The Prophet Series an Epic Fantasy by Don Newton

False Gods 

The Prophet Trilogy Book 1 

by Don Newton 

Genre: Epic Fantasy 

How many gods do you really need? Erador has more than its share… 

In a strange multiverse ruled by magic and immortals, the last remaining souls, fleeing the destruction of Earth, struggle to survive. The Draggons want them dead. The gods want more power. But the humans want to live, and there’s only one sorceress who can make that happen. The fate of humanity is in her hands – so, no pressure… 

Gods always want more power… 

The Civil War fractured their world, and the gods just made it worse. Now their followers are split into four separate factions, and they all hate each other. Riots and bombings force further divisions among them, and the leaders are at a loss about what to do. Most of them, anyway. 

Heroes are sometimes girls… 

Alisha Callus rose through the sorceress ranks, mastering the Orphic currents and learning to bend space and reality to her will. Now, she’s the last Adeptus Supreme on Erador, and she has to kill a god. But she’s not sure she can. 

Gods don’t like to be killed… 

But sometimes, they deserve it. 

Can one Sorceress, two Draggons, four warriors, and a god crush this evil influence from existence? Follow this ragtag band of heroes on an epic quest to free their world from an immortal’s vicious grasp. Who knows, they might do it… 

**Only .99 cents!!** 

Goodreads * Amazon

Draggons 

The Prophet Trilogy Book 2

 

Revenge is always sweeter face to face… 

The false god, Zaril, died in a blazing bolt of light, victim to the wrath of an Adeptus Supreme. Now, it’s Kat’s turn for some payback. All she can see through the red tinge of hate that fills her eyes is the face of her lover’s killer. The fact that he’s also her father barely weighs on her mind. He chose his side, and now he’ll pay for his decision. 

Goodreads * Amazon

Judgement 

The Prophet Trilogy Book 3 

The Draggon King, Darkonus, died at the hands of his daughter - the cold steel of her dagger taking his life, and the void-wraith trapped within sucking his soul away. Now Kat has ascended to the Draggon throne and become their Queen. 

Goodreads * Amazon

The Trial of Sa'riya 

Prelude to The Prophet Trilogy 

Draggons are the worst… 

The war with the Draggons is raging, and only the battle-hardened Na’Geena warriors can stand against them. They have the weapons that can kill them, and the Griffins they ride are the mortal enemies of the lizards. There’s a chance they could be defeated, but they have allies in the Eradorians, and a secret mission could turn the tide and destroy the Draggon King. Only a god can make it work. But will he help? 

Ok, her twin sister was killed, but it was an accident… 

When the Carolonian sun exploded, Zi’anna was caught in the blast-wave, and even her immortality and the powers of the K’Pa couldn’t save her from certain death. Now, the immortal’s Elder Council wants her sister, Sa’riya, to pay for that loss, with her life… But not all of them… 

Follow along as the trial unfolds. Will they find her guilty? Would you? 

“When you know the right question to ask, the answer will be obvious.” - Yin, The positive aspect 

**Get it FREE!** 

Add to Goodreads

Website

From: The Trial of Sa’riya - Act One

The southern face of Krasus Cauldron was aglow with the reddish-tinged light of the morning suns: the red sun now peering above the horizon, following the yellow on its daily trek across the sky.  Darryl stood at the edge of the rock ledge flanked by two Griffins, pointing the tip of Sinreaver at the two Draggons in front of him. The Draggons looked at the sword and Griffin claws and froze. “That’s wise.” Darryl grinned. “Carion, Shera, if they move, kill them.” The Griffins made a trilling sound and took one step toward the Draggons, their heads down and the tips of their wings trembling in anticipation. The Draggons backed up. Darryl turned to check on his brother’s progress with the Council guard. Karl raised Bloodrender above his left shoulder and swung down hard; the blade carved a sharp flashing arc through the air—stray drops of Draggonfire flying from the edge. The Draggon tried to dodge, but the tip of the sword cut a flaming gash across its right thigh—roaring in pain, the fire in its eyes intensified, focusing on the Na’Geena Chieftain.  The Draggon made the mistake of breathing fire upon the sword: it was legendary, and all the Draggons knew what it could do. Bloodrender was dangerous even when it wasn’t on fire; all three of the Na’Geena swords were: they might absorb and redirect Draggonfire, but they were also one of only three things which could cut Draggonskin. The beast circled Karl, limping to his left, trying to find an opening in the Chieftain’s defense—there was none. “You’ll let me inside this Council chamber,” Karl growled at the Draggon, “or I’ll go through you.” The Draggon shifted into its human form: the scales and teeth and the twenty-foot lizard body morphing into a young man grimacing in pain. He clutched the bleeding-smoldering gash on his leg and shook his head at Karl. “Markus would kill me, or Darkonus…” “I could kill you right now,” Karl said, “and save them the trouble if you like, but I’m still going inside.”  The Draggon limped to the cliff wall and leaned against it, waving Karl past with one hand. “Be my guest…”

