It’s been a busy week but that’s a good thing, as I’ve got a few updates to share on several different projects.

First, we finally have a launch date for HELLstalkers!  The first episode will be available free of charge for the Kindle, Sony Reader, and other ebook devices by the middle of next week.  Mobile phone versions will follow shortly thereafter, most likely the week of Feb 22nd in both the US and the UK.

The HELLstalkers.com website has been revamped and updated as of this weekend and we’ve added the ability for fans to join the HELLstalkers to help promote the series and win some really cool HELLstalkers swag.  (Baseball caps, T-shirts, the chance to be a character in the books and more!)

Moving on, book two in the Jeremiah Hunt series, HANDS TO HEAL, has been turned in to my German editor.  Once he’s done with it, I’ll make a few changes and shoot it over to my US editor at TOR as well.  Book one, Der Schattenseher, has been receiving great reviews in Germany and I hope book two is received with even more enthusiasm.  (Sorry, US fans, you’ll have to wait until next year for the English language version from Tor Books!)

New projects were a focus this week as well, as I’ve just finished up a new proposal for a zombie steampunk novel set in an alternate World War I.  My agent loves it and we’ve already got an editor in mind.  Zombies, biplanes, and weird science – what could be more fun?

Speaking of new projects, a new update was posted to the Mirror’s Road project this morning, explaining the hook I’m going to center the story around.  The only way this one is going to get off the ground, however, is if I get enough backers before the deadline so drop by the project homepage – The Mirror’s Road – at Kickstarter.com and check it out.

Finally, work on my third Rogue Angel book, The Black Torc, is nearing completion and I hope to have it off to my editor at Gold Eagle fairly soon.

So that’s what’s been happening over the last week.

I’m very sorry to report that Full Moon Press, the publisher that was supposed to bring out limited and lettered editions of the three books in the Templar Chronicles trilogy, has announced it is going out of business immediately.  This, of course, means that the trilogy has been cancelled.

I’m very sorry to see this happen -I know many of you have been waiting a long time to read the second and third volumes in the series and to own a completed set of all three, as have I.  I’ll be looking for a new publisher, but that is always a slow process and even if I found one today it would mean another wait to see the actual books produced.

If you pre-ordered these books (particularly if you put up cash to secure a copy) then I urge you to contact the publisher, Paul Little, as soon as possible to get a refund.  His email address is info@thefullmoonpress.com.

I’ve released two new products in the Amazon Kindle store over the last few days and wanted to let you know about them. (Click the covers to access their pages in Kindle Store.)

More Than Life Itself

The first is a digital version of my 2005 novella, More Than Life Itself, originally published by Telos in England.

“On a bright June morning, Sam Dalton’s world suddenly crumbles as he learns that his four-year-old daughter, Jessica, has contracted a mysterious disease. Thanks to some kind of new viral infection, her internal organs are slowly shutting down, one by one, and her doctors are unable to even pinpoint the cause, never mind find a cure. With weary shakes of their heads, they give her less than a month to live.

Life has not been kind to Sam; two years previous, a drunk driver took his beautiful wife from him in a shower of crumpled steel and broken glass. Now the capricious hand of fate had reached out again, threatening to take his baby girl away from him, and with her, his only reason for living. He vows he will not let that happen.

A chance meeting with a terrifying empty-eyed vagrant offers him a possible solution and a chance to fulfill that vow…”

Praise for More Than Life Itself

“A filler free and nicely old fashioned tale” – SFX Magazine

“This novelette is at its most powerful when it is describing a man tormented by the decline and imminent death of his only daughter. When a mysterious apparition suggests that he make use of an ancient ritual which can save her, but only if he is willing to commit seven murders, he is initially horrified as well as skeptical. But then the opportunity to commit the first arises almost by chance, and it works, so he finds himself firmly set on the path of homicide to save her. But there is a catch. There’s always a catch. You’d think even fictional characters would know that by now.” – Science Fiction Chronicle

“…a nasty little chiller that slices through the squeamish with surgical precision.” – SFCrowsnest

SHADES OF REALITY

The second is a collection of all of the short fiction that I’ve had published since I began writing in 2002.  I don’t write many short stories, as I find it easier to write an entire novel than one 5000 word piece of short fiction, but those I have written have all been sold to various places and I’ve collected them all under one cover here.

