False Gods
The Prophet Trilogy Book 1
by Don Newton
Genre: Epic Fantasy
How many gods do you really need? Erador has more than its share…
In a strange multiverse ruled by magic and immortals, the last remaining souls, fleeing the destruction of Earth, struggle to survive. The Draggons want them dead. The gods want more power. But the humans want to live, and there’s only one sorceress who can make that happen. The fate of humanity is in her hands – so, no pressure…
Gods always want more power…
The Civil War fractured their world, and the gods just made it worse. Now their followers are split into four separate factions, and they all hate each other. Riots and bombings force further divisions among them, and the leaders are at a loss about what to do. Most of them, anyway.
Heroes are sometimes girls…
Alisha Callus rose through the sorceress ranks, mastering the Orphic currents and learning to bend space and reality to her will. Now, she’s the last Adeptus Supreme on Erador, and she has to kill a god. But she’s not sure she can.
Gods don’t like to be killed…
But sometimes, they deserve it.
Can one Sorceress, two Draggons, four warriors, and a god crush this evil influence from existence? Follow this ragtag band of heroes on an epic quest to free their world from an immortal’s vicious grasp. Who knows, they might do it…
Excerpt:
Jarod ran down the narrow lane connecting the main bazaar to the side roads of Jos Hollow. Behind him, he heard vendors hawking their wares—the bustle of the city streets—and the pursuers who were chasing him. His breath came in ragged gasps. He’d been running for several minutes, and he was exhausted. Rivers of sweat ran down his face, soaking his shirt and stinging his eyes. His muscles screamed in agony from the exertion, but he dared not stop. “Hold up, you coward!” The taller one was closer, the shorter one falling behind. Feet slapping pavement, breathing hard—closer now. He could feel the violence reaching for him like a heavy hand. He was terrified. At a fork in the road, Jarod chose left, hoping he could lose them by cutting through the park, mingling with the crowd surrounding the fountain. Arms and legs pumping, chest heaving, the last hundred yards seemed a thousand or more. Jumping and dodging, weaving and ducking, he made it to the fountain as the other men caught him. The taller one grabbed him, taking him down, they rolled for several yards, dust and gravel flying. The shorter man caught up and straddled his chest, raining blows on his face and shoulders with clenched fists, screaming obscenities. Jarod curled into a tight ball and tried to protect himself with his arms—his tears mixing with the blood streaming down his battered face, his nose shattered and twisted at an odd angle. A giant of a man with long black hair and piercing blue eyes grabbed the two attackers by the collar of their shirts, throwing them to either side of the helpless man. He stood over Jarod,
glaring at the other two, demanding answers. “What in the name of all that’s good is goin’ on here?” The fountain was typically crowded with people, and today was no different. Men surrounded the brawl, shouting encouragement or derision, eager for tales for their next trip to the saloon. Women hid their faces and whispered to each other. Children were pulled behind mothers, hands held over small ears and eyes, protecting them from the carnage. “So, let’s have it!” The big man wasn’t satisfied with the attacker’s silence. “What on Erador is all this?” The taller man was the first to regain his composure. The shorter man lay in the dirt where he’d fallen, glaring at Jarod, bleeding and broken on the ground ten feet away. “He said our Lord Kavan was a False God!” The taller man said, pointing at Jarod. The big man chuckled. Several people in the crowd hissed, and several others laughed—a few made no sound at all, but hate poured from their eyes: some for the broken-bleeding man— some for the other two. Hushed whispers passed through the throng. Mothers grabbed their children, herding them away. “So… this is about whose God is the real God?” The voice came from the edge of the crowd. Everyone turned. A tall thin man with a long flowing gray beard, dressed in red robes, pushed his way through the masses. Approaching the big man, he made a sign in the air with one slender finger, thin trails of red fire carving a shining rune in space before him. The stone in the circlet on his forehead glowed with a crimson light. He raised the staff in his left hand and brought the end down against the earth with a resounding thud, shaking the ground beneath the gathered crowd. Sparks of red and amber erupted from the base of the staff. The big man staggered back several feet, leaving the injured Jarod undefended on the ground. “I am a Herald of the God Zaril, and this man has been wronged!” His voice had changed: it sounded like the earth grating against itself—like a volcano erupting. The light surrounding the fountain dimmed as dense clouds passed overhead, streaks of blue lightning crawling across their gray faces. Thunder echoed in the distance. The crowd fled—thirty people running in as many directions. Screams of women mixed with the cursing of men—some were too afraid to move and became witness to the slaughter. The Herald raised the staff above his head, turning toward the two assailants—they tried to run. Both ends of the staff glowed a hot red, and flame burst forth: two beams of searing fire,