Karl glanced at Darryl. “Don’t worry.” Darryl pointed toward the archway carved into the side of the mountain. “I have this covered, go. These Draggons are right where I want them.” Karl sheathed Bloodrender and stepped through the arch. The pain made him scream. It felt like he was being pulled apart one molecule at a time: fire ran through his veins and nerves, through every muscle fiber, burning all the connections. The reverse was true on the other side where his atoms smashed together again, reforming the burned and ripped apart body into a whole once more. He wound up on his knees on hard black granite, his hands clutching his chest, out of wind and half-dazed; smoke belched from his lungs when he finally caught a breath. “Humans really shouldn’t use that…”  He looked at Nu’reen as his vision cleared; she had a look of mild concern on her face. Sa’riya ran to him and picked him up from the floor, her hands on his cheeks pulling his face to hers. “Are you Ok?” Karl shook the cobwebs from his head and threw his arms around her. “I’m fine, or I will be.” “You shouldn’t be here.” Darkonus stepped toward him. Karl drew Bloodrender and aimed it at him—the blade still burned with Draggonfire: drops of it fell from the edge, igniting the stone where they landed—sizzling plumes of molten granite rising into the air between them.  “Ok, maybe we can overlook this…” The Draggon stepped back and took his seat. “What gives you the right to abduct my wife?” He faced the Council, examining their faces. “Why shouldn’t I kill you all right now?” “Because it would be ridiculous to believe you could, for one.” Jurak bounced up from his chair. “But, by all means, give it your best.” “Order!” Nu’reen slammed the gavel against the wood and pointed at the D’jinn. “You sit down.” Jurak spun and glared at her. “Don’t speak to me with that tone.” “You’ve all agreed, my decisions are final. Now sit down and shut up!” Nu’reen shifted into a much-older version of herself: gray hair and wrinkled skin, but the silver fire in her eyes grew brighter, and a luminous halo circled her head. The light from the halo ran down and lit her robe,

making it fluoresce in the dim light of the Council chamber. “Is this better Jurak? Do you accept my rulings in this form?” Jurak took his seat and stared at the floor, his arms across his chest. Nu’reen looked at Karl, the softness returning to her face. “Sa’riya, take him out… and explain,” she pointed at the archway, “and then return.” “You can’t let her go!” Markus jumped to his feet and turned on Nu’reen. “She’s given her word, and that’s all I need.” The silver flame intensified again as she stared at the Draggon, the halo pulsed in time with her breathing. “Are you going to challenge me as well?” Markus looked at Darkonus, who tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. “Not yet…” Markus said. “Well, you let me know when you change your mind.” She banged the gavel. “In the meantime, let’s take a twenty-minute recess until Sa’riya gets back.”

From: The Trial of Sa’riya - Act Two

“I think I’m gonna puke…” Harmon pushed out of his chair and ran for the corridor. As he reached the door, the stray asteroid ripped thirty yards of metal plating from the upper third of the ship, directly over the galley—metal sheared and tore away from the hull, the grinding sound bore into their skulls—they had one moment to appreciate the noise, then the silence of space flooded in. Andreia watched her life flash before her eyes: she felt the warmth of her father’s hug as he picked her up the first time; felt the disappointment of losing her first love and the joy of finding another, and fear for its loss. She turned her head toward Kelli, but she was gone. It all happened in a fraction of a second. All four of them were ejected through the hole, the venting cabin pressure forcing their bodies into space. The effect of the vacuum was immediate: it sucked the air from them, and they began to suffocate, the fluid in their lungs crystalizing from the deep cold of space. Their blood retained enough oxygen—from the last breath they took—to keep them conscious for about

fourteen seconds. Fourteen seconds struggling to breath is like living a miniature lifetime— hands at their throats, fear on their faces—gasping for life, and having it pulled away... Andreia watched the empty whiskey bottle spin past her, turning and tumbling, the light from the sun refracting through the cut glass—she thought the colors were beautiful. The edges of her vision turned black, forcing her field-of-view down to a single point of light. It winked out as her eyes froze over. Twelve thousand miles away, the ship, knocked off-course, bounced off the outer atmosphere of Caralon. The thermal plating on the belly glowed a bright crimson, skimming the thicker air, and that force was enough to aim it directly at the sun. The damage from the asteroid affected all the ship’s systems, but the most severe was the impact on the warp drive: the control interface wiring ran through the section of hull that was gouged out—a tiny electric spark between two bare wires activated the drive. The ship collided with the sun, and the Terillium blended with the corona. There was a huge orange explosion, and then the sun turned solid-black. It burned like that for twenty-two days before it exploded, the blast wave expanding at sixty-eight-million miles per hour, almost four light-years in all directions. Several Galaxies ceased to exist. It was pretty bad.

