Gods, Dragons, a mercenary with a blade and no memory of his past…. The world of Tiamhaal is alight in war. Men ruled by kings slay their opposition in the name of their God, but there are others who claim the Gods are little more than scorned Dragons of ages past. Scar has come to find the truth, but is the truth an absolute certainty, or is it just the skewed memory of a forgotten kingdom?
This is, without a doubt, one of the fastest growing fantasy adventure series.
I can’t stress this enough; fans of fantasy adventures have been clamoring for a great series of books about dragons, and this one is it. It won’t be long before it beats out TheLord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and A Song of Ice and Fire. People are already saying it’s as good as The Wheel of Time, which is a lesser known fantasy series, and The Dragon of Time is far from finished.
For now, you can enter the giveaway for a chance to win a signed copy of the first book, Gods and Dragons, but it doesn’t end there. You can download free samples of Gods and Dragons directly through Goodreads.
I know indie and self published books still get a bum rap, but many people are yet to realize that Harry Potter was turned down by numerous publishers. The only reason Harry Potter was released through a major publisher is because Rowling’s sister worked for the company and went over the acquisitions editor’s head.
Don’t misunderstand, I’m not taking anything away from Harry Potter; people love the series, and that’s what counts. I also hope the acquisitions editor was fired because they nearly cost that company billions in revenue, but my point is that the only reason The Dragon of Time series is self published is because it has become increasingly difficult for new writers to land a literary agent, and just because an agent turns down a book, doesn’t mean it isn’t good; it just means that person doesn’t think it’ll be marketable, but look at how much I’ve done all on my own. Clearly, The Dragon of Time is marketable; if I had had a whole team of marketers behind me, you’d all be buying these books from your local book store, but don’t fret, not only am I giving away a signed copy of Gods and Dragons, I’m also giving away free e-copies of the sequel, The Dragon of Time Two, Dragon Slayer.
With the death of Kulshedra, Dragon of Truth, it has been revealed that Scar, the mercenary, is in fact Sarkany, the Dragon Slayer, a creature fashioned for the sole purpose of purging the Dragons from the world of Tiamhaal, yet such a thing is not so simple. Kings and queens yet war amongst one another. They, too, lie, connive, and coerce, and so, Scar and his friends must find a way to persuade those few, benevolent rulers to band together. In the midst of peace talks and dead Dragons, those still in the worship of the beasts grow more powerful. Some of them even doubly praise their oppressor in an effort to wield more magic. Now, united with his friends, Scar sets his gaze upon a hopeful horizon, but is strength in numbers sufficient to keep the Dragons from completing their machinations?
I’ll be giving it away free until December 24th of 2016. A link to a free e-book makes for a great gift to friends and family for the holidays when money is tight, and I know money is tight for a lot of people right now, but all you guys and gals out there are my fans, or potential fans, and without you readers, writers are nothing; we’re a fart in the wind, so giving away this amazing book is my way of saying thank you to you all.
Please go and grab your free copy of Dragon Slayer. Be sure to also enter the Goodreads giveaway, and grab a free sample of Gods and Dragons. You will not be disappointed.
Thank you all for your continued interest and support. Stay tuned for the next post, which will be about conjunctions and prepositions.
The giveaway may have ended but the benefits have not!
Don’t just buy books from Smashwords, sell books through Smashwords. Smashwords provides readers, bloggers, reviewers, anyone a chance to earn money from the books they love. By making a Smashwords account to buy and download books, you automatically have the ability to sell books through your blog or website. Read more about it here!
The Dragon of Time Two, Dragon Slayer, is a fantasy adventure series revolving around Scar. He is not man nor immortal being, but something in between, yet he was created only to kill the dragons. Scar, however, has developed his own thoughts, emotions, wants, and intends to live his life to the fullest.
The following excerpt is the entirety of the second chapter. If you missed the first chapter, it’s on the previous post.
Under a clear, night sky, Scar gazed at the rolling dunes and valleys. It was an endless sea of bleak gray pitted against a backdrop of twinkling blackness. The thin chaparral was rife with intermittent buzzing. All manner of insects flew rampantly, searching for moisture. He swatted the gnats from his eyes, pondering his newest obstacle.
“Well…roaming out here will do me no good. I need to get to Alduheim and meet up with Labolas.”
General Dumar had effectively galvanized his people. Since the Zmajans had not taken the loss of their God or blessing lightly, and they had no intention of allowing Scar ease of travel through Usaj, he needed to stay off the roads while treading north.
“Will that be enough,” he questioned, marching between cacti with budding flowers of red. “Beyond Usaj is Satrone, and I am no more welcome there than here….” Scar then wondered about the possibility of moving east into Eltanrof. “That’s still a long haul without a horse.” He started moving aimlessly in the direction he faced. “Maybe, I can steal a horse in the night…of course, I’m not too far from the ocean. I wonder if I can manage to sail around Satrone and into Zetsuru….”
The chilly winds of the desert night nipped at his nose. He felt the cold, but it was not an unpleasant sensation. Taking a deep breath as he came to stop near a squat boulder, he took a seat and removed his helmet to rub a hand over his smooth head.
“Damn, I probably won’t be able to make it into any town around here or the coast before word gets out,” he mumbled. “I should’ve killed Dumar. Then, maybe, these people wouldn’t be after me….”
The story of the pale skinned warrior who killed Kulshedra had already spread throughout the whole of Tiamhaal. The welcoming committee in Meshoptam had proven that, and with the Zmajans now powerless, Scar didn’t feel right cutting them down just to serve his own goal, even if that goal was world peace. As he stood and meandered again through the desert, his immense footprints quickly vanished beneath waves of sand. The Golgor desert blew powerful gusts on a daily basis. Tiny grains of gray peppered the warrior as gales grew potent.
“Of course,” Scar exclaimed.
He decided to maintain his heading, knowing that somewhere amidst the expansive desert there was a road marked by stones. Unlike Satrone, the roads of Usaj weren’t hard packed soil, but the roughly hewn, stone posts guided travelers when desert winds covered tracks every single night. Once I get on the road, I’ll come across someone on horseback or camelback…or something…eventually.
He picked up his pace and jogged along; his goal was to find some riders, simply knock them unconscious, and steal their mount. Usaj’s southern region was mostly arid, but there were many traders moving to and from the capitol; someone was sure to pass by. Recent tribulations left him irritable, though, and he cursed the lands of Usaj.
Scar plodded through the desert for hours. The ability to move for great distances without tiring was indeed a boon. He dashed by tall, thin cacti, short, round ones, and some reddish shrubs with very thick leaves. Before the predawn twilight, fluffy, gray clouds rolled in overhead. The insects stopped buzzing then, and Scar ran in relative silence; the only sound was the soft crushing of sand underfoot. Another hour passed in that manner, and then the eastern sun blasted the cloud cover to bits. Morning light erupted over a huge, sandy hill, and that was enough to reveal a stone post in the distance. Scar heaved a sigh, veered off to his right, and ran straight for the road.
The stones were visible in the daytime. Each, craggy marker was placed about one hundred yards from the next. They wormed all over the desert; over hills, through dunes, around the scant, few, large boulders. Since the winds had died down overnight, Scar clearly saw a row of markers like inanimate, stone soldiers in single file, disappearing into a valley.
Slowing to a walk, he kept a steady pace for hours. The sun worked its way overhead. Warmth prickled the skin. Winters in Usaj were dreadfully cold, not that it affected him much, but the midday warmth was relaxing. He closed his eyes, still walking, and the image of Ylithia flooded his mind; traipsing through meadows in Closicus under the brightness of a clear sky. Her emerald eyes were so full of bittersweet longing. He wanted nothing more than to make her feel safe, loved, happy, but that had been taken from him, and revenge had not brought peace. He stopped abruptly, glared at the endless, gray desert, and spat in the wind.
“Even killing these Dragons won’t bring her back…I wonder if anything can,” he murmured. Emotions invaded him. “Silwen! You made me look at her! That’s how I fell in love, and you knew, didn’t you, that she would die, and that that would make me kill Dragons!” His seething mounted to an inordinate level, and he howled at the sky. “Why couldn’t you leave us in peace?” Scar remained still, his fists clenched, hoping for an answer. “You came to me of your own accord when you needed something, now that I need you, you won’t show! Why?”
No one answered. The hours of plodding in silence had his blood boiling, his mind racing, his emotions bubbling. He stared in a quiet rage over the stretch of land. The winds of the Golgor whipped sheets of sands far off into the distance. Little, gray wisps trailed in the winds over tiny, sandy peaks. He grunted and moved on; the fury had passed as mysteriously as it had arrived, and after fury was only longing, emptiness, and determination.
By the time the sun was setting, he was so far removed from vegetation that there were no insects, only more wind. Then, he saw another row of markers that spanned at an angle in conjunction with the row by which he was traveling. He jogged over to find a sign at the juncture.
Etched in a rectangular tablet, Scar read that the southern row of stones were markers for Meshoptam, which made sense. Continuing north led to the town of Shuul. To the southeast, the markers guided travelers to an oasis town called Parapay, and to the northwest, the markers ran all the way to the only town near a river, a place called Inloth.
“That isn’t too far from the Usaj-Satrone border, and certainly the river Inliil spills out into the sea,” he huffed. “It’ll still take me forever to get there on foot, though…of course, standing around won’t get me anywhere.”
He opted to move northwest, and ran off in the new direction. As the evening progressed, visibility in the Golgor rapidly diminished. Scar grumbled. Another hour into his journey, and it had become impossible to see any of the markers. A haboob whirled the sand all over. The flurry stung his exposed skin, embedded itself in the folds of his leather armor, and though his ears were protected by his leather galea, the sound of the raging winds stifled out everything else.
With no logical alternative, the warrior plunked down on the ground. Sand amassed over his legs within minutes. He hoped the storm was soon to pass, but it did not let up.
Damn it! He cursed his luck. Trying to take little peeks resulted in eyefuls of grit. Grumbling to himself, he sprawled onto his side, and protected his head with folded arms. At least, once a layer of sand envelopes me, I’ll be alright. Such valuable time wasted…. The lull in progress allowed exorbitant time to ponder a plan of action.
