Princess Angelterra is convinced that an ancient bracelet has the power to show her the way to the next part of her vision dream quest: a search for the White Tear, a charm she hopes will help tip the balance in her people’s fight for survival against the evil sorcerer, Shutharja.
At the urging of her magic and under the guidance of the bracelet, Angelterra sets off alone to an unknown destination somewhere among the mysterious northern kingdoms.
Along the way, the Princess is adopted by a lost little girl. Out of compassion, the Princess is moved to bring the child with her on her dangerous journey through the snow-covered lands of the North, hoping to reunite the child with the girl’s missing family.
Soon, she and her tiny ward find themselves enlisted to guide a grand expedition to capture a legendary and elusive monster. During this hunt, Angelterra is thrust into the crux of a great struggle for the heart and soul of the Suzerain of the Beast.
Meanwhile, her lady knight, Jeela, races against time to track down the Princess of Palzintine before a king’s assassin finds her first, as Angelterra has become an unwitting pawn between two warring kingdoms.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Angelterra’s need to continue her quest drove me to move on with the next book in the series, “Suzerain of the Beast.”
Additionally, I wanted to explore further the Deep-December holiday of Vissy Yule Eve, or the Holy Night of the Visitation. The holiday is celebrated in most parts of the world with each locale adding their own twist on the holiday.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Loads of new places required loads of new and exotic characters. The new characters are real representatives of these new lands. Each with a unique perspective on recent wars between themselves.
Angelterra lay upon her back on a narrow cot, heavy blankets and fat quilts piled high upon her by the well-meaning Skybriel. She stared deep into the thick blackness that filled her tent. She was so weary after their long ride. And for days during her travels, she had longed for the comfort of some kind of proper bed. Though the night air around her was chilly, she felt warm, and yes, even cozy. Because this night was so utterly devoid of light, she could not be completely sure if her eyes were wide open or tightly closed. And there were no sounds outside her tent to help her know if she was awake or asleep, for it seemed that when the night is truly chilly nothing wished to venture out of whatever nest or burrow or den or even pile of quilts a creature found itself nestled into against the cold. After a time, her cot felt like a giant ebony cloud of softness which levitated and then began to float gently out of her tent, and slowly out of the encampment altogether. She drifted in and out of unconsciousness, until she finally found herself back at the docks of Relendale….
“Your Highness! Your Highness, you have returned!” came the shrill cry from a small hooded figure which literally flew up the gangplank and wrapped its arms around her. “Oh, I thought you were…I thought they had…”
“It be all right, Skybriel!” replied Angelterra, as she stroked her young lady-in-waiting’s long blonde hair. “They tried, but they failed.”
“Your princess has a…magic touch when comes to dealing with her enemies,” said a voice behind her. She turned to see Traydreal standing there.
“Who is he?” asked Skybriel, suspiciously.
“A…friend,” replied Angelterra, and she could feel her face smiling. “This is the Wizard Traydreal from Prelandidar.”
“Formerly from Prelandidar,” Traydreal corrected her. “I doubt, Your Highness, I shall ever see that land again.”
Skybriel curtsied politely to Traydreal, “It is well to meet you, Wizard Traydreal.”
“Just call me, Traydreal. I am not much for titles,” replied the wizard.
“Yes, Traydreal,” said Skybriel. “Your Highness, Snowball is here. He waits for you at the inn. I am told we leave in morning for the encampment. Prince Dareldin has already gone ahead to your uncle’s castle.”
“Perhaps Wizard Traydreal will accompany us to the encampment,” said Angelterra, hoping he would not choose to set off on some lonely trek.
“The Constable is on the docks awaiting us, Your Highness,” said Skybriel.
“Wonderful,” said Traydreal. “I cannot wait to show him the virtues of my new bone dragon staff.”
“Behave thyself, Wizard,” teased Angelterra with a smile, remembering the last time the wizard from Prelandidar and the Constable met.
There on the dock she saw Chasladwinia reunited with her father, the Head Steward, Cardawin. Both Chassy and her father were thanking Jeela for getting the little girl safely home. Chassy held Jeela’s arm like she would never let her go….
