eBooks Just Published » Fantasy

Storytellers

Sharlow — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 15:00:23 +0000

Thousands of years ago, the great Sage Montok Waynew signed the Book Accords, in which it was declared that all books must edify and instruct for the good of all mankind. Created in the hope to end the tyranny that had come into existence in their time, it was widely received and ratified by all living Sages as a good thing in the wake of the last great Story wars. So it went, that those books that were not found desirable were burned or destroyed, to protect all future generations.

Gailen, Alena and Targ find this peace is about to end. In a world where Sages can summon stories to life to do their bidding, these three apprentices must find where they belong, when the laws of the past seem to no longer exist.

Who doesn’t love a good story? Sharlow’s Story Tellers is an intriguing book of fiction and fantasy. Story Tellers is brought to life by the excellent prose, engaging characters, magical plot, and overall fine writing.

Perhaps one of the best fantasy novels I have viewed in quite some time, we hear the story of three heroes, magical creations through the use of stories, and self-discovery. A highly recommended, delightful read of its genre. - L. Anne Carrington and The Book Shelf

Storytellers

$0.99

168 pages

Storytellers

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The Last King’s Amulet

Chris Northern — Sat, 23 Jan 2010 15:00:48 +0000

My name is Sumto, and I am a gambling, lazy, good-for-nothing drunk who has to join the army and fight in a war I am frankly too corpulent to cope with. Still, that’s got to be as bad as things get, Am I right?

The Last King’s Amulet

$2.00

200 pages

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Brownbird’s Luck

akwbooks — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 15:00:54 +0000

In a misty land, long ago, and far away, lived a lovely girl-child of fourteen. Her lineage was as mysterious as the mountain range that loomed over the valley where she lived. Her father grew flax, and her grandmother, “The Dark Weaver”, wove the linen into beautiful tapestries, some with strange powers. This was their only means of a living. Deila tended the animals on the small farm and helped “Gran” with the weaving.

One night everything changed when a foal was born to the dray horse and by morning was taken from them by a mysterious, evil creature.

Brownbird’s Luck

$2.45

143 pages

Hard Lessons

BooksForABuck — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 15:00:25 +0000