After escaping Satrone with Labolas and Artimis, they had traveled by air to Alduheim. The Draco dropped off Labolas, giving him ample time to travel to Ch’Nako. The idea was for Labolas to track down N’Giwah under the guise of a Kulshedran seeking refuge in a neutral country while Artimis flew Scar to Meshoptam. Upon their arrival, the Draco flew back home to refill his dirigible with artred gas and ponder what killing Drac might bring. He had said nothing on the matter, but his overly cheery demeanor had grown somewhat sullen, and Scar knew Artimis was conflicted. That matter was of little concern, though; all he wanted to do at that moment was kill Zoltek and Zmaj. Something, which I’ve accomplished with little effort.
An object struck Scar’s hip. The impact was immediately followed by falling mass and an angry swear. He sat up in blinding darkness, and grabbed his sword.
“Who are you?” the Dragon Slayer yelled over the winds.
“Damn it, man, who are you?” a harsh, male voice replied.
Both men tried to spit sand when a commotion ensued nearby; there were multiple people on the road. “I’m S-a traveler inhibited by this damned storm!” Scar said.
“Scar?” the voice gasped.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“Are you alright,” someone else asked.
“What have you found,” yet someone else pried.
“It’s me, Scar, Shrikal,” the voice answered. “I found him!”
The Dragon Slayer recognized the name. Shrikal was a former Zmajan, and now, a Paladin of Perseverance. He put his sword away on his back and reached out for the young man, but accidentally touched his butt. Shrikal batted his hand away while the other travelers started crowding around. Their bodies helped to block some of the sand, but so much was falling from directly above, conversation was challenging.
Shrikal felt around in the darkness, and when he grabbed Scar’s shoulder, he leaned in and said, “I can’t believe I literally tripped right over you. We’ve been searching for days. You killed Zmaj, didn’t you?”
“What? Looking for me? Who?”
“We’re the Perseverants,” Shrikal replied.
That certainly explains their traveling in the middle of a storm like this, Scar thought with a smirk.
“Scar,” one of the others called. “Stay calm a moment. We’re going to unpack a tent and try to set it in place, so that we can converse in peace.”
“Fine,” he shouted and tried to spit out more sand. “Hurry it up!”
It took some effort, but meanwhile, Shrikal kept talking. “Is Ylithia with you?”
“Dead?” Shrikal was taken aback. “What happened?”
“I,” Scar started, but was overwhelmed by the storm. “This sand!”
“I’m sorry,” Shrikal interrupted. “Give us a second.”
Scar felt Shrikal’s weight move around. A moment later, some hands took him and helped him to his feet. Then, they led him inside a tent. One of the Perseverants held a small, oil lamp up to the warrior’s face.
“It’s really you,” the old woman said in a gritty tone. She was Scultonian; there was no mistaking the ashy skin, yet her lips weren’t black, or they didn’t look black in the dim lighting. She took off a sand mask, a fringed, cloth covering for the eyes that kept the sand out; her eyes weren’t purple either. He then considered he had made a mistake. “My name is Munah,” she added and pushed long, gray braids from her creased face.
Whipping winds ravaged the canvas tent. A group of five crowded around Scar; all of them removed their masks. For a moment, all he heard was the sand peppering the fabric, but at least Shrikal’s familiar face and tattooed body brought him a sense of comfort.
“She’s Scultonian,” Shrikal said. “I can tell you’re wondering…remember, I told you when we forsake the Dragons, we lose their mark…their blessing.”
Scar tried to gauge the situation. It seemed more than mere happenstance that a group of Perseverants plainly stumbled upon him. Apart from Shrikal and Munah, there was another woman of something that resembled Bakunawan descent; she had flat features, pale skin, and light hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. There were also two men with very dark skin, but they weren’t Tiamatish or Zmajan. Scar didn’t know what they were. All of them were inked with strange patterns or runes and wore customary, beige togas. He looked at Shrikal for a clue.
“I’m sure you think this strange, friend, but Ihnogupta perseveres,” Shrikal breathed. “We needed to find you, and we have.”
“Why are you all looking for me?” Scar snipped in disbelief.
“Because you are the Dragon Slayer, and that makes you indispensable to our cause,” the older, dark man said with a staccato tone.
Both he and the younger man had short hair. It looked auburn in the lamplight, but it may have been any, lighter color. Scar glanced at each of them in turn. They looked related. The oddest thing about the speaker, though, was the way he had elongated the vowels of every word.
“What the Hell is going on, here?” the warrior demanded. “I’m not about to be used by another God.”
“Forgive us,” Shrikal said and sat cross-legged next to the warrior. The paladin glanced at Munah and smiled. Scar then noticed that only Shrikal had sharpened teeth. The others had normal smiles. “I don’t quite know how to begin…I, that is, we were instructed to roam the Golgor for an answer.”
“To what?” Scar interrupted.
“To what has been happening in the world,” the younger, dark man answered also with a staccato tone that appeared to be native to his former tribe.
“Who are you people?” Scar demanded.
“Munah is the Minister of Resolution, an esteemed position among the ranks of the Perseverants,” Shrikal explained. “And that is Mei, a former Bakunawan. Irgesh and Folgar are former Bollans.” Each person nodded when their name was spoken. “When you vanquished Kulshedra, something happened…we thought that the other tribes grew more powerful, but it was difficult to discern. Now that Zmaj is dead, we are certain of it; the death of the Dragons is somehow making the remaining tribes more powerful.”
“How do you know that,” Scar asked.
“We barely escaped a group of Dracos,” Irgesh, the older Bollan, said.
“They chased us from the road and forced us south,” Mei added. “We had been fighting with them for two days when suddenly, their fury grew.”
“And their fires with it,” Shrikal interjected. “They propelled gouts of flames from their very palms, and others threw balls of fire at us!”
Scar shook his head, frowned, and rolled his shoulders before demanding they start from the beginning.
Thanks for reading. I certainly hope your, too, are becoming a fan of the Dragon of Time fantasy adventure series.
Don’t just buy books from Smashwords, sell books through Smashwords. Smashwords provides readers, bloggers, reviewers, anyone a chance to earn money from the books they love. By making a Smashwords account to buy and download books, you automatically have the ability to sell books through your blog or website. Read more about it here!
The Dragon of Time Two, Dragon Slayer, picks up right after the events of Gods and Dragons. Scar, has regained his memories. He knows he is Sarkany, the Dragon Slayer, and he travels to Usaj to fight Zoltek.
Dragon Slayer has taken a great deal of effort to write and edit, and it will still be a little while before I’m ready to release it, but you can enjoy the first chapter….
Chapter One- Zmaj, the All God
The Dragon Slayer smiled. A pile of bloody corpses were strewn about the deer pelts covering the stone floor of Zoltek’s palace. Since the guards were dead, and Zoltek had yet to show his face, Scar plunked down on the blackened, wood throne; the seat of power within the walls of Urr. He watched the shadows cast by burning braziers dance along the gray stone. An eerie quietude was all that remained of the opposition. Dead men told no tales, but dead Dragons were a different story. A gust of chilly, night air brought forth sparks and crackles from the fires. Scar clicked his tongue.
“Zoltek,” he taunted.
The warrior frowned, crossed his legs, and strained to listen. Only embers chirped when more gusts circulated through the throne room. None of the guards had dared chase the Dragon Slayer into the palace, and inside Urr, Scar hacked to bits anyone who wasn’t fleeing for their life. Zmajans were nothing if not fearsome, but the Dragon Slayer was practically invulnerable, such was the blessing of Eternus, the Dragon of Time.
“Think of your son, Zoltek,” Scar yelled. “I killed the little brat when he tried to backstab me. What was his name? Oh, yes, Urdu.”
The fight inside the palace had lasted less than an hour. After charging in, Scar easily mowed down the dark skinned fighters. Their leather armor was nothing for the brute’s great sword, a blade forged by Eternus for the specific purpose of slaying Dragons. They tried to fight back with their magic weapons- swords and axes that changed into spinning blades; they were self-propelled saws. Some of the Zmajans, ones with crossbows, turned their weapons into machines that fired bolts at an unprecedented rate, yet the projectiles did little damage. Scar’s newest wounds had already healed over.
“Don’t make me hunt you down like a dog, Zoltek. You’re Zmajan. You are brave, and you are angry. You should come find me and accept my challenge rather than cower in some darkened corner!” Scar goaded. “Come prove to me that Zmaj, the All God, holds you worthy.”
A clanking of metal bled through the vaulted ceiling. Scar looked up. There were still people in there somewhere, but he wanted only to gut Zoltek, take his Dragon gem, and show Zmaj his blade. Capturing all of the Dragons’ souls was his quest, the single reason for his creation, and though Scar detested being ordered around, and by a Dragon, no less, he was still upset over the death of his lover, Ylithia. Such was his wrath, an insatiable thirst for blood.
Killing her attackers in Othnatus had not been enough. Cutting down King Gilgamesh, who ordered her death, had not been sufficient, and slaying the Dragon, Kulshedra, had only whet his appetite for Dragon’s blood.
“Zoltek,” Scar called, his constricted tone revealed his intolerance. “It was less than a year ago that you promised me answers. Remember? You hired me to fight for you, to kill Kulshedrans, and in return, you were going to tell me who I was. You were going to ask Zmaj…tell me, have you asked him? Has he told you?”
After having slain Kulshedra, the mercenary’s memories flooded his mind, and so as he sat upon the negus’s throne, taunting him, he knew all too well Zoltek feared the truth. The sound of bare feet coming down stone steps drew Scar from self-reflection. He looked to his right, where a set of stairs led up to private chambers. A thin figure wearing shiny, purple and gold robes descended. Zoltek held a metal staff in his left hand. Its top was a purple gem in the shape of a diamond. Zmaj’s gem, Scar thought. At the base of the stairs, his face shrouded in shadow, the Negus of Usaj glared at the Dragon Slayer.
“I do not fear you, ghost,” Zoltek breathed. His voice was unearthly, something reminiscent of rustling leaves caught in the wind. “You are no one, nothing. Zmaj does not claim you. None of the Gods do.”
