Chapter 1: Antiark
6617A.O.M.
Approximately 30th day of the New Order incursion.
A circle of ancient trees swayed in The North's ceaseless wind, burdened, yet uncompromising, beneath the undisturbed ice of millennia. Stately firs glowered at the overarching mountains that surrounded the glade of their residence while dominant spruces stretched protective limbs over the shorter rowans and shaded the mingled willows. A wall of stout cypress, eucalyptus and baobabs concealed the trunks of these primordial sentries like a woman's skirt, their grandeur undiminished by their inferior height.
A magnificent sequoia grew from the white lake, reigning proudly as this sanctuary's living heart beneath the Rhawn Mountain's daunting shadow, its graceful limbs also stretched out protectively over its attendants. The implacable northern wind caressed the sequoia's fragile, golden leaves as unblemished snowflakes kissed its alabaster skin.
Older than all other corners of the world, The North disregards the necessity of change. Bleak and overwhelmed by storms capable of shredding men, The North never yields. It stands separate from the Mortal Kingdoms, shielded by the ancient Rhawn.
The North is a land of mysteries and legends, where the laws governing other lands submit more easily than they govern. It is a remnant of the Before Age, and the domain of a creature older than mortal existence: Winsyria. In this, the Third Age, his power is diminished, his influence restricted to The North. Nevertheless, here, Winsyria remains the caretaker of his people, feared and loathed by the Ascended Gods since a time older than reminiscence; and until all creation fails, he will continue to rule The North.
A howl reached down the sheer pass, forewarning of an unusual arrival. The sanctuary stirred in silent welcome, its drowsy soul waking from a century of isolation. Men do not come here often, for the Rhawn are perilous to ascend, and this sanctuary is secreted deep within their highest peaks. Moments passed, and a White Wolf of Winsyria materialized from the lashing winds and eternal blizzard and strolled into the circle of trees. The unearthly canine reached the pond and surveyed the water before settling down to drink, its eyes alive with an unnatural intelligence.
The Wolf remained unperturbed when a second figure materialized from the storm; a man advancing with a hesitant step, his features brooding with the tundra-cold eyes, the pale northern hair, and the imperceptible scars dealt to his skin by his unforgiving homeland.
Mirroring his companion, the deranger scanned the lake, probing through the heavy fog that frolicked across its surface. Although the mist reached out to embrace him, one could still see the bow of rare black rowan hanging across his shoulder beside a quiver of three dozen arrows fletched with the feathers of black swans.
A ripple stroked the abnormally serene water, alerting the deranger that his presence was noted. Chagrined, though no sign of it broke the impassivity of his features, the deranger drew his cowl back, revealing himself to the entity he sought.
He smiled at his foolishness, a rare moment of unveiled humor for him, recollecting that his skill would not conceal him from the man he sought. The deranger, a Ranger-Warden of Winsyria, thus named by the Northern people due to his habitual insanity of braving The North's harshest maelstroms, walked to the lake's bank and knelt beside the Wolf. Closing hazel eyes, he slipped into a half-trance, allowing his mind to relinquish the constraints of his body while he waited. With the air of beginning a ritual, he unsheathed his glass sword and plunged it into the water, returning the blade to the forge of its birth. The true North welcomed him; mists and half-formed shadows swelled in his mind, granting him wordless visions of beauty and solitude that transcended both distance and time.
To an outsider The North was a sinister land encircled by baleful mountains; but to those within those mountains, the land was a haven of solitude and peace.
Immersed in the ancient majesty of his homeland, the deranger lost track of time until something powerful stirred, releasing a cascade of turbulence to forewarn its arrival. The mist receded unveiling another man kneeling, immersed to his breast, at the center of the lake's crystalline waters. The deranger opened his eyes, sensing who he sought. Exhaling to release the trance brought by his communion with the land, he unsheathed the glass sword from the water, its spine shimmering with captured light, the impurities cleansed.
The Rhawn Mountains murmured; their voices a resounding echo that descended from the heavens. The deranger glanced up in response, unnerved by their voice. He did not fear the Rhawn or Winsyria's storms; they were facets of a home he cherished. He respected them unto the verge of terror, but never feared them. It was what they portended that he feared.
The half-immersed man stood, tied back the locks of bronze hair, and strode toward the shore, water streaming down his naked torso over an intricate tapestry of almost indigo tattoos. "Hello, Maern." The High-Warden's voice rumbled, filling the air and the world about him with a graceful cadence that, despite his size, lacked volume. The storm slowed around them, calming at his words.