consuming the pair before they could move. Engulfed in flames, screaming in agony, they died where they stood, charred beyond recognition. Two blackened stumps remained, the bittersweet smell of charred flesh mixing with those of sweat and fear. The big man grabbed the Herald by the neck, one massive arm lifting him from the ground—his fingers tightened around the Sorcerer’s throat, choking the life from him. The Herald spun the staff around, striking him on the side of the head. He lost his grip long enough for his victim to fall to the ground, choking, trying to catch his breath. The big man pulled his broadsword free—fire from the staff reflecting in his eyes. The blade made an evil-sounding hiss as it cleared the leather scabbard. The Sorcerer regained his feet, raising the staff, muttering something in the Cirrian speech, when the broadsword blade entered his neck from the left side. Blood erupted, showering the ground around them as the severed head flew into the air, propelled by the force of the blow. The lifeless body fell like a sack on the ground, twitching and writhing in the throes of death. The big man reached down, wiping the crimson stain from his blade on the red robe of the dead Adept—the cloth turned a deep black. He looked at the head, the lips still moved, mouthing whatever spell had almost been cast. He sheathed the sword and picked up the staff, snapping it across his left knee—he tossed the two halves into the dirt. The remaining crowd milled about, like sheep in a thunderstorm. One man, a short blond fellow who’d seen the whole thing walked over, curiosity conquering fear. “Tell me, friend… w-what is your name?” he stammered. The big man looked at him, gave a curt nod, and walked away. Ten yards passed when he pivoted and stared at the blond stranger. He walked back and placed his right hand on the man’s shoulder. “Do you believe in these… Gods?” His voice was deep but melodious. The blond man looked into the big man’s eyes—all he saw was pain. “Not after what I saw you do.”
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Draggons
The Prophet Trilogy Book 2
Revenge is always sweeter face to face…
The false god, Zaril, died in a blazing bolt of light, victim to the wrath of an Adeptus Supreme. Now, it’s Kat’s turn for some payback. All she can see through the red tinge of hate that fills her eyes is the face of her lover’s killer. The fact that he’s also her father barely weighs on her mind. He chose his side, and now he’ll pay for his decision.
Excerpt:
Dalo sprinted toward the corner where Kat had disappeared. The sewer tunnels were pitch-black, but the Nano-suit goggles bathed the walls, floor, and ceiling in an eerie greenish glow: it was like moonlight, but ten-times brighter. Sewage-pipes protruded from both walls; he tried hard not to think about the viscous ooze that flowed from them: a wet, smelly liquid that seeped down the brick walls and ran into one of two deep channels cut into the floor. She’s so fast… Katreena was barely five feet tall, but what she lacked in height she made up for in speed and skill, and attitude. “You’re so slow…” the comm built into the Nano-suit hood crackled, “they’re getting away. I thought these suits made you faster?” “No, just stronger.” Dalo turned the corner and found her: she was standing at a fork in the tunnel, her head bouncing back and forth between the two choices. He stopped next to her and touched the control button on his right eyepiece—the orange heads-up-display popped across his
