top of page

About W.K.CLYDE

Greetings,

I'm Warren Kenneth Clyde, and I want to open up to you about who I am. I was born in the vibrant city of Verdun, Quebec, Canada, with a passion for writing that's been a constant in my life.

But you see, there's a twist to my story. I've always dreamt of being a writer, yet I carried self-doubt as a heavy burden. I didn't follow the usual path, and at times, I questioned whether I had what it takes. Life wasn't always easy, and I've walked through shadows that weren't always kind.

Life took me through various jobs, but none truly felt right. It wasn't a lack of effort—it was the lack of that elusive spark that fuels our souls. I often wondered, "Is this all there is? Is this the life I'm meant for?"

And then, something changed. I chose to bid farewell to the ordinary and embrace the extraordinary. Writing became my refuge, a way to conjure realms and characters from thin air. Pangerath emerged as a realm of magic and limitless adventure. But that wasn't all; I penned Valentine's Vampiric Volumes and let my mind wander through hidden corners of imagination.

"Writing isn't just a pastime for me; it's my essence. Every day, I pour my emotions onto the pages, crafting fantasies that offer an escape from reality's harsh edges. Fantasy is my sanctuary—a refuge filled with enchantment, magic, and boundless horizons. Here, I can conjure worlds and companions more comforting than the ones I find in my daily life. Wizard's, Witches, Vampires, legends, lore and mystical realms are integral parts of this world, one I welcome with open arms. Within these creative bounds, my imagination knows no limits, and the concepts of love and enduring, true friendship take on an immortal essence. Writing has become my solace, a balm that helps ease the pain of loss and loneliness, allowing me to find solace and connection in the realms I create."

Yet, being a writer is an emotional journey. Doubts often creep in, wondering if my words will find a place in others' hearts. I've stood at the precipice of a blank page, heart pounding. But here's what I've realized—writing is my calling. Every word, every tale, is a fragment of my soul that I'm sharing with you. It's my hope, that within these words you won't just meet the characters I create but also discover what I've found—a deep well of profound love and the unwavering friendships I've yearned for, something I believe we all do. In the tapestry of my writing, these emotions become immortal, resonating eternally with those who immerse themselves in the realms I bring to life.

As you delve into my stories, whether it's the enchanted lands of Pangerath or the hidden lives of vampires, remember that you're not merely reading words. You're entering my realm, a realm shaped by determination and love. My journey might not follow the beaten path, but it's uniquely mine. And within these pages, I hope you discover that spark, that connection, and perhaps a reflection of yourself.

Cheers to us, to discovery, and to the boundless power of imagination. Let's embark on this voyage together, shall we?

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • LinkedIn
  • Instagram

Join the Mailing List

Subscribe to our mailing list and be the first to know about the latest books and exclusive deals. We value your feedback, so please share your critiques to help us improve your reading experience.

Thank You for Subscribing!

ENTERTEHDARKWIZARDFIXEDERRORE300DPI.jpg
pangerathWAR300dpi.jpg
THISISTHECOVERFORVALENINE.jpg
previewArtist Name
00:00 / 26:06

February 18th, 2020

 

 

Her scream still claws through my dreams, though two thousand years have passed. I have butchered kings, burned empires, ripped throats, and bathed in the blood of begging cowards. I have fucked death itself into silence and torn the souls from every bastard foolish enough to stand before me. Their blood never haunted me—only the shadow that claimed me. And I have come to love that shadow with a hunger beyond damnation. Who the hell wouldn’t? To be the hand of death itself—untouchable, eternal, wearing a man’s face.

For two millennia, love and loss have entwined within my immortal heart, each memory a whisper lingering in the shadows. Now, as I step into the room with my dear Brooklyn, ready to recount my tale, I find myself confronting the pain that time refuses to soften.

After rifling through journals that span two thousand years, I have—at last, after what feels like a century of her nagging—granted Brooklyn her wish to immortalize my story. This newest fancy of hers is to play the scribe—ahem!—an indie writer.

She insists that publishing a weekly online account of how I came to be might, somehow, draw him to me. And so, as ever, because I can never refuse family, I’ve settled into my favourite leather chair, my journals resting within the towering shelves that guard my study. Always close at hand, should my memory falter. “In case your ancient mind decides to fail you,” as my granddaughter so often delights in reminding me.

Brooklyn, meanwhile, has planted herself before that infernal machine, fingers poised, ready to transcribe as I speak.

Strangely, I am at ease. Perhaps it is the ambient glow of the stoked fire, perfuming the air with lilac incense, that summons ethereal memories of my beloved to drift before me as I sip my favourite vintage—the bottle breathing patiently on the table at my side.