Maern stood, sheathing the glass sword but hesitating to speak, loath to break the silence again. "The New Order has entered The North, slipping past Adriat under cover of night, battle and enchantments. Some four thousand of them slipped into The North." Maern fell into step, and the White Wolf followed.
"Yes, and they bring demons in their company." The High-Warden shortened his stride, allowing for his companion's shorter step.
Maern glanced at the High-Warden. "The war that Lord Dellak predicted has arrived."
The High-Warden shrugged. "None of us ever doubted his words; we've had time to prepare for this."
Maern nodded beginning to struggle through the fresh snow. In contrast, the High-Warden moved easily, leaving no history of his passage as he guided them deeper into the Rhawn Mountains. Unperturbed by the arduous trek, Maern continued, "Lord Antiark solicits your aid."
"I know, but I cannot aid him. This is a war whose entirety we do not yet fully comprehend." His voice was strained, disfigured by the violence of emotions roiling beneath the surface of his implacable eyes, "More evils than one stride this earth, gathering their might and whispering in shadows while fouler things beyond their knowledge stir. Messages of portentous events rise on dark wings, and the Hounds of Karrassain walk this land anew. In the West, Cardolyn Tyier broods upon his high throne, eyes turned heavenwards." At the mention of Karrassain, a prison for gods and their ilk, Maern's step faltered and the warmth fled his blood. "For the first time in decades, Tiberius Whyte leaves Apelium to converse with the last Avenar Prince while Morrehiegann laughs in his dark tower, gloating over our plight and inner conflicts. Rumors speak in half heard susurrations, echoing a dark resonance; the harbinger of something terrible that has long slumbered. A Dread Lord once more walks the Mortal Kingdoms, and with this messiah's arrival, the curse inflicted upon the Avenar Princes is reawakened to resume the harrowing of their souls."
The High-Warden reached the door of a small cottage and opened it, beckoning both man and Wolf to enter. Eager for warmth, Maern hurried inward. Bending under the high door frame, the High-Warden followed. The Wolf entered last, at ease in the deteriorating weather.
Motioning for Maern to sit in a chair before the fire, the High-Warden walked to the corner of the small house, where his mattress lay, and donned a shirt. Meanwhile, the Wolf claimed the hearthstones with a satisfied huff.
As heat soothed his chill, Maern brooded, uneasy with his lack of knowledge. The North always balanced on war's precipice with the Light and Dark Pantheons ruling the exterior world. Winsyria loathed the gods just as they abhorred him; where he sought solitude, peace and distance, they hungered for dominion. War was coming to The North at Malbreyth's gleeful summons. As Maern's thoughts turned to the God of War, Malbreyth, second Lord of the Dark Pantheon, realization struck. "We are at war." He reiterated his words in stunned apprehension, hitherto having failed to realize what forthcoming events dictated. "The gods will fall on us like crows upon
the dead."
"Yes, the gods will come: Telacra shall ride the backs of her New Order, and Malbreyth will invade as the first drop of human blood falls. Jaidar will enter through the flames and agony as the slightest threads of chaos sunder our unity; and where Jaidar goes, Enecki soon follows."
Maern searched the dancing flames for comfort, watching as they adopted a myriad of shapes and guises. First, there was a solitary wolf running in place and then its brethren joined it, their heads lifted in the ancient lament they had sung since the first dawn, regaling the moon with tales of heroes dead or forgotten.
The High-Warden continued, "Still, it is not the gods I fear. There are many creatures of darkness stirring in their ancient prisons or holds. Too many long dormant entities are awakening and too many guardians are hearing the call to rise. I fear what will be demanded of them."
He took the vacant seat, offering Maern dark bread and cold mutton while a tea kettle whistled over the fire. The High-Warden took a pair of clay mugs from pegs driven into the walls and poured tea into each. Maern accepted a mug, beginning to murmur his gratitude but fell silent when he noticed the cold iron of the High-Warden's eyes. "Too many entities are testing their strength beneath this veil of artificial peace while others cower in their burrows praying that this breathless tranquility is nothing more than a lapse and not an inhale of preparation." He sighed, "I know too much for peaceful nights or untroubled days, yet far from enough to safeguard us as I would wish. Winsyria recedes; his power is no longer used as it was. Many consider it a weakening, but it is not; a bargain has been struck, and I cannot see its laws." The High-Warden paused, considering his next words. "All paths hence are shadowed; I do not know which road is best." He shrugged, sighing to release more frustration. "I think we are all pawns for now, and until I discover more, we shall remain thus. The question is: Who's controlling us?"
