Gryphonwood

Free E-Books! Happy Halloween from Gryphonwood!

2009-10-29T19:35:00.005-04:00

Here's a special treat from Gryphonwood Press! Our entire e-book catalog is 100% off (that's right- 100% off) on Halloween through e-book distributor Smashwords! You'll need a special coupon code for each book (coupon codes are not case-sensitive):

Cibola by David Wood- SJ79G
Dead Eye: Pennies for the Ferryman by Jim Bernheimer- MK29P
Death Dealt the Hand by John E. Bailor- CT72U
Dourado by David Wood- QX73J
Flank Hawk by Terry W. Ervin II- DM58A
The Silver Serpent by David Debord- MG27T
Street: Empathy by Ryan A. Span- KK37T
You Don't Know What You've Got... anthology- RD33A
Seabird- An Invitation by Sherry Thompson- QW23Y

This Halloween special is a joint promotion with Blade Red Press. Visit their website for even more free books!

Flank Hawk by Terry W. Ervin II

2009-10-26T22:20:00.002-04:00

Gryphonwood is pleased to announce the release of Flank Hawk: A First Civilization's Legacy Novel by Terry W. Ervin II. Ervin's novel is an intriguing blend of epic fantasy, military fiction, and even a bit of zombies thrown in for good measure. Here's a little more about Flank Hawk:

What happens when fire-breathing dragons battle Stukas for aerial supremacy over a battlefield? Can an earth wizard's magic defeat a panzer? Krish, a farmhand turned mercenary, witnesses this and much more as he confronts the Necromancer King's new war machines resurrected from before the First Civilization's fall. Worse yet, a wounded prince tasks Krish to find the fabled Colonel of the West and barter the royal family's malevolent Blood-Sword for a weapon to thwart the Necromancer King's victory. Flank Hawk is set in the distant future where magic exists and brutish ogres are more than a child's nightmare.

Here's what others had to say about Flank Hawk:

“Flank Hawk’s characters skewer you on page one, then the plot kicks your butt! Grab hold! Ervin's got the magic!”
--C, Dean Andersson, author of the Bloodsong Trilogy

“A curious blend of epic fantasy, modern techno-thriller and non-stop action-adventure, Flank Hawk is a compelling and original tale of a brave young mercenary pitched in deadly magical combat against the undead techno-armies of the Necromancer King. Whether you like swashbuckling wizardry, fierce dragon battles, modern military hardware or sword-slashing zombie mayhem, Flank Hawk has it all.”
--Erica Hayes, author of the Shadowfae Chronicles

“Creative genius takes many forms, Flank Hawk ... stretches fantasy and speculative science fiction to new levels as beasts, magic, Nazi war technology and superhuman beings combine in one well-crafted tale. Flank Hawk is a must read!”
--D. S. Sault, author of The Last Human War

“This book has it all: Nazis, zombies, angels, elementals...It's Army of Darkness meets Lord of the Rings. Buy it or chalk it up on that long list of things you regret not doing!”
--Stephen Hines, author of Hocus Focus

For more information on Terry W. Ervin II and his work, visit his website or his blog.

New review of Jim Bernheimer's Dead Eye: Pennies for the Ferryman

2009-09-23T21:21:00.001-04:00

Books & Chat has reviewed Jim Bernheimer's novel Dead Eye: Pennies for the Ferryman. Click here to read it!

Author's Roundtable

2009-07-21T21:45:00.002-04:00

David Wood invites you to visit his blog where he's hosting an Author's Roundtable. The current topic is "Writing Good Fight Scenes." Guest authors are Alan Baxter and Sean Ellis.

Death Dealt the Hand by John E. Bailor

2009-06-24T20:50:00.000-04:00

Gryphonwood is pleased to announce the release of John E. Bailor's thriller Death Dealt the Hand.
James Rollins calls Death Dealt the Hand, "Tautly drawn. Razor sharp. An outstanding debut novel." To learn more about John E. Bailor and his work, visit his website.

Gryphonwood at Con Carolinas

2009-05-31T18:54:00.008-04:00

Gryphonwood was well-represented at Con Carolinas. Jim Bernheimer and David Wood were in attendance, and all the books in the Gryphonwood catalogue were on display and available for purchase. We met lots of great people, signed a few books, and met some great authors. Gail Z. Martin, author of the Chronicles of the Necromancer series, stopped by the booth and let Jim and Dave plug their books for her video blog. She even accepted signed copies of Dead Eye... and The Silver Serpent. We also got to meet authors David B. Coe, Katherine Kurtz, A.J. Hartley, Debra Killeen, Misty Massey, and Elaine Corvidae. Perhaps most exciting of all, we have photographic evidence that Indiana Jones loves Gryphonwood books. (Okay, maybe not the "real" Indiana Jones...)

Jim signs his debut novel, Dead Eye: Pennies for the Ferryman.

Dave signs The Silver Serpent.

Dave and Jim with Gail Z. Martin

Our first celebrity endorsement... sort of.

Dead Eye: Pennies for the Ferryman by Jim Bernheimer

2009-05-27T16:28:00.003-04:00

Gryphonwood is pleased to announce the release of Dead Eye: Pennies for the Ferryman by Jim Bernheimer. A popular webfiction author, Jim's work has appeared in the You Don't Know What You've Got... anthology, and in his own anthology, Horror, Humor, and Heroes. Dead Eye... is currently available on Amazon.com, and will soon be available wherever books are sold.

To learn more about Jim and his work, visit his website at www.jimbernheimer.com.

Cibola by David Wood- Buy it March 17

2009-03-16T21:33:00.002-04:00

David Wood's new adventure-thriller novel, Cibola, comes out Tuesday, March 17. The book has already received high praise, and is certain to be a hit. David is donating a portion of all of his royalties to The Brain Tumor Foundation. Please support a great cause and support indie publishing by buying your copy of Cibola.

Cibola E-book

Video Trailer for You Don't Know What You've Got...

2009-03-14T21:18:00.001-04:00

Check out the video trailer for You Don't Know What You've Got... Tales of Loss and Dispossession.

You Don't Know What You've Got...

2009-03-02T14:08:00.003-05:00

We are pleased to announce the release of You Don't Know What You've Got: Tales of Loss and Dispossession. The anthology features work from twelve talented authors, and amazing cover art by Jan Pospisil. Click on the cover image to preview (and hopefully buy) the book!

Read Dourado by David Wood for Free!

2009-02-11T15:26:00.004-05:00

In anticipation of the release of David Wood's second novel, Cibola, you may now pick up an electronic copy of Dourado free of charge. Click on the link, and enter coupon code LJ95G. The code is not case-sensitive, and is good for the entire month of February.

It's Almost Here!

2009-02-04T21:01:00.002-05:00

You Don't Know What You've Got... Tales of Loss and Dispossession is almost ready to roll. Proof copies are being examined right now, and if all looks good, we are hopeful of a February 24 release. The anthology features many talented authors writing in a variety of genres. While you're waiting, have a gander at the fantastic cover. Artwork is by Jan Popisil, concept and design by Ryan A. Span.

Interview with Sherry Thompson

2009-01-08T18:37:00.006-05:00

Fantasy novelist Sherry Thompson has had a busy month. Her debut novel, Seabird, has been featured on the CFRB Blog Tour where it has received high praise. She was also recently interviewed by Xanthorpe. She is now hard at work on her next novel, Earthbow, but she took time out to chat with us.

1. For those who are new to your work, tell us about Seabird.

Seabird is the first book of the "Narentan Tumults." It's a fantasy novel in which a young woman from Earth is whisked away to another world (a favorite plot device of mine), where she is told she is to be that world's savior. She encounters a world very unlike our own, and is irrevocably changed by the experience.

2. A couple of reviewers have commented that “Seabird” is rather “dark”. Do you agree?

Yes, it is. For one thing, the story takes place during a time of war so dark themes should be expected. In my opinion, the author cannot depict realistic scenes during a war unless there is the danger of serious harm or death. On the other hand, I took great pains – or rather delight – in depicting joy, awe, love and delight.

In addition, I believe one or two reviewers are contrasting the mood of Seabird with that of The Chronicles of Narnia, which was written for a much younger audience. The difference in target audience alone has an effect on appropriate ranges of mood and subjects treated in a work.

3. From the moment you conceived the idea for the story, to the published book, how long did it take?

Hm. My situation is radically different from that of most authors. I began working on “Seabird” back in 1979 and finished its first draft in 1980. I also wrote first drafts of other manuscripts during the 1980’s and early 1990’s.