“None of the Dragons do,” Scar corrected.
“You are a fool.”
“I owe you for your betrayal,” Scar said and came to his feet.
“I did not betray you. You failed your mission. You killed my son.”
“You lied to me,” Scar growled.
“Never,” Zoltek breathed. “It is not my fault the Gods shun you.”
Zoltek struck the ground with the bottom of his staff. It made a strange sound like that of a bell. Scar smiled.
“Tell me what manner of God speaks only to one man. What manner of God requires a gem for commune?” the Dragon Slayer demanded.
“Why do you even argue?” Zoltek asked. “Did you not come here to fight?”
“I need you to know just how foolish you are before you die.”
Zoltek snorted in derision, “You are the fool. You think you killed a Dragon, and now you come into my country and lay my people to waste. Tell me, ghost, you think yourself a hero?”
“No,” Scar heaved. “I think myself the Dragon Slayer.”
With that, he leapt across the room to strike at Zoltek. The Negus of Usaj stepped forwards and lunged with his staff. An arc of purple lightning exploded from the gem and sent the warrior reeling into corpses.
“All that hatred,” Zoltek breathed. “You aim it in the wrong direction, yet I hold Cabazalus, and with it, I will destroy you.”
Scar quickly recovered and attempted a slightly different tactic. First, he snatched a spear from a dead guard. He chucked it then quickly leapt at Zoltek again. Before the spear connected, a web of purple electricity arced off the staff and disintegrated the weapon. By the time Scar closed the distance, the web expanded and remained a barrier between him and his opponent. Steel and magic clashed as muscles tensed.
“Your Dragon magic won’t last,” Scar growled as he struck the barrier with his blade. “Gilgamesh thought Kulshedra would save him, too, but I made quick work of him.”
“Then, Kulshedra is weak,” Zoltek howled in a booming voice that reverberated throughout the keep. “The God of Truth is nothing compared to my God, Zmaj! The All God will reduce you to ashes!”
The web of lightning curled inwards and then wrapped around the Dragon Slayer. It was a sparking sphere of pure energy that blistered his skin and busted the antlers off his helmet. Growling and thrashing, the brute continued to hack at the magic. Realizing that such an approach was useless, he tried to run, and although the energy was bound to his form, he was able to charge his opponent. When they collided, the lightning shot off in various directions. Chunks of stone were knocked from the palace’s walls. Both men were sent to the ground.
Scar came to his feet first. Zoltek was in a crouching position, his face still hidden by his cowl. The Dragon Slayer watched his wounds heal over and laughed.
“Your people do nothing but kill, Zoltek. Your Dragon demands it and gives nothing in return,” Scar claimed.
“You call this nothing?” Zoltek howled and blasted Scar again with a bolt of energy.
The arc tore through the warrior’s shoulder. He yelled out in pain, but did not give in and charged again. Zoltek stood at the same time Scar’s blade came down. He parried the slash, but it sent the old Zmajan to the ground. His hood slid back, and Scar saw that his face had been ravaged by fire, or perhaps lightning. The negus pulled the cowl back down, and started to work himself to his feet by rolling over onto hands and knees, but Scar came up behind him and kicked him hard in the backside. The blow made the Zmajan kiss the floor.
“Yes, I call it nothing,” Scar said. “You’ve spent your entire life in servitude. You bend to the wish of a Dragon, and not because you have to, and not because you want to help people, but because you wish only to kill everything around you!”
Zoltek scurried away and tried to stand once more, but Scar swept his feet out, and the old man rolled onto his side. “Do you not see,” the negus heaved. “Do you not see that if everyone were united under the banner of one God, there would be no more fighting? Why is it wrong to pursue such a dream? Do the others not wish the same? Who made you judge?”
“You wish to unite no one,” Scar spat. “That is why you keep slaves, pillage, raze, and attack. Had Gilgamesh and Donovan not kept you cornered, you would have done worse to other countries.”
“So, where is your allegiance,” Zoltek barked.
From his back, he aimed Cabazalus at Scar and blasted him with another bolt of lightning. It caught Scar’s sword, and the two marveled at the display. The energy swarmed about the blade like snakes. Little, violet sparks popped off and vanished, leaving thin trails of smoke. Zoltek focused his might and doubled the size of the bolt, but Scar spun and whipped his sword over his head, keeping the lightning from his skin. Once he completed a circle, he stabbed into Zoltek’s belly. The Zmajan cried out in pain, thrashed against the ground, and let go his staff. It rang like a bell again when it struck the stone floor. Wispy crackles of energy sizzled away into nothing.
Scar knelt next to the dying, old man and whispered, “You will not go to Pozoj, and be glad of it. The Dragon uses men’s souls to increase its power. They wish to walk Tiamhaal again and wreak havoc across the land. I have been sent here to stop them.”
“How? Why?” Zoltek coughed.
“Some questions do not have answers,” his tone betrayed grief.
Scar stood upright. He looked down at his foe, who was curling into fetal position. No doubt, his grievous wound was painful. Scar showed mercy and lopped his head off rather than leaving him to suffer. He frowned and shook his head in dismay. At least, that will quench my thirst for vengeance. The rest was just business. He was going to kill the Dragons because if he didn’t, thousands were doomed; killing Kulshedra had been an act of providence, but killing Zmaj was an act of war.
Scar took a knife from his belt, pried the gem out from the top of Cabazalus, and worked it into the second hole in his blade, above the one with Kulshedra’s Dragon gem. Vertigo immediately overtook him. When the spinning subsided, he found himself in Pozoj, the realm of destruction.
Pozoj was a swirling chaos of colors. Misty shapes whipped around the Dragon Slayer. He tried to gain his bearings; the realm of destruction was even more convoluted than the realm of truth. Eyes darting about in an effort to catch a glimpse of anything familiar, Scar saw a blue orb of wavering light. It vanished after he noticed another orb of pulsating, orange light. Then, he saw there were orbs everywhere, dozens of them.
“Zmaj,” he called out. “Show yourself! I have killed your brother, and now, I will kill you, too!”
A chorus of musical voices accosted the warrior’s ears. Whatever language the Dragons spoke was indescribable, yet the Dragon Slayer was fashioned from the Dragon of Time, and so he comprehended the mysterious speech.
“Worthless humans are no match for the immortal. We Dragons are the everlasting breath. Zmaj has created everything!”
“You have created nothing!”
Scar held his sword over his head. Much to his dismay, nothing happened. Well, it worked against Kulshedra, he thought. He resorted to swinging about blindly. Through crippling darkness that took his breath away, and the brightest lights that forced his eyes shut, Scar raged in an impotent fury. Then, a blow from sights unseen knocked him away. Since there was no ground, or walls, or anything physical in the Dragon’s realm, he simply kept moving until the energy of the impact subsided. From his new position, he caught a glimpse of the beast. Zmaj was comprised of several, serpentine creatures. The orbs were pairs of eyes that glimmered, glowed, shone, and wavered.
“You are the false hope of a weak people, whelp. My son was weak, but in death, he has given his siblings strength. Kulshedra, Dragon of Truth, will be avenged here,” the melody of booming thunder claimed.
Scar furrowed his brow, gripped his sword in both hands, and held his gaze on the Dragon. While misty shapes whizzed by his vision, he propelled himself towards Zmaj.
“Kulshedra was not your son, you liar. I know the truth of things.”
One of Zmaj’s heads—a purple creature resembling a lizard’s maw—struck him from behind and sent him sailing into another head, a shiny, blue snake. Scar balled up in the air. Zmaj was ready to swallow him, but he was prepared. Upon reaching the beast’s, moist breath, the Dragon Slayer gripped Zmaj’s nostril, pushed both feet into the opened, bottom jaw, and worked his shoulder underneath the top jaw. Zmaj laughed with another head, as yet another came slithering through darkness from behind. Before the speeding head made contact, and the blue one chomped down, Scar thrust his blade through Zmaj’s pallet.
That head shook with a force that knocked Scar free. He turned, swiped at the oncoming head, kept his spinning momentum going, and slashed at the shiny, blue snake’s throat. As it reeled back, a lifeless heap, the warrior waited for blinding light to pass, and made his move before the darkness thwarted his endeavor; he dashed into the area where all the necks were connected. Like a whirling dervish, he sliced, slashed, and hacked through scaly mass.
“You cannot kill me, I am the Dragon of Destruction, creator of all that there is,” Zmaj claimed.
“I am killing you, Dragon. You are but a lie created in the void,” Scar howled. “Eternus, the Dragon of Time, has beckoned your end, and I am the instrument of your death.”
With the fall of each head, Scar noticed the scenery stabilized; there was less darkness, fewer flashes of light. The new consistency made dodging swipes an easy feat. Scar shoulder rolled over orange scales, stabbed into a silvery throat, pulled out, and hacked into a gray, eel-like snout. All that remained was an abundance of lifeless serpents.
“Zmaj,” Scar breathed. “I’m taking your soul back to your creator.”
Colored winds of varying degrees of light and dark zipped around Zmaj’s Dragon gem. It glowed brighter and brighter purple until the entirety of the beast disintegrated.
“What are you?” The Dragon demanded with its dying breath.
“Sarkany, the Dragon Slayer. I am the embodiment of all principles, yet fashioned as a man to deliver peace. I am Eternus, his avatar…the age of Dragons has truly come to its end.”
At the culmination of Zmaj’s death rattle, the colored winds subsided and an unbearable pressure began crushing the warrior. He screamed in agony and passed out only to awaken breathless on a cold, stone floor. Inside Urr, he gave a forceful exhale and worked himself upright. With one, final glance at the throne room, Scar nodded to himself and marched out.
He walked through corridors decorated with paintings of Zmajans felling members of other tribes. The destructive people in the service of the false All God weren’t going to wreak anymore havoc. As with the Kulshedrans, Scar knew the people were going to feel an overwhelming loss; their magic was gone, the swirling marks of the beast had already vanished, and when Scar exited to the courtyard surrounding the palace, he witnessed the people of Meshoptam gazing at their limbs by the fires of torches.