This includes several stories from the collection I did with Drew Williams, Spectres and Darkness, as well as stories published in The Book of Final Flesh, Lost on the Darkside, Legends of the Mountain State, Masques V, Inhuman Magazine, and more.  (Note that this collection also includes the novella listed above.)

Of particular note might be the story That Cleansing Fire, which introduced the characters who would later star in my Templar Chronicles trilogy.

Over the next few days I will also be putting up both of these books in additional formats that you can purchase directly from this website – Sony Reader, Mobipocket, PDF – for those of you who prefer something other than the Kindle edition.

I’ve always been a fan of both diversification and experimentation when it comes to my writing career. From my soon-to-be-launched cell phone project to making my work available in a variety of digital formats, I’ve tried to examine different ways to bring my writing to the people who value it the most – my readers.

2010 is going to be an adventure in living out that belief; I’m going to try different things and see just what folks respond to the most.  And I’m happy to say that I’m here to announce the first of these experimental ventures – The Mirror’s Road.

The Mirror’s Road is a novel I’ve had hanging around in the back of my head for awhile.  It’s such a mix of genres that I’ve never even tried to sell the idea to a publisher – it would probably give the guys in the marketing department fits as they tried endlessly to pigeonhole it into one genre or another without success.  But it’s a story I want to tell, one I want to share with all my fans, so I’ve been looking for a way to do just that.

I found it through a little site called Kickstarter.

You see, Kickstarter is a site devoted to doing just what its name implies – kickstarting projects with the help of others.  People pledge money to a project in return for cool rewards and a behind-the-scenes look at the development process from beginning to end.  The site is backed by Amazon.com, which provides an appropriate measure of security to the entire process.  It’s all or nothing funding, too; if a project does not meet its financial goal in the timeframe set (between 1 and 90 days) then no money changes hands.

I’ve turned The Mirror’s Road into a Kickstarter project, as you can see from the widget below, and I want to  invite you all along to share the ride with me.  If you decide to back the project – and there are various levels of doing so from $5.00 to $100.00, with appropriate rewards for each – you’ll get to participate in the project with me, providing suggestions on everything from character traits to plot lines.  You’ll get to follow along from development of the intial idea to the actual writing, from the production of the cover art to the final printed product.  And regardless of the level of backing you chose, you are assured of getting a copy of the completed book as my way of saying thanks for supporting the project.

So what’s the book about?  I can tell you it’s an urban fantasy novel, full of things that shouldn’t exist in a world that doesn’t quite believe in them. And it’s a road story too, about a young man on a journey, searching not only for his destiny but also for the almond-eyed girl that appears in his dreams each night, the girl that calls him on through the darkness. Who they are and what they mean to each other? Well, I think we’ll find that out in time.

If you want to get involved, and I really hope you do, simply click on the widget above which will take you to the project’s home page.  Click on the pledge level you want, select your reward, and follow the Amazon check out process.

And remember, the pledge period runs until April 16, so your card won’t be charged until then and only if we meet our goal.

My good friend and writing partner Jon F. Merz launches The Madagascar Matter today, a year long serial adventure that delivers a chapter a week for the rest of 2010 and features Lawson from The Fixer.  Here’s a quick summary:

A nefarious plan for genocide.

An enemy every bit his equal.

An outcome he could never imagine.

In the dense jungles and high savannahs of the island nation of Madagascar, Lawson and his former mentor Zero must track down a rogue Fixer intent on unleashing a plot that will forever upset the Balance itself between humans and vampires. Amid the sweltering heat and humidity, Lawson and Zero must contend with lethal predators, betrayal, and a sinister evil thought dead for over three decades. Journey back to the early 1980s with Lawson, on a mission that helped establish his reputation as the ultimate Fixer operative. The adventure starts in January 2010 – one chapter each week throughout the year – one amazing event. Exclusively from Jon F. Merz, delivered direct to your email, Kindle, or smart phone.