Ashes of Memory It was a punch in the gut seeing Simeon Carr pacing down the hillock into Carford Dingle. The shock broke Philip's stride and he stubbed his toe, nearly sprawling through the heather. He caught his balance at the last second and his running shoes pounded onto the stone path of the old trod, which ran through the moors here. Following the slowest first year into the gully, Philip saw four other sixth formers waiting, standing by the school boundary stone. Philip frowned. He'd read the literature, dug up by the new Headteacher, but this didn't look at all like the ritual described there. And Simeon's presence suggested this ceremony was based on the sort of thing that had got Philip's mother killed. He wanted to stop, to turn back, to ignore this whole thing, but as a prefect at Carford House, he was forced to keep an eye out for the firsties on this cross-country run, making sure none of them got lost up on the moors. Simeon was actively hiding his presence. Philip could tell when his gaze slid away. Like a bulldog, he shook his mind clear from the external influence. He'd seen that before the day his mother died. Why hadn't they stopped her? Why had she been so stupid? Then there was the traitor's voice that whispered, because she didn't care. It didn't help Philip to know that the Church only pulled Simeon out of retirement for cases it thought were nothing. The man had been on that other hillside five years ago. Granted, Simeon had tried to stop the events--Philip hoped he was in better practice this time. A grouse erupted from a stand of bracken, startled by Simeon's passage, and flew into the darkening sky. That was all Philip needed--wet and complaining first years. At least the moors needed the rain, it had been weeks since even drizzle had fallen, let alone this promised drenching. The first year stood laughing at the four sixth formers led by Head Boy, Alec. According to the pamphlet, each first year was to run the boundaries of the school and give a good wallop on a drum set at the boundary markers. Tradition said that Beating the Bounds would drive off evil spirits. So what was with the pine branch Alec held? What was with the three drummers? Alec laughing in the library--a place he rarely entered--gathered with his friends over old ledgers. Philip's unease at seeing Simeon turned to terror. Alec lifted his pine branch high, while the other three beat their drums. 'No!' He yelled his certainty into the wind that suddenly clawed down the gully. 'You mustn't do that! You need to stop!' The wind pushed his words back into his mouth and tried to thrust him out of the gully. He fought back. Alec saw his struggle, and laughed--a high gloating note carried on the wind, which combed fingers through the summer--dry grass and whistled through the upraised pine branch. It was last year's drop; Philip ducked the brown needles flying like darts towards his eyes. He expected Alec to use the branch to give the first year a good thrashing. Listening to his half-brother cramming for the exams to follow Simeon into that branch of the Church, Philip had reluctantly absorbed old traditions. One of the original forms of Beating the Bounds had walked boys around their village boundaries and hitting them on the head at each marker stone. He knew of darker forms. Instead, Alec held the branch high. 'No!' Philip shouted, but the wind caught the words and whisked them away once more. Deep inside him, Philip knew that Alec was wrong, though he couldn't say how he knew. He tried to take another step into the gully. Defeated, he cupped his hands to his mouth. 'Alec! That's the wrong way! Stop!' Alec flung his head back, staring in ecstasy at the louring sky. Even over the wind beating at his ears, Philip heard Alec's words. 'Let there be blood on the boundary stone!' The first year stopped laughing. Incredulously, he started to turn away from Alec who towered over him with the branch. 'Aaa-lec!' shouted Philip. 'Sim-e-on! Stop them!' Slowly, Simeon turned to look up the hill. Philip saw the lightning spike start to the sky to meet the fork darting down. 'No!' he shrieked. If only he knew how to push the lightning away! No! He would never learn that! Oh-so-slowly, Simeon raised his hiking stick--his mouth moving at stop-motion speed. The wind pressed against Philip's downward momentum, driving him back up the hill. Step by step he fought the wind with all his physical strength--and that wasn't enough. Inch by inch the spike advanced. Weighted down with millstones, Philip lifted his arms, trying to cover his head, trying to turn away. Down in the gully, Simeon leaned into a slow-motion sprint towards the boys. For the first time Alec saw the older man. He lowered the branch--as if he were using a wand to cast a spell. And the spike touched the sky. Lightning arcing down to strike his mother as the spell lurched out of her control. Her screams of pain, screams of terror from the other cult folk, filled Philip's ears. Light exploded in the gully. The wind stalled. Philip landed face first in the heather, buried under the sound of the thunderbolt. Heat ran over his back, scalding his neck. He pushed his head up and squinted into the gully. The fire dried his eyes just looking. He thought he could see bodies lying on the ground. He'd heard of people stunned by lightning but surviving it. He had to get them out of there. Scrambling to his feet, he tried to take a step forward but the heat from the fire pushed him back. He raised an arm to shield his face and tried again. And Philip saw his mother reaching out burning arms to him, screaming in agony. Horrified, he turned away instead of trying to help her. In the fire he saw a burning face; it looked like his mother. Horrified, he turned away. Screams sounded outside his head. Hair blazing, Alec stalked out of the gully, carrying a now burning pine wand. His eyes burnt from within. 'There's Philip!' said Alec. 'Get him!' He lowered the burning pine until it pointed straight at Philip's chest. Behind Alec, three burning figures stumbled out of the fire; their mouths open, screaming in pain. Staring, Philip remembered his half-brother saying that the only way fire could control a human was to burn them, destroying them utterly. Where their feet planted, the bone-dry heather burst into flowers of flame. Burning arms raised and lowered, banging on the blazing drums. Philip edged away, then turned and scrambled back up the last part of the hillock, using hands as well as feet. Screaming in pain, the burning drummers chased him. Philip charged onto the open moor, heather lashed at his shins as his legs sprinted for the horizon. He cast a look over his shoulder while his feet kept pounding. Behind him, three figures of fire spread out, carrying their deathly life with them. The widening fire began to play with thermals. It blew a wind straight towards Philip, driving the flames through the parched moorland. 'Philip!' shouted Alec. 'Come back here!' Philip hoped the fire would be reported. Right now, however, he needed to run, hopeless though that seemed. The hot wind breathed on the back of his neck. He didn't think he could outrun this building wildfire. They're following me aren't they? Another glance back showed him the burning drummers herding the flames in his direction. Could he lead them round in a circle, so that the fire went onto already burned ground? His legs fell into the regular stride he used for long distance running--a very different one from the panicked sprint. He took a slight turn, but not enough that the fire creatures could cut him off. Overhead, the clouds darkened further as smoke from the fire lifted and merged with them. Why wasn't it raining? Lightning flashed over the sky, but the promised rain refused to drop. A check told him the fire creatures still followed. The main fire spawned little dancing devils. Ahead was a fence--and a gate. Beside it stood a collection of fire brooms, but Philip knew the fire was too big to beat out. As he vaulted the fence, a siren howled through the smoke. Relief. Someone had reported the blaze. Running burned in his leg muscles--he was fit, but the ground was uneven. Fear of twisting an ankle in a rabbit hole concealed by heather added to his terror. If that happened then he was a goner. He didn't want to burn. His mother had burnt when she lost control of the ritual using Philip's half-brother. She only had you to marry your Dad, said the traitor's voice. To know your half-brother was properly brought up. Bringing him up to save the world, by magic. All Philip wanted to save was his own skin. Another slight turn, another glance--the fire and the creatures still gave chase. Then his feet pounded on the trod. It went in the direction he wanted; he hoped it was a continuation of the path he had tripped over earlier. Running on the stone surface was easier--the path was open, not covered by vegetation. He could watch for uneven slabs. Behind him, the fire was gaining ground. Suddenly Philip realized the limitation of his plan. He staggered to a stop. Behind him the fire raged, but not enough time had elapsed for the older fire to die away. All around the trod, little fire devils sparked. The main fire bore down on him, singing its triumph. Not a hundred meters away, he could see unburned ground and a road wide enough to be a firebreak. All he had to do was run through the fire ahead of him. His mother screamed in agony as she burnt. He took a step forwards. The fire reached hot little fingers for the uncovered flesh of his face and hands. He turned his mouth and nose away. The winds driving the fire had come full circle. A huge, flaming tornado was forming--and he was at the center. He was going to burn. The flames leapt and clawed at the only way through. Why wasn't it raining? Then Alec walked down the trod, his hair and arms blazing. 'Someone has to die today, Philip. And the man in the shadows stole away our chosen sacrifice.' Philip backed away. 'It won't be me.' 'Blood must fall on the boundary stones.' 'The fire engines are here. They'll get the fire under control.' 'You put all your trust in technology, but what of the old powers, Philip?' Alec stepped forward. Philip took another pace back; as the fire advanced on him, he could feel the heat from the old burn. 'There are no old powers.' He coughed as smoke wafted his way. The spell out of control, his mother screaming as she burnt. It should be raining. Particles from the smoke should be accreting the water droplets. Seeing Philip's upward glance Alec said, 'We can stop the rain. The heat from the fire vortex evaporates any falling water. Stand still, please Philip.' Alec took another step forward. Philip's running shoes were melting to the stone trod. 'Alec, stop this! Let the rain fall,' pleaded Philip. Please let it rain, so I don't have to burn. 'I will only live as long as there is fire, you know,' said Alec. Philip swallowed but his throat was dry from the run and the heat. 'Yes, I know.' 'Philip!' Another voice shouted. 'Come through!' Philip risked looking behind. Simeon stood at the other end of the fiery corridor. On either side of the trod the fires burned, with heat enough to boil water, baking the pathway. The Church people hadn't saved his mother. 'Philip!' shouted Simeon, over the crackling flames. 'I'm holding them off as best I can. Run through!' It was only 100 meters. He could do 100 meters in seconds. His mother had screamed as she had burnt. 'Philip!' shouted Simeon. 'I can't hold it back much longer!' He stood with his hands lifted over his head, palms out--the image of Moses parting the Red Sea. They might not have saved his mother, but they had saved his half-brother from the altar. Alec surged forwards and grabbed for Philip. Philip dodged. I'm not going to burn. 'Stop him! He has to die,' shouted Alec. 'We must keep the flames alive.' Philip leapt through the fire, kicking off his melting running shoes. His bare feet pounded on the overheated stone of the trod. Ahead, he could see fire fighters whacking at the burning embers, as others unreeled their hose from the flame-red fire engine. He fixed his eyes on the dark, tarmac road. And Philip ran. Alec had gone silent. Philip didn't dare look behind. The heated path wanted to burn his feet. He had to ignore the pain. Why wouldn't it rain? And Philip ran. He saw the flame devil spawn off. Twisting and swirling through the air, it was driven towards Simeon. A fire fighter knocked him out of the way. Another rushed to beat at the dehydrated heather. No longer bound, the sea of flame rushed back to engulf the clear path on which Philip ran. He heard the screaming. And the beating of drums. His foot caught on an upraised slab and he sprawled onto the overheated stone. His hands blistered and he could feel his tracksuit bottoms starting to smolder. A burning drummer leaned towards him. Hands dropping charcoal drumsticks, held together only by force of habit. 'Philip!' Alec's voice was a scream now. 'You've got to die. Please, stop the pain.' 'Release the clouds!' Philip said. Four pairs of burning arms reached for him. But something held them back. He saw another face in the fire. 'Mother!' he whispered. 'Call the rain, Philip!' The crackle of the fire added the remembered impatience to her voice. Why wouldn't it rain? Despite Alec's boasts even this heat couldn't evaporate all that water, it should melt the ice crystals sooner. This was science not magic--if he'd had any saliva left he would have spat the word. No! Not magic, which meant that it should be raining. Mother's hold on the burning boys was slipping. Philip looked up. The long hose was just sprouting water. 'It will be too late,' whispered Mother. 'Call the rain or you will burn.' 'But you'll die if I put out the fire!' The fire tutted, just like Mother. 'I'm already dead.' The smoke crawled into his lungs and he coughed. And coughed harder. Simeon shouted, 'Philip! Run!' Burning arms reached out to embrace him. It should be raining! 'RAIN!' screamed Philip. The air filled with sound: rocks slamming into rocks in an avalanche, the din of demolishing a tower block. It drowned out his impassioned plea. And then it rained. The sky dropped the full load of water that Alec had been holding off--all at once. A lake of water landed on their heads. Alec screamed in agony. The burning drummers were silenced as the water washed away their remaining ash. Philip turned his hands over to feel the cool water on his blistered palms. Threatened with drowning now, he pushed up against the heavy load on his head and shoulders. He managed to get his feet on the ground and staggered upright. Water hissed off the overheated pavement. All around, the burning heather swam as the parched ground failed to absorb the sudden deluge. It wasn't magic--he didn't do that mystic stuff. He'd been hallucinating from dehydration. There. That was the scientific reason for seeing his mother in fire. He stumbled onto the unburning ground. Simeon reached him as the first impact of water eased. He swung Philip up and carried him to the waiting ambulance.

