Sample Sunday ~ March 18
I have a couple of reviews noting that The Knight of Death is not truly representative of the fantasy genre. I'm thinking the notion may stem from one or two things. The first being that the book starts off an epic series and it deliberately starts the action off rather slowing, dealing with mysteries, lies, deceit and a number of modern trials and tribulations that might happen to almost anyone. As the book progresses, the truth of the situation unfolds and the reader is slowly drawn into the realization that not everything is as it seems. There is something truly mysterious and other-worldly about the protagonist, Sir Mark Andrew Ramsay. Nor is everything quite right about his so-called "Brothers" of the Order of the Red Cross of Gold. Although, they have apparently been around for a long time, the fact of their humanity or their humanity-affected existences have given them all the right and privilege to make all the mistakes that mortals make. Any reader with insight into mythology will remember that the gods and the supernatural beings of old had numerous nasty habits and made profound mistakes. Being immortal does not make a man smarter, nor does it make him greater than the heart that beats in his chest.
Here's a small excerpt with a hint of the supernatural, or if you prefer, fantastical element exposed.
"The black stallion wandered aimlessly into view. The subdued light under the trees slanted through millions of translucent green leaves and the trunks of the trees cast deep shadows across the stream. Their gnarled roots formed fantastic shapes along the banks, piling up against one another in a slow, but inexorable struggle for space. A few yards upstream from where she waited, a graceful weeping willow of considerable age added mystery to the beauty of the backdrop against which the velvet animal assumed the proportions of a mythical creature. She half-expected to see wings on his back. The trailing tendrils of the willow partially obscured the dark rider atop the black horse like a living beaded curtain of light green.
He did not appear to be seated in the saddle, but rather perched precariously on top of the stallion. The horse moved out of the willow’s covering branches and she drew a sharp breath. She had followed the right man. He sat with his knees up, his head leaning into the horse’s neck. One pale hand was visible, entangled in the long mane while the reins dragged in the water. Was he dead in the saddle? Was that possible? The horse slowly made its way toward her until a break in the trees allowed the slanting rays of the morning sun to illuminate the area like a stage provided by nature and just for a moment, she thought she saw dozens of tiny green, yellow and blue orbs floating around him. Then the illusion was gone as the lights seemed to flee in every direction at the very instant she drew the breath. The horse took a step or two and then stopped.
The rider jerked slightly and the horse took another step or two and stopped again. Not dead. She watched in silent fascination as this process was repeated again and again. He wasn’t dead, nor was he quite asleep. It was unbelievable. He was close enough now that she could see narrow stripes of darkly glistening liquid running down the saddle and under the horse’s belly. This was the source of the spots that she had been following along the trail.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001J6ORUI
Here's a small excerpt with a hint of the supernatural, or if you prefer, fantastical element exposed.
"The black stallion wandered aimlessly into view. The subdued light under the trees slanted through millions of translucent green leaves and the trunks of the trees cast deep shadows across the stream. Their gnarled roots formed fantastic shapes along the banks, piling up against one another in a slow, but inexorable struggle for space. A few yards upstream from where she waited, a graceful weeping willow of considerable age added mystery to the beauty of the backdrop against which the velvet animal assumed the proportions of a mythical creature. She half-expected to see wings on his back. The trailing tendrils of the willow partially obscured the dark rider atop the black horse like a living beaded curtain of light green.
He did not appear to be seated in the saddle, but rather perched precariously on top of the stallion. The horse moved out of the willow’s covering branches and she drew a sharp breath. She had followed the right man. He sat with his knees up, his head leaning into the horse’s neck. One pale hand was visible, entangled in the long mane while the reins dragged in the water. Was he dead in the saddle? Was that possible? The horse slowly made its way toward her until a break in the trees allowed the slanting rays of the morning sun to illuminate the area like a stage provided by nature and just for a moment, she thought she saw dozens of tiny green, yellow and blue orbs floating around him. Then the illusion was gone as the lights seemed to flee in every direction at the very instant she drew the breath. The horse took a step or two and then stopped.
The rider jerked slightly and the horse took another step or two and stopped again. Not dead. She watched in silent fascination as this process was repeated again and again. He wasn’t dead, nor was he quite asleep. It was unbelievable. He was close enough now that she could see narrow stripes of darkly glistening liquid running down the saddle and under the horse’s belly. This was the source of the spots that she had been following along the trail.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B001J6ORUI
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Working my way back
Fighting off depression and writer's block is tragic.
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