***

“Wow, that’s pretty bad.” Darkonus shook his head. “What do you think the odds of all that happening were?” “What difference does it make?” Markus’ eyes burned into him. “Get on with it.” Darkonus spun around and snapped at him. “I’m doing my job. The probability of that sequence of events occurring like it did is something we need to understand.” “So you think it wasn’t chance?” Ka’rin asked. “That’s not what I’m saying at all,” he shook his head, “it almost sounds like a setup.” “A setup, really? Jurak smiled. “Let’s just say, the more I hear, the more my opinion changes.” Darkonus sat down. 

“It’s your job to prosecute her, not come to her aid.” Markus snarled. “Fine, I have two questions then.” He pointed at Jemma and looked at Sa’riya. “Is everything she said accurate up to this point?” “Yes.” She nodded. “Did you have anything to do with what happened to that ship?” he asked. “No.” Darkonus scanned the Councilor’s faces, pausing several moments on Markus, their eyes locked and both sets of pupils flared, then he turned back to Jemma. “Carry on then.”

From: False Gods - Chapter Two

Jarod ran down the narrow lane connecting the main bazaar to the side roads of Jos Hollow. Behind him, he heard vendors hawking their wares—the bustle of the city streets—and the pursuers who were chasing him. His breath came in ragged gasps. He’d been running for several minutes, and he was exhausted. Rivers of sweat ran down his face, soaking his shirt and stinging his eyes. His muscles screamed in agony from the exertion, but he dared not stop. “Hold up, you coward!” The taller one was closer, the shorter one falling behind. Feet slapping pavement, breathing hard—closer now. He could feel the violence reaching for him like a heavy hand. He was terrified. At a fork in the road, Jarod chose left, hoping he could lose them by cutting through the park, mingling with the crowd surrounding the fountain. Arms and legs pumping, chest heaving, the last hundred yards seemed a thousand or more. Jumping and dodging, weaving and ducking, he made it to the fountain as the other men caught him. The taller one grabbed him, taking him down, they rolled for several yards, dust and gravel flying. The shorter man caught up and straddled his chest, raining blows on his face and shoulders with clenched fists, screaming obscenities. Jarod curled into a tight ball and tried to protect himself with his arms—his tears mixing with the blood streaming down his battered face, his nose shattered and twisted at an odd angle. A giant of a man with long black hair and piercing blue eyes grabbed the two attackers by the collar of their shirts, throwing them to either side of the helpless man. He stood over Jarod,

glaring at the other two, demanding answers. “What in the name of all that’s good is goin’ on here?”  The fountain was typically crowded with people, and today was no different. Men surrounded the brawl, shouting encouragement or derision, eager for tales for their next trip to the saloon. Women hid their faces and whispered to each other. Children were pulled behind mothers, hands held over small ears and eyes, protecting them from the carnage. “So, let’s have it!” The big man wasn’t satisfied with the attacker’s silence. “What on Erador is all this?” The taller man was the first to regain his composure. The shorter man lay in the dirt where he’d fallen, glaring at Jarod, bleeding and broken on the ground ten feet away. “He said our Lord Kavan was a False God!” The taller man said, pointing at Jarod. The big man chuckled. Several people in the crowd hissed, and several others laughed—a few made no sound at all, but hate poured from their eyes: some for the broken-bleeding man— some for the other two. Hushed whispers passed through the throng. Mothers grabbed their children, herding them away. “So... this is about whose God is the real God?” The voice came from the edge of the crowd. Everyone turned. A tall thin man with a long flowing gray beard, dressed in red robes, pushed his way through the masses. Approaching the big man, he made a sign in the air with one slender finger, thin trails of red fire carving a shining rune in space before him. The stone in the circlet on his forehead glowed with a crimson light. He raised the staff in his left hand and brought the end down against the earth with a resounding thud, shaking the ground beneath the gathered crowd. Sparks of red and amber erupted from the base of the staff. The big man staggered back several feet, leaving the injured Jarod undefended on the ground. “I am a Herald of the God Zaril, and this man has been wronged!” His voice had changed: it sounded like the earth grating against itself—like a volcano erupting. The light surrounding the fountain dimmed as dense clouds passed overhead, streaks of blue lightning crawling across their gray faces. Thunder echoed in the distance. The crowd fled—thirty people running in as many directions. Screams of women mixed with the cursing of men—some were too afraid to move and became witness to the slaughter.  The Herald raised the staff above his head, turning toward the two assailants—they tried to run. Both ends of the staff glowed a hot red, and flame burst forth: two beams of searing fire,

