Thrall: Gorias La Gaul, #1

By Steven Shrewsbury

Set in the mists of ancient times, Thrall tells the story of Gorias La Gaul, an aging warrior who has lived for centuries battling the monstrosities of legend and lore. It is an age when the Nephilum walk the earth, demonic forces hunger to be unleashed, and dragons still soar through the skies … living and undead. 

On a journey to find one of his own blood, a young man who is caught in the shadow of necromancy, Gorias' path crosses with familiar enemies, some of whom not even death can hold bound. Thrall is gritty, dark-edged heroic fantasy in the vein of Robert E. Howard and David Gemmell. It is a maelstrom of hard-hitting action and unpredictable imagery, taking place within an incredible antediluvian world. In Gorias La Gaul, Thrall introduces an iconic new character to the realms of fantasy literature. 

Thrall invites the reader to go on a perilous journey where it is not a matter of whether one has the courage to die, but whether one has the courage to live.

Be sure to continue the adventures of Gorias La Gaul in the novel Overkill, and the single-author collection of short stories, Blood and Steel: Legends of La Gaul, Volume 1

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seventh Star Press
• Release date: Aug 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9780983108641

Steven Shrewsbury

Steven L. Shrewsbury, from Central Illinois, enjoys football, history, politics and good fiction. Over 300 of his short stories have been published in print or digital media. His small press novels include OVERKILL, HELL BILLY, THRALL, BAD MAGICK, BEDLAM UNLEASHED, STRONGER THAN DEATH, HAWG, TORMENTOR, GODFORSAKEN, PHILISTINE and BLACK SON RISING. His works also include the weird western novella The Black Bible of Juarez. These titles run from horror to historical high fantasy. He tries to drown out the rumors that he is Robert E. Howard reincarnated with beer. When not wrangling his sons, he can be found outside in his happy place.

Book preview

Chapter I

Tavern Uprising

*

By the gods, pull the damn sword out, the man on the floor howled out into the tavern. Although down the bar, Gorias’ ears heard him clear enough. The aged warrior looked over at the figure laying face down on the dirty boards. A man screamed in agony while a halo of patrons surrounded him.

Gorias took a drink from his tall flagon, pulled his cloak closer, and said to the slender bartender, The sword isn’t in him, Michael.

The barkeep checked the floundering man then pointed to the swinging door. Close that. Though winter’s gone, but it’s still cold as teats on a celibate outside. Besides, his assailant is long gone.

While a plump drunkard shambled over to shut the wooden door, Gorias’ leaned out from the far end of the bar. He made sure his cowl covered his long face before saying, And yet, he bleeds.

To the all assembled in the smoky saloon, it appeared as if a sword lay across the whimpering man’s back. When a rather jaunty, short-haired woman in dark leathers grabbed the sword hilt and winked at the bartender, Michael muttered, Leave him be, Shavon, but she never listened. Shavon planted her boot on the long metallic mesh on the floor, meant to provide sturdy footing near the bar, and with a savage jerk, removed the sword away from the man’s tunic.

Two things became apparent. One, no blacksmith crafted the sword in steel. Two, the drawing away ripped the clothes and flesh from the man. Shavon giggled at this revelation as a few men armed up their fallen comrade.

Michael remarked to the patrons, The constables have been summoned. Though clear to Gorias the barkeep did this to instill calmness in the masses, many still nervously gaped at the bloody man.

While a few men carried the wounded patron outside, Shavon studied the weapon and said, It’s made of wood, but with hooks, nails, and glass shards on the underside. Devious. She took a couple steps and slapped the fake blade onto the wall. The object stuck to a support beam. Shavon walked through the bits of straw matted over the metal mesh before returning to the main hardwood floor of the tavern. Hands to her slender hips, she looked back and admired her work. A fine decoration, no?

Michael sighed, and Gorias peered into his drink as a sense of normalcy returned to the crowded tavern. The bartender muttered, Who ever heard of a big man wielding a fake weapon?

The aged man brooded over his drink and said, It’s a proto-sword.

A what?

You’re mistaken, said Gorias, the hood of his over-cloak receding a bit to show his coarse, matured features. The weapon proved very useful indeed. The small objects inserted in the counterfeit sword did just what the aggressor planned. It caused shock, pain, and ultimately rent the skin off Silas’s back. Then again, he had some help from that sweetheart in leather over there.