“Zmajans,” Scar called out. They looked at him, imploringly. “I have killed your Dragon Lord. You are now free to live in peace. Let your slaves go. Cast your hatred aside. It was never your burden to bear.”
“What have you done to us?” a man cried.
“We will surely fall to the Dracos now,” a woman claimed.
“Scar,” another growled. The warrior turned to face the man who called his name. General Dumar stood some twenty feet away. He slid the ram’s horn helmet off his bald head, let it drop to the gray, dusty soil, and tightened his grip around the handle of his axe. “You have cost us everything.”
“I have set you free.”
Clouds parted overhead. The bright, full moon shone down onto the men and women of Usaj. The aged general growled and charged the brute. Scar did not move, not even when Dumar sank his blade into the warrior’s flank. The Zmajan bared his teeth. He focused all of his hatred at Scar’s, gray eyes, but his axe did not change into a magnificent, killing machine as it had done in the past.
“I was going to kill you, Dumar,” Scar whispered, “but I think letting you live is a more appropriate punishment. Look on as your people fall to their knees.”
“How dare you, you impudent pup?” Dumar yelled. “To arms, people. To arms! The ghost has killed our God, and now he will kill us all. He is a bloodthirsty devil!”
To Scar’s chagrin, the general’s, insane ravings rallied the Zmajans. Civilians snatched the weapons of the deceased guards and swarmed. He eyed them curiously. I had not planned for this. He shoved Dumar away, thus freeing the axe from his flank, parried the thrust of a spear, and kicked down a lanky Zmajan. I can certainly kill them, but that will make his claims true.
“I am not a beast,” Scar shouted. “Stay your hands. Zoltek and the Dragon have lied to you, twisted your minds and hearts. Be peaceful, and help one another. Soon, all the Dragons will fall, and you will see peace wash across Tiamhaal.”
Dumar raged and repeated that the ghost was a God killer, a dangerous man that had to be killed on the spot. Instead of cutting down the opposition, Scar took off at a full run. He bowled over men, women, and tried to avoid the children. A goat crossed his path on the stone streets of the capitol, and he booted it out of his way. Running blindly from a frothing mob that grew in numbers as Dumar shouted orders, Scar found himself in a predicament. He cared for the citizens, yet they were out for blood.
Grunting for breath and passing dark skinned warriors in drab garments, he darted behind a flat roofed building, dove into an alleyway, and tried to reason out a course of action. He wanted to get out of there before they left him no choice but to defend himself, yet his thoughts were cut short when he heard the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves. Zmajans on horseback were bearing down the darkened alley. Scar gripped the closest horse by the muzzle and wrestled it to the ground, forcing the rider off in the mix.
“Get away from me, you fools,” he yelled and took off again.
Whizzing by more riders with long spears and javelins, the warrior bolted down the streets as chickens cackled and fluttered by. Finally, he set his eyes on Meshoptam’s western entrance. All he had to do was make it through the arched opening in the wall surrounding the city, and he was home free in the freezing desert, but someone shouted orders to stop him, and two guards blocked the exit while another sent a javelin over his head. Scar impaled the left guard, picked him off the ground, and slung him into the other guard before fleeing beyond the gates. Riders gave chase, but the horses didn’t fare well in the dusty dunes of Meshoptam. Certainly, the mounts were quick, but they easily lost their footing, and the soldiers were unable to strike the warrior.
Scar gutted two horses that managed to close the distance, lopped the head off a third, and amputated the foreleg of the fourth. More were enroute, but the Dragon Slayer took off again. Barreling through the chaparral, Scar fled into the night, leaving the people of Usaj to find a new purpose in life.
It is not crazy to say that The Dragon of Time series is quickly turning into the greatest, fantasy, adventure series available today. There is simply nothing else like it on the market.
Dragon Slayer now available at Smashwords, but don’t just buy books from Smashwords. Sell books through Smashwords. Smashwords offers a super simple type of affiliate marketing where if you simply post a referral link on your site, and people buy the book through your link, you earn a portion of the sales.
Got a bookblog? Constantly discussing books with friends? Well, then, you’re selling books. Might as well earn a cut. Learn more here.
An Enchanting Tale is a Skyrim Fanfiction based on Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim. Join our hero, S’maash, as he travels throughout the planes of Tamriel.
In this excerpt, S’maash and his friends meet with Falion, so they can travel to Deadlands.
At the courtyard, before the College of Winterhold, four adventurers met for a most daunting task. A chilly wind blew errant snowflakes about as dark clouds obscured the sun. The statue of Shalidor appeared to stand in approval as it loomed over the small group.
“I’m so glad you made it, brother. Having you by my side fills me with confidence,” S’maash cheered.
“It’s my pleasure to be here. I could never pass up a chance to stride through the planes of Oblivion,” S’maath admitted.
“This will be a most dangerous quest,” Brelyna remarked.
“A profitable one, to boot,” Zolara added, comically.
“I see why you needed a seasoned warrior, brother,” S’maath said in jest.
“Yes,” S’maash chuckled. “Let us make last minute preparations then. To my room.” The four convened in S’maash room, inside the Hall of Countenance. “Do we need any enchantments?”
“No,” Both Zolara and Brelyna announced.
S’maath stood smiling. He still wore the Glass Armor his brother had enchanted during their previous journey.
“I do not require anything, but you do,” S’maath proclaimed.
“How so?” the younger Elf asked with raised brow.
“I have brought you gifts.”
From a large travel trunk, one everyone had eyed previously in wonder, S’maath produced an ancient set of armor. It was eggshell white with hints of beige. The bony equipment was ominous in appearance.
“Bone Mould Armor,” S’maash asked.
“Aye, even the fine Nords of Skyrim have nothing so…terrifying,” S’maath commented.
“Where did you get this,” S’maash asked while running his hands over the individual pieces.
It was their ancestor’s armor. S’maash saw one more piece in the trunk, a beautiful, Elven Greatsword. Its golden hue and feathery filigree was gorgeous.
“You robbed our ancestors’ grave?”
“Not robbed…borrowed. S’mael was the greatest warrior of our bloodline. I have my equipment, and it will one day lay ensconced in my own burial chamber. Should either one of us live long enough to have children, they may one day borrow my armor, and I will be proudly looking down upon them.”
S’maash smiled as he shook his head. “Then, I shall have to enchant this.”
“By all means, take your time,” Brelyna offered.
S’maash took the new equipment to the Arcane Enchanter and set himself to the task. In a fashion similar to his current equipment, he bestowed enchantments upon the Bone Mould Armor fortifying his new sword and spell style of fighting. Of all the pieces, the helmet was perhaps the most terrifying. S’mael’s old helmet was designed to resemble the head of a Dragon, or rather the skull of one. Upon completion of his task, the Enchanter nodded to the group.
“Off to Dartwing Cave,” Zolara said.
Clamor of cheers ensued. The group left Winterhold for their next adventure. After some travel across the paved road, they cut down a beaten trail. From there, it was not long before they saw the entrance of their destination through a blustery snowstorm.
Dartwing Cave’s interior was laden with ice. The short, round, entrance chamber was bedecked with tapestries. The dark cloths portrayed the Necromancer’s symbol, a skull surrounded by hands. An unseen source of lighting made it an easy journey into the cave’s deep. At the center of a large room stood Falion.
“Welcome to my workshop. This is where I perform rituals most minds cannot grasp,” he announced.
Four, stone pillars stood in support of the chamber. Worn shelving lined the walls. On the ground was an evil-looking depiction of the Mage’s symbol, an eye over a pentagram. Oddly, the eye was closed and the pentagram was actually a heptagram, a seven-pointed star.
“There is no time to waste,” Falion said, holding a bottle with glowing red and black liquid. “This is the Blood of Dagon. With this substance, I will hone upon his very essence, Deadlands. Please enter the design on the floor.” Once everyone gathered, Falion drew a Daedric Dagger, a red and black blade with sharp, serrated edges and hooks. “Hold still.”
He passed to each person and made a small cut upon their forearms. A single drop of blood from each dripped onto the design at their feet. He then took the Blood of Dagon and traced the four-pointed star in the design. Starting from the other end, he then traced the three-pointed star.
“Soltak. Malakar. I force this reality bend to my will. Dagon. Alatar. Send these warriors to Deadlands,” Falion announced, dramatically.
A red glow erupted from the star at the group’s feet. “Whoa,” Zolara exclaimed in surprise.
“Remember, now! You cannot return until you break the anchor from Dagon’s plane,” Falion yelled.
A violent sound like burning wind had assaulted the room. “How do we do that?” Brelyna yelled back.
“Just take the Greater Sigil Stone from the War Machine’s interior. It will suffice,” Falion screamed.
A flash of blinding, red light forced the group to shut their eyes. Then, darkness washed over them, silence. After vertigo accosted the group, they opened their eyes; a vast wasteland was revealed; hot winds blew.
“My goodness,” Brelyna whispered.
The group stood upon craggy, gray stone. Cracks and crevices glowed with lava flowing beneath. Around them, more of the lava bubbled, and heat wavered off its surface.
“Where do we go,” S’maath asked.
S’maash looked around. It was obvious the only path was the traversable stone before them. A bridge-like structure led to a spire in the distance. S’maash took the lead, walking carefully. Above them, an oppressive sky of red clouds thundered with fiery lightning.
“I had not expected this…perhaps I will wait for you here,” Zolara jested.
His joke was lost on the group as they were mesmerized by the wickedness of Deadlands. They pressed onwards, covering much of the stone ground, which gradually became smaller. Menacing lava beckoned on either side. Carefully, they made it to a narrow section of rock. From ruined arches, there hung large and bulky sacs of skin.
Zolara prodded at one. “I think there is something in here.”
After a second to check it, the Argonian found a Silver Ring and two Septims. There were a few more from several other arches along the span of the bridge.
“Come, we should make haste,” S’maath said.
The Dunmer brothers maintained the lead. As they came ever closer to the spire before, they encountered two Scamps, devilish denizens of Oblivion. Scamps were covered in shades of brown fur and were man-like in appearance, though they possessed goat legs and twisted faces. Their high-pitched grumbles were less than threatening, as were their Fire Balls.