view, and the thermal sensors activated. On the floor of the left tunnel, he could see three glowing-red sets of footprints leading away. He turned to tell her, and fire burned into his eyes— two searing beams of red-orange light. “Aaagh!” He clawed at the goggles, unsnapping them from the hood. He didn’t fall entirely to his knees, but he was bent severely at the waist. “Eustas warned you about those sensors and looking at my eyes,” Kat said, the fire in her pupils flaring. Dalo wanted to sit down but then remembered where he was and reconsidered. He rubbed his eyes, trying to make the stabbing pain go away; when he opened them, all he saw was flame. “You could’ve turned your head,” he said. “Why should I turn my head?” she asked. “Because you’re the one that can see in the dark!” Dalo snapped. Kat laughed. “It’s not my fault that Draggon eyes are superior to human eyes. You’re the Chieftain of the Na’Geena—I would think you’d be smart enough not to look at me with the sensors on; an orangus could remember that.” “Right—blind me, then insult my intelligence: classic Kat.” The fire was fading, his vision returning to the inky blackness it should’ve been. He pulled the goggles back on and snapped them in place. “I feel sorry for the Draggons if Darkonus dies.” “Why?” “Because you’ll be their Queen…” Dalo turned and started up the left tunnel. They followed the three sets of prints for half an hour. Dalo insisted she stay behind him; she didn’t like it and told him so, several times, complaining that even an orangus could move faster. In the weeks since the Draggons first attacked Erador Prime, breaking the eighty-year truce with the humans, he and Katreena had formed a weird bond. The fact of who they are could’ve made them arch-enemies: the Na’Geena Chieftain and the Draggon Princess, but they shared the love of the same woman—his mother, Delia. They’d forged a grudging tolerance for each other at first, but it had morphed into something closer to respect on both sides. “Wait…” Dalo crouched and grabbed her forearm to stop her. “Do you hear that?” He flicked the button, turning the thermal sensors off, and concentrated on the surrounding sounds. An occasional splash punctuated the continuous drip-drip-drip of the waste-flow from
the pipes; each sound echoed down the tunnel. In the distance, a metallic scratching noise caught his attention: it was slow and steady, evenly paced. It bounced off the walls like the liquid sewersymphony and became distorted. His imagination worked to match the sound to an image in his mind, but he came up empty. “What do you think that is?” he whispered. Kat leaned close and put her lips next to his ear. “It’s the sound of Draggon steel on a whetstone.” She pushed in front of him, drawing her daggers, The Twin Fangs, from the sheath at the base of her neck. He grabbed her elbow and stopped her; she spun around and glared at him. Thank the gods he’d shut the sensors off: the flame in her eyes lit the tunnel twenty-feet behind him. “Eustas wanted us to follow them, not attack them.” “We’ve found what we wanted: we know how they’re getting inside. I don’t see the point in following them anymore…” Her face was hard, the corners of her mouth drawn into a grimace of hate. After Darkonus killed Delia, Kat launched herself on a murderous rampage against her own kind, intent on balancing the life she’d lost to her father’s betrayal, with hundreds that he cared for, and she had an excellent start. She had the highest personal body-count of dead Draggons since the war started—higher even than her uncle, Karal, and Dalo had seen him take on three Draggons at once and not break a sweat. He wasn’t sure if Draggons did sweat, now that he thought about it. “I don’t want you to get lost in this, Kat.” “Lost in the sewers?” she asked. “Lost in revenge,” he said. She shook her head and yanked her arm from his grasp. “Revenge will be this blade,” she held the right Fang up, “shoved into my father’s chest while I watch the fire in his eyes burn out. Are you with me, Chieftain? Or is all the big talk about the Na’Geena just that…?” “Eustas is gonna kill us.” Dalo shook his head. “We’ll say they attacked us.” She turned toward the sound and crept away. “Which is what will happen, if we can get a little closer…”
Judgement
The Prophet Trilogy Book 3
The Draggon King, Darkonus, died at the hands of his daughter – the cold steel of her dagger taking his life, and the void-wraith trapped within sucking his soul away. Now Kat has ascended to the Draggon throne and become their Queen.
The Trial of Sa’riya
Prelude to The Prophet Trilogy
Draggons are the worst…
The war with the Draggons is raging, and only the battle-hardened Na’Geena warriors can stand against them. They have the weapons that can kill them, and the Griffins they ride are the mortal enemies of the lizards. There’s a chance they could be defeated, but they have allies in the Eradorians, and a secret mission could turn the tide and destroy the Draggon King. Only a god can make it work. But will he help?
Ok, her twin sister was killed, but it was an accident…
When the Carolonian sun exploded, Zi’anna was caught in the blast-wave, and even her immortality and the powers of the K’Pa couldn’t save her from certain death. Now, the immortal’s Elder Council wants her sister, Sa’riya, to pay for that loss, with her life… But not all of them…
Follow along as the trial unfolds. Will they find her guilty? Would you?