However, I was working fulltime at a very demanding job back then. I wasn’t able to focus on revisions to “Seabird” and looking for a publisher until after I retired in 2000.

4. Describe your working environment.

“Recently upgraded, but still in flux”.

Well, I live alone so I can indulge myself. (Oh, my two cats are going to get me for that!)

Seriously, my computer work station takes up the half of the living room closest to my dining room. I used a standard computer table until just over a year ago when I switched to a cabinet for the tower, flanked by finished wooden cubes arranged in a kind of counter for my two lamps, keyboard, monitor, printer and scanner. Most of the time I type with the keyboard on my lap. (I’m on the lookout for a small footstool.)

5. When did you decide you wanted to become an author?

Decide? Never. I began making up stories to entertain myself when I was a preteen. It just kind of happened because it was something that I needed to do at the time.

As for seriously becoming an author in the hopes of having a book published, that would have been in 1979.

6. Were you an avid reader as a child? What type of books did you enjoy reading?

Yes, I began reading early and I wasn’t much interested in reading children’s stories when I was young. That got me into trouble at school a couple of times. Everyone is my family read. We all trooped to the library every weekend. I remember my parents being surprised when I asked for help to finish the newspaper crossword puzzle I had nearly completed.

7. How would you describe your creative process while writing this book? Was it stream-of-consciousness writing, or did you first write an outline?

I hate outlines. That doesn’t mean that I don’t do outlines.

When I begin working on any book, including “Seabird” I think of a general scenario for the story and then try to come up with a couple of main characters. Next, I immerse myself in those characters until I know far more about them than I could possibly use in the story. All sorts of personality changes, startling motivations, and idiosyncrasies pop up.

By this point, my plot is usually beginning to emerge. I write down the major events that I foresee happening and try to break these down into chapter-sized chunks. I subdivide the chapters into scenes and try to make sure that each chapter will aid in both characterization and in plot development. (This sounds far more rigorous than it feels like when I am doing it!)

That’s the outline – such as it is – unless I later have trouble with a chapter or a scene, in which case I may outline more rigorously, keeping in mind what I need to achieve in that chunk of the story. After that stream-of-conscious really kicks in. While I do refer to my outline and notes, I do it mostly if the “stream” isn’t coming along.

Inspiration out of nowhere altered “Seabird” in a number of places and in ways that I never foresaw when I began writing the book. I am still astonished by many of the choices made by my characters and by scenes and their settings “turning up” out of the clear blue.

8. As a writer, what scares you the most?

Not getting everything completed that I have started.

9. When it comes to writing, are you an early bird, or a night owl?

Are you kidding? I am a super night owl! Unless I have to do otherwise, I go to bed at 4 am and get up 11 am.

Since I retired in 2000, I have been able to follow my body’s own natural biorhythms for the first time in my life. Even as a child, I always did my story creation after I was presumably in bed asleep. Creativity kicks in for me late in the evening—or rather everyone else’s evening.

10. Technically speaking, what do you have to struggle the most with when writing? How do you tackle it?

I hate revising when I know that something is wrong with a scene but can’t put my finger on why it isn't working. Sometimes fellow authors will agree with me about a scene but they don't know what's wrong with it either. That’s when a really good beta reader comes into their own.

11. What is the best writing advice you’ve ever received?

Keep writing, preferably every day. Next best advice? Shun passive sentences.

12. Where can readers learn more about you and your work?

http://khivasmommy.googlepages.com/authorintro The Scroll Chamber (main website)
http://tree-lady.livejournal.com/ "Scribblings" (blog)
http://narentantales.blogspot.com/2008_04_01_archive.html

Sherry Thompson Red Room Writer Profile Red Room

Sherry, thank you for chatting with us and best of luck with your books.

My pleasure!

Ryan A. Span Interview

2008-08-16T16:28:00.002-04:00

Don't miss Web Fiction Guide's interview with Ryan A. Span, author of Street: Empathy.

Ryan A. Span Interview

2008-08-16T16:28:00.001-04:00

Don't miss Web Fiction Guide's interview with Ryan A. Span, author of Street: Empathy.

Visit the new Gryphonwood forum!

2008-07-22T10:15:00.003-04:00

Everyone is invited to check out the brand new Gryphonwood forum!

http://www.gryphonwoodpress.com/forum

We hope you'll stop by and stay awhile.

Call for Anthology Submissions

2008-07-10T09:08:00.004-04:00

Gryphonwood is accepting submissions for a new anthology: You Don't Know What You've Got: Tales of Loss and Dispossession. As the title indicates, the theme is centered around the subject of loss. Stories can be any genre, but must have an element of the fantastic. It can be a loss of any kind- don't limit yourself to lost love. This anthology replaces the old Best of... anthology, and will also include stories from current Gryphonwood novelists'

Submissions should be at least 5,000 words. Deadline is August 31, 2008. Contributors whose stories are chosen will receive their choice of a contributor copy or a $10 payment. Submit your story in standard manuscript format as an attachment (.doc or .rtf) to submissions [at] gryphonwoodpress.com . Questions may be directed to info [at] gryphonwoodpress.com. We look forward to reading your work!

The Deadwood by Ian R. Derbyshire

2008-06-23T06:42:00.003-04:00

“There is something fell in the air tonight. Beware.”

Gregor turned to regard the seer from under his cowl. The old man had been sitting at the same stool in front of the bar for the last four hours, issuing his foul warnings.

“The air of the Deadwood is thick tonight, my friends, thick with evil.”

Gregor shook his head and turned back to his untouched tankard of ale. Occasionally he put it to his lips and then set it back down, but the liquid level hadn’t changed.

He knew he’d need his wits tonight.

The Seventh Hanged Man was gloomy as ever and it wasn’t just the old man with his portents. The torches burned low, flickering against the darkness, fighting for mastery. The stairs leading to the four or five rooms that Kellen rented out were black as pitch, apparently someone decided they didn’t need to light the torches tonight. The place was sparse, as it had been of late. Gregor looked out the window and saw nothing but darkness, when the door opened he could see the muted glow of a hanging lamp, dimly lighting the cobblestones leading to the town square.

Gregor hung back in the shadows, waiting.

When he felt the tap on his shoulder, his heart tried to leap from his chest.

Stefan turned from the table and walked up the dark stairs. Gregor wasn’t sure how he could see, but Stefan’s moving shape offered some kind of reference to follow as they moved upstairs.

The wizard proceeded Gregor into a small room, equipped with a candle, table, a rickety chair and a four post bed. A branch scratched earnestly at the window.

“You have a job?” Gregor asked.

Stefan walked to the window, the cowl of his grey robes pulled up. “I do. I need you to travel to Becker’s Farm and bring me the contents of the chest kept on the top floor. You won’t need help, but I need everything in the chest.” Stefan turned from the window to regard Gregor. “I see you’re armed, that is good.”

Gregor’s hand drifted down to the long sword he wore belted to his hip. He shrugged, adjusting his soft black leather harness, equipped with instruments and tools of the trade, metal rods, caltrops, powder, etc.

“Horse?”

Stefan shook his head. “No one can know you were there.”

Gregor left the room and moved back down the stairs, he passed the old man, still raving of the apocalypse, and pushed his way out of the Hanged Man.

There was no moon out tonight, perfect weather for the job he had to do.

So why was he getting chills?

Gregor jogged north out of Warden’s Gate, passing the darkened house of Mistress Klara. He was sure no one had seen him, who else would be out on a night like this, but he waited until he was around the bend before ducking into the bushes.

It took him close to thirty minutes of steady jogging before he reached a thin patch of trees. Gregor crouched, breathing a little heavy. He parted the bushes in front of him and saw Becker’s.

Strange.

There was no light coming from the farmstead’s windows yet it wasn’t near late enough for the family to have gone to bed.

Once Gregor’s breathing became more controlled, he began inching his way closer to the farmstead. He pressed his back up against the wooden walls and listened. From within he could hear rustling, and the heavy steps of something moving.

Something.

No person moved like that, moved that heavy.

Gregor, every hair on his arm standing up, moved out from the wall and looked up at the window. It was only twelve feet above his head. He jumped and grabbed a small crack, finding similar handholds and footholds, he scaled his way up to the window. He hung there, just below the window, before slowly levering his head up to the dingy glass.

At first he couldn’t see anything, only the shadows of a railing, a throw rug and a table. He moved a little to his left, trying to see into one of the corners, when he spotted the dark shape of the chest he needed.

Holding on with one hand, he reached into his harness and removed a metal rod with a crystal attached to it. An expensive tool, he was sure it cost someone quite a few gold.

