Archive for magic

A Halloween Short Story

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on October 20, 2014 by Michael Radcliffe

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Watch your back, its Scarecrow Jack!

The horrible Pumpkin King!

When the frost is new, he’ll come for you,

The terrible Pumpkin King!

With eyes glowing red, you’ll soon be dead,

The dreadful Pumpkin King!

In the cold night air, you will despair,

Beware the Pumpkin King!

Jack trudged through piles of dry leaves that had accumulated on the sidewalks.  It was a chilly fall morning and he was on his way to school after missing the bus.  A pair of older boys had stolen his books again and hidden them in different places around the neighborhood.  It had taken him almost an hour to find them all, and by then he had missed the last bus to school.  It would be the third time this week he was late.  Mr. Perkins, the principal, would be sure to phone his parents again.  Jack’s father had been furious the last time and spent the better part of an hour lecturing Jack about how disappointed he was that his son was a weakling.  Apparently Jack must be doing something to bring this abuse upon himself, or so his father believed.

The boys and girls in his village had always made fun of him, but today had been even worse than usual.  For years he had been teased unmercifully and his father had told him to ‘be a man’ and to ignore the taunts.  No matter how hard he tried though, it still hurt.  He tried to make his heart a stone, to feel no emotion, but it never worked.

Jack had always been small for his size, and his straw colored hair was unruly no matter how hard he tried to tame it, but his eyes were the most unusual of all, for they were an odd golden-orange color.  At fifteen he was thin and lanky and the boys and girls at his school had taken to calling him ‘scarecrow’; once a group of boys had even tied him to a makeshift pole in the farmer’s field of pumpkins.  They had placed a paper crown on his head and taunted him for hours.

“Bow to the Pumpkin King!” They laughed as they threw rotten tomatoes at him and danced around the pole.  “Watch your back, its Scarecrow Jack!  What a loser!”

After the bullies left it had been hours before anyone responded to his cries for help, and he still had scars on his wrists from where the rope had cut into his skin.  The farmer was furious with Jack, warning him to stay out of his fields or he would set the dogs on him.  It didn’t help that the farmer’s son was the ringleader of the group that night.

Jack’s day at school was uneventful, although he was ordered to serve after school detention for arriving late.  His pleas had fallen on deaf ears and Mr. Perkins had spent several tense minutes on the phone with Jack’s father.  His father felt it appropriate that Jack walk home, as punishment for embarrassing his family yet again.

The light was beginning to fade as Jack walked home, and the cool autumn breeze stirred the leaves around him.  The streetlamps began to flicker and come to life and a misty rain began to fall.  As he walked down the lane he shivered; the forest loomed dark on his right, while fields of pumpkins stretched far out of sight on his left.  The wooden split-rail fence was in disrepair, and it was not uncommon for children to take a shortcut through the fields on their way home.  Jack did not want to anger the farmer however, and decided to stay on the main road.

The sound of a twig snapping in the shadows made Jack freeze.  Years of running from bullies had made him wary, and he listened closely for any further sounds.  After a few moments he heard the crunch of footsteps in the leaves.  Jack bolted for the fence, not caring any longer about angering the farmer.  He cleared the fence in a single leap and ran quickly between the rows of pumpkins.  The sun had now set and it was a crisp, cold night, the frost just beginning to form on the leaves and vines in the farmer’s field.  He looked over his shoulder and was terrified to see a pair of glowing red eyes floating in the air twenty paces behind him.

“YOU CAN’T RUN, LITTLE JACK, I’VE COME FOR YOUR SOUL,” bellowed a gruff, disembodied voice that echoed across the field.

Fear surged through Jack and he took off across the field like a scared rabbit.  As he leapt across a small stream that cut through the field, the glowing red eyes stopped their pursuit and fell to the ground.  The sound of laughter could be heard as Billy, the farmer’s son, and three of his friends guffawed at the sight of Jack running across the fields.  They congratulated themselves and decided to go back into town for hot chocolate, leaving their long wooden pole with two red lanterns attached lying in the field.

Jack ran until he could no longer hear any sounds of pursuit, but he was afraid to stop running.  He stumbled onward for what seemed like an hour, tears streaming down his face, and realized he had lost his bearings; he could see nothing but row after row of fat pumpkins.

He staggered onward until finally, exhausted, he collapsed in a heap amongst the giant pumpkins.  He shivered in the cold as he sobbed uncontrollably.  He knew he wasn’t supposed to be in this field – his mother had warned him hundreds of times not to wander this far out from the farm houses.  “The Pumpkin King will catch you and steal your soul,” she used to say.

An old wives’ tale used to scare children into doing as they were told, Jack knew the story was just a myth.  But the sight of the disembodied red eyes had truly scared him.  His heart was still thudding in his chest and his breath was coming in ragged gasps.  He huddled in the midst of a group of pumpkins and decided to hide until he was certain he was safe.

 ***

 The morning dawned cold and foggy, a dense mist covering the fields.  Jack stretched and looked around, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

This part of the field did not look familiar at all, although it had been dark and he had been running for his life.

