#3 THE FIVE KINGDOMS

Think Game of Thrones meets Fifty Shades…

In the turmoil following an attempted coup, all young King Marten wants, is to establish himself as a wise and fair ruler.

Having a dark secret to hide isn’t helping, nor are the assassins trying to kill him.

And now a new threat is rising—the reborn cult of a god with terrifying powers…

Can Marten survive long enough to save his kingdom?

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“Read all 3 in 3 days. Great series. When’s the next book coming out? I hated for it to end. The epilogue is such a tease.”

“As with the previous books in the series, the characters are deftly drawn, the world building exceptional, and the plot intricate.” 

“The books in this series get better and better, unpredictable, captivating and very well written!”

Excerpt #1

With a twist, the two halves of the box separated. He placed them both on the table and stared at the thing inside. It lay coiled like a snake about to strike. Metallic reds and greens shimmered in waves along its ridged surface, making it hard to discern if it moved, or not. A faint smell, like burning incense, slithered down Marten’s throat.

Beads of sweat oozed onto his forehead. Sucking in a quick breath for courage, he reached into the casket and curled his fingers around the talisman. He lifted it out of the box. It felt heavy in his hand—far heavier than it should, for its size. And unexpectedly warm.

Raising it to eye level, he turned it over, studying the patterns that rippled across the strange substance. A tiny pinprick of ruby snared his attention, and his breath stopped as he met the glaring eye.

With a curse, Marten tried to drop the thing back into the box, but it was stuck to his hand.

No, it was clinging there, tiny claws piercing his skin as he sought with rising panic to shake it loose. He grabbed a knife from his belt and attempted to pry it away, but it clutched even tighter, little droplets of blood forming around each needle-sharp talon.

“Help me!” Marten hollered. His cry shrilled through the empty chamber, yet bounced back as though it hit an invisible wall. No help came.

A miniature tongue darted out of the lizard-thing’s mouth, lapping at his blood. A tail unfurled from where it had lain hidden, coiled around the creature, to arch above its head like a scorpion. And like a scorpion, it struck, the barbed point slashing through Marten’s sleeve, half way between wrist and elbow.

He screamed as the white-hot tip lanced his skin and burrowed into his forearm. The creature’s metallic body pulsed in time with the blood pumping through his arteries, and lethargy spread outward from the invading spike.

Marten’s mind filled with images of bloody war; of helpless victims crushed beneath an onslaught of obscene, twisted creatures, straight from Charin’s hell. Victims fell in charred and gory heaps, limbs torn off, eyes gouged out, entrails scattered like tangled ropes on an abandoned ship. The air shimmered with their mortal screams, and yet to Marten’s horror, he felt only exultation, wallowing in the pain and trauma that flooded through him, thirsty for more.

Heat caressed his back, soft as a lover, terrifying as an assassin. He could not, would not, look round to see what he could sense easing into being behind him with a whisper of scales and the stench of molten metal. Unseen wings fanned scorching air around him, searing his lungs.

Summoning what strength remained to him, Marten raised his knife and stabbed at the thing cleaving to his hand, but the blade bounced off the articulated carapace. There was only one thing left he could think of to try.

Marten drove his knife into his own arm, slicing after the metallic lance worming its way into his body. The sharp pain cleared his head, forcing the terrible images to recede. Moaning in anguish, he screwed up his face and jabbed hard. The knife point slid beneath the awful appendage, and he levered it back up and out of the gory hole in his flesh.

He dropped the knife and grabbed the lashing tail behind its spiked tip before it could strike again. He smashed the thing against the table, but its body was so hard he only jarred his shoulder and the agonising mess of his injured arm. He clung on to the menacing tail, but fear leached his remaining strength, and he knew his grip would fail soon.

Excerpt #2

Dappled light filtered through the branches overhead, providing a respite from the bright afternoon sun. Rustam swayed from side to side in his saddle, absorbing the exaggerated swing of Fleetfoot’s movement as his horse negotiated the steep downward incline. Thick pine needles crushed beneath the animal’s hooves muffled the sound of their passage and gifted the air with a clean aromatic scent.

A facetious notion occurred to Rustam. If there’s anyone out here, they likely won’t hear us coming, but they may well smell us before they see us.

Alongside him, one of Greylegs’ hind feet slipped. The horse executed an abrupt halt, jolting Risada forward onto his neck. She righted herself with a wince, followed by a quick scowl.

Rustam smothered his sigh before it escaped his lips.

“You do understand caris dew isn’t a cure?” he said. “It provides an energy boost to speed the healing process; it’s not an instant remedy.”

The affronted glare his companion turned on him was almost worthy of the old Risada. “You think I wasn’t listening?”

“I think you were hoping for a miracle. Was I wrong?”

“Hmph!” She patted Greylegs on the neck and urged him back into motion, sticking to the middle of the trail and forcing Rustam to follow in single file. “You have no idea how much you sound like your father,” she shot over her shoulder.

“I do?” a sad, half smile tugged at the corners of Rustam’s mouth as Fleetfoot ambled along behind the grey gelding. “I suppose I do. I’d all but forgotten how infuriatingly correct he always was.”

“Oh, and don’t forget modest. You share that trait too.”