Blood Moon; Tales of da Yoopernatural, Vol. 1

PD Allen — Wed, 30 Dec 2009 09:19:37 +0000

Connie Hillman must come to grips with what happened in the remote Huron Mountains, where she survived an encounter with ghosts, giants and cannibalistic Weendigo.

Connie reflects on horrific events in the ancient Huron Mountains, located in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Her former lover (and PhD advisor) Phil Waverly stumbles upon an ancient ceremonial site, which he believes will prove his theory of a Pre-Columbian Bronze Age civilization in the Great Lakes region. Can Connie stop Phil from opening a portal between worlds?

This volume also includes The Buck of Mulligan Plains. Henry Kincaid is hunting the biggest buck he has ever seen. A renowned outdoorsman, Henry always sought to be at one with the northern wilderness. Yet he never dreamed of attaining his goal in quite this manner. Meanwhile his lover, Lilith Gordon, fears she will lose him forever.

Future volumes in this series will involve ghosts, ghost ships, succubi, enchanted fish, sea monsters, pirates, mermaids, haunted forests and haunted mines, Manitou, fairies, daemons, the Eater of Souls, and much more.

This book captures your interest in the beginning with Connie Hillman’s grandfather telling about an unusual character appearing to help him.
It builds from that to the strange happenings in the mountains.
Very entertaining.