Where am I?  I was hiding among the pumpkins, but this is open field.

Jack stood up and looked around, and saw a crowd of people in the field not too far away down the hill.  There were a dozen or so of them, including the farmer and his son, gathered in a circle and pointing at something.

“Poor thing,” said a matronly old woman in a thick shawl.  “Must’ve been terrified to die out ‘ere, all alone like that.”

No one paid any attention as Jack walked up to get a better look.  As he drew near, he could see the body of a young boy, probably in his teens, curled up among the pumpkins.  The boy was about Jack’s size and had the same shaggy, straw colored hair.  The frost covering his skin glistened in the early morning sunlight, and as the mist receded, Jack could see his own face looking back at him, the orange colored eyes locked in a vacant stare.

“No!  It’s not me!  I’m not dead!” he said to the old woman, who looked right through him.

“I’M NOT DEAD!” he shouted to the people, but no one heard him.

His anger blossomed and surged out of control, the years of repressed hatred boiling forth in an unstoppable flood as he saw the smirk on Billy’s face.  The people in the crowd began shifting and looking at each other, as if something was very wrong.  The mist around them began to thicken into a cold, dense fog, and the farmers’ dogs began whimpering in fear.

“Not right, I tells ya,” drawled the old farmer.  “Not right som’un dien out ‘ere – it’ll wither the crops!”

“CROPS!?  You’re standing over my body and all you are worried about is your CROPS?”

That was the last straw for Jack.  Without knowing exactly how it happened, he lashed out in anger.  The green vines began to squirm and writhe along the ground like a mass of snakes.  Cracks appeared on the surface of the giant orange pumpkins, small at first, but growing larger, until cruel faces were formed.  Angular slits opened up and glowed a fiery red from within, matching the orange-red glow coming from Jack’s own eyes as he floated into the midst of the crowd.  The crowd didn’t notice that the small frozen body of Jack Thatch had disappeared, melting down among the vines; they were too busy staring in terror at the appearance of fiery red eyes and jagged toothy mouths opening in laughter.  In seconds, what had been a crop of prize winning pumpkins was transformed into a legion of grotesque, orange monsters.

The people screamed in panic as the field around them came alive.  Some tried to run, but green tendrils shot out from the vines and curled around their legs.  The old farmer swung his pitchfork down hard, trying to cut a path to safety, but he was quickly overwhelmed by the vines and was gone from sight in an instant.  Billy had tried to run to safety, but a thick, spikey vine had wrapped around his throat, silencing his scream before it could escape.

After just a few moments, they were all gone.  The evil, grinning faces of the pumpkins receded and soon the field returned to normal.  Only the echoes of the dead remained, whispering on the wind that the Pumpkin King had returned.

 END

“Meet My Main Character” Blog Tour

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on August 3, 2014 by Michael Radcliffe

I’ve been tagged by the very talented author Maria Savva to take part in a blog challenge.

Here are the rules:

I have to write a post answering seven questions about a main character from one of my novels, then I nominate five other authors to answer the same questions about their main characters.

Here’s a link to Maria’s blog where she introduces Nigel Price, the main character from her chilling story, Haunted.

The main character I’ve chosen is Rami, from my novel Touch of Darkness.

Touch of Darkness

1. Tell us a little about this main character. Is he fictional or a historic person?
Rami (pronounced RAHmee) is a fictional Egyptian boy of fifteen.  He serves as an acolyte in the temple of one of the old gods, Set.  He was given to the temple by his parents when he was about five, in exchange for Set’s blessing.  Driven by the memory of his parents abandoning him, he works hard and strives to please Master Ammon, the High Priest.  Highly intelligent and studious, his best friend is Fer’al.

2. When and where is the story set?

The story is set about 4,000 years ago and begins in Sakkara, Egypt, and ends in the country of Ariaca, which is where India is today.

3. What should we know about him?
Rami is tormented by the events he witnessed in my other novel, Rise of the Shadow.  Having been abandoned by his parents, the sense of loss consumes him.  He is furious with those in his past who he believes have placed him in this position.

 

4. What is the main conflict? What messes up his life?
Everything he cared about has been taken from him by others. Having tasted the power of dark magic, he becomes desperate to learn more when he finds a scroll that he believes will lead him to the Libro Mortis, or Book of the Dead.

When he meets Amirah (ahMEERah), the beautiful and cunning daughter of a caravan leader, the two form an unlikely partnership and he finds himself falling in love with her.  As they get to know each other, he is torn between his growing love for Amirah and the temptations of power whispered in his thoughts by the evil wraith trapped in the spirit stone he carries.

 

5. What is his personal goal?
Alone and on the run, Rami seeks revenge against those who have wronged him. He is determined to become a powerful magic user, no matter the cost. These plans become complicated, however, when he falls in love – an emotion he has not experienced since his parents sold him to the temple.

