Coming in October - Wings!

Coming in October 2017:

Floreskand: Wings

Floreskand, where myth, mystery and magic reign.

The sky above the city of Lornwater darkens as thousands of red tellars, the magnificent birds of the Overlord, wing their way towards Arisa.

Ulran discovers he must get to Arisa within seventy days and unlock the secret of the scheduled rites. He is joined in his quest by the ascetic Cobrora Fhord, who harbours a secret or two, and also the mighty warrior Courdour Alomar, who has his own reasons for going to Arisa. They learn more about each other – whether it’s the strange link Ulran has with the red tellar Scalrin, the lost love of Alomar, or the superstitious heart of Cobrora.

Plagued by assassins, forces of nature and magic, they cross the plains of Floreskand, combat Baronculer hordes, scale snow-clad Sonalume Mountains and penetrate the dark heart of Arisa. Here they uncover truth, evil and find pain and death.

“A fast-paced fantasy adventure as an innkeeper, a city dweller full of surprises, and a long-lived warrior, join forces in a race against time. Their quest is to save the red tellars, the giant birds, which are the wings of the overlord. Along the way even the weather becomes a powerful adversary and the three are tested almost beyond endurance. Tensions and evocative language keep the reader turning the pages to the very end!”- Anne E. Summers, author of The Singing Mountain

An expansive and well thought story, a must-read for lovers of magic and military fantasy. - Kate Marie Collins, best-selling author of Daughter of Hauk, Mark of the Successor and Son of Corse

Praise for Floreskand: Wings

This story has a complex yet well-structured plot presented in a relaxed writing style which easily draws the reader into an alien landscape whose topography, vegetation and inhabitants are described in almost affectionate detail… twists and turns in the presentation of the plot expand the telling of the tale and there are many duly woven into the pattern to enrich and excite the reader. The journey through the Sonalume Mountains has a strong element of authenticity to it, concentrating on the treacherous ice and snow coupled to an intense bitter cold. This seems to derive from an actual experience that must have been quite wretched at the time… This is quite clearly the first volume of what is intended to be an entire sequence of stories about the world of Floreskand, a very cultivated creation. - Nigel Robert Wilson, British Fantasy Society review

A beautiful and atmospheric tale. The author has skilfully developed the characters in a way that you feel you are right there with them on their quest. I can say that I have read many fantasy stories I have truly enjoyed, but only a few have left that lingering haunting feeling within me. – Amazon review

Great read. A well thought out book which is so descriptive you feel part of the story. A fantasy adventure that draws you into the quest. – Amazon review

 

Saturday Story - Tales of the Red Tellar-1

Tales of the Red Tellar - Regloma Troglan, duellist

As my co-author Gordon Faulkner is signing copies of our book Wings of the Overlord today Saturday at Inverness Waterstones (1200-1400), I’m making a departure from the usual Short Story blog.

This is an excerpt, which can be read as a complete story (having been tweaked for this presentation).

* * *

 

“Do you recall hearing about Regloma Troglan?” Alomar asked with a grin.

        “Indeed – a famous duellist – oh, about fifty years ago,” supplemented Fhord, remembering the books in the Archives.
        Alomar chuckled. “If our bookworm can recall, all the champions he unseated were special–”
        “No, I can’t remem – wait, they held their champion-sword for less than two quarters each?”
        “True enough, but no, I was thinking of their personal lives. Perhaps that was an unfair question. Of course, I’m speaking from personal experience now. All the champions he unseated had something to lose which meant more to them than any championship – be it family, wealth, esteem in business, whatever.”
        “Go on,” urged Fhord eagerly.