Angelterra stirred from her pleasant dream, still feeling a smile on her face. She adjusted herself a bit, then burrowed even deeper into her mountain of soft quilts. Quickly, her eyes became heavy, and she surrendered once again to the seductive call of sleep…
Two horrible commanders, one an ugly, leather-faced creature and the other a man oddly familiar to her, scowled as they watched a great battle unfold before them. Fires burned all around them, making it look like a scene from the Underhell, home of the demons who dwell below the hellpits. Screams of agony and growls of victory pierced through the clammer of steel-upon-steel. The commanders barked their orders in some unintelligible language and a cavalry of leather-faced creatures riding upon the backs of lizard beasts charged headlong into the fray. To her right, Angelterra caught glimpses of Constable Jerrandal valiantly fighting alongside his men against this new enemy, but the next instant, he was cut down by an enemy blade and swept away along with the rest of his men. On her left, she watched helplessly as Traydreal employed his bone dragon staff to rain attacks of magic upon the approaching wave of creatures, but it was not enough. He too was swept away in the onslaught. The whole world became shrouded in darkness and filled with a choking-red smoke, as the evil hoard marched onward to cover everything like a cloud of locusts. Then above her, she heard a booming, sarcastic laugh. She glanced skyward into a ceiling of churning black clouds where she saw the glowing-red, twisted face of Shutharja, glaring down at her. He rode upon the back of a giant monster made of liquid fire. One of the monster’s great burning talons reached down for her. She tried to scream as its talon ripped deep into her flesh like a burning steel….
The Princess sat straight up in her cot. Her heart was pounding hard in her chest, and the sound of it was almost deafening in her ears. She realized that she was panting and gasping for air. Her throat was raw and sore, as if she had been screaming for hours. Angelterra looked around her, but it was still too dark in the tent for her to see much of anything. She tried to remain still for a moment. She listened. Everything was silent just as before. No horrible sounds of battle, no charge by the enemy. Then her ears picked up a slight rustling near her. And then a soft sigh. Skybriel shifted in her cot. Somehow the sound of her youngest lady-in-waiting calmed Angelterra’s nerves and her breathing slowed.
It was just a dream. Nothing more, Angelterra reassured herself.
But that thought did not fully comfort the Princess, for she knew firsthand the awesome power some dreams can have. Again she nestled herself deep within her blankets and quilts, determined that her nightmare would not rob her of her much-longed-for sleep. She needed to concentrate on something pleasant. As she shifted onto her side she felt her pouch tucked away there as it always was. She missed her Concera, her twin of First Magic. Angelterra was not sure how long she and Concera had been bound to one another. To wherever Concera had been transported within the realm of First Magic, the Princess knew that Traydreal’s twin of First Magic, Getwin, would be there to take good care of her Concera…just as Traydreal had taken good care of Angelterra… Now that was a pleasant thought for her to meditate upon….
Up and up, Angelterra climbed upon a stairway of pure white. All around her was white. She was wrapped in its brilliance. It made her feel safe and protected. The Princess looked up, and there at the top of the stairs stood someone. This someone was waiting for her. The hood of this person’s cloak was pulled over his or her head so that Angelterra could not tell who it was. When the Princess reached the top step, the hooded figure held open its arms in welcome.
“I miss you, too, my dear bonded one of the flesh,” said the person.
Angelterra’s heart leapt for joy. It was her Concera.
The figure pulled back its hood to reveal a face, a face that Angelterra saw every time the Princess looked in a mirror. It always unnerved Angelterra on how utterly exact a copy was her Concera. Her First Magic wore Angelterra’s face, stood with the Princess’s own body, and even exhibited all of the Princess’s personal mannerisms.
“Will you return with me?” asked the Princess.
“I cannot return to your world for a while longer,” was her twin of First Magic’s reply.
“But I will have no real magic for the coming fight,” lamented Angelterra.
“Those of the flesh still have some magic within themselves,” Concera assured her. “I will still try to extend some of myself to you, what you call magic, whenever you are in peril.”
“Will it be enough?” Angelterra heard herself ask.
“It will have to suffice as you continue,” replied Concera.
“Remember who you are…the Vessel of the Heavenly Father,” Concera reminded her. “You cannot rest through the winter as your people will do. You must continue with His quest. You must find the rest of the tears…and find them soon. Remember, you will be under His watchful eye, so be strong against the evil that stains your world.”
“I will try.”
