Novadis, the Seem-Witch...

    Her name was Novadis, and she was a Veyen Seem-Witch. She sat surrounded by crystals in tiny metal frames in one of the more obscure and hidden chambers in the Citadel. Like all members of her ancient race, she had no eyes: the space where they should have been covered by a patch of smooth skin. The Veyen, almost unique among the many different races and breeds of the Realm, had absolutely no capacity for sight, relying instead on their uncanny ability to foresee the future to tell them what was about. She turned slowly in her large chair, rotating it first to one side, then to the other. She enjoyed the privilege of  being Ghazen’s chief psychic, with her network of Veyen spies, secreted in towers about the city, all reporting telepathically directly to her. And when she saw fit, she allowed Ghazen to see what she could see. She span her chair to face the door just as Ghazen entered, causing him to jump mid-stride. Taking a moment to regain himself, he closed the door carefully behind him.
    “You wished to speak with me?” He said, straightening his vestments.
    “Boychild.” Was all that she said. She spat the word ferociously, flecks of spittle flying from her lips onto her black sackcloth robes, the traditional garb of her kind. While a Veyen acolyte, one not truly versed in the ways of her people, would wear a pure grey robe to demonstrate their purity, their not having chosen a path, those that followed the ways of light as they graduated were clad in lighter and lighter robes. And those that followed the path of darkness, well Novadis was a prime example. Her robes were blacker than black, and seemed to shimmer with an impossible ebon sheen.
    “Boychild? What’s that supposed to mean? ”
    “In this city.” She replied. “Soon. And he will be your downfall, Son of Master Kindly as he is.”
    Ghazen frowned. “But that’s impossible.”
    “Impossible is nothing. Miracles take longer. Nevertheless, he shall arrive and he shall be your downfall.” She smiled, revealing a set of gnarled and crumbling yellowed teeth.
    Ghazen drew close to the old crone, his face mere inches from hers. “How will he get here?” He growled.
    “Unsure, that much is clouded. But here he will arrive... soon.”
    “What do I do to stop him?” He licked his lips anxiously.
    Novadis laughed expansively, rocking in her chair and coming perilously close to headbutting Ghazen. “He cannot be stopped. He will not be stopped.” She laughed again, an infuriating noise. “But there may be a way…”
    “...to stop him? Then tell me, witch!” His eyes frantic, Ghazen glared at the eyeless woman, trying to find a way to enter her mind, to drag her secrets from her.
    “As it always is, the future is malleable, flexible. It is not rigid and cast in stone. The boychild can be defeat, but it will take great sacrifice and tactic on your part.” She cackled quietly to herself as she opened up her mind to Ghazen, allowing him to see the other futures she could see.
    Ghazen bent over the old woman, his back beginning to ache. But the pain was a diversion, one he shut out as he watched in his head the wonders she was showing him. When she had finished, Ghazen stood up straight, placing his large hands on the small of his back as he did. “Do you know,” he said, “someday I intend to find out a way to force you to give me a straight answer?”
    Novadis smiled enigmatically. “Yes.”

Young Master Kindly - Chapter One

Here is a little sample for you - the first chapter of Young Master Kindly. I hope you enjoy it.