Maybe the person he stole it from had the gold to buy another set.

He pressed the crystal against the window and held his breath, and then he slowly drew a large circle on the glass.

The sound that came from this, a whining, scratching sound, wasn’t loud, but in the still of the night it seemed to reverberate until he was sure the people of Warden’s Gate must have heard it.

Gregor froze. Something had moved near the chest.

He strained to see what it was, for a second he saw the shadow of something large.

Was that something?

It was.

Gregor shrieked, letting go of his handholds and plummeting. He struck the earth, his shriek ending in a rush of breath. He laid there, fighting hard to breathe, when he saw the window explode outward, a large shape flying over his head and vanishing into the brush behind him.

He threw his hands over his head and tried to roll away from the falling glass. Once it was safe, he jumped up and sprinted for the road.

Thirty minutes through the brush at a jog turned into ten minutes down the road at a sprint. Gregor flew through the door of the Hanged Man, slid on a wet spot and barely caught himself on a table where a woman in a nice purple robe raised his eyebrow at him. He turned and saw that she, the old seer, and the bartender all seemed to be watching him with a raised eyebrow.

He turned and fled upstairs. Kicking open the door to Stefan’s room he saw the wizard hunched over something on the table, momentarily startled by Gregor’s entry he saw a human forearm bone, wrapped in some sort of dirty rag.

“Something-farm-Gods!” Gregor said. Darkness pressed in on him from all directions and he fell to his knees, then he knew no more.

Gregor’s nose twitched.

Consciousness returned to Gregor in a hurry. He gasped for air as he rolled over onto his back, grasping at the sheets on the four post bed.

Something smelled wrong.

He held a palm to his forehead, a dull ache had formed behind his right eye. He looked around the room, Stefan’s room, but there was no sign of the mage. In fact there was no sign that anyone had been using the room in the last month.

Gregor shook his head, trying to get the cobwebs out. The last thing he remembered was that thing in the window at Becker’s, then falling, and running through the forest. Everything got hazy when he got near Warden’s Gate.

The sound of ceramic on stone brought Gregor from his revelry. He moved to the doorway and stuck his head out. None of the light from downstairs was filtering up the staircase.

He heard the tinkling sound again and his head finally made the connection. As grim as Hanged Mans usually is, there was no other sounds coming from the common room. Not even the portents of the madman.

Gregor drew his longsword and slowly inched his way out of the room. He put his back to the wall and slid his way down the stairs. The common room was completely dark, he tried to move to a spot on the wall where he’d seen a torch earlier, but his foot found something slick on the ground and he slipped, landing on his side.

He scrambled to the wall and found the torch, digging in his harness he found a flint and steel and struck it. It took a few tries for his hands to stop shaking enough to get a good spark, but eventually he got the torch lit. He pulled it from the wall and turned, almost falling again.

Someone had turned over the common room, the tables were scattered, some with broken legs, some broken completely in half. There was a scorch mark along the far side of the wall from Gregor where it looked like someone had been blowing fire. On the floor, where he’d slipped, lay a woman in robes. He moved to her, squatting and bringing his torch close. Gregor could see a broken wand sticking out from under her body, but he was disturbed to see teeth marks on her face, it seemed as though something had chewed off a fair sized chunk of meat. She also had a bite mark on her hips, whatever it was had bitten right through her robes and into her flesh. Gregor turned away, suppressing the desire to throw up, and he saw the pool of blood spilling out from behind the bar.

When he stood up he heard the tinkling sound of ceramic on the rock floor again. It was coming from behind the bar. He held his sword at the ready, and breathed deeply before peering over.

A small white cat was lapping at the shards of a broken jug, the bartender’s lifeless hand lay a few inches away from it. Gregor’s inspection of the bartender was a lot less thorough but he saw some similar wounds around the chest and legs.

Gregor wasn’t prone to a weakened stomach. He’d served in Garalan’s Seventh during the Occupation, he’d seen his share of dead bodies, but this wasn’t war. There was some sort of creature loose in the Deadwood.

A memory came back to him, Stefan hunkered over a bone on the table in his room.

What had he been doing with it?

The cat looked up at him and meowed, then its head swiveled to the front door, its ears pointing straight up. Gregor approached the door, sheathing his sword with regret, and opened it.

The lamp that had provided so very little light earlier, was providing none now. The entire town was dark, except for one window on the other side of the square.

Mistress Klare.

Gregor threw the torch behind him, not wanting to draw attention, and drew his sword again. Slowly he began walking across the dark cobblestones.

He made it to the edge of the fountain and stumbled. The water was red and there was a dark form floating in the shallow water. Gregor shook his head and continued to Klare’s.

Scratching softly at the door, Gregor swept anxious looks over his shoulder, images of the creature’s face hovering over him.

When the door swung open he yelped. Mistress Klare stood in the doorway, her dress torn across the midsection and below the knees. Blood had crusted on her legs and stomach, the wounds looked like scratch marks but it was difficult for Gregor to tell. Klare’s face seemed to have escaped unmarred, although her hair was a dreadful bee’s hive.

“Come in quickly, the beast will smell you.” Klare grabbed Gregor’s shoulder and pulled him into the house. He saw nothing to indicate a struggle, there was a candle lit on a small wooden table. Gregor moved over to see a deck of cards, seven cards had been pulled and arrayed in a cross. Hypnotized, Gregor studied them. The bottom card was labeled Pawn, and showed a picture of a thief in shadows. The next card up featured the image of a golden egg being nestled by a large black dragon, this one was called The Trap. The card separating the left from the right, and the top from the bottom, was called Barrier, and showed a huge stone wall, jammed with broken axe hafts, spears, broken swords and smeared with blood. The card on the left was called The Sorcerer, the image was Stefan. He was glaring hard across Barrier, his eyes sharp beneath his pointed black hat. On the other side of Barrier sat The Mystic, Klare, regarding Stefan cautiously.

At the centre of the cross was The Creature, in all its hideous glory.

“You’ve been drawn to the reading,” Klare said.

The comment broke the spell the cards had on Gregor, he shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

“Once your task was complete, I suspected your card would fall from the game. Yet you live.”

“My task?”

“You haven’t guessed?” Klare laughed at Gregor’s silence. “You were being used, Gregor. The creature was loosed on this world centuries ago. Stefan, who was once a normal sorcerer, stumbled upon a spell of awakening. The spell required a bone of the creator’s kin and he would be able to wake the ghoul. Now it stalks the Deadwood again, as it did centuries ago. Stefan is controlling it, I tried to destroy it,” She said, looking down at her torn and bloodied dress. “And I failed.”

“It was a routine job, Stefan asked me to steal something from a chest at Becker’s Farm.”

“Hans Becker, the man who used to run Becker’s Farm until tonight, had a great great grand-uncle named Klinsman Becker.

“It was Klinsman who created the ghoul, and set it on the Deadwood. It was tasked to protect him and his stead, instead it ravaged the other farms, eating people and livestock. Klinsman couldn’t bring himself to destroy his creation, instead he devised a spell of control. Before he could summon the ghoul and read from his scroll, a party of seven wizards swept through the Deadwood, sent by the King, and they destroyed the ghoul, imprisoning it beneath the Helene Mausoleum.”

“The scroll, it was in the chest. Did Hans know?”

Klare shook her head. “He had no way of knowing. After the seven wizards finished at Helene, they stormed Klinsman’s home. They had no way of knowing that Klinsman was more powerful than they were, he had no formal training in the Cities. He burned them, stole their souls, corrupted their hearts. Klinsman was the first Necromancer, and they didn’t know how to deal with unholy magic of that nature. The seventh wizard killed Klinsman, unraveling his existence, but even as Klinsman cursed the wizard, his corporeal being fading from existence, Klinsman’s family descended from the woods, lynching the man.

“The Becker’s took the bodies of the dead wizards and hung them from the trees of Helene Mausoleum. The last body they put up was the unconscious form of the seventh wizard, the one who destroyed their kin, and he died hanging. The Beckers tasked their souls, barred from their rightful place in the Beyond, to protect Hellene and let no one wake the beast.

“Stefan couldn’t have counted for the ghoul returning to his master’s home, or eating his descendants, and now that’s thrown his plan off. I knew Stefan was up to something, when I sensed the ghoul’s presence here I made for Becker’s as fast as I could, but Stefan had an advantage on me, he knew about Klinsman’s chest, I did not. Stefan and the ghoul set on me while I was still searching, I was forced to flee or be destroyed.”

“So he has the scroll, he can control the beast?”

