Rhidauna

By Paul E. Horsman

'Rhidauna', the first book of the great fantasy series 'The Shadow of the Revenaunt'.

The night before his Coming-of-Age, Ghyll and his two friends escape their castle on a clandestine boar hunt that will forever change their lives.
The hunt proves a disaster, and with one of them badly wounded, they return just in time to see their island castle destroyed by macabre warriors from a dragon boat, and by flocks of fire-breathing birds. Ghyll's eighteenth birthday turns into a nightmare as they flee into the night.

Now begins an epic journey to find out who is trying to kill them – and most importantly, why?

Fortunately, they can count on the help of new friends, including a sometimes overly enthusiastic fire mage, an inexperienced paladin and a young beastmistress who is also a ferocious mountain lioness.
It soon becomes clear that not one but several sorcerers want to kill them. Are those blackrobes really followers of a terrible, long-forgotten organization?

And whose cold hand reaches across the boundaries of space and time to crush weakened Rhidauna?

Note from the Author: This version has been revised on some vital plot points.

"Rhidauna by Paul E. Horsman is a compelling and fast paced fantasy story that takes you on a thrilling, action packed horseback adventure across a country filled with powerful magic, greed and treachery." (Readers' Favorite 5* Review)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul E. Horsman
• Release date: Jun 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9789491730184

Paul E. Horsman

Paul E. Horsman (1952) is a Dutch and International Fantasy Author. Born and bred in the Netherlands, he now lives in Roosendaal, a town on the Dutch-Belgian border.He has been a soldier, a salesman, a scoutmaster and from 1995 till his school closed in 2012 an instructor of Dutch as a Second Language and Integration to refugees from all over the globe.He is a full-time writer of fantasy adventure stories suitable for a broad age range. His books are both published in the Netherlands, and internationally.His works are characterized by their rich, diverse worlds, colorful peoples and a strong sense of equality between women and men. Many of his stories, like The Shardheld Saga trilogy and The Shadow of the Revenaunt books, have mythological or historical elements in them, while others, especially Lioness of Kell and his current Wyrms of Pasandir books, contain many steampunk elements.You can visit him at his website: www.paulhorsman-author.com.

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PAUL E. HORSMAN

THE SHADOW OF THE REVENAUNT

RHIDAUNA

RHIDAUNA Copyright © 2015 by Paul E. Horsman.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, peoples, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, peoples, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact; www.paulhorsman-author.com

Cover design by Ravven

A Red Rune fantasy book

Second (Revised) Edition: July 2015

Paul E. Horsman’s books:

Zilverspoor Uitgeverij (Dutch Editions):

Rhidauna – De Schaduw van de Revenaunt #1

Zihaen – De Schaduw van de Revenaunt #2

Ordelanden – De Schaduw van de Revenaunt #3

Red Rune Books (English Editions):

Lioness of Kell

Shardfall – The Shardheld Saga #1

Runemaster – The Shardheld Saga #2

Shardheld – The Shardheld Saga #3

The Shardheld Saga trilogy

Rhidauna – The Shadow of the Revenaunt #1 (Revised)

Zihaen – The Shadow of the Revenaunt #2 (Revised)

Ordelanden – The Shadow of the Revenaunt #3 (Rewritten)

MAP OF RHIDAUNA

CHAPTER 1 – BOAR HUNT

Four times the bronze voice of the tower bell rang out over the courtyard. At the first note, the three boys disappeared into the shadows and the rain-drenched square seemed deserted. Minutes passed, but no guards showed their faces.

Ghyll Denhalf shook his long, dripping wet hair and threw the other two a triumphant grin. Everything was going as planned. He’d counted on the night watch finding the weather too miserable to man the walls. They were all elderly veterans and would be huddling by the fire in the guardhouse, their boots at the door, while they passed round the mulled wine and bragged of their many feats.

Ghyll nodded at the large bronze gates. Both were locked at nightfall, but the wicket, the little door built into them, remained open. Unseen, the three slipped away into the darkness beyond.

The world outside the walls lay wrapped in rain; nothing moved but the falling water. Without a word, the boys hurried to the stable at the castle farm, where their horses stood. Their trained fingers found saddle straps and buckles by touch and soon they led the animals away. In the boathouse at the breakwater, their barge was waiting and moments later they sailed on their adventure.