 

6. What are the titles of your novels, and where can we read more about them?

Touch of Darkness is my latest novel, and definitely the darkest.  Although it is a stand-alone book, it draws on the events that took place in Rise of the Shadow, which was book three in my Beyond the Veil series.

The Beyond the Veil novels are:
The Guardian’s Apprentice (2010)

Bloodstone – The Guardian’s Curse (2011)

Rise of the Shadow (2013)

 

I have also written a number of short stories, which include:

 

Tears for Hesh

Scale of a Dragon

Forsaken

The Amaranthine Flask

Legend of the Pumpkin King

Frostbite – The Dragon that Saved Christmas

 

You can read more about them on my website: http://www.michaelradcliffe.com or http://www.theguardiansapprentice.com.  My website also includes a glossary of characters, creatures, places, and magic from the world I have created.

7. When can we expect your next book to be published?

Well, the next book is a collaboration with photographers and other writers.  It is part of the Mind’s Eye Series started by Maria Savva and Darcia Helle – two exceptional authors who I am fortunate to call my friends.  In this series, Darcia and Maria wrote short stories inspired by photographs taken by Martin David Porter, and published Perspectives in April.

They decided to make it into a series of books and invite other authors and photographers.  Book 2 will be called Reflections and will hopefully be published by the end of the year.  It features more stories from Maria and Darcia, as well as poems from Ben Ditmars and Helle Gade, and short stories from Jason McIntyre and me.  The photos in Reflections are by Helle and Martin.

I am very excited to take part in this project, and have provided three stories for the collection, based on the three photographs I received.

 

As to the five authors I am tagging, I will have to upload that later, as I am waiting to hear back to see if they wish to participate.

My Writing Process – Blog Tour

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on March 3, 2014 by Michael Radcliffe

I would like to thank fellow author Maria Savva for inviting me to take part in the ‘My Writing Process’ blog tour.  Maria is an exceptional author, and I would encourage you to check out her works available on Amazon here.

If you have a chance, stop by Maria’s blog here.  Or her website at www.mariasavva.com.

Now, as part of the blog tour, I have been asked to answer the following questions about my writing process (such as it is…) 🙂

1  What am I working on?

Touch of DarknessI have just released my fourth novel, ‘Touch of Darkness’ – the last book in the ‘Beyond the Veil’ series (or at least I think it is…).  ‘Touch of Darkness’ is the story of Rami, a teenage boy who is on the run from his past.  Having been possessed by a shadowwraith, he murdered two innocent people, one of whom was his best friend.  Now, with the spirit of the wraith trapped in a spiritstone, Rami struggles to come to terms with what happened.  He is desperate to find a way to control the spirit and unlock its secrets.  Travelling to the Orient, fate throws him into an unlikely partnership with Amirah, the alluring daughter of a caravan leader.  Fascinated by his dark and mysterious past, she is drawn to Rami like a moth to a flame, and fears for his soul as he slips further into darkness.

2  How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Most of my stories are shorter than contemporary fantasy novels, with my most recent work being about 42,000 words.  My longest novel, ‘The Guardian’s Apprentice’ is about 70,000.  My stories are character driven, and I always strive to create scenes in which the reader can become completely absorbed.

3  Why do I write what I do?

Simple.  I love fantasy.  Fantasy novels were my lifeline – they provided me with an escape from an abusive and unhappy childhood.  On those dark days, I could escape reality and join my friends, like Bilbo Baggins, and John Carter of Mars, who took me to a happier place.  I also love being able to create worlds of my own, where magic rules instead of science, and where anything is possible.

4  How does my writing process work?

I wish I knew.  No, really, I wish I could figure it out!  My muse is fickle, and I may go for weeks at a time without writing a single word.  Then, when I least expect it, inspiration will strike and I will struggle to write everything down before it vanishes from my mind.  Most of my short stories happened that way – an idea hit, and I would write the story in a single setting.  With my novels, I almost always write the last chapter first – or at least shortly after starting the book.  Finally, I do not use outlines very often.  Occasionally, if I have a complicated sub-plot, I will use an outline for the main points, but usually I write by the seat of my pants.  I simply sit at the computer, fire up the music, and let the characters tell their story.

tenderistheknight_02*snort* Dear readers, I can assure you that is NOT how he typically writes his stories.  He will sit and stare at the blank screen for days on end, whining about writer’s block.  If it were not for me, he would never have finished a single story.  While I will concede the man does have an active imagination, even for a human, he knows little about wizards and magic.  And I shudder to think what he would write about dragons if I were not here to guide his hand!

That’s enough, Idris.  You will have to pardon that small outburst – Idris is both my writing partner and muse.  He sits in a place of honor next to my computer, where he oversees my writing and criticizes my dialogue.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a story to write.

Cover Reveal & Excerpt – ‘Touch of Darkness’

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on January 12, 2014 by Michael Radcliffe

Touch of Darkness

‘Touch of Darkness’ – the fourth book in the ‘Beyond the Veil’ world, is now complete and should be published by the end of the month, once final edits are complete.  Below is an excerpt – I hope you enjoy!