“Yes, his control via the bone was limited, the beast would stalk the countryside like it used to, but now with the spell of control the only thing stopping him from rampaging through the Cities with it, is me. I’m holding the enchantment on the forest, at great personal cost, and I’m not sure how long my magic can last. Once I wear out, and my mind is scoured with ethereal power, the ghoul will no longer be contained in the Deadwood.

“You must take this dagger,” Klare shifted some bricks in her hearth, and pulled free a bundle of burlap, from this bundle she removed a serpentine dagger that seemed to glow in the night’s gloom. “Travel to Hellene, and drive it into the cursed earth where the creature was buried. Once you’ve done this, read from this scroll. This should unravel the enchantments that gave the ghoul life.” She pulled a scroll from her sleeve and handed it to Gregor. He grasped it, hands shaking, and made it disappear into a pocket. Then he picked up the dagger, and stuck it through his belt under his leather jerkin, so the glow couldn’t be detected. “Go with the Gods,” She said.

“I hope I do.”

Gregor squatted in the dark underbrush, his breath misting in front of him. He was having a hard time trying to stop his hands from shaking, but that may have something to do with what lay before him.

Centuries again a road ran straight into Hellene Keep, and out the other side. From what Gregor could see, the people had beaten a road through the forest that traveled around the keep. Now it was called a Mausoleum instead of a keep, and there was a hundred foot dead zone, where no brush would grow anymore, circling the Mausoleum. Gregor sat in the woods on the far side of this dead zone, watching the path into the old Keep.

The thing which scared him the most, was the copse of trees remaining in front of the postern gate, and the seven shapes that swung idly in the night breeze.

Seven shapes.

Seven wizards.

“But it was centuries ago,” Gregor whispered.

Gregor crab-walked across the barren expanse and vanished underneath the trees near the keep. Every inch of his body shook as he walked beneath the swinging shapes, their robes blowing in the wind as if they’d been dead hours, instead of centuries.

His breathing was ragged and out of control by the time he got to the postern gate. It took him five minutes to pick the very basic lock and the postern gate swung open, revealing the empty courtyard.

Before leaving Klare’s he’d studied an old map of the keep, which had been drawn on someone’s bald scalp after it had been removed from the person’s head, and he remembered the crypt’s entrance was next to the stables.

He scanned the courtyard and saw the thatch roofed stables across from him. He skirted the shadows all the way around until he was next to the wooden building. Something scraped the cobblestones inside the stable and he froze.

A snort.

He moved up silently, removing a precious piece of loot he’d recovered in the Mines of Galof. It was like metal, only it reflected everything it faced.

Holding it around the edge of the wall, fire blew out of the nose of a completely black horse. The horse reared, looked directly at him in the mirror, and blew another long gout of fire. Gregor turned and ran back to where the stable met the keep wall, without hesitating he ran up the wall and kicked out, grabbing onto the edge of the stable roof. He scrambled across the beams of the roof while other Nightmare’s snorted and more fire erupted from the front of the stable.

When he rolled off of the top of the building he crouched on the ground, clutching his knees to his chest, and rocked back and forth. Tears rolled down his face.

His life had become a nightmare. An image of his dead wife’s face came to him, unbidden. Her features were serene as always, but they just served to ravage his heart more.

He felt a heat under his leather jerkin and remembered the glowing dagger and the task that had been given to him. The image of his wife stopped tormenting him, and started giving him strength. He steeled his nerves and climbed over the edge of the wall, landing lightly on the steps leading into the crypt.

At the bottom he found a dry torch on the wall, he removed it from its bracket and lit it. He wandered throughout the darkened corridors, avoiding large webs and large spiders, until he reached a central hub. Here he found a place of disturbed bricks, where something had dug its way out of the ground.

He found a sconce on the wall and placed the torch in it. He kneeled in front of the hole and pulled the scroll out of his pocket, unraveling it next to him. Then he pulled the glowing dagger from his jerkin and held it poised in his hand.

Jamming the dagger into the dirt, he began reading from the scroll hurriedly. When he was done, he sighed and leaned back.

scrape

Gregor turned around, hand reaching for his sword.

Klare climbed the stairs of the Becker Farm, the soft sound of chewing could be heard from the floor above her. When her head poked above floor level, she saw the ghoul slavering over the dead form of Stefan. Blood dripped from its mouth and a piece of flesh dangled from its teeth.

“Hello, my son,” Klare whispered softly. “Are you happy to be in the presence of family again?”

The ghoul cocked its head as if trying to comprehend what she was saying.

“They killed my husband, but I escaped into the forest. I had to wait centuries for someone to wake you, but now this foolish person has done it for me.” Klare stepped next to the beast, still hunched over the dead wizard’s form. “The thief was easy to dupe, the cards, the scroll, the dagger, now you’re no longer bound to an inept magician.”

A thunderous boom shook the farmhouse, staggering Klare. The beast stood up to its full height and swiveled its head. Klare ran to the window and stared down at the old pumpkin patch.

Seven robed forms stood in the patch, staring up at her. The ropes hung from their necks, ending in frays where they’d been bitten through.

“My, my, another aspect of my plan has worked. Now we can march on the Cities,” Klare whispered.

The seven lichs bowed.

Ian is a 27 year old writer from the vast Metropolis of Ottawa. He currently resides with his wife and two cats in a fortified townhouse as he slaves 7.5 hour days as a call centre supervisor. He's been published here, at Gryphonwood, with the Knight of Tatters, as well as in the new anthology 'Strange Stories of Sand and Sea' and 'The Horror Library Presents: Vol I'.

Change at Gryphonwood

2008-06-23T06:37:00.002-04:00

As many of you are aware, Gryphonwood began publishing novels in 2007. We are excited about the early success of our new titles, and look forward to bringing more authors into the fold. The downside is the lack of time and attention devoted to the webzine. We have made the difficult decision to stop publishing the webzine effective July 1. We have a couple of pieces in the pipeline that will be published prior to that date. We will still keep the site active for news and notes and perhaps the occasional piece from a Gryphonwood author. We will also be making a call for submissions for a themed anthology to be published later this year, so keep checking back with us. Many thanks to our dedicated readers and authors for the support and interest they have shown in Gryphonwood.

Sincerely,

Dave Wood

Great news about Street: Empathy

2008-05-07T09:09:00.002-04:00

Street: Empathy by Ryan Span, the latest Gryphonwood title, has been very well-received so far. Today, the Kindle version hit the top 100 in both Technothrillers and High Tech. Congratulations Ryan!

The Sixth Son by Michael Merriam

2008-04-17T13:28:00.001-04:00

The Sixth Son
by Michael Merriam

He had not meant to kidnap the Hag.
In the gloom he mistook her
for the neighbor King's daughter;
the long brown hair down her back
fooled him in the darkness.

He snatched her and ran,
gave his oath, swore upon
his father's sword to marry her,
unknowing of her true identity.

His father's first son
had slain a magical beast
and rescued a noble-born maiden.
He brought her home, inherited
their father's bog-strewn kingdom,
settled down to ledgers and crop reports.
He trained his heir and bred hounds
while his wife, forgotten,
became brooding and vicious.

His father's second son was born
small and sickly, but grew cunning,
as only a second son could.
He settled for being his brother's
right hand, and plotting his demise.
Never the heir, no estate of his own,
he longed to rule their backwater.
Once a week he plays Nine-Men-Morris
with his older brother's wife.

His father's third son was born
under the magical number three
Cocky and bold with a quick wit
and sharp blade, he eloped with a milk maid
who turned out to be the lost heir
of a distant kingdom. They juggled and sang
and owned a talking cat.
In three acts they regained her throne
and lived happily ever something.

His father's fourth and fifth sons
were strong, loyal, and brave.
One became Captain of Infantry,
the other Captain of Cavalry,
for their brother's toy army.
Both had the good grace to
die heroically in battle
and troubled everyone no more
with their extraneous presences.

His father's seventh son, seventh son
of a seventh son, grew up looking at
things just beyond normal sight.
He moved into a creaky tower,
returning to the family hold for
holidays, weddings, and funerals,
his days filled with the company of
swamp creatures, hot animal entrails,
the wise and mighty beating on his door.

But he, his father's sixth son,
had not been born to inherit or be lucky.
He was none too handsome, nor fated for greatness.
Just a necessary step to the next son,
cast away, outcast, apprenticed to a
tradesman, he spent his days making horseshoes,
sewing needles, kitchen knives and nails.
Worth less than the landed nobility
despite his own royal birth.

He took her home.
His brothers shook their heads.
The nobles smirked behind his back.
The commoners whispered.
The King from the neighboring land
rode in on a tired old stallion,
and demanded the hag back.
His brother sent him into exile,
desperate to avoid a useless war.