‘We did it!’ Ghyll took a deep breath and gazed at the distant mainland, ignoring his foster brother’s disapproval.

‘I still think it is madness.’ Olle sat in the stern of the boat, his brown skin and matching leather jerkin merging with the night. His one hand rested on the tiller, while with the other he wiped his wet face. ‘Only the three of us, in pitch dark; the mountain slope will be muddy shit and none of us ever hunted boar before.’

Ghyll sniffed. ‘Faint heart. They’re only pigs.’ He glanced at the looming mass of the Dar Traun. It felt as if the mountain waited for them. We’re coming. ‘You listened too much to Uncle’s forester,’ he said, turning back to the others. ‘The old geezer’s overcautious.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I just have to kill one.’

‘Why?’ Olle slapped his knee. ‘You haven’t given me a good reason yet.’

Ghyll shrugged. It was true; he had no good reason. He’d be eighteen tomorrow and somehow he felt that coming of age and hunting boar belonged together, as if one would prove his fitness for the other.

‘Your uncle won’t be pleased,’ Olle said. He glanced aside at Damion, as if seeking assent, but the younger boy didn’t say anything.

Ghyll’s eyes went back to the mountain. He knew very well Uncle Jadron wouldn’t be pleased, but the urge was irresistible.

An hour later, they stood on the overlook above the river, in the enclosed field at the foot of the Traun. Ghyll gazed at the darkened summit. His chest constricted and fear ran cold in his veins. Am I mad? I can’t do this! With pounding heart, he turned. We’ll go home. Back to bed. His foster brother slammed the gate closed, and the clash made him jump. Don’t be a coward! You can’t go back without a boar.

He sucked the moist, pine-scented air deep into his lungs and swung his arms a few times to make his blood run faster. The tension drained from his body. Come on, chicken; the swine are waiting!

Ulanth, Uncle Jadron’s warhorse, turned a lazy eye on him. With his big yellow teeth he pulled a mouthful of grass and chewed, imperturbable as ever. Ghyll patted the animal’s neck before handing his spear to Olle, his arms bearer. He inspected the small paddock where they would leave their mounts. With the gate closed, everything looked safe. ‘Are we ready?’

Olle nodded, but Damion’s answer sounded so hesitant that Ghyll frowned. He isn’t scared, is he? Too late; I won’t turn back for him, either. For love of the gods! Let’s go, he thought. Before I start screaming. He turned away and faced the mountain. ‘Let’s go.’

The hunter’s trail leading them upwards through the pinewoods began muddy but passable. Soon, the forest grew closer, the ground more slippery, and the visibility worse. Without talking, they went through the near dark, until a rustling in the undergrowth brought them to an abrupt halt. Ghyll’s hand went to his hunting knife, but he relaxed as a rabbit fled across the path. Behind him, Olle snorted.

Ghyll bristled. Does he think I’m afraid? For a moment, he stood still, listening to the sounds of the forest. Somewhere in front of them came a sound of snapping twigs. Farther away among the trees a hunting owl called, ominous in the gloom of the woods. Ghyll felt a shiver run down his spine at the sound.

They hurried on again, trying to stay on the path in the dark. At his side, Damion muttered something under his breath and the set of his shoulders betrayed his dislike of the forest. Ghyll smiled grimly. Their new friend would rather be elsewhere. Back home in bed, probably. He couldn’t blame him; he didn’t enjoy the watching pines and the rain-filled silence either. Without thought, he whistled a few bars of a battle song, but stopped abruptly. Nonsense, they’re just trees on a mountain!

Behind his back, Olle cleared his throat. ‘Why the hurry?’

Ghyll slowed down. ‘All right, all right. If you can’t keep up...’

Olle sang in an undertone. ‘Sa, Ballady with mighty sword, hit out at all and sundry,’ the same air Ghyll had whistled. ‘You’re right; it is a bit creepy here.’

Ghyll laughed. Even my tough brother feels uneasy. His mood lightened at the thought.

Then the trail came to a dead end.

‘Landslide,’ Olle said, keeping his voice neutral. ‘All this rain has made the topsoil soft as warm cow dung.’