At these last words, a shiver ran through Maern's blood. He leaned back, setting aside his repast and clasping the tea mug for warmth. His mind wandered the roads of queries and doubts, guessing at players he could not conceive.
Hours passed before Maern surfaced from his thoughts. Of the once vibrant fire, only embers glowed in the hearth. Night had fallen outside, calling the Wolf away to its eternal song. The High-Warden stood before the hearth, dressed in flickering light and watching the embers, his bronze eyes veiled with internal shadows.
Maern stood, reaching for his glass sword laid to rest beside his seat. He felt a need within him; a summons from The North, a silent reminder that his labors were incomplete. The derangers patrolled the trackless North, searching for whatever foreign monsters managed to slip past Adriat. They gave little heed to the affairs of kingdoms and empires, of armies or warlords. They guarded the land while lesser men guard their children.
Maern looked to the High-Warden. "You will be needed in Antiark."
"I know, I can hear their pleas whispering, the dead accusing and the living bitter; I cannot help either. I have my own task waiting. When it is done, I will lend my strength to Antiark." The High-Warden stirred the fire, giving himself time to reflect. "I fear that the New Order is a diversion. I fear this war shall reach its wretched fingers into our heartland up to the walls of Antiark. I fear those who call The North home shall trade tranquility for power and tainted gold."
"You speak of the Weshac." Maern donned his sword, preparing for the overdue departure.
"Yes. Their latest pretense of a king is dead. Even if he was not, the laws governing their race are fragile. The New Order will find an easy alliance with the outcasts. Those Weshac hunger for power with which to broker their return and fulfill their long desired revenge."
The High-Warden turned from the embers and walked to a shadowed corner. Extending a hand into the veiling shroud, he removed twin swords. Even after three hundred years, no one had seen them unsheathed or knew their potential. The High-Warden mimicked his blades, existing as a mystery of leashed power and unknown origins.
He inspected the weapons, all the more terrible for their beauty. They belonged to him from a time lost to memory, and, throughout that time, they had rarely seen the light. They were Talwars, as long from pommel to tip as the average man stands. Though they were heavier than a normal man could wield, the High-Warden held them with ease. A full two inches in width at the spine and six inches of blade at the base; the weapons curved, expanding to a near foot before tapering to a point. Maern shivered, a sense of foreboding darkening his heart.
"Will you serve, High-Warden?" This question revealed Maern's purpose: a task given to him by Lord Antiark. The query itself was merely decorum, a petition of the High-Warden in days of war: In the years of peace, none shall have greater power than the High-Warden, though he shall not reign. In times of war, none shall have greater power than the Lord of Antiark, though the Lord of Antiark has no command over the High-Warden unless the High-Warden submits to his commands. This passage declares the High-Warden subordinate to none, unless he submits to Lord Antiark during times of war.
The High-Warden of Winsyria served a single purpose: a guard against the greatest supernatural forces the Mortal Kingdoms harbored. The Lord of Antiark was the sentinel against the mortal tyrants who rise and fall reaping the profits of war. Lord Antiark and the High-Warden existed as the most powerful forces in The North, barring the Winter Court.
"No, Maern, I will not serve." Maern bowed, expecting nothing else after listening to the High-Warden.
"What are the tasks you mentioned?" He queried, intending to convey Lord Antiark's offer of assistance, yet no answer came. The High-Warden, at last, looked up, his eyes cold with fury; a fury that inflamed with every black boot that tread the soil of his home.
"Though already beset, The North is better served by the prevention of any other foe seeking spoils. These are tasks neither the derangers, nor Lord Antiark should interfere with. You still have time, though, so rest, and resume your obligations in the morning. Cherish this peace, for it will be hard to find in the days ahead." The High-Warden gestured to a mattress in another corner.
The deranger hesitated before accepting. His fatigue, masked while he conversed with the High-Warden, returned in full, defying his attempts to ignore it. Wrapping himself in the woolen blankets, he watched through heavy lids as the High-Warden brushed one callused hand across an ornate pommel. Maern closed his eyes, accepting this gift of tranquility and trusting the High-Warden of Winsyria to accomplish the necessary tasks.
