Shadow Born is the first novel from Martin Frowd and is the opening book of a new fantasy series The Karnos Chronicles.

The boy stood beneath the blazing sun.  Not yet midday, it was already hot, as every day of this summer had been on the plains.  The sun moved inexorably toward its midday peak overhead. When it reached that peak, the boy knew, he would die.

Sweat dripped down his forehead and ran into his eyes, mingling with the silent tears of fear, anguish and pain.  The iron manacles bit cruelly into his wrists, attached to chains that pulled his arms taut above his head, securing him to the iron stake driven deep into the ground behind him.  More chains of strong, precious iron were wrapped around his ankles, binding them to the stake, rendering moot any hope of escape.  Naked, he burned in the hot sun, his leggings and tunic of soft hide still crumpled on the bare dusty rock of the execution ground where they had been tossed after being torn from his young body.  His sandals lay beside them, and the heat of the sun warmed the bare rock underfoot to painful levels, tormenting his bare feet.

Off to his left, the men gathered, perhaps two score in number, clad in leather and hides. Each man took a stone from the pile that had been brought here at dawn, as custom demanded.  Rough black ebonstone, quarried from the Hills of Dusk, each boulder was the size of a man’s head.  The People of the Bear had little use for the midnight-hued, almost unbreakable ebonstone in their daily lives, and so boasted no stonemasons of great talent, preferring instead the more readily workable flint, occasionally bronze, or the rare and thus precious iron.  Among the boy’s kindred, ebonstone was used only for executions.

Off to his right stood the women of the clan, in their garments of hides and grasses, silent as the Law demanded.  Their place in this matter was to bear witness.

Behind the men stood the Druid, a towering figure of doom in his long brown robes, belted at the waist by a sash of the same hue, his face hidden beneath his hood, his hands concealed by long sleeves.  Only his bare feet were visible beneath the hem of the dark brown silk – a luxury owned by none among the boy’s kindred.  Hatred struggled with pain in the boy’s mind as he gazed at the tall robed Druid, servant of the dark and cruel religion practiced by most of the People of the Bear – the religion that had killed his parents, and that would soon bring about his own death.  Tears ran freely down the boy’s face as he remembered how that Druid had discovered his parents at their rites, at the peaceful worship of the Protector.  How the men of the clan, roused to frenzy by the Druid, had dragged his parents from their yurt into the night and butchered them like animals, ignoring his mother’s screams for mercy and his father’s desperate prayers to the Protector.

How the Power had flared in him, unchecked, and obliterated the bloodied, mutilated corpses of his murdered parents and their blood-maddened killers alike, before the men had overpowered him and dragged him from the grassland to this barren place to face his own doom.

The tears flowed uncontrolled now, as the boy remembered his parents.  He remembered his father, the finest hunter in their clan, a master of the spear; so quiet and stealthy on the grassy plains, yet so full of laughter among the yurts of the People.  He remembered his mother, with her long black hair and her laughing smile.  Both were always so full of life and joy, though they shared a deep secret – that they gave their faith to Heldor the Protector, God of the innocent, rather than the dread Kelnaaros, Lord of Tyranny and King of Demons, the God of the Druids – the God of the People of the Bear.  But now that secret was exposed, and the wind had taken the ashes of his beloved parents where his own uncontrolled Power had burned their corpses and their living killers.  Now it was his turn to die.

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A Bite Of... Martin Frowd

Q1: Every book has influences behind it, what was the most significant influence behind Shadow Born and how do you think that comes out in the story?

As with any author, several different sources – in my case a mix of written, TV/film, and music – have had an impact on Shadow Born specifically and on the wider series, the Karnos Chronicles, of which Shadow Born is the first book.  Two of the key influences for Shadow Born particularly, which will also have an impact on subsequent books and the overall story arc for the series, are a) the late Joe Dever’s Lone Wolf series – both the single-player adventure gamebooks and the subsequent novelisations – and b) the Star Wars films, particularly the prequel trilogy. Together, these provide the key themes of a young boy with an important destiny set out by prophecy – which, as in the example of Star Wars, may not turn out to be exactly what people in-universe have translated, understood or hoped it to be – and a desperate flight from pursuers and past obstacles in order to survive.
Although most of Shadow Born focuses on Zarynn and his rescuer Glaraz, out in the dangerous wilderness, a couple of chapters do lay the groundwork for future books by introducing more of the supporting cast.  This ensemble, with the quirks and relationships established so far, were influenced by several more sources, including Lord of the Rings, Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time, and Harry Potter (the last being so ubiquitous now in the Anglophone world that it would probably be assumed to have had an impact on any subsequent work featuring children and magic even if it hadn’t).

