Despite the Guardian of Maarihk being condemned as anathema, and his very existence relegated to legend, Natharr resumes his ancient responsibilities as Mankind’s protector. He joins with a mysterious Firstborn companion, Ellis the Elder, to journey into the snowy reaches of Biraald, where his Sight promises he will find those who secretly adhere to the ways of the Olde Gods.
Although Biraaldi bloodlines show their Firstborn heritage more clearly than even in Maarihk itself, the two nations have never enjoyed peace. It has been far worse since the rise of Brandt the Usurper to Maarihk’s throne. Natharr and Ellis must navigate threats not only against the Firstborn, but the Maarihkish, as they seek out the sympathizers he Saw who are brave enough to resist Maarihk’s tyranny. Only then can the damage be repaired from when Natharr chose personal happiness with Darshelle and the young crown prince over his weighty responsibilities as Guardian of Maarihk.
Targeted Age Group:: Adult
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I had a dream that stuck with me for weeks, just resurfacing over and over. I finally started working out a storyline around it. To get the same emotional response that I felt, though, took time. As a result, the most poignant moment in that recurring dream doesn't appear in books one (Crown Prince) or two.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The kernel of the idea for Natharr came to me years ago. When I was an undergrad studying philosophy, I was fascinated by Socrates, who would go into a trance-like state, then emerge with new answers to questions. He called it being seized by the Daemon of Philosophy. Natharr has something similar in his makeup.
For Ellis the Elder, I wanted to have a character who played the same sort of role as a Gandalf or Alanon, but was more real. Since magic is more subtle in this series, it made sense that Ellis not be a wizard or druid, but an engineer. In his words, he is "not a sorcerer, but I build sorcerous things."
Book Sample
Natharr leapt up and forward, arching his back, and the blade of a short sword sliced the air only a whisper away from his shoulder blade. He whirled immediately, slashing at the men at his back, but had to turn the attack into a defending stroke, and chopped down into one attacker's blade, then reversed the motion to feint at the body before striking at the sword in a disarming attack. Their blades threw sparks and the soldier's eyes bulged, big and brown, as his short sword twisted in his grip and flew to the ground, vanishing in the snow. Normally, Natharr would have pressed the advantage, at least bloodying the unarmed man to make him less of a threat when he retrieved his weapon, but the others were already surging forward to give thier companion the necessary cover to rearm himself. Once again, Natharr was impressed with the training of these garrison line troops.
Natharr whirled away and leapt over the top of the snow, throwing a new cloud of white, and he saw Martice and Ellis. They stood, rooted in the knee-deep snow as if they were frozen. The old man's face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, but the expression on Martice's face was clear enough. Her eyes bulged and her mouth was open, a look of horror that took a strong woman and transformed her into any maid caught in a difficult situation. He was having a hard enough time fighting so many men in the deep snow, he did not need the distraction of the two of them acting like idiots waiting to be told what to do.
"The trap door!" he yelled, leaping over the top of the snow. "Get through it!"
They did not move.
"Now!"
Natharr turned hard to the right and the soldiers followed. He hoped he could keep their attention on him, rather than turning back toward the Elder and the woman, but that was not certain, particularly when he had just yelled instructions. Swords flew at him in rapid succession. By turning so sharply, he had closed the gap between himself and his pursuers, allowing three to get ahead of him, limiting his paths of escape, all of them back toward Ellis and Martice. His sword arm was heavy, his shoulder and wrist burning; his legs were becoming leaden from fighting through the crusty snow both as he raised each foot and as it came back down. He had to even the odds and he had to do it immediately. There was no telling how much longer he could keep this up. He was only a man and he could do only so much for so long, despite his Sight helping him ward off the worst of their sword strokes.
He attacked.
The three that had cut him off cried out, eyes bulging, as Natharr took his long sword in both hands to rain a barrage of strokes at their heads and shoulders. They stumbled backward through the snow, then one backed into the stiff branches of a pine. His eyes flicked upward for the briefest instant, but it was all the distraction Natharr needed. He swung his sword in a wide arc that ended with a wrist-wrenching impact as his blade bit into the man's arm at the base of the shoulder. The soldier cursed and dropped to his knees, bright red spraying across the snow as he clutched at the wound. The bone had stopped Natharr's edge from severing the limb, but the Guardian knew the man would not wield a sword for the garrison again.
It was blind luck that the second of the man's two fellows ran headlong into him, flipping right over the top of him, upended as they both cried out. Natharr hacked at the man who fell atop his fellow, and his sword point sliced through the man's fleshy backside, then the Guardian was off again, leaping over the top of the snow. The icy crust seemed thicker, or maybe it was just fatigue beginning to weigh him down, his knee throbbing as if aflame as his ankles started to ache, the repeated impact of the tops of his feet against the underside of the crust taking its toll.
"You heard him!" he heard Ellis yell. "Go through!"
Natharr cursed under his breath. It would be just like Martice to refuse to flee. He glanced toward her and saw that the old man held her aloft, arms locked around her chest. To the Guardian's surprise, she did not resist. She simply dangled there, staring at Natharr as if stricken. It was that glance that turned Natharr's head enough to see that Tavish was running through the snow toward him, throwing up his own wake of white, sword also clutched in both hands. The lieutenant sought to cut off Natharr's path of escape. Tavish's face was a mask of rage, cheeks red, and he was roaring like a Great Beast. Teeth gritted, Natharr planted his heels to stop and change direction, but his boot soles found no purchase and shot out from under him. The Guardian belched out an inarticulate sound as he fell backward, arms windmilling, despite the length of deadly, blood-wet steel in his hand. Tavish came in at him, unrelenting, sword raised over his head in both hands —
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