consuming the pair before they could move. Engulfed in flames, screaming in agony, they died where they stood, charred beyond recognition. Two blackened stumps remained, the bittersweet smell of charred flesh mixing with those of sweat and fear. The big man grabbed the Herald by the neck, one massive arm lifting him from the ground—his fingers tightened around the Sorcerer’s throat, choking the life from him. The Herald spun the staff around, striking him on the side of the head. He lost his grip long enough for his victim to fall to the ground, choking, trying to catch his breath. The big man pulled his broadsword free—fire from the staff reflecting in his eyes. The blade made an evil-sounding hiss as it cleared the leather scabbard. The Sorcerer regained his feet, raising the staff, muttering something in the Cirrian speech, when the broadsword blade entered his neck from the left side. Blood erupted, showering the ground around them as the severed head flew into the air, propelled by the force of the blow. The lifeless body fell like a sack on the ground, twitching and writhing in the throes of death. The big man reached down, wiping the crimson stain from his blade on the red robe of the dead Adept—the cloth turned a deep black. He looked at the head, the lips still moved, mouthing whatever spell had almost been cast. He sheathed the sword and picked up the staff, snapping it across his left knee—he tossed the two halves into the dirt. The remaining crowd milled about, like sheep in a thunderstorm. One man, a short blond fellow who’d seen the whole thing walked over, curiosity conquering fear. “Tell me, friend… w-what is your name?” he stammered. The big man looked at him, gave a curt nod, and walked away. Ten yards passed when he pivoted and stared at the blond stranger. He walked back and placed his right hand on the man’s shoulder. “Do you believe in these... Gods?” His voice was deep but melodious. The blond man looked into the big man’s eyes—all he saw was pain. “Not after what I saw you do.”

From: False Gods - Chapter Fourteen

Three-hundred yards into the mountain, they came across the first choice in their journey. The tunnel split in three directions. Mordus tested the crystal at each opening. There was no difference in the intensity of the glow. They’d seen no sign of Draggons. “Which way do we go?” Faran stood there watching Mordus. “We’ll need to go down each of these tunnels to see if it gets brighter.” “I don’t like this,” Faran said. “So, what?” Mordus turned on him. “You want to give up your power and live like we were before? Abandoned and powerless, on an alien world?” “No! Of course not.” Faran’s pupils grew larger. “I just don’t like Draggons: they scare me.” “Which is why we need to get this done and get out of here.” Mordus headed down the center fork of the tunnel. “Look, it’s getting brighter, come on.” They’d walked about a hundred yards when they heard something: it was grating, and it reminded Mordus of a blade drawn across a rough surface—claws on stone. Along with it, came the sound of breathing—deep, hollow breaths echoing from the walls of the tunnel. Solid footsteps completed the image in their minds—rhythmic footfalls of a Draggon shuffling toward them. They turned and went back the way they’d come from. When they got to the intersection, they stopped, listening, holding their breath. Faran couldn’t hold it any longer. A squeak of breath slipped past his lips as he took a gulp of air. In the emptiness of the caverns, the sound bounced off the walls and headed down the surrounding tunnels, forming multiple echoes. Mordus slapped his palm across Faran’s mouth. They sat in silence, waiting for the doom they imagined would come; it never did. Faran wrenched Mordus’ hand away from his mouth and spat on the rocky floor. “Get your hands off me!” He hissed. “Then, stop making noise!” Mordus whispered. “You’ll get us both killed!” “You’re the one yelling…” Faran said. “I’m whispering, just like you are,” Mordus said. “Well, it’s very loud…” Faran brushed imaginary lint from his robe and looked away.  Mordus pushed away from the wall and headed for the tunnel, the sounds of approaching Draggon fading down an alternate passageway. “Come on. We need to keep moving.” They retraced their steps, alert for the sound of Draggons. They heard many down several tunnels, but they somehow avoided them all. 

The crystal grew brighter the deeper they traveled into the mountain maze, so bright Mordus began shielding the glow with his hands, only checking it at intersections when they needed to choose a path. More than once, they returned to a junction they’d passed because the glow diminished. The Draggons had lived here forever, and they’d made improvements. Some tunnels were raw: natural rock as rough as the day it was formed. These would sometimes empty into massive stone halls decorated with columns and arches, carved with ancient themes Draggonish in nature. Mordus recognized none of it. Rounding a turn in one tunnel, they were surprised by a group of five Draggons, all in humanoid form—they were far quieter, but their senses were diminished. The pair beat a hasty retreat down a passage they’d found, but dismissed because of its narrow size. More surprising, when Mordus once again checked the crystal, it was shining like a miniature sun. He covered it and jammed it into his pocket. The glow showing through the material was still bright. “We’re close…” Mordus started walking down the narrow tunnel, “I think we’ve been going in a circle around it. This is the way.” “I don’t know,” Faran looked askance at him, “are you sure you know how to work that thing?” “It’s pretty simple, Faran: it glows, and I hold it.” Mordus turned toward him. “Would you like to hold it? Would it make you feel better?” “I’m not touching it,” Faran said, backing away. “She gave it to you. Who knows what might happen if I touch it?” “You are very paranoid…” Mordus looked at him in awe. It surprised him that he was just now recognizing it. “I can’t imagine what it must be like, distrusting everyone…” “I’m alive, and I like it that way,” Faran said. “My paranoia is a test, and most fail it.” “What about those who help you?” Mordus checked the crystal once more, and it blinded him. He shoved it back into his pocket. “Do you automatically think they can’t be trusted?” “You’re very interested in trust. Let me ask you this: who do you trust?” Faran asked him. Mordus stared at him for a moment, turning the question over in his mind. “Ok, point made. We still have to find this staff, and I think it’s right in front of us.” “I think Zaril picked you as the leader.” Faran pushed him. “You should go first. I’m right behind you...”

