Discovering Ren - Review

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is a review of Discovering Ren by Jennifer Eifrig.

 

 

Jennifer Eifrig is a graduate of Bates College and Wesleyan University. A hardcore English major, Jen loves contemporary fantasy, especially urban and steampunk and novels with strong cinematographic sense. In addition to Discovering Ren and the sequels, Jen writes a free urban fantasy novel via Twitter. Jennifer lives in Middletown, CT with her family.

 

You can check her out here, and on Goodreads.  You can buy the book here  (I recommend that you do.)

 

 

Onto business.

 

Isadora Ambrosine is an archaeologist with a speciality in Ancient Egypt. Charged by the director of her museum to put on an exhibition of magic in the museum, she travels to Cairo to research her subject. While walking through a packed market, she has a strange encounter with a mysterious woman who gifts her a collection of, what appear to be, ancient amulets. On her return to the US, she and her husband are attacked by a group of would be assassins, during the ensuing struggle she discovers a hidden gift for magic. And so it begins.

While her husband lies in a coma in hospital, Isadora begins a journey of self discovery where she learns she is an incarnation of the goddess Isiss, her responsibilities include the small matter of the defence of mankind against a horde of demons, vampires, and the biggest villain of all, her own brother in law Seth, who is an incarnation of the god Set. Although Set/Seth is a despicable bad guy, who allows his petty jealousies and paranoia to take control of him, you can't help but feel a little sorry for him, and get the feeling his role had been pre-ordained, mirroring previous incarnations in an endless battle with his sister in law whom he both longs for and despises.

This book is jam-packed with magic, myth, and action. Isadora is a real super hero who must quickly assimilate her new role as defender and champion of humanity against the darkness, with her old life as wife, and research archaeologist.

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Devil in the Quiet Man

 

 

Long ago, there lay a village at the foot of the Mountains of Mourne. A collection of drab, white-washed cottages topped with yellow and brown thatch, long since swallowed by the marshy earth, and mists of time. One day a stranger rode into town on a tall black horse.

“The name’s Flanagan,” he said in an exotic Yankee drawl, as he stooped to enter a smoky hostelry. He had returned to the old country in search of his relatives, he told the assembled patrons. None had heard of any Flanagans living locally. Save for one old boy, but he kept his whist, drained his whiskey and slunk out the door.

He had a memory of a Flanagan alright, Mary Flanagan. He was but knee high to a grasshopper at the time, but he still remembered vividly the night they dragged her, spitting and cursing from her cottage. Witch and Devil’s harlot they called her. His face was pressed to his mother’s skirts, lest he witness the black deed done that day. But he still remembered her screams and the thick cloying scent of burning flesh in his nostrils.

“Can I buy you boys a drink,” the tall Yank asked three local lads.

“Aye, sir. That’d be grand.” The three supped the pints of porter and small balls of golden malt presented to them.

“Do ye like a game o’ chance?” They asked the stranger, winking at each other, for they had a quare way of dealing a hand of cards, in the shadow of the Mourne Mountains.

“Why I like nothing better,” the stranger grinned, good naturedly, as he stroked grey, drooping whiskers. With neither a curse nor a frown the strangers pile of Yankee dollars crossed the table, while the boys drunk his black ale and gut twisting whiskey. “Well you’ve plum cleaned me out, I’ll grant ya that. I’ve not a dime left.” he said.

The local lads had done well, but greed is an awful thing and the accumulation of wealth is as frustrating to a young man as chasing its tail is to a dog. “Have ye naught left to wager, what about yer watch?” Asked one.

“Or yer gold cufflinks?” Asked another.

“Well I do have one thing,” the stranger grinned, fishing a gold sovereign, thick as your thumb, from his waistcoat pocket. “What would you boys stake for this little ol’ thing?” The three young men gawped, they’d never seen its like, doubted anyone within sight of the mountain, or the whole county even, save maybe the Lord Lieutenant, had cast their eyes on such a prize as was presented to them by the strange foreigner.  “Would you bet your immortal soul?” the man asked. The three boys, blinded by greed and coveting the treasure like nothing they had ever wanted before failed to notice the sly look cross the man’s dark eyes.

The old villager who ran from the inn reached his cottage just as a wind wailed across the rocky peaks, he shivered at remembered tales, from his youth, of banshees and malign spirits, ghosts of aggrieved ancestors riding the mountain winds.

