Yes, my friends, I have way . . . way . . . way too many writing projects going on at the same. So many that they are driving me nuts. Or, perhaps more accurately, more 'nuttier.' But while waiting for some ebook artwork to get done on a couple of projects, I thought I would share this.
For a long time now I've been thinking about redoing a fantasy novel of mine I published back in '06. It was Roland of the High Crags, Evil Arises. For those of you who have read it (all two of you), you know all about the story. For those of you who haven't read it the short synopsis goes like this.
A primitive world has two sentient species. One human. One dragon. Both equal in technology and capabilities. They have been at war with each other for a thousand years. Genocide is a very real possibility. But one day a dying dragon baron asks a human warrior-monk-wizard to whisk his only surviving family member away from danger. Not only save her, but raise her as well. Raise her and train her in the Bretan way of controlling the vast magical powers she already possesses.
The problem is the little dragon princess is a weapon. A weapon designed to destroy the entire human population. Yet, even though he knows this, the human agrees to the task.
I've added a number of pages to this story. And I've changed the ending, PLUS added a different introduction. I want to revive the story and bring out the new version of Book One AND add in Book Two (which was never in print) at the same time.
But for now, thought I would share with you the new intro to Book One. Tell me what you think.
In my Own Hand I
write the History of the Great Struggle
The
moonlight streaming through the narrow slit for a window is strong today. Its eerie silvery light filled with mysteries
yet to be discovered and the ghostly whispers of voices yet to be heard. And peace.
A breath of quiet, still, peace I have not felt for quite some time. I
have been in this cell for oh, so long. Years.
Decades. Perhaps centuries . . .I
cannot say.
But
it's time, brother.
Time
for me to leave the confining space of this narrow dungeon cell. Time to elude my captors and again take up
the sword and shield. The fight will continue.
What was . . . will be
again. The promise of futures lost
perhaps ready to be born again. There is
no escaping the cycle. Years of solitude,
of captivity, have only made me stronger. Aye, brother . . . my body is old and
frail. White is the color of my hair
now. The wrinkles of age on my face too
numerous to count. My bones creak and groan every time I stir from my bed. But
the soul, brother . . . the soul within this ancient casket of flesh and bone
remains strong! And as long as my soul lives . . .
How
long have I been in this dungeon cell I cannot say. I gave up counting the days and years long
ago. Suffice to say it has been at least one life time. Perhaps two.
This narrow slit deep in the bowels of some ancient fortress long
forgotten, its walls made of stone streaked with a rare metal which limits my
wizardry powers, has counted with me many summers and winters passing. Patiently I have waited for this day. I endured. I survived. I fought back the pain of my captor's
torments. I fought the long hours of unbelievable silence which pushed me close
to the edge of the abyss called insanity.
For years I heard not the sound of a human voice. I endured in this cell
of infinite solitude.
I
gather strength standing in the light of a full moon. Now, in my old age, it is the white light
of
a full moon that soothes the troubled waters of my soul and quietly infuses me
with a sublime, almost sensual, feeling of strength hard to describe. Years ago, while still a young man, I would
never have admitted such a truth. My
training, my religious order, would have frown upon these words and would have
forced me to recant. But not now,
faithful servant. Not after all these
years of abandonment and solitude.
Know
you, pilgrim, I am, or at least at one time long, long ago, a Bretan monk. A
Bretan warrior-monk. I wear still the
yellow robes of that ancient order with deep humiliation and love. Even though . . . even though in the eyes of
my kind, both brothers and sisters of the order, I am an Apostate. A feared and
loathed disbeliever who has taken up the sword against his faith. Against the teachings of the Bretan.
They
will tell you, my Bretan brothers and sisters, that it was I who brought this
Great Evil among us. It was I who, when
given the chance to destroy this Great Evil long before she became what she is
today, I failed in my faith and allowed her live. To not only live, Pilgrim,
but to thrive! To grow in her strength
and powers of the Netherworld through the training and technique of a Bretan
wizard.
For
she is indeed a formidable power, brother.
Her command of the Netherworld magic is beyond comparison. She lives in both worlds. Both here in the Middle Kingdom where all our
souls still wrapped in these caskets of flesh and blood reside in, and in the
World of the Dead as well. The
Netherworld. Lives in both at the same time. Aware of both; interacts in both
dimensions, all at the same time. No mortal wizard or witch before her has ever
accomplished such a feat.
How
many have I died because of Her? How
many empires have fallen? How many
loving families ripped asunder?
Millions. Hundreds of millions.
And she still reins over the many.
Because of her a great imbalance permeates throughout the Great Cycle
which both the Neatherworld and the Middle Kingdom revolve around. An imbalance
that must be corrected. Has to be corrected if this Universe as we know it is
to remain intact and operate like the great mechanism it is.
But
she is, Pilgrim, not the She whom I raised. She is a different soul. A She from some far distant Past who, when
the opportunity was offered to her, stole the one whom I raised from childhood
and imprisoned her as well.
Aye
brother . . . aye. It is something
beyond knowing, beyond belief, that which I scribble hurriedly on this
parchment A She from a different Past,
you say? How could this be? What Dark Magic is being laid bare here? How
could someone from the Past, someone long since dead, return to the Now and
replace the living? But it is so,
Pilgrim. It is so. And it falls upon my
shoulders to rectify this Great Schism and bring back the Laws of Order and
Tranquility from the Rules of Chaos and Darkness.
It
begins tonight, my brother. Tonight . .
.when the full moon hurls its first bright beams of pure light through the bars
of this narrow dungeon cell. When the shaft of
soft silvery white light touches the stone floor I will step into its
sweet embrace I will . . . I will . . .
But
before this happens. Before the struggle
begins anew, I will hurriedly scribble a few lines of what took place
before. I will write a short History of
the Struggle with the forces of Chaos and those entities whom reside in the
Netherworld.
I
am Bretan, brother. Once known as an
honorable warrior-monk and wizard. I am
Roland. Known as Roland of the High
Crags.
And
this is my story.