Mordus sighed and rolled his eyes. They moved down the tightening path, the tunnel walls closing in on them. At one point, the walls were inches from their shoulders. They came to a solid wood panel. Mordus noticed the light shining in at the junction of walls and wood. He pushed on the wood. The grumble of cabinet sliding across stone echoed back down the tunnel behind them. Faran grabbed his shoulder, making him halt, but purpose forced him to proceed. The cabinet slid out into the room, the light spilling into the space behind them. They stepped through the now-empty hole into the room beyond. It was a treasure room. There were crates of silver coins, statuettes, and figurines, paintings, and sculpture: the spoils of thousands of years of Draggon aggression. There was so much it boggled their minds. In the two-thousand-odd years they’d been playing Gods, none of them had amassed a hoard this size—not all four of them combined. There were other things as well, besides money. Technological devices—some Mordus knew, but most he’d never seen. Weapons and armor, mostly empty black-leather Draggon armor, but some of Zyrsteel, and some of the more base metals. The pale light of three golden plasma lamps lit the metal sea, glinting and gleaming from the waves of spilled coin. They stood silently in awe for several moments. Mordus pulled the crystal from his pocket and held it out. He rotated in place, first left, then right. The glow was brightest to the left. The pile of devices in one corner of the room seemed to be the target. Most were haphazardly thrown about, but a bunch of cased items were stacked to one side. He ran the crystal over the surface of the cases; one, in particular, made it shine like a star. He grabbed the handle and extracted it from the pile. Faran watched as he laid it upon a crate and flipped the two catches open. The snapping sound bounced off the walls, reminding them where they were. “Shh, listen…” Faran was pale, and his pupils were dots of white against a black circle. “Something’s coming!” They froze in place, straining to hear over the roaring silence. It reminded Mordus of holding a shell to his ear. Silence truly could be deafening. After several minutes they relaxed, making gestures at each other to stay quiet, both nodding agreement. Mordus carefully opened the case. The letters spelling NASA were engraved into the lid. Mordus had no idea what it meant. Probably an acronym that meant something to the original humans. The staff lay inside, cradled in a foam substance. It was three feet long and constructed

of shiny metal, and there was a keypad of some kind in the center. It didn’t look like Zyrsteel or Paladrium—the closest he’d seen to it would be Aluminate, but the color was more yellow, not silver. He picked it up and turned toward Faran, whose pupils had returned to a more normal state. “This is it?” Faran reached to touch the keypad.  Mordus pulled it away. “Don’t touch it. We don’t know what this thing might do.” “I wasn’t going to push anything…” Faran looked hurt, his fangs jutting out. “See that you don’t.” Mordus replaced the staff in its case and quietly snapped the catches closed. “Let’s get out of here. Cast a portal back to the temple.” Faran uttered three words of the spell when Darkonus strode into the room. He was in human form, which is why they hadn’t heard him approach. The look on his face said he was as surprised by their presence as they were by his.  Faran stopped casting and moved behind Mordus. “So, rats in my pantry after my cheese.” Darkonus grinned. He reached to his neck to draw his daggers, moving closer to them in a spider-stalking-a-fly manner—slowly and full of menace. His eyes glowed a hot yellow, so bright the room was lit by it. “I knew Zaril couldn’t abide by our terms.” “Zaril didn’t send us.” Mordus attempted to bluff the Draggon.   Darkonus chuckled and shook his head, spinning the daggers until the points were facing down. “Don’t lie; there’s no need. Even if I believed you, it wouldn’t change what’s about to happen.” Darkonus continued stalking them across the treasure room, all three of them kicking coins aside as they moved: a tinkling overture to a symphony of violence.  They backed away until they met the far wall. Mordus held the case in front of himself for protection. “Ah, yes. That belongs to me,” Darkonus said. “Lay it on the floor; I don’t want to get blood on it.” “Stop! Wait a minute!” Mordus handed the case to Faran, who held it at arm’s length like it was a snake. “Surely, we can give you something you want in exchange?” “I already have a deal with Zaril, but I assume you know that, and you’re both trying to salvage your power by stealing from me. He told me what would happen to you when the