Q2: Shadow Born is your first book, what were the key moments of that journey?

I don’t honestly think there’s been a worst moment as such.
Most frustrating was probably the pre-publication reformatting processes – plural – one for Kindle and one for paperback format – but the lessons learned from these will help provide a quicker and smoother process for future books.I’ve been lucky to have the support of multiple online writers’ groups along the way, principally the Knights of the SciFi Round Table and the Sparkly Badgers of Facebook and Twitter, which have been consistently motivating, but if I had to pick a single motivating moment I think it would be the realisation that the initial story of what was intended to be book 1 had grown in the telling and needed to be split over multiple volumes.  Shadow Born, as now published, was originally to have been the first third of a much larger book 1, but it became clear that it would have been a very large and unwieldy book 1.
Funniest is generally any dialogue involving Kitithraza, and she (and Anjali) will play a significantly larger part in future books.And the best was finally publishing, after multiple rounds of edits and feedback from beta readers.

You can follow Martin Frowd and his writing on Twitter, Facebook, or find more of his writing on his blog.

The pawprints in the newly laid concrete were enormous.

“That sure as hell weren’t no kitty cat,” Cletus opined, hiding a grin

Elmo swallowed nervously. “I never wanna meet a cougar that big. We gonna fill the prints in?”

“Naw, let’s leave ‘em. It’ll give folks something to talk about.”

It did. The little path leading to the brothers’ double-wide became famous, featuring on local radio, and even one of them late night tv shows with talking dogs. 

Cletus decided it might be best not to ‘fess up, so he burned the leather ‘paw’ and kept his mouth shut.

©️jj 2019

Sam took the jug from Jim’s unresisting hand. “Right, cappuccino for Patsy. What for you?”
“Oh, can I get cappuccino too?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Sam took two jumbo-sized cappuccino cups from the cupboard and dialled up two measures of espresso for each cup before adding the hot frothy milk. He fetched a smallish tray and put a plate of assorted biscuits and the two cappuccinos on it.
“There you go, mate. Sustenance for Patsy.”
“Yeah, and she’ll scarcely be out of the shower, so my stock will be so high.”

He went off, and Sam found himself chuckling at Jim whistling a merry tune. He grabbed a big umbrella from the boot room and dashed outside to check the postbox. It seemed to be bulging and he grabbed the contents before running back indoors. As usual, it was mostly circulars, with a sprinkling of business stuff, and by the time he had binned the circulars and shoved the business mail in the office for Anna to deal with he was left with four letters: one typewritten envelope and one handwritten for him and two handwritten for Anna. He got himself a coffee and sat at the table. The typewritten envelope turned out to be bumf from a holiday company, which he lobbed into the bin. The handwritten envelope was much more interesting, being from a young anaesthetist he had befriended several years before who was now working with Medicins sans Frontiers, and who had heard of Sam’s marriage. The young woman wrote her congratulations, and sent a picture of herself with a man on whose leg Sam had operated when he was working at the very same hospital. The man was now a husband and father, but he had never forgotten Sam and sent his blessings. Sam smiled. It felt good to have helped somebody. He was just finishing the letter when Anna came in.
“Sit. Have another coffee. Read your mail” he said. “I have a feeling our guests may be busy for a while.”
She grinned, and sat. Sam went to make her second cappuccino of the morning.
“Oh. That’s nice,” Anna said. “It’s from Bonnie’s breeder. She writes about twice a year. This time she has sent a picture of Bonnie’s sister and a litter of puppies.”
“Show me.”
Anna obliged.
“Oh my aren’t they just cute. Did you see Bon Bon when she was that small.”
“No. She was a present from Patsy, and I didn’t meet her till she was sixteen weeks, by which time Pats had house and lead trained her. You were grinning at your post too.”
Sam handed it over and Anna read it quickly.
“Oh Sam,” she said. “What a nice thing to know. You changed that man’s life.”
“Maybe. But it does feel good.”
“I’ll bet. I don’t recognise this handwriting… Oh. It’s from Tariq. Oh my goodness. This is a bit odd.”
“What love?”
“He says he didn’t call because he isn’t sure how secure his phone is. But there’s a Russian gent – name unpronounceable – frequents the S&M clubs who is asking around for info about Jim and his family. Also says the Russian has an unhealthy interest in underage boys. That’s too close to home, that is!”
“It is. And. Coincidence? No. I don’t believe in coincidences. Give Jim the info. It’s somewhere to start looking.”
“You’re right, love. It bears checking. And Jim has the tools and the friends to check it out thoroughly. Now. Do you think our guests will have finished whatever it is they have been doing? If they have, I reckon breakfast omelettes.”
“Good thinking wife. I’ll be a brave man and go find out…”