Who makes such a thing? It’s a savage weapon… Michael’s voice trailed off as he ceased to wipe the bar down. Barbarians? Here in Shynar? His voice lowered and he scowled. I know there’re many mercenaries in Khabnur City due to the rumors of war surrounding us, but hell, barbarians? They’re over a thousand miles away.

Gorias shrugged and a muffled grinding sound emerged from his cloak. Zenghaus Mountain is two thousand miles away, to be exact, but yes. That big fellow who ran out came in ill dressed, in his breeches and garnache, which makes me think he stole them. They way I saw him fidget, he probably prefers being naked.

The bartender laughed, still speaking so only Gorias could hear him. Perceptive of you.

My eyes aren’t as good as they used to be, kid.

Fingers drumming on the bar, Michael said, I never saw a barbarian run from a fight that easily. His eyes narrowed at Gorias, taking in his great size. Certainly a large man for these parts. Didn’t you see him?

After a nod, Gorias responded, Maybe he wasn’t here to fight but to pay attention.

A barbarian spy? That’s a swell jest. I haven’t heard much of the barbarians on the move since the army of Nosmada tangled with them a few years back. Before that it was the old fable of La Gaul slaying the Nephilum in the Zenghaus Mountains. Michael pointed to Gorias’ flagon. You need another one, old timer?

Sure, youngster, the slouching man agreed, and pushed gold toward the server. While Michael definitely wasn’t a young man, his withered face smiled at the name the ancient brute called him.

Voices bombarded Gorias as he drank from the full flagon. The drunks paid him little mind as he slumped over his drink, but their conversations rang in his sharp ears.

Blood! I’m sick to freakin’ death of hearin’ ‘bout blood all the time. ‘Cause no matter how much damned blood the priests, holy or not, surrender up, it’s never enough to appease the gods or devils.

Another voice said, I heard tell no ‘mount of sacrifices can stop these uprisings of the dead ones. Bugger me, all this necromancy afoot with a bloody war brewing as well makes my ass chew crackers.

Shavon shot back, You besotted idler! They dead arise and drink the blood of any and all takers, then walk like fools to the south. Her boots clicked on the floor as she spoke. Even the guards around the Foundry of Syn never have to draw steel to kill a leech. They walk on past. No loss.

Michael wrung the bar rag and murmured, Aside from the idea of barbarians nearing the curtain wall of Khabnur, that leech circumstance is the craziest thing I ever saw, or my name ain’t Michael Galenson, and it is.

Gorias shot back, You want an award, rawboned man? Buy yourself some steak to feed that body of yours, and you might not be deemed food for the risen dead.

Michael chuckled in good humor as he pointed at a man in the far corner of the bar. We get all kinds. You see that one there? The tall man with dark hair, who looks too clean to ever have been dirty? He just comes in here to read parchment every so often. He never drinks.

Gorias glanced at the person indicated, and then looked back at his slurry brew. That’s Ezran Gavreel. He wouldn’t be drinking.

You must know everyone, or have a ready answer for anything, old timer. Is he a spy of some kind as well?

Gorias shook his head. No, not really. Ezran watches a lot though. The bastard never gets any older, either.

The talks around them went on.

They say there’s a blue dragon afoot in the North-east, screamin’ his lungs out beside the great rivers of Gemini. They say it flounders in the cursed desert of Dundayin by the ruins of Larak.

Shavon cursed the speaker. Javed, you are drunk and dense. A lethal combination, however, not an uncommon vintage.

Javed continued, It’s said the Cult of the Dragon used a fragment of the Daemonolateria in the resurrection of that dreaded creature. I heard tell they are around here, too.

Many guffaws echoed and more people told him he was loaded, yet a few agreed with Javed’s words.

One man across from him slobbered as he spoke. They say not all the swords in the Foundry of Syn could penetrate the dragon’s flesh.

In the far left corner of the saloon sat an enormous persona, twice the size of any man, drinking from an enormous pitcher. At the mention of the Foundry of Syn, the ogre lifted one deformed eyebrow, but kept drinking. Every so often, he inhaled from a hose attached to a tall ceramic tube smoldering at a spot low in its construction.

A different male voice thundered in the ears of Gorias. Bah! That’s a damnable fairy tale. Daemonolateria, fah, my sore ass in a sling. Besides, the last of the blue dragons was slain by Gorias La Gaul, damn, must be thirty or forty years ago. I heard he gutted and fed the thing to the folks in the village of Oliverian.