S’maath ran out to them. With one, powerful swing of his Malachite blade, he cut one in half. S’maash charged the other. Seeing its comrade defeated, the Scamp tried to run away, but S’maash impaled it from the rear, lifted it off the ground then smashed it back onto the stone.
“That was a gruesome display,” Brelyna commented.
“Aye, and simple, too,” S’maath added.
“They say Scamp Skin can be used in alchemical studies,” Brelyna added.
Zolara obtained samples. Afterwards, they continued to the spire. It was a very tall tower, forged from Daedric metals. Like all things from Deadlands, it possessed a subtle glow of red, giving an eerie contrast to the darkness of steel.
“It looks as though these towers are connected,” S’maash said, looking around.
“Yes, this one appears to have a bridge to that one over to our right,” Brelyna said.
“But where is this War Machine,” Zolara asked.
“Likely, beyond those immense, barred gates,” S’maath said, pointing to the distance.
It was obvious that the towers and bridges had to be traversed in order to arrive at or around the gates.
“We could jump around the dark, gray mountains blocking our path, or we could constantly heal as we swim through the lava,” Zolara suggested.
“You try that, we will be more sensible,” S’maath retorted.
“Fine…if you want to do it the boring way,” the Argonian resigned.
They entered the first spire through a malevolent-looking door. It seemed as though the steel had been beaten to provide the appearance of a face, but it may have just been the odd lighting of Dagon’s plane. Naturally, the interior was reminiscent of the exterior.
The stone floor surrounded a round fire pit. The guttural grumbling of angry Dremora rang throughout as the demons clad in Daedric Armor—and brandishing War Hammers—came from alcoves in the round spire.
“I smell weakness,” a Dremora muttered.
Bolts from overcharged Walls of Thunder provided by both Brelyna and Zolara were more than ample for the weak Caitiffs. The sound of steel skittering over stone prevailed.
“Enjoy your last breath,” Brelyna said.
The scintillating drone of the spire itself was all that emanated. The group looked around for a clue; above them, an odd balcony was laden with red and black, bony hooks. It spiraled all along the walls towards the tower’s apex.
“Well…it’s up, we must travel,” S’maash ventured a guess.
Since it appeared a straight shot around the balcony protruding from the interior wall, the group needed to find the way to the initial step, which was many feet above them. Searching the area from which the Caitiffs came, they located a door. It led into a tight corridor on a slight incline, and it led to a juncture providing a way only left or right. The group took the right, also at an incline, where they were greeted by a Spider Daedra.
“Ack! Kill it!” Zolara demanded.
Upon seeing the intruders, the spider with voluptuous, lady torso, rubbed her heaving bosom while casting a protection spell. The elf brothers again took charge and made an easy kill.
Zolara studied the creature for a second then removed eggs and webbing. “I’ll bet these will come in handy.”
The group came upon the door the Spider Daedra was guarding and pushed beyond. They found themselves back in the center of the tower, only about a story higher, and on the spiraling balcony. Charging up the circular path—boots pounding—they cut through more Caitiffs. In their defeat, the enemies either slid down the balcony or fell over with a resounding thud.
“Quickly,” S’maash said.
Soon, the long, spiraling balcony led to another, twisted door. Beyond it was another tight corridor to their left. It led at a sloping decline, while a corridor to their right led up an incline. With a shrug, they continued up.
During the rush, S’maash broke through a trip wire. A massive, red, sword blade came crashing down, but the ever-vigilant Zolara noticed the situation unfold in the knick of time. He shoved the Dark Elf hard. The blow forced S’maash over and onto the ground, but safe from the trap.
“Apologies, friend, didn’t want to have to carry pieces of you back to Tamriel,” Zolara chuckled.
S’maash stood and looked at the slowly rising sword; the blade was serrated and deadly. He was glad to have only fallen over. The remainder of the group looked around briefly before continuing into the large room beyond the trap.
Four pillars with thick spikes were positioned in the center of the room. They were less for support and more for intimidation. Grumbling caught the explorers’ attention; a Daedroth had entered from the far end of the room. The scaly, large mouthed, crocodile-like demon stumbled about awkwardly before casting a protection spell and enveloping its body with a soft glow.
Zolara wasted no time, immediately firing erratic bolts of purple lightning- Wall of Storm. Brelyna followed suit with her own Wall of Ice; frozen shards of magicka quickly covered the ground. Once the beast was cold and slow, the Dunmer brothers hacked at it with their greatswords.
S’maash moved off to the Daedroth’s right. He slashed low at the knee joint causing great damage. His brother moved to the demon’s left. In a spinning motion, he brought his own blade across with much speed, thus hacking clean through the Daedroth’s arm. S’maash, as quickly as he initiated the first strike, brought his blade around his left shoulder then above his head, and finally brought the blade down in a smooth strike.
The Daedroth, being so tall, was cut badly from the chest; dark blood poured from the wound. Attempting to counteract, the demon grumbled and reached out with a powerful claw. Because S’maash was already standing low to the ground from his power strike, the Daedroth easily knocked him to the ground. Fortunately, continued blasts of magicka finally overtook the Daedroth. It collapsed dead.
“Ouch,” S’maash said, standing.
S’maath met his eyes with a slightly comical expression. S’maash knew what was coming.
“Yes, come on,” S’maash groaned.
Zolara pilfered some Daedroth Teeth. Then, the group continued into the hall from where the demon had emerged. Beyond the hall, were doors on either side of a large room. The group momentarily split as they checked the doors.
“Where does yours lead?” S’maath called out.
“Outside to the bridge,” Brelyna answered.
“Then we have our path,” S’maash said.
The group convened at Brelyna’s door. Bursting through and into the strange plane of Oblivion, the group ran across the precarious balcony, a long bridge with no rails. The craggy stone did not look strong, but looks were deceiving. From their new position, they gauged their surroundings.
Zolara pointed. “Look, that must be the War Machine.”
What they saw was nearly incomprehensible. The War Machine was a construct of Daedric steel, black with an eerie, red glow. Churning blades spun at the ends of what looked like horizontal pillars. It was unclear how the War Machine moved, but by the looks of it, it was creeping ever so slowly and unleashing a horrific, droning sound.
“Where is it going,” Brelyna asked.
They all traded glances. No one had a clue. With a frown, S’maash thought back to Falion’s words; he said that to return to Tamriel, since the portal shut behind them, they needed to retrieve the Greater Sigil Stone from inside the War Machine. What is the safest way to do this?
The War Machine was far below them, and aside from several, menacing mountains with sharp peaks, they saw only the door to the second spire at the far end of the bridge, but that spire didn’t appear to lead anywhere else. Furthermore, they needed to get to a second, much higher bridge, to reach a gate, which blocked the War Machine.
“What are you doing,” Brelyna asked him.
“I don’t, I don’t know where to go,” S’maash admitted while hot winds whipped about his head.
“The second spire might lead us where we need to be,” Zolara howled.
“It’s as good a plan as any,” S’maath replied.
They continued into the second spire, and much as the first, the interior held a red hue, and also like the first, they cut through a few Daedra before reaching the peak. The room was covered in some material not unlike batwings, though much sturdier. Two Dremora, one in black robes with a Daedric Greatsword, and one in Daedric Armor with a Daedric War Hammer, attacked.
“I will feast on your heart,” one claimed.
“I honor my Lord by destroying you,” the other shouted.
The demons were not overly difficult to fight, but after their defeat, the group found little other than some treasure in Hanging Sacs. “There’s nothing here,” S’maash complained.
“Not quite,” Brelyna rebutted.
On the far wall were large gears, which were built into the spire’s structure, and below them sat a lever. She pulled it, and the gears rolled with deafening clanks.
“What now,” S’maath asked.
“Let’s work our way back down and check the doors,” S’maash suggested.
All the running in the excruciating heat, down the batwings, and through the doors, was tiresome. Over an hour had passed since their arrival, and they had not stopped running or fighting. Finally, they reached a door that led back outside.
“Whoa!” Zolara called out.
He had taken the forefront after opening the door and was beset by fear. Beyond the door was nothing but a short bridge. Before anyone uttered another word, the tower rumbled. Holding onto each other and pushing back inside the tower, S’maath managed to tug the Argonian inside the spire.
“What,” Brelyna started, but the short bridge extended. From the opposing end, another spire across from them also extended its bridge. Once the portions met in the center, the bridge effectively connected the spires. “I suppose this is the way.”
“I think you’re right, Brelyna,” S’maath smiled.
Careful scrutiny of their surroundings revealed they were very high up. From their new perspective, the war machine looked like a creeping, mechanical Dragon, but without a head, wings, or tail.
“Hopefully, from the looks of it, this next spire will allow us to work our way down,” S’maash said.
They pushed through the door into the spire, expecting what the previous two held, yet all they saw was a grating of sorts. It was little more than a round, metal platform with several, large holes.
“There’s a switch over there,” S’maath exclaimed.
“Perhaps, we can take this down,” Brelyna offered.
S’maath looked from her to the switch. He walked over, passing some still bloody skeletons. When he reached for the mechanism Zolara howled a warning.
“What,” the Dark Elf asked.
“Why all the dead bodies,” Zolara asked with a point of his snout to the ground.
“I’m certain, it’s fine,” S’maath said, pulling the switch.
A jolt moved through the group. The lift clanked as it lowered them.
“I…am not so sure about this” S’maash said.
With furrowed brow, he looked over the bones, assuming they had simply died in the spire. After a moment, the reason became clear; the lift was lowering them onto large pikes built into the ground beneath.
“Move, move, move!” S’maath ordered, and shoved them all off.
By hopping off and dropping some ten feet below to the ground, they avoided death, yet the landing was less than gentle. They shook their heads in dismay before bolting through the only door in the spire. Outside, they were surprised to find themselves right, smack behind the War Machine.
Thanks for reading. Once everything is done, and I have the story just the way I like it, I’ll be releasing it to as many fanfiction sites as I can find. On top of that, since it’s also going through Smashwords’s premium catalogue, it’ll also be available through BnN and iBooks.