But as Angelterra turned to descend back down the white staircase she felt Concera’s hand upon her shoulder. Her doppelgänger held out a hand and in Concera’s palm was a silver necklace. The silver charm upon the necklace was the figure of a small lizard.
“Give this necklace to the one known as Nermindar. He will know its meaning.”
Angelterra opened her eyes. Everything in her tent was now barely illuminated by the weak, pale-gray light of early morning.
It will be dawn soon, she thought. And I miss thee, Concera!
The Princess realized that she was now clutching a tiny item in her right hand. Opening her palm, she found a delicate silver necklace with a lizard charm upon it. She did not know who this Nermindar was, but she would keep this necklace safe until she could deliver it to him.
* * *
Hrezluukar stood leaning forward over a short stone wall and looked down upon the crowd filling the spartan, but imposing, Theater of the Gathered. The theater was a sunken circular stone amphitheater which was lined with short benches of granite. The center arena usually hosted battles of sport or the occasional execution, but on this hot day, it was overflowing with some Trozkur of the lower status and a few teens who wished not to sit with their parents, but mostly Trozkur who had just reached adulthood. Hrezluukar studied the crowd as he absently stroked his chin and grinned with his now sparkling-white jagged teeth. His teeth were newly whitened by the teeth healer he had seen in a soft-skins village in Venordaladia. Because Trozkurs towered over the soft-skins, Hrezluukar was issued a Venordaladian short-sleeved leather armor jacket, the kind used by the wolf-like Verka soldiers. The hot desert sun felt empowering upon the tough, gray, bark-like skin of his arms. Today’s gathering was much larger than he expected, and he loved it. All the restless young adults had shown up in great numbers from all the corners of this desert kingdom, just as promised. Seated on massive black stone benches were the members of the Junta of Elders. Once all proud warriors in their day, they were now old, feeble, and fat. Like old women huddling around a village well, the elders nowadays enjoyed sitting around their council hut and bickering the whole day long.
Doing nothing, planning nothing, killing nothing.
He had grown to hate them all…even the king, a Trozkur he once worshipped.
These doting old fools kept up the cowering ways set forth by the First Junta of Elders of the Desert Tribes, which formed after the calamity known as the Great Slaughter, the total defeat and systematic butchering of the Mountain Trozkurs by the soft-skins of old. That spineless, ancient junta abandoned the Trozkur ways of glory, refusing to Blood War anymore, and then it codified its cowardly ways, tying the hands of all the successive juntas, leading to this degrading, peaceful existence.
But as for this day?
Well, this was to be a new day, a new piece of glorious history! A day for the next generation of Desert Trozkur to rise up from their ways of shame and take their place as the masters of the world, and punish the kingdoms of the soft-skins for what they had done to their mountain brothers.
He should hate them, but he had to admire them for their ferocity and brutality in being able to nearly wipe away the Trozkurs from the face of all the lands and drive the remaining to hide away their lives in this hell in the desert.
Below him in the center area and even on the granite seats, The Gathered were becoming loud and impatient as a spokesman for the Elders and the king droned on and on with trivial announcements. Most just wanted to get out of the blazing desert sun, which beat down upon them relentlessly from the roofless theater. If the people had been forced to gather like this for nothing more than to talk about meetings and rules, they were already ready to go back to their homes and back to their little, mundane, safe lives. Hrezluukar knew that he could now give them so much more than that…he could give them greatness! A greatness that all Trozkurs deserved. And if the elders would not listen to him, would not follow him, then he would have to take matters into his own hands.
I. Am. Ready!
The deep-throated horn of a Konza beast blasted three times. The signal announced that the king of the Trozkurs now approached.
The tall stone doors at the entrance to the Theater of the Gathered slowly swung inward and in marched ten large Trozkur guards in silly, thin ceremonial armor. Hrezluukar grunted his disapproval of the guards wearing such phony costumes and not the real armor of war. The guards surrounded a squat, rotund figure wearing a bronze crown that flashed in the hot afternoon sun. The Gathered in the seats ringing the theater shouted and stamped their feet in greeting of their king, the living symbol of the Desert Trozkur Nation, a nation born by blood and brutality long, long ago. But the young who outnumbered the seated and who were forced to stand packed together in the center area grumbled at the sight of their sovereign. Hrezluukar watched as the tiny royal procession pushed its way through the center of the crowd of young strong Trozkur as quickly as it could and up to black stone seating area of the Council of Elders. The bloated elders greeted their round king with disgusting civility. Someone then escorted the king to the highest of the black stone chairs that lined the front of the Theater, the Throne of Trozkur. Once the most feared seat in the world, the throne, covered in pillows and brilliant orange fabric, was now just a chair of comfort for the lazy old king. Before he sat down, the king raised his hands for silence. It took a while, but finally the ruckus of the crowd quieted down.