humans are gone—he’s not your friend. Too bad for you; it doesn’t concern me. But I can’t have people thinking they can take my things, so I’m going to make an example of you two.” As Darkonus crept closer, Mordus turned to look at Faran. He hated him, but in the tension of the moment, he couldn’t recall the reasons. All the petty issues between them—between them all—melted like the distance between them and the Draggon. He began to feel the heat from Darkonus’ eyes. “Faran, the generator…” Mordus pushed him hard; he stumbled several feet to the right and fell, still grasping the case. “I left mine on the table…” Darkonus lunged. Mordus held his hands up to protect his face, but the daggers were aimed at his ribs. He felt the thin blades puncture his sides, the sharp tips penetrating his organs. The breath he was holding exploded from his lungs: a fine red spray coating the Draggon’s face.  Darkonus grinned at him, teeth crimson-stained, blood dripping from his chin. “No cheese for you…” The last thing Mordus saw as his blood-stained vision faded to black was Faran stepping through a dark portal, the case in his hand…

From: Draggons - Chapter One

Dalo sprinted toward the corner where Kat had disappeared. The sewer tunnels were pitch-black, but the Nano-suit goggles bathed the walls, floor, and ceiling in an eerie greenish glow: it was like moonlight, but ten-times brighter. Sewage-pipes protruded from both walls; he tried hard not to think about the viscous ooze that flowed from them: a wet, smelly liquid that seeped down the brick walls and ran into one of two deep channels cut into the floor.  She’s so fast… Katreena was barely five feet tall, but what she lacked in height she made up for in speed and skill, and attitude. “You’re so slow…” the comm built into the Nano-suit hood crackled, “they’re getting away. I thought these suits made you faster?” “No, just stronger.” Dalo turned the corner and found her: she was standing at a fork in the tunnel, her head bouncing back and forth between the two choices. He stopped next to her and touched the control button on his right eyepiece—the orange heads-up-display popped across his

view, and the thermal sensors activated. On the floor of the left tunnel, he could see three glowing-red sets of footprints leading away. He turned to tell her, and fire burned into his eyes— two searing beams of red-orange light. “Aaagh!” He clawed at the goggles, unsnapping them from the hood. He didn’t fall entirely to his knees, but he was bent severely at the waist. “Eustas warned you about those sensors and looking at my eyes,” Kat said, the fire in her pupils flaring. Dalo wanted to sit down but then remembered where he was and reconsidered. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make the stabbing pain go away; when he opened them, all he saw was flame. “You could’ve turned your head,” he said.  “Why should I turn my head?” she asked. “Because you’re the one that can see in the dark!” Dalo snapped. Kat laughed. “It’s not my fault that Draggon eyes are superior to human eyes. You’re the Chieftain of the Na’Geena—I would think you’d be smart enough not to look at me with the sensors on; an orangus could remember that.” “Right—blind me, then insult my intelligence: classic Kat.” The fire was fading, his vision returning to the inky blackness it should’ve been. He pulled the goggles back on and snapped them in place. “I feel sorry for the Draggons if Darkonus dies.” “Why?” “Because you’ll be their Queen…” Dalo turned and started up the left tunnel. They followed the three sets of prints for half an hour. Dalo insisted she stay behind him; she didn’t like it and told him so, several times, complaining that even an orangus could move faster.  In the weeks since the Draggons first attacked Erador Prime, breaking the eighty-year truce with the humans, he and Katreena had formed a weird bond. The fact of who they are could’ve made them arch-enemies: the Na’Geena Chieftain and the Draggon Princess, but they shared the love of the same woman—his mother, Delia. They’d forged a grudging tolerance for each other at first, but it had morphed into something closer to respect on both sides.  “Wait…” Dalo crouched and grabbed her forearm to stop her. “Do you hear that?” He flicked the button, turning the thermal sensors off, and concentrated on the surrounding sounds. An occasional splash punctuated the continuous drip-drip-drip of the waste-flow from