He squatted down on a piece of land
with his new wife in his new country.
He planted seeds in barren soil,
hammered out metal trinkets to sell,
and stewed in his humiliation.
At night, crouched and huddled,
embracing by a hearth gone cold and dark,
they love, and afterward she
whispers secrets into his ear.

On a day with no noon sun, he lights the forge.
He takes a lock of his dead mother's hair,
his broken dreams, a tear from his hag-wife,
a pinch of his native soil,
the shattered swords of his fallen brothers,
and a piece of his living heart.

He works them into a lump; formless, ugly,
blazing with the white hot fury of creation.
Reality's foundations quiver in expectation.
He raises the hammer, and strikes.

Street: Empathy by Ryan A. Span

2008-04-15T11:26:00.001-04:00

Street: Empathy, the debut novel by UK-based cyberpunk novelist Ryan A. Span, has been released by Gryphonwood Press. Span is the author of the popular online serial Street of Eyes. Empathy comprises the first year of the online serial, and includes a preview of year two.

In its recent review, Cyberpunkreview praises Span's talent and says, "Much of what you would expect in cyberpunk literature is here: Hackers, cybernetic soldiers, polluted planet, grim future... along with a couple of (relatively) new elements like telepathy and nanotechnology thrown into the mix." Span says of his debut novel, "If you like dark science-fiction, you'll like it. If you like cyberpunk in particular, you've hit gold."

Street: Empathy is Gryphonwood's sixth release. Other titles include The Silver Serpent by David Debord, Seabird by Sherry Thompson, Dourado by David Wood, An Old-Fashioned Christmas by James Weidman, and the anthology Stories From the Inkslingers. Visit Gryphonwood's website at www.gryphonwoodpress.com or the author's site at www.streetofeyes.com.

The Redemption of Krozer (Part 2) by Kristin Masters

2008-04-06T20:32:00.000-04:00

Kat awoke to find a pair of silent eyes staring at her in wonder. A toddler wrapped in a ragged blanket sat beside her, sucking its thumb. Its eyes mirrored her own confusion and alarm.

“Mama?” it inquired.

She shook her head. “No, I’m Kat,” she said, puzzled.

“Kitty!” he said, grabbing her tiny wrist in his chubby hand.

She looked at her hamadryad wrist in the human child’s hand and sighed. Two halflings make two wholes, she thought, amused.

“Oh, no, Krozer,” she groaned in irony, “You’ve gained the one thing that you wanted most. You’re human now.”

The child cooed happily.

Kat heard a distant groan and an idea came into her mind. One night had passed, and the human was waking from his unconsciousness. As she watched the child whimper in cold, she bundled him as best she could and approached the traveler warily.

The traveler sat up with a groan, cradling his head in one hand and propping himself up with the other. As his vision cleared, he saw the hamadryad watching over him and he shuddered, gaping in horror and amazement.

“Lady, are you hurt?” he asked quietly.

Kat shook her head.

“I am sorry for wounding you—you startled me. I did not expect to encounter the elves in this wood.”

“Are you a friend of the elves?” she asked him.

“I should like to think myself as one,” he spluttered.

“And do you have family?” she inquired.

He nodded. “A wife and a father.”

“Will you help another?” she asked, showing him the boy. “There was an accident. The boy has no one to care for him. I cannot help him—I am unable to provide him with what he needs to survive. Will you . . .?”

He eyed the boy. “Aye. As penance for your wounding. I will take him with me.”

“Will you care for him?” she asked sadly. “He is dear to my heart. I wish I could—but I cannot care for him in this forest. He has a life to live in the city!” she wept, kissing the child.

As she handed the boy over to the human, she added, “But. . .”

“Yes?”

“Will you send him back here, if he needs help? He is dear to me,” she repeated.

“Of course, lady.” He took the child in his arms and rose to his horse, preparing to leave.

She wept as she watched them leave.

* * *

The child was taken to an orphanage and remained there until he reached adulthood. He was given the human name Alec, and was told little of his childhood. He knew nothing of the forest or of his previous life. Having no family and no means to procure a livelihood, he was forced into the King’s Army. Although often plagued by headaches, he swiftly rose up through the ranks, his ambition fired onwards by his loathing of his surroundings.

His entire life and career was filled with ennui; even his greatest achievements and promotions did not stir his heart. His only true moments of happiness came at night, in dream, when fleeting visions of past lives would occasionally surface.

One night while Captain Krozer was patrolling with his men through the forest, his attention was caught by an excited whoop.

“Captain, look what we’ve caught!” one of his soldier boasted as he heard a scuffle draw near.

Two of his men dragged an elf before him. They had bound its hands with a belt and trussed it in a cloak so that it could not escape.

Captain Krozer caught his breath in amazement and horror. “What have you done?!” he asked, shocked.

“We’ve caught an elf. Think of what renown we’ll get when we present it to the King—he’ll reward us grandly, for sure! And he’ll likely promote you for this,” one of his soldiers volunteered.

He shook his head. “You fools! Have you not heard tales of Fey vengeance? It is not worth promotion if you endanger all soldiers in this wood!” The captain picked up the creature and carried it out of camp and into the forest. “We have to free it, and now!”

“You can’t!” they spluttered, then held their tongue in fear of insubordination.

Captain Krozer gently placed the elf on the ground and smacked him on the wrist. “You, too, are a fool for being caught by humans. Not all humans will be smart enough to free you, so do not be foolish enough to be recaptured. Now stay still while I unfasten your bindings.”

It took a while for the captain to free the elf, for he had to untie him by hand and could not use a knife lest he accidentally fatally injure him. Finally he freed the elf’s hands from the belt and winced as he heard the elf cry out in pain. The metal buckle of the belt had chaffed against his elfin wrist, and the pain would not relent even after he was released from the metal.

The captain sighed in sympathy but then stopped, recalling his soldiers were watching him. He shooed the elf away with a motion of his hand, barking, “Go, now, and get proper help for that among your own kind. Hurry now, it is not safe for you to stay here overlong!”

The elf began to shamble away as Alec turned to his men to discipline them. He began to remind his soldiers of the dangers of encounters with elementals, but gasped mid-sentence. One of his soldiers gave a warning shout, but too late; once he had turned his back on the elf, it had attacked him. Alec turned to find an elfshot dagger sticking through his side; he tossed the elf bodily from himself, and approached his attacker.

“You’ll die in this forest, Krozer,” the elf spat, then disappeared in a tree.

Looking down at his shirt, he noticed blood; soon he began to feel the pain of the wound. He could feel the elfshot poison of his opponent spreading through his veins, but Krozer had little time to heed it. He had to get his men to safety before any further retaliation could occur. “Men,” he cried, “let’s go!”

* * *

Captain Krozer paid a heavy penalty for deserting his post; he was given the greatest flogging any back had felt in a decade. Fortunately, he was spared from most of the pain, as the elfshot poison from his wound kept him locked in fever for days. Surgeons did their best to cure his wounds, but lacking knowledge of Fey healing, they could do little to aid the wound upon his side. A thick scar soon appeared over it, but the poison continued to course through his body.

It was if he had aged twenty years in the short week he spent convalescing. His hair, once full and as dark as the forest, turned white overnight. His headaches overpowered him, and his youthful vigor had abandoned him. The pain, however, was a blessing: for during that week he was in bed, he could dream.

He dreamed of the life he had forgotten. He remembered the warm and soft smile of a woman and the promises of love. As he dreamed, he knew that there was another life waiting for him in the forest and a woman to share it with.

As Krozer awoke fully from the fever, he found himself in his bed. His teeth chattered despite the covers piled upon him. There was something tucked in the crook of his arm. Upon investigation, he found it was a small ragged toy from his childhood.

“What is the meaning of this?!” he croaked, trying to sound authoritative but failing miserably.

“In fever, sir,” his companion John said, “you cried out again and again, like a child, for your pet cat. So we searched through your travel bag, sir, and found this plaything from your childhood.”

“What a frightful puss!” Krozer said, eyeing it weakly, pretending disdain but unable to let go of it.

“Yes, indeed it is, Captain Alec.”

“Captain?” he arched an eyebrow. “Have I not been demoted for this foolish prank?”

“Of course not! You are the finest leader this generation has seen! But, sir. . .” John’s voice fell to a whisper.

“What? What’s wrong?” he cried feebly.

“The poison from the dagger has changed you. Your appearance is. . .altered.”

He felt his nose and ears warily, then sighed in relief. “At least I’m not transformed into a toad, eh?” he groaned.