The stranger put down his cards, four aces. The boys put down there’s one by one. All their cards were blank, not a mark, not a symbol. The man began to laugh, not the good natured rumble of before but a harsh, mocking cackle. The three young men of the village covered their ears with their hands, but nothing could drown the demonic howl.

The old man heard laughter in the air, a woman’s laughter. An image of Mary Flanagan’s dour, hard face came unbidden to his mind, sending a shiver of icy fear and feeling of doom piercing through him, chilling his veins.

 

 

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/himalayan-trails/4004181391/">Himalayan Trails</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>





The Next Big Thing '2'

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The awsome Ruth Watson-Morris invited me to participate in The Next Big Thing blog hop. Check out her fantastic blog. authorvoxianseriesbooks

 

 

Here are the questions.

 

1. What is the working title of your book?

Warrior: A tribesman novel. Although that has changed at least four times.


2. Where did the idea come from for the book?


It is the sequel to my debut novel, Tribesman, an epic fantasy published by Cogwheel Press

3. What genre does your book fall under?


epic fantasy.


4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?


I'd love to see a blockbuster made with totally unknowns in the lead roles.


5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?


Born on the edges of the Frozen Waste, where men as cold and hard as the dark rocky peaks, do battle with sword and axe, I am Culainn, warrior born.


6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

It will be published by Cogwheel Press.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

About six months.

8. What other books would you compare this story to within  your own genre?

I'm not sure I would compare it to anything, I'm not saying I've come up with a completely original thing, my story is heavilly influenced by Celtic mythology, but I haven't read anything like it.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The voices inside my head.

10. What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

It is a fast moving, unpredictable tale of, warriors, demons, magic and dark gods, with a hero as cold and hard  as the high rocky peaks of the frozen north.



Where you can buy my stuff

US: Tribesman: Kindle
                         Paperback

Strange Tales From The Scriptorium Vaults:

                         Kindle. 
                         Paperback.

Uk: Tribesman: Kindle.
                          Paperback.

Strange Tales From The Scriptorium Vaults:

                         Kindle.
                         Paperback.


Where you can find me.

Facebook

Goodreads

Twitter




So, time to pass the baton onto some of my favourite authors.

Sharon Van Orman author of Lykaia

Lucia Adams author Vein Fire

Jennifer Eifrig author of Discovering Ren



















                                     








 

 

 

 

 

 

 

RESOLUTION

 

“So, make any resolutions then?” I looked at her, mouth agape, her and her pretty little party dress, her and her big brown eyes, her and those stupid sparkler things in her hair.

Did I make any resolutions? Is she fucking nuts? The crowd move around us, a mass of swirling bodies all moving in time with the music, their hands reaching for the air as the count down begins. Did I make any resolutions? Yeah, I fucking did, I resolved not to cry myself to sleep anymore, not to contemplate flinging myself onto the tracks every morning I wait for the commuter train. Not to think of you every waking moment and dream of you when I sleep. To be prepared in the morning when the reality of my life without you comes crashing in when I wake, an avalanche of sorrow burying me in soul wrenching grief.

Did I make any resolutions? How about wishing, every time I wake, it does not feel as if some rabid animal is tearing my guts out with its claws. Or that my chest is burning whenever I think of the moments I shared with you, when I tenderly stroked your cheek, leaned in and kissed your lips tasting a hint of cherry. Whenever I think I will never share such intimate time with you again. Remember you said you loved me? Liar! We would always be together, that’s what you said. We were soul mates, inseparable, we would grow old together, die in each others arms. What happened to that?

My mind keeps replaying, over and over again, the first time I saw you with him, it still hurts like a physical blow. I thought I was suffocating, my breath came in ragged, hoarse gasps. All I could keep saying, over and over again was, how could you do this to me? It was like somebody had plunged cold steel into my chest. You gave me a little sheepish smile and apologetic wave and then snuggled up to his arm. I wanted to kill you… I wanted to kill him. Instead I left.

I walked along the canal, I stared into the still water, I could taste the frost on my tongue, feel the cold burning my cheeks. I’d left my jacket behind but I didn’t care. I just kept thinking of you and him. How he was in my place, it felt like my brain was trapped inside a cloud. How could this be – how could he be standing in my shoes? That should be my arm you are  holding. And then…then, to pile misery on top of horror, you turned to him when I started to approach. As if, as if you needed him to protect you… from fucking me! God that hurt. The rage I felt, I so wanted to hit you, I hated you at that moment.

