DAY OF THE DRAGON IS ALMOST HERE!

OH YEAH! 3 MORE SLEEPS AND IT WILL BE HERE!

Haven't PreOrdered Yours for 99¢ yet! You better hurry! It goes up to $4.99 after release day!

PREORDER YOURS RIGHT HERE!

I am SOOOOOO excited that I just had to share a SNEAK PEEK WITH YOU!

Check it out! Chapter One!

The darkness had weight. It had girth. It had substance. It was alive… malicious… taunting in its very existence. 

It was everywhere and nowhere. It could be felt but not seen. It was alive but elusive… conniving… cunning and relentless.

It knew how to be whatever he feared most. It had seen his heart, read his doubts, and used the things that haunted him as its nourishment. It had been created to take him down…

And he had no doubt that it was what had been used to take the Enforcers.

“If only I hadn’t forced Alaric into the Healing Sleep of the Ancients. If only he were here. If only…”

But the Dragon King with whom he shared his soul wasn’t there. He hadn’t been there for a very long time. The decision had been difficult, almost unbearable, but Gunnar knew what he had to do. 

“I had to protect Dragonkin.” He let the thought settle in his mind. “I had no choice. The Magic flowing through King Alaric’s spirit, the Enchantment he shared with me was the key to his brothers, to my brothers, and to the Original Mage. I couldn’t take the chance that the bastards would find a way to take it from his veins.”

That had been nearly seventy-five years ago, and the moment his captors figured out what he’d done, the torture had gotten worse. 

Blurry images of men dressed in black leather, their masks, gloves, and chest plates adorned with all manner of silver spikes, barbs, and ragged-edged thorns, attacked his broken mind. Jerked out of the hole he was suspended within, Gunnar had summoned his legendary control and strength and sneered, “Well, hello, there, boys. How are you… arrrrgghhhhhh!”

Roaring in pain despite his resolve to never let them see him sweat, spots danced before his eyes as the back of his head bounced off a concrete embankment and ricocheted right back into the asshole’s clenched fist. Long silver spikes dug into the abraded flesh under his cheekbones, and the bones in his nose cracked and crunched as the coppery scent of blood filled the air, and the warm viscosity of his life’s essence covered his face and chest.

More than worse for wear, but refusing to give up or show the slightest bit of weakness, he mocked, “Is that all you got?”

Sadly, they decided to show him everything they had, plus some things he was sure they'd come up with on the fly. Days bled into months that became years, which amassed into seven-and-a-half decades of endless torture and untold horrors. 

Blurred images, unintelligible growls, squawking barks, the staticky snap of the whip, and the sizzling burn of the silver were all he knew.  The acrid stench of his burning flesh, the fetid reek of rancid blood and wounds left to fester with liquid silver invaded his senses, nearly taking away his ability to smell.

Through it all, he’d kept his oath. He’d done his duty. He’d remained loyal and protected Dragonkin, the Magic, and the humans.

The Supernatural Abolitionists had failed. They were no match for his determination or that of King Alaric. Once again, he was dumped in the hole in the ground, doused in evil sorcery, and left to die. 

But he didn’t die. Much to his captors’ chagrin, he continued to draw breath. His heart continued to beat. The Magic he’d inherited from his parents continued to slowly knit him back together…

And all the while, the Darkness gained strength. It grew. It expanded. It took on forms he hadn’t known were possible. 

Then it attacked. Not his body. It went right after what mattered most. It made a beeline for his soul, and that was something he simply could not abide.

Rage– renewed, reignited, and reinvigorated– rose up within him. For a few fleeting moments, he thought King Alaric had broken his word and left the Healing Sleep, but Gunnar soon learned the beast roaming around his psyche, beating its chest and demanding to be let out, was the embodiment of his fury and wrath.

The battle had truly begun. There would be no prisoners. The Darkness, the endless stream of evil sorcery, the constant barrage of hate, and the countless attacks of devilry would end one way or another– either Gunnar would survive, or they would both be destroyed.

With every blow he dealt the enemy, another was thrown back at him with double force and double malice. No matter how hard he fought, how fiercely he drew upon all his years of training, how devotedly he believed that the Universe did not make mistakes, it became unavoidable. No matter how much he fought with every fiber of his being not to succumb to the loneliness and obscurity and give his captors what they wanted, the absence of everything refused to be ignored.

It was insidious. It gnawed away at his sanity… his self-worth… his very being. It was vermin. It was opportunistic. It was parasitic…

It was the body of the great serpent. It was the muscle of the mighty giant. It was the fire, the sulfur, the hate, the very evil essence fueling the Dark Side. 