“It isn’t that, sir—your hair has gone white! You have aged a lifetime in these few weeks!”

“Really?” Krozer sighed. “One step closer to the grave, then.”

He commanded the youth to give him a mirror, but his vision was too clouded with age to see anything but shadows.

* * *

Captain Krozer never fully recovered from his injuries; his youth and strength had abandoned him. His body was too old for a soldier’s life, but he was too young to receive a pension. Once more he found himself on the streets.

He remained homeless for only a matter of hours. Before dusk fell onto the city, his loyal friend John had found him and led him to his home.

“I have a home outside of the barracks,” he explained, “Where I live with my son. It isn’t much,” he apologized, leading him within his tenement, “but you may stay here with us as long as you’d like, sir.”

“I cannot accept such hospitality. . .” Krozer spluttered in humility and frustration.

“Nonsense! I am merely returning the favor. I was on the streets, and you took me in, employed me, and protected me. It is now my turn to take care of you. We’re friends, aren’t we?” John asked.

“You are too good, much too good to be my friend,” Krozer sighed.

“Nonsense! And, sir, I need your help once more,” he whispered.

“How can I help you like this?” he uttered in frustration.

“I need you to stay here and care for my son while I’m on patrol. He has no one to care for him while I’m away, and he misses his mother so much,” John replied forlornly.

“What happened to Martha?” Krozer asked in horror, fondly recalling John’s wedding.

“Fever carried her off two weeks ago. Her death was a powerful blow to our hearts,” the young man sighed, choking back a tear.

“John, I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he spluttered, realizing that he had not heard of Martha’s death because of his illness. “Of course I will help.”

John nodded, “You’ll adore my son. I named him Alec, after you.”

* * *

When John introduced Krozer to his son, the boy was all eyes. He studied the new guest silently while Alec unpacked his belongings. As he shook out his blanket, the ragdoll toy fell out.

Krozer picked it up and offered it to the boy.

“Cat,” the boy whispered.

Kat. The word became a name in Alec’s mind. “Yes,” he said, stunned, “It’s named after the woman I love. Take it now, Alec, for I no longer need it.”

* * *

The weeks and months rolled by and for the first time in his life, Alec Krozer belonged to a family. As content and fulfilled as he felt caring for the boy, he was still haunted by dreams of his past. Every heartbeat drew him closer to the forest, but it was the child’s cough that ultimately brought him home.

He noticed the cough that encumbered Alec before he noticed it in John. For days on end the boy struggled to breathe, lying on his pallet in utter misery. At first Krozer dismissed the boy’s illness as mere congestion, but he became alarmed when his coughing fit ended with spittle of blood.

Krozer thanked the fates that John had come home early that evening; he urgently whispered his concerns. “John, your boy needs a doctor. He is consumptive.”

John nodded in sorrow. “Martha has passed her sickness on to us. Krozer, sir, what will I do? I’ve been thrown out of the Army—they are coming to take me away! They will quash an outbreak with my death, but what can I do for my son?”

“I don’t know,” Krozer said, worried, “but I am certain that together, we will find a way.”

* * *

John found a way out at the end of a rope. Krozer found him in the morning, dead. He freed his friend’s body and laid him on the pallet beside his dying son.

The child stirred from his uneasy slumber and looked at the motionless body of his father. Tears fell over the child’s face as he realized that his father was dead.

“I’m sorry, Alec, but the cough got him,” Krozer lied, trying to protect him from the truth.

Alec began to cough, spitting up blood over his father’s shirt.

“But the cough won’t get you,” he said with determination. He picked up the child, wrapping him in blankets and stated, “We are going to the elves. They will help us.” And he left the City.

Krozer stumbled through the forest with the child still in his arms, determined to find help. He thought of returning to the place where the elf had disappeared, but his instincts took him deeper into the woods. He found a familiar circle of trees and sat down beside an aged oak.

“Elves of the forest,” he announced, “I beseech you. Please heal this child! Do not let him perish!”

To the silent wilderness he continued his plea, “Please spare this child as I have helped the elf.”

Doubts crept in, as they always do, like ants in a well-sealed room. Krozer could feel the cold overtaking his body, but he clung to consciousness and his goal of saving the boy. At last his call was answered as a green-skinned feminine creature appeared by his side.

He swallowed his sense of alarm and asked her, “Will you help him, lady?”

She nodded, adding, “If you leave your metal behind.” She turned around, signaling for him to follow.

Krozer quickly stripped himself of metal and once more picked up the slumbering burden in his arms. When she welcomed him into a tree, he asked anxiously, “Will you trap us inside the tree, and eat our flesh? There are stories of elves doing the like to unsuspecting travelers.”

She smiled sadly and shook her head, leading them inside. She warmed a soothing beverage for her guests and, caressing the child’s brow, asked, “Who is he?”

“I care for him,” Krozer answered awkwardly. “His parents are dead, and have left him in my care.”

Again she smiled serenely, triggering a memory in Krozer’s mind. “Kat,” he called.

Her whole body shone in radiance as she smiled. “You remembered my name!” she said, awestruck.

He shook his head. “Only recently did I remember it. I only began to remember you after I was elfshot.”

“I’m sorry that he hurt you, Krozer. The elf was a friend, and he did it to bring you back to the forest. But I am sorry that you were hurt. . .”

“I was elfshot on purpose?”

“It was not my idea,” she nodded. “But I was so glad to see you again—and you were so gallant to free that elf! I was there, Krozer.”

“What?!” he called, dumbstruck.

“And so was half of the forest’s inhabitants, watching your act of kindness. They would not believe me when I told them of your past kindnesses until they had seen your actions on that night. They were amazed that you were loath to kill one of their kind. You have redeemed yourself in the eyes and hearts of the Fey.”

“Is it all true? Are you really Kat? Was I really an elf? Were we really in love?”

She nodded.

“Do you still love me, Kat?” he asked.

Again her smile shone through her translucent green body. “Are you ready to return to the forest, Krozer?” she asked, “Can you give up your humanity one last time?”

“Can I take the boy with me?” he asked in turn, “Can we raise him as our own?”

“If he chooses to. Ask him if he wants to stay with us.”

“He’s a child! He doesn’t know what he wants.”

“Krozer, you cannot take his humanity from him without his permission.”

“I am his guardian,” Krozer huffed, “and I say that he has no future among men. He will die of consumption without Fey ichor in his veins, and I’m certain he’d rather live than perish.”

“Krozer,” Kat urged him, “You must ask him if he wants to stay. Otherwise he will grow to despise us, just as you despise your mother.”

“I don’t despise my mother,” Krozer said quietly, “I understand now what she did and why. But I understand your request, too.” He shook the boy gently to waken him.

“Alec,” he called quietly, “Will you live with us in the forest? As an elf, you will no longer feel pain or cough up blood as you do.”

The boy snuffled painfully.

“And your parents wanted you to live a long, healthy life. You can make them proud by outliving many generations of men as an elf. And Kat and I would love to have you live with us.”

“Please, Alec,” he whispered, “Give up the pain of humanity and join us as an elf.”

The boy nodded sleepily, taking Kat and Krozer’s hands in his own.

The couple kissed, embraced their son and readied themselves for the serene transformative sleep.

* * *

At first the other elementals were wary of Krozer’s reappearance in their woods, but in time they grew to understand his ways. He was still as fierce as ever--but he was fierce only in protecting his elfin son and hamadryad mate. In time Krozer learned of his mate’s work while he lived as a mortal, and grew to love her even more. Kat had worked her magic upon the Death Trees, taking away their memories of torment and transforming them into gentler spirits. Under her watchful care they became Sentinels, tree spirits and faithful watchmen, the perfect protectors of their new elf prince.

Alec grew to be a strong, healthy elf who, despite his human origins, held none of the wicked traits of humanity. His health was restored by his transformation and he soon became the darling of the Fey realm.

Krozer, redeemed by love and his own actions, gained his heart’s desire by giving up the humanity that he had craved so fiercely. With Kat and Alec’s help, his home became a citadel, not a prison, of love.

Great News on Gryphonwood Books!

2008-02-22T19:51:00.003-05:00

Gryphonwood's new book line is doing great! Last week, The Silver Serpent by David Debord hit the top 100 of fantasy series on Amazon.com. Our kindle titles are doing even better! For the first time every, three Gryphonwood titles charted in the same day!