Many grumbling voices agreed on this point and the ogre added in a bottomless voice, That was about when the first of these accursed leeches were spotted, no?

Shavon chattered with mirth. Gorias La Gaul? He’s but a fairy tale, like dragons, as well. It’s tough to accept one man could slaughter a dragon, be he a keen fighter like Gorias La Gaul was supposed to be or not. Think of how silly that is. She spoke on in strident tones. Could all the axes they craft in the Foundry of Syn be enough to butcher a giant beast like a dragon? That’s lunacy, seeing the platelet flesh dragons bore, right? She waved her thin hands in the heavy smoke and pointed at the corner. You, ogre! Are you not, Mitre, the foreman of the foundry?

The massive individual only grumbled, blowing smoke from its nostrils, thus giving a command in the affirmative. Mitre swirled the settlings of his pitcher and demanded more drink.

Michael motioned for a serving woman to attend the ogre and whispered, That gal will get the business end of ol’ Mitre Stillwell’s wrath if she prods him enough. Dragons, heh.

Gorias closed his eyes, dreamt of the way the ice of the northern lands used to stiffen his beard. His back ached, and he recalled how the cold treated his bones then. He also remembered the sounds of a dragon’s scream, filtering down his ears and into his spine. Motioning for another round from Michael, he noted the short-haired girl in leathers left the ogre alone.

As he set down another drink, Michael gazed toward the table in the corner opposite Mitre in the crowded mead hall. Cursed kids these days. They know naught of which they speak.

The grizzled drinker gave a fatigued shrug and put the mug to his lips. Before ingestion, Gorias said, They walked in here wearing blades. I never saw a kid carry a curved sword like that mouthy assassin does.

Michael blinked, confused. Shavon? An assassin? How did you spot such a thing in the dim firelight? Didn’t know you would care for such a matter, old one. Seldom do folk come into the Aragon barroom with such keen senses. Hell, they sure don’t leave with them.

Why do you think I keep my back to the wall here and not to the saloon main floor? That’s why that screaming fool was hauled out of here. He turned his back on the big barbarian he started a fight with.

I thought maybe it was the brace you wear. I see you never take off your backpack and scratch at it under your leather jerkin. I figured you propped yourself up there to rest.

Gorias felt the stiff portions of the long bundle and inner brace on his sore back. Astute of you. Do you want a medal? He shot a glance at Ezran, who still read. How in the Hell did you come by the name of Michael?

The man rubbed his thin black beard and giggled. My mama said it was after the Arch-angel.

Huh. I doubt you’re his son. You would be taller. Gorias gazed back across the smoky tavern and Ezran Gavreel met his stare. The man at the bar returned to his drink.

Shavon pranced in her tan leather boots and shouted, You all carry on about La Gaul as if the children of demons didn’t invent him. They do that to bestow false hope on this besotted realm. She slammed her fist down on the table to gain the complete attention desired. If Gorias lived, wouldn’t he be fighting the resurrected dead men of Nosmada, or offering his services to the local tribal kings? They’re out there gathering up every mercenary they can in fear of Nosmada’s army trekking past Khabnur. These chieftains, they have secret plans, and lives they need silenced in their schemes. They never sent out word for an old legend, they sent for me.

Gorias eyed Michael, half smiling, and his server whispered, That’s Shavon from Politi. She has been through here before, but you said she was an assassin?

Yeah.

How do you know that?

Silence is not her strong suit, Gorias said. But I can see by the embroidery of her boot tops that she attained them afar off, not on this continent. Aside from that and the way she moves, Shavon smells of amber hash. I noticed it when I walked past her. All the opiates that ogre is inhaling cannot hide the scent of the amber lilies of the Caliph of Damavand. He’s the father of an assassin’s cult. That mouthy gal reeks of it. That’s how they pay their trainees--keep them plied at first.

Stunned at this revelation, Michael said, Damavand isn’t that far off, but Hell, that’s wild. Do you think she got that curved blade in the East?

Gorias frowned. I hear in the underground factory at Syn they can make a mock up of any weapon. She doesn’t look road rough enough to have traveled that far. Her gait, her complexion, all too fresh.