All of my stories are available through Smashwords, but don’t just buy books from Smashwords. Sell books through Smashwords. Smashwords offers a super simple type of affiliate marketing where if you simply post a referral link on your site, and people buy the book through your link, you earn a portion of the sales.
Got a bookblog? Constantly discussing books with friends? Well, then, you’re selling books. Might as well earn a cut. Learn more here.
An Enchanting Tale is a Skyrim Fanfiction. If you played Oblivion, you’ll like this excerpt. Our hero, S’maash, has wandered into an Ayleid ruin for exploration.
It’ll still be about two weeks before I get the updated version of the story out, but give it a peek and see what you think.
Freya stepped before Barbas. She walked lithely up the white steps to the square, white, stone door. Gorgeous arches stood partially covered by earth, moss, and insects. Small pieces of rubble were strewn about in the area above the door, where the rest of them stood waiting for Freya.
“Let’s head in then,” she announced.
S’maash casted a Candle Light spell. As the undulating sphere of light cast awkward shadows of the party, he was amazed in the difference of architecture between the Ayleids and the Dwemer. While Dwemer ruins were sharp and angular with their stonework, the Ayleids had a softer touch to the eye. Smooth, white walls lined the interior hall. It was very short and winding with an odd, scintillating, green glow hanging in the air. An unnerving hum emanated from an unseen source.
The view before them was of white pillars. The ground below was down quite a few steps. Those steps were exposed on either side. Their boots echoed off the far walls of the massive structure beneath them. Barbas and his crew noticed S’maash pause. He was taking in the sights.
“It’s a beautiful piece of architecture,” Elohar commented.
“Aye, that it is,” S’maash replied as his eyes scanned over the view.
Freya started walking down a winding hallway. The rest followed suit. A delicate grating of unknown metal lined the hallway on one side. White, stone walls lined the other. Beyond the grating, S’maash saw a chandelier hanging from the ceiling; its subtle, green radiance provided enough light to see without the use of magick.
A short trek through the hall led to an immediate dead end on the group’s right hand side. On the floor near the wall was a small, hexagonal cask. Elohar smiled as he pried it open. A tiny cloud of dust wafted away. Inside was nothing. Whoever had traveled through prior to their arrival had already pilfered its contents.
“What a shame,” he commented.
The noise created by Elohar drew the attention of a handful of Giant Rats. The squeaky beasts whined as they thundered over the stone floor, ringed tails flailing behind them. S’maash allowed the warriors to work for their money.
Barbas did not even move. Elohar fired three arrows quicker than S’maash had ever witnessed. Three of the Rats perished immediately. The fourth and final reached Freya’s feet. She kicked it in the face. As it writhed over, she chopped its head clean off with her war axe. Battle over.
“You elves eat these no,” Freya asked while looking at Elohar.
S’maash smiled. Elohar made a face of disgust.
“Wood Elves eat a lot of different meats, but it’ll be a cold day in Oblivion before this one feasts on vermin,” Elohar grumbled.
They turned to S’maash, but he simply shrugged. The left side of the hall rounded a corner to a tombstone shaped gate. Barbas pulled it open then stopped abruptly.
“See this press block? Ayleid ruins are full of these. They’re easy enough to spot if you look for the green jewel,” Barbas said.
“What do they do,” S’maash inquired.
“It’s how you open doors, disable traps, and other such things,” Elohar answered.
The four continued beyond the gate. Several chambers appeared to their left as they progressed. There was also a set of white stairs leading down. The crew continued beyond the chambers into a large room. Gas chambers lined the floor emitting a strange noxious cloud. They all paused.
“This is one of the old traps,” S’maash asked.
“Aye. Cover your faces with these,” Freya ordered as she handed out pieces of cloth.
The gas was a poisonous concoction of unknown agents. With cloth over their faces, the gas did little more than obscure their vision as they progressed. Not wanting to overstay his welcome, Elohar ran through the large chamber. The others followed suit. Beyond the gas, they paused for a moment to catch their breath and wipe tears from their eyes.
Anutwyll was a glorious sight to behold even for those who had traipsed through the ruins of the Ancient Elves many times. Its sublime architecture was breathtaking.
Their excursion beyond the gas chamber led them a wall with another press block. Barbas nodded to S’maash, who pressed it. A trio of stone pillars slowly slid into the ground, thus revealing an opening through the wall and into another room. S’maash was impressed at how smoothly the stones moved. They created very little sound.
Inside the new room was a sort of stone platform. Its utility was unknown, though it appeared to be more for aesthetics than actual use. On its top was a black, steel pedestal. Atop it, was a Varla stone; its gorgeous, white crystal was a feast for the eyes. Varla stones were multi faceted works of beauty.
“These fetch a few Septims,” Freya said.
“They function to replenish a weapon’s magickal property,” S’maash added.
“They function to replenish my Coin Purse,” Elohar replied in jest. They had a little laugh as Brabas plucked it from its resting place. “Good start, so far.”
After recovering that small fortune, the group rounded a set of stairs back to the gate they had entered originally. They pressed on through the ruin for sometime, but it didn’t appear to be very large, and its simple design made it easy to navigate. Before much longer, they came upon a tombstone shaped door depicting a glowing tree.
“These are strange doors,” S’maash commented.
“Let us press onwards and discover what lies beyond,” Barbas replied.
“Yes. I’m anxious to continue, but I am somewhat surprised,” S’maash said.
“Why’s that,” Elohar asked.
“I suppose I thought there would be more…well more objects. The Dwemer left behind many things. While not all valuable, their ruins hold many vases, pots, books, all types of things. I don’t see any of that here. It’s as though the whole of the Ayleid culture has vanished,” S’maash stated with wonder.
“I don’t know about any of that,” Freya remarked.
“How could you say that, cousin? When we traveled through Raldbthar we saw all those things S’maash mentioned,” Barbas said.
“That’s not what I meant, Barbas. I’m saying I don’t know about these Ancient Elves,” Freya snapped.
The Nords appeared to be growing irritated with on another. Elohar bumped S’maash with his elbow and motioned with his head.
“Nords are a loud bunch, eh?” he said it loud enough to draw the Nords’ attention.
“Why don’t you be quiet before I string you up with your own bow?” Freya howled in jest.
Again, they laughed. Their happy bickering echoed throughout the whole of Anutwyll. S’maash felt a bit of elation. His journey for knowledge had taken a very entertaining turn.
Ultimately, they progressed beyond the door into another expanse. It, too, held a scintillating hum as green light emanated from sources unseen. Silence prevailed for a short while. Then, S’maash spoke.
“I’m surprised there are no monsters lurking about in here.”
“Some say the dead roam the halls of Ayleid ruins. Reminds me of the Draugr in our homeland’s burial halls,” Freya replied.
She had peculiar way of speaking, S’maash noticed. She always rolled her R’s quite heavily. Elohar did not comment on the enemy situation, but raised an eyebrow in a comical fashion.
“This one does not like the undead,” Barbas said and chuckled.
“I can’t say I do, either,” S’maash commented.
“What do you hope to find behind these doors,” Freya asked.
“Something pertaining to old enchantments; I understand the Ayleids viewed the four forces of magick as being Earth, Water, Wind, and Light; Fire being a corruption of Light. If that is in fact truth then we, as modern mages, aren’t fully utilizing our Enchanting potential.
“I believe the Dwemer also held ancient secrets regarding Enchanting. The artifact, Volendrung, somehow fell into the hands of Malacath. It’s very curious. I understand that some artifacts cannot be disenchanted. Normally, an item is reduced to ash or debris, but somehow, these powerful artifacts resist the very force of disenchanting. I hope to find some clues here,” S’maash explained.
The Nords exchanged a tiresome look. “You should join the College of Winterhold. The crisp, snowy air of the north will do you well, Dark Elf,” Barbas said.
“What is this College?”
Barbas and Freya told S’maash what little they knew. Being Nord warriors, they had respect for magick, but no use for it, themselves.
“Then, once I finish I here I might make that journey,” S’maash replied, intrigued.
“You’ll freeze ‘til your blue…er, blue-er, in the face,” Elohar joked.
After the laughter subsided, they found a place to rest for the day. Soon, the food supply dwindled, so they took turns sleeping. The following morning, they eagerly resumed their search. It was not long before more gates were located. Elohar had taken the lead during their second day. A trip down flights of stairs brought them to an area full of Welkynd stones. Again, the hired muscle pocketed the treasure.
While the group debated how to spilt the money to be made from selling the riches, S’maash appreciated the sights. Several, glowing, rocky formations lined the ceiling. He paced around the room then approached the warriors.
“What are these gems,” S’maash asked, pointing to green rocks.
“Don’t know. All the ruins have them,” Freya answered.
S’maash made a mental note. While he stood in awe, Elohar sniffed about the large room. Spotting a long cask, he called them all over.
“Good, finally a chest. Bound to be something in there,” Barbas said.
In a corner, the cask sat covered in dust. Barbas knelt down before it in an attempt to open it. It was locked.
“Blasted elves…sorry,” he said with a gap-toothed grin.
“Blah, blah, blah,” Elohar responded.
The Bosmer made a sad attempt at pushing Barbas aside to check the chest’s lock, but Barbas, being as massive as he was, did not so much as budge. He, instead, grinned more widely. Freya laughed.
“Just move,” Elohar chuckled.
“No need. I’ll handle it,” Barbas replied.
He stood with such a power that Elohar had to hop back lithely. He moved, as all Wood Elves did, with an almost dance-like motion, thus avoiding a fall onto his seat. Barbas then raised his war hammer over his head. Once it reached its apex, all too close to the ceiling, the Nord pulled it and himself down. The head of the hammer smashed the chest open.
Barbas shrugged before stepping away, allowing Freya to check the contents. Inside, she found a rotted, Coin Purse with thirty, old, gold coins predating the current Septim, stone jars containing Bone Meal, and some Ancient Elven equipment; one dagger, one bow, and some boots.
“So, we’ll be taking these as payment,” Elohar said immediately.
He snatched the bow from Freya’s hand, looking it over. The string had rotted away ages ago, but the bow itself was in excellent condition. S’maash noticed something about the boots. They possessed an eerie glow, something almost undetectable. He motioned to Freya for them.