*

Courdour Alomar had entered the Lorgen’s Fable inn on his way through Endawn when he thought he recognised an old acquaintance, though he was lief to think he was mistaken.
        Then the man, slumped over the table in a shadowy corner, rose unsteadily and swerved, demanding another drink.
        In the light now, though unshaven and wearing old and patched clothes, his black hair in disarray, the man was Reall Demorat, until but recently a champion duellist of Endawn.
        Recognition did not flicker in Demorat’s eyes as Alomar held him by the shoulder and guided him back to his shadowy table. The warrior ordered another bottle of wine and settled down to talk.
        Strangely, after the first new goblet of wine, Demorat seemed to sober up, and recognition slowly dawned.
        After their first expressions of surprise and pleasure at this coincidental meeting, Alomar asked, “By what ill fortune have you come here, Demorat?”
        “Regloma!” Demorat seethed, gripping the wine bottle till his callused knuckles whitened. “I owe it all to that devil-spawn cheat!” And, shakily, he poured another goblet full to the brim.
        Demorat raged with an obsession that the present unbeaten champion duellist, Regloma Troglan, was a fraud, for he employed two henchmen to threaten any champion or contender listed to fight Regloma. The threat was basic enough: lose the fight if you wanted to see your family without disfigurement or death.
        Despite the amount of wine Demorat imbibed, Alomar tended to believe his friend; such chicanery was typical for the city of Endawn. “But you weren’t married – nor even involved with any–”
        “My body – they threatened to cremate me!”
        Of course, now Alomar remembered. Demorat belonged to a rare sect who staunchly believed that they must be interred after death; to be burned to ashes meant that the soul would dissipate and wander aimlessly for evermore. He had to admire Regloma’s men, they had chosen the only chink in Demorat’s personal armour. What was a duelling championship title compared with eternal oblivion?
        After a while it became evident that Demorat wished to leave, though now almost incoherent. Alomar gathered that the hostel where Demorat slept shut its doors shortly; and the streets of Endawn were not safe after mid-moon had passed.
        Alomar paid for the wine and, with his right arm round Demorat’s back supporting him, Demorat’s limp arm round the warrior’s neck, and taking the main weight on his right shoulder, Alomar guided his drunken companion out into the dark alleyway.
        Demorat vaguely indicated they should move to the right.
        They had not gone far when Alomar’s sixth sense detected movement in the shadows. He stopped, propped Demorat up against the rough-stone wall, and withdrew his sword as the four attackers stepped out of the darkness.
        Alomar was hard put to it to keep all four at bay, but presently one of his assailants erred in his judgement and the warrior’s sword ensured that no more errors of judgement would be committed by that man.
        Demorat seemed to realise his life was at risk, and, though drunk as he was, he reached for his sword: with his trusty blade in his grip, he tended to sober a little, and clashed swords with one of the remaining three.
        Alomar shattered the sword of another attacker and as its blade fell with a loud ring to the cobbles, the two other assailants faltered then backed off, and soon took to their heels.
        Aware of the silence at his side, Alomar turned: Demorat was crouched against the wall, his back to Alomar. The other assassin lay dead; but a knife protruded from Demorat’s side.
        To withdraw the blade now might mean a slow death, life-blood oozing away; Alomar gripped the handle and with a tremendous jerk he snapped it at the hilt, leaving only the blade slightly protruding. Gently lifting Demorat to his feet, Alomar adopted the same carrying method as he had earlier before the attack.
        When the two distinct thuds sounded Alomar pitched forward with Demorat, unmindful of the hard cobbles.
        There he lay, unmoving though his ears were attuned to any untoward sounds from the night.
        After some time had elapsed, he risked rising watchfully and slowly.
        Whilst he had been fortunate, his companion had fared badly: one arrow shaft had sunk in the nape of Demorat’s neck, the other in his arm roughly in the same position where it had been limply resting over Alomar’s neck.
        They had silenced Reall Demorat’s drunken accusations for ever.
     As he was in a strange city Alomar had no wish to answer questions. With regret he left the murdered champion to the street rats. He had a purpose to fulfil, however, and he would not rest until he had accomplished it or – pleasant thought! – he died in the attempt.
            The latest of a long round of duels had been publicised for the next day; Regloma Troglan was billed to fight a brash young contender for his title.
        As Alomar took his seat in the duelling room he wondered at the manner of leverage Regloma’s men had used on this contender.
        For the majority of the audience the fight was excellent – and there were plenty of thrills – especially when the lithe youngster from Lellul narrowly missed drawing the champion’s blood. But to the eye of Alomar there were a few flaws in the duel. The subtleties were missed when they should have been grasped; openings remained open, to be ignored or unseen.
        The warrior looked about him, studying the older, worldlier members of the audience. Strangely, there were few. It was as though the men who had once duelled stayed away by design, knowing too well the travesty of their art that would be performed this day.
        All who watched were the sensation-seeking public, ever-watchful for a killing, though by tradition the challenger had the choice of first-blood or death. This aspirant from Lellul had chosen first-blood – as had all Regloma’s protagonists.
        At the duel’s close, when the contender received a cut, lost his sword and somewhat grudgingly acknowledged defeat, Alomar tossed his poniard down into the arena.
        The dagger thudded into the wood boards and the cheering subsided. His intentions were explicit enough: he challenged Regloma to a duel.
        Because of the public challenge, Regloma had to accept. “Two days hence – and who, pray, shall I have the pleasure of depriving of pride?”
        Alomar tendered a false name, claiming he harked from Carlash which was so far to the ranmeron few if anyone present would know the peculiarities of a Carlash native. “First blood,” he declared.
        That night he expected an encounter with Regloma’s henchmen and he was therefore not surprised to come upon an altercation in an alleyway close to his lodgings.
        The spindly silhouette of a tall man towered over a cowering figure at the end of the alley adjoining the inn.
        Alomar ran up, shouted, “Stay, villain!” and his voice echoed in the narrow confines.
        At that instant, the spindly fellow pivoted round, snarled something unintelligible and slashed his sword side-ways, against a knotted rope that stretched upwards. A wet-wood cage crashed down, trapping Alomar before he could jump clear. He smiled grimly. They had snared him well.
        Now, each man lifted a long spear out of the heap of rubbish in the corner and advanced on him.
        He felt the wet-wood and appreciated their choice: it would not be cut by axe-stroke, let alone sword; and the combined weight of the cage was too great to lift. He was trapped like a wild mountain beast.
        “We want words with you, man of Carlash,” said the tall one. And he jabbed the spear through the bars: Alomar dodged only to be sharply pricked from behind by the other, smaller henchman.
        “Say your words, then,” growled Alomar.
        “Lose your duel with Regloma, friend. Or else we must perforce claim your life. If you lose, then regard the debt paid.”
        Yes, they had chosen well. Somehow, they had guessed aright; he would not welcome being killed as a caged animal. And, as was the custom, because he was at their mercy, his life was theirs – to claim at any time.
        Alomar nodded and they both relaxed. “You leave me no choice.”
        He grabbed the spindly man’s spearhead, ignoring the cut hand, and pulled the weapon towards him.
        So surprised was the fellow, he had no opportunity to let go. Alomar pulled the man’s head through the bars, jerked suddenly, and the crack of vertebrae sounded loud and awful in the night.
        While the other tried stabbing with his spear mainly out of rising fear, Alomar parried with his sword and relieved the corpse of the cage keys; they were soon covered with his hand’s blood, slippery and awkward to manipulate, but he finally unlocked the cage.
        As he stepped out, the other spearman turned and ran down the alleyway.
        Alomar picked up the fallen spear.
        His throw was deadly accurate.

