One of the best magic systems yet. Great characters. A short book that made me see and feel through the eyes and heart of the protagonist, Shai. It made me feel Gaotona’s change. The ending was exquisitely done, if done too soon. Simply put, read this book. Robert Jordan used to be my favorite author. Then G.R.R.M. In my eyes, Sanderson has surpassed both.

My one gripe although I gave it 5 stars is that I wanted it to be long book. Hell, a full series. Now to go about linking much of this with his Cosmere.



View all my reviews

AEGIS OF THE GODS BOOK 3

Queen Celina was of a mind to order one of her Deathbringers to take Commander Giomar’s head. A few steps below her throne, on bended knee, head bowed, he had attempted to defend his erroneous ways. Now, he awaited her judgment. To his credit, after his return from Granadia, he had seen fit to present himself to her properly groomed and in the formal sky blue uniform of his station. If he died today, he would do so with some semblance of honor and tradition. She appreciated the gesture.

Lips pursed, she eyed Deathbringer Kudric. Large and swarthy for an Alzari, a reflection of the clansman’s mixed breeding with the Harnan in the Nevermore Heights, he was the last of her original guard. Expression stoic, he casually rested his hand on the hilt of one of his black-hafted swords. None of the madness that gave the Bringers their name showed in his amber eyes.

“So, Giomar, you would have me believe that you failed to secure my parents’ safety because you were somehow influenced by the shade?”

“Yes, Your Highness, it is as I said. Sendeth and Randane in particular were rife with its touch and its creatures. They walk the streets of cities and towns. They are a part of the military, wearing illusions of flesh like normal men. Their touch taints the very land, and as they’re known to do, they cast their spells on the minds of men.”

Giomar might be boastful, a bit arrogant, but he was not a liar. Men who lied did not keep their heads.

“And your Pathfinder, Velin, what of him? He was sent with you to prevent exactly that from happening.”
“He died to an assassin.”

She frowned. “One of the shade’s?”

“No.” For the first time, Giomar raised his head slightly to regard Kudric. “I only caught a glimpse of her, but she was Alzari, in possession of twin daggers such as the Deathbringers wield.”

“Who hired her?”

“Apparently she was helping your father’s son, Ancel, escape the clutches of Amuni’s Children.”

It took Celina a moment to realize her mouth was open. She snapped it shut.

Ancel. Ancel. Unbidden, the name repeated itself in her head.

Stefan and Thania had another child. She had a brother. And named after her brother, Anton, and herself. Had Sakari known? He must have. The man, whatever he was, had been good at keeping secrets. One of his greatest had been to whisk her and Anton away, leaving Nerian to believe they were both dead.

Much began to make sense now. The additional bond that had bloomed far northwest, the recent release of Prima Materium to match the power she felt the night when the bond first appeared, and the Eztezian Guardian who had traveled across Ostania into Granadia. That last must have been to train the boy. All of it pointed to the thing for which she had supposedly been born.

The Aegis of the Gods.

Perhaps she would finally learn what being part of the Aegis meant.

“Have you seen this brother of mine?”

“Yes.” Giomar met her gaze, eyes steady. “He resembles his father.”

She recalled her father as she last remembered him: tall, hair like midnight, eyes so emerald they seemed to stare into one’s spirit, brave, willing to sacrifice himself so she and Anton might live. With the memory came a brief rush of deeper emotions, no longer smoldering, but simmering inside her. How she wished she had been able to exact revenge on the Shadowbearer. But those days were gone … Nerian, long dead.

Celina touched the pendant around her neck. It sparkled with life, the attachment that told her Stefan and Thania still lived. They were both far to the north. Her father’s presence was strong, while her mother’s was faint, often barely discernible. No matter what it took, she would see them live out the remainder of their days without fear, not in exile or in hiding.

First, she needed to decide Giomar’s fate. If even half the reports received held truth, then war was coming on a scale not seen since the War of the Shadowbearer. The barrier the Kassite provided between the worlds had grown weaker. Rifts had opened, appearing at random places, allowing weaker shadelings to cross. She had dispatched Matii to each town, but who knew what massed in the darker regions, the deep forests, the caves and mines, the places where the shade called home. For what was to come, she required a great commander’s service.

“Bringer Kudric, your opinion?”

“He speaks the truth.” Kudric’s hand fell away from his hilt as he addressed her. “With Velin dead, he would be susceptible to the shade, more so if they were the same ones responsible for events in Castere and what has been felt from within Granadia. I’m proof.”

With those words, he relinquished his control of his aura, allowing her to see. It encompassed his body in varying hues like a rainbow, laying bare his dedication, love, and commitment to her. More importantly, it showed that the madness, which at one point was a breath away from consuming him, had been pushed to the very corners of his psyche. Taught and helped by Sakari to keep the growing insanity at bay that eventually took all Matii—the most powerful ones, usually the first to succumb—Kudric had clung tight to the opportunity, using it to train new Deathbringers from the Alzari they had rescued when they defeated an army of Amuni’s Children.