Touch of Darkness

The sun was starting to set beneath the horizon as they finally reached the base of the mountains, the tall sandstone cliffs stretching skyward.  The path ended as the ground sloped upward, strewn with large chunks of rock taller than Rami.

“We’ll have to go on foot from here,” said Rami as he dismounted.

The chaser was buzzing impatiently up ahead, near a small path that disappeared up the slope.  Rami knew they were getting close, as the chaser had changed to a dusky red.  When it turned black, like the seeker, they would find their target.  Rami helped Amirah down from the back of the camel, catching her about the waist as she dismounted.  As her feet touched the ground, their eyes locked and he was overcome by her beauty.

“Um… You can let go now, Rami,” she said softly with a smile.

“Oh, um, I…” he stammered as he felt the heat rising in his cheeks.  He quickly looked away and busied himself with untying their packs from the camel.

He was still struggling with a particularly tough knot on one of their packs when suddenly an ear-splitting shriek tore through the air and the ground shook.  The camel’s eyes grew wide with alarm and it bolted, most of their supplies still strapped to its back.

“What the hell was that?” shouted Amirah trying to keep her footing as the ground shook all around them.

Rami had heard that horrible shriek before, and knew it meant only one thing.

“Sandwyrm!” he yelled, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the boulder strewn path.  “Hurry!  We have to reach the rocks before it surfaces!”

“But the camel – our supplies!”

“Leave it!” he yelled, pulling her after him as he ran towards the path.

The rumbling sound was deafening now, and suddenly the sand where they had been standing just moments before erupted violently.  With a horrendous shriek that sounded like tearing metal, a dark brown, scaly creature burst forth.  The beast had the head of a dragon, but where the eyes should be were grown over with scales, and large moveable folds covered the nostrils, flapping open and closed as it breathed.  The head was attached directly to the legless, snakelike body, which was covered in thick armored scales and disappeared into the sand.  Instead of horns or spikes, large fan-shaped scales swept up and back behind its head.  The head moved from side to side and the flaps on its snout moved quickly as if it was searching for a scent.

Amirah screamed as the massive, blind creature surged towards them, drawn to the vibrations from their running down the path.  Rami knew their only hope was to reach the boulder strewn path at the base of the mountain, as sandwyrms could only travel a small distance on hard ground – without legs to support their massive body, they normally ‘swam’ through sand like it was water – a prolonged period on a rocky surface would eventually cause an adult sandwyrm to suffocate under its own weight.  Rami heard a loud hissing sound and a boulder to his left suddenly dissolved into a bubbling mass of green slime as the beast spat a jet of acid.  Rami pulled Amirah ahead of him, pushing her towards the ever steepening path.

“Run!  Head for the boulders at the top of the ridge!” he shouted, pointing her towards safety.

“But…” she stammered, unwilling to leave him as she drew her sword.

“Now!” he yelled as they continued to run.  “Even if you could get close enough, your steel would never cut through its scales!”

With a final shove, he propelled her forward even as he rummaged in the pouch of the satchel slung over his shoulder.  Although sandwyrms where a very distant cousin of dragons, they lacked intelligence and could not use magic.  However their speed and ability to spit deadly jets of acid made them just as dangerous.  As a temple acolyte, he had been taught various charms, hexes and curses, but even the priests were never trained as full wizards, so he could never hope to kill the beast with magic.  His only hope was to distract it long enough to reach safety.   The beast roared again, shaking the ground beneath his feet as another boulder was dissolved by a stream of acid; tiny droplets of the toxic green liquid splashed across his tunic, stinging his skin and causing wisps of smoke to curl up from his clothes.  His hand finally clasped a small orb in his satchel and he pulled it out.  The shiny silver ball sparkled in the desert sunlight as Rami held it close to his mouth and whispered a hex.  As he completed the spell, he turned and hurled the sphere at their camel, which had stopped running once it was a safe distance away.  The silver orb arced through the air, emitting an ear-piercing shriek, causing the pursuing wyrm to stop and rear upward, tilting its scaly head to one side.  As the still whistling ball hit the ground near the camel, it exploded with a deep ‘thud,’ shaking the ground and enveloping the camel in a white fog.  Rami watched the spell took effect as the camel stretched and grew, more than tripling in size as its skin crackled and hardened.  It reared its head and grunted loudly as it took off, its now stone feet shaking the ground as it ran.  Attracted by the much stronger vibrations of the camel, the sandwyrm turned on its new quarry and slithered away, eager to pursue this much larger prey.

Rami sprinted towards the safety of the boulders, running as lightly as he could so as not to attract the sandwyrm.  He scrambled up the pile of loose stones and dove behind the largest rock, landing next to Amirah, who was crouched down watching the receding sandwyrm as it chased the stone camel across the path they had just traveled.

“By the gods, Rami, what did you do?” she asked, her eyes still wide with fear.

Gasping for breath, it took Rami several minutes before he could respond.

“Stonehex,” he panted, his chest hurting from running.

“But the poor camel,” she said as she sheathed her sword.  “It has no hope of outrunning that horrid creature!”

