Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
". . . a masterful new fantasy writer . . .Jim
Melvin’s series, "The Death Wizard Chronicles," creates the world of Triken,
where the evil, demon-spawned Invictus reigns over a tainted city and plots to
take over the world."
Torg, the Death Wizard
and hero of The Death Wizard Chronicles, faces a hideous Druid Queen who
controls an army of minions through the immense power of her will. Among those doing her bidding is a
Stone-Eater: a fierce and powerful
creature who obtains its powers from eating stone.
Jim Melvin is the author of the epic, six-book epic
fantasy, The Death Wizard Chronicles. He was an award-winning journalist
at the St. Petersburg Times for twenty-five years. As a reporter, he
specialized in science, nature, health and fitness, and he wrote about
everything from childhood drowning to erupting volcanoes. Jim is a student of
Eastern philosophy and mindfulness meditation, both of which he weaves
extensively into his work. Jim lives in Upstate South Carolina in the foothills
of the mountains. He’s married and has five daughters. Visit him at: www.jim-melvin.com and www.deathwizardchronicle.blogspont.com
Coming soon!
The Black Fortress
When a man was accustomed to stone
beneath his feet, sand felt too fragile. The knight named Taala, who weeks ago
had begun the long journey from the black-granite fortress of Nissaya to the
great desert Tējo, now trudged wearily on a white sea of sand. The contrasts
between his homeland and this foreign place disconcerted him. To make matters
worse, the sun blew down like flames from a wizard’s staff.
Taala had been entrusted with a crucial
mission. If he failed, Nissaya would be in grave peril. Yet he wondered now if
failure was the more likely outcome. His horse had perished three days before
while in the midst of Barranca, the rocky wasteland that bordered the western
portion of the desert. Taala’s insistence on an urgent pace had proven too
much, even for a gelding bred for endurance. Now forced to walk on his own,
Taala had run out of water. Could he survive long enough to deliver his
message? If not, then many thousands might die.
In the distance, a jumble of boulders
erupted from the sand—a sight as unexpected as it was welcomed. Head bowed,
Taala marched with a relentlessness that defied his exhaustion, yet even then
it took most of his remaining strength just to reach the natural shelter. He
immediately was rewarded for his efforts. The boulders provided not only shade
but precious moisture. He discovered a cool puddle of water cradled in an
awkward crevice that was—Uppādetar be blessed—just within reach of his parched
lips. Taala drank it all. It tasted as sweet as any forest stream. Then he sat
down and rested his back against the stone.
He must have slept for a long time. When
he opened his eyes, dusk had settled on the desert. At first he couldn’t seem
to overcome his grogginess, but he was startled fully awake by the silent appearance
of several black-clad apparitions, human-like but very large.
The Tugars had come.
The king of Nissaya had sent Taala to
find the desert warriors, but they had found him instead.
Like
a man-sized wormbursting to the surface, The Torgon emerged from beneath a blanket of
sand. He rose to his full height, shook clean his shoulder-length black hair
and brushed off his black jacket and breeches. In front of him lay leagues of
desert baking beneath an uncharacteristically brutal autumn sun. Behind him towered
the Simōōn, a whirlwind of dust and debris that had been magically conjured to
protect the Tent City of Anna. Only Tugars could pass through the Simōōn’s
slashing power unharmed. All others would be shredded to the bone within
seconds of making the attempt. The Tugars’ secret? Their ability to slither
beneath the surface of the sand just out of harm’s way of the deadly winds.
Chieftain Kapala, Torg’s
second-in-command, had summoned him to this place with the news that a Nissayan
knight had been sent to the desert in search of the Tugars. This made Torg
curious, to say the least. In the half-century since he’d ascended to the rank
of Death-Knower and become the Tugars’ king, little of note had occurred
throughout the land. Torg enjoyed peaceful times, but it was in a warrior’s
blood to yearn for more.
Torg marched across a wide expanse of
sand to where the knight had been sequestered. Though barely breaking a sweat,
he covered the distance with remarkable quickness. About an arrow’s flight from
the border of the Simōōn, he entered a large open-air tent where Kapala and
several other desert warriors waited. The camel-hide roof was tall enough for
even Tugars to stand upright, providing plenty of room for the Nissayan scout,
who was more than a span shorter than the average desert warrior. Torg studied
the man for a moment, noting his dry and peeling ebony skin.