– Betty L. Pfeiffer, Amazon.com

Blood Moon; Tales of da Yoopernatural, Vol. 1

$0.99

96 pages

Blood Moon; Tales of da Yoopernatural, Vol. 1

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Not Ordinarily Borrowable

marnanel — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:00:37 +0000

Maria is occupied with trying to earn her doctorate, and she’s far too busy for adventures. But when the library books she needs are unexpectedly borrowed (by a dragon) she finds herself on a quest to find the books, the dragon, a sword, courage, and the greatest cake recipe in the world… not to mention the last chapter of her thesis

“a lovely, delightful little romp for anyone who loves books and fantasy and dragons and higher education and plucky heroines.”
— Carmen Machado

Author website

Not Ordinarily Borrowable

$1.99

106 pages

Not Ordinarily Borrowable

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Sorceress

MrAllison — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 15:00:58 +0000

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Eaglethorpe Buxton, famed world traveler and story-teller. Of course you have heard of me, for my tales of the great heroes and their adventures have been repeated far and wide across the land.

Eaglethorpe Buxton, famed adventurer and story-teller is back, this time to put on a play about a sorceress. When the sorceress, subject of his play arrives with fire in her eyes, Eaglethorpe must pretend to be his good friend Ellwood. Will he pull off this charade and survive? And what happens when the real Ellwood shows up? One can never tell, especially when Eaglethorpe tells the story.

Praise for Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess:

Haven’t read it. Won’t read it. End of Story. And I don’t think anyone else should read it.
- Dextius Winterborn, Story-teller’s Guild.

People aren’t really reading that? Are they?.
- Sir Roderick Bairn, Adventurer

You can’t believe a damn word that boy says. He was born to hang, I tell ya.
- Margram Buxton, Father

What is it exactly? Is it some kind of story book? No. No, I don’t want any.
-Queen Elleena I of Aerithraine

Join Eaglethorpe Buxton as he adventures across a magical world to in his quest for self-aggrandizement.

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Sorceress is a short book by Wesley Allison, author of His Robot Girlfriend, and Princess of Amathar. Available now as a free ebook.

Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Sorceress

Free

117 pages

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Thoughtcrime Experiments: Nine Stories

thoughtcrime.experiments — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 11:06:30 +0000

Free anthology of quality sci-fi & fantasy
Detective thrillers, political satire, family drama, fables, fable deconstructions, the mysteries of debugging: there’s something in this anthology for every fan. Contains nine original stories and five original artworks.
We found awesome fiction, bought it, and released it online under a Creative Commons license. We learned a lot, so the appendix, “How To Do This And Why,” has submission/rejection statistics, our budget, and some behind-the-scenes musings on process, supply and demand.

Some excerpts from the stories that got us over four stars on GoodReads:

Day-to-day life with a sponge golem was pleasant.
-“Daisy” by Andrew Willett (audio version)

Anyone who’d ever seen the Martian Ambassador would recognize it, the way he wielded it like his staff of office.
I frowned at Seeth. “So how does the Ambassador’s staff wind up broken on a street in the Crops, when the Ambassador is dying peacefully in his hotel room?”
“I guess that’s what I need you to find out.”
-“The Ambassador’s Staff” by Sherry D. Ramsey

Sarita kept feeding her, one bite after another. “You were the one who insisted on breast-feeding. Joshua and I would have been fine using formula. They’ve duplicated the ingredients found in breast milk, you know. Perfected it two decades ago.”
“It’s not the same,” Kate insisted. “I can’t prove it, but I’m sure it isn’t.”
-“Jump Space” by Mary Anne Mohanraj

Xanathan Kurtler didn’t die because of greed. Not his own, anyway. It wasn’t greed that made him plant those trees.
-“Goldenseed” by Therese Arkenberg

The technically proficient could breach the best software security systems by deliberately inducing errors in the hardware. Couldn’t the rational induce faith in themselves the same way?
-“Single-Bit Error” by Ken Liu

The crack of leather that followed hurt more than my own whipping.
You might think we’d never be dumb enough to eat Jilly Jallys again.
-“Friar Garden, Mister Samuel, and the Jilly Jally Butter Mints” by Carole Lanham

Those and more, available as HTML, PDF or print-on-demand physical book. Plus mobile editions:

A hand-crafted ePub edition by Marshall T. Vandergrift.
ePub, Kindle/Mobipocket, Microsoft Reader, and Sony Reader editions by Arachne Jericho.
Many, many formats at manybooks.net.

Thoughtcrime Experiments: Nine Stories

Free

180 pages

Thoughtcrime Experiments

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Forward, Shamble!