“It was either the camel or us,” snapped Rami, his head beginning to pound from using the curse.  The stonehex spell was a form of dark magic that drew upon the energy of the caster; the spell was one Rami had learned in the restricted section of Master Ammon’s personal library when he was supposed to be cleaning the shelves.  “Besides,” he said as he rubbed his temples, “the camel is now made of granite – it will take the sandwyrm a while to tear it apart.”

“Rami!” gasped Amirah.

“Come on,” he said, ignoring her expression as he adjusted his satchel and dusted off his tunic.  “We’re close now – the chaser is almost black.”

Amirah just stood near the boulder, staring at Rami in disbelief.  He was several steps away when he noticed she was not behind him.  He turned and looked at her, spreading his arms wide.

“What?” he asked angrily.  “We could never outrun a sandwyrm, Amirah.  I had no choice – it was either us or the camel!”

Sheathing her sword in a single, fluid motion, she scowled at him.

“It was a living creature, Rami!  At least show some compassion – or did they not teach you that at the temple?”

Rami sighed and shook his head as she angrily stomped past him up the path.  The priests certainly had not taught him anything about arguing with a female.

*END OF EXCERPT*

Touch of Darkness

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , on May 8, 2013 by Michael Radcliffe

Following is an excerpt from my current work-in-process, a new novel tentatively titled ‘Touch of Darkness’.  My friend and fellow author, Maria Savva, encouraged me to tell the story of Rami, a character from my last novel, ‘Rise of the Shadow.’ Rami is an Egyptian boy of fifteen, who is struggling with his inner demons as he tries to resist the siren call of power.  I hope to have the novel published before the end of this year – I hope you enjoy!

Michael

**Spoiler Alert**  The following excerpt takes place after the events in ‘Rise of the Shadow’ and will give you clues to how that story ended – proceed at your own risk.

 

TOUCH OF DARKNESS

The voice whispered to Rami out of the darkness…

“You killed him…”

“No!” he shouted, trying to spot his accuser in the surrounding inky blackness.  He flailed blindly trying to find something, anything, to grab onto for support.

“He was your friend…”

“But, I couldn’t…” he stammered, tears streaming down his face.

“Murderer…”

“I had no choice!” he screamed, turning in every direction trying to find the voice that taunted him.

“They were innocent…”

“Leave me alone!”

“They died because of you …”

“Who are you?” he shouted.  No one knew he was the one who had murdered old Khafra, the priest, and only one other had seen him kill his best friend, Fer’al.  “It wasn’t me!  I was possessed!” he screamed at the faceless tormentor.  “IT’S NOT MY FAULT!”

He had been possessed by a shadowraith, and was powerless to stop the killings, but worse was the surge of emotion he felt when it happened.  He felt powerful, unstoppable, like he could command the world.  He actually saw the light ebb from his friend’s eyes, and sensed the energy of Fer’al’s spirit as it fled beyond… and he had savored the feeling.  He fled the tomb of Oriannus that night, frightened of what he felt and terrified of what he might become.

There was a sudden flash, and two large, yellow, cat-like eyes appeared before him in the darkness.  Rami stumbled backward, unable to see in the inky blackness.

“You killed them Rami, their blood is on your hands…”

Rami felt something warm and wet dripping from his hands, and he frantically wiped them on his tunic as he continued to stumble blindly, trying to escape the eyes.  He pitched backwards as he felt the stone give way beneath him, and he tumbled into the darkness.  As he fell, the voice dissolved into harsh laughter, echoing all around him.

Then he woke up, screaming.

***

The cool night air drifted in through the half-open flap of the tent, causing Rami to shiver.  He was sitting upright on the small cot, the thin cotton sheet twisted around his limbs from his nocturnal struggle.  Panting, he was bathed in a cold sweat of fear.  In the distance he could hear the bells on the camels clanking softly in the night.  He had been traveling East with the caravan for several weeks now, seeking to put as much distance between him and his past as he could. Not one to socialize, he pitched his tent at the fringe of camp, but he still would have occasional visitors as his traveling companions sought conversation and company.

But that was before the nightmares began.

Several days into the journey, he began having nightmares of being chased through the darkness by someone accusing him of murder.  Someone who knew his secret.  Although the dream always ended with him falling into darkness, he awoke in a greater panic each night.  At first the others had come running to check on him after hearing his screams, but now they stayed away, fearing he was cursed.

He untangled himself from the sheet and lay back down on the cot, breathing deeply and trying to slow his racing heartbeat.  His hand slipped down to his tunic pocket and he breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the smooth surface of the stone hidden there.  He had stolen the spiritstone from the tomb of Oriannus, after the wizard, Keegan Whitestone, had trapped a wraith inside of it.  The wraith had possessed Rami, forcing him to murder two innocent people in an attempt to unleash the malevolent spirit of the Shadow on the world.  A warmth emanated from the stone, pulsing with the energy of the spirit forever trapped within.  Rami focused on the stone, and thought he could hear a distant whisper speaking to him from across the depths.  He heard the sound from the first time he touched the stone, and every time since he thought the whispers grew louder until he could almost make out words.