“Now hold on, you agreed we got the spoils,” she said.
“No, it’s not that. I think they’re enchanted. That’s why I came here. Remember?” S’maash replied.
Looking the boots over, he felt the living vibration all enchanted gear possessed. He was sure they held some form of magick. Whatever the enchantment, he did not recognize it.
“Well,” Barbas asked.
S’maash met his eyes. “I have never come across this one before. I don’t know what it is.”
“Let him have them. Not like they could fit our feet, anyway,” Barbas announced.
“There must be another press block in here somewhere,” Elohar said, looking about. “Normally dead ends like these have something hidden away. Ah, beneath the rubble.”
The chest had been set before the block, and since Barbas smashed the container, Elhoar booted the debris aside to step on the mechanism, which caused another set of stone pillars to slide away from the far wall on the other end of the room. Like all Ayleid designs, Anutwyll possessed hidden hallways for quick access to all areas within. They journeyed through the hall, passing more, green gems, and back to the ruin’s entrance.
“There you have it then,” S’maash grinned. “I’ll set up here and do some research on those odd, rock formations. You’re all free to go and everything we recovered is yours, except these boots, I guess.”
The group of warriors nodded, took their spoils, and left S’maash to his own devices. He was glad to have found something worth studying, but was unclear as to what exactly he had discovered. A few return trips to Bravil took place during which he purchased supplies. Unfortunately, the town didn’t possess an Arcane Enchanter, so he wasn’t able to learn what the Ancient Elven Boots did.
In an attempt to discern it for himself, he put them on his feet. They were the proper size. As he paced around the town, under the moonlight, he felt no difference. He jumped, ran, even stuck his fingers over an open flame. It burned as he had anticipated. After another night at The Lonely Suitor Lodge, the elf returned to Anutwyll where he took some samples of the gems from the ruin’s walls. Satisfied, he intended to take a break before returning to town and plan his next move.
“Well, well, well. What ‘ave we got, here?” an unfamiliar voice echoed behind him.
S’maash turned to see some bandits in furs and leather. One of them, likely the leader, was an Imperial brandishing a malevolent looking Ebony Dagger. The blade’s length was as ominous as the embossed, black metal from which it was forged.
The Imperial addressed the rest of his crew: a Khajiit, Orc, and two Imperial lasses. “Think we should gut him?”
“I’m just conducting studies,” S’maash choked.
“No, no, no. You’re just conductin’ studies in my ‘ome,” the Imperial replied.
S’maash furrowed his brow in thought. There had been no bedrolls or tents. It was obvious the bandits intended to make Anutwyll their new base camp. The Dark Elf hoped to avoid confrontation.
“Listen,” S’maash started.
Before he finished, the Imperial vaulted himself forwards. He delivered a powerful, left fist to S’maash’s midsection, causing him to bend over and drop to his knees. With no air in his lungs, the Khajiit and Orc easily took his arms behind his back and held his head in place by his hair. The elf tried to speak, but only gasped for air.
“This is the part where you fall down and bleed to death,” the Imperial said.
Then the man punched S’maash in the face until he blacked out.
These books and more are available at Smashwords, but don’t just buy books from Smashwords. Sell books through Smashwords. Smashwords offers a super simple type of affiliate marketing where if you simply post a referral link on your site, and people buy the book through your link, you earn a portion of the sales.
Got a bookblog? Constantly discussing books with friends? Well, then, you’re selling books. Might as well earn a cut. Learn more here.
An Enchanting Tale was written back in April of 2012. I forget when exactly I finished it, but it was before The Dargonborn DLC had been made available.
While tying in the history of Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim, I came up with my own version of Tamriel, one where Ulfric rose to High King, the Forsworn still ran rampant, and the Dawn Guard were too stupid to kill a vampire.
An Enchanting Tale is about a dark elf named S’maash. He’s tired of working for the Mages’ Coalition in L’Thu Oad, a town in Morrowind, so he sets off to unravel the mysteries of enchanting.
It’s extremely odd that after I wrote this story, the Dragonborn DLC included things like bone mold armor, a Hermaus Mora quest, and other references to Morrowind….
Now, I originally wrote this story by capitalizing certain words, words that are capitalized in Skyrim like; Skull, Sneaking, Dark Elf, etc., and they are still capitalized in the excerpt, but for the sake of literary art, I will be fixing those issues for the new release.
Anyway, check out the excerpt!
S’maash always had an affinity for magick—Enchanting especially—his natural talent was rivaled only by his love for the art. In his days as a child of Morrowind, he ran about with his friends and siblings stirring up all sorts of trouble. While they mainly tried to stow away on Silt Striders, large insects utilized for the purposes of traveling long distances, S’maash normally found himself in trouble for different reasons; he generally skulked into a mage’s workshop to catch a glimpse of a master spell craftsman at work. Most of his endeavors ended with a slap to the back of the head followed by the derogatory you s’wit, but that did little dissuade him.
Upon reaching adulthood in the year 4 E 221, S’maash, a striking, young Dark Elf with a shock of gray hair on his head and a gray-blue complexion, took a job as an inventory manager for a local union of mages in the town of L’Thu Oad. It was a small settlement southwest of Narsis. His job with the Mages’ Coalition consisted of little more than taking notes on their studies and cataloguing their findings. Other menial tasks involving the organizing of reagents, Soul Gems, and magickal equipment kept him busy enough.
Although he did learn a great deal about enchantments, S’maash’s curiosity was never satiated. His knowledge of over fifty enchantments was a testament to the fact that knowledge led only to more curiosity, and that led him to speak to one of the elder mages, an old Altmer—or High Elf—named Rosoleola; he was the head of the Mages’ Coalition in L’Thu Oad. Ancient and surly with a shimmering gold hue to his skin, he was not an easy person to approach.
“Master?” S’maash called.
The old Altmer was stooped over an Arcane Enchanter, a vicious looking table adorned with the skull of a three-eyed beast, several candles, and a misty, green bauble. Rosoleola turned to the young S’maash while flipping through the pages of a journal.
“What now?” Rosoleola barked.
“I couldn’t help, but notice you’re attempting to enchant that Steel Dagger with Fire Damage,” S’maash stated the obvious. Rosoleola winced as he returned his steady gaze to his journal. He said nothing to the young Dunmer, so S’maash stirred nervously before breaking the silence. “Why is it that we can imbue a weapon with Fire Damage, but not a shield or gauntlets?”
“S’wit…must you ask such a foolish question?” The Altmer’s voice was raspy and full of arrogance.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sir. I’ve been watching and taking notes for these past seven years. Along the way, I have realized many truths, but some of them seem to have to no logical base.”
The old Altmer turned to S’maash. After eying the Dunmer with contempt, he pushed an errant strand of silver hair behind his ear.
“What are you babbling about now, boy?”
“Sir, a Flame Cloak spell can be cast by a mage. This provides him the ability to damage an opponent by merely standing adjacent him without so much as warming his own skin. Why not can a piece of Iron Armor be enchanted as such?”
Rosoleola was taken aback. He stared at the youth for a moment. The boy stood under torchlight with his feet firmly planted on the stone floor. The fires of passion and knowledge burned brightly in his red eyes. Rosoleola adjusted his burgundy robes before answering.
“Well now that is a question, isn’t it….” he said as he looked up to the high ceiling.
His tone had changed. It carried a hint of ancient wonder, of memories long forgotten. The torch fires wavered with the forces of magicka in the workshop, casting shadows of the banners and tapestries depicting the progressions of arcane studies. S’maash kept his gaze on the old Altmer, still awaiting a response. After a moment of silence, S’maash adjusted his own faded, blue robes. Rosoleola took a pensive inhalation before providing his insight.
“I can’t really answer that,” he said and paused. The furrow in his brow was indicative of wonder, something rarely experienced by the aged. “Get back to work. You have better things to do than question magickal theory. Go make sure all the reagents are accounted for. Last time I looked for Comberry it took me twenty minutes to find where Naralia put them,” Rosoleola barked.
S’maash nodded to his master. The response given was somewhat less impressive than he had anticipated, or more accurately, it was less inspiring. Rosoleola eyed the boy as he left. The truth was the old Altmer was impressed, but Altmers were not given to showing such things, especially not to non-Altmers, so Rosoleola returned to his enchantment, and S’maash returned to his menial tasks.
After reorganizing the reagents, the Argonian, Barters-with-Whispers, walked into the large storage room with a new task for S’maash. “Dunmer, fetch me the tome, The Studies of Wards,” the green, lizard-woman hissed.
S’maash stood from his crouching position as he turned a jar of Bone Meal so the label faced outwardly. He looked upon her. Barters-with-Whispers was an ancient, decrepit Argonian. Her faded, yellow robes draped off her wiry figure. Still, her demeanor was rather imposing.
S’maash traveled through the short hallway over bronze carpeting to the study. While the floor of the workshop was of cold stone, its walls were gorgeous mahogany with darkened hues of deep brown. Massive, wooden shelving lined the walls of the library. Each shelf was filled from one end to the other with timeworn tomes. A mental segue took S’maash from his intended task. Dwemer Magick of Old, he thought to himself as his eyes caught glimpse of a leather bound book. He slowly and carefully took it from its place. The leather creaked as he opened it. While scanning over the pages, he saw the name Volendrung, an ancient war hammer. The Dwemer knew quite a bit about forging magick items.
“What are you doing, you lazy layabout?” Barters-with-Whispers shouted from across the room.
Startled, S’maash dropped the book. It fell to the floor with a heavy thud. He gave a weak smile, picked the tome from the floor, and replaced it on the shelf before grabbing what he was supposed to have grabbed in the first place. He handed the book over. It was difficult to read Argonians. Their scales made it nearly impossible to detect emotional cues in their faces; although, that day it was obvious she was not pleased.
“Apologies,” S’maash said.
The Argonian took the tome with narrowed eyes. She blinked once then left the young man to his own devices. A new curiosity brewed inside S’maash. He immediately ran out of the study, down the hall, and back to the Arcane Enchanter where Rosoleola was picking Soul Gems for his next task. The magickal gems were shades of blue and purple.