“Do you want to dance?” She says to me.

Christ, love, you’re a good lookin’ chick, but can you not fucking see, I am not someone you want to dance with? “Yeah, okay,” says I. What the fuck am I at? I don’t want to dance, my insides are being torn to shreds. I pour alcohol onto the flame of my burning soul thinking it will douse the pain.

She snuggles in close. It doesn’t feel right. It’s wrong...wrong…wrong, cunting wrong. She’s too skinny, my arms enclose her tiny frame way too easy, her hair doesn’t smell right. I can feel tears welling in my eyes. She’s not you. If I close my eyes I can trace every inch of your body. I can almost feel my fingertips tingling as I imagine caressing your skin, running my hands over the curve of your hips and waist. I can feel your ribs before I reach the heavy flesh of your breasts. I imagine you inhale sharply as I flick my tongue on your erect nipples.

When I strolled alongside the canal, looking into the dark, still water, all I could think of was how peaceful it would be to slip below the waterline, to surrender and allow my lungs to fill with water. I imagined what your reaction would be when you heard the news. Would you mourn me? Would you scream and wail and cry it was all your fault?

Then I thought, what if I didn’t die, what if I only half drowned and was hauled to safety in the nick of time. Would you come and see me? Would you ask why I had done such a thing and when I said it was because I loved you so much, would you realise then, we are meant to be together?

She tries to kiss me, God knows why. I don’t want to but I do, she’s insistent. She slips her tongue into my mouth. Tears roll down my face. She’s not you…. She’s not you.

 

 

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/pagedooley/3719718801/">kevin dooley</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>

 

 

 

 

 

 

A raid on the fat monastries of Ireland turns sour for three Norsemen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Curse of Summer

 

 

The door of the hut swung open. Wind howled in through the opening, blowing a swirling spray of snow into the dark smoky room. Bright yellow flames trashed wildly sending the shadows of the men hunched around the fire, dancing around the walls like a frantic, ritual dance of ghosts. Two figures entered, the last put his weight to the door and slammed it shut. Four of the five seated men looked up at the newcomers, who were now pulling off their heavy fur cloaks and caps and shaking the snow from them. The fifth, an old grey-beard, showed no signs of interest, his head remained bowed, his gaze fixed on the fire in front of him.

“Welcome, Bjorn,” one of the men said. “Come warm yourself by the fire.”

Bjorn nodded his thanks and clapped his companion on the back. “This is Erik Olafson, a trader from Birka.”

“You are welcome to share all we have, Erik.” Plates of meat and bread were quickly passed around to the two men, along with drinking bowls filled with ale.

“Will you give us a tale for our guests, Harald, tell us of the old days?” the host asked the old man. At first there was no reply, for a long while he did not even move. Eventually he shifted, he sliced a piece of meat from the haunch he held on a plate in his lap. He crammed the meat into his mouth, juice dribbled down his chin disappearing into the thick wiry hair of his beard. He rubbed greasy hands into his breeches.

“A tale? You would hear of heroes and adventure, of raids and great battles?” Although he spoke quietly, without even looking up, his audience was captivated, mesmerised by the voice that sounded like rolling thunder.

“Aye, Harald. Tell us of the old days, of the Viking days.”

Harald rubbed a hammer shaped amulet at his throat. “What was it to be a Viking? It meant being scared a lot, scared and drunk. Wondering what it would be like to have your guts spilling from your belly, or to have some ersling split your head open from behind with a sling shot. Wondering was it your neighbour in the shield wall that just shat himself or was it you. The smell of war is the smell of piss and puke. I’ll give you a tale, a fine Viking adventure.”

“It was the time of Sigurd Skull-Splitter; we sailed with three ships seeking plunder and slaves. The fat monasteries of Ireland were easy picking, so much undefended treasure with only a handful of fat old men to stand in our way. They put their faith in their White Christ. For a while, he abandoned them.”

“We attacked a church north of Dyflin, killed all the priests and livestock. Before we could load up the treasure, word came to Sigurd from one of the scouts that a local lord had gathered his men at arms and was heading our way. Fighting unarmed priests was one thing, but few of us had the stomach for looking down an eight foot pike with an angry Irish peasant on the other end. The call went out ‘back to the ships.’ So it became a race.”