“Power…”

Rami’s eyes snapped open as he realized the whisper was clearer now.  Had the spirit finally spoken to him?

He pulled the smooth, black stone from his pocket and looked at it closely.  “Who are you?” he asked it, his brow furrowed in concentration.  The stone did not respond, though he could still feel the warmth emanating from somewhere deep within.  For now at least, the wraith was still silent.

“Rami?” came a female voice from the entrance to his tent.

Startled, Rami quickly buried the spiritstone in his pocket.  “Yes?”

A slender arm reached through and parted the flaps to the tent, followed quickly by a young girl dressed in the robes and headdress of a nomad.  Her long, black hair was pulled back into a tight braid that snaked down her back to her waist.  She dressed simply, like the other travelers in the caravan, but the strands of gold thread weaved into her braided hair marked her rank.  Olive skinned, and eyes like the darkest of sapphires, Amirah was a beautiful young woman of sixteen, and she possessed every bit of her father’s head for business.  As the daughter of the caravan’s leader, it was her task to keep records for the trip, including sales and purchases of goods, and a final tally of the profit.  She also inherited her father’s fierce loyalty to family, as well as a fiery temper, though she was loathe to admit it.

She stepped into the tent, a look of concern on her face.  “Are you alright?  I thought I heard you scream.”

Rami swore under his breath.  “I’m fine, Amirah,” he said in an exasperated tone.

Since joining the caravan, Rami felt as if Amirah had adopted him like he was a lost puppy.  He had earned his place in the group when he inadvertently saved her father’s coin purse.  Rami saw the thief as he slipped his hand into the man’s pocket.  Acting on instinct, Rami had uttered a curse that paralyzed the thief and saved her father from losing several hundred gold coins.  In his gratitude, the man had allowed Rami to travel with them to the East.  It was rare for a magic user to travel the trade routes, and Amirah’s father thought Rami’s services might be useful.

“It was the night terrors again, wasn’t it?” she asked, her right hand resting on the hilt of an ornate shamshir.  The wide blade of the curved sword glinted in the light of the wisp overhead, and Rami knew she was not one to be trifled with.

Rami looked at the floor, unwilling to meet her gaze.  She had an effect on him like no other; he respected her strength and cunning as a warrior for her father, but the smell of exotic spices that wafted through the room when she entered made his head swim.  He felt weak when this happened, and vulnerable – two feelings he disliked immensely.  He struggled to focus his mind, choosing his words carefully.

“I will be just fine, Amirah, I just need to put as much distance between me and Sakkara as possible.  The nightmares are from my time at the Temple of Set,” he lied, finally meeting her gaze.

She moved closer and sat on a small stool near Rami’s cot.  At first Rami thought the look on her face was just concern for him, but there was more.  There was a burning curiosity behind those eyes – a yearning for knowledge and a thirst for the unknown.  A child of the caravan, she had grown up with merchants, and the sights of the road had become commonplace.  She killed her first raider when she was ten, and had mastered the sword by the time she was fourteen.

“What did you see there, Rami?  What was so terrible that it would haunt you so?” she asked, her brows furrowed.

“You would not understand,” he said sullenly.  “My parents sold me to the temple in exchange for the blessing of the dark deity, Set; since I was seven I have seen things that would cause the Pharos’s royal guard to flee in terror.”

Amirah frowned as she crossed her arms.  “I want to help, Rami,” she said.  “You’ve been having these nightmares more and more frequently,” she said in an annoyed tone.  “Everyone has heard your screams in the middle of the night.  The other merchants are beginning to think you are cursed.”

“Maybe I am,” he said, his eyes losing focus as his mind drifted back to thoughts of the spiritstone.

“Stop it!” she snapped angrily, rising to pace across the tent.  “Do you think you are the only one who has seen bad things in this life?  I killed a man when I was just ten; he was trying to capture me to sell to the slavers.  It was almost a year before the nightmares finally stopped; you just need a task to focus on,” she said, her index figure only a few inches from his nose.

Rami looked up at her, seeing the look of determination in those deep blue eyes.  “I’m sure you are right,” he said with a sigh, even though he knew she was not.  He had been inhabited by a dark spirit – something that would drive most grown men insane – yet somehow he survived.

Amirah folded her arms and looked down at him with an approving smile.  “Good!  Come to my father’s tent in the morning.  We need to organize and catalogue the last crate of scrolls my father traded for from the library in Sakkara.”

Rami nodded, knowing better than to argue with her.  She smiled and turned to go, stifling a yawn with her fist.

“Now try to get some sleep.  We break camp tomorrow to continue eastward,” she said as she bent down and stepped out of the tent and into the night.

Rami fell back onto his cot and snapped his fingers, extinguished the pale wisp hovering near the ceiling, and waited for the nightmares to return.