“When you know the right question to ask, the answer will be obvious.” – Yin, The positive aspect
Excerpt:
The southern face of Krasus Cauldron was aglow with the reddish-tinged light of the morning suns: the red sun now peering above the horizon, following the yellow on its daily trek across the sky. Darryl stood at the edge of the rock ledge flanked by two Griffins, pointing the tip of Sinreaver at the two Draggons in front of him. The Draggons looked at the sword and Griffin claws and froze. “That’s wise.” Darryl grinned. “Carion, Shera, if they move, kill them.” The Griffins made a trilling sound and took one step toward the Draggons, their heads down and the tips of their wings trembling in anticipation. The Draggons backed up. Darryl turned to check on his brother’s progress with the Council guard. Karl raised Bloodrender above his left shoulder and swung down hard; the blade carved a sharp flashing arc through the air—stray drops of Draggonfire flying from the edge. The Draggon tried to dodge, but the tip of the sword cut a flaming gash across its right thigh—roaring in pain, the fire in its eyes intensified, focusing on the Na’Geena Chieftain. The Draggon made the mistake of breathing fire upon the sword: it was legendary, and all the Draggons knew what it could do. Bloodrender was dangerous even when it wasn’t on fire; all three of the Na’Geena swords were: they might absorb and redirect Draggonfire, but they were also one of only three things which could cut Draggonskin. The beast circled Karl, limping to his left, trying to find an opening in the Chieftain’s defense—there was none. “You’ll let me inside this Council chamber,” Karl growled at the Draggon, “or I’ll go through you.” The Draggon shifted into its human form: the scales and teeth and the twenty-foot lizard body morphing into a young man grimacing in pain. He clutched the bleeding-smoldering gash on his leg and shook his head at Karl. “Markus would kill me, or Darkonus…” “I could kill you right now,” Karl said, “and save them the trouble if you like, but I’m still going inside.” The Draggon limped to the cliff wall and leaned against it, waving Karl past with one hand. “Be my guest…”
Karl glanced at Darryl. “Don’t worry.” Darryl pointed toward the archway carved into the side of the mountain. “I have this covered, go. These Draggons are right where I want them.” Karl sheathed Bloodrender and stepped through the arch. The pain made him scream. It felt like he was being pulled apart one molecule at a time: fire ran through his veins and nerves, through every muscle fiber, burning all the connections. The reverse was true on the other side where his atoms smashed together again, reforming the burned and ripped apart body into a whole once more. He wound up on his knees on hard black granite, his hands clutching his chest, out of wind and half-dazed; smoke belched from his lungs when he finally caught a breath. “Humans really shouldn’t use that…” He looked at Nu’reen as his vision cleared; she had a look of mild concern on her face. Sa’riya ran to him and picked him up from the floor, her hands on his cheeks pulling his face to hers. “Are you Ok?” Karl shook the cobwebs from his head and threw his arms around her. “I’m fine, or I will be.” “You shouldn’t be here.” Darkonus stepped toward him. Karl drew Bloodrender and aimed it at him—the blade still burned with Draggonfire: drops of it fell from the edge, igniting the stone where they landed—sizzling plumes of molten granite rising into the air between them. “Ok, maybe we can overlook this…” The Draggon stepped back and took his seat. “What gives you the right to abduct my wife?” He faced the Council, examining their faces. “Why shouldn’t I kill you all right now?” “Because it would be ridiculous to believe you could, for one.” Jurak bounced up from his chair. “But, by all means, give it your best.” “Order!” Nu’reen slammed the gavel against the wood and pointed at the D’jinn. “You sit down.” Jurak spun and glared at her. “Don’t speak to me with that tone.” “You’ve all agreed, my decisions are final. Now sit down and shut up!” Nu’reen shifted into a much-older version of herself: gray hair and wrinkled skin, but the silver fire in her eyes grew brighter, and a luminous halo circled her head. The light from the halo ran down and lit her robe,
making it fluoresce in the dim light of the Council chamber. “Is this better Jurak? Do you accept my rulings in this form?” Jurak took his seat and stared at the floor, his arms across his chest. Nu’reen looked at Karl, the softness returning to her face. “Sa’riya, take him out… and explain,” she pointed at the archway, “and then return.” “You can’t let her go!” Markus jumped to his feet and turned on Nu’reen. “She’s given her word, and that’s all I need.” The silver flame intensified again as she stared at the Draggon, the halo pulsed in time with her breathing. “Are you going to challenge me as well?” Markus looked at Darkonus, who tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows. “Not yet…” Markus said. “Well, you let me know when you change your mind.” She banged the gavel. “In the meantime, let’s take a twenty-minute recess until Sa’riya gets back.”
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About the Author
Don Newton is a writer and armchair philosopher, author of the science fantasy trilogy “The Prophet”, and short stories too numerous to count. Don has been in love with science fiction and fantasy his entire life. The first alternate world he created was the result of a sixth-grade essay assignment, and he’s been hooked ever since. That world has grown and transformed into an entire multi-verse of possibilities to explore. Don’s not just a writer though, he has hobbies too: like making up funnier lyrics to popular songs. He sings them to himself when no one’s around—especially in the car. Don has a degree in Nursing and he’s a certified Paramedic. Six years in the Army sent him to places as diverse as Hawaii and Germany, where he was awarded the Army Achievement Medal for conduct above and beyond the call of duty. Having lived in nine different states and two foreign countries, he now calls the desert southwest home.
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