Cadman's Gambit

by D. P. Prior

  Another creature darted from the aperture, mandibles clacking like shears. Silas’ heart thumped in his chest as scores more poured forth and scuttled towards them.

  “Ants,” he said with as much awe as fear.

  Nils was looking frantically to left and right but there was nowhere to run. Silas put a calming hand on his shoulder.

  “Let’s just hope the stories are true this time,” he said. “For if there are giant ants, maybe there’s also an ant-man to command them.”

  The ants were so close that Silas could hear the clicking of their mandibles. They stopped mere inches away, their antennae twitching, front legs pawing the air. Nils was trembling so much Silas thought the lad was going to faint.

  Behind the wall of ants, two men approached. Moonlight glinted from the blades of twin daggers the smaller man carried. The other, a big man with a hooked nose, brandished a long knife and swished a net before him. The ants parted to let them through and the small man spoke.

  “Trying to sneak in under cover of darkness?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Silas in his most innocent voice.

  “Shut it!” the man snarled. “We ain’t stupid here, whatever you civilised types might reckon. And we ain’t rude neither, are we Venn?”

  The man with the net flashed a crooked smile.

  “No, we’re most hospitable, Carl. That’s why we came to greet you.”

  Silas didn’t like the look in Venn’s eyes: it was calculating and full of threat, like a crocodile poking its head above the surface of a swamp. He reached into the depths of his mind clutching for some strand of magic he could use.

  “You the Ant-Man?” Nils asked in a tremulous voice.

  Carl laughed, a ghastly guttural sound.

  “No, I ain’t the Ant-Man, boy, and neither’s Venn here.”

  Silas closed in on a black misty thread at the edges of his awareness and let its puissance start to blossom.

  “That,” said Carl, turning to look over his shoulder, “is the Ant-Man.”

  Silas froze at the sight lumbering towards them. He hardly noticed the burgeoning magic slip from his grasp and disperse back into emptiness.

  A hulking man lurched past Venn and Carl. Only it wasn’t a man. It stood on legs that bent backwards, with spines jutting from the shins. The torso was a thick carapace like a black breastplate, and the cuneate head was dominated by the same saucer-like eyes and clacking mandibles the ants had. Knotted muscular arms—human arms—folded over the chitinous chest.

  “Shent?” Silas whispered.

  With a rush of air Venn’s net smothered Silas and something heavy crashed into his skull. As he was buried in blackness he heard pleading, as if it came from a fading dream.

  “Please! I brought him to you. I’m your friend.”

  Nils, thought Silas as awareness left him. You little—

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  MORE GREAT INDIE FANTASY

  The Sword and the Dragon

  by M. R. Mathias

  Overall The Sword and the Dragon (A+) is an impressive debut—a traditional fantasy that manages to be fresh. It succeeds in offering a complete reading experience. -- Fantasy Book Critic

  This is an epic fantasy, and I do mean epic… A fat fantasy, the kind you would expect from a Jordan or Tad Williams. Overall, I recommend this book to anyone wanting a solid, traditional fantasy read. -- B. V. Larson, Bestselling author of MECH

  This book is a monster and not just in size. M. R. Mathias has managed to do something extremely difficult in the fantasy genre - create something new and unique. Well written and compelling it literally turns the pages itself. I would compare this to Lord of the Rings except that LOTR couldn’t hold my interest like this book. Mathias’ characters are rich and well developed, the story flows easily and the reader is lost in the incredible world that’s been created. If you like fantasy then you will absolutely love this book. I cannot wait for the sequel. --Tracey Alley, author of The Witch Wars trilogy

  Like any good epic novel, the author creates an entire world slowly and carefully through the actions of its characters. I was drawn in, and still don’t want to let go! -- Christopher Dyer

  An Indie treat. I’m looking forward to see what M.R. Mathias writes next. -- Vaughn Heppner, author of The Outlaw Knight, Star Soldier, and Bio Weapon