“Sometimes in the confusion of flight it can be easy to become separated. And that’s what happened to me and two others, Halldor Larsson and Hrodgeir Rolfson. By nightfall we had not caught up with the main party and started to get concerned, what if the ships sailed without us? What if we had to face the Irish on our own?”

“Just after dark, we found a house on its own at the edge of a wood. There was nothing else there, just this house. A typical structure made from wattle and daub with a thatched roof. We crept up with caution, nothing stirred. We kicked in the door and burst in, three heavily armed Vikings, shouting and roaring.”

“There was nothing inside, except one cot and one sleeping figure on the cot. A woman! Halldor grabbed her and dragged her outside. We all laughed when we saw her in the moonlight, she was beautiful… More than beautiful, she was a vision, beyond compare. A gift from Wodan, we thought. The Norns were truly laughing at us that night. Hrodgeir kicked her to the ground, while Halldor pulled at her dress. But to our horror and disappointment she fell down dead.”  

“We left her body where it fell and made a camp, none of us wanted to sleep in the house. That night I dreamed of her, she came to me and woke me, taking me by the hand she led me into the trees, the sun was shining, the forest teemed with life, the wildflowers where extraordinarily bright, the beauty of her face brought tears to my eyes. ‘Harald you watched while the Queen of Summer died. By Samhain your world will be forever in darkness.’ I fell to my knees for I knew I had been cursed.”

“When I woke my face and beard were wet from my tears. I looked over to where we had left the woman, her body was still there, just as we had left it. Although none of us spoke about it I knew the other two had had similar dreams.”

“One by one I lost the others, first Hrodgeir fell from a cliff, we could tell his back had been broken, we left him there hearing his cries for help and his curses. Then we were attacked by a bear, both Halldor’s arms were ripped from his body. I ran, his screams ringing in my ears.”

“But you made it, you survived,” Erik said, his words coming out in a whisper.

Finally the old man looked up, Erik gasped, when he saw the milky white eyes, two sightless orbs sunk into a deformed face of criss-cross scars.

“No one escapes the wrath of the gods, boy.”

 

 

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/artiomp/4149503957/">Artiom Ponkratenko</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">cc</a>

 

 

 

 

Because sometimes life can be really shit.

 

 

I write fantasy, horror, even steampunk. A lot of stuff to escape the harsh realities of life. Well sometimes even the most fantastical escapism is not enough, because, very often, life can be really shit.

Despair

 

 “Hey! Wake up, you can’t sleep here.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, up!”

“Okay, okay, give us a sec’,” he said, wiping sleep from his eye.

“I’ve told you before you can’t sleep here. If I catch you again I’ll arrest you. Understand?”

He pulled himself up into a sitting position and nodded. He glanced up quickly at the uniformed police officer and looked away quickly, unwilling to make eye-contact. It was not just the uniform, he rarely made eye-contact with anyone anymore.

“This is a public park not a doss house, how do you think it looks to a young mother with little kiddies coming for a play in the park, only to find you sprawled all over a bench?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled an apology.

“Look at the state of you, I could smell your stink before I saw you.”

“Sorry.”

“Five minutes… if you’re still here when I get back I’ll have your sorry arse before a judge.”

He nodded once, but the policeman had already turned on his heel and moved on. His head throbbed, his throat was parched, his stomach felt queasy. It was a warm summers day and yet, despite wearing a heavy winter coat, he shivered from the cold. He brought a hand up to his temple, it came away sticky with blood. How had that happened? he wondered. A fuzzy image came to mind of being heckled and pushed around by a gang of faceless youths, dressed in hoodies and tracksuits.

His arms, legs and back ached, a cramp knotted in his stomach and lower abdomen, he wasn’t sure if he needed to eat or shit, or both. He reached for the bottle beside him, cooking sherry, he held it by the neck and tipped it back, he wretched and then drank some more, draining the bottle.

“Eww! Mummy, that man is so smelly.”

He no longer flinched with shame when young mothers pulled their children out of his way. It hurt at first, cutting him to his very core, especially the little ones, the fear and disgust in their eyes. Blocking out the memories was the first thing he had to do, the booze helped with that.

“Keep walking, you’re scaring the kiddies.”  The policeman was back. He nodded and shuffled on his way, keeping his eyes low. He wondered where he would sleep tonight, best not come back for a day or two.

He walked on, leaving the calm and peace of the park behind. All around him the sounds and smells of the city assaulted his senses, buses and trucks belched out noxious fumes, people hurried past all giving him a wide berth. A car screeched to a halt, the driver shouting and gesticulating at him, before he realised he was in the middle of the road. He shuffled on, not answering, not looking back.