‘Yes.’ Ghyll stared at the mass of mud and stones barring their way. ‘Come.’ He turned left, stepping carefully over the sopping underground, until they reached a mountain stream, now swollen with water. Here they went uphill, slipping on the loose gravel in the bed.

Damion stumbled in the fast-flowing stream.

‘Easy,’ Ghyll said, steadying him. He didn’t know the boy well yet, but his clumsiness surprised him. Ghyll grinned. Uncle Jadron expected his nephew to keep an eye on him. That’s why Damion was out here with them, in the rain, trudging up a mountain.

‘Your father was sergeant of the Guard at Halwyrd?’ he said nonchalantly.

Damion’s face turned desperate as he nodded.

Ghyll glanced sideways. ‘I heard you trained with Halwyrd’s soldiers?’

The boy’s face twisted, but he didn’t say anything. He just stared straight ahead, splashing through the ankle-deep water.

‘This mustn’t be difficult for you, then. With a father like yours...’

Damion stopped and faced Ghyll. ‘Enough about my father. I hate him!’

Ghyll was surprised by the boy’s distress. He knew Sergeant Luyon’s reputation. Ironbiter, they called him, and the soldiers feared him as a rigid disciplinarian. Still, he wouldn’t be the same to his own son, would he?

‘Why?’ he said.

Damion shook his head, and plodded on in silence.

When the gray dawn broke, they had reached a field full of dead trees. Barkless trunks grew like withered limbs out of the haze that breathed from the rocky surface. The three boys looked at each other.

‘Eerie,’ Olle said in a whisper.

Seeing the worried look on his foster brother’s face, Ghyll felt his own courage waver. Beyond the sulphurized tree trunks, he spied the contours of an ancient temple. The sight made him gasp, and his heart grew cold with horror. Stone arms in a circle rose against the night sky. Each was more than five manlengths tall, with hands clawing at the heavens, as if they wanted to tear the universe asunder. Those hands! Tilia! Why do you bring us here?

Olle stared at the ruins, arms crossed, the rain running down his face into the collar of his jerkin. ‘A Dead Ages temple?’

Ghyll nodded. ‘Of all the damned luck...’ He studied the surroundings. ‘No way getting around it.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘We’ll walk right through them. They’re just dead ruins.’

Reluctantly, they went on. With every step, Ghyll’s feeling grew of something watching them, following their every movement.

At the circle of hands he paused. In the center squatted a large four-armed statue on a pedestal at a stained altar. Wind and weather had worn away the idol’s features, but its crude female form radiated so much evil that Ghyll felt sick in his stomach.

His foot hit a stone and the resulting rattle woke something between the reaching arms. A mass of black creatures fled overhead, winging towards the sky.

Damion yelled, jumping back.

‘They’re just bats, man,’ Olle said, breathing hard.

‘Damn!’ Damion wrung his hands. ‘Where are we?’

‘Where we shouldn’t be.’ Ghyll’s voice sounded calmer than he felt. ‘This is the Annan-ad-Aghraim.’ He avoided Olle’s eyes. ‘I’ve never been here; never wanted to. The stories the soldiers told us were nasty enough. About murder and grisly rituals done by those cursed priests of the Revenaunt Emperor.’

He shuddered, as if he still could feel the power coming from the faceless idol.

The boy is useless, a voice whispered in his ear. He stiffened, suppressing a cry. Offer him to me. Wildly, Ghyll looked over his shoulder, but there was nobody. The voice laughed, mocking his fear, and the tension between the grasping columns became almost palpable.

‘Hey!’ Damion’s voice coming from the dark sounded excited. ‘Look at all those animal pictures.’

Ghyll wheeled around. ‘Don’t touch anything!’

Damion snatched his hand away from the relief in the pillar. ‘Why not?’

Ghyll opened his mouth, but Olle was faster. His foster brother grabbed Damion by the shoulders and shook him, his dark face flushed with anger. ‘We’re in a temple of the Revenaunt, idiot! Touching anything here gives bad luck. Didn’t they ever teach you that?’

Damion hung his head. ‘Yes, I’m sorry; it just happened.’

‘Mainal aid me.’ Olle pushed the boy away. ‘Fool!’

Ghyll stared at the image Damion had touched, an ancient carving in the crude but unmistakable shape of a boar. Of all the bad luck! Let’s get away from here.’

Without another word, they fled through the rain up the mountain slope.