“It came with the release of Prima,” he said.

She nodded. With the unleashing of the primordial essences that drove the world, the other lesser elements of Mater, the volatile, unstable ones created by man’s fears, dreams, nightmares and emotions had been pushed aside. At least for those powerful enough to draw on Prima Materium. Prima did not exist in great amounts yet, and she did not know if its spreading presence would continue to grow, but its existence was the difference between being thrust head first into murky depths and then brought out into sweet, tantalizing fresh air. The voices that inhabited Mater, the byproduct available in one form or another to all Matii, no longer gibbered, cajoled, or tempted in any form that might drown her.
Prior to the release, she would have needed to travel to the closest Entosis to regain Prima she used. An idea she no longer relished with Astoca under control of this King Rosival and the Banai siding with him. Not to mention how the sudden attacks by Amuni’s Children and the shade had spread her forces thin, from here in Cardia’s capital, Venvar, all the way north to the edges of Astocan territory. Every turn spoke of a need for her best officers.

Eyes narrowed, she regarded, Giomar. Defiance and pride shone in his eyes as he held himself more erect. Not an ounce of malice radiated from his aura. She sensed hurt for his failure, a bruised ego, perhaps, and deeper still, the loathing at having been subjected to the shade’s taint. He expected death for his mistakes. Normally, she should have ordered his execution so as not to appear weak.

Learn. Adjust. Survive.

The Disciplines echoed in her head. With it came memories of her father reading the books although he must have already known their contents by heart.

She stood. “Commander Wendel Giomar, by the order of me, Queen Celina the Everlasting, Ruler of all Cardia, the Right Hand of Aeoli, the Left Hand of Hyzenki, you are hereby pardoned.”

Giomar’s entire body deflated as a plaintive sigh escaped his lips. Then he was grinning. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he whispered, voice choked, eyes watery.

“Enough of the tears and joy,” Celina said. “We have borders to defend, and if what I feel is true, then my brother, Ancel, has crossed into Ostania. He will surely head for Benez’s ruins. Once word reaches the Felani and Astocans, they will move against him. With the Tribunal forces massed at the Vallum, we may not be able to stop the Felani, but we can give the Astocans quite a bit to consider. It’s past time we dealt with this Rosival of theirs anyway.”

Commander Giomar turned to one of the servants without missing a beat. “Send for my generals. We have a war to plan.”

Back when I reviewed season one, I considered the show must-see T.V. Some have issues with the sex, violence, or portrayal of women. Not I. I accept it for what it is. Entertainment and the telling of a story from a master. A weaver of imaginations that can stir the soul of one such as I.

This is fantasy at its best. I’ll be watching. Will you?

Most of all though, reviews let us know how we did our job. When we feel we have accomplished what we set out to do, it’s pleasing to know. Here is the first blog review for Game of Souls.

Quote: “This book made me a fan of Terry Simpson’s writing. It was beautifully written, and the story really opened your imagination to an entirely new world. When I finished this book, I immediately looked on Amazon for the next.”

The above is exactly what I’m speaking of. I smiled, as any other author would, and said, “Yes, mission accomplished.”

Read the rest of the review here
http://iabookreviews.com/book-review-game-of-souls-terry-c-simpson/

Now I see one of my favorite anime’s especially, the OVAs has a live action version. Kenshin. I hope it lives up to the anime.

Approaching Benez from the south was out of the question. The Netherwood spread west from near the Vallum of Light all the way east to the Sorrowful Hills. Near impenetrable, it was a godless place of massive black trees, the reek of decay, brooding shadows, and deformed beasts. He shuddered when he thought of the wood.

As a hunter renowned for his ability to seek out the most infamous creatures, for his willingness to take risks, his bravery, and not to mention his skill, he had sought to make an even bigger name for himself. The monsters he encountered in the Netherwood had disabused him of such notions. Wolves as big as a pony. Giant dartans, each of their six legs the size of a man, their snake-like necks thick enough to swallow a body whole, and their shells harder than any armor. Rockhounds so large that they put shame to the mountain lions he hunted up here in the Cogal Drin’s heights. With their bodies more stone than flesh, they had shrugged off his arrows as if the steel tips were mere nuisances. The worst of them all were the daggerpaws, manes bristling with hardened bones in the shape of swords, long enough to skewer a man whole.

No sane person ventured into Benez.

What he’d seen in the Netherwood and the occasional howls and wails that echoed up through the passes to reach him here in the Cogal Drin Mountains almost made him believe in shadelings. He could easily picture the wolves he saw walking on two legs like men as the monsters of the shade were supposed to do. The shadows flitting between the trees gave him nightmares of the stories his mother told of men who were more smoke than flesh, men who if their blades touched you, you became tainted, transforming into the one of the shade’s creatures.