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Returning to the fire and pulling the intricate scabbards encasing the Talwars across his shoulders, the High-Warden released a breath. The Talwars knew the hour of their first song neared, the scent of that forthcoming moment lay draped across the air, teasing him with phantom sounds and laden whispers.
He commenced his last preparations for departure, first adding fuel to the hearth, then laying out the last meat and bread for when Maern awoke. Finally, glancing to ensure nothing was displaced, he exited into the wrathful storm.
He could feel The North's wrath swelling up to embrace him. It desired to unleash itself on the intruders, to ravage them until nothing remained. Interlaced with that rage, however, he felt its elemental, instinctive fear, and almost wept for it. The North knew the gods would come with their fire and their oppression, seeking to crush it, to shackle it to their Pantheon, nothing more than a broken wolfhound kept for amusement and display. It was his task to prevent this, to defy the gods.
Feeling their rage reverberating through the earth, he looked toward the Rhawn Mountains, intimidating with their razor peaks and cruel with their storms of ice and snow. To him, their fury deafened the screaming winds, a rage that went unheard by almost anyone else. The earth trembled and the heavens thundered, threatening to split; and they would split, they would shatter if ever he relinquished The North.
His skin prickled, aggravated by the energy latent on the air. The North was gathering its strength. Whether he wished it or not, this land
would destroy itself before yielding to the Pantheon.
The High-Warden, knowing his every stride took him farther down a road of no return, stepped forward. He knew he would never return to this sanctuary, his home for the three hundred years of his Burdening. Turning south, he began his journey to Antiark.
Throughout the eternal memory of immortals, the Rhawn have stood in The North, an impenetrable barrier guarding the land. As he stepped onto their black roots, snaking along and beneath the snow, the winds died, and the ever-shrouding mist engulfed him. The High-Warden greeted the Rhawn Mountains, laying callused hands on the primordial rock. They slept now, dreamless in their protective vigil and wrathful in their slumber. Still, they answered him, rising from their memories at the touch of an old friend. He soothed their troubled thoughts with a whispered promise, calming their dangerous ire.
He journeyed toward the numberless peaks, a twilight surrounding him and mists filling his every stride. Despite his solitude, he was never alone; the Rhawn Mountains always accompanied him. He heard the wind just beyond his reach; saw the trees thrashing in shared fury while their leaves of gold, burgundy, and emerald fluttered helplessly. He completed the journey of weeks in hours; the Rhawn opening crevices for him, and the mist bending distance to hasten his pace until he reached one of the Rhawn's many summits where The North's tapestry opened before him in all its beauty.
Twelve cities rose across the country of men within The North. They began with Adriat where it stood in Winter's Gate, reclining on the banks of the Annuir'Hyme and guarding the only aperture in the Rhawn's perfect continuity. It was the City of War, and the only entrance into The North men dared take because only fools travel the Northern seas.
The High-Warden looked to the four horizons, soliciting knowledge of current events from The North. The wind answered his summons, carrying images of all that transpired. He saw longships with wolf-prows rising and falling over the waves searching for a river flowing inland. He saw a serpent of iron and men slithering across the earth pursued by another of lighter skin. The High-Warden released the wind; the hour grew late. The New Order had succeeded in circumventing Winter's Gate through deception and a sacrifice of hired soldiers. They raced toward Antiark, pursued by Lord Adriat's legions.
The High-Warden of Winsyria allowed himself one last glance, a final farewell to what he relinquished. Then he turned and descended the mountain toward Antiark and the world of men.
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Reviews for Keegan and Tristen Kozinski
For more reviews, please go to Goodreads.com
Lea Sheppard 4 stars......Epic fantasy at its best
The Darkness that Slept immediately plunges the reader into a vast and detailed world where the gods lay their hands directly on the world and war and strife are on the rise. It is rich with background, history and colourful characters spread across many countries. The Kozinskis take the time to build the heroes of their story, allowing time to understand them and their place in the world.
Slade Lammerock is by far my favourite character. He is written with such cheerful abandon and wanton irreverence for all but himself. Followed closely by the whole North storyline.
This is one of those books that takes the time to draw you in but once it does you are thoroughly engaged. By the time I was a third of the way, I was moving to the next chapter excited to find what new aspects of the world would be revealed to me.