BooksForABuck — Mon, 23 Nov 2009 15:00:08 +0000

Here We Go Again Prologue Through twisted, darkened corridors my mind did stalk, my body all the while trudging faithfully onward without stop or hesitation. There had been a Carhardt store along the road a way back. We stopped there, me and mine, for a hopeful nibble and, in my case, some fresh clothes. We got both, thankfully. There were some folks holed up in there, and they didn't take too kindly to our arrival. They were armed, of course, and they did not wait for us to fall upon them. The roars of gunfire cried out, anguished, tortured sounds full of despair and blood. The stench of gunpowder and rot filled the enclosed space, an invisible shroud covering all. Pistols comprised the majority of their defenses, but one fellow wielded a shotgun that ripped a nice-sized hole in the guts of one of my traveling companions. But our sheer numbers, as we poured inside, were too great for seven frightened people, most of whom were clearly new to the idea of firearms. We ripped them apart in less than five minutes, blood flying in all directions. As I stood to one side of the carnage, contemplating a nice black duster, one of my compatriots tossed something in my direction. It landed with a meaty thump just to my left leg. It was a muscular left arm, torn clean from one of the victims of our onslaught. I stooped over, lifted it, and started gnawing on it as I looked over the selection of dusters before me. I know, you're probably thinking, my goodness! That's revolting! Well, at one time, I might have been inclined to agree with that sentiment, but no longer. Because I'm Bob. Bob the Zombie. You may know me, friends, as the Motor City Shambler, and my story did not end with my escape from Detroit, Michigan. For a time I stayed in Flint, and I'll get around to talking about why I eventually left that place as well in short order. As some say, just sit back, relax, and take it all in. Especially if we're still lingering around, humans. It's only a matter of time before you meet my kinsmen. Some Catching Up To Do Well, well. So much to tell you all about, now that I've settled in here. Where is here? Cincinnati, Ohio, actually. Took a hell of a long time getting here, too, what with the pace of the horde I was leading. They're mostly what you humans have started calling Type A zombies, little more than shuffling, rotting, brain-dead eating machines. There are a couple of Type B's in the city, such as myself. I know the labels because one of our Type B's was a lieutenant in the Army National Guard. He's got a lot of communications equipment up in his place, and he's intercepted a number of military messages back and forth between units coordinating attacks on those areas my kind largely have pinned down under our control. He lives (ha ha) in the top floor of the Marriot Hotel downtown, along with three other Type B's, all of whom had been privates. We're diversifying. He had also been privy to the information about tagging us with different labels while he was still a human being, a small bit of the human memories that remained with him. As for the privates, he doesn't give them orders or anything like that. Rank is largely an outmoded concept for us. We're beyond such pettiness. We Type B's don't horde supplies of food or information. All undead are equals. The Type B's are just more intelligent and able to function than the Type A's. I grieve the loss of either type to the humans equally. Suffering is not prejudiced. Why should I be? * * * * I believe it's worth mentioning now, for the next generation of humans who may find these documents in future years, that as of this writing, the world balance has tipped, however temporarily, in our favor. We outnumber you, though not enormously. Your militaries are in chaos and disarray. Due to a moment of supremely piss-poor judgment on the part of Cuba's leaders, Cuba is no longer going to be on any maps. Rather than surrender themselves to becoming members of the undead, or give their homeland over to my kind, that country's naval leaders bombarded the entire country with missiles and bombs until the whole damned place was nothing more than a few dozen square miles of floating debris in the middle of the ocean. The ocean got a little bigger, thanks to the evaporation of so much land. I wonder how the aquatic life will handle the aftermath. Japan is little more than a mass cemetery. Without a source of food, most of my kinsmen there have keeled over, having gone over a month without sustenance. England, while in ruins, is still chock-full of human resistance against the undead armies. British SAS officers are brutally efficient when dealing with us. British Army regulars have been instructed to shoot themselves in the head if they're bitten or clawed deeply, in order to prevent them becoming more members of the zombie race. American Marines and Army personnel stationed in the Middle East have purged most of Iraq and Afghanistan of my kind. We gave whole new meaning to the term civil unrest over there, I'll tell you what. Who needs weapons of mass destruction when you have a zombie infestation on your hands, huh? Australia is much like the States and Canada. A wreck, but the split is roughly fifty-fifty. Mexico? Largely deserted. However, they're host to the largest population of zombified dogs, who seem able to last longer than the human variety without food. Television is back up and running, most of it information and news services. Only twenty or so stations are broadcasting anything more than white noise, but that's plenty to work with. The Internet is down, however. Currency is a bad joke. Am I forgetting anything? Ah, yes, the celebrity report. You see, there's a good number of us Type B's who have finally rediscovered our ability to talk. I go over to the lieutenant's place every couple of days to hear reports and updates from around the world, information he gets off of the television and his military communications suite. My favorite report is the celebrity report, when he tells me what famous folks have joined our ranks. He even finds out for me which Type of zombie they've been turned into. Here's a complete list of the last two weeks' names, Types, and where they've been spotted as members of the hordes: Dick Cheney--Type A zombie. Spotted in Boston, Massachusetts. Jeff Foxworthy--Type B zombie. Spotted in Fife, Alabama. I'm not sure there's an appreciable loss of intelligence at all there. Jessica Alba--Type A zombie. Seen on the outskirts of New York City, which we largely control now. Tom Cruise--Type B zombie. Warren, South Dakota. If you ask me, he was already a zombie before the infestation, though of a pseudo-religious sort. Jeff Gordon--The NASCAR champion is a Type A. Spotted in Atlanta, Georgia. Jimmy Johnson--Gordon's teammate, also a Type A. Same place. Carl Edwards--Yet another NASCAR superstar, he's a Type A. I'm thinking one of the other two drivers got to him. Tom Brady--Of the New England Patriots, yes. He's a Type B, up in Boston. Liam Neeson--Type B. Dublin, Ireland. Sir Elton John--Well, no more music for you, sir. Type B in Manchester, England. Jet Li--This martial arts master is a Type B zombie, last seen in Brazil. John Goodman--I loved him in The Big Lebowski, but sadly, he's a Type A in Paris, France. What he was doing there, I haven't the foggiest. Nicholas Cage--Type A, involved apparently in the failed human attempt to retake Las Vegas, Nevada. It has certainly been an eventful time for me, and hopefully for you as well. Hero is certainly enjoying the brief respite we've had in the city. Hero's my dog, a zombie dog, and he's the best friend I've ever had. But I'm afraid for him every time he goes out without me. You see, we haven't taken this town entirely... not yet. There are still thousands of humans popping out of hiding now and again to take the fight to us, only to scurry back into whatever secret place they've kept themselves in. How they have managed to avoid our detection we don't know. Zombies, if you're reading this as a human, have an innate ability to sense the presence of the living. It is through this sixth sense of sorts that we have been able to hunt you down and make Happy Meals of every one of you we come upon. This is not some arrogant boast, humans. We have only to wait until the time is ripe to lash out in one final, enormous push to do you in. Personally, I don't mind waiting things out, however. After all, if we wipe you out entirely, we won't have much in the way of resources left to feed upon. We cannot seem to target children, you see, a fact that I have seen proven a number of times, and that makes me very, very curious. What is it, precisely, that keeps us from attacking and feeding on the young? I doubt it's any sense of nobility, though I have myself defended a child once from another of you foolish humans who ran mad. Maybe we're just waiting for them to get older, make them more valuable as a meal? I can't say. I hope to find out eventually, however. Well, I think that perhaps I should begin by talking about my last couple of days in Flint, and tell you about the epic blunder that was the assault on the rec center. Flint was the town where myself and the other survivors of Detroit wound up in as our first stopover. I don't think we originally intended to stick around for any length of time, but after the carnage that was Detroit, we needed some time to cool off, maybe hunt down some less resistant humans and have a few leisure meals. That right there was a laugh, since just about everybody in that town owned a firearm or two and knew damned well how to use them. My pack met up with a horde of about three hundred other zombies on the road there, but after dealing with the first wave of human defenders in Flint, our numbers had easily been halved. The work of whittling down their numbers grew easier as time went on, though, and the former defenders of Flint became its assailants. But I'm getting off track. Let me fast-forward to the last days there, in Flint.