“They’re mad,” Abner said from next to him. The overly tall, wiry Felani had his own horror stories of Benez.

“Hmm, Hmm,” Kester replied.

“Worse than mad.” This from Nico, their Astocan counterpart. Mist spilled from the slits on the side of his neck that his race used to help them breathe. “Keeping daggerpaws for pets.” He shook his head in disbelief.

“And wolves,” Abner said as if they could forget.

When Kester first encountered the group, he’d shot an arrow at one of their daggerpaws, not realizing the creature belonged to someone. The animal had shifted at the last moment, its bone hackles springing up into hardened knife-like protrusions that ran from its neck to its tail. His arrow clattered away harmlessly. Before the daggerpaw attacked, a man stepped from around the rocky outcrop. With fur covering only his chest and groin, standing a bit over six feet, and built like a draft horse, the stranger stared Kester down and strode through the snow as if the wind howling across the path was a summer breeze. Several other men and women followed, each capable of passing for the scout’s family, and more than one with large wolves at their sides. Not far behind them came the remainder of the convoy.

“What do you think they need all those soldiers for?” Nico asked.

Kester took the tube from his face. “Who knows? Perhaps they’re finally going to cleanse the ruins. Whatever it is, it’s no business of ours.” He drew his cloak closer about him, gaze still focused on the strangers.

And to think that lot had tried to convince him to come with them. According to them, the way back was no longer safe. As if it ever was with the treacherous slopes, slippery from spring’s thaw, and the risk of mountain lions and daggerpaws. But Kester had nothing to fear up here. He called this home, his hunting ground, the place that provided him with his livelihood. A few months from now, he would return to civilization with his pelts and the ivory teeth of the beasts that would fetch a good price from Harna all the way to Cardia. Two years he’d been cooped up here. He’d be damned if he returned empty handed.

Kester Menin bent and grabbed a fistful of cold earth. He cast it out before him and said a prayer to Humelen. Perhaps the god could keep those strangers safe.

Not that he felt they needed a great amount of protection. He was not a man of the world, but he was no fool. He knew Ashishin and Devout when he saw them. Those distinctive pins that depicted the sun with lightning bolts striking in front of it belonged to Granadia’s Iluminus for certain. A matching insignia stood out on more than one tabard worn by the soldiers.

He placed his looking glass to his eye once more. Two flags now hung limp above the disappearing convoy. Despite the lack of wind, he recognized one of the standards. He gaped, his hair standing on end. In disbelief, he snatched the glass from his face and rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Surely he was mistaken. After all, he hadn’t slept in two days. He brought the tube up once more. The flags fluttered briefly as a breeze gusted.

One, he couldn’t recall. It bore a massive wall with a shield emblazoned in front. The other he could hardly forget. It had been drilled into him.

Upon the flapping canvas, a massive rent split a field of forest green. The Setian symbol.

Any thoughts of his trade goods fled Kester Menin’s mind. Two years he’d lived here since relieving the last watcher. In the thirty years since they had first been conscripted by the king, and given the task of lookouts in this vale before the final approach to Benez, none but those seeking treasure or some archaeologists had ever ventured this way.

Kester Menin turned and ran, slogging through snow to where his horses waited in the stables next to their cabin. He would need the fastest and the most sure-footed. As he threw his saddle onto his mount, the other two men caught up.

“What happened, Kester? What’s gotten into you?” Abner rested a hand on the horse’s neck.

Kester glanced first at the hand and then at Abner. If not for the man being a fellow Felani, he would have relieved him of it. “Those people … they were Setian.”

Both men stared at him, eyes wide.

“No, that can’t be,” said Nico in his thick Astocan accent. “The Setian are all dead. Perished during the War of Remnants.”

“I know what I saw, and those were Setian flags their bannermen unfurled after they left. Think about it, man. Who else would head to Benez?”

“But the Devout and Ashishin with them,” Nico protested.

Abner shook his head. “If anything it’s more proof. The old stories say the day the Setian return, they will do so with Ashishin at their beck and call.”

Kester climbed into the saddle. He gazed down at the men with whom he’d formed a friendship. “I wouldn’t stay around if I were you. Nothing but bad things follow their kind. You know what they say, ‘When the Setian appear so do—’”

His words died in his throat at a sound like a sword slicing the air. An awful stench followed as if death itself had come striding downwind. Kester’s horse whickered, its eyes rolling. The others in the stables bucked against their restraints.

Abner drew his sword and eased to the door. A few strides behind, Nico followed, his blade in hand.

From outside came shuffling footsteps and a snort. Similar sounds mirrored the first.

