What's this? A new yokey-me-bob? Thingy-ma-jig? Well it's a giveaway, a free book... my book no less. The sequel to my epic fantasy novel, Tribesman. It's called Warrior and you can win a free copy by entering the Goodreads giveaway. Just click the link on the right.
Here's what it's about:
The search for the merchant's daughter continues as Culainn crosses the mountains into the frozen north... home, to face his past and the many demons he left behind.
Striking a bargain with the witch-queen, Neeve, he agrees to fight her enemies, the Shadow Druids and Blue-Woads, in return for her aid in freeing the girl he seeks. Will she keep her word, or has she treachery in mind?
All the while, the dark god, Morrigu, continues to haunt Culainn's dreams, seeking to control him and make him her own champion.
If you can't wait until the giveaway is over you can buy a copy, paperback or kindle, now.
Cold air misted above the surface of the water. Translucent shapes
clinging to the black pool. Frost hardened grass crunched under the boots of
the traveller as he approached the glass-calm lake. White wraiths stirred and
hovered over the dark waiting for him. Calling to him, beckoning him, needing
him. He could taste the cold on his tongue, feel the ice in his blood. He
turned away then, unwilling to face the ghosts of his ancestors.
Ever wonder where myths come from?
There’s a road near where I live, and the maddest thing happens there quite
regularly. A column of mist forms over the road in just this one spot, it’s the
weirdest looking thing. Just a small section of road for about ten yards is
shrouded in mist. Now, what’s not immediately noticeable is that a stream runs
under the road, and every now and then when hot air and cold air interact they
make magic. But how would this have looked to the ancients? Is it possible a
ghost could be inhabiting the stream? Or a bridge spanning the water could be a
portal to another world? Or what about a burning red sunset? I googled this to
see why it occurs, because I could, I won’t bore you with the details, but I
know for sure if I was sitting on the side of a mountain two thousand years ago
herding my sheep, that red sunset would be a portent of doom.
And that’s before we get into
hallucinogenic consumption. How many myths were created by people ingesting
mushrooms and other substances? I remember this funny story from school. I
don’t know if it’s true or not, but it was told to me and the rest of the class
by a teacher. An area close to me was famous for sightings of ghosts, (I know,
I live in a crazy place). Dozens of people all saw the same apparitions on the
road, and legends grew out of it. Well it turned out some ingredient in the
local bread had them all tripping out, and they were all having hallucinations.
Like I said I don’t know if that is true. I hope so it makes a funny story.
That is unless you were one of the unfortunates seeing a headless horseman on
his way home from work every evening.
And dragons! There is actual proof
that they lived. At least to an ancient digging up a dinosaur fossil there is,
imagine how they tried to reason that. Which brings me around nicely to, well,
me. I write fantasy books. A lot of my inspiration comes from mythology, Celtic
mythology in particular, being Irish and all. I have a character in my book,
she is the war god of the northern clans, I loosely based her on a figure from
Celtic mythology, The Morrigan, a dark god if ever there was one. The old tales
were deliciously dark. Take The Children of Lír for example. Lír’s wife bore
him four children, three boys and a girl. Alas for poor Lír and the children,
his wife died, so he married her sister. The sister didn’t fancy having the
four children around so she turned them into swans and cursed them to live for
periods of 300 years on different lakes. When eventually a monk breaks the
curse and turns them back into humans, they are nine hundred year old men and
woman, and they die. No kiss from a prince and live happily ever after here.
So much fantasy written today is
heavily influenced by ancient mythology, Lord of the Rings for example is laden
with references to Norse and Celtic myth. There would have been no Gimli or
Legolas without Viking lore, no dwarves, no elves, no ring. And what better
place to find a source for our stories. It is our heritage, the dreams and
fears of our ancestors come to life. In a lot of ways we are the new myth
makers. Modern technology has dispelled the magic, myth and rumour. It is in
our hands, in the worlds we create. It is up to the fantasy writers to bring
the magic to life. To create spaces where readers can immerse themselves, and
believe in the unbelievable. We are the custodians of the magic now.
We need magic, just as we need
larger than life heroes. Who wants everything explained away by science? I want
to believe in a time of legend when heroes came to life.
Long may the magic live.
A little while ago I was invited to write a guest blog for my good friend Jane Alexander, blogger extraordinaire, and fantastic writer. So now I'm sharing it with you. You can find Jane's book Walker here
Saturday, 25 August 2012
Re-Writing History
I wrote this story a year ago... no, two years ago! How time flies. It was an entry to a flash fiction contest hosted by a good friend Mandy Ward (Mandy is also the editor of the e-zine, Welcome to Wherever always looking for submissions).
In Ireland we are very proud of our heritage, obsessive some might say, and some would be right. We cherish our past. Unfortunately that also includes tresspasses against us that should probably be consigned to the mists of time. Long forgotten slights by people to people long dead. Anyhow, I believe there was once a time of heroes and magic. When legends came to life!