While Sam made his ostentatiously loud way upstairs, Anna assembled ingredients for four breakfast omelettes. Sam came back, gave her thumbs up  and started to lay the table. She smiled at him and they worked in happy harmony until Jim and Patsy appeared. Patsy was carrying the coffee tray and her cheeks were flushed a delicate shade of pink.

Anna laughed out loud before giving her friend a big hug. “Silly moo. Be proud. Your man loves you, and you love him. As to owt else, Sam’s heard sex noises before and he’s even been known to make one or two.”
Patsy sniggered.
“Oh I missed you when we weren’t talking. Nobody else quite understands like you.”
“Probably because nobody has known us as long as we’ve known us. Now. Sit. Omelette?”
“Lovely.”
Sam brought toast to the table. “Coffee? Tea?”
“Cappuccino please,” Patsy said.
“Tea for me if it ain’t too much trouble,” Jim rumbled.
“No prob.”

By the time Sam had made the tea and coffee, Anna was sliding the first two omelettes onto warm plates. Sam took them to the table while Anna started the second round.  When everyone was served there was silence for a while: breakfast omelettes will do that if properly made and served hot.
Sam recovered first.
“More toast anyone?”
Three heads nodded, and he got up to put slices of brown bread in the toaster before returning to his own plate.

Jane Jago

She was a big, deep-chested girl in an era when it was fashionable to be tiny and skinny and chinless.

He first saw her at Delmonico’s. Eating steak. Her naturalness made his fashionable date look stiff and pallid.

Being who he was, it took him very little time to learn all about her. He made himself known to her father, and was graciously given permission to escort her to the theatre.

Many years later he was to say that he fell in love with her that night.

But it took him a year to persuade her to marry him.

©️jj 2019

This is the place.
Here.
Once it was full.
Life.
People warmed, working.
Here.

This was the place.
There.
Empty and bleak.
Dead.
No one left, useless.
There.

E.M. Swift-Hook

An extract from Dying for a Vacation one of the Dai and Julia Mysteries set in an alternative modern day world, where the Roman Empire still rules.