Seabird by Sherry Thompson is #41 in Epic Fantasy and #39 in Religious Fiction. Debord's The Silver Serpent reached #9 earlier today in Epic Fantasy, and David Wood's Dourado is ranked #71 in Religious Fiction. We are certain that our next release, Ryan Span's sci-fi/cyberpunk novel Street: Empathy will also rock the charts!

If you haven't checked out any of Gryphonwood's new fiction titles, you can find them just about anywhere. If your bookstore doesn't have your favorite G'wood title in stock, have them order it!

The Redemption of Krozer (Part 1) by Kristin Masters

2008-01-05T14:34:00.000-05:00

A young woman plodded through the snowdrifts of a dark forest, stumbling between the trees with her cold-numbed limbs. Her arms clung to a struggling burden that wheezed quietly. She trudged forward for miles, her determination conquering her pain.

At last she fell to her knees, unable to continue. She laid the child down at the base of an oak and used her last bit of strength to push herself up and crawl away, not daring to look back. She struggled on five paces further until she too lay down in the snow, never to rise again.

But the child did not die. For the ring of elfin crones that gazed down at the ailing infant felt sharp pains of sympathy in their wooden hearts, recalling their own children. They drew the child out of the snowdrift and into the warm hollow of the tree.

As the winter progressed, their caring hands soothed its spirit and opened its veins to the sap of the tree which surrounded its form. In time the very soul of the child had been plucked from its tiny frame like meat plucked from a roasted fowl, and the child was a child no more.

Transformed, it roamed the woods in elfin form, hopping from tree to tree under the watchful gaze of its gentle caretakers. It spent its lengthy childhood in the very grove in which it lost its humanity and often played amongst the bones of its mother unaware. Encounters with humans were rare and it did not perceive that it was once a part of that civilized world.

But sometime between adolescence and adulthood, bitterness entered the heart of this playful spirit. Wandering through the forests one day, the child hopped into a tree and froze. For the first time in its life it was unable to free itself. It was flooded by emotions that it realized had once belonged to him. Himself, he realized; for at that moment he was engendered with a sense of self. He realized that he was a human boy, not an elf child; he recalled his transformation and sensed for the first time in his life that he belonged to neither world. He recognized the tree in which he was trapped was his human grave, and he felt for the first time that he was regaining his humanity. Once more clothed in human bones, he was enveloped in his past and his dreams.

He used the vestiges of his humanity to amplify his own cloudy memories and sought a reason for his human end. He recalled the utter frustration of his infancy and the pain of his illness. He could see quite clearly his mother kneeling over him, dropping him like a leaden weight and walking away. Even as she turned away he could hear her coughing and wheezing growing fainter, and then he recalled hearing the sickening thud as she, too, fell victim to the cold.

He was pulled out of his dreams and out of the tree by one of his crone mothers. As her hands pulled him free he could feel his humanity being snatched away from him a second time. This time he was old enough to understand the consequences of the crone’s actions. This time he fought back; by the end of the confrontation, he was king--and alone.

He grew to become a cruel hunter whose game was spurred on by fierce hatred. He despised his lost humanity as much as he loathed the elfin flesh he had gained in return. No one who wandered into his realm ever left it; he would rob travelers of their humanity just as he had been robbed. He delighted in imprisoning his captives in tree bark, trapping their spirits within the flesh of his oaks and draining their energy. As rumors of his cruelty spread, he found fewer and fewer victims for his games. Even his fellow elfin brethren avoided his realm; they kept constant vigil on his borders, imprisoning him within the ring of Death Trees he had created. Within a human generation his kingdom was a desolate wasteland.

And then another winter fell upon his land.

One evening while he was brooding over the injustice of his fate, he sensed the presence of a human entering his realm. He hastened towards his newest victim, waiting for the perfect opportunity to attack. Excitedly he readied himself for the kill, waiting for his victim to stumble before he pounced. But as the person stumbled, the hood of the traveler’s cloak fell away, revealing long dark hair tied in a loose braid of illness. His newest victim was a woman.

He fell backwards, stunned. Except for his childhood nurturers, the crones, he had encountered few females in his life. He had never met a human female before, except for his mother, and she was hardly a positive model on which he could establish an opinion on the gender.

Sudden movement broke the hunter’s reverie. The female had stumbled again. As she pushed herself up from the ground, she felt something cool and smooth against her fingertips. In a daze she pulled the object free from the chilled ground and cried out as she recognized it. In her hands was a dull and weathered femur of the last woman to wander into these woods. He watched as she anxiously reburied his mother’s remains and pushed herself forward with renewed vigor.

She crawled a few more paces before collapsing at the base of the nearest tree. Pressing her face and hands into the trunk’s hollow for warmth, she did not realize that she now was clutching the bones of the tiny child who her watcher used to be. Curling up against the base of the tree, she resigned herself to whatever fate lay in store and closed her eyes in exhaustion.

He waited. He waited so that he might straighten out his own thoughts; this was the first human female he had ever seen and she made him uncomfortable.

He approached her as soon as he was able to shake away his worried thoughts and put on a mask of confidence. As he looked down at her shivering form, a brief thought entered his mind: why not prolong her miserable fate and make her Fey, too? It had been such a long time since he had a victim to play with, and he yearned for the companionship of another. He quickly dispelled his rash thoughts, determined to find out what sort of prisoner he had caught before he wasted his energy on her. A metamorphosis would require more energy than he had; without the energy of a new victim, he would barely be able to sustain his own life through the next year.

She did not waken as he drew her into the hollow oak, but as he opened her veins to its sap she stirred. Smiling sleepily, she murmured, “Thank you,” and again slipped into dream.

For the first time in his life, he blushed.

He hovered over her as she slept, working and reworking his first waking encounter with her in his mind. He found himself completely unnerved by her.

As she woke, it took her a few moments to recognize where she was. As soon as she grew accustomed to her surroundings, she noticed that he was watching her and she greeted him.

“Hello,” she said with a smile.

“Hello,” he repeated, all of his thoughts awry.

“My name is Kat,” she offered, “What is your name?”

“My name is Krozer. I am. . .”

“You are king of the elves!” she gasped.

“Correct,” he said, mustering an imposing voice to impress her.

“Thank you, King Krozer, for saving me,” she smiled again. “How much longer can I live in safety in this tree?”

“Safe?” he sneered. “You are not safe here.”

She inhaled deeply. “No. No, I am safe here. See? I’m not coughing. I’m dying of consumption, but I’m immune in this tree. I’m glad to just live a little while longer.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“Yes. There’s a rumor that elves in your realm have taken pity on ailing humans before and rescued them. I came here for help.”

“And how do you know that these people were helped in my realm?” Krozer said, suddenly feeling a twinge of regret.

“Humans don’t return from this forest. They’re either elfin now or. . .”

“Or?”

“Or it was a swift end. Either way, I don’t mind,” Kat whispered.

“Why would I want to help you? What would you give in return?” Krozer asked.

“I was a barmaid before the consumption took my life. I can serve you, and help you preserve and manage your winter stores.”

“I have no winter stores,” he stated simply, ignorant of human trade.

“Oh. Then all I have is gratitude and friendship.”

“Gratitude? Friendship?” he asked, intrigued.

She smiled. “Gratitude. And friendship.”

They spent the remainder of the season bound together, as Krozer transferred his elfin blood into her veins to complete her transformation. Kat pressed her host for information about his life and his forest home. Krozer avoided answering her, deftly redirecting the conversation or asking his own questions.

As time progressed, Krozer’s fascination for her grew into something more. He admired her spirit and the wealth of knowledge that she had acquired in the nineteen years she had lived as a human. He asked her for stories and her memories with an insatiable thirst for information about the life that he had been denied.

His heart ached to hear of her suffering as a human, but wondered at the complete lack of bitterness in her emotions as she recounted them.

“How do you do it?” he asked her once, “Always finding the good in every situation, when your life has been so terrible?”

“Because bitterness is too empty an emotion,” she replied simply. “I would rather relish the meager ounce of happiness I have in a bad situation instead of filling my heart with emptiness.”

“But your life was miserable!”

“But then I met you, and my life was preserved,” she stated simply, smiling.

His insides ached with guilt, and he could press her no further.

Finally, like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, Kat was strong enough to leave Krozer’s protective embrace and his tree to enter the world in her new form. Krozer helped to ease her out of the tree, and proudly watched her blinking in the daylight with new elfin eyes.

“It’s safe,” Krozer said, reassuring her. “You’re fine. Breathe, Kat,” he said, noting that she had been holding her breath in fear that her consumptive cough would return.

“Breathe, Kat,” he said, exasperated, “You are a hamadryad now, and hamadryads don’t get ill.”