A lump crawled up Kester’s throat as he fought against his mount. Tongue cloven to the roof of his mouth, he wanted to yell a warning to his friends, but the functioning half of his brain said to remain silent.

Midnight flowed past the stable’s opening. All blackness, claws, fangs, and eyes like blood. He barely got a chance to see it before it ripped into Abner’s chest. Blood fountained, its warmth bringing steam to the frigid air.

More footsteps, this time racing for the door.

Kester stopped pulling on his reins and kicked his stirrups. His mount leaped for the entrance at the same time that Nico plunged his weapon through the creature’s eye. Nico was withdrawing the sword when the next beast entered.

Similar to the first, it was a mix of tentacles and fur. Skittering sideways on legs longer than a man that protruded from its midsection, the creature spun to face the door, its head swiveling. Deep red eyes, intelligent and malevolent, in a visage that was a mix of human and monster, took them in. It hissed, teeth and mandibles clicking, reeking like old death.

The horse barreled into it, and then was running. Something scrabbled behind Kester, but he refused to look back. Nico’s scream chased him before it cut off.

For the first time in his life, Kester believed in shadelings.

Echoes of War

He strode through ruins. Ash fell, sooty snow against a backdrop of blue and grey. The blue was natural, carrying a hint of the setting sun. The grey billowed up from the smoldering skeletons of the city’s corpse. What once had been pristine flagstones were scorched and blackened. Buildings that survived the onslaught leaned listlessly as if the breeze whispering through the city would topple them. Once renowned for the water drawn from rivers far below the surface, the great fountains along the main thoroughfare were silent and dry. Likewise, the channels snaking through the city were empty and choked with ash. As devoid of water as the city Telistar was of life.

The first great citadel in the Broken Lands had fallen.

So why did he feel no satisfaction at the accomplishment? Why was he so … empty? Where was the thrill of victory? He sighed with the knowledge that he had gained little if any advantage. At his side, his blade remained unsated.

The creature that inhabited his right arm stirred, uncoiling itself from the withered, decayed appendage. Tentacles as thick as his fingers waved in the breeze, sampled the air. When the beast relayed its message, it was more an impression than words. It was angry. And hungry.

So was his army where it awaited outside the walls surrounding Telistar. Both men and monsters had starved, their supplies running out shortly after invading the Broken Lands. Unlike within the Rotted Forest at the Lands’ borders, the food to be had here resided in or around the towns and cities. His enemies had razed all behind them as they retreated, leaving nothing, not even the dead, to feed upon.

An old tactic, the creature on his arm relayed.

He nodded. The driving force for any war began with supply. If a commander could not keep his soldiers fed, they grew weak, might rebel, and against a well-prepared enemy they would eventually fall. This held true even for his forces, regardless of them being more monster than men.

The wards spread all across the Rotted Forest prevented him from opening a portal to bring in his own provisions from the fertile lands beyond in Ostania. The chasms that gave this area its name made travelling more than a chore. It was a near intolerable delay. Added to that dilemma was his enemies insistence on tearing into the land, forcing him into a specific route. But the Desorin—the people that ruled these lands—had made one flaw. With it, he would destroy them.

The creature that was once Jaecar turned on his heels and strode from the town toward the writhing masses of his waiting army. They would feed. And soon.

The beginning on a new epic fantasy series.

I began writing Game of Souls in November last year. So far, this is my best work yet. The story, the world, the characters just came to me. I became lost in it as I wrote. I had no shortage of ideas or plot lines. As it began to come together and I had some folks read and critique it, I realized then how much I had improved, how much better my dialogue and characterization had become. There’s still plenty of work to do, plenty of writing to come for me to become a better writer. But seeing and believing in progress is a good thing. It pushes a man to new heights, makes him seek new goals, infuses him with a new drive.
Thus, I present my latest published endeavor. May it be as fun for you as it was for me creating it. The blurb follows:

Your soul is your magic. The nobility will stop at nothing to steal it.

Keedar Giorin still remembers the night soldiers killed his mother. The Night of Blades. He was three, but the memories are written in his mind in blood, flames, scales, and his mother’s mad cackles.

Assigned by his father to save two young noblemen or risk a repeat of the massacre on his home in the Smear, Kasandar’s most lawless district, Keedar dives headlong into the mission. He uses his most secret skill, a magic that could bring the King’s Blades hunting him, a magic that could be a death sentence if reported to the wrong ears.

But even that risk is part of his father’s calculated plan. A plot to determine who was behind his mother’s death, while securing a new ally for their guild, and seeing their people rise from squalor and oppression to strive for the identity and power they have all but forgotten.

Plans, however, do not always follow the path drawn out. What will Keedar do when a count takes interest in his magic? Where will he run to when the hunt begins? Can a young man now growing into his power find a way to defeat the most ruthless of assassins?

EXCERPT

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