  Fans of Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis, will find much to enjoy in M.R. Mathias’ debut fantasy novel, The Sword and the Dragon (Book 1 of a trilogy). Starting with a mountain-side harvest of hawk eggs, the reader is then taken on an epic adventure through the Mainland Kingdom, encountering on the trek clansmen, a Lion Lord, lizards, serpents, elves, witches, a giant called Borg, a giantess called Berda, a bald-headed wizard called Pael, monsters and magic, kings and queens, lords and ladies, and many others, along with a great mix of campfire legends, swords and sorcery, and exhilarating battles. This is a big book on a grand scale, but don’t let the fact that it’s a long story put you off. It is also a fast read with a steady flow throughout. Read this book, take up your sword and get ready for a hugely enjoyably adventure. -- John Walker, author of Wrath and Remembrance, Hitting Back, God’s Soldiers, Blood and Water

  An excerpt from

  Chapter 5

  After he whistled for the fourth time, he thought he heard the horse in the distance, snorting its disapproval at something. He quickened his pace and noticed the trees were thinning somewhat. The sound came again, and this time he was sure that it was Windfoot.

  The forest eventually gave way to a sizable clearing. On the far side of it across the lush, green, flower filled expanse, was a pond. Not too far from the water was Windfoot. His reins were tangled in a shrub. The poor horse wanted to drink desperately and was fighting the plant with all he had. It seemed to Mikahl the bush was winning. As he approached the disgruntled animal, he saw the King’s blade still tied securely to the saddle, and a tidal wave of relief washed over him.

  The packhorse whinnied and stomped. It was glad to see its companion again. Windfoot gave a frustrated snort of acknowledgement in return. Soon, Mikahl had them picketed side by side at the ponds edge, where they took to drinking and grazing contentedly.

  The glade was full of life. Insects buzzed by busily and the birds sang, calling out to one another. Mikahl saw a rabbit tearing across the tree line as it fled some invisible predator, and by the variety and quantity of tracks pressed in the mud by the water’s edge, he knew this was a popular watering hole. It was a beautiful and peaceful place, and Mikahl decided to rest here for awhile.

  He washed himself in the pond. He was sure that, save for the battles at Coldfrost, he had never seen so much blood in all his life. He was glad to see it all slide away from his clothes and skin. When he was done, he laid his things out to dry in the warm evening sun, then went about getting the dried blood out of his chain mail shirt with an oil cloth. When that task was done, he took his dagger and tore the fancy, embroidered Westland lion from his saddle. It was slow work. The emblem had been carefully sewn with tiny wire threads that had been painted with enamel. The saddle was a gift from King Balton on Mikahl’s most recent birthday, and defacing it brought a tear to his eye. Since his tunic also bore the kingdom’s lion insignia, he sank it in the pond. He simply tied a fist sized stone to it, and threw it out into the middle of the water. From now on, he would have to try to blend in with the common folk. Anything that connected him to the King or the kingdom would only draw the wrong sort of attention. He stood there a long while, watching the rings that the splashing bundle created in the pond grow larger.

  Suddenly, he realized the forest had gone deathly quiet. He looked around, turning a slow circle, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He told himself it was only the sound his tunic had made when it splashed into the water, but he knew it wasn’t true. Just to be safe, he pulled his damp britches back on and took his sword from Windfoot’s saddle. After slipping the chain mail back over his head, he buck
led his sword belt around his waist, and began quietly unpacking his longbow. He had just gotten the longbow strung when a loud crash of breaking branches and undergrowth came from out in the forest off to his right. The sound was huge and heavy, like a big tree being torn apart. Whatever caused it must have been enormous.

  Mikahl’s heart was racing. He had heard tales of dragon’s, trolls, and bloodthirsty flying swamp dactyls. He had listened to campfire stories about night stalkers, orcs, and giant snakes, but he had never seen any of them. He didn’t have to remind himself that he was no longer in the Northwood outside of Lakeside Castle. This was the Reyhall Forest, where the monsters of all those campfire stories originated. What kind of creatures truly dwelt here, he had no idea, and even though the Royal Huntsman once told him all those monster stories were just tales told to keep curious young boys from wandering off, Mikahl found he was more than a little afraid. By the way Windfoot and the packhorse were snorting and stomping around him, he could tell they were afraid too.