Hurry, the taunting thought of the idol called after Ghyll. Your prey is waiting for you!

Once past the dead wood, they were free of the sulfuric fumes as well. Here, the slope was grassy, with slender birches and more than man-high, blooming rhododendrons.

Ghyll sighed with relief. ‘We escaped,’ said he, gripping Damion’s shoulder. ‘You...’ He broke off as a shriek of madness ripped the night air.

Showering blossoms, a wild boar crashed through the bushes and blocked their path.

‘Stand still!’ Sour fear clutched Ghyll’s throat, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe as he stared at the monster confronting them. He had thought to find them a young male, inexperienced as they were, not this massive champion of swine, with its raised bristles and spittle-stained tusks.

The beast paused for a moment and peered about with myopic eyes. It was so near that Ghyll saw the hot breath steaming from its nostrils.

In a reflex, Damion took a step backward. The boar yelled his fury and threw himself like a two hundred pound battering ram at the boy. With that first, fatal back-step, a root caught Damion’s heel and he landed flat on his back in the mud. The boar’s left tusk missed his stomach by an inch and opened his left leg to the bone instead. Damion screamed.

In a flash, Olle threw Ghyll one of the two spears he carried. Then, with a wild ‘Ayoo!’ he buried the other one between the boar’s ribs. The swine spun around to this new enemy, bleeding and howling its defiance. Olle managed to evade its attack, while Ghyll sprang forward and rammed his spear with his full weight behind it into the beast’s flank. Again the boar turned, roaring its rage through the forest, and tore the shaft from Ghyll’s hands. Cursing, Ghyll drew his hunting knife. With all his remaining strength, he thrust the weapon deep into the boar’s larynx and stumbled backward. Blood and foam splashed around. Once more, the creature reared up, shaking its head as if in denial, and fell down on top of Damion, dead.

Ghyll heard the heartbreaking sound of Damion’s snapping bones and sprang forward to help Olle pull the heavy carcass off their companion. The boy lay motionless; his half open eyes staring in a blood-streaked mask of a face.

‘Gods, oh Gods.’ Ghyll laid his aching fingers on Damion’s carotid. For a long moment, he felt nothing, and his own breathing seemed to stop. Then he caught a far away, faint beating. ‘He lives!’

The two knew what to do. Endlessly, the fighting instructor had repeated it – take care of the victim’s safety, sew up open wounds, and carry the victim to the nearest healing master. Since that time, Olle, who was the more cool-headed of the two of them, always carried a few needles and a ball of catgut. Now he sat on his knees in the mud, sewing with a steady hand the edges of the leg wound together.

‘Bless the Gods the beast tore no artery. The leg’s not bleeding much.’

‘No, but his ribs...’ Ghyll pursed his lips, while a blizzard of fear shook his body. He got his knife out and began to cut his cloak into long strips, which he bound tightly around Damion’s chest.

After he had tied the last knot, they wrapped the unconscious boy in his own cloak.

‘That’s the best we can do.’ Olle flexed his muscles and lifted Damion almost without effort from the ground. Then they began the long descent to the horses in the overlook field. As they hurried through the temple, Ghyll half expected a mocking laugh, but all was dark and silent.

It was a long way down, and after a while, Olle’s brown face purpled with exertion.

Halfway to the horses, Ghyll raised his head. ‘Shall I carry him for a bit?’

Olle shook his head. ‘I’m all right.’

‘It’s my fault.’ Ghyll was near to weeping. ‘Me and my big mouth. You were right; we shouldn’t have come without drivers and dogs.’

His foster brother silently looked at him, while the rain ran down his head and shoulders.

Once back in the paddock, Olle deposited Damion on the soaked grass and dropped beside him. ‘Hold on... have to catch my breath.’

‘He’s still alive,’ Ghyll said as he checked Damion’s heartbeat again.

Olle lay sprawled on the grass and didn’t answer.

Unable to stand still, Ghyll wandered around, his mind lost in a chaos of remorse, fear, and a bitter anger at his folly. At the brink of the overhang, he halted. In desperation, he slammed his fist into the birch tree beside him and swore. Then he froze. Pieces of the rocky edge at his feet broke off and rained into the depths. He didn’t notice it. All thoughts drained from him as he stared at the Yanthe River below. He rubbed his face with his cold hands, but the images refused to go away. Below him, three phantoms sailed past through the rain. Gray sea dragons, harbingers of misdoings. Ghyll watched them slack-mouthed until they disappeared behind the river’s bend. Drakenboats? Had he seen them or was it his imagination? The last time there’d been pirates on the river was eighty years ago.

