The Wheel of the Sun – Book 3 of the Maingard Chronicles

Description

Book 3

A tale of returns…

As the city of Tannaheim slowly recovers from the Cassalian assault, Marshall Vent finds his plans interrupted by the arrival of the late Queen’s brother, Lord Shales. A return that threatens the future of the Barstt line, especially with King Garlen missing, presumed dead. Meanwhile, Ingren also returns to Tannaheim, accompanied by Bex and Ishtara. A homecoming that endangers all concerned.

ISBN 9781838456740     309 pages

A glossy cover and a big, fat ‘3’ on the spine. Free 2nd class postage to UK addresses (Tracked 48 small parcels for 2+ books)

Prologue

The lone figure walked, slowly crossing the undulating hills and valleys of the Hinterlands. As he trudged a never swerving path, he seemed unaware of where he had come from and where his destination lay. Brambles and gorse scratched against his legs, unable to pierce his leather boots or trousers, even if they had, the numbness that pervaded his very being would have masked the sharp thorns. Hands bled from trips over roots and the clumps of field grass that grew widely upon the steppe like hills. Blood, sweat and mud matted his blond hair to his face, covering his features in a congealed mess.

His leather tunic hung oddly, the result of some of the straps and buckles that had once held it tightly in place being broken. An empty scabbard flapped at his waist, slapping against his unfeeling thigh as if chastising him for some forgotten misdeed. His feet ached, yet he did not feel it – the sense of loss in his mind as obscuring as the morning mists that rolled into the valleys and dales that he crossed. He only stopped for water, drinking from whatever stagnant pools or bubbling brooks came across his path. Even though his stomach groaned through the abuse of malnourishment, his legs carried him on to his fate.

He walked on, his only mission an unending march into the hills. Behind him, far away in the east, the sun rose over the ruined twin cities of Jacarna and Tarim, where only a few weeks ago, the invasion of Maingard had started by the Host, an army from another plane, pillaging planet after planet in ships capable of crossing the dimensions and flying through space and skies. The two cities had been devastated with the populous enslaved for the infernal war machine of the Host. There, he had achieved the impossible, a small raid to rescue the two young princesses of Danaria, snatched away to use in negotiations to broker a submission from their mother, Queen Sarsi.

Far, far ahead lay the Kingdom of Danaria and its city of Tannaheim. The fabled high walls had offered little defence to the invaders when they came to assault it, more so, the will of its people and Queen Sarsi had proved the ultimate shield to the invaders. Their commander, General Karchek, had been driven to a clumsy and unplanned attack on Tannaheim, by Sarsi’s obstinance and torture of his subordinate. Sarsi had led the defence of her city with a sacrificial act, destroying a massive part of the invaders fleet along with Karchek and herself, finally gaining revenge for the murder of her husband, and mutilation of one of her daughters.

He marched on, the automation of movement subconsciously calming to his addled brain. The events of the east were lost to him, obscured by an all embracing fog. The actions of Queen Sarsi, the defence of Tannaheim and the repulse of the invaders that had occurred several days ago were unknown to him.

Ahead, at the top of a ridge, was a small clump of trees and for some reason, he altered his trajectory slightly to head for them. It wasn’t a wood, or even a copse for that matter, just several trees, withered to the exposure on the hilly moorland. Something about the twisted and tortured shapes the branches made as the sun started to sink below the horizon struck home with him. Perhaps it was the sparse foliage symbolising a clutch to life as, with winter approaching, many of the leaves had fallen. Maybe, with his body nearing exhaustion, some primeval urge to survive pushed him to seek shelter and rest, no matter how bleak and exposed.

 The forlorn figure staggered amongst the dried fingers of branches, unflinching as they pressed against him and poked his chest and face. He dropped to his knees amongst the wispy brambles and weeds, the soft mulch of the damp earth as appealing as any mattress that he had slept on. He leant forward, exhaustion catching up with him as he ended up on all fours. He crept forward, pushing past the bracken and brambles until he reached the trunk of one of the trees. He turned and sat with his back against the gnarled trunk and stared back the way he had come.

And there, as the shadows of the wizened branches pointed towards the distant ruins of Jacarna, and the sun disappeared below the hills to the west, he fell into a troubled sleep. Garlen Emerich Barstt,  known to some as Anjoan’s Phantom, to others as the Lord of the Inns, and to most as Prince Garlen of Danaria slept a sleep haunted by visions and nightmares that he wouldn’t clearly remember when he woke, unaware that he was the King in waiting of his land.