He didn’t know how they’d done it, but the Supernatural Abolitionists had found a way to weaponize the darkness. They’d given the dense, dank nothingness a persona. There were times he could quite literally feel it leaching into his pores… slithering through his veins… seeking his soul in an effort to turn him away from all he’d ever known.

“Tis the black Magic, the bastards’ evil sorcery.” He remembered the words of his Dragon King. “Tis the only way they can hold us… torture us… try to break us…”

“But I will not break,” Gunnar ground out the words through gritted teeth, his utter rage echoing off the walls of his silver-lined prison. “I will escape. I will save the rest of my Force. I will obliterate Cecil Couillebœuf and his followers. The no longer honorable reverend and his flock will go the way of all those who dared to battle the Light and the Dragons.”

Emboldened by his own words, the Guardsman continued to fight. Even in the hours, days, weeks, months, and sometimes years that they’d kept him unconscious by any malicious means they could conjure, the enchantment he’d been given by his parents healed his body and kept his spirit strong.

Even when the Abolitionists searched for ways to rob him of his inherent Magic and that of his Dragon King, the mighty Longaire Commander, the most extraordinary Tracker born in centuries, pretended to sleep and let his incredible mind continue the fight.

Pummeled by a barrage of nightmares created from a ruthless dousing of black Magic, he fell headlong into a vortex of dark, murky, soul-sucking visions. There was no rhyme nor reason, no logical order. Nothing fit together or made sense. It was all lies, his deepest, darkest fears come to life to continue the brutality his minions had started. 

Blurred images, unintelligible growls, and the unmistakable sounds of battle filled his every sense. From one stuttering beat of his heart to the next, he went from the bottomless hole that had become his coffin to a battlefield he knew all too well.

Fighting with all the strength he could muster, trying to shut down the memories before they became too real, Gunnar thrashed his head from side to side. Pushing against the thick silver shackle pressing against his Adam’s apple, he ignored the burning agony, the scent of sizzling flesh, and the blood flowing down his chest.

He couldn’t… There was just no way he could endure it. He had to…

But it was too late.

Landing dead center atop an outcropping to the east of the Black Cuillin mountains, the scent of blood and burning flesh nearly drove him to his knees. To the left, bodies littered the landscape for as far as the eye could see. To the right, the battle raged on. The clash of blades and the guttural grunts, groans, and sharp yells of men and women on both sides of the conflict fighting for their very lives called to him like a siren’s song for which he may not return.

Jumping from the ledge, propelled by King Alaric’s Magic, he aimed for the tallest, bulkiest, ugliest giant of the hoard. With his blade at the ready and his sights set on separating Lord Kruul’s head from his shoulders, Gunnar could see each and every wart, pustule, and festering wound on his gigantic, bald head.

Inhaling deeply, he held his breath and clenched the grip of the Sword of Cernunnos– the Horned God, the Celtic lord of Tracking and the Hunt– with such force his knuckles turned white. He would not fail. He would not falter. He would not miss.

Three… Two… One! 

Swinging with all the might of the Ancient Dragons who came before him and sheer rage that filled his very being, Gunnar exhaled a loud roar as he executed a perfect diagonal strike from just above the giant’s left temple. Hitting Kruul’s massively thick and muscled neck right under his jawbone, blood spewed in every direction as his blade severed the giant’s jugular. 

Refusing to stop, not allowing himself to be denied the victory, Gunnar continued to follow through, thrusting with every ounce of strength in his body. Slashing through muscle, bone, and tendon, his feet were shoulder-width apart when he hit the ground, allowing him to bend his knees and twist at the waist.

Moving with the giant as he thrashed to the left, trying to spin away from the Guardsman’s blade, Gunnar pushed even harder. Fighting to see through a tsunami of thick, viscous, ebony giant blood, he pulled on every ounce of hutzpah he had and all the Magic King Alaric could give him. 

Shuffling to the right, then back to the left, the two mighty warriors were locked in a lethal dance to the death that Gunnar refused to lose. Moving across the battlefield, parting the warring factions like Noah parted the Red Sea, the Guardsman caught sight of a mound of grass and rock just a few feet to the right. 

“Go, Lad!” King Alaric ordered. “It’s the leverage you need to finish this fucker off!” 

Pushing the blade of his sword even deeper into Krull’s neck, Gunnar felt the instant it was lodged in one of the large bones of the giant’s spine. Changing tactics in the blink of an eye, he started to pull his prey toward the mound. One painstaking backward step after another, all the while bobbing and weaving to miss the silver ball adorned with hundreds of spikes that was frantically swinging from the giant’s gigantic morning star weapon, the Guardsman pulled, tugged, and dragged the twelve-foot behemoth as if he were little more than a yipping and yapping little dog. 