The serial is only available via subscription, so if you want in on the action you have to sign up. You can do so by dropping over to Jon’s site. Here’s Jon himself talking about the project:

For those of you who haven’t met Lawson yet, here’s a short excerpt from The Madagascar Matter itself:

CHAPTER ONE

I flew into Antananarivo at 9pm on Tuesday night after having bounced my way across half the world from where I’d been previously in Edmonton, Alberta.  When I left, the cold weather of the Canadian winter saw me off in temperatures of twenty below.  Landing, the pilot informed us that the current temperature in the capital city of Madagascar was a balmy eighty-five and humid.

I traveled light.  It was a habit drilled into us back in the Academy.  Less baggage means you can move quicker, skirt customs lines, and get out of the airport as fast as possible.  My instructors always harped on the fact that airports were too confining.  If shit went down, the last thing you wanted was a gun battle between you and your target amid a hundred security types all looking for an excuse to finally fire their issue sidearm.

My passport was French and the official who glanced at it and broke into a toothy grin.  “Bon soir, M’sieur.”

I smiled back.  “Bon soir.”

He glanced through the passport, but I didn’t worry.  The Council wouldn’t dream of supplying their active Fixers with anything but a legitimate passport.  Mine came right from the central passport office in Paris, crafted with care by a French vampire who then forwarded it on to the Council, knowing very little of who would be using it and why, only that for all intents and purposes of this assignment, my home residence was in St. Germain-des-Pres, which worked out well since the place was filled with jazz clubs and I was on a major Dexter Gordon kick anyway.

The customs official stamped my passport and handed it back to me.  I smiled.  “Merci.”

“De rien.”

I walked out of the airport and into the thick soup of humid night air.  I took a breath and glanced around.  Zero had mentioned there would be a contact by the taxi stand.  I made my way over and watched a line of beat up Datsuns undulate like an inchworm as each segment scooped up a passenger and then disengaged from the rest of the line.

“You’re late.”

I knew the voice and couldn’t help the smile that broke out over my face.  “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t I tell you there’d be a contact?”

I nodded.  Zero looked relaxed, his bald head gleamed in the glow of the yellow light bulbs overhead.  “Yeah, but I thought you were in London.”

“I was.  Now I’m here.”  He led me away from the taxi line by my arm and we walked toward the parking lot.  “We’ve got plenty to discuss.”

“Like why there are two of us on this op.”

Zero nodded.  “This one goes back, my friend.  Back a lot longer than anything in recent memory.”

“How far?”

Zero pointed up ahead at a Range Rover.  Whenever you had to drive in a third world country, there was nothing better.  “We can talk inside.  Too many ears in these parts.”

I glanced around but couldn’t make out anything despite my excellent night vision.  But I trusted Zero with my life and if he said there were listeners out there, that meant we stayed mum until it was safe to do otherwise.

Zero approached the Range Rover and reached up into the wheel well.  His hand came out a moment later with the magnetic case.  He took the key out, unlocked the door and slid inside, reaching over to unlock my door.  The interior of the car was humid and hot.  “How’d you wrangle this?”

He shrugged.  “Council set it up.  Had someone swing by earlier and park it here.”

“I’m already impressed with the level of involvement here.  What the hell’s going on?”

Zero started the engine and turned on the radio.  A nightly news program in Malagassy, one of the official languages in Madagascar, poured out of the speakers.  “We ride into town tonight and first thing in the morning, we have our first meeting.”

“With who?”

Zero placed his hands on the steering wheel.  “Guy who knows how to find the man we’re looking for.”

The way Zero’s forehead creased concerned me.  I’d been on my own now for almost ten years.  Zero’s sudden reappearance on a mission had me wondering what was going on.

He glanced over and grinned.  “You haven’t screwed up, if that’s what you’re thinking, Lawson.”