the pipes; each sound echoed down the tunnel. In the distance, a metallic scratching noise caught his attention: it was slow and steady, evenly paced. It bounced off the walls like the liquid sewersymphony and became distorted. His imagination worked to match the sound to an image in his mind, but he came up empty. “What do you think that is?” he whispered. Kat leaned close and put her lips next to his ear. “It’s the sound of Draggon steel on a whetstone.” She pushed in front of him, drawing her daggers, The Twin Fangs, from the sheath at the base of her neck.  He grabbed her elbow and stopped her; she spun around and glared at him. Thank the gods he’d shut the sensors off: the flame in her eyes lit the tunnel twenty-feet behind him. “Eustas wanted us to follow them, not attack them.” “We’ve found what we wanted: we know how they’re getting inside. I don’t see the point in following them anymore…” Her face was hard, the corners of her mouth drawn into a grimace of hate. After Darkonus killed Delia, Kat launched herself on a murderous rampage against her own kind, intent on balancing the life she’d lost to her father’s betrayal, with hundreds that he cared for, and she had an excellent start. She had the highest personal body-count of dead Draggons since the war started—higher even than her uncle, Karal, and Dalo had seen him take on three Draggons at once and not break a sweat. He wasn’t sure if Draggons did sweat, now that he thought about it. “I don’t want you to get lost in this, Kat.”  “Lost in the sewers?” she asked. “Lost in revenge,” he said. She shook her head and yanked her arm from his grasp. “Revenge will be this blade,” she held the right Fang up, “shoved into my father’s chest while I watch the fire in his eyes burn out. Are you with me, Chieftain? Or is all the big talk about the Na’Geena just that…?” “Eustas is gonna kill us.” Dalo shook his head. “We’ll say they attacked us.” She turned toward the sound and crept away. “Which is what will happen, if we can get a little closer…”

From: Draggons - Chapter Five

Karon watched Varran Razzius floating in the void-space: it was round, and the edges shimmered with a dim purple-black shine, like violet snakes swimming on jet-black water. “Concentrate…” “I am concentrating,” Varran said, holding the staff in front of him, his head down. “No, you’re not.” Karon sighed and put one hand on his shoulder. “There are three things you need to know to use this staff; this is the first one. We can’t go on until you grasp this.” “And what is this exactly?” Varran asked. “What do I need to know?” “Focus…” “I said I was concentrating!” Karon laughed. “No. Focus is what you need to learn.” “How is that different from concentrating?” Varran asked. Karon pointed one finger at his head. “You can concentrate on something and still lose your focus.” “I don’t understand…” Karon was silent, thinking about the answer. “The focus I mean is a single point. Have you ever shot a bow, or thrown a knife?” “Yes. My father… Zaril, wanted me to learn every way to fight, not just magic.” “He was smart.” Karon nodded. He recognized the pain in Varran’s eyes at the mention of Zaril. “Think about looking at a target; do you aim at the whole thing?” “No, you aim at the center,” Varran said. “Exactly!” Karon clapped his hands together. “The center of a target is your focus, and what gives you the power to concentrate on your focus, is your will. Think about the sensation of drawing a bowstring and putting an arrow into the center of that target: the awareness it takes, the determination required to stick it right where you want it. That’s your focus…” “I think I understand…” Varran nodded. “Good, then do it.” Karon waved one hand at the space outside the bubble. Varran grabbed the staff with both hands. He started to speak an incantation.  Karon grabbed his forearm. “Without the words… you don’t need them—you never have.” The luminescent orb on the staff began to rotate, the small spikes leaving purple trails of vapor behind—it spun faster until the mist resembled the rings around a planet, and the orb shined a bright lavender.

Outside the void-space, the land began to form. It started closer to them but spread evenly in all directions until they could no longer see the black of the void. The two suns traveled across the sky, occasionally obscured by fluffy billowing clouds. Grass and trees grew from nothing— flowers and vines, and various plants. Life exploded into being.  A bird flew by, narrowly avoiding the void-sphere. It let out a shriek of outrage and sailed away; Karon watched it with a smile on his face. “Excellent!” “But, it’s not real, it’s in my mind,” Varran complained. “You said to form an image in my mind of a beautiful meadow.” “This is as real as you or me.” Karon waved his left hand, and the purple-black bubble dissolved. The wind hit them, blowing the scent of flowers across the meadow. “How is this real?” Varran stomped the dirt with one foot, testing it. “I created this?” “The power in that staff gives you direct access to the Orphic currents. You need to believe, and that’s the second part of will—belief. Belief makes your will ten-times stronger. I can’t teach you belief. You had to see it for yourself.” “So, I have to form an image in my mind, and will it into existence?” Varran asked. Karon nodded slowly. “That’s an oversimplification, but essentially, yes.” “But you said there are three things I needed to know…” Varran twirled the staff in his hands, eyeing it with appreciation. “Seems like I don’t need the other two.” Karon laughed and slapped one hand on his shoulder. “You’re only using a small portion of the power in that staff.” “You mean I can do more than create a world?” Varran’s eyes widened. “Much more…”

***

Sa’riya found Alisha in her kitchen. The silver cloud she’d arrived in floated away. The housekeeper gave her a quizzical look and said, “Hello,” and went back to her cleaning and polishing.