“My Trozkur Brothers and Sisters,” boomed out the old king.” We are here to welcome back my son from his days of learning the ways and arts of war used by the soft-skins.”
The crowd booed at the mention of the hated soft-skins. But every Trozkur, old and young, knew of the growing power and strange magic of the Venordaladian shaman and his growing army. To the old Trozkur king, this meant that Venordaladia needed to be appeased in order to keep it from turning its war machine upon the Trozkur. Though the Trozkur leadership was in a habit of continually boasting about its warring past, Hrezluukar knew that the Elders secretly feared the soft-skin known as Shutharja, Shaman of the Fallen. And anyone who did not profess a true fear of the Spirits of the Fallen could be killed immediately without retribution or shame. Hrezluukar shook his head sadly for the weakened state of those of his people who followed the Junta of Elders.
Soon that would all change. It had to change.
For the young, strong, newly adult Trozkur, who now outnumbered the old, Venordaladia was a land of excitement and war. A place a Trozkur could make a name for himself on the glory of a battlefield.
“As you know, our soft-skinned neighbors, Venordaladia, now pleads for us to offer them friendly relations with our powerful nation,” said the king, playing to the crowd. “This is a sign that they fear us! And rightly so, for the Desert Trozkur are to be feared by all nations of the soft-skins!”
The Gathered in the granite seats that ringed the theater instantly began to holler and cheer and stamp their feet in approval in an orderly fashion, while the Trozkur youth in the center area remained silent and frowning. Hrezluukar spat as if he spat at all who sat in that ring of stone seats and at the Junta of Elders…and even at the king, for being boastful cowards!
Hrezluukar had enough of this shameful charade, and he slammed his fist down upon the wall on which he leaned. He stood up, stretched, and then began to descend the stone steps that led down to the floor of the center area. As the younger Trozkurs caught sight of him making his way towards them, these young adults erupted into a frenzy, screaming and yelling his name and jumping up and down.
Seeing this outpouring of support, Hrezluukar stopped his progress, unsheathed his sword, and raised it high. The crowd who sat upon their stone seats gasped at the insult and stared down their noses at Hrezluukar. And soon everyone, young and old, was silent. It had been illegal for anyone to bring weapons of any kind into the theater since the time of the Great Defeat, a crime punishable by death. But then a renewed frenzy began to brew among the young adults of the center area, one louder and more guttural and more vicious, than the polite cheering given to the king. Now emboldened by Hrezluukar’s blasphemous gesture, the youth suddenly pulled out weapons of their own. Not gleaming flimsy ceremonial weapons, but heavy Venordaladian weapons of war: hooked swords, massive cleavers, wicked multi-hooked spears, all with razor-sharp edges.
Still holding his own Venordaladian sword before him, Hrezluukar walked through the cheering throng of young warriors to take his official seat, the empty seat next to his father, the king. The king’s guards drew their pitiful, shiny, ceremonial tin weapons. Hrezluukar saw the sinful looks of fear of the guards’ faces as they realized their precarious predicament. When Hrezluukar stood before the great king of the Trozkur, instead of kneeling before his sovereign, he turned to the crowd and raised his hands like a king, commanding all of the Trozkur to silence with the gesture.
“I have come before you not as one who follows the ways of cowardice, but as your new warrior king. Saving you all from your pitiful existence, an existence that these timid fools have cursed you with!”
The Gathered youth screamed and hollered and whipped their weapons about like a crazed throng ready to commit a massacre at any moment.
“What is the meaning of this, Hrezluukar! Have you got rocks in your head?” yelled the king.
“Silence, Father! Your days of shameful reign have come to an end,” Hrezluukar shouted at his father, pointing his sword at the king.