“I’m not sure what to think.”

“Been a while since we last worked together, hasn’t it?”

“I thought I was through with the apprentice thing.”

He nodded.  “You are.  This has nothing to do with your proficiency at completing assignments.  It has everything to do with the rather unorthodox nature of this assignment.”

It’s here!

Both Amazon and Barnes & Noble are listing my first Rogue Angel novel, The Spirit Banner, as being available for purchase, a good twelve days ahead of the lay down date the publisher had originally indicated.  B&N is even giving you a 10% off discount for a short time, whether you’re a member or not.

I’ve been waiting to get this book into the hands of Annja Creed fans the world over for some time now and I’m excited that the day is finally here.  Writing for the series has been a lot of fun and I’m anxious to see how people react to Annja’s latest adventure (or should I say misadventure?)

If you’ve ordered a copy, you have my thanks.  And please don’t be shy about emailing me to let me know what you thought!

For those of you who like to try before you buy, here’s the first chapter for your reading pleasure…

CHAPTER ONE

Mongolia

1245

Father Michael Curran, Special Vatican Envoy from His Holiness the Pope Innocent IV to the People of the Felt Walls, stared at the waves of oncoming riders and did what he could to keep the fear from showing on his face.

Not that there wasn’t good reason to be afraid.  They were at least three days hard ride from Karakorum, where Guyuk, the grandson of Genghis Khan and the current ruler of the Mongol Empire, held court over his subjects.  In the years since the death of the Great Khan, the Empire had fractured.  More and more of the tribes were returning to the old ways, fighting and competing against themselves.  The Naimans were one such group and Curran’s party was deep in a contested area that the Naimans claimed as their own.  The distance from the capital meant that no one was going to come charging in to save them.  To make matters even worse, the honor guard that Guyuk had sent with Curran for this trip into the Hentiyn Nuruu Mountains numbered less than thirty men, while the Naiman warriors currently charging their position appeared to number in the hundreds.

As the enemy swept forward, Curran could see that each man stood high in the stirrups, guiding his mountain pony with just his knees, leaving his hands free to use his bow with the unerring accuracy that had made the Mongol army so universally feared.  True, these were not the famed warriors of the great Khan, just a lesser khan’s raiding party, but he knew they were deadly just the same. The thunder of their horses’ hooves mixed with the screeching wind that whipped across the open plain and the priest no longer had to wonder what Hell might sound like for now he knew.  Knew beyond the shadow of a doubt.  Hell was the uncanny silence in which the enemy thundered toward them.  Hell was the thrumming of the enemy’s arrows as they filled the sky above him, so thick that for a moment he lost sight of the sun itself.  Hell was the thump of the shafts as they met leather armor and human flesh, the cry of the injured and the dying as they fell into the snow around him.

The Naimans, still harboring years of resentment against the unification brought to the plains by the army of Genghis Khan some fifty years before, had caught their small group in the open, crossing a wide valley between two separate mountain peaks, leaving them with few places to run and little to use as cover of any sort.  Curran had to admit to himself that it was a marvelous piece of strategic planning.  Volke, the group’s leader, had been too confident in his belief that no one would dare to attack a party under Guyuk’s protection, but the harsh winter and the lure of overwhelming odds had apparently filled the enemy with daring.  Curran knew the old adage usually held true; desperate men will do desperate things.

Having been forced into a desperate move, it now seemed that this group of raiders was determined to make certain that no survivors were left behind to report their audacity to the Khan.

Volke shouted something in Mongolian, but the wind whipped his words away before Curran could make sense of them.  It didn’t matter though; they hadn’t been directed at him anyway, but at the other Mongol warriors in their small group.  As one the soldiers around him wheeled about and sent their sturdy mountain ponies charging for the mountain pass they’d emerged into the valley from a half hour before.  Curran would have been left behind if one of the warriors hadn’t snatched the reins of Curran’s horse out of his hands as he thundered by, forcing the other man’s mount to follow suit.

As they raced away, Curran fought to remember the man’s name.