For so long I have buried much of my past from her, fearing she might see me in another light. Yet Brooklyn insists—adamant as ever—that this is her project, that she must know everything if she is to truly know herself, no matter what shadows that knowledge may cast.

After countless ages of restless searching, I believe I have at last succeeded in restoring my lost lineage, for I encountered sweet Yedda on the night of this past Christmas Eve. And so, the hour has come for Brooklyn to learn of her origins. I shall indulge her.

Brooklyn glanced back from her seat. “Are you ready?”

“Dear granddaughter—one question first.”

She sighed, nodding as she turned back. “Okay, Papi. Let’s go. Spill it. What now?”

“My dear,” I said gently, “how are we to know that what you write will be believed?”

“As I told you before,” she smiled, “this is not the old world, Papi. Superstitions faded long ago when science took hold. No one believes anymore. If science cannot prove it, then it cannot be real.”

Turning back to her monitor, Brooklyn lifted her hands and laughed. “I mean, look—witch covens, zombie lairs, and now, Papi, actual vampire communities popping up all over the place. People even invite it now—they want you to suck their blood. To them, vampires don’t exist; it’s just some fantasy, some desire to live forever. A fictional escape. And Papi, we’re only doing this in the hope that they read it, or hear of it.”

“Very well, dear,” I said. “You may proceed. I keep forgetting this is meant to be written to attract them.”

Brooklyn giggled, her head bobbing. “And Papi, you know you don’t have to talk so… old school, right?”

“I know. But I have—”

“You’ve seen the world a hundred times over,” she cut in with a snicker, “met millions of people through the centuries, in every dialect imaginable, and… ha-ha…”

“You do realise I can hear you, dear girl,” I replied.

She turned, grinning. Of course she knew. That was why she made fun of me.

 

 

 

 

 

EGYPT

 

 

I was born Valentino Pompeius Magnus in Roma on September 22, 7 B.C.—and died on September 22, 33 A.D., only to be reborn hours later.

Seven months before that untimely rebirth, I came ashore at the Eastern Port of Alexandria, sailing through the Bay of Aboukir. The docks thundered with merchants shouting their wares, the air heavy with salt, sweat, and the spice of foreign perfumes. Waiting for me was a horse, and with it a contubernium of Roman soldiers led by General Gaius Potitious Calpurnianus, whose legion had held Egypt since Rome took her as protectorate a decade prior.

“Welcome… welcome, General!” Gaius called over the din.

“General.” I gave him a curt nod, slipping my journal into the breast of my cuirass before mounting the steed offered by a foot soldier.

“I trust your voyage was not too unpleasant?” he asked, turning his mount so that it paced beside mine.

“I prefer my feet on solid earth,” I answered, “but the sea did not treat me unkindly.”

We pressed through the clamorous market, centurions flanking fore and rear, their armour catching flashes of Alexandrian sun.

Gaius eyed me sidelong and chuckled. “Ha! I see you still keep that journal of yours?”

I tapped my cuirass. “Every general should. Writing the day’s events allows one to scrutinise, to weigh them properly. And when dealing with politicians and their serpent tongues, it pays to have a record of who said what, and when.”

The General laughed. “Hell, I don’t need that.”
He swept his hand with theatrical disdain, gesturing at the city around us. “Out here, far from the Senate, I can breathe—even in this damned shithole.”

“Well, you know…”

A centurion’s bark cut me short. “Hoooo!” His arm snapped up, halting the line. Our procession came to a rigid stop.

The general spurred his horse toward a nearby merchant’s stall. He leaned from his saddle, flipped a coin to the man, and waited. The merchant accepted it, then bent low to fetch a leather flask. That was when I noticed the ink. A mark, burned into the flesh at the base of his neck.

The man stiffened under my gaze. He turned quickly, dragging his frayed linen cloak high, hunching like a turtle to conceal the brand.

It was not the first I had seen. Since setting foot in Alexandria, I had marked the same sigil upon many citizens. Always half-hidden, always guarded, as though the skin itself were cursed to betray them.

The general secured his purchase, and I leaned closer. “These tattoos,” I said, tapping the back of my own neck, “I have seen them before. A handful of citizens, all with the same mark.”

“Ah…” He gave a knowing grunt, lowering his voice as we rode on. “That, my dear friend, is the mark of the House of Horus.”

“The House of Horus?” My interest sharpened.

His horse sidled nearer, his tone dropping to a whisper as his eyes swept the crowd.

“When the Queen had her brother slain and seized the throne, she exiled his high priests—along with their followers and families—to the northeastern wastes of this rain-forsaken land. These priests were of the House of Horus, marked with the blue eye, most often carved at the nape of the neck. Some, wiser, conceal it.”