  A flash of movement from across the pond caught his eye, but it was fleeting. Another massive crack of timber came from the right. The screeching calls of a thousand angry, unseated birds came with it. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. He took the reins of the horses and began leading them away from the pond, to the side of the clearing opposite the approaching noise. He tried not to look back, but couldn’t help himself. The ruckus was becoming a constant, cracking, grinding crush accompanied by a strange hissing sound. He saw nothing at first, but then something happened that staggered him.

  A single tree, one a little taller than the others around it, suddenly shook violently, sending loose leaves and birds scattering. It was back in the forest from the clearing, but only a short distance. Above the thrashing treetop, the halo of displaced birds flew in ragged, angry circles, each and every one of them sounding their displeasure. Mikahl couldn’t even begin to imagine what could cause a tree to jolt and shake in such a sudden way. The tree shook again, and the ground might have shook with it, but this time a long, slithery roar accompanied the violence.

  Mikahl could look no longer. He and the horses were still in the open clearing. He wanted to get into the forest quickly, so he swung himself up into Windfoot’s saddle and healed his mount into a gallop. The frightened packhorse jumped the other direction, yanking the reins from Mikahl’s hand. He would’ve chased the animal, but the closing sound of crashing trees and a great splash sent Windfoot tearing off into the woods on his own head. Mikahl was nearly flipped backwards out of the saddle. Branches ripped at his chest and shoulders, and tore at his face as he struggled to right himself. He was almost beheaded by a low hanging limb, but somehow he managed to slow, then turn his terrified horse.

  The pond’s surface was churning. Ripples broke like knee high waves in several directions. Not sure he was seeing properly, Mikahl wiped his eyes and looked again. On the far side of the pond, there was a tree trunk freshly stripped of its limbs. It was sliding across the ground towards the water of its own accord. Clumps of fresh dirt still fell from its root cluster. Brush, debris, and pieces of other smaller trees were tangled in the jagged stubs where its own limbs had just been torn away. When it was just a few paces from the water’s edge, the trunk stopped moving completely.

  Mikahl patted Windfoot to reassure him, but he wasn’t sure of anything himself. He urged the horse forward a little bit, so they were still in the trees but could see the majority of the clearing. The pond’s surface stilled and the birds were returning to their roosts in the nearby trees. The packhorse was trotting aimlessly in an arcing circle. If it weren’t so close to the water, Mikahl thought he might try to chance going after it. Instead, he started whistling and calling for the animal from where he was.

  His eyes were eventually drawn to the strangest thing. A tree, or log, was slowly breaking the surface of the pond. It was rising up, end-wise, like a pillar. As with the trunk still lying by the water’s edge, it was stripped of all its limbs. It was rising up so slowly, that it made no ripples whatsoever on the surface of the pond. It was like some giant prayer totem, slowly thrusting itself up to the gods. Two small branches began lifting up from its sides. At the end of each branch, was a cluster of smaller limbs that looked like claws. Mikahl rubbed his eyes and blinked. They were claws. The thing was sticking up out of the water nearly twenty feet now. Before Mikahl could discern any more detail, it dove with viper-like speed out into the clearing and at the unsuspecting pack horse as it came back around toward the water.

  The tree trunk lying on the shore jerked forward with the huge creature’s lurch. Mikahl realized that the monster was somehow leashed to it when, like a dog hitting the end of its tether, its jaws snapped shut just short of its target. A great, pink maw slowly opened up, revealing rows of finger long pointed teeth. Then, a flickering, forked tongue shot forth, but the pack horse managed to buck and leap out of its way. The creature wasn’t finished though. It hissed and lashed its tongue out again. This time, its tongue wrapped around the horse’s neck. The packhorse reared, twisted, and tried to get away, but it was no use. The giant lizard-like monster was already pulling it towards its slavering mouth.

  Without even stopping to think about what he was doing, Mikahl drew his sword, and spurred Windfoot out into the clearing at a full gallop.

  an excerpt from...