Tamaton?

Tanguyuk?

Tamarak!

That was it.  He was one of the older, experienced warriors assigned to the expedition by the Khan himself and ordered to personally see to the safety of the Envoy.  Curran had resented it at first, not wanting a babysitter and seeing Tamarak’s presence as a sign that the Mongols still didn’t trust him, but now he was thankful to have the man at his side.

Curran knew that if they could reach the pass behind them, they could either lose their pursuers in the maze-like passage across the mountains or take shelter in the many caves lining the passage walls.  Either one would more than likely grant them the time and safety they needed to regroup and restore their wounded.  If they could hold off until dark, they might then be able to sneak across the valley without the Naimans being the wiser.

Curran’s group was tired, they’d been travelling for days already, while the enemy appeared to be fresh, and it was obvious to Curran that the enemy had the advantage.  That didn’t seem to matter to these hardy warriors, though.  They would either succeed or die trying, apparently, and for the first time since he had come to live among them Curran felt a sense of admiration for their tenacity and sheer courage in the face of overwhelming odds.

Their horses thundered on through the snow while the enemy closed inexorably from behind.

After a time, it was obvious to everyone, even Curran, that they were not going to make it and it was at this point that Volke shouted out again and the small entourage turned to fight.

Curran watched their pursuers come on with fear in his heart but with courage on his face.

As the enemy closed the final distance between them, they split ranks, sending half of their forces sweeping to the left while the remainder went right, enveloping Curran’s small group in a wide circle two ranks deep, with each rank moving in opposite directions.  From out of those ranks the arrows came again.  Curran watched Volke topple from the saddle with more than a dozen black shafts jutting from his now still form.  Kaisar and Jelme, his senior lieutenants, met the same fate seconds later.  In moments the enemy had effectively stripped the small band of its most experienced leaders.  Curran had no doubt that the tactic had been intentional.  Cutting off the head to kill the body was a strategy as old as war itself.

If they didn’t do something soon, they were all going to die, the priest thought.  Apparently the men around him felt the same way, for there was a sudden shout from one of the more experienced warriors and as one the troops spurred their horses and charged the enemy.  Trained to act with the others, Curran’s horse followed suit.  The Jesuit was about to meet the enemy whether he wanted to or not.

“Lord, protect your humble servant,” the priest whispered under his breath as he drew his sword and went to meet his death with his head held high in the manner of the Savior he revered.

The two groups slammed together with thunderous force.  Men shouted, horses screamed, and Curran found himself slashing to and fro with his weapon, striking out at anything in reach, fighting for his life just as savagely as the enemy sought to relieve him of it.

For just a moment, he thought they might win free.  Their sudden concentrated attack had surprised the enemy and they burst through the first rank without stopping, surging forward, but in the next second a heavily mailed fist holding the pommel of a sword smashed into Curran’s face, toppling him from the saddle.  He struck the ground hard and as he lay there unmoving, the wind knocked out of him, a nearby horse stomped on his left leg, crushing it with a single blow.  Curran screamed in agony at the pain.  Darkness loomed and then swept over him like the tide.

*  *  *

Having fully expected to die when he’d lost his grip on his horse, Curran was surprised to regain consciousness some time later.  With consciousness, however, came an awareness of all the pain his body was experiencing and surprise quickly turned to regret.  In that first instant he was convinced that death would have been a better alternative to what he was currently feeling.  He screamed aloud against the pain and passed out again.

The second time he regained consciousness, the cold had wrapped him in its chilly embrace, dulling the pain to a minor roar and he was actually able to open his eyes.

He immediately wished he hadn’t.  The dead were everywhere.  They covered the ground in front of him and as far as he could see on either side.  After stripping the bodies of anything of value, the Naimans had followed the traditional steppes custom and left the dead where they had fallen.  Now their dead eyes stared unseeing back at Curran and their blood stained the snow in thick patches of crimson-black.  The bodies of his companions mingled haphazardly with the corpses of the horses on which they’d ridden, neither man nor beast being spared in the midst of the fray.