Deftly done. Overall, a great story. I recommend it. I look forward to more from these authors.
Tassa Desalada 5 stars for Death’s Backdoor...... This short story is absolutely amazing! It's fascinating, but it's hard to describe since I've never read anything like it. It has to do with the afterworld, and death, and fantasy, and creatures that prey upon human souls. One thing I can say is that it's extremely well written.
Keegan and Tristen Kozinski are real indie authors. They write what's on their mind, and no one will tell them otherwise. This type of situation encourages originality and creativity. This is "Death's Backdoor". I'm keeping a close eye on these authors. This story is that good…
James Field 4 stars...... Nemesis unfolds in the future, where the nasty cousins of Gods reminiscent to those of Norse and Greek mythology once again rule. This is a story about mischievous evil, abomination, war, heroes and anti-heroes.
Tristen Kozinski’s writing is clear, precise, and grammatically correct. This is a quick read, stripped down to bare bones, with much condensed drama lurking beneath declarative sentences. Which is fine, the story is engaging, but results in little opportunity to connect with characters, places and events.
There’s a lot of talent here and Nemesis has given me an apatite to see other work by this author, maybe something more drawn out and substantial.
Angel Leya 5 stars for A Crime of Honor......In an asian-inspired country, High-Prince Surr must make the dangerous journey to the Inner Kingdom to assassinate Emperor Sarizen. The task is difficult, and could cost Surr everything, but if he doesn't accomplish his goal, the Emperor's hatred may cause irreparable damage to the nation.
The author did an excellent job imbuing setting and character in such a short story. You get a sense of the magic that runs through the land (we start out in a burning forest that is never consumed) and the stakes for Surr (as he remembers the promises he made to his family).
The action is reminiscent of Asian movies, like Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragonor The Forbidden Kingdom. An enjoyable short read for fantasy and Asian fiction lovers.
Definitely worth reading! 4 stars The Darkness That Slept......The story, imagination and pacing of this book was excellent. The authors have taken their time in letting the story unfold and allowing us to become acquainted with and invested in the characters and their world. The antics of Slade (often quite humorous and occasionally over the top) act as nice reprieve from the brutal existence of Dieharmon and the South; we can't help but feel for The North and the High-Warden. Though much is revealed of the characters in the first novel, there is still a lot of mystery surrounding them to be untold in the sequel. For the most part, the prose is very-well written. It does on a rare occasion feel a little forced, maybe a little too much. If you enjoy Tolkien, Sanderson, Lawrence, Salvatore, Berg, you will probably like this book. It was definitely worth the read. Tracy . on June 22, 2017~Kobo.com
Coming Soon
The Unlucky Thief
Danielle Kozinski
Black and white, a blue crystal it cradles within.
From the Sunken Moon it came, in the green earth it must
remain.
Kept safe in the hands of a king, kept safe in a living
embrace.
Lost it cannot be, but lost it was.
Male and tall, with horns to hide and teeth to bare, a chief
carries a treacherous hand. Taken, he has.
Taken what he should not.
Found, it cannot be. Not by a force, nor by simply a trusted
friend.
A worthy youth, a Yrithar eager to prove. River born,
marked with floral, difficult to forget.
A nymph belonging to the Sunken Moon, to the dark night, to the
electricity in the sky. You will not find, 'til Uir’s Haven is
breached.
The Two-Hearts Trilogy:
(Fall 2017) The Alistar’s Hearts
Danielle Kozinski
Kaamil is a Two-Hearts, the fabrication of a scientist that transfers the heart of a dead mage into the body of a child to create an entirely new person. He was made to fight for the scientist, a man simply known as the Creator, in his war against the ruling powers. But he is also an Alistar, an individual selected by the gods to fix a problem mankind cannot fix on its own.
After only a few years spent fighting in the Creator’s service, Kaamil is left for dead in the middle of a huge battle. A stranger finds him and hides him in the wreckage of a fallen plane to await the battle’s conclusion. The stranger does not sta
y, but a man who is more attached to Kaamil than believably possible helps him to a sanctuary.
He spends years there learning of two very different worlds, his magic, and everything that he is: a Two-Hearts and an Alistar. Until, one day, his past catches up with him and a group of soldiers from the Creator’s army find their way into the sanctuary. They are just the beginning, however. The time has arrived for him to begin his duties as an Alistar of the Aoine Eingnei.
A Crime of Honor Page 5