‘What’s wrong?’ Olle said, watching him from where he lay.

Ghyll pulled at his blond locks. ‘There hasn’t been a Drakenlander raid for ages, but I just saw three of their boats sailing past, toward Tinnurad.’ He felt panic rising within his chest and clenched his fists. ‘Let’s go!’

Olle came to his feet. ‘I’m ready.’

They strapped the unconscious Damion down on Ulanth’s broad back. Then, leading their horses, they went home.

On foot, the way back took hours. The pale circle of the sun behind the clouds betrayed that it was already past noon when they returned at the Yanthe Wachter, the old tower from which they could see Tinnurad.

‘No!’ Ghyll’s cry rang out through the stillness. His eyes filled with horror as he stared over the river at the terrible, unreal scene in midstream. Their castle was on fire. Wild flames writhed out of the windows and doors, played along the battlements, and ate their way through all things consumable. Birds, large as hawks and with a plumage of fire, circled above the walls. Wherever they flew, new fires flared. Through the flames, dark shapes ran. Their merciless weaponry rose and fell, sacrificing the blood of their victims to the tongues of fire. At a safe distance near the end of the breakwater, cruelly illuminated by the reddish light, three drakenboats swayed on the rhythm of the waves.

With his heart in his throat, Ghyll saw a man emerging from the sea of fire, fleeing toward the water. ‘Run! Run!’ he screamed as a firebird dived down upon its prey and set him on fire. The fugitive raised his blazing arms to the sky and collapsed.

Ghyll swallowed down vomit. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t, his muscles refused to obey. They forced him to watch the flames devouring his people and his home.

One of the firebirds rose high above the flames. It seemed a signal, for at once the attackers left the burning castle and ran to the drakenboats. Paralyzed, Ghyll saw how they pushed the ships away from the breakwater and jumped into them. When the flames reached Tinnurad’s powder magazine, they were already a mile downstream. The sound of the explosion echoed against the mountains, and a rolling wave of fire swept over the island. Ghyll screamed in horror when the keep collapsed and a pillar of smoke rose toward the heavens as a last gasp. Tinnurad was no more.

The birds flew one more round and sped away over the river after the fleeing boats.

Ghyll hid his face in Ulanth’s mane and howled. A sudden flash of lightning rent the air, but he didn’t react. Then a downpour burst loose as if the Gods themselves wept with him. Endless minutes passed.

At last, Ghyll raised his head. So cold. His teeth chattered and he couldn’t stop shivering. His thoughts were dead. It was pitch dark in his head, as dark as the storm raging around him. The whistling of the wind brought him the crying of Tinnurad’s people he couldn’t have heard across the river. All his feelings lay shriveled to a stone on the bottom of his stomach. Apart from that, he was empty. Tinnurad... Uncle Jadron... gone. Murdered.

With his head tilted back, he let the rain run down his face as he stretched his arms to the sky. ‘Help me!’ he begged the Gods. Above him thunder rumbled.

Ghyll looked around him. He knew he had to do something, but what? Then he saw Damion, tied to Ulanth’s back. ‘We must find a healer,’ he said as he took Ulanth’s reins. After a few steps, he realized that his foster brother hadn’t followed him. ‘Olle?’

There was no response.

Ghyll looked at his foster brother. Olle’s eyes were fixed on the burning island, and the reflection of the fire mingled with his inner rage.

‘Hey,’ Ghyll said; his throat hoarse. ‘We must go.’

Olle’s face worked and the fire in his eyes died. His broad shoulders slumped, and he rubbed his temples with his hands. ‘Yes.’ He gestured toward the island. ‘What...?’

Ghyll hesitated. He looked at Tinnurad. His brain refused to turn the images into words. All he knew was gone. His island was a glow on the water, like a dying hearth in a dark room. His heart wanted to look for survivors, but there was Damion. Without help he’d die. ‘We’ll go back tomorrow.’