Alisha had a cup of Kaffa in front of her, but it had cooled long ago. She sat staring into space, her mind somewhere far away. She didn’t realize Sa’riya was there until she sat next to her and laid a hand softly on her forearm. Alisha turned her head slowly—mechanically. “Alisha…” Sa’riya squeezed. “Alisha!” Sa’riya slapped her: not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to get her attention.  Alisha shook her head and put her hand on her cheek. “W-what… Who are you?” She came back from wherever she’d been. “That may take a minute to explain…” Sa’riya said. “You have three seconds before I cast you into the void.” The silver flame built in Alisha’s eyes—it was mirrored in Sa’riya’s, only brighter. She drew a startled breath. “You wouldn’t do that to your grandmother, would you?” Sa’riya smiled. “Grandmother…?” Alisha’s mouth fell open. She stared at Sa’riya like she was a strange bug in the garden: something she’d never seen. “Yes, dear… I’m your grandmother.” Sa’riya squeezed her arm again and smiled. “Where’ve you been?” “In hiding. Apparently in vain, considering the circumstances.” “I don’t understand…” Alisha said, squinting. “Don’t worry about it,” Sa’riya said. “I’ll explain later. Right now, I need you to listen to me.” “Ok.” “I’m going to fix you.” “What’s wrong with me?” Alisha’s eyes filled with tears, and she put her forehead on her hands.  Sa’riya stroked her hair. “You’re confused.” “I feel hollow… like there’s nothing left inside me.” “You think you’re in pain?” Sa’riya asked—it was an innocent question. Alisha nodded against the back of her hands. “Yes.” “Let me show you what pain is…” The kitchen faded away, and they were left floating in space. Sa’riya put Alisha in her place, eighty years ago: thirty-million miles from the exploding Caralonian sun. 

Sa’riya pushed her will out, reaching for the edge of her sister, Zi’anna’s, and the Fae’rie Jemma’s powers. She found Jemma at the limit of her force, and she latched onto her, but Zi’anna was out of reach. She tried harder, but she couldn’t make a connection—she watched from a distance as her sister died, devoured by the wave of solar fire. She saw it but was powerless to act, and she was consumed by grief.

Sa’riya made Alisha feel the torture of watching her sister die: having half her soul ripped out and being able to do nothing. She made her sit through the countless years that the multiverse stood still, waiting for her to destroy it. Every second of every moment, hoping it was a dream—praying that it was, but never waking up. And then she brought her back. Alisha buried her face in her hands and wept. They weren’t normal tears: they came from that place deep inside that you only reach on rare occasions. The place where you hide your deepest secrets—where you store all your regrets—the place you don’t mention. She let it all out. Sa’riya held her tight against her chest until she’d stopped crying. “How do you go on after that?” Alisha asked, wiping her face with her hands. “I don’t. I go on despite that,” Sa’riya said, stroking her hair. “That pain is a part of me now, and will always be, just like your pain belongs to you, and you must accept that it will never go away, and move on.” Alisha wiped a single tear from Sa’riya’s cheek with her thumb and asked her, “Why did you do that to me?” “How do you feel?” Sa’riya smiled and squeezed her hand. “Sooo much better…” Sa’riya’s face hardened. “Good, because that’s only your first lesson.”

Erador 101: The Immortal Races – The Draggons

There’s a common misconception: that Draggons are immune to magic. That’s not the case. They are resistant to most forms, but they can still be injured by a Sorceress powerful enough to crack that veneer of protection, of which there are several; every Draggon knows who they are—and they give them a wide berth. Not because they’re afraid; because they’re smart.

Draggons can learn magic too, and many have, but the thing that makes them dangerous is their fighting skill. Draggons may be the fourth race, but in real-time, that only makes them several-million-years older than the D’jinn. They’ve had all that time to hone their craft, and the edge of a Draggon’s dagger, or sword, is not where you want to find yourself.  

Draggons and D’jinn are not on speaking terms. Nu’reen has tried many times to broker peace between them, but the Draggon’s minor susceptibility to dark magic stands in the way.

Don Newton is a writer and armchair philosopher, author of the science fantasy trilogy “The Prophet”, and short stories too numerous to count. Don has been in love with science fiction and fantasy his entire life. The first alternate world he created was the result of a sixth-grade essay assignment, and he’s been hooked ever since. That world has grown and transformed into an entire multi-verse of possibilities to explore. Don’s not just a writer though, he has hobbies too: like making up funnier lyrics to popular songs. He sings them to himself when no one’s around—especially in the car. Don has a degree in Nursing and he’s a certified Paramedic. Six years in the Army sent him to places as diverse as Hawaii and Germany, where he was awarded the Army Achievement Medal for conduct above and beyond the call of duty. Having lived in nine different states and two foreign countries, he now calls the desert southwest home. 

Website * Facebook * Twitter * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

$25 Amazon Gift Card 

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

➜ #OnSale #Giveaway
* Chapter Excerpts * Guest Post *
#onsale #free #epicfantasy #donnewton #kindleunlimited