Flank Hawk

gryphonwoodpress — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 15:00:26 +0000

What happens when fire-breathing dragons battle Stukas for aerial supremacy over a battlefield? Can an earth wizard’s magic defeat a panzer? Krish, a farmhand turned mercenary, witnesses this and much more as he confronts the Necromancer King’s new war machines resurrected from before the First Civilization’s fall. Worse yet, a wounded prince tasks Krish to find the fabled Colonel of the West and barter the royal family’s malevolent Blood-Sword for a weapon to thwart the Necromancer King’s victory. Flank Hawk is set in the distant future where magic exists and brutish ogres are more than a child’s nightmare.

“Flank Hawk’s characters skewer you on page one, then the plot kicks your butt! Grab hold! Ervin’s got the magic!”

– C. Dean Andersson, author of the Bloodsong Trilogy

Author Website

Flank Hawk

$1.99

290 pages

Flank Hawk

Xenolith

ASparrow — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 15:00:34 +0000

Years ago, international aid worker Frank Bowen lost his wife Liz, when she went missing in the wilds of Belize. The constables of San Ignacio never found a trace. Years later, on a pilgrimage to her remote ‘grave,’ Frank loses his way and his world.

Frank, the ultimate “Doctor Without Borders,” is ambushed visiting Liz’s wife’s makeshift memorial in the Chiqibul wilderness of western Belize. But… by whom? Bandits? Drug runners? Maoist rebels?

Forced into an illuminating exile that rekindles hope for Liz’s survival, Frank wanders the frontiers and backroads of a war zone in search of her.

At the same time, a band of militia scouts on their way home from the enemy frontier become stranded in a small American town where they discover a plot to open Earth to their enemies.

The scouts’ attempt to foil this plan receives Frank’s oblivious and inadvertent assistance during his quest for Liz, whose trail gets warmer the farther Frank travels into “Gi”.

More info at: http://asparrow.weebly.com

Xenolith

$1.99 but FREE with Coupon Code: ND66P (until Nov 18, ‘09)

497 pages

Weird Tales of the Skullmask

BooksForABuck — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 10:36:30 +0000