Hrezluukar had been envisioning this day ever since he first met the soft-skin’s sorcerer king and Shaman of the Fallen, Shutharja. The sorcerer had promised Hrezluukar that he was destined to bring glory back to the desert tribes of Trozkur. The sorcerer then put waking dreams in his mind of glorious and terrible battles. Battles in which Hrezluukar led an army of Trozkur warriors and soft-skins soldiers fighting together to achieve a victory over the kingdoms of the Heart who had shamed the Trozkur so. When he came to Venordaladia to offer himself as a form of a living peace treaty, Hrezluukar was led away in chains to endure a grueling training program meant to either ready him to become a fearless conquer or to kill him. He had barely survived the grueling training…but he did. And it made him stronger. Now, nothing, not even his father, was going to stand in his way to bringing his vision of a new Trozkur glory to reality.
A massive blast of the Konza beast horn quieted the rabble. The Elder, Kvelacgur, the old high priest of the Temple of the Fallen Spirits, stood up and glared at Hrezluukar, saying, “A prince dare not challenge his king! As long as the king lives, a prince is nothing! Less than nothing! What possible glory could you bring to the Trozkurs, being barely more than a Nrekie off of his mother’s breast?”
Instead of angering him further, the term Nrekie, or infant, made Hrezluukar laugh.
“I come to offer the Trozkur the honor of Blood War! As in the old days, you must accept this offer!” shouted Hrezluukar.
The young began to chant, “Blood War! Blood War!”
“Blood War? Hrezluukar, stop such mad talk. Such a war is fought to win or all who participate must die. The last blood war nearly wiped out all the Trozkur,” said King Grzluukar loud enough for only his son to hear. “The last time we had Blood War, we were nearly exterminated by the Empire of the Heart of the soft-skins. Only we the desert tribes who did not participate survived. I order you as your king and your father to give up this foolish venture!”
Hrezluukar saw the sinful fear in his father’s eyes. When he was a nrekie, Hrezluukar had thought of his father as the strongest and most feared Trozkur in all the desert tribes. And when his father told him stories, it was the stories of the brutal, yet glorious, Blood Wars carried out by the long gone Mountain Trozkur were Hrezluukar’s favorites. But today the son of the great King Grzluukar of the desert tribes just turned his back on his father in disgust and addressed The Gathered.
“The Shaman King of Venordaladia has been blessed by the Sacred Fallen! And I do the will of the Fallen. He has decreed that I shall lead the Desert Trozkur to victory in a new Blood War! Our Blood War! I shall avenge our mountain grandfathers who were massacred by the Empire of the Heart!”
The Gathered began to cheer again. This time not just the youth in the center area screamed their approval, but even those who sat upon the stone benches. He was winning over the others. Trozkur were born to war and too long they had suffered the indignity of peace forced upon them as a condition of their capitulation to the soft-skins’ ancient emperor.
King Grzluukar stood and raised his hand for silence. After a time, the Gathered finally settled down to hear their king’s response to this challenge.
“I forbid this call for Blood War. We Desert Trozkur have had such a good and long peace in our desert paradise. You must turn away from this folly,” said the king, almost pleading. “Cannot you all see, my Brothers and Sisters? We are now a prosperous desert nation in this peace. We have food and land and gold aplenty. The old ways would take all that you have earned away from you. The Blood War will kill your sons, your uncles, and your fathers. All dead. Then the Empire of the Heart will rise up as it did before and come here to take away our desert homes, as they wiped away our mountain brothers and sisters long ago.” The king put down his head dramatically and then added, “No, my Brothers and Sisters, I promised my father as he promised his that we would Blood War no more. The Shaman of Venordaladia has put this poison idea in the hearts of our young, but we shall not all of us drink of this poison.”
When his father was done, he looked over at his son triumphantly.
“As your father lives, his word is our law,” hissed Elder Kvelacgur, who then motioned to the ceremonial guards to arrest Hrezluukar. The Gathered watched silently, unsure how this power struggle would turn out. The young frowned at seeing their hero in jeopardy after defying the king and sacredness of the Theater.
But when the guards reached Hrezluukar, he grabbed one of the guard’s ceremonial spears, turned around sharply, and heaved it directly at his father’s heart. The spear’s polished bronze tip struck the king in the chest with such force that its blade, dripping with blood and heart bits, stuck out of the old king’s back. Everyone stared in either shock or glee, depending upon his or her age, when King Grzluukar opened his mouth to speak, but instead of a fancy flow of words only a stream of blood oozed forth. Then the king collapsed before his stone throne.