*

The same motley band of spectators was assembled.
        Adjusting his bandaged hand, Alomar studied the steely eyes of the gaunt Regloma. He was a good swordsman and not to be underestimated.
        After the salute, they closed and the first clash of blades sent a roar of expectation from the crowd.
        Thrust and parry, attack and retreat, until sweat covered both men and the crowd as one sat on the edge of its seat. Word of the long duel had obviously passed out into the street, for many of the once-empty seats were filling.
        After a lengthy period of fierce swordplay, Alomar decided he had sufficiently worn down the wiry body of Regloma. At their next clamorous clinch, he snarled, “I killed your two henchmen, fraud!” And he whispered his real identity.
        His words had immediate impact. Regloma pushed free and shakily backed off, amidst cat-calls from the crowd. Those once-smug eyes briefly reflected fear: now, he must fight in earnest.
        Another clinch, and Alomar said, “I shall let you win this fight, Regloma – but any more you wish to win will be done so on your own merits... or I shall return...”
        Alomar had no wish to become a champion, fighting duel after duel, as if by rote. He had needed to be footloose and uncluttered. He let Regloma cut his hand and disarm him, though no one would have guessed.
        He kept a wary eye on the champion, however, ready to use his poniard should betrayal enter Regloma’s heart.
        But Regloma accepted his defeat in victory. He was acclaimed with tumultuous cheers, the most riotous praise for any victory he had ever “achieved”.
        Leaving the champion to his triumphant circuit of the arena, Alomar caught an empty look in the man’s eyes.
        A bitter pill to swallow, indeed, to taste the ecstatic jubilation of the crowd, knowing it would be for the first and last time. For once tasted, it would become a drug.

*

Cobrora Fhord shivered not only with the cold. “And –?”
        “And,” supplied Alomar, “Regloma lost his next duel and never again won, though he travelled to all the duelling houses in Floreskand. The audiences of Endawn’s duelling rooms once again comprised duelling men.”

* * *

WINGS OF THE OVERLORD by Morton Faulkner

 

Available from Amazon UK here

Available from Amazon COM here

Available post-free worldwide from the book depository here

 

 

Blurb:
So begins their great quest that tests the trio to the limit. Exciting obstacles include raging torrents, snakes, feuding warrior hordes, lethal fireballs, terrifying electric storms, treacherous mountains, avalanche, betrayal and torture. The travellers start out barely able to tolerate each other but, gradually, as their problems are overcome, they grow closer. The strength of comradeship is evoked and also selfless sacrifice. Their story is rich in history and threatening events that beset them on their quest.