Creed of the Skullmask I was fashioned from the skin of the first victim I would avenge. I am the collective experiences of all who have worn me in their quests for just Vengeance. I am the means to redress wrongs. My wearer may die but I live on. I am the path to justice. My wearer shares my memories which are longer Than any who live today. I am a candle of justice in a cathedral of evil. Snuff me out and a new life will relight me. My causes are many. My lives are innumerable I am the angel of vengeance. I am the demon of justice. I am the last and only hope of the hopeless. I am the Skullmask Pity those who wear me. Wear me if you Dare. The Skullrider of Desolation Flats Prologue: "Use the ropes on them bunch quitters, ya lazy greaser, are you blind? Do it or I'll use a rope on yours," Buck Larkin yelled at the outriders on the herd. The big, bullnecked ramrod spit out a chaw of tobacco and cursed under his breath. "Lazy good fer nothing Mexicans." He had a square jaw, a perpetual two-day growth of beard and close set brown eyes beneath heavy brow ridges that always seemed to be scowling. "Quite needlin' them, Buck," the cowpuncher, who rode along beside Larkin said. "You ride them vaqueros awful hard." "I need an opinion out of you, Stone, I'll slap it out of you." Larkin was a head shorter than the grey, grim figure that rode beside him but wider across the chest by a half and with arms that all but burst from his flannel shirt. He was known for his ability to bend a horseshoe without much exertion. "I don't work for you, Buck; I don't have to take your guff." Larkin's companion was a tall, spar man, with a scar along his jaw line that disappeared down the collar of his grey coat. His eyes were flint grey chips that seemed to miss nothing in the space around him. His attitude was grim at best and when Larkin spoke to him his thin lips tightened and his voice lowered. Larkin snorted a full deep throated laugh full of dark mirth. "I wouldn't hire you no how, so don't loose no sleep over what I do." Larkin spurred his mount and moved ahead to yell at one of the outriders moving the small herd leaving Stone to glare after him with cold grey eyes. One of the vaqueros who had been near enough to hear the exchange rode up beside the grim rider. "You should not question him, Senor Stone," the Mexican said, " He is moy loco e' capessa." The rider had features that hinted at Indian ancestry and in fact he had Yaqui blood in him. "Why do you put up with him, Juan?" the gray rider asked. "There are other spreads around here to work for that pay as much as Buck." The handsome Mexican shrugged his shoulders. "His father was a good man to work for; a fair man. When Senor Buck took over he felt he had to prove himself." The Latin gazed off across the dusty plain toward the foreboding badlands to the north and made a gesture that was half shrug and half a sigh of resignation. "He was always cruel but when he come back from the sea, since his father's stroke he has become muy worse." "So, why not go?" "Most of us have families and we have been here so long; it is not a easy thing to change." The two of them rode along by the small herd, the New Mexico dust swirling around them like unasked questions. "And," the Latin continued, "it is not so different with many other Americano, many do not like Mexicans. In some ways he is just more honest." Stone gave a shallow nod. "Honest is the last word I'd use to describe Buck Larkin." When the vaquero laughed, the gray rider gave him a ghost of a smile then waved a farewell and rode off toward his own spread to the East. "Stop jawing with no good squatters and get back to work, Juan," Larkin called from a distance ahead. "We gotta get this beef up to the west range by nightfall. It's Saturday night and I got me a bunch of drinking to do tonight." The Mexican shuddered at the thought. Buck Larkin was a hard man sober but he was a dangerous man drunk. (ommitted pages) Hehewuti dreamed. In her dream the hideous one, Masauwu, came to her. He was in the form of an old man swathed in rags from head to foot. His form was bent and twisted as if with age but his long slender hands were strong and supple, with fingers that ended in overgrown nails. His face was in shadow, which was odd as the day was sunny and bright. He spoke with the voice of youth. "Daughter of the People," he said. "Why have you called me?" His voice was the calling of ravens, the roll of thunder in the hills and the sound of fire in the Kiva. Yet it soothed her and in her dream she smiled and held her bloody hands out to him. "I have been wronged by a white man, " she said. "I seek justice." The God of Fire laughed like lightening. "Justice or vengeance, Daughter of the People?" This made her cross to be questioned, even by a god. So she said sharply, "They are one, hideous one. Will you help me or not?" In answer, the god in human form stepped up to her and in the suddenly blinding sunlight revealed his face to her. It was a skeletal thing that smelled of decay and was a horror to behold. He revealed his jagged teeth in a snarling grin. "Yes, they are," he said. "And because you understand, I will grant your wish." When he had spoken he reached up his delicate hands and tore his face loose from his head. He held it out to her and placed it into her already gory hands. "If you pay the price justice can be yours." Masauwu began to fade away as he spoke, his voice like wind in the distance. "But you must pay in full." "I will pay," she said spitting the words out like a curse. "As long as he will pay!" Masauwu laughed then, like the cry of a coyote. For a moment she thought that perhaps the trickster had come to her in disguise but the feel of the dismembered face in her hands was warm and when she held it up to look closely she could see her own image on the writhing shape of it. Then she knew it was true; her vengeance would be just.

When Women Were Warriors

Mark Gladding — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 10:30:18 +0000

“In ancient days, when only women were warriors … ”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know. A long time ago, I suppose.”
“How long ago?”
“I have no idea. It’s not important. It’s just the way you start a story.”
“Why?”
“All stories begin like that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. They just do.”

In Book I of the trilogy, Tamras, our hero, arrives in Merin’s house to begin her apprenticeship as a warrior, but her small stature causes many, including Tamras herself, to doubt that she will ever become a competent swordswoman. To make matters worse, the Lady Merin assigns her the position of companion, little more than a personal servant, to a woman who came to Merin’s house, seemingly out of nowhere, the previous winter, and this stranger wants nothing to do with Tamras.

Tamras’s journey begins with the smallest of steps. She sets aside her disappointment and performs as well as she can the humble tasks given her, and eventually she succeeds in winning the trust and then the friendship of the cantankerous warrior to whom she has been assigned.

In the first year of her journey, Tamras will make a series of choices that often seem insignificant, but they will flow from her character and from her good intentions, and they will determine her destiny.

The Music of Words
… From the title the reader would expect simply a tale of battle and blood, but this story instead surprises and mesmerizes one in its wonderful intricate weaving of words that become a delicate fabric of story and feeling. Words flow like a gentle meandering stream and one is swept up in the actual thoughts and emotions of the main character as she experiences growth and change…

Well-written, well-conceived, polished
The world-building is solid, the characters feel true… These are fantasy books, but there’s no ring of power or glowing sword of specialness; the magic, like the tone of the book, is quiet. It feels real.

Perfectly believable, yet perfectly fanciful and imaginative
…(the hero) learns much of statecraft, friendship, loyalty, and duty… mostly, she learns what she wants most in her own life… Well written, a pleasure to read. On to Book 2!