She slowly inhaled. After a few tentative breaths, a smile flooded her face as she realized that she was breathing without pain.

“I’m healed!” Kat yelped. “Thank you, Krozer!” she said, embracing him excitedly. “Thank you,” she repeated, looking at him in admiration. Then curiosity overtook her, and she asked coyly, “What do I look like in this new form?”

“Water is scarce so deep in the forest, save for underground streams; I can, however, gather you a pool with which you may get a proper look at yourself,” he said, gathering his strength for the task. At his command, the oak’s roots bubbled up around her and formed a shallow but reflective pool.

“I wonder,” she said before she bent down to look, “will I look like you?”

He suddenly felt very self-conscious about his appearance. “No, I am a kobold. You are a hamadryad, a fellow tree-Fey. I chose this form for you because it is a fairer form than mine.”

She knelt down to the pool and gazed upon her new face. “Wow,” she breathed, transfixed by her new features. “You should have made me a kobold, though.”

“Are you criticizing a king?” he bantered with her, using mock-pretension, “Why would you want to be an ugly ko—”

“You’re not ugly, Krozer; I think you’re rather handsome,” she winked coquettishly. Then she stopped, blushing. “Did I just say that?” she asked, horrified by her own forwardness.

He smiled. “Hamadryads, like all Fey, are quite a bit more passionate than humans are. But there’s more.” Krozer warned. “Since you’re now part-Fey, you are now vulnerable to Cold Iron. You’ll become dizzy and disoriented in its presence, and you’ll never heal to any wound you receive from it. You are, however, still part human. I didn’t have the heart to completely destroy your humanity,” he said, raising a hand to caress her cheek.

He continued, “Your humanity will shield you from some of the effects and vulnerability of metal, but not all. And since you’re only a halfling, you won’t be able to inhabit any tree you want. You may only dwell in one that isn’t already occupied. Welcome to my realm, Kat; you must now choose a home.”

“Me? And what about you?” she spluttered, unhinged by his sudden statement.

“I live alone,” he boomed.

Is that an invitation or an eviction notice? she thought, puzzled. “May I choose a tree on the outskirts of your realm, then?” she replied with an equally ambiguous answer.

“Of course. Whichever tree pleases you, you may inhabit.”

“After I choose a home, will you take me to meet the others in the forest? They won’t hate me, will they, because I’m a halfling?” Kat asked anxiously.

Krozer felt the crushing blow of disappointment. “I do not leave my land. If you choose to leave, you are on your own,” he growled.

She remained quiet, trying to interpret his emotions.

Angered by her silence, he continued, “You may do whatever you wish, you have no obligation to me. But you must return to your home by mid-autumn. Unlike kobolds, unmated hamadryads must hibernate each winter. You’ll need to be home before sleep overtakes you.”

“Of course I am obligated to you! You’ve saved my life!” she spluttered, embracing him again, “And as soon as I can return the favor, I shall. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

He left, returning home to brood.

Kat then left to find a new home. Krozer had provided her with a description of his land and had given her some hints in finding an appropriate dwelling, but soon she was hopelessly lost. Finding a ripe old oak, she decided to make it her home.

She placed her hand on the bark, clearing her mind to enter the tree. As she felt her flesh merge with the oak, her whole form was wracked with torment.

From miles away Krozer could hear her screams. He hastened towards her and he ripped her form from the tree.

She mumbled incoherently, trying to understand the pain she had just undergone.

“I’m sorry, Kat. It was a Death Tree,” Krozer whispered, embracing her in comfort.

“There was a person inside that tree!” she roared, refusing his touch. “And you put him in there, to torment him, and laughed to watch him writhe!”

“Kat, I. . .” the kobold spluttered.

“You took his energy, too! You sapped him dry!”

“I need nourishment, too!” Krozer replied defensively. “I haven’t the support of other Fey. I need the energy of others to live.”

“But why, Krozer? Why did you have to kill him?” she sobbed, still shivering.

“Because I hate him, his whole kind! Humans aren’t. . .”

“Then you hate me,” she accused. Then she shuddered and cried, “And what about me? Am I another trophy for you?”

“Kat, you can’t think that I. . .”

“I have to go.” She turned to flee.

“You’d leave, too?! You’d leave me in this prison?” he railed, his anger rising.

“This kingdom,” she corrected bitterly.

“Kat, you can’t, please!” he cried as she fled to safety.

As he watched her run, he felt his last shred of humanity and sympathy die, snuffed out by the overwhelming power of hate.

Without Kat, Krozer’s lair felt doubly desolate. He raged, brooded and seethed; his emotions changed like the breeze. He hated her for spurning him, but he was drawn to her nevertheless. When he could feel her presence, he would approach her, just to be near her; but she would always flee where he could not follow. He knew that he was outnumbered by the elfin horde that guarded his borders, and he knew that he would not survive a fight with them. He yearned for a fight nevertheless; he yearned to be defeated, in order that the pain and the emptiness of his life might end.

Then one day Krozer felt the presence of another human in his land. He felt not joy but dread from his new prey; his lifestyle disgusted him as much as it had disgusted her. He realized, however, that he had used most of his energy in transforming Kat into a hamadryad; he needed to feed on the energy of others or he would not survive the upcoming winter.

As he neared his prey, he stopped, in shock: Kat was there, approaching the human rider in an attempt to save him from impending doom.

“You must not enter this wood!” the hamadryad pleaded, perching upon a tree limb in front of the human to block his path.

The man readied his weapons, unnerved by her sudden presence. “Begone, fairy!” he yelped.

“You must leave this place!,” she repeated, reaching out to the horse to stop it. “Krozer will. . .”

Kat gasped in pain as an arrow pierced her midriff. She stumbled, pitching forward. The human merely gaped as the hamadryad fell from the tree, too stunned to move.

“No!” Krozer cried, his grief stirring him to action. Enraged, he lunged at the man, undone. He clambered onto the horse, clubbing him senseless. The horse bucked both elf and master alike. Krozer rolled away from the beast’s dangerous Cold Iron hooves and kicked him in the ribs in anger. Then he saw Kat and her wounds and he softened. He summoned the horse and commanded it to lay down with its master. Anxiously he approached the wounded hamadryad.

She gulped in shock, clutching the arrow stuck in her flesh.

“Oh, Kat, I’m so sorry,” Krozer whispered, “Please let me help you.”

“You didn’t kill him,” she said, amazed.

“I don’t think I can anymore,” he whispered. “Life has been empty since you left. It is not worth extending. Please,” he repeated, “let me help you. . .”

She nodded quickly and fell into his arms as he helped her rise. “I missed you—in spite of. . .” she stopped. “We had grown so close and then. . .and now it’s so quiet. . .”

He took the arrow out of her midriff and helped staunch the blood from the wound.

“Will I die?” she asked quietly, then explained, “It’s a Cold Iron barb.”

“Let me help. We can survive together.”

“How?”

“Fey don’t die; they transform. We can exchange blood again. We will fall asleep together, and let the earth restore our forms. Will you join me?” Krozer asked quietly.

She nodded, puzzled, as he smiled at her sadly. With a final kiss on her brow, he lay down with her, slashing and binding their wrists together to transfer his blood into her veins. Huddled close, they stared into each other’s eyes as they waited for sleep to overcome them, waiting to awaken clothed in new flesh.

“May I ask you something?” she gasped, beginning to drowse. “Why are you so full of hate? You despise both humans and elves,” Kat asked blankly. After he continued his silence, she guessed, “Were you were born human, too?”

He was silent.

“All those questions you asked me about life in the City! And the few memories you shared with me--you were born human!” she accused. “Is that why you hate us humans? Because you used to be one?”

After a long silence, Krozer admitted painfully, “I was abandoned in the snow as a child. They left me to die out here.”

“They didn’t abandon you, Krozer, they helped you. The city is full of stories of elves helping and healing sick and injured people. That’s why I came to the forest. That could be why you were brought here, too. It could have been an act of mercy, to give you another chance at life.”

“But they robbed me of my humanity! They transformed me into this beastly form without my permission!”

“Krozer,” Kat cried, exasperated, “From what you’ve seen and heard of humanity, do you really desire to share any part in it?!”

He harrumphed, but relented. Then he asked urgently, feeling sleep begin to overpower him, “Why did you leave me?”

“I was scared. Will you promise me you won’t take any more human lives?”

“I couldn’t. I love you, Kat. I couldn’t hurt anyone. Not anymore,” he vowed, and both fell asleep.

End of Part 1
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Kristin Masters is a twenty-something year old Latin teacher in South Jersey.
Her publishing credits include the children's book King's Ransom.