He shifted his position and a lance of roaring pain shot up from his left leg and threatened to plunge him into unconsciousness once more.  He fought against it, knowing that if he succumbed, he’d most likely freeze to death before waking up again.

When the dizziness receded and he could think clearly again, he looked down at his leg.  He turned away almost immediately, the sight of the dark shaft of an arrow jutting up from his thigh and his own blood staining the snow almost too much for him to bear.

He couldn’t ignore it, though.  He was going to have to deal with it, and soon, if only to keep from bleeding to death.  Steeling himself, and taking a deep breath to keep from vomiting, he looked down at his leg again.

The arrow had hit him high on the back of the thigh and had gone all the way through his leg at an angle, exiting about an inch above the knee.  He could see that the edges of the head were barbed, which meant he wasn’t going to be able to pull the arrow back through in the direction it had entered.  Nor could he remove it the other way; the feathered shaft would prevent it.

He was going to have to break the shaft on one side or the other and then pull the rest of it free.

The very thought of it made him want to be sick again.

Why even bother? he wondered.  Even if he could get the shaft out and stop the bleeding, he was only trading one method of dying for another.  There was no way he could travel in his condition and if nightfall caught him here on the plain he was sure to freeze to death.  It seemed God had saved him from a quick, sure death only to fall victim to a long, lingering one.

But Curran was not the type to go down without a fight.

The wind was picking up and the snowfall that had dodged their march earlier that morning had started anew.  Never mind the brutal cold that threatened to steal his every breath.  If he didn’t do something soon, he wasn’t going to have the strength left to try anything at all.

He tore several strips of cloth off the shirt of a nearby corpse, folding some in half a few times to create makeshift compresses and laying the others out where he could reach them without difficulty.  Working quickly so that he wouldn’t have time to think about it, he rolled partially on his side, exposing the feathered end of the arrow.  Taking it in his left hand, he gripped his thigh tightly with his right, holding it steady.  Curran took a deep breath and then snapped his left hand sharply to one side, breaking the wooden arrow in two just above the fletching.

He screamed against the pain, but managed to remain conscious.  It was a good thing he did, for the motion had started the wound bleeding again and if he had slipped into the blackness that had threatened to overwhelm him he probably wouldn’t have ever woken up.

With shaking hands, he stuffed several of the compresses against the open wound and then tied it off with one of the strips.

He was breathing heavily now, the pain making it difficult to concentrate, but he pushed through it, knowing he had to finish what he had started.

Laying his leg flat on the ground, he took hold of the tip of the arrow, wrapping his fingers around the barbed edges to give him more leverage, gritted his teeth and pulled.

With more than a bit of resistance, the rest of the shaft slid free.

He tossed the broken haft of the arrow aside, packed the wound with some snow and the rest of the compresses to stop the bleeding, then tied the whole thing off just as he did the rear entry point.

When he was finished, he slumped to the ground, sweating, exhausted, and in considerable pain.

After a while, he didn’t know how long, the pain again receded to a manageable level.  He prompted himself back up into a sitting position and took a look at his handiwork.

Blood had dried around the edges of the makeshift bandages, but it looked like it had stopped bleeding.

Maybe he was going to make it after all.

A soft snort to his immediate right made him nearly jump out of his skin.  He slowly turned his head, not wanting to jostle his injured leg but at the same time afraid of what he might see, and, to his vast surprise, found the horse he’d been riding standing a few feet away, rooting through a partially opened saddlebag for something to eat.

“Thank you, Lord,” he whispered.

If he could get on the horse, he had a fighting chance at survival.

Like the other Mongol steeds, his was a short-legged, shaggy beast which had seen its fair share of death and was unmoved by the carnage around it.  Losing interest in the saddlebag at its feet, it raised its head, catching sight of Curran in the process.  It trotted over and nuzzled him, looking to be fed.

“Good boy,” he whispered, petting its nose with one hand while grabbing onto the straps to the saddlebags it still wore with the other.