Mitre Stillwell again grumbled, but only to motion for more drink. From under his table scurried a tiny man, smaller than a dwarf, but dressed in the same fashion as Stillwell. The small man adjusted his loose brais pants, re-lit the bowl of the long tube, and ran to the bar.

Michael drafted Stillwell a drink. From what Shavon declares openly, she’s here at the request of the local magistrate, Lira Rhan. There’s some devilry afoot with a group of young cultists. Rumor is the local youths pray to the images of Nosmada, dark Son of Man from—

I know who Nosmada is, Gorias snapped, his gaze on the ogre, then to Ezran, and then back to the bar. The scurrying servant returned to Stillwell with the pitcher. After adjusting the rather feminine barbette on his tiny head, the lackey vanished under Mitre’s table.

Shavon threw up her arms and clucked. I heard the tales of Gorias La Gaul from my youth. His two swords and such moves. She mocked a man fighting with two blades, "I knew them from my cradle on. They are stories, nonetheless, from a forgotten age, like lies told of one God when we know there are thousands."

The man across the table from her shot back, You should mind your tongue, girl. Show more respect. Gorias La Gaul came from North of here—

Shavon drew out a dirk and stabbed it in the table near the hand of the man who shouted at her. I accept no quarter from a man who insults me, Arius. She gripped the edges of the table with both hands. If you can grab it before me, you can have my self for the night.

The entire tavern quieted and turned to face her. Gorias winced as he straightened up. Even Ezran took time from his reading to look over at Arius facing Shavon. Michael glanced at Gorias when he stood up straight and towered over the room.

Across from Shavon, the patron Arius shook off the cling of his grimy clothes and grinned. He removed his woolen cap and grabbed the sides of the table. Arius licked his lips, and Shavon’s eyes glowed by the flames of the hearth.

She’ll murder him, Gorias said casually and put down his drink. He’ll rise from the dead tomorrow to join the unholy horde of Nosmada, unless they burn his filthy ass. I’d bet another round on it.

No sooner had Gorias spoke than Arius made a play for the dirk. The woman moved, but not toward the table. Shavon reached toward her left forearm and came out with a tiny, curved blade. As Arius raised the dirk triumphantly in the air, Shavon sliced his neck clean across. Arius’ smile remained stuck in place as his throat gaped open, vomiting out blood on the gaming table.

So much for those cards, Gorias quipped.

Mitre Stillwell smiled and drank, coughing on some of it. His minuscule servant peered out from his cover then returned to his spot under the table.

I’ll take that, Shavon said with a grin, snatching the dirk from the dying man’s grasp. Arius fell over the table, sending bloody cards to flight, and the room gasped for the most part. She bent close to his ear, whispering, Was it as fine as you thought?

As Shavon cackled loud, Gorias faced the door to the mead hall. It lay twenty feet away. He stepped forward, never picking up his walking staff. Wiping his boots on the mesh on the floor, he moved from the bar with some speed.

Shavon stepped into his path. Her trim frame lolled back on her right hip, arms folded. She stood about half way to the door and giggled. What’re you trying to do, old wretch? Run home to your fat woman now? Are you that faint at the sight of blood?

I’m just trying to get to the door, sister. Gorias planted his feet square to his shoulders. His hood fell back and a great mound of graying locks spilled out around his craggy, long face. He loomed over her, cutting an imposing figure.

Mitre Stillwell put down his pitcher. The tube fell from his lips.

Goodness, Shavon cooed, unafraid, her left boot heel tapping. You must’ve been quite a man…once.

Yeah, well, it still works, even if my back doesn’t, much, Gorias said as he put coins on the bar, wearing no expression of concern for the killer in front of him.

Shavon didn’t move as she pouted. You’re either courageous or too stupid to realize your danger, elderly fool. Do you know who I am?

Does it matter? The whorehouse is down the street.

You’re drunk. She laughed.

And you are really ignorant, sister. Funny thing is, though, I’ll be sober come daylight.

Her eyes flared and the tavern drew a collective breath. Why you insane duffer, do you know who is going to slay you?

Doesn’t matter. Gorias glanced at Ezran Gavreel. Deliverance will come.