Ātapatatta. Too much sun.
In comparison, Torg’s darkly tanned skin
appeared almost pale.
The scout knelt in deference. But being
a king not wedded to ritual, Torg bade him to rise. Then they clasped forearms.
Like equals.
"Tugarian amatam acchati tumhe(Tugarian nectar awaits you),” Torg said in the ancient tongue. This was a
widely known greeting for newly arrived guests. Even non-speakers of the ancient
tongue could recite it. The nectar was prized throughout the land. "But speak
now before it dulls your wits.”
Taala smiled, then nodded wearily. "King
Henepola sent me to seek aid from our Tugarian allies. The black fortress of
Nissaya is under siege.” The scout stopped for a moment and took a long breath,
obviously needing rest more than discourse, but this was too important for the
luxury of delay. "The siege began with a clever diversion. A small force of
Mogols snuck in from the northern foothills and set fire to many hectares of
crops. In our haste to punish their impudence, we sent more mounted knights
than were necessary to confront them.” As Taala spoke, his deep voice quivered.
"Meanwhile, an army of more than fifty thousand monsters managed to march
unseen over the plains from the east, coming within ten leagues of the city
walls before our commanders became aware of its existence. Many innocent
lives—mostly farmers and their families—were lost.”
Taala stopped and grew silent, as if the
enormity of Nissaya’s loss was too much to bear. Then he drew in a ragged
breath and managed to continue. "Yet even when our knights returned from their
errand with the Mogols, we still lacked the numbers to face the army that had
gathered in full strength in the open field. So we were forced to flee inside
the fortress.”
A flurry of tears, uncharacteristic of a
Nissayan’s typically stoic demeanor, leapt from Taala’s eyes. He wiped them
away with a dusty forearm. Then he straightened his back and said, "You must forgive
our incompetence, lord. We have not fought a major war in our lifetime. Now we
huddle within our walls like frightened mice.”
Torg felt his power begin to boil. A
threat to Nissaya, the black fortress that guarded the eastern mouth of the Gap
of Gati, was a threat to the free world. He looked down upon the scout, the
glow of his blue eyes reflecting off the Nissayan’s dark-brown ones. "There is
no need to defend your worthiness to me. I am no judge.” Then he smacked his
hand on the scout’s shoulder. "Fear not. The Tugars are at your service, as
always.”
Taala smiled again, and this time Torg
recognized the beginnings of hope in his demeanor. "Their general names himself
Slag,” the knight continued. "He is a Stone-Eater—a bane from the bowels of
Mount Asubha—and he commands a hideous host of monsters that he inspires with
hate and rage.” Then Taala’s face took on a semblance of defiance, tempered
with sadness. "The walls of Nissaya have never been breached, and Slag appears
to lack the siege craft necessary to threaten us in this way. But our stored
provisions are low. If help does not come, we will starve by midwinter.”
Torg had never seen a Stone-Eater, but
he was learned in the ways of Triken and knew much about its inhabitants,
including its monsters. Compared to someone the height of a Tugar, Stone-Eaters
were not much taller than boys. But the creatures’ bodies were stout, and their
hides were the texture of an elephant turned halfway to stone. Flames flared
from their flat nostrils and smoke from their pointed ears. Their wicked magic
made them formidable, even among the great.
Regardless, Torg was not deterred. "Help
will come. The Tugars will arrive long before midwinter. In the meantime, the
Asēkhas and I will serve as the Tugarian vanguard and begin the journey to
Nissaya tomorrow morning.”
Torg knew that the scout was well aware
of the import of this. The Asēkhas were renowned as the Tugars of highest rank,
and although there were only twenty in all, together they were as deadly as an
army of ordinary soldiers.
Taala’s round eyes sprang wide. "The
Asēkhas! Ah, that is wonderful news. And as I’m sure you have surmised, we are
also seeking aid from the Jivitans. With the help of our allies to the west and
from you to the east, victory is assured.”
"We shall see what we shall see,” Torg
said. "For now, take comfort. Tugars never forsake their friends. But time is
of the essence. The Asēkhas will travel quickly, though even then I believe the
Jivitans’ vanguard will reach Nissaya before ours does—and well before the rest
of our Tugarian army. The white horsemen’s journey is far shorter. The aid you
seek will come first from the west.”