 

 

Chronicles of Floreskand - Miscellaneous facts – 001

Wings of the Overlord is the first chronicle to be released from the Royal Institute of Records, Lornwater, in Floreskand.

 

From time to time, assorted facts, acquired over a period of fifty years, will be divulged regarding the mythical Floreskand, its denizens, flora and fauna.

 

Today, we will briefly look at

 

The Overlord

 

As outlined in ‘Song of the Overlord’, Daqsekor is the Overlord, the One, the High God. The ruler of all, nothing and everything.

 

Daqsekor’s symbol is the pure white sekor. The flower is indeed named after him.

 

The name Daqsekor is a combination of ‘daq’ (yang) and ‘sek’ (yin) with the suffix ‘or’ meaning ‘lord’.

 

The five-part ‘Song of the Overlord’ can be found in Wings of the Overlord, introducing each part of the saga.

 

 

Note:

 

Sekor

 

Type of flower, with octagonal petals; regarded with religious significance, each god being given a different coloured sekor as an emblem.

 

 

 

Blurb:

So begins their great quest that tests the trio to the limit. Exciting obstacles include raging torrents, snakes, feuding warrior hordes, lethal fireballs, terrifying electric storms, treacherous mountains, avalanche, betrayal and torture. The travellers start out barely able to tolerate each other but, gradually, as their problems are overcome, they grow closer. The strength of comradeship is evoked and also selfless sacrifice. Their story is rich in history and threatening events that beset them on their quest.

 

To date (16 October), it has picked up two good reviews at Amazon UK!

 

Available from Amazon UK here

 

Available from Amazon COM here

 

Available from the publisher Knox Robinson here

 

Available post-free worldwide from the book depository here

 

 

 

Writing - Catching up while standing still

Sometimes, it feels like that. At present, I’m coming to the end of a final edit for Maureen, my editor of Catalyst, which is due for publication by Crooked Cat in a few weeks. The book has been edited a number of times, but when Maureen asked me to check it over and sign it off, I couldn’t resist having another read-through. The temptation at this stage is to let it go, as it has been read more than once by several critical eyes. Always, always, there will be something that has been missed, even with the best will and experience and diligence in the world. Mostly, it will be style things – such as echo words appearing in the same page or even paragraph. I’ve caught four instances of that. One instance where it should have been ‘he’, not ‘she’; it happens. I’ve said it before and will doubtless repeat it again often, but you will never catch all the typos or errors, but you need to strive to do so.

Next is the edit of The Prague Papers, due for publication by Crooked Cat later this year. I’m giving it the final check as requested by my editor Jeff. Some radical surgery has been committed on this book, and it’s all to the good. Quite a few thousand words have been excised by me since really they don’t move the story forward. Those lost words are interesting back-story, but they slow down the tale. I will probably include some of the missing material in a forthcoming blog/website for the protagonist, Tana Standish, psychic spy.

 

Tana Standish, psychic spy

 

The moral here is that just because you’ve completed a novel and it has been accepted, that doesn’t mean it is really finished. Approach these final edits with the same diligence applied to the manuscript prior to being despatched to the publisher.

And I’m still in the throes – getting to the exciting end – of Catacomb, the sequel to Catalyst. That’s taking a backseat while I clear the above edits. Yet even so, the characters are busy in the back of my head, jostling for a place, attempting to overcome the obstacles I put in their way before shunting them into a temporary limbo.

Finally, when I’ve completed Catacomb I need to return to the fantasy world of Floreskand, to get on with the sequel to Wings of the Overlord, To Be King, which has now been plotted in depth after a visit from my co-author, Gordon Faulkner.

 

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Overlord-Chronicles-Floreskand-Morton-Faulkner/dp/1908483857/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1412864739&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=wings+of+the+overlord

Writing - What did it portend?

The fantasy Wings of the Overlord is currently available in hardback. It will eventually be available in paperback and e-book formats too.  The Prologue was featured in my blog here.

The beginning introduces the mysterious innman, Ulran, a fighting man, owner of the Red Tellar Inn, plus his son Ranell and aide Aeleg, so you won't get their descriptions below. The following attempts to create a mystery and provide the impetus for the epic quest.  

Here’s an excerpt from Chapter One, fittingly entitled ‘Quest’:

The midday sky was brimful with Red Tellars. The entire populace of Lornwater seemed to be out – on the street, rooftops, city walls or at windows – looking at these mystical creatures.