  The Black God’s War

  by Moses Siregar III

  Chapter One: Sing Muse, of Hades and Light

  In the Kingdom of Rezzia, inside the highest chamber of the grand minaret, ten-year-old Lucia looked out to see her father, King Vieri, on the balcony. He lifted her newborn brother high above his head, and the masses, hundreds of feet below, roared with devotion.

  Father, what are you doing! she thought. Be more careful with our savior.

  Lucia glanced down at her mother resting in the birthing pool. The queen’s black hair clung to her neck, all of it soaked by the holy waters.

  “You did it, Mother!”

  Kindness brightened her mother’s face. “Thank the gods, dear. You have a brother now. A very special brother. Go, join your father and wave to the crowd.”

  “You stay here and rest. I’ll wave to them on your behalf.”

  Her mother laughed. “Thank you, Lucia. That sounds perfect.”

  Lucia crept toward the archway leading to the balcony, which wrapped around the circular chamber. She squinted, fighting the midday sun. Tears soaked her father’s cheeks as he presented the pink baby to the faithful. Nature had tattooed thorny red and black vines on little Caio’s hands and forearms: the holy markings of the Haissem.

  As she gazed at Caio, a spiritual energy filled her body with peace and warmth. Her spirit soared. The teachings are coming true! A Haissem had come again, to rescue all the world. Her brother would conquer Rezzia’s foes and bring the gods’ light to everyone.

  Lucia skipped forward to participate in the royal scene. She looked down at tens of thousands of pilgrims in their cream robes and felt dizzy. The clay-white acropolis of the holy city sprawled across the desert plateau: massive domed structures, spiraling minarets, and temples of the ten gods supported by grand columns.

  She clutched her father’s ceremonial cremos robe to steady herself. The fabric was bloodied; he had obeyed the scriptural commandment for Rezzia’s king to oversee the birth of his own Haissem son. She felt so lucky, knowing every Rezzian alive would love to be in her place, touching the king’s garments and the words of divine power stitched into them.

  Her father pressed the baby against his chest, and pushed Lucia backward with his free hand. He raised up baby Caio and beamed his joy again.

  The rejection shattered Lucia’s bliss.

  Her father’s face, with his heavy brown eyes and his perfectly trimmed beard, always showed his serious nature. But as he admired the baby—so high above the masses—he transformed, positively euphoric. He looked at Caio with such true love, a look Lucia had never, ever seen before.

&
nbsp; Lucia’s vision darted from her father to her brother and back again. Your love for me is a lie. She dropped her head and long vermilion hair fell around her face. She wouldn’t cry. Not then. Not in front of him.

  The crowd’s chanting grew louder and louder. They cried out in the old tongue, we love and adore him!

  “Havah ilz avah Haissem!”

  “Havah ilz avah Haissem!”

  “Havah ilz avah Haissem!”

  Their hypnotic praying gave direction and clarity to her pummeled heart. The truth struck her as she watched the red-faced babe glowing against the sky: Her brother was divine. According to the warpriests’ teachings, it had been hundreds of years since a Haissem graced the kingdom with his holy presence. They said Caio would possess spiritual gifts beyond compare, including the ultimate proof of his godliness: He would be able to resurrect one person from death during his lifetime.

  I don’t matter anymore. Her royal duty would be pure devotion to him. As his only sibling, she would always be there to provide whatever he needed. All of her divinely given powers from the goddess Ysa would serve him alone.

  A deep voice rumbled from inside the chamber, startling her. “My dearest Lucia.”

  The man’s tone upset her stomach. “Sweet Lucia, come see your mother.”

  She turned, tugged on her father’s robe and pointed into the sacred chamber. “There’s a man in there!”

  The chanting of the crowd grew louder. Her father pushed her away, harder this time.

  “There’s a man in there!” Lucia stomped one of her feet and swung her fists through the air.

  Her father ignored her again. She crept closer and peeked inside. A colossal man stood behind the now much bloodier waters of the birthing pool, looming above her mother. The black of his bald head and muscular arms was as dark as the leather he wore from his shoulders to his thighs. A single orange teardrop decorated the skin beneath his left eye. She recognized the face from scriptural stories: The Black One, the god Lord Danato.