One final yank and he was there. Jumping atop the mound, Gunnar instantly had the leverage he needed. Flipping the grip of his right hand so both clenched the sword from the top, he shoved the edge of the blade with such force that the flat, metal guard at the base of the hilt was instantly embedded in the side of his left hand. Giving it everything he had, forcing the blade through the right side of Lord Kruul’s neck, he knew the second he’d cut the carotid artery when another wave of oozing, black giant blood covered everything in its path.

“Push, Lad! Push!” King Alaric roared, the sheer unrelenting power of his Ancient Dragon Magic filling every fiber of Gunnar’s being. “One more push!”

“Arrrggggghhhhhh!” The Guardsman roared with all the rage, fury, sadness, and sorrow spewing from his heart and soul.

One final thrust, and Lord Kruul’s head catapulted from his mighty body. Flying through the air, mouth open, his final bellow a curse in ancient Gaelic, “Tha ifrinn a' feitheamh ri cridhe an dràgoin.”

Watching as the gigantic head hit the ground and rolled away, Gunnar turned just in time to see the giant’s humongous body wither and fall to the ground. “Hell may be waiting for this Dragon’s heart, but you’re already there, Lord Kruul,” he sighed as the tip of his sword slowly fell to his side. 

Shocked to see every warrior, both Dragon and giant, staring at him in disbelief, Gunnar looked straight at the behemoth with the bloody redcap atop his grotesque, bald head. Swinging his sword upward until the tip pointed directly at his heart, the Guardsman sneered, “Surrender or die!”

In the blink of an eye, every giant charged. The attack was frenzied and chaotic. It was a classic fight or flight response to Gunnar’s command. Half of the hoard ran for the hills, and the other half fought with all the skill of a colony of ants who’d just had their hill destroyed.

Running toward the red capped giant with his sword at the ready, Gunnar prepared to thrust the tip through the monster’s heart just as he had on that fateful day and…

Everything changed. 

Jerked back into reality with the crack of a whip, pain ripped through his back as the coppery scent of his own life’s essence filled the air. Over and over, the silver tips at the end of the cat o' nine tails ripped through his flesh. It was the worst beating he’d gotten in his years of captivity. 

The deep, guttural groans of the Abolitionist wielding the whip turned to panting and grunting. He was getting tired. There was no doubt in Gunnar’s mind that the muscles in his tormentor’s arms were burning. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. He was cramping in places he didn’t know he could cramp.

Smiling even though he was sure his back had been reduced to ground meat, Gunnar stared at the closed metal door twenty feet before him. It didn’t matter that his arms had been pulled from the sockets of his shoulders, and the silver of the shackles around his wrists had burnt away everything to the bone– he was winning.

“I haven’t told them what they want to know,” he whispered to the sleeping Dragon King in the depths of their combined psyche. “They will never break me. I will never tell them. The secrets of the Red Diamond Dragons will die with me. Cecil and his Abolitionists will…”

Whap! The metal door swung open. Bam! Thunk! It hit the thick, concrete wall, embedding the huge claw-like handle in cement.

As if conjured by his thoughts, Cecil Couillebœuf appeared. Five feet five inches, if he was an inch, his long, flowing purple robes billowed and flowed behind him as he stomped a path to Gunnar.

With the tip of his long, narrow, hooked nose less than an inch from Gunnar’s, his black eyes burning with malice and hate, the leader of the Supernatural Abolitionists huffed and puffed in such rage that spittle flew from his lips. Grabbing Gunnar’s chin with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, Cecil dug the sharp, jagged tips of his moss-green nails into the tender flesh beneath Gunnar’s chin.

Pulling his head forward with so much gusto and indignation that the Guardsman’s neck cracked, and it was hard for him to breathe, the Abolitionist seethed, “You will tell me what I want to know.”

Thwack! Gunnar’s cheek burned as the crack of the blow Cecil delivered to his face echoed through the dead silence of the room.

But he didn’t stop.

BAM! “You…” SLAP! “Will…” POW! “Talk!” Whump! Thud! Thump! Thump! Thump! Ending with five punches to the gut, Cecil once again grabbed Gunnar’s chin, jerked his chin up as far as it would go, and spat into his face, “Tell me, you bastard! Tell me now!”

Looking him straight in the eye and sneering the best he could with blood running down his face, both lips busted, and more than a few teeth missing, Gunnar lisped, “Go to hell!”

With the words still ringing in his ears, the beating resumed. Abolitionists attacked from every direction. He had no clue where the blows were coming from and didn’t care. All he could do was pull his consciousness back, wrap it in every good thought he could muster, and endure as he prayed, “Dear Powers That Be, if my fate is to die at the hands o

f these assholes, could you hurry it up?”

PREOREDER YOURS RIGHT HERE!