’s rich, deep baritone. The man’s demeanor reminded Rundoric of his own father and he scowled.

          “The powers of the arcane,” Darieth said with a small smile. “The powers of Gyrani.”

          Rundoric scoffed drawing a poisonous look from the wizard.

          “Your primitive intellect could never comprehend the vast amount of time and devotion it takes to learn even the simplest cantrip.” The wizard puffed out his chest.

          “And while you are muttering it,” Rundoric said, flatly, “my blade would be taking your head.”

          “With this ring,” Darieth stated, holding out his hand where a silver circlet topped with a huge garnet hugged his middle finger, “I could blast you into ashes.”

          “Someday,” the barbarian warned, “I will take that ring and shove it up your arse.”

          “I welcome the attempt,” the wizard said with a smile.

          “Enough,” Mennan bellowed. “This is no contest to see who can piss yellower. We have a quest to finish. One that will pay us a vast sum of gold. One more blade would be most welcome.”

          “If we can keep it from our mage’s back,” mumbled Glond.

          Rundoric turned to face the cleric, his face showing not one trace of humor.

          “The wizard will see my blade before it takes his head,” the barbarian answered. “I assure you.”

          “You cannot seriously be thinking of letting this….animal join?” Darieth was aghast. He had been threatened by the rude barbarian, yet the party was welcoming him like an old ally.

          “I don’t know,” Rundoric replied with a shake of his mane. “What is in it for me?”

          “To the point,” Mennan said with a grin. “A good trait. You can have a share of any treasure we find.”

          “What need have I of treasure?” the barbarian replied. “Will there be more creatures to kill?”

          Lacie laughed. “My kind of man,” she said.

          The cleric elbowed her sore ribs and she cried out.

           “I am sure we could accommodate that request,” the warrior added.

          “Then my blade is at your disposal. Just keep that spell flinging lickspittle away from me.”

          “This ought to be fun,” Lacie said under her breath.

         

Sept 15, 2011

Writing at a rolling pace. On chapter 13 of the first draft of book two. How to get more sales? HMMM

Sept 10, 2011

Tomorrow is the ten year anniversary of one of America's greatest tragedies. It is times like these that I like to reflect and am thankful for everything I have. Although it isn't much. Just my thoughts. GER

Sentient Sword info

On chapter eleven of the continuing adventures of the Sentient Sword. Needs some tweaking, though. Trying to get first draft finished so I can do MAJOR editing. I want the second book to be even better. Wish me luck.

Book reviews

I was looking at my book sales results and found that I have two reviews and one rating. Two five star reviews (Amazon and Band N) and one 4 star rating. Makes me feel really good.

Sept 3, 2011

This is way off topic, but as a Denver Broncos fan, I am worried about our roster. Brady Quinn hjas pretty much SUCKED everywhere he has been, yet we cut Weber to keep him. And Eron Riley outplayed most of our receivers, yet he was cut. Our defense has been hit by injuries. Who will play CB behind Bailey and Goodman?

Sept 2, 2011

I am making all sorts of new author friends on FB at bookjunkies. Also on Goodreads. Very cool. Hope everyone is having a great day. GER

Sept 1, 2011

Got my first royalty check (very small) for quarter 2 of 2011, ending June 30. The book was only out for 4 days. I am now officially a professional author. On the subject of the book, so far it's a tie between Pantania and Mesz for favorite character. Keep the votes coming and thanks for reading. GER

Aug 31, 2011

Our religious leaders claim to know it all
But which vice will be their crutch when they fall
And who will pray for your sins
Whose voice will be heard
Un-encouraging words

Blessed (piece of an original song idea)

I stand alone before this mirror
As everything is getting clearer
All I've done and all I've said
The confusion to lies have led
Sometimes it seems I've failed my test
But I'm getting it all back....I must be blessed
  I love you, Kim

Saturday August 27

Another beautiful day in Arizona. If you think 115 degrees is beautiful. Lets face it, its hot and dry. We could use a little cooling weather here in the valley.

Another blurb from The Golden Child (Vol. 2)

Tendrils of thin light wafted on the backs of the swirling snowflakes, barely penetrating the thick clouds. The landscape had a tranquil air about it as if slumbering beneath its thick winter blanket. The trio rode in peaceful silence on the backs of weary mounts.