Using the straps for support, he hauled himself upright, using the strength of his arms and his one good leg.  It took several tries, but at last he was standing on one leg, his arms wrapped around the horse’s neck to keep from falling.

He rested in that position for a moment, praying the horse wouldn’t make any sudden moves and dump him back down on his ass.  When he’d caught his breath again, he reached for the pack still hanging around the horse’s hindquarters right where he’d loaded it earlier that morning.

Working slowly and carefully to limit jarring his injured leg any more than necessary, he untied the drawstrings of the pack and withdrew the ceremonial robe he’d worn when appearing for his audience with the Khan in Karakorum.  The material was quite thick, something he constantly complained about when wearing it but now he was silently thankful.  He slipped the material over his shivering form and slumped against his horse, already exhausted and he hadn’t even tried getting himself up into the saddle.

A sound to his left drew his attention.

He straightened up, trying to see.

The dead stared back at him.

The sound came again, a low moan, but this time he saw the fingers of a nearby form twitch in conjunction with it.

Another survivor!

“Hey!  Hey you! Can you hear me?” Curran called out in the pidgin Mongolian he’d picked up during his two months in Karakorum.

The strange croaking sound that came out of his parched throat surprised him; until that moment, he hadn’t even been aware of his thirst.  He coughed, then used a handful of snow to wet down his lips and throat before trying again.

“Are you okay?  Can you walk?”

There was no response.

He knew he hadn’t imagined it.  Which meant the man was either too injured to respond or simply couldn’t understand him.

Curran had no choice; he was going to have to go over to the injured man and take a look.  He considered climbing astride the horse, but decided the effort required to get up and then back down again was probably too much for him to bear.  Instead, he got the horse moving slowly in the direction he wanted it, using the horse as a make-shift crutch for support as he hopped along on his good leg.  When Curran was close enough, he pulled the horse to a stop and slumped down in the snow next to the wounded man.

He rolled the body over and discovered that it was the man who had saved him earlier, Tamarak.

The feathered shafts of two black arrows jutted from deep in the man’s stomach and a sword blade had taken a bite out of the left side of his head.  Given the barbed tips, Curran had no way of removing them.  He’d been able to remove his own only because the arrow head had come all the way through his flesh.  These were embedded deep in the muscle.  Pulling them out was likely to cause more damage than leaving them in.  The best he could do was to make Tamarak as comfortable as he could and to stay with him until the end.

An end that could come faster than either of them wanted if they didn’t find some shelter and protection from the cold.

He dragged the other man closer to the horse, where, to his surprise, the animal got down on its knees, allowing Curran to haul both himself and Tamarak’s now unconscious form onto the horse’s back.

The beast climbed to its feet and for the first time since the Naiman war party had been sighted, Curran felt a bit better about his chances at survival.

As if in answer to his optimism, the wind swirled around him and the falling snow began to thicken.  The storm was here to stay, apparently.

He took a moment to get his bearings and then turned the beast about to face the direction in which they had been fleeing.  There were caves back in the pass itself and it was Curran’s intention to hole up inside one for shelter from the storm.

He’d worry about how to get back to Karakorum in the morning.

First, they had to get through the night.

*   *   *

Several hours later Curran sat in a large cave that was deep enough to filter out the winds howling outside.  There had been a few sticks lying just inside the entrance and, when combined with some of the extra clothing from his pack, made a small fire with which to keep them warm.  It was still cold, though not as badly as it would have been had they been trapped outside, and it would serve to keep them from freezing to death.

At least until the fuel ran out, he thought, and then just as quickly pushed the image away.  The Lord would provide, he told himself.  The Lord would provide.

At least we won’t starve to death, Curran thought, with a glance at the corpse of his horse that lay just within the entrance tunnel.  The poor beast had collapsed after carrying so much weight through the freezing cold weather without rest.   Curran hadn’t yet managed to get up the nerve to start carving up the carcass.  He didn’t mind eating horse flesh; he’d been forced to do so during other missionary journeys he’d been on and it hadn’t been all that bad.  It was just that this particular horse had been instrumental in saving his life and it felt disrespectful to treat its remains in such a fashion.