Even Ulran’s height was dwarfed by the bird’s wingspan. With bristling carmine red feathers, yellow irises and darting black slit-pupils, the Red Tellar appeared a formidable bird, predatory in mien, an aspect completed with lethal talons and huge curved beak. And yet not one living soul, Ulran included, had once reported seeing a Red Tellar eat. To compound the enigma surrounding them, they were rarely observed landing anywhere. And apart from the muted whisper of their wings, they created no sound at all – unlike the local avians that infested most eaves, lofts and trees in the city.

Ulran burst out onto the inn’s flat roof as a shadow darkened the area.

A solitary Red Tellar broke formation and dived down from the main body. Ulran instinctively glanced back at Aeleg and Ranell; but Scalrin’s sharp eyes had spotted them and he veered over to the opposite side of the roof.

A slight crack of mighty wings, then the bird was down, talons gripping the low wall by a shrine to Opasor, lesslord of birds.

Ulran motioned for the others to stay where they were.

Aeleg and Ranell stared, as if thunderstruck that a Red Tellar should land on their roof.

Recognition flickered in Scalrin’s eyes as Ulran knelt before the bird’s great feathered chest. Without hesitation the innman reached out, gently stroked the upper ridge of the bird’s beak and smoothed the silken soft crest.

In answer, Scalrin’s ear feathers ruffled and he settled, pulling his greater wing coverts well into his body.

The innman exhaled through his nose, then relaxed, steadying his breathing till it was shallow. Ulran closed his eyes and slowly outstretched his hand again, palm flat upon Scalrin’s breast. A rapid heartbeat pulsed under his palpating hand and transmitted sympathetic vibrations through his own frame.

Their rapport created a bridge and across this span came primitive communication, sense-impressions. Ulran gathered that something was seriously amiss in Arion.

Something terrible, something concerning Scalrin.

Ulran opened his eyes, surprised to discover moisture brimmed his lids for the first time since his wife Ellorn’s death.

Then Scalrin was gone, powerful primaries lifting him up to the vast multitude of his brethren. As far as the horizon they still flocked.

But what did it portend?

***

“Trouble in Arion?” the stranger enquired as Ulran stepped from the stairs into the passage.

Ulran did not show the surprise he felt at this disclosure.

The wiry stranger was evidently chagrined at the innman’s negative response but, poise quickly regained, explained, soft spoken, “I walk with Osasor.” An offered hand.

Ulran’s enfolded it completely: a gentle, yielding handshake. Not the usual type who would follow the white lord of fire, the innman thought.

“Cobrora Fhord,” the stranger made the introduction, dressed sombrely in a grey cloak, charcoal tunic and trousers, colourless face angular and thin. “I can enlighten you a little on the behaviour of the Red Tellars. And I would like to join you on your journey to Arion.”

Ranell appraised the stranger with quickened interest; Aeleg stared at Cobrora shrewdly.

Ulran, unblinking, said, “But I haven’t mentioned that I’d go – though I was considering it.”

Cobrora nervously stroked long lank black hair. Ulran noticed the glint of some kind of amulet beneath Cobrora’s grey cloak. Big brown eyes suddenly evasive, Cobrora Fhord murmured, “My – er, properties might prove useful – should you decide to go.”

In preference, Ulran always travelled alone, in this way being responsible for himself and nobody else. But, this Cobrora presented a conundrum. The roumers regularly and swiftly carried messages along their established routes complete with staging posts, unmolested by villains and Devastator hordes, but even they could not have carried news of Arion’s dire affairs in such a short time. And, as conclusive proof of this psychic’s ability, Cobrora knew of Ulran’s intentions to travel to Arion. It was just possible that the strange powers of Cobrora’s spirit-lord could be of some use on the long trek.

“All right,” said Ulran decisively. “But first we must arrange equipment.” And, looking at Cobrora’s thin city clothes, he added, “We must dress you properly for the long journey ahead. It may be summer – but the nights are harsh and the mountains will prove inhospitable.”

***

Partial blurb:

So begins their great quest that tests the trio to the limit. Exciting obstacles include raging torrents, snakes, feuding warrior hordes, lethal fireballs, terrifying electric storms, treacherous mountains, avalanche, betrayal and torture. The travellers start out barely able to tolerate each other but, gradually, as their problems are overcome, they grow closer. The strength of comradeship is evoked and also selfless sacrifice. Their story is rich in history and threatening events that beset them on their quest.

Available from Amazon UK here

Available from the publisher Knox Robinson here

Available from the book depository here