For a moment, it seemed Olle was going to protest, but then he nodded. ‘What now? Where will we go?’

Ghyll tried to contain his shivering. ‘To Gromarthen. We can reach it before dark. Perhaps the burgrave will help us; he was a friend of Uncle Jadron’s. He’ll have a healer, too.’

He shook the reins and Ulanth started walking. Without looking back, they rode away from the river and their smoking youth.

CHAPTER 2 – GROMARTHEN

The man in the black robe sat motionless astride his horse. He stared at the smoke rising through the rain over the island. He smiled and the glow of the fires warmed his heart. The Master will be pleased, he thought. His hated enemy is dead.

It had been an honorable task, as befitted his rank as a Practicus of Her temple. An undertaking in which he had demonstrated his considerable abilities. He sighed. This was why he had left his God and his family’s Order to join the Dar’khamorth. The worship of Her was severe and full of risks, but the survivors would reap great rewards. With this success, power and prestige lay in the palm of his hand. The old castle’s destruction would gain him a zelatorate at least. Only two people would outrank him then – and the Master of course. Illgram’s grin widened. I will be two obstacles removed from the top. His smile faltered for a moment. Two powerful obstacles. Still, even the mighty are mortal.

Full of hope for the future, he rode back to his cabin in the woods.

The road from Tinnurad’s funeral pile to the city of Gromarthen was a narrow strip, which clung to the mountainside high above the river. Along this path they went, with Olle leading. Ghyll followed, lost in a maze of remorse. His soggy boots found their grip in the mud without conscious thought, while the rain ran down between his shoulder blades. ‘It’s my fault,’ he said again. ‘It’s all my fault.’

Olle didn’t listen, and Ghyll plodded on. He was cold to his marrow, his hands almost too stiff to hold the reins of his horse. Now and then, the semi-unconscious Damion threatened to slip sideways, and Ghyll had to pull him back up. He did not dare to think about the hellish agony their friend had to endure, but Damion never uttered a sound.

After a time, they came to a huge oak tree that grew over half of the path. Its branches offered some shelter from the incessant rain. ‘We’ll take a break,’ Olle said.

Ghyll nodded. He went to Damion and loosened the bands that kept him on Ulanth’s back. With trembling fingers, he checked the boy’s circulation. Damion’s eyes were open, but it was a visible effort to get them focused.

‘What... Where...’

Ghyll forced a smile on his lips. Damn, he thought. He looks bad. Feverish. Those blue lips… ‘You’re doing great. That beast took a proper pass at you; we’re taking you to a healer.’

‘Oh, that swine.’ Damion’s eyes leaked tears. ‘I’ve let you guys down. Dammit, I wanted to be like you.’ His voice sank.

Ghyll took his icy hand and began rubbing it warm. ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. We’ll teach you how to hunt, I promise.’

Damion closed his eyes and nodded. His breath rattled as an old man’s and Ghyll suppressed a rising panic. Kathauna, let him live. But the Goddess didn’t answer.

From higher up the slope came the piercing call of a mountain lion. Olle swore when his two horses backed away, and gripped their bridles. He glanced up at the mountainside. ‘Sounded close.’

Ghyll rebound Damion’s arms. ‘We had better go,’ he said. ‘All our weapons lie on the damned mountain.’ Ulanth turned his head towards him and sniffed. His ears were alert, but his whole attitude showed a simple mountain lion didn’t impress him.

Olle led the skittish mounts back into the rain. Ghyll followed him, too busy with his own misery to notice the silver-gray shadow that slipped from the trees and stared hard-eyed after them.

Hours later, they reached Gromarthen. The rain had stopped at last and in the dusk, the lights of the town

Reviews for Rhidauna

[Mary Augustowicz · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Very predictable story with almost no character depth that the author attempts to make up for with short fight sequences every 2-3 pages.

[maryann12_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Paul E. Horsman has researched his subject well and he tells the story of this extraordinary adventure with a clarity that is missing in other books I have read. A fascinating, very detailed, informative, and extremely well-researched book. This an exciting adventure that gives a very clear picture of the times and places it depicts. It hooked me since the very beginning.Like other Paul E. Horsman books the story was exciting, the characters well developed and the action continuous. I have to honestly say that I enjoyed this book as much as any I've ever read. I highly recommend this wonderful book.