Still, when the time came, Curran had little doubt that his reticence would quickly vanish.  Starving to death wasn’t on his list of endings to this saga.

The dead horse was proof of what they had endured to reach this point.  The trail had been difficult to find without the Mongols to guide him.  The ever increasing fury of the storm had cut their already slow pace to a crawl, as did the times that Curran lost his grip and toppled off his patient mount.   Thankfully, the horse had been this way before and when he finally stopped trying to control it and just gave it its head, it took him where he wanted to go.

With the help of the firelight, Curran had cleaned Tamarak’s head wound and had broken off the jutting ends of the arrows to keep the wounded man from accidentally driving them deeper into his body.

After that, there wasn’t much to do but wait.

The snow had continued to fall and by now the entrance to the cave was now half covered from the heavy accumulation.  Curran didn’t mind, as it served to keep the heat from the fire trapped in the cave, warming him and his unconscious companion, while still allowing the smoke to escape.

Unable to sleep, Curran took out his worn-leather journal and began to write, recording the events of the last several days in as much detail as possible to ensure that there was some record of what had happened to him should he not make it back to Karakorum.  He’d been doing the same thing since his mission had started many months before and what had once been an annoying chore had turned into a soothing balm for his spirit.

At the very least, it gave him something to think about other than the pain in his injured leg, he thought ruefully.

It wasn’t long before Tamarak, delirious with fever and pain, began raving aloud.  At first Curran ignored it, knowing there was little he could do for the man, but then something Tamarak said caught his attention and he listened more carefully.

What he heard amazed him.

If it was true, he was being given the secret of the ages!

I really need a miracle now, Lord, he thought, as he turned to a clean page of his journal and began writing frantically, trying to get it all down just in case the good Father decided to deliver on his request.

Our talented design team of artist Brad Cooper and graphic designer Taylor Aldredge delivered the cover art for the first book in the HELLstalker series – The Cerberus Protocol – this evening and I couldn’t be happier.  They captured the look and feel of the series really nicely.  I can’t wait to see what they do on some of the stuff we’ve got planned for the series website in the future!

Der Schattenseher, the first book in my new series featuring the character of Jeremiah Hunt, was released in Germany a few days ago and readers are already responding with some excellent reviews:

“Frightening and fascinating at the same time” says Phantastik-News.de

“One of the best books of 2009″ says Buchcouch.de

“Couldn’t put it down…highly recommended” says Bucherwurms Blog-Welt

UPDATE (12-18-09)

Initial reactions continue to be positive:

“8 out of 10 stars” rates Grimoires.de

Michael Sterzik, of the Things, Books, and More blog states Der Schattenseher is “an exciting, paranormal thriller that delivers great entertainment with potential for future volumes.”   Thanks Michael!

One of the things I love about having my books available in other languages is the email I get from around the world. Recently, Kazimierz Świetlikowski, editor of the Polish website Zbrodnia w Bibliotece (Crime in the Library) wrote to ask me for a few words to his readers about the Polish language edition of HERETIC. I was more than happy to oblige and in return he sent me several pictures of the finished product which he received from the publisher, Replika.

While I have yet to lay my own hands on a copy, I’m glad readers over there have been able to and hope they enjoy the tale!  Thanks Kazik!

]]> http://josephnassise.com/it-lives-in-poland/feed 0 http://josephnassise.com/it-lives-in-poland http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ShadesOfReality/~3/fe9Xl-AKPpE/sneak-peek-der-schattenseher http://josephnassise.com/sneak-peek-der-schattenseher#comments Fri, 20 Nov 2009 03:38:12 +0000 Joe Nassise http://josephnassise.com/?p=557

We’re less than a month away from the launch of DER SCHATTENSEHER, the first book in the Hunt Chronicles coming from Pan Books in Germany. To get my German fans excited about this new debut, I thought I’d post a sample for anyone who might be interested (and who reads German, of course!)

Download it here