A fantastic read for the young teenager. Full of fantasy, action, laughs and friendship. Join Tomas Lita on the start of his fantastic and tragic story
Walking as a child they found him. The secret knight of earth Though the humans he called kin Their skin they hid his birth but he was of a greater kind A power he had within That only tragedy could find in the mountains heart therein
And like a god he rose among the rest and found the wicked heart And they battled through a deadly test that tore the stars apart. A god fell from the sky with the devil in his head And the knight of earth saw him lie with those of the Islands dead
In a field of vibrant Green A bird fell to earth and wicked men will glean What the gods unearthed And to one will happiness be born A child with emerald eyes But from him a friend will be torn in her their destruction lies.
Join Thomas Lita and the other Knights of Earth as they discover the truth about their elemental powers, unleash an Alien warlord on the Earth and start the universe towards the last galactic war.
Long ago, when ancient Gods still controlled the lives of men, a great famine came over the kingdom of Gwynedd. Crops would not grow and wells ran dry. The people prayed to Brigid, goddess of healing, asking for the famine to end but their prayers went unanswered. It was at this time that Rol, champion of the isles, was staying in the court of King Elis of Gwynedd. Rol was deemed a warrior of great renown, who had battled the great serpent of Poseidon and bested the fiercest warriors of Europe in single combat. Above all Rol was a good man, he did not kill for sport and shared his triumphs willingly. King Elis was an arrogant ruler and while his people starved, he feasted around his enormous hearth. While the revellers danced, the flames of hearth danced to and as the fiddles played the fire grew until the hearth roared in a sudden furry. They lifted towards the straw roof, sending the crows scattering for the heavens. The flames moved until they formed the shape of a woman. As tall as she was beautiful, and her burning eyes watched the crowd intently. Rol stood forward, ‘Welcome Brigid, goddess of hearth and healing, how may we serve?’ The king stood and waved his arm towards the goddess but did not bow, ‘What a blessing on my house lady, that you should join us. Clearly my rule is divine.’ ‘Be silent.’ Brigid said in a voice that crackled like the fire that surrounded her, ‘The villagers starve and yet in this house you feast like winter will never come. Dagda stands against you. Is there none that would prove the worth of this land before it sinks into the abyss.’ ‘We feast in front of the hearth in reverence to you lady.’ The king said. She didn’t turn but her gaze moved through the flames to focus on the king, ‘I do not rest in the hearths of halls such as these. My blessings lay with those who crowd around my fires to survive and make memories in my warmth. Now those people starve. Is there none here who would seek to save them.’ The revellers did not move for they knew the games that Gods played and any request such as this would require a great sacrifice. Rol though had battled Gods before and ever had his life been entwined with their games. He raised his hand, ‘lady of fire and heat. If there be a way one man can end the suffering of so many then I would gladly see it done.’ The Goddess of flame seemed to bow and then she said, ‘You seek the cauldron of Dagda. He has used it to curse this land and so it is barren. If you are pure of heart and keen of mind, the cauldron will grant any bounty you wish, for pauper or for kingdom.’ She crackled and swayed, ‘But beware, stumble from the path and take more than what is needed, and the cauldron will reject you. Want you will know ever after. Dagda will be aware of you, and he will defend his cauldron. Aid from the dead will come and from my sprits of fire. Be yourself Rol and bring prosperity back to this land.’ Brigid faded, and the fire returned to normal while everyone stared at Rol. Undaunted he took up his armour ringed of iron. He took his bow of black yew and short sword before departing in the baking sun. In the tallest peak of Snowdonia Dagda kept his halls. For the north Rol went, through fen and barren field, through villages whose streets were lined with starving families. Soon he came to the edge of the mountains and into the enchanted wood of heaven. Here Cernunnos’s wild beasts roamed, and the dead wandered to be gathered in Arawn’s other world. Rol drove on, succumb by hunger and weariness. He turned his mind to hunting and drawing his bow of black yew he sort food. Then he saw it, a white stag, beautiful and large. It was enough to feed a village and it wandered towards him, flank exposed. He drew the arrow to his cheek, the fletch like a gentle kiss. Then a wind roared through the woods, carrying scents of strength that cured his hunger. Cernunnos spoke through the trees, ‘Take no more than what is needed, or the cauldron will reject you.’ He stared at the stag. Such a beast would spoil quickly in this heat. He lowered the bow and with a nod the beast stalked away and Rol knew to follow. To Aber falls it led him, the water a raging torrent that cured his weariness. Under the falls the stag went and then faded. Rol followed and the waters parted, revealing a dark cave. Rol drew his sword and it glowed, lighting up the cave. Wights, soldiers of Arawn, gathered around him. Their eyes were blue flame, and their mail glowed a sickly green, but they did not attack. Seated upon a thrown of bones Arawn himself sat, cloaked in a blue mist. ‘Dagda judges your people to harshly, due to the actions of your king. Now my halls are crowded with those who should be living long lives. You must reach the cauldron and restore life to your lands.’ One of the wights bestowed to Rol a serpent helm with eyes that glowed a fervent blue, ‘Dagda has shielded his mountain in shadow. This helm will allow your eyes to see into our world and break his veil.’ Rol donned the helm and saw as the gods saw. He could see the wights spirits true form and could see the breath that gave this wood its glory. Rol left the cave and spirits of Brigid guided him to the mountain of Dagda. For seven days he climbed, until at last he reached the summit and the temple of Dagda. His helm pierced the darkness and Rol, sword readied, entered. There the cauldron stood, glowing with power and beside it, Dagda loomed. He swung his massive hammer and almost crushed Rol, whose blade of light broke in two. Then all Rol could do was duck and dive while Dagda laughed at the sport. The God tired and Rol saw the power bestowed upon the axe. He grabbed his bow and loosed and the arrow took upon it one of Brigid’s spirits. The war hammer exploded, and Dagda fell back into a deep sleep. Exhausted and beaten, Rol grabbed the cauldron and Brigid came as a bird of flame and bore Rol and the cauldron back to Gwynedd. In the morning, amongst the burnt-out hearth, they found him. The king snatched up the cauldron and declared the bounty for himself. At his high table he announced, ‘I wish for a full feast for all of time.’ The cauldron rumbled and red fire entered the kings mouth. Great hunger overcame him. The king went to his table but any food or drink that passed his mouth became dust and offered no sustenance. Maddened the king fell to ruin upon his table of dust. Then Rol awakened and taking the cauldron he placed it in the middle of the hearth and the fire around it roared into life. Rol brought the famine to an end and the kingdom had bounty for all of time.
A wardrobe, a compass, a letter or perhaps a raindrop. We have all heard talks of how people stumble into fantastical worlds. A chance encounter in our own garden or maybe chosen by a pattern. I fell into my own adventure in a different but no less spectacular way. I was a young man then. My spirit was not worn down by taxes, the monotony of the nine to five or the slow decay of time. Tall, unspectacular, my limbs were likened mostly to that of a spider. A youthful dreamer, sat on my window ledge watching the world pass me by. That is where this tale begins. Sat on the ledge in late august, I was watching a storm grow ever close. A distant flash illuminated the red brick work of my neighbour’s houses, packed so tightly in what had once been a farmer’s field. The rumble of thunder echoed through the estate, rolling on endlessly. It was followed by the first droplets of rain that pitter patted against the windowsill, splashing cold against my arm through the open window. The musky smell of summer rain drifted through the warm and stuffy night. As the storm grew close, I could feel my heart beating. The rush of the storm. Primeval, the same since the dawn of time, where my ancestors must have watched in awe and fear. White, purple and blue flashes danced across my vision, the noise deafening my ears to all else. The rain continued to fall and the road beneath my window became a running stream. Then there was silence. The eye of the storm approached and with it the most brilliant flash of lightning I had ever seen. A bright flash, verdant green, it leapt from cloud to cloud in a spider web across the dark sky. I stared in shock, the flash imprinted on my eyes. I must have been dazed as the raindrops picked up that bright green and fell to earth like emeralds. Every stream and puddle began to shine with that bright light, that lingered long after the lightning had vanished. ‘HELP!’ The terrible cry dragged me from my amazement. I looked through my window, desperate to find where that pained cry had come from but all I could see was the stream of glowing water. ‘HELP!’ The voice screamed again. Without a second thought I jumped from the ledge and made my way into the storm without my coat. The green glow had faded from the water and the next bolt of lightning was the same typical white. Outside, I charged through the rain. ‘HELP!’ The deep voice yelled again. ‘HELLO!’ I called, desperate to be heard over the thunder. ‘Help me!’ The voice said. I ran, homing in on the calling voice. In an alleyway, a figure sat huddled on the floor. The lamplight stretched its vast shadow towards me. The shape did not seem entirely human, but the rain and light distorted all shapes. Indeed, as I approached, the figure seemed to shrink. It reduced so much in size that I may have thought it a child if it wasn’t for its long white hair, that stretched from a yellow cap, and lay limply across the mans face. The creature also had a beard, that was tucked into one of his bright yellow shoes. ‘Hello.’ I said just to shake away my shock. All thought of the storm or the strange green rain had vanished from my mind. The man grabbed at his right leg, the one minus the beard tuck, which was twisted at a horrible angle. The man, or thing, turned to regard me. His eyes were like crystals, and they shimmered with a light that was not natural, ‘Ah good fellow.’ The bearded man said, all of the earlier panic now gone from his voice, ‘Thank the lord my cries have been heard. I need help twisting my leg around.’ ‘Twisting it round. You need a hospital for something like that.’ I said, sounding much calmer than my beating heart suggested. ‘An infirmary Bah!’ The man said, ‘For this. No no. just a little twist is all that is necessary. I would do it myself but that takes a lot more resolve than I have.’ To my shock I knelt upon the wet ground and took his leg in a firm grip. The green fabric of his trousers was coarse wool. He was soaked through, from his yellow hat, sky blue waistcoat, down to his shoes. He looked frozen and yet his cheeks were flushed like man who had drank too much wine. I thought I must of done too. I expected to wake up any moment clutching a chair leg, for that was how the man’s leg felt. ‘That’s it fellow, give it a twist. Clockwise if you would. The other way and the whole thing might fall off.’ I laughed, thinking he must have been joking but his tone suggested otherwise. ‘On three.’ I deadpanned, ‘One, two, three.’ I jerked his leg clockwise and the fellow gave an almighty scream of pain that overcome the distant thunder. The leg gave a crack, and then to my shock, snapped completely back into place. With a surprising hop, he stood. No more than three foot tall he suddenly jumped upon his injured leg, clearing my head by a metre. When he landed, he gave a grunt and then burst out laughing. ‘Oh it does feel better already.’ He extended a coarse hand towards me, ‘Barley is the name good sir.’ ‘I took his hand meekly, ‘Daniel.’ I replied back. I took in his scent, a mix of wildflowers and motor oil, ‘Excuse me sir, if you don’t mind me asking, but what are you?’ He didn’t seem surprised, ‘Don’t have many Figwits this side of the storm huh? No that’s right no Figwits on this planet. That is what the scholars say. We have plenty of humans on our side but no Figwits this side. No centaurs this side. No trolls this side, which I must say is a relief. That is probably why you smell so fresh.’ ‘This side?’ I asked inquisitively, ‘What is this side?’ Barley laughed, ‘All science here. The magics gone.’ Barley kicked out with his once wounded leg, ‘This side is the human side. Well its where some of you came after the civil war of course. A place where humans could rule instead of being ruled.’ ‘And you came from the other side?’ ‘Not my intention good sir.’ He shook his head, ‘You see, I am a respectable fellow. A carpenter and stone mason in old Bredan’s kingdom, Barta rest his soul. Now he’s gone the necromancer has come pillaging and raiding my village. During a mirror storm of all times. No one goes out in a mirror storm. Who knows where it might cast you out. There I was running from a nasty old skeleton when the lightning came, turning all the raindrops into a portal. Then whoosh, I fell straight through a puddle into the clouds and then I was falling with the rain into this quaint street. For anyone but a Figwit that would mean death but we are built for stronger stuff than gravity.’ I will admit at the time I was completely lost and some of this speech I have added from my later studies in the hope that it makes some sense to you. At the time I just stared at Barley and said, ‘You come from the sky?’ ‘No.’ Barley looked at me like I was stupid, and in that moment, I felt it, ‘From solid ground just like this. Just from the other side of the mirror storm. It bridges the gap between our worlds. A violent thing. Water becomes a gateway. The universe in a raindrop.’ I looked at a nearby puddle and jumped into it. The water lapped up against my already sodden clothes, ‘Well its not now.’ I said. ‘It’s a puddle.’ ‘I though it was a portal.’ The look Barley gave me could have pulled my skin from my bones, ‘Are all humans so dim.’ He said, ‘The mirror storm has moved on. No way of getting back now.’ He looked at my now mud stained trousers, ‘And good thing to my friend or you would have fallen to your death. Well, you would have done if the puddle was deep enough. My village would not have appreciated that.’ ‘What will you do then?’ ‘Find some hole to line in I suppose. A badger den or something. Build myself a little home for a few hundred years until death takes me.’ ‘You seem cheerful about that.’ ‘Well what else is there to do. I cannot live amongst you humans. You like to dissect things and I like my body parts where they are. I am too old now to have things removed from me.’ Barley looked around, ‘If you can point me to the nearest woodland, I will find myself a badger’s den to await my death.’ He removed his beard from his shoe, revealing a large sack of gold tied to the end and a pocket watch. To my shock, he left an empty shoe behind and stump of a leg. He checked the time before slipping five gold coins from the pouch before handing them to me. Beard, watch and pouch, returned to the shoe and became a foot. ‘Some gold for your trouble my friend. Your help has been much appreciated. If you would write me your address I shall write to you via pigeon.’ I felt sad for the little creature. To be all alone in a badger’s den, waiting to die. I wanted him to come live with me but that would be impossible. Keeping someone like this a secret would not end well. I also wished to perhaps see this world of Figwits, Centaurs and Necromancer’s. ‘What if we caught up with the storm.’ I said, my eyes going up to the clouds that were now passing over London. ‘Storm catching.’ Barley pondered, ‘The mirror storm does not last long on each world but we may have a chance. What creature do you have that could catch a storm.’ He brightened and he seemed to glow, ‘Well I would fall somewhere over the field of Harva. A few days walk from my home but at least it will be safe. Well good sir, if you do me this favour then I, Barley of the Salar Figwits, will be ever in your service.’ I looked down at the strange fellow and wondered still when I might wake up from this fantastical dream and yet as the night wore on, I found myself walking him to my home. I went inside and fetched my keys while Barley stared, watching the distant storm. As I came back outside, he turned towards me, ‘So how shall we chase the storm. A centaur? No, you have no centaurs, but a horse would not be quick enough. What about a griffin?’ I pressed the button on my keys and the car’s lights flashed, startling Barley so much he leapt seven feet into the air. ‘I was thinking of driving.’ Barley examined the car, ‘What sort of machine is this? It reminds me of the flying vehicles of the Adar.’ ‘It is a car my small friend. Now hop in.’ I opened the door and Barley nimbly jumped inside. I entered also and when my engine roared into life, Barley grinned from ear to ear, literally splitting his face in half. Through London, in the early hours of the night, I chased the storm. A friend from another world in my passenger’s seat. London came into view, skyscrapers reflecting the street-lights below, the London eye glittering in the rain. ‘Marvels and amazements.’ Barley barked, ‘Like the great human cites or the mechanical halls of my people. How far you have come. I bet war never touched this place.’ ‘We may not have necromancers.’ I replied, ‘But it doesn’t mean that men aren’t evil. Want is in all our hearts.’ We soon reached the M25 and I sped up, the distant storm growing ever close. Barley grabbed the seat tightly as my speeds reached eighty miles per hour and the tyres began to skid in the wet road. We soon gained upon the white flashes of the storm and the heavy rain grew more ferocious. ‘We must get ahead it.’ Barley ordered, ‘And find some stream or river, where my fall will not be so great into my world. Then we can say a proper goodbye my friend.’ I continued through the heavy rain and the great storm. Soon we approached the eye and a flash of green lightning lit up the sky. The rain again carried the green hew of the bolt and the wet road glistened a verdant green. I approached a puddle and as my wheel hit it, it gripped on nothing, only a void. I nearly lost the car, but my speed took us over the portal. Such a great chase had never been seen in the history of man as I overtook the mirror storm and the lightning returned to normal. A few more miles ahead I pulled off from the road and found a village where a stream ran through. We parked up by the edge of the stream and watched as the mirror storm approached. ‘Will you be okay. With the Necromancer I mean?’ I asked. ‘The Necromancer was cast out of the mages castle and is looking for somewhere to set up his new kingdom. He will ransack our village but will not stay. It is a human kingdom he will seek to sway people to his will.’ Soon the storm caught up with us and began to soak us both. The lightning flashed across the sky, the thunder rumbled, and time came for my farewell with Barley. It seemed he could tell it to. The usual chirpy fellow seemed sad, eyes downcast, the crystals wet with tears. I knelt down to his height, ‘When I watched the storm this night, I didn’t think I would meet someone as strange and wonderous as you. In fact, I never thought someone like you existed.’ I held out my hand and he took it, ‘But I’m glad we met. Never again will I watch a storm without thinking of my dear friend and his world full of wonders.’ Barley beamed, ‘And you, my friend. I am glad I fell into your street and found someone willing to sacrifice their night to escort a stranger home. We are neighbours across the universe, our houses mirrored in the storm. Glad tidings I take home and maybe a sign of a future union.’ The eye of the storm approached, and I hugged Barley. We both stared into the sky as the great green bold of lightning spread across the sky and the mirror storm opened the bridge between worlds. The emerald raindrops made the stream glow a vibrant and beautiful green. Barley looked at it and nodded, ‘Farewell my friend.’ He bowed low, ‘Next time the mirror storm comes, perhaps you will come for dinner. My wife would love to meet you.’ Warmth filled me, ‘I will, and I will bring desert.’ Barley looked at the glowing river, ‘Find a puddle by your house and you shall fly right to my door. Though perhaps bring a parachute with you.’ With that he tipped his hat and dived into the river. There was no splash, no ripples. He passed right through it. The green glow brightened, and I thought I caught a glimpse of a village, lit by many candles. A voice called goodbye from the stream and then the vision faded, and Barley’s world was lost. Saddened, I walked back to my car and made my way back to London. Now I know you are wondering. Did I ever take Barley up on his offer? Did I ever go to this world through the mirror storm, see great kingdoms and fight the necromancer. Well, that is a tale for another day.
The sun was warm, the sky clear as the world ended. Ashara stood upon the temple steps; his dark hair blown by a wind that carried with it the smell of the burning forest that surrounded him. The roar of its inferno was only cut out by the sounds of distant screams. There, just visible on the horizon, the great city of Koram was falling. Giants swarmed over the last bastion of men, bringing with them Daegma’s ruin. Tears fell from Ashara’s brown eyes onto his pale cheeks, flushed from the burning fire. Every breath brought the sulphurous smell that accompanied the legions of the dead. ‘Are we sure this is the place?’ He said to the air, ‘This is the sixth temple I have found, and every one has turned into failure. We are running out of time.’ He stared at the desolation and his grip on his sword almost failed. He wanted to sit upon the steps and watch the last moments of a war already lost. ‘Do not doubt.’ A voice said and Ashara looked down to his shadow, though it wasn’t his. His shadow never mirrored the sharp edges of his armour or bulk of his muscles. His shadow was slender, feminine, shapely and yet as stiff as a statue. ‘What is doubt but a biproduct of hope.’ Ashara replied, ‘What is hope but a biproduct of folly.’ ‘Doubt is the power of our enemy.’ She had a name; Elen and she wasn’t truly his shadow, but she was as bound to him as any real shadow., ‘You are Ivanti.’ She continued, ‘Angel bound, hero of an ancient order.’ ‘The last of the Ivanti. Our orders are broken, bastions in ruin. The Ostivanti have won. Daegma has won. Colimar lays in ruin.’ ‘The book.’ Elen whispered, ‘The book holds the enchantment of Daegma’s prison. If we can just get the book, then we can rebind him. Turn his forces back to dust, flame and bog. Give humanity a chance for life.’ Ashara sighed, feeling that same weight that had pressed on him ever since he had allowed himself to be bound to an angel. It was the weight of a mountain. He bound Elen in a time of peace. Then, only rare skirmishes between the orders and the occasional kingdom war had threatened the planet. Now Daegma was almost free and Barta’s watch had failed. Giants, dread spiders, the undead and the Ostivanti destroyed all in an attempt to bring back Daegma’s dominion. The book. The book is the answer. We can lift the mountain once we have the book. He turned from the desolation and the sickly, horrible, smoke-filled wind. The temple, a four spired pyramid, was covered in age old ivy and moss. Ashara couldn’t understand why you would hide such a powerful thing in such a weak relic. Every step was laborious in Ashara’s armour, but he did feel something. A power coursed through the stone that seemed to clear away the screams, the smoke and the dread. It was like Ashara had passed into a previous age. Even Elen seemed to delight in it. She was a stone angel after all. A servant of Aurda. Ashara reached the top step; a door of iron standing impervious above him. Carved upon on it, in reverence or warning, was the three headed ram. Daegma’s mark. ‘It looks like his church.’ He said, eyes searching for his shadow, but she was no longer at his feet. She stretched towards the wall and stood there at his height. She was not beautiful as such, more impervious, strong as a mountain and rooted in power that he could not imagine. The wall around the shadow shifted as she moved, elevating her features and bringing her to life in three dimensions. She turned to face him, stone face moving across the moss-covered wall. He could see in her shadowy face, the cracks where the moss once clung. ‘They hoard the book, knowing they can never release him.’ Her hand reached out of the wall. It was callous like aged stone and with it he caught the scent of things ancient. It was not the sulphurous fumes that followed one of the Ostivanti but more like the smell of summer rain on porous rock, bringing life to the minerals themselves. The door opened at her command, and she became again a shadow at his feet. He charged into the room but stopped dead. He was expected. He knew them first by the stench. Used to it as he was, his eyes still watered, and every breath was a torment. That horrible wrongness that accompanied those of the storm forge was stifling. The darkness of the chamber was overcome by the magic that bound the dead back to the earth. Every temple had been the same. An open hall, full of enemies. Skeletons, bound by blue light, lifted swords. Ghouls hung from the ceiling, their bat like wings flapping. Elen moved her shadow across the floor and Ashara followed. He felt the stone and the power of the Ivanti flowed from him. He jumped and the wall to his left pulled. He flew, sword decapitating skeletons as he soared. He adjusted his force, and the ceiling hoisted him upwards, passed green flames. A downward shift took him upon a great stone dais and from there he drove his sword through two more of the undead. Around him, Elen came and where her shadow lay, stone enveloped and destroyed their foes. Ghouls swooped down from the ceiling, their wings making a cacophony of noise. Ashara felt the walls and battled with the servants of the devil. He pulled himself between the stone in a constant dance, his sword flashing until the hall fell silent and the enemy was defeated. Ashara lowered himself to the floor. ‘Always the same,’ He said, ‘Soon we will encounter one of the Ostivanti.’ ‘The Ostivanti are weak without their master released.’ ‘And yet they have destroyed the world.’ ‘Numbers.’ Elen whispered sadly. She was missing an arm in shadow form, and she seemed to limp. This fight had wounded her. ‘We must-‘ ‘GIRL OF AURDA. MAN OF CANDOR. FOOLS OF BARTA.’ A great voice boomed. It sent shivers through Ashara’s spine. The voice was educated, normal and yet it seemed wrong and made fear grow right in his heart. Elen seemed to shiver, ‘Do not haunt us Daegma. Your time has come.’ ‘COLIMAR IS MY DOMAIN.’ The voice boomed and the temple rumbled until all became silent. ‘He presses on the world Ashara.’ Elen said in a panic, ‘I can feel him. He will crumble the temple and break his prison. We do not have much time.’ That mountain. That terrible mountain. It pressed on his lungs so that every breath was a struggle against destiny. He gripped his sword and passed through the chamber. Before him stretched a maze. He knew it would be there. It had been in the other temples. Elen appeared on the wall of the maze. She was wounded still. She even clutched at her side as if she was trying to hold in blood. ‘Stone is ours.’ She whispered, ‘Not his.’ Ashara nodded and closed his eyes. He took a step towards the stone and then another without flinching. He felt it against his foot. Firm, unyielding and yet malleable. He continued to step and the stone relented, allowing him to step through it. It felt like swimming through reed filled water. Again, that smell of life, of sweet water on rock, filled his nose. He continued to walk, going straight forward through the stone maze. It was exhausting, every step a challenge. The stone did not yield its strength willingly and only the pressure of that mountain of responsibility, kept Ashara’s feet moving forward. He nearly stumbled as he passed through the last wall of stone into the forgiving air. He stopped and for the first time in years smiled as he beheld the central chamber. Light from sky above came through a channel, bathing a large stone altar in pure light. There, the book he searched for stood. The book that would finally bind Daegma and his forces in their prison again. ‘What are you doing here?’ A voice asked from the darkness. Ashara hoisted his sword as a man stepped into the light. He wore robes of pure white and around his neck the five golden circles of Barta hung. Elen appeared on the stone and Ashara could tell from her hunched shoulders and wounded cast, that she was weary of this newcomer. ‘Priest of Barta.’ Ashara said, ‘I am one of the Ivanti. I come to bind Daegma once more.’ The priest smiled and then laughed, revealing blackened teeth. He stood now before the altar and the light shadowed his face. The priest’s eyes glowed a fervent green, but Ashara could see beneath the skin, the demon he was bound with. His bond with Elen was whole but separate. Demons consumed you from the inside. That horrible smell of sulphur nearly knocked Ashara backwards. ‘The Ivanti are dead. Barta’s guard on this world is broken. Daegma comes to claim his lands again.’ The priest lifted his hand, and the floor became nothing but molten rock. This was a demon of stone, Ashara’s opposite. Like all demons they could not make stone yield. They dominated it by force, turning it into a tool of destruction. The heat tore at Ashara’s skin, burning him and melting his armour. He pulled at the ceiling, lifting himself off the ground. The floor disappeared completely, and the demon walked upon it, the flesh of the bound human sizzling with every step. The molten rock crawled like a living thing, clawing at the altar and moving with thought towards the book. From below, Elen screamed. Magma began to tear at her stone form. Ashara could feel her power weakening. He needed one desperate lunge. He anchored himself on the altar and charged. The demon jumped and met him and together they plunged deep into the molten floor. Heat, so vast and terrible, consumed him. Ashara screamed as his flesh was boiled and pealed from his bones. Only his eyes, protected by Barta, could withstand that heat. As his body burned, he focused on the demon, holding onto him with melting fingers. Ashara channelled all his power and the demon’s scream joined his own. The skin of the demon became cold and callous stone between Ashara’s blistered palms. Together Ashara and the demon lamented, fire entering Ashara’s lungs. The demon became a statue, immortalised for ever and burning darkness took Ashara.
‘Wake up.’ Elen whispered, her voice faint and cold. Ashara’s eyes opened. The light of the sun bathed him and with it he found some strength to rise. His armour was melted, moulded and joined with his blistered flesh. He was burnt all over and the breeze sent shivers of pain. The stone corpse of the demon lay next to him. He pulled with his power to rise and used it to hover towards the book. Elen was nowhere to be seen. The floor underneath was full of waves, like an ocean locked in time. ‘Quickly.’ Elen said as a rumble echoed, and dust fell from the ceiling. Then he saw her. She was spread thin, tendrils of shadow keeping the temple from collapsing, ‘The book Ashara. We don’t have long.’ He did not answer. He had no tongue, no face. Only his eyes were protected. The mountain of responsibility was about to crush him. He reached for the book. His hands, nothing more than stubs now, opened the pages, ready to finally seal Daegma forever. His lipless mouth screamed in horror as he read the only words inscribed.
You have failed again Ashara.
The Temple collapsed on top of him.
The sun was warm, the sky clear as the world ended. Ashara stood upon the temple steps; his dark hair blown by a wind that carried with it the smell of the burning forest that surrounded him. The roar of its inferno was only cut out by the sounds of distant screams. There, just visible on the horizon, the great city of Koram was falling. Giants swarmed over the last bastion of men, bringing with them Daegma’s ruin. Tears fell from Ashara’s brown eyes onto his pale cheeks, flushed from the burning fire. Every breath brought the sulphurous smell that accompanied the legions of the dead. ‘Are we sure this is the place?’ He said to the air, ‘This is the seventh temple I have found, and every one has turned into failure. We are running out of time.’
No one knows how it began. Some say it was rigged election, others a coup caused by foreign influence. All this author knows is that when Britain fell, it didn’t even put up a fight. Riots in York, looting throughout London and the south. Independent factions taking over the northern cities, plunging the country into civil war. Terrorist groups and criminal gangs killed, captured and fought there way to power. The country crumbled into a spilt state. A weak government in the south, independent cities in the north and everywhere the blood of innocent’s watered the sacred soil. Apathy and normality took over. People began to accept their fate and the fate of the country. In Britain anyone is a target and anyone can become the worst of us…
From associated author Mark Wilson, comes a gripping action thriller, showcasing the need to survive ingrained in us all, where we are forced to question how far any of us can go.
He was no psychopath and the crippling affects of harming another person fell upon him in a wave of emotion. The shakes, the guilt, the sickening sensation at the bottom of his stomach. Pain was something Ray knew in abundance and now it played on every fiber of his body. Sat in his cold cell all alone the tears came next as he whispered to himself “My god what have I become?”
Follow Raymond Jones’s incredible journey from a normal civilian to become a member of the most deadly terrorist organisation in Britain.