Thirteen years ago.
Ustada. That was what it was called in the old tongue. But while new languages threw up new words, and since nobody spoke High Verek anymore, not since the Purge, pursuit would have to suffice. Rotok Miem counted his blessings, few as they were, as he clung tightly to the lean muscular back of the tonbunny as the giant rabbit thundered through the undergrowth. A loud crack issued from a rifle held by one of the pursuers, a thunderous sound that split the air. Burying his head in the tonbunny’s coarse fur, Rotok flinched as an arrow-tipped projectile zipped past his ear, parting hairs on the creature’s enormous head. The two pursuants urged their horses on faster, digging their spurred heels in. The smaller of the two took the long-barrelled weapon the other handed him and flipped down the lever that opened the breech, then slid home another arrow-pointed bullet and passed the gun back. Rotok guided his tonbunny through a violent zigzag that allowed another shot to miss him completely, much to the annoyance of the shooter, and turned his steed’s head towards the safety of the distant tree-line.
“Make this damned thing fire again!” The bigger man snarled, thrusting the weapon at his assistant. He did not understand firearms, and never would, so it was simpler to hand it to someone with the wherewithal to reload it. Grasping the rifle again, he loosed off another shot, which seemed to bounce off the air by the rider’s back, and the man cursed loudly, an act which made the other man wince. “What’s the matter, Forsythe? Lost the thrill of the chase?” Captain Ut’Arak snarled at his assistant.
“It’s just - language like that - I don’t feel it’s...  entirely necessary sir.” Corporal Edward Forsythe flushed red at the outburst. Ut'Arak snarled again, and cursed even louder.
“Sir, Vereks are known for their ability to turn aside arrows that are fired at them. I don’t think…”
“You are not paid to think, imbecile!” The Captain snapped with such ferocity that Forsythe was taken aback, and nearly dropped the bullet he was holding. Taking the rifle, he reloaded it deftly and threw it back.
Rotok waved his hand again, sending the incoming bullet off in a random direction. The pursuers were gaining, and with each passing second he was losing ground. He dug his heels in, and though the creature was starting to show the strain, he urged his tonbunny to draw just a little more on its reserves of strength. “Not long now, we’re nearly there.” He murmured, and the rabbit seemed to understand, and put on a burst of speed. Sitting up straighter, Rotok unslung his warbow, the half-double ended sword half-longbow that was a trademark of the Verek people, and drew an arrow from the quiver on his back. The fletches on the bow were raven feathers, and shimmered with a faint magical haze. He held the arrow up and whispered to it, giving it instructions. As he spoke, the fletches illuminated, as if they understood what the arrow was being asked to do. Then he notched the arrow to the bow, and sat up straight, twisting so he could fire.
The arrow streaked through the air with a sound like tearing paper, a sound well-known and feared by all enemies of the Verek people. And it flew directly towards Ut’Arak. A split-second before it hit his face, it exploded in a brilliant white ball of light and sound, knocking him clear off his horse and stunning Forsythe. And with that, Rotok was gone, his tonbunny dived through a gap in the underbrush. Safe in the midst of the forest, Rotok slowed to a gentle thumping trot, stroking the large creature between the ears.
“It’s alright, Thunder. We’re safe now.” The rabbit wheezed and puffed, and for the first time Rotok noticed something was wrong. Dismounting, he saw a large ragged red hole in the creature’s side, just behind it’s front legs. The fur around the edges of the wound was matted with blood, Rotok let out a silent curse. “Come on Thunder, it’s not far now.” He placed a comforting arm over the animal’s neck, and walked with it for the next half a mile. The forest thinned out a bit, opening into a broad clearing, a small waterfall tumbling into a deep clear pool. Rotok’s face cheered a little as he turned to his rabbit companion. “Look, let’s rest here a while.” But it was no good. The tonbunny lay it’s giant furry head down, breath coming in a hard laboured rasp. Rotok choked back a tear, wading into the pool and untying his cooking pot from his belt, he filled it with the fresh limpid water. By the time he came back, Thunder, the tonbunny he had kept since it was a kitten, who he had ridden through the glory days of the Realm and into the darkest times of the Purge, looked up at him, large brown eyes glazing over. Rotok held the pot of water to the giant creature’s mouth, urging it to drink. It's tongue lapped out feebly as it tried to take in the water, and Rotok dipped his hand in the pot and stroked his steed’s forehead gently. “It’s all right Thunder. You’ll be all right.” Suddenly, Rotok felt very tired. The whirlwind of events recently had been breath-taking in its terror and ferocity, and with each new development came new horrors, fresh atrocities. Looking down, Rotok felt a tightening in his throat as a heavy shudder ran through Thunder’s body, and the wheezing stopped. Rotok slumped to the floor, his knees suddenly unable to keep him upright. The pot clattered from his fingers and sloshed its contents onto the mud. His mind spun, the force of emotions he had kept under tight check the past few weeks suddenly coming to the front with a giddying force. The murder of Master Kindly, cunningly staged as a public duel, the breathtakingly fast rise of that devil Arturis Ghazen to power, the Purge, the swift and absolute massacre of all Vereks and other ‘enemies of the Realm’ or as they really were, enemies of Ghazen, it all hit Rotok with such intensity he found it hard to breathe. At least his sons were safe. That he could be sure of, one little piece of knowledge he clung onto for dear life. He had ridden hard for three days straight to get them to safety, to a secret cell of supporters who would see to it that they were taken care of and raised in safety and peace. Then he thought of his wife - and her death at the hands of Realmsmen. Those swine had raided the village at dusk, and proclaimed all the inhabitants to be executed at first light. Then those villains had forced the village folk, at sword, spear and gunpoint through the night to build the very scaffold upon which they would hang in groups of five. Rotok had watched the scene from his hiding place with his sons, making himself leave before the killings started so that he could get his boys to safety. He had to leave his wife behind, to the mercies of the Realm’s Ninth Army Brigade. Now, his only trusted companion in this world had gone, killed by that scum Ut’Arak and his adjutant Forsythe.
Rotok tried to hold back his impotent rage: He wanted to lash out at the world, to hurt it back for all the pain it had put him through, but he knew that he could not make a difference, he could not take on the entire Realm Army all by himself. He would have to wait for his revenge.
And for the first time in nearly thirty years, he wept.

Young Master Kindly.

To the people of the Realm, he was the Ravenlord: a noble and wise ruler. To Lady Mira, he was a loving and generous husband. To the Ravens, protectors of magic, he was their friend and ally, their voice for the people. To Master-At-Arms Rotok Miem, he was a God in human form, the man he had sworn to protect. To Archer Kindall, he was the father he would never know.

Master Kindly, usurped and slain by the sinister Crowmaster Arturis Ghazen has been gone for fifteen years now; his wife Lady Mira in exile in our world, watching over their son Archer and his two brothers.

When Archer discovers his legacy, he uncovers a whole other world of trouble. Finding his way purely by accident to the Realm, he (literally) stumbles across his father's old Master-At-Arms, Rotok and an adventure begins that will take him from Realmhaven to the Dead city of Isul, from the magnificence of Ravenholme to the very Citadel where his father's murderer keeps court.

With magic, wondrous beasts and the dreaded magpie clan Kin Rah, Young Master Kindly is truly a unique work of fiction.

And watch out... the Shadows bite!