A few in the bar spit their drinks at his words, and Mitre coughed loud, almost laughing, but she ignored all of this and went on to say, I have traveled far and wide. I have killed everything that walks or crawls! I have…

In the middle of her great boast, Gorias hunched over. While he braced himself on his knees, no one paid this much mind, not even Shavon. So weak went his movements, surprise took her completely when he dropped to the floor like a cat, seized the long straw covered mesh under her boots, and yanked back. The crude rug ripped from under her pointed heels and she flipped backwards. After her rump rolled over her head, she hit the floor on all fours, stunned, braced, and laughing at what happened.

But as she fell, he reached his hands just under his waist to the bottom of the stiff backpack. From out of slots came two blades, each near to three feet in length. Since he stood quite tall, and his pack so long, he easily concealed the two sword scabbards. When he stepped forward he swished the swords, lancing the smoke in the air then driving them down on either side of Shavon’s braced form. The blades sliced clean through her arms at the elbow joints.

She slammed these bloody stumps into the floor, gasping in shock. The rest of the bar hissed a name that made her look up at her slayer.

La Gaul!

Over her towered the ancient warrior, the fable himself, Gorias La Gaul. His eyes stared at her more in pity than anger. Her crimson blood dripped from legendary blades that gleamed brighter than steel should. She watched him turn the blades down and hold the two swords like daggers, knuckles side by side.

You’re…not real. I thought…you were dead… she choked, tears streaming from her brown eyes.

Not quite yet, sister. Do you think I’ve lived so long on strength alone? If you would’ve gotten old, you would’ve known to save the talking for after the fight.

With that he planted his blades in her back, pinning Shavon’s heart and lungs to the wooden floor. This action made the crowd grunt then fear to breathe again. The thud rang with finality.

While he snuffed, he broke the silence with the scuff of his boots. After he stepped on her neck and pulled his swords out, he wiped the blood on her short hair and said, Which way is that whorehouse, Michael? It has been quite a spell since I was last visited the one in Khabnur.

The door to the mead hall opened and two men stepped in with drawn swords. By the insignia on their black leather coats, Gorias figured them members of the constables’ guard. At last, they answered the summons for the man injured by the barbarian emissary.

La Gaul looked at the amazed patrons, then to the giant ogre who arose from his bench. Beyond the men from outside Gorias spied Ezran Gavreel, smiling. He never recalled seeing Ezran leave the bar.

Looks like I will have to go later.

CHAPTER II

Magistrate

*

The constables allowed Gorias to mount up on his white horse and ride to the Magistrate’s office located in the castle keep. Since this Aragon barroom sat near the outer reaches of the curtain wall, a long ride lay ahead of them. Security ran very high. The sprawling city of Khabnur bustled with activity, full of folk from afar. Many were mercenaries, he concluded, by their weapons and light armor, in town for the brewing war. There is money to be had and not much work to be done, he thought, so the rabble who thought they could fight came. He felt certain the nominal show up fee gathered quite a few of them.

Diverse races and warriors of varying degrees stumbled out of saloons. Gorias looked down from his mount on the gaggle of humanity and made note of their number, if not their ability. Many carried a khopesh, a short bronze blade manufactured en masse just about anywhere. A crude weapon, it certainly could kill, but in the long run the sword couldn’t stand against steel or iron. Since the mercenaries hailed from diverse lands, their weapons varied. A few even sported well-dressed rapiers and broadswords so heavy they required two hands to use.

Word that the legendary warrior arrived in the city of Khabnur spread like a plague, and since the winter lessened, many who weren’t fighters crowded the cool streets to see the fable pass by. Though hemmed in by four constables, Gorias rode his great steed with a placid face. He never commented on the muddy city, well built as it was, or the legions of urchins in the streets at such a late hour.

Soldiers and men on the high walls or in the embrasures pointed at Gorias, a few used long scopes to get a better view. Soon every eye in the crenellated ramparts focused on him. Men staggering drunk near the pilaster reinforcement beams paused to hear the tale and look at him as he passed.

A baritone bark of the name, La Gaul! broke the peculiar silence.

The guards hesitated when they saw the gigantic form of Mitre Stillwell lumbering up the avenue. At his heels skipped the dwarfish lackey.

Gorias assumed these guards were acquainted with the foreman of the Foundry of Syn or they wouldn’t have allowed Mitre to walk beside him.

Mitre Stillwell? said Gorias with a half smile, as he waved back at a few men greeting him with bows on the nearest merlon. It’s been decades, you red headed jackass. I didn’t recognize you out of your usual digs in the desert, swindling the stupid out of religious relics.