***

 

Never Argue with a Dragon

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on April 27, 2013 by Michael Radcliffe

I really thought I had ended the ‘Beyond the Veil’ series when I wrote book three, ‘Rise of the Shadow.’ 
Book Cover 2

Little did I know, however, that one of the characters in that book would demand to have his story told.  I resisted the idea at first, as I thought I had wrapped up the series – all loose ends nicely wrapped up, thank you very much.  But Rami, the fifteen year-old Egyptian boy serving as an acolyte in the Temple of Set had other plans.

You see, when I refused to listen to him rattling around in my head, he went behind my back.  That’s right, he started talking to Idris.  If you have visited my blog or website, you know that Idris is my writing partner.  I freed him from captivity at the Medieval Times gift shop and he now sits perched on my desk, overseeing my writing.

Tender is the KnightIdris, like most dragons, is extremely well-read and believes himself to be an authority on most topics – especially writing fantasy novels.  He frequently criticizes my dialogue, and when I try to ignore him I am rewarded with singed fingertips.  Mercurial on his best days, he is not always helpful.  One recent discussion went something like this:

“What do you think I should write next?” I asked.

“What do you want to write next?” was his caustic reply.

“You’re not helping, Idris,” I responded testily.  “I need an idea for a new story.

“Hmph,” he snorted, blowing smoke rings in my face.  “Think of your own ideas, human.

Realizing he was in a *mood* I dropped the subject and decided to await inspiration.  That is when Rami started whispering inside my imagination.  He thought the world should hear his story – about what happened after the events in ‘Rise of the Shadow.’

I wasn’t so sure.  So, I did what any good writer would do, and ignored him, hoping my rather fickle muse would find inspiration elsewhere.  The next time I sat down at the computer however, Idris decided to chime in.

“Your next story shall be about Rami,” he said in a matter of fact tone.

“What?”  I replied incredulously.  “No, absolutely not.  I want to write something… different.”

“His story needs to be told,” he responded icily.  “You have started him down a dark path, and it needs resolution.”

“But…”

“You heard me.”

*sigh*  “Fine.”

And so, not one to argue with one as wise as Idris [he made me write that…], I am now about 7,000 words into what is becoming a new novel focused on Rami.

Several new characters have been introduced, including Amirah, the sixteen year-old daughter of a caravan leader.  She is a fierce warrior with a head for business, having been raised by her father on the trade routes to the east.  She is accompanied by her bodyguard, a burly, foul-tempered hobgoblin named Halvar.  Readers will also get to see more of the dragon Shai’tan, or ‘Firestorm’ as he is known among humans, who was first introduced in the short story ‘The Amaranthine Flask.’

I’ve no idea how long it will be, or even how it will end.  I’m just letting the story take me along.

Michael

The Amaranthine Flask

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on March 10, 2013 by Michael Radcliffe

A friend and fellow author, Maria Savva, was beta-reading ‘Rise of the Shadow’ for me and suggested the name ‘amaranthine flask’ for a magical object in the story.  While I didn’t use her suggestion for that item, I absolutely loved the term and could not let it go unused.  Following is an excerpt from my newest short story, ‘The Amaranthine Flask’:

Amaranthine Flask CoverCapture

 

Khamsin stood on the edge of the flat tower roof, looking out across the sun baked city of Sakkara.  She shielded her eyes against the harsh noonday sun as she scanned the horizon.

Where is that damn dragon?  I summoned him twenty minutes ago!

She pounded her fist against the rough, sandstone parapet as she fumed in anger.  Although she was well over three hundred years old, she appeared to be in her early fifties, her long black hair streaked with gray.  Harsh lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, the product of years of scowling, had defied her attempts to erase them.  A fiendishly beautiful woman in her youth, she was also a powerful dark witch, and not one to be trifled with.

She paced back and forth, her jet black robes shimmering in the sunlight as she waited for the dragon to answer her call.  As she passed the small window set into the stone wall of the minaret that rose even higher above the tower, she saw her reflection, her hand tracing the lines and creases along her cheek with her fingers.

I will finally win this battle once and for all…

***

The bright sun glinted off the giant golden dragon’s scales as he glided over the hot sands of the desert outside Sakkara, Egypt.  The warmth radiated throughout his body and reveled in the energy coursing through his veins.  Tucking his wings close to his sides, he dove downward at a steep angle, a smile of satisfaction crossing his toothy face as thunder echoed around him when he broke the sound barrier.  At the last possible moment, he spread his great wings and leveled out, causing a fierce sandstorm to flare into existence as it chased his trail across the dunes.  He tore across the sky leaving destruction in his wake, as the hot winds and static discharge of his passing toppled several small buildings on the outskirts of the city.  He slowed as he reached the protective wall of the city, knowing he would invoke the wrath of the temple priests if he created too much havoc.  Shai’tan, or ‘Firestorm’ as the humans called him, was late.  His mistress had summoned him, and though he loathed to be in her service, he had no choice but to appear as she had enslaved him when he was but a hatchling.  Shai’tan’s egg had been stolen from the nest by a raider, who then sold it on the black market.  The egg had passed through the hands of several merchants until Khamsin became aware of its presence in Sakkara.  Knowing how valuable a dragon would be, she had quickly acquired the egg and proceeded to hatch it.