This was one of the two major auction houses in Viriconium that specialised in antiques. It was also the place that, according to his own records, Vibius did the most trade.They had swooped on the owner just as an afternoon auction had finished.
Justina Cynddylan was a harassed-looking woman in her fifties, wearing a fine quality stola and a silver ring of Citizenship. She didn’t seem even slightly intimidated by an unannounced visit from the Vigiles when Bryn produced his ID, and flapped a hand to the stairs at the rear of the auction room when asked if they could go somewhere a bit quieter to talk.
“I don’t have much space, we can use the small store upstairs if you like. But I have nothing to hide, so why not just ask me here?” Her gaze moved past the two for a moment and she raised her voice. “Not that one, Carwyn. The dominus said he was sending someone to collect it.” Then she looked back at Dai. “I am sorry, but I do have a business to run here, so can we make this – whatever it is – as quick as possible please?”
Dai tried his best boyish smile. “Of course, I quite understand. And that is why I suggest we go somewhere quieter so we don’t keep getting interruptions that will delay us all.”
She didn’t quite melt, but the look of tense disapproval softened very slightly.
“Very well.” She led them to the rear staircase and then turned to call across the room “Gawain? Three teas and a plate of those vanilla fingers we had earlier.” A young man, presumably Gawain, put down the box he was carrying and scuttled off through a side door.
The ‘small store’ was well named in Dai’s opinion. It was a room with a tiny window, half full of boxes of bric-a-brac. The other half was occupied by an elderly leather settee and a couple of hard backed, un-matching, very British dining chairs set either side of a small pedestal-leg table. Justina perched on one of the chairs and gestured imperiously that Dai and Bryn should appropriate the settee between them. Dai did so and regretted it in the same moment as the seat sagged away deeply beneath him. He just knew that if he tried to rise he would struggle to free himself. Bryn was clearly a wiser man as he declined the settee and instead used it to display the pictures of artefacts they had taken at random from the internet.
“Do you recognise any of these, domina?” he asked before sitting on the other hard chair.
The auction room owner peered a little myopically at the images, then picked one or two up to look closely at them.
“This is in the collection of Minoan artefacts presently on display in Londinium and this,” she waved another picture, “went missing from an exhibition in Latium four years ago. The rest I could have a stab at their provenance, but I have no idea where they are now.” She dropped the pictures back on the couch and looked at Bryn accusingly. “Why are you showing me these?”
Before he could answer there was a tap on the door and the youngster Dai had seen downstairs brought in a tray of spiced fruit teas and cakes and placed it on the table, then retreated quickly from the room.
“Help yourselves if you want.” Justina waved towards the tray then looked back at the images. “I don’t see what any of these have to do with me.”
“They are not really, domina. Just some items that have been stolen over the last few years.” As Bryn spoke he offered a tea to Dai, who shook his head having decided that trying to drink whilst being swallowed into the depths of the settee would be a recipe for disaster. “We just wondered if you might recognise any of them.”
Justina glared at Bryn as if he had just propositioned her for a night of wild orgies.
“I don’t allow any stolen goods in my auction room,” she said, icily. “Everything that passes through here is checked as having the correct licences.”
“Anyone can make a mistake,” Dai suggested and the woman snorted in disgust.
“Perhaps you Vigiles can make mistakes and think no more about it – those in positions of power often seem to feel that way about life. You just shovel your mistakes under the nearest carpet and carry on regardless, with no one daring to say otherwise. But I can’t afford to make that kind of mistake. This is my livelihood. Even if I avoided criminal charges for doing so, it would ruin my reputation as a dealer with integrity and that would destroy my business.”
Dai nodded sympathetically. “Yes. I can see that. So it must have been a bit difficult for you to find out that Josephus Vibius Anser, one of your best customers, was in fact up to his neck in the illicit art and antiquities trade?”
Her face darkened.
“You are not going to try and tie me in to that. Anything and everything that man bought from me had a full and legitimate licence attached. I can give you the entire list, with origins, previous owners, prices made at each sale, everything – solid as a blockchain.”
“Thank you,” Dai said, “that would be very useful so we can eliminate you from our enquiries completely. Perhaps you could email those to us before you go home today.”
He tried to get to his feet then but having his buttocks lower than his knees and the sagging cushion enveloping him it was a little undignified. In the end, he grabbed the edge of the settee with his hands and pulled himself up. Bryn was making little attempt to hide his grin behind a teacup, which he drained quickly when Dai caught his eye. Justina Cynddylan didn’t seem to notice. She was still frowning at them her thoughts apparently elsewhere.
“If you want my opinion,” she said as Dai finally gained his feet, “you would do better asking everybody’s friend, Tony Talog. If anyone is doing things the wrong way it’s him.”
Dai searched his memory and failed.
“Tony Talog?”
Bryn cleared his throat and picked up one of the cakes. “That’d be the man who runs ‘Rara et Vetera’ isn’t it? Your local competition, domina.”
“That – that creature is not any kind of competition for me,” she said firmly. “Half what he sells as pristine originals is heavy restoration. Some so heavy they are really reproductions. I have people attend some of his auctions and they tell me some horrific tales. But it is more than just that he sells bad antiques. One of his employees was close to quitting his place and joining me. The day she put in her notice someone kidnapped her dog and two days later the poor creature appeared on her doorstep stuffed by a taxidermist. She left Viriconium the next day, I believe, at least I have heard nothing more about her since.” She glared accusingly at Dai. “And your lot didn’t lift a finger, of course. I expect the Submagistratus is getting backhanders from Talog to turn a blind eye.”
“Not at all,” Dai assured her. “I am not in the corruption business, although I can’t speak for my predecessor.”
They left her with her mouth agape looking like a stunned sheep and walked quickly from the room, down the stairs and out onto the street.