            There was no haste in their movements. Lethargy seemed to have followed the cold that seeped into their bones.

            Darius thought back to the last time he had been along this route. Fondly, he remembered the meeting of the boy Cannivone during an ill-timed ambush. His heart ached at the memories of the brave paladin Renarthane who had accompanied him, now sitting at Alinard’s table.

            So much had changed in the last few months            . The young priest was still having trouble with the fact that he had lost so much in so short a time. His mission was a failure and he was returning in humility to the temple in Fialscathac to give himself to the mercy of the church.

            Word had come months ago of the death of Amniar, the high priest. A paladin named Avegor was named the successor in the interim while a new high priest was chosen. It was Darius’ duty to return to face judgment.

            He looked at his companions, stoically trudging through the deep snow. The boy Cipsis in particular seemed comfortable enough in the freezing temperatures. Manech, battle hardened soldier of numerous campaigns was advancing in age and it told on his face, but he bravely fought the desire to give in to the cold.

            A Fennid was ever disciplined and took pride in their ability to withstand great discomforts with little to no complaint. Manech was the embodiment of all the caste stood for and would not complain even if frostbite took his fingers and toes.

            “Terrible time of year to be traveling,” the Rifennid said, eliciting a nod from Darius.

            “I have no choice,” the priest said. “I have been away from the temple far too long already.”

            “I’m sure they could live without you for a few months more,” Manech replied. “At least until the weather warms.”

            “What you say is true,” Darius added with a curt nod. “But it is not about what the temple can or cannot deal with, it is about responsibility and the vows I made in Alinard’s name.”

            Manech nodded in reply. He well understood the powers of an oath. It was his oath to his old friend the deceased King Uilleam that led him along the path he had chosen. His life was one of constant loyalty to his friend, yet when it mattered most, Manech had failed him. The sorrow threatened to choke him.

            They passed over a small rise to where the Sruth Bui lay frozen; a silver ribbon in the sunlight. Talantas was situated where the stream intersected with the larger and deeper Aibhainn Folaidh before the Folaidh disappeared into the thick forest. The Sruth Bui skirted the woods on the southern edge and ran a fairly straight course west until it jogged to the south to empty into the ocean between Bwbachod and the western coast of Anglea.

            They had passed the remnants of the cart that Darius and Renarthane had used on their first journey to Talantas earlier in the day. They quickly took a moment to check its contents and found it to have not surprisingly to have been ransacked, lying in ruin under a mound of fresh snow.

            It was a two day travel to Fialscathac and they were halfway through the journey. Already the cold was becoming unbearable. Darius could sense the aging Rifennid’s discomfort even though he muttered not a word.

            “We shall travel a few more miles, “the priest said, “Then camp for the night.”

            “Aren’t you in haste?” Manech asked through a growing frost that crackled on his beard.

            “I will not have my companions freeze to death merely because I am in haste,” Darius replied. “What we need is a moment of warmth and comfort.”

            The look of relief was difficult for the warrior to mask. He nodded in assent.

            The horses gingerly crossed the thin ice covering the stream, hearing it crack beneath their weight. The Bui was shallow and narrow at this point lessening the chance for an accident. Hooves breaking through the thin crust could easily hobble their mounts.

            They made it across easily and followed the meandering ice trail west until the sun began to slip behind the horizon. Darius called the party to a halt and they made camp. Tents were constructed and a fire was soon blazing. The trio huddled together near its warmth and soon forgot about the cold that seemed to have seeped into their bones.

            After a meal of dried hare strips, they shared a small bottle of wine. Manech rubbed his hands together over the fire trying to restore some of its natural feeling. He seemed old and tired to Darius, but the young cleric held his tongue. He was thankful to have the experienced warrior along.

            Soon the boy Cipsis was snoring, loudly. Manech and Darius lifted the boy and carried him to one of the tents. Once the youth was tucked away in a warm sleeping bag, they returned to the fire where they sat in silence, listening to the distant howl of wolves.

            “Travel in winter,” Darius whispered with a shudder, “is fraught with peril.”