The Seals of Abgal: The Guardians of the Seals, #1

By Woelf Dietrich

“There are a great number of fantasy novels on the market these days that have a good, even compelling story, but they suffer from pedestrian prose. Not so The Seals of Abgal. Not only does Dietrich tell a suspenseful story that’s different from most urban fantasy, he’s an accomplished stylist. His prose flows smoothly, carrying the reader along.” ~ Amazing Stories Magazine

"Mr. Dietrich expertly weaves together emotional impact, action, intricate detail and plot to make this book impossible to put down." ~ Jessica West, 5-star review, Amazon (US)

"... Dietrich is a very vivid storyteller, and this is a damn well written story, especially for a first book." ~ Author Glynn James

Bookstore owner and novice antiquarian, Sebastian Kaine is proud of his new profession and even prouder still of the collection of antique books on the occult that he keeps locked away in the basement of his bookstore. But his little utopia is shattered one night when he wakes up in that same basement, bound and bloodied, and his prized collection all but destroyed.

Making matters worse are the two strange men responsible for the carnage. They want The Seals of Abgal and insist Sebastian is in possession of it. 

As he tries to stay alive, Sebastian discovers The Seals of Abgal is far more than just an ordinary grimoire for it holds powerful secrets. Secrets that are older than time itself, and these men searching for it are no ordinary thugs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wo3lfMad Books
• Release date: Dec 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9780473253196

Woelf Dietrich

As a kid he consumed books and comics by the truckloads, reading anything from fantasy to westerns to science fiction. He wrote his first short story at 12 and soon began creating his own comic books, drawing little stick figures with dialogue balloons that later evolved into musclebound warriors and scantly clad vixens. He gave them battle axes and broadswords and unleashed them onto the world. A silent chaos ensued followed by crickets chirping and nothing much else. Alas, life kept interfering and he allowed it, and so nothing came from his artistic endeavours. After graduating high school he served a year in the military where he learned how to dig trenches, eat quickly, and miss girls. He then travelled to Israel and lived on a Kibbutz for eight months, working in avocado fields and drinking cheap vodka. For a while there he sold pots and pans and educational toys in Africa and almost got shot in Zimbabwe. He did a brief stint as a cartoonist somewhere and an even briefer stint as reporter somewhere else. Somehow, and maybe by accident, he ended up in law school and became a lawyer. He did that for almost a decade. These days he's back to writing stories. A calling he ignored for far too long. He lives in New Zealand now, and with a wife and kids, and a dog, he is staying put for the foreseeable future.

Book preview

Part 1

Iwoke to pain .

It felt like a burst of white-burning phosphor was tracing along the insides of my skull. It dominated my immediate world. I lay on the ground, inert, waiting for the worst to pass, praying for the fire to burn itself out quickly. It does after a while, to a degree.

It took a few fluttering false starts but I managed to pry open my eyes. My vision was blurry. What happened? Where am I? The pain in my head kept pulsing. The cement was cold underneath me. I couldn't move. My hands were tied behind my back, as were my feet. They felt like water balloons being squeezed.

In front of me a wall of red brick spanned the field of my vision. Faded patches of white paint mottled the rough surface. Here and there the mortar had started to crumble in between leaving dark slits. I looked up and saw a row of ornate, flush mounted lighting fixed to a low-hanging ceiling. They cast a weak yellow light that barely divided the shadows. The fixtures seemed oddly familiar.

I tried to shift my body to clear the cobwebs, to get myself thinking straight, but the attempt only exacerbated my agony and I sank back waiting for the throbbing to calm down. I noticed my legs were tied with nylon zip ties. I assumed my wrists must be too.

I counted to three and tried again. Gulping back a groan, I turned my head and rolled onto my right side. Exposed pipes and cables encased in steel-wire trays ran the length of the ceiling and disappeared into the shadows at the other end of the room. The pipes looked old, but well maintained and, again, familiar.

I smiled to myself. I’m in the basement under my bookshop. I’m surprised how slow my mind is filtering the data. Still groggy, yes, but it’s definitely my basement. Only, a tornado had ripped through the place. Everything that I had done, all the renovations to make this space a proper haven for my collection of antiquated books, had been made undone in a very brief period of time and in a very decisive way.

I heard voices and then a loud crash as something heavy fell to the floor. The tremor of it thrummed through me. I craned my neck trying to search for the source of the noise. A whiff of iron and dust and something moldy teased my nostrils. Something else too—something bilious and vulgar. It made me gag.

This must have attracted someone’s attention, because I could hear footsteps, not loud, more like the dull squishy noise you get from rubber soles. There was an urgency to them and I turned to brace myself, not knowing what to expect, but I was slow—too slow. A heavy boot smashed into my face and for a split second the pain level increased tenfold before I mercifully slid back into the blissful indifference of unconsciousness.

Part 2

Iopened my eyes . Dried blood crusted the rims. I blinked a few times, but it’s like someone kicked sand in my eyes. My head still throbbed, but the pain in my face trumped it. I could see a bulge on the bridge of my nose. The skin was broken and dark. Whoever had knocked me out had left, but for how long, I didn't know. Maybe they were gone completely. I tried to sit up. Painful, but not impossible. After a few draining attempts, I was leaning against the wall, exhausted. Gauging my memory for clues just revealed a jumble of images. It confused me more than anything else.

How long have I been out?

I needed to change my position. Using the wall as support, I pushed up with my legs. The rough surface grabbed at the fabric of my suit jacket, hampering my progress. I was halfway up when something entirely different hit me. It began as a sharp pinch in the chest, but quickly intensified. I held my breath, bracing myself, knowing what would follow and then it happened and I bowled over in agony as pain ripped through my body, growing fiercer still until its searing swirls engulfed me completely.

Not now! P-Please not now. The words spilled out as I lay on the floor on my side, squirming, knees pulled up to my chest and saliva dripping from my clenched teeth. I tried not to make a sound, but it was impossible and the moan forced its way up from the pit of my stomach, erupting in my throat.

As the first wave passed and some sense of now returned, the realization that I had to do something quickly fed into my mind. I couldn’t allow my condition to render me this way. Couldn't allow it to dictate the outcome of the situation I was in. Had to focus on my breathing, on getting my heart rate down. It was the only way. I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly, forcing the drumming in my chest to slow down and adapt to the rhythm of my breathing. I’ve done this many times before. After a while the soothing effect of it paid off as the thumping slowed down and with it the fire in my chest, reducing it to a dull nagging ache.

I desperately needed my pills.

The episode left me weak, but it kicked my memory partly into gear because some images started to flicker into place. I remember helping someone at the counter. A man—a tall, pale man—in a trench coat and hat. Something sinister about him had set me off and it wasn't his apparel. He had asked for a book, which, of course, he would. Nothing odd about that. I remember going into my office and then nothing. I don't even remember being knocked out. I tried to recall the name of the book, but it was just a blurred shape to me, shrouded in mental smog. I got a feeling like I should know, that it was important. But I didn’t and it was frustrating.

Whoever had dragged me down here had brought me to the wall opposite the stairway. The stairway leads out to my office which is situated at the back of the bookstore behind the counter.

Slowly, I got back into a sitting position. The basement looked a mess. Volumes of old leather bound books of varied hues and sizes