The ogre trudged on, running thick fingers through his thinning bowl of reddish gray locks. So the dead walk for real, apparently not all as vampiric leeches, you wormy dog.

So it seems. He chuckled, hand resting on the pommel of the broadsword sheathed on his saddle. You’re supervising the Foundry of weapons? That’s like bears in charge of feeding fish.

Mitre’s immense shoulders receded and he sneezed. An ogre must eat, old fool. I could only defraud the religious masses in the desert for so long. My days of high or even low timed adventure are over.

Gorias’ focus kept to the cobblestone road ahead that led to the keep. He never looked at the giant who strode near to eye level with him as he said, Who is the fool? He leered at the small one at Mitre’s heels, and the dwarf registered terror then ran into an alleyway. "I wager keeping working slaves in line must be boring for you after

Reviews for Thrall

[madmoosemama · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Thrall is an epic stand alone fantasy novel.Gorias La Gaul is a warrior and a legend, some say he was born of a nephilim, and with his 700 year old plus age, one begins to wonder. Gorias is so famous, that he runs into his own stories, some are hard-pressed to believe who he is, until they see him in action. With two swords in hand, or a dwarf, for that matter, Gorias is an unstoppable killing machine. Wearing a suit of dragon armor and carrying a blade of adamantine and his wits about him, there is no one with enough moxy to take down the likes of Gorias, and many try.A hated foe of dragons, Gorias must stop a cult of Nosmada's necromancers from animating the corpse of Carlato Wyss, the only one who knows the true power behind the Daemononlatreia. When he successfully thwarts one attempt another is being cast and a Draco-Lich is risen and he wants blood, lots of it!In order to save Khabnur, Lady Lira Rhan enlists Gorias' help to stop the necormancers from raising Wyss, by unknowingly condemning Gorias' own grandson, Maddox. Lira's daughter, Kayla is infatuated with Gorias and will stop at nothing to help his cause, joining his side to fight the evils that come their way. Tammas is a young bard who also joins the two, along with Maddox, the four must find out what is afoot and who the players are in the game. General Tolin has a heart of a dragon and leads Nosmada's army, Nosmada is an evil necromancer whose age is undetermined, Zillian is Nosmada's ancient, decaying seer, Brock Lloydson, barbarian Chief of the Bellgades, looking to make his glory in all the carnage and having a great time doing so, Mitre Stillwell, a bugbear/ogre combination who is the overlord of the underground minds, where beholders and Minorcs lurk and slaves have their tongues cut out, the Leeches, who rise from the dead and suck the blood out of the living, Robyn De Balm, the evil necromantic dwarf with his own reasons for being involved and Ezran and Gavreel, two enigmatic and ethereal beings.Everyone has their part to play and the stakes are high, will Nosmada's plans fail or will the end of the world finally prevail?I thought the first chapter was horrible and it took me a while to get past it, the dialect was hard to read, the characters had no real purpose and everything seemed stiff, however, whence you get passed that first chapter, things begin to pick up immensely and Gorias becomes a likeable, witty, sarcastic, no holds barred kind of guy. He doesn't mince words or hold punches, a man who says and does what he wishes. I found the story to be a fairly decent one, the characters came into their own as the story progressed, however, the back story was definitely lacking. There are so many references to back story, you get almost frustrated as the book progresses and you realize that there just isn't enough book left to get the meaning from the snippets of back story that do occur. It often leaves you with more questions than answers, and it is this reason that I found that the characters had no real direction, they always went the right way and did the right thing. The suspense was lacking in this sense, the path was laid before you with few twists and turns until the very end. The battle scenes are great and there are a lot of them, I found some of the techniques involved to dispose of the intended target to be entertaining and sometimes amusing! I loved Gorias' natural fighting ability and his wit while doing so. The ending was great, and the outcome was more than surprising and leaves you wanting for more, which I do believe will be coming for the last print of the book states..."The End?"I would definitely continue to read the series if it were to be made into such, the story can only grow as there is so much left unattended from Thrall. As I read, I watched Steven Shrewsbury strengthen his talent with his prose, the character building was phenomenal, however, I would pay attention to more detail on the scenery and background a bit more. Often times I didn't realize we had switched locations, the characters involved in each setting determined where you were in the book. I would recommend this to any fantasy readers, this will not disappoint!