SNAKESTAFF
“Master! Master! Come quick,” a youth burst through the door of the
hut. “Please, Master, hurry. The sky is on fire.”
An older man with iron-grey hair and a bushy beard looked up from where
he was sitting, staring into a fire that smouldered in the centre of the room.
Silver wisps of smoke drifted through a hole in the thatched roof above.
“What is it, boy?” the man asked irritably.
“Please, Master, you have to come,” the boy’s face quivered in fear.
The man hauled himself up with the aid of a staff. Topped by a carved
snake’s head it was cut from a single piece of ash, intricate runic symbols
were etched along its length. Man and boy emerged together from the hut to
stare at the roaring sky caused by an angry rising sun, blood raw against the black mountain range it
rose over.
“See, Master. I told you. Why are the gods so enraged?”
“Hold yer whist, boy. Lest I feel a need to sacrifice a young druid
apprentice to appease them.” The boy stared wide-eyed at the older man, wisely
keeping his mouth shut.
“Master Crannmór!” The druid and his apprentice turned to see who had
hailed him. A mail clad figure hopped down from a chariot, while the driver
held the snorting team of twin black horses steady. The warrior strode
purposefully towards the druid.
“The mighty Cormac does us great honour by visiting our humble abode.”
The druid inclined his head. The warrior paused, unsure whether he was being
treated respectfully or mocked.
“The king requests your presence.” He decided it was the former.
“And he sends his champion as a messenger?” One bushy eyebrow rose on a
wrinkled forehead.
“He would really like to see you.”
“Very well, so he shall.”
“Good.”
“Right after breakfast.”
“I am instructed to bring you immediately,” the warrior protested.
“And so you shall, once I’ve eaten,” the druid turned with a flourish
and disappeared into the hut. With a groan and a shake of his head the King’s
Champion followed.
The two men had wooden bowls filled with a thick porridge and cups of
cool spring water served to them by the young apprentice. When he was satisfied
both men had their fill he hunkered down in the corner with his own breakfast,
eyes darting back and forth between druid and warrior.
“So tell me Cormac, what has Laoghaire so anxious he needs to send his
best warrior out to find an old man, when the sun has barely risen above the
mountains?” Crannmór asked, dribbling golden honey into his bowl.
“You’ve been away too long, Crannmór. The Christ priest, Padraig has his
feet firmly planted in Laoghaire’s hall. He spouts his nonsense about one true
god to any who will listen.”
“And do they listen?” Crannmór looked up sharply.
“Most just laugh, but he does have some followers.”
“Perhaps I have been away too long.”
The dún of Laoghaire King of Leinster
was a collection of wattle and daub roundhouses each topped with a conical
thatched roof, the whole settlement was surrounded by a wooden palisade and a
six foot high earthen rampart. The feasting hall of the King was the largest
building in the fort.
“Welcome, Crannmór, druid and keeper of lore, your wisdom has been
missed,” the King stood to greet his priest, his arms spread wide in welcome.
“So it would seem,” Crannmór responded, a slight inclination of the head
indicating the leather cross hanging from a chord around the King’s neck.
“Ah… I would be a foolish King not to seek the protection of all the
gods, don’t you think.”
“A foolish man to the neglect the god’s that have protected you thus
far,” the druid retorted.
Laohgaire turned away and snatched a cup of ale from a nearby bench.
“So, Crannmór, what message are the gods sending us by lighting up the heavens
with their fiery wrath?”
The druid’s eyes narrowed as he looked from face to face of the assembled
men, strong brave men… all like frightened rabbits waiting for him to speak and
tell them all was well in the world.
“They are angered. They spoke to me in a dream, they wanted to know why
the people of Leinster were turning their
backs on them, why they have forsaken them and listen to the words of a false
prophet, once a slave who tended their flocks, they are….”
“He lies!”
Crannmór’s head snapped around at the interruption, astonished that
anyone would dare.
“Who speaks these words?” he bellowed, his eyes blazed as they fell on a
sorry looking figure. He was dressed simply in a knee length tunic, thread bare
and in need of a wash, his hair was filthy and matted in clumps on his head.
“He lies!” the stranger repeated.
“Begone from these halls, charlatan…slave,” Crannmór roared, striding
towards the Christ priest. He beat him with his staff, pushing and chasing him
from the hall and out through the dún, a laughing crowd following.
“Close the gates,” he shouted at the guards. “If he comes back spike him
with your spear.”
King Laoghaire watched anxiously.
“That’s the end of that,” the druid growled.
“Master, your staff.” Crannmór looked at his ancient symbol of power,
passed down from the ancients. It had split, the snakehead had snapped off. He
looked at the barred gates, he felt a cold shadow grip the pit of his stomach
as a vision of a wooden cross crept into his mind.