When Women Were Warriors

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264 pages

When Women Were Warriors

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The Area 51 Option

BooksForABuck — Thu, 01 Oct 2009 15:00:15 +0000

A NATIONAL EMERGENCY "How did you get this wound in your arm, Detective Brown?" asked the doctor. "I was chasing hoods on the docks," I said. "A guy came at me outta nowhere with a machete. Nicked me on the arm before I plugged him in the head." "Lie down. This is gonna sting." My cell phone rang. "Hey, Brownie. Smiley here. Heard you got cut. Bad?" "Nah. Just needs some stitches." "Your stiff's right in front of me," Smiley said. "I started the autopsy. You sitting down?" "Laying down. What's up?" "Something's very strange. The back of his head shoulda been blown off. But it ain't. There's no blood anywhere. Stuck my finger in the hole you blew in his forehead. Instead of brain tissue, I felt something weird. I looked inside with a light. I don't know how to say this." "Say what?" "The guy doesn't have any brains. Something else is there." "What?" I asked. "Looks like duct tape." I hung up. Smiley jokes a lot. But I wasn't in the mood for a Saturday night comedy routine. My phone rang again. "I ain't lying," Smiley said. "There's no brains in the guy's head. Just wads of duct tape. I'm about to open his chest. I'll let you know what I find." "I ain't laughing, Smiley. So, cut the crap already." I hung up on him again. When the doc said, "All finished," Smiley called a third time. "I swear on my mother's eyes," Smiley said. "I've seen weird stuff in my life, but nothing like this. He doesn't have a heart. The only thing there is a plastic box. I opened it up. It was filled with wads of duct tape." "Did you tell Homeland Security?" "Yeah. They snickered and hung up. Would you ask your FBI buddy to come over and take a look so he can verify this?" I figured if Smiley was willing to go so far, something was definitely wrong. "I'll call him right now," I said. "See you at the morgue in twenty minutes." * * * * "What do you think, Smiley?" I asked, tapping the duct tape inside the cadaver's open skull with my pistol. "I ain't sure. How do you explain a guy who's walking around with no blood in his body and duct tape for a brain? And more duct tape where his heart should be?" "Maybe he's an alien," I said. "Could be. Actually, he ain't a he. There's nothing down there except a big hole. I ran my hands inside." "What did you find?" "More duct tape." "Damn! Bad enough we got terrorists, illegal aliens, gangs, overpriced gasoline, war. Now we got a Duct Tape Monster. At least I know how to kill them, if any more show up." The doors swung open revealing Dave, my FBI contact. "Hey, Davey," I called. "How's it going?" Instead of answering, he opened his coat, pulled out a machete, and swung it at Smiley's neck. I pulled my pistol and shot Dave in the head. If Smiley hadn't ducked, his head would've been on the other side of the room. "Quick!" I yelled. "Check the wound!" "There's no blood," Smiley said, pulling a wad of silver-colored duct tape from Dave's head. Aghast, I dialed the police panic number. In minutes, the morgue was a madhouse. The mayor and her staff, a Homeland Security team, and police brass ran in circles, yelling on cell phones. "What do you think, Smiley?" asked the Police Commissioner. "We got a helluva problem on our hands," Smiley replied. "We don't know who's infected, why, or how it happens." "But we know how to kill them." I said. Somebody screamed. The Police Chief's severed head whizzed past my right shoulder. "Lookout, Brown!" somebody hollered. I twisted just in time to see Her Honor, the Mayor, charging at me with a blood-soaked machete. I shot her right between the eyes. "She pulled it out of her briefcase," the Commissioner yelled. "Search every briefcase in the room! Round up everybody who has a machete! Post armed guards wherever they sell them!" "Search all incoming ships and aircraft!" said a Homeland Security agent into a phone. "Tell citizens to be on the lookout and report anybody who's carrying a machete." "There may be thousands of them," somebody shouted. "How in the hell are we gonna identify them?" "We'll have to X-ray the heads of everybody in the nation," Smiley said. "It's gonna be a logistical nightmare. We'll have to do it at thousands of places. Combat-ready troops will have to stand guard at every X-ray machine. The moment a monster is identified, they'll have to shoot the damn thing right on the spot." "Problem is," a police captain said, "the guy next door might already be one. Maybe a sweet grandma is about to hack off a little kid's head. No doubt day care providers are infected. Same with our moms, religious leaders, congressmen." "And our wives," I mumbled, checking my ammunition supply. The room grew silent as everyone pondered the horrifying implications. Suddenly, everyone bolted for the exit. I raced home. With pistol drawn, I entered my apartment. Pointing the pistol at my snoring wife's head, I said, "Wake up, Helen. Whadda ya say we run over to the hospital X-Ray Department? We won't stay long. Afterward, we can have breakfast at Denny's...maybe."

Beasts of New York

Mark Gladding — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 05:49:56 +0000

I usually write international thrillers, but Beasts of New York is very different: it’s an urban fantasy about the wildlife of New York City, starring a squirrel protagonist who has to find his way from exile back to his home in Central Park, rescue his mother, and win a war. No easy task - but the unconventional friends he makes along the way just might be able to help him save his homeland…

– Jon Evans

This story is beautiful… Made me think of squirrels completely differently and its cool to hear about NY in a different perspective. As I’m reading this book, I cant help but feel for all the characters. Unbelievable that this book is free and a must read for all.

– kingshtcook, feedbooks.com

Jon Evans is a fool to give this away for free. This story is every bit as entertaining as any Harry Potter adventure or modern fiction thriller. Download it. Read it. Print it. Give it to everyone you know.

– Alex, Manybooks.net

Beasts of New York

Free

263 pages

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Hero Wanted

Mark Gladding — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 15:00:36 +0000

WANTED: DEAD OR VERY DEAD!

Jason Cosmo is perfectly happy as a humble woodcutter in the village of Lower Hicksnittle-until a foppish stranger tries to kill him, claiming there is a huge price on Jason’s head. Ten million gold carats is enough to put Arden’s best–and worst–bounty hunters on his trail. It seems Jason has become the most feared man in the Eleven Kingdoms–which is news to Jason!

On the run from mercenaries, Demon Lords, and the full might of the sinister Dark Magic Society, Jason teams up with cynical wizard Mercury Boltblaster and winsome twins Sapphrina and Rubis to learn the truth.

Driven by the Laws of Narrative, Jason’s quest will take him from the bright realm of The Gods to the deadly depths of the Incredibly Dark Forest–and into a final confrontation with the forces of evil. Followed by another final confrontation. And then a sort of wrapping up loose ends scene. If he lives that long…

Hero Wanted

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296 pages

Hero Wanted

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