“Master,” S’maash called.
“Mmm? What now?” the Altmer asked without looking from his work.
“Which is the closest Dwemer ruin?”
“Oh, let’s see, should be Damlzthur. Why?”
“I need to study their artifacts. I have to know how they were able to create Volendrung.”
Rosoleola sighed as he shook his head in desperation. The boy’s inability to focus on his prescribed tasks was irritating the Altmer beyond belief.
“What nonsense are you spouting? Don’t you have better things to do?”
“With respect, Master, no I don’t. I need to understand,” S’maash replied.
The old Altmer stood as straight as his creaky body allowed. Finally, he turned to eye the Dark Elf.
“Mmm,” Rosoleola muttered as he stroked his long beard. “Well… it isn’t safe, you know?”
S’maash was slightly surprised. Not only did Rosoleola’s voice lose the twinge of aggravation, he had not expected understanding, much less the concern for his safety.
“You really care about Enchanting don’t you? I’ve watched you, you know? You’ve come a long way in a short time,” the old elf said as his head bobbed up and down a bit. “I undertook a few quests of my own around your age. I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you an advance on your pay. Hire some men from the Reyda Tong. Maybe you can find what you’re looking for.”
Again, S’maash was astonished. “Thank you, Master!”
“Yes, yes. Here, this should be enough,” the Altmer said with a smile as he handed S’maash a small Coin Purse. “Don’t get yourself killed. You have a brilliant mind, but I fear that some things simply are what they are, so don’t get your hopes up. You hear me?”
“Yes, Master. Thank you again,” S’maash replied taking the gold.
Rosoleola replied with a simple waving of his hand, shooing the boy away. S’maash smiled from pointy ear to pointy ear while running out of the workshop. He crossed the stone paved road to a large, stone building, the home base of the Reyda Tong, which was a sort of guild for fighters in Morrowind. Its appearance came about after the dissolution of the Empire’s grip.
It was a warm evening in L’Thu Oad and a bead of sweat ran down S’maash’s face as he knocked on the wooden doors. A sign above read: Reyda Tong Fighters. The door opened seconds later, revealing another Dark Elf who looked much like S’maash.
“Oh, it’s you. Come in, brother,” the Elf replied.
“S’maath, Rosoleola gave me an advance on my pay. I need to hire a few of you to travel into Damlzthur,” S’maash said, excitedly.
S’maath was a few years older than his brother and much stockier. His thick, gray hair grew sharply and unkempt all about his head.
“Sounds dangerous. What has he got you searching for?”
“You misunderstand. The research is mine. I was reading through a tome on Dwemer magick. As you well know, I’ve been enthralled with the mysteries of Enchanting for some time. I believe there may be some answers stowed away in their old ruins.”
The brothers walked through the foyer, passing a rack of swords. Much like the mages’ workshop, the Reyda Tong’s office was bedecked with amazing tapestries depicting its own history, a much more violent one. It, too, was built of stone floors and beautiful woods.
Further inside, the two found themselves among mixed company; an Imperial lad, a Redguard woman, and another Dark Elf. The warriors all recognized S’maash and greeted him with a simple nod of the head. The Dunmer brothers took seats in a large room practically filled with mead and weapons. A fire burned in the stone pit at the far end of the room. The gentle crackling kept them from total silence.
“Fara, my brother says he wants to hire us for a trip into Damlzthur,” S’maath announced.
Fara, the Redguard, adjusted the straps of her Iron Breastplate as she fidgeted in her seat. Her dark face crinkled a bit while she considered the proposition.
“We have plenty of work here,” she snipped.
“I have payment,” S’maash interjected.
“How much?” The Imperial asked.
S’maath turned to his brother.
“Well,” S’maash started as he pulled the string on the Coin Purse. He poured the gold coins onto a round table by the Imperial. “Twenty five gold.”
The three warriors laughed at the paltry sum, but S’maath was sympathetic. Once the laughter died down, he took his glare off his comrades to look at his brother.
“How long would this trip be?”
S’maash took a moment to think before answering, “A week….”
“We’re not riskin’ life an’ limb for twenty five gold, boy,” the other Dark Elf replied.
S’maash looked at his brother questioningly.
“Why don’t you go home for now? I’ll see what we can do,” S’maath instructed his sibling.
S’maash took the gold into his Coin Purse and left for home slightly ashamed, but not defeated. The walk home was a rather slow one. Night had just settled in before he arrived at his own, front door. He heard the chirps of insects for a moment then entered his family’s abode. The shutting of the door behind him shut out the noise as well.
With their parents deceased, S’maath and S’maash lived in the modest home together. The young elf busied himself with dinner for the two. Not long after, S’maath entered the house finding Rat Stew warming over the fire.
“I had a long conversation with Fara,” he yelled out from the common area.
S’maash entered from the kitchen to find his brother standing proudly. “What did she say?”
“So long as the Reyda Tong can lay claim to any profitable artifacts, they’ll back your endeavor,” S’maath replied.
“Good news, then. I’d like to set out as soon as possible.”
“We can leave first thing in the morning. Numerius, the Imperial, will join us as well as Fara. It will just be the four of us, so we’ll need to be cautious”
These and many more books are available at Smashwords, but don’t just buy books from Smashwords. Sell books through Smashwords. Smashwords offers a super simple type of affiliate marketing where if you simply post a referral link on your site, and people buy the book through your link, you earn a portion of the sales.
Got a bookblog? Constantly discussing books with friends? Well, then, you’re selling books. Might as well earn a cut. Learn more here.
Well, it’s no secret I’m always up to something, but I wanted to let everyone in on what all is going on. That up there is the new cover for An Enchanting Tale, a Skyrim fanfiction….
Otherside will soon be released through Amazon and CreateSpace, and then I have to upload it to Smashwords in order to make it available through all retailers. I’ll tell you guys when everything concerning Otherside is ready to go.
So, I also wrote this Skyrim fanfiction ages ago, back in April of 2012, I wrote and released An Enchanting Tale through Smashwords, but since it was fanfiction, and I can’t make a profit from it, I never considered having an actual cover made, but then I thought about it…well, recently, I thought about it.
I figure if had gotten a real cover for An Enchanting Tale, maybe more than 500 copies would be in circulation by now. Never too late, though.
Also, I just wrapped up another fanfiction. When I get the cover made up for it, I’ll let you guys in on what it’s all about, and finally, I am working on Dragonslayer, the sequel to Gods and Dragons, and the second book in The Dragon of Time series.
For poops and chuckles, here’s the prologue:
An amnesiac mercenary called Scar appeared in the middle of the territorial disputes of Tiamhaal. He brought a whirlwind of change; the kind of change no one expected. That man was in actuality the avatar of Eternus, the Dragon of Time, a being outside the realm of human comprehension. Eternus was the universe, it was the ineffable creator of all that was, but having taken a liking to a particular world, it sent a portion of itself to the world of men.
Crafted from the clay at the edge of the world and fashioned from the eight, guiding principles of man, Scar, the mercenary, was sent to slay the Dragons, and so he was named Sarkany, the Dragon Slayer, yet his fashioning was not without flaws, and he lost his memories. Finding himself traveling aimlessly, seeking only to learn of his origins, Scar was beset by Dracos, the followers of Drac, Dragon of Fire, and then he was manipulated by Zoltek, Negus of the Zmajans, followers of the Dragon of Destruction, and finally, the warrior was sent by King Gilgamesh of Satrone, a worshipper of Kulshedra, Dragon of Truth, to the ruined kingdom of Alduheim where answers lied ensconced in darkness.
It was there that he and his men found a paladin, a warrior named Ylithia, who fought in the name of Mekosh, a true God, the God of Severity, and even though paladins had always maintained that the Dragons were posing as Gods, most people of Tiamhaal had never taken them seriously, yet what was witnessed beneath the rubble of Alduheim united them in their efforts to reveal the truth to their kings and queens. The leaders of every tribe had established their own countries under the name of their Dragon Lord posing as God; constantly, they fought for territory, supremacy, religious beliefs, and even peace. Things changed when warriors of Kulshedra, Scultone, Fafnir, and Tiamat joined forces with Scar and Ylithia, but their plan to bring to light the lies of Dragons was short lived; Scar and Ylithia fell in love and left kings and pawns to squabble amidst themselves.
The two abandoned Gods and Dragons for a life of peace, but the spurned King Gilgamesh had other plans, and he sent his men to kill Scar, yet he was away, and it was Ylithia, who was cut down without mercy, and for that act of betrayal, Scar took his sword, joined his old friend, Labolas, invaded the impregnable palace, Inneshkigal, and killed Gilgamesh before all the Kulshedrans of Tironis. Upon the king’s death, Scar was transported to Drangue, where he battled the mighty Kulshedra, a misty whorl of a Dragon, and the Dragon Slayer took the beast’s soul.
Since then, the Kulshedrans have lost their powers—the ability to augment their armor through Dragon’s magic—and they struggle to maintain their borders, their culture, their lives, but Scar is far from finished; he owes someone a debt of blood, and so he has journeyed back to Usaj, the land of destruction ruled by the mighty Zoltek. In Meshoptam, capitol of Usaj, Scar, the pale skinned, seven foot giant in black, leather armor, slayed the Zmajan royal guards and came face to face to with an old foe….
Don’t just buy books from Smashwords. Sell books through Smashwords. Smashwords offers a super simple type of affiliate marketing where if you simply post a referral link on your site, and people buy the book through your link, you earn a portion of the sales.
Got a bookblog? Constantly discussing books with friends? Well, then, you’re selling books. Might as well earn a cut. Learn more here.
Haven’t spoken about The Dragon of Time in quite a while, but check out the cover for book one, Gods and Dragons! Available at Smashwords
In the meantime, if you absolutely need to read something I wrote, I suggest nabbing the newly released Infestation, the third installment of The Adventures of Larson and Garrett.
The great thing about The Adventures of Larson and Garrett is that they are great stories for people who like to read and for people who don’t, for people who like fantasy adventures and for people who don’t; it sounds weird, but I promise that anyone will enjoy these stories.