The withered poinsettia mocked Xavier Aragon. Its wilting green leaves spoke of age and decay. Red petals littered the little window shelf where it sat as a vengeful friend. Xavier had given up tending for it. Every attempt at maintaining life failed. On the table three fortune cards lay undisturbed where they had lain for thirty years. Wealth, loneliness and death. Death by old age the crazed woman had said. Now at seventy he felt her mocking laughter reach for him. He walked to the mirror of his bathroom, ignoring the fragrant smell of herbal medicine, designed bring youthful vigour and instead focussed on the empty bottle of auburn hair dye he used to fight away the greys. He managed it well. His hair, was long, brown, full of vibrant youth. He could not however hide the bags under his eyes or the approaching wrinkles on his forehead. With a grunt of fearful disgust, he walked over to his desk and found, in price of place, the business card for his plastic surgeon. Age would not take him. His eyes unconsciously turned towards a silver locket inscribed with passages of love. She had died young. Exactly one year after the reading of his loneliness had been given. A wind rustled the poinsettia and one red petal fell like a tear to the hard wood floor. Xavier heard again the cackled of laughter as he withered within his cold, empty and dilapidated mansion.
Over the next year I will be posting work from my creative writing degree, as short snippets to show the varied work I can do. Today we start off with some short pieces of prose, titled goodbye. A missed bus and the worlds end.
Goodbye I wish I had said goodbye. Such a simple phrase, common, flippant, important. You never know the last goodbye until you ponder, weeks later, when the last time you said it to someone you love. The worst realisation is knowing you never said it at all. What was it that stopped you? An argument, lack of time or simple expectation that another hello was just around the corner. The questions can become a torture. The questions are nothing. We cannot predict the turn of the earth, the subtle coincidences that cause a life to end. This is not our place. We can just hope, that every goodbye is not the last and that, even if it is unsaid, it is meant.
A missed bus. For the first time ever, John had missed the bus. He was a punctual man, neat, a man of responsibility. No button was out of place, no second wasted. Well, that was what he was meant to be. A simple switch not pressed, an alarm missed and a rush that made him forget to tuck in his tie. The bus was long gone by the time he arrived at the stop. Panting he stared at the sign while song birds mocked him from the trees above. Twenty minutes to the next bus. He would arrive on time but no morning coffee. No five minutes schmoozing the boss, greasing the wheels of future progression. What opportunities would these twenty minutes cost him.
The Worlds End. It was no use pretending. The world was ending. The war was the lost, the last remnants of the army held up in small battlefields, waiting for the final wave to sweep them all away. Oliver waded through fields of ruined machines of war and corpses left to the carrion. Not all were human. The shapes of the alien invaders littered the field also. There victories were in vain. For every beast slain five more seemed to reign from the sky. Oliver dropped to the floor among the dead while a ship soared over head, a scout searching for any sign of life. It swiftly passed and Oliver stood. For another day, he had survived.
The time is nearly here. Powers Temptation: book 3 of the Knights of Earth Saga, will release Saturday 7th October. Check out the synopsis below.
While the world still reels from Urgarak’s invasion, the revelation about halves creates new challenges for the world and for Thomas Lita. Feared, watched and supervised, the Knights of Earth attempt to navigate this new normal. However, deep in the moors, a crashed Murka jet and its precious engine core are discovered, opening the potential for the one thing desired above all else, unlimited power. The institute for the detection and protection of halves moves at once, sending Nicole on a mission to secure the Virdium engine but others have got their first. This fight will pit halve against halve in a battle for earths future. In Power’s temptation, loyalties will be tested.
Been quiet for a while. I had a strange start to the year and have then been ill. Unfortunately life has been bit turned upside down. I am having to start a new career this month as well as working through two modules of my degree. This means that I haven’t been able to progress with Power’s Temptation as much as I would have liked. I am now in the final editing stages and will try and get it finished as soon as possible. This delay does present an opportunity. Now is the perfect time to jump into the Knights of Earth Saga, ready for the release of book 3. For self-published authors, reviews are more important than sales. That is the reason I have made Knowledge Lost free to read on Wattpad. It would mean a great deal if it was read by as many of you as possible, liked on the site and then reviewed on Amazon. This will make it more likely to reach a greater audience. Thank you all.
Hopefully I will be able to bring you Power’s Temptation soon.
Knights of Earth Publications 