His mistress, or “Mother Khamsin,” as he knew her, was the first sight Shai’tan remembered.  To ensure his loyalty, she placed a silver chain around his neck laced with wards that made him susceptible to her magic.  A shock that would normally be deflected by his thick scales was instead magnified, so as to cause him great pain.

She ruled Sakkara and the surrounding area, and was feared by all for her cold, ruthless grip on power.  The city had descended into chaos after the murder of old Khafra, the temple priest of the god Horus.  He had been killed at the altar in the temple of the god Set, the sworn enemy of Horus.  Although Master Ammon, the high priest of Set, had vowed to find Khafra’s killer, he never had, and many began to whisper that Ammon himself had slain the old man.  As the accusations grew, an undeclared war erupted between the temples of Set and Horus.  In the anarchy that followed, Shai’tan’s mistress rose to power, quickly undermining or killing those who opposed her.

He banked to the right and climbed slightly as her tower in the center of town came into view.  Originally built for one of the pharaohs, the delicate spire rose high above Sakkara, giving the occupant a stunning view.  The tower was built on an artificial island in the Nile River, which snaked through the middle of the city.  Shai’tan could see his mistress pacing at the top of the tower as he gave a powerful downward flap of his leathery wings and shot skyward.  He spiraled upward around the tower and turned sharply as he spread his wings and settled skillfully in the middle of the tower’s flat roof.

Khamsin glared as she walked towards the dragon, his bulk dwarfing her as she approached.  He lowered his head, bowing down before her in a sign of respect, or at least acquiescence.  She had raised him from a hatchling, teaching him magic and the ways of wizards, but never showing him affection or even respect.  Quick to anger, she had a sharp tongue and was unforgiving if he made a mistake.  He often wondered what it would be like to be free of her overbearing will, but the thick silver chain around his neck ensured he would never stray too far.

“Where have you been?” she asked angrily.  “I summoned you over twenty minutes ago!”

“I am sorry, Mother Khamsin,” he rumbled, staring at the stones beneath her feet.  “I came as quickly as I could when you summoned me.  I was far out in the desert, hunting…”

“Bah!” she snapped, cutting him off before he could finish. “Spare me your excuses, Firestorm,” she said, using his human nickname which she knew he hated.  She snapped her fingers and a violent shock coursed through the silver chain hanging around his neck.  He winced slightly, but had learned long ago not to cry out no matter how bad the pain.

“I raised you from an egg, and this is how you repay me.  Have I not trained you well?  Have I not taught you magic and educated you in the ways of wizards?”

“Yes, Mother Khamsin,” Shai’tan said respectfully.  “You have trained me well, and I owe you my life.”

“Hmph!” she snorted, as she crossed her arms.  “Then stop cowering before me and stand tall!  I have a task for my brave dragon.”

Shai’tan obediently rose and sat with his tail wrapped around him, like some giant housecat, tendrils of smoke curling from his nostrils.  Khamsin crossed her arms and looked off into the distance to the East.

“Have you ever heard of the old wizard, Kronos?” she asked.

The dragon nodded his great horned head.  He had indeed heard of the old wizard – a hermit that lived alone in his castle, forsaking the company of others for his books and potions.  No one had seen him in over a hundred years.  “I have, Mother Khamsin, but surely he does not still exist?”

“Oh, but he does, my pet,” she said quietly with a smile as she turned to face him.  “And you are going to find him.  His tower is located five hundred leagues to the East, high in the mountains.”

Shai’tan looked down at the witch, so small and seemingly insignificant before him, yet so powerful with her control of the dark arts.  It would be such a simple task to crush her beneath his talons, or incinerate her with his flame.

No, I cannot harm the one who has raised me from a hatchling…

He was jolted from his thoughts as she snapped her fingers again and sent another powerful shock through his chain.

Pay attention you dolt!” she barked.

“Forgive me, my Mistress,” he said as he bowed his head.

“That’s better. Now, I want you to fly to the wizard’s castle and fetch me a potion.”

“A potion?”

The witch raised her hand, causing the dragon to wince involuntarily.  “Yes, a potion.  I want you to acquire the Amaranthine Flask for me.”

“And the price you are willing to pay, Mistress?”

She turned and walked over to the parapet again, gazing into the distance.  “Oh, I doubt he will sell it to you,” she said simply.  “The Flask has been sought by many over the centuries, and yet all who seek it are refused.  You see it will not only restore the beauty of my youth, once restored my youth will never fade.  I shall be eternally young and beautiful; no longer will I have to bear the thought of an old woman’s face looking back at me from the mirror.”

Puzzled, Shai’tan carefully walked up behind the witch and looked down at her.  “And if he refuses your request for the Amaranthine Flask?”

“Kill him.”

***

[end of excerpt]

“The Amaranthine Flask” – a short story for 99¢ – is available on Amazon here.