The youth began to shout it first, then all of The Gathered, with one voice, chanted over and over in a great frenzy, “King Hrezluukar! King Hrezluukar!”
Hrezluukar waved his sword at the ceremonial guards, and they all backed away. Then the son of King Grzluukar walked over to this father’s throne, pulled off the bronze crown from his father’s head, and kicked his father’s dead body down the stone staircase. Hrezluukar turned to Elder Kvelacgur and growled, “Crown me king by the right of murder succession which is no crime during a Blood War…or die!”
Reluctantly Elder Kvelacgur took the crown and held it up for all to see.
“A new desert king has ascended by murder succession…may the Fallen Spirits guide his sword into the belly of our enemies, for we are now at Blood War!”
All of the Gathered, young and old, broke into fevered chants of “King Hrezluukar! King Hrezluukar!” and “Blood War! Blood War!”
Born in Detroit in the late fifties, I lived first on the Eastside in a small flat. We moved every few years until we finally migrated all the way over to the Westside, and not far from the famed Eight Mile Road. While growing up in the Motor City, I loved to play games that relied on my imagination. I really enjoyed pretending to be a cowboy when I was very young. Westerns were big in those days, and I watched a lot of the Lone Ranger, Cheyenne, Zoro, and the like. And I loved my plastic holsters, plastic bullets and real smoking cap guns. As I got a little older, I developed such a fascination with space that it bordered on an obsession. The space race with the, then, Soviet Union, was in full swing. I spent a lot of time pretending to be an astronaut. I was in heaven when I received a Mattel Matt Mason action figure. I was glued to the TV watching such shows as Lost in Space, Thunderbirds and, of course, Star Trek. All these shows help to grow my imagination. Of course, I was caught up in the British invasion of music in the sixties like everyone else. And dreamed of becoming a rock star…perhaps the first rock star to the moon.
In school, I found I loved to write stories. I kept a notebook dedicated to just that. Writing was a way to free my imagination and let it run wild. I thought books were the greatest invention ever, and I still do. The first book that had a really deep effect on me was Flowers for Algernon. In school, I read the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings both of which sent my imagination into overdrive.
At the age of twenty, I joined the U.S. Navy, working on aircraft electronics. I spent six years serving with an A-6E bomber squadron (this bomber is now retired. Boy, that makes me feel old) stationed at Whidbey Island Naval Air Station. I deployed aboard first, the USS Enterprise and then later on the USS Coral Sea aircraft carriers, cruising the western Pacific to ports in such wonderful countries as the Philippines, Korea, Singapore, Australia, and Hong Kong. There are not many places to go on an aircraft carrier, so I took up reading. And I read and read and read. Heck, I was walking on the hanger deck arround dozens of aircraft that were being repaired reading away (a dangerous thing to do) when I walked straight into the open hatch of an F-14 and landed square on my behind. Now that is suffering for your art. I was also writing while cruising the oceans for months. Every night I would sit off to one corner of my berthing compartment and write for hours.
After discharge, I decided to go to college and learn a thing or two about writing. I enrolled at Western Washington University in Bellingham, WA, and studied English, Literature and several writing styles such as novel, short story, and playwriting. I joined the Naval Air Reserve to help pay for college and became a Navy Journalist, writing news and feature stories for a tiny military newspaper.
After a few years, I left Washington State for Columbia, SC to help my family in their small businesses. A couple years later, I met someone who lived in Virginia and decided to move here. I started to work as an ad designer for a small daily newspaper, which covers the Shenandoah Valley areas called the Northern Virginia Daily in the late nineties. I moved up the ranks there to become the director of technology responsible for technology strategies and planning; purchases and financing for technology capital expenditures; vendor negotiations and relations; server, network, and security administration and so on. I decided to start a family, and we raised two wonderful sons: one who is now 14 and one who is 9. I did manage to write a little, but not as much as I would have liked.
Recently, guided by the spirits of capitalism, I earned my MBA at Averett University in Danville, VA, which has actually helped me to improve my writing habits. I bought myself a new MacBook Pro laptop and a pair of headphones. I put on Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac on my iTunes and soon found myself writing what turned out to be Part One: Flight of the Vessel. And I haven’t stopped ever since.
Have you read this book or others by this author? Tell us in the comments how you liked it!