“Oi, you, fuck off!”

He looked up from the skip, a man dressed in a chef’s aprons had come out of a doorway into the alleyway and was shouting at him, he dropped the leftover food back into the bin and moved on.

He rummaged through the on-street bins for whatever he could find, scavenging whatever food he could get his hands on or anything he could use. A piece of cardboard he dragged from one bin would make sleeping on the cold streets a bit more bearable.

Dizzy and disorientated most of the time now, his body ached for food and sleep, his mind craved drink. Drink to take him away, drink to help him find the oblivion he constantly sought.

“Malone?” He looked up from the bin. “Jesus, Malone, is that you?” A man dressed in suit and tie addressed him.

Malone? That was his name once. Not anymore. He shrugged off the man and shuffled on. The man followed.

“It is you, Malone. What the hell happened to you?”

He pushed him away and tried to move on, but the well dressed man was persistent.

“This used to be my boss,” he laughed, turning to his friends.

“Come on, Freddie, leave him alone, he stinks,” a woman’s voice said.

“Seriously, this was my manager at the bank. He got fired when he came into work drunk one day and told all the customers to go fuck themselves. Apparently his wife had taken the kids and buggered off with another man.”

“Please, Freddie, I want to go.” He could hear the fear in her voice.

“Jesus, Malone. Here,” the man said and shoved a tenner into his hand.

He looked up when the couple walked away, tears blurred his vision. He looked down at the ten pound note, he wanted to run after them and tell them to keep their bloody money, tell them he didn’t need it, or them and tell them to go fuck themselves. He scrunched the note up tightly in his fist, his knuckles turned white. A sob escaped from his throat, a harsh guttural noise, a mournful wail of despair.

He wiped away the tears and snot and unfolded the note, calculating how much booze he could get with it.

He wanted to forget.

 

 

Photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/simon_ingram/5406257798/">SPIngram</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>

An excerpt from Tribesman

 

 

 



 

In the beginning there was only the Benouin. They farmed the fertile land nourished by the Great River. Their herds and flocks grazed on the lush green pastures. Golden corn, wheat, and bounteous fruit trees flourished in the dark, rich earth. The women of the Benouin were just as fruitful and the people swelled in number. The cantankerous god of thunder, Dourab, provided them with precious metals from his lofty mountain home; iron, tin, and gold.

They formed communities, building villages and towns. Their numbers and wealth grew, and they thrived. A king ruled over them, a wise and just ruler, his name was Sarouk Ur-Dal. He took a wife from one of the villages and his wise men advised him he should get her with child and produce an heir.

And so, Sarouk’s power and fame grew. He built a city that would be the capital of a growing nation. He named it Azral-Laldra; the City of Light. People flocked to build their homes within the confines of  its walls. His wise men advised him to build an army and make weapons from the bounty of Dourab’s rocky mountain peaks.

“Who should we make war on?” Sarouk asked.

“Whomever shall oppose us,” they answered.

“And who shall oppose us?” The king asked.

“Let us go forth and find them,” they said.

The armies of the Benouin poured forth from the gates of Azral-Laldra conquering all before them. An empire was born and the wealth of the people, together with their arrogance, grew. The once wise and merciful king listened to words of false praise and flattery whispered in his ear and as a result became vain and cruel. His councillors called him a God and had statues fashioned in his honor. The people knelt before his image and worshiped him.

The gods of the Benouin are many and guard jealously the prayers of the faithful. They were not inclined to accept another to their ranks. The priests and mages of King Sarouk gathered in the great city with the sole intent of challenging the gods and replacing them with their Lord.

King Sarouk was a god in name only. All the gods of the Benouin came together and they scattered the people on the wind. They tore down their cities and ripped up their crops, cursing them to forever wander across the burning sands that were once lush meadows and rich earth. Sarouk and his council of mages were trapped within the jewel of the empire to linger there for all time. Azral-Laldra became Azral-Murbo, the City of the Dead.

 

 

You can buy Tribesman, an epic fantasy novel on Amazon.com.

Amazon US:  http://www.amazon.com/Tribesman-ebook/dp/B009K6KU28/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352054039&sr=8-1&keywords=tribesman+paul+freeman

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tribesman-ebook/dp/B009K6KU28/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1352054112&sr=1-1