“You think she is telling the truth?” Bryn asked later as he drove them home. They had spent a couple of hours going over the lists of items Justina Cynddylan had provided and comparing them against the information they had on the items recovered from Vibius.
“About her not selling dud or dodgy stuff? Well, all we looked at seemed genuine enough. Unless the items were being switched somewhere – and seeing as how we found most of them in Vibius’ house, that seems unlikely.”
“I was more asking about Talog,” Bryn said. “He’s not a name I’ve heard from any of the bad boys locally. I’d have thought if he had his snout in the trough they would have some use for him. Fencing stuff if nothing else.”
“I don’t know,” Dai admitted. “Vibius didn’t buy much from him. But then if he is the main way our syndicate is farming out artefacts here in Viriconium, he’d be above helping local petty pilferers, would keep his nose so clean it glowed in the dark and would likely be distanced from Vibius as well.”
Bryn laughed.
“That don’t make a lot of sense, Bard. You make it sound like the less suspicious someone is the more likely they are to be the person we’re after. On that basis we should be suspecting the Magistratus as being the least likely of all.”
Dai mustered a wry grin. “If he was in the business of selling art and artefacts, he’d be right up there, believe you me.”

The Dai and Julia Mysteries are written by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook

The Elf King was owed a princess, and a princess he was going to get. Just not the one he expected. Princess Marianne was a delicate fairylike beauty, and, in her father’s estimation, far too valuable to waste on a promise. Princess Ella, by contrast, was plain and meek and only too aware that her father had cheated. 

It took all her courage to look into the Elf King’s face. To her surprise the tall brown-skinned monarch laughed.

“I do not,” he said, “value human beauty highly. But I am enamoured of bravery.”

He held out his twiggy hand.

©️jj 2019

In Devon, the railway runs right by the beaches
Past small sandy inlets and bright golden reaches
Then follows the river whose tides are so steep
Over salt-smelling marshes and waters so deep
In summer the sea is as blue as the sky
And reflects the white seagulls as they hover by
But in winter the waves crashing over the line
Carry the feeling of wildwind and brine
And over the railway the white salty spume
Collects in a way that defies any broom
In Devon the railway runs right by the sea
Which is almost as nice as you think it might be

©️jane jago 2017

Jane Jago’s medieval fantasy is being presented by Tall Tale TV

It was the longest night, and the cold was such that standing still would be a death sentence. There was no snow, but the frost was so deep that the world shone coldly white in the moonlight.

A procession of dark-clad figures marched through the forest, moving in and out of patches of moonlight so they seemed to appear and disappear like demons or frikii. Nothing could be seen of the figures except their silhouettes, as each was clad from head to foot in dark coloured fur, and had a deeply cowled hood obscuring his or her face, and they kept their hands tucked inside the wide sleeves of their robes. Their pace was a measured one, taking into consideration, one has to assume, the smallness of some of the party and the consequent shortness of their legs.

Nobody spoke, and it wasn’t until a dog fox coughed somewhere in the undergrowth that the solemn processional progress of the group was interrupted. A small figure in the centre of the line jumped, and gave voice to an undignified squeak. The figure behind her, reached out a hand and briefly touched her shoulder, for this was surely a young girl by the voice,.

“‘Twas naught but a fox,” the voice was deeply masculine and amused, though not unkindly so.

They fell silent again, and the only sound was the crunching of booted feet on frozen loam. As they came out of the shadow of the trees, the air behind them was rent by a scream. It was the sort of a sound one might associate with an animal in a trap so desolate and fearful was the sound. Only this was not an animal in torment, this voice was human. Each figure in the procession bowed his or her head a little lower, and the leader made a sound of disgust deep in his chest.

“If only we had time…”

“But we do not.” The voice was female and authoritative. “We must keep moving. The lady is almost at her time and she must be somewhere warm.”

The leader shrugged his heavy shoulders and the column moved on…

Listen in to hear the rest of the story at Tall Tale TV

Whatever the weather, Brian could be found sitting on his chair with his worm dangling in the pond. So far as he could remember he had never caught anything, but it wasn’t a bad life, and all the folks who passed him would stop and have a chat. Everybody liked the little man, who was invariably cheerful and whose round eyes sparkled with friendly merriment.

All was well, until one breathless day in August when disaster struck. The bigs got into a quarrel while playing croquet, and an angrily discarded croquet mallet decapitated Brian. 

His body kept right on fishing…

©️jj 2019