“Found?” I asked.

“Found,” Gaius affirmed with a curt nod. “By the Queen’s dogs—the Sons of Set. They despise any creed that dares rival their deity. And so they seize folk at will, strip them bare in the streets, and scour their flesh in daylight before the eyes of the mob, hunting for the mark.”

He leaned close, lowering his voice. “Whispers abound, that such ‘inspections’ often end in disappearances. And when the bodies are found—if found—they are flayed, scalped of their markings, butchered so cruelly that they are scarcely men any longer.”

His calloused hand clamped suddenly around my forearm, his gaze locking hard upon me. He said nothing, yet in the silence I heard more than words could ever give—there was something deadly at work here, something too dangerous to name.

I inclined my head to show I understood.

Still, I could not be troubled by zealots in robes. I shook my head, lips curling. “I have always found it amusing—religion preaches forgiveness and peace, yet when challenged, its priests bare their teeth like any other beast: cruel, vindictive, and blood-hungry.

The General’s hand struck my wrist again, halting me. “Yeah, well, these hairless piss-ants rule Egypt. Mark my words. They’ve the ear of Cleopatra herself. Especially that snake Amenemhat, Set’s high priest. He’s a bitch. They say he traffics with demons.”

“Demons?” I scoffed. “Phantoms for the gullible. Shadows conjured by cowards who peddle fear from dark corners. Not demons, Gaius—men. Men who lust to play God. If I believed in gods.”

He slapped my shoulder with a laugh. “Valentino—such blasphemy! Careful, lest Jupiter strike you where you sit.”

I wiped the sweat from my brow and grinned. “Jupiter himself would wither in this inferno before lifting a hand against me.”

The General roared.

We pressed on toward Alexandria along the trenched path of the so-called Silk Road, hemmed by an endless caravan of frothing camels and hollow-eyed traders jousting with the sun beneath their umbraculums.

Surveying the chaos, I wondered why Rome had forsaken this place. Rome usually stamped its mark wherever it settled—law, order, marble, arches. Here there was none of that. Only a barren isle of shit, piss, and scorching sand. A dustbowl of cold-staring refugees, gaunt and watchful, waiting for nightfall to pounce and strip you of possessions—or your life.

Leaving the market’s shade, the sun hit like a hammer. Heat wrapped me at once, my tunic plastered to my skin, pores drowning in humidity. I thought I might slide from my horse, melt into the golden ground, and surrender to oblivion.

How do these people live here? Day after day in a furnace that warps the horizon into mirages, driving the mind half-mad?

Even worse, some walked barefoot—talking, laughing—as if the fire beneath them were nothing more than earth. My boiling thoughts reeled.

“So, Valentino, what of that beautiful wife of yours?” Gaius asked. “Does she look forward to coming to this piss hole?”

“Truth be told, she’s eager to arrive. Immersing herself in the culture became her obsession. She longed to stand before the monuments she had poured over in her studies—and to test the rumours of those ivory pyramids, sentinels in Giza.”

“The rumours are true,” Gaius said, shading his eyes and pointing south. “Five or six days on those spiteful camels. You can see the cap pointing to the sun.”

I raised a hand to block the glare—and froze. By the gods! Even from this distance their majesty struck me. Shivers cut through my overheated body as I drank in the sight: three colossal guardians rising from an endless sea of shimmering sand.

“Well,” I chortled, “I know where I’ll be heading when she arrives.”

“Ha! And when does she?”

“Tomorrow, on the next merchant vessel.” I could not hide my anticipation.

“And your twin daughters? They must be growing.”

“They are. Turned ten last week. They come with their mother.” The thought of my girls arriving tomorrow warmed me more than the sun could scorch. As fathers do, I found myself eager to boast of them.

“Siri, in fact, is the reason for my wife’s delay,” I said with a snicker. “She slipped off to explore again, throwing us all into a panic.”

“Haa! By the gods, she carries your spirit.”

“I swear, Gaius, Iris was a gift of Minerva. But Siri—if not for her mother’s features—I’d wager Artemis herself delivered her.”

A smile stole across my face as I pictured their laughter. “Each day they grow more into their mother’s likeness. I dread the years ahead, when girlhood turns to womanhood. Siri may bear her mother’s fiery hair and Iris my raven locks, yet in their beauty I will scarcely tell them apart.”

Our conversation devoured not only the loathsome sun but the hours themselves. When at last my thoughts were freed from tender images, I looked up and found a garrison of Roman soldiers saluting, waiting to welcome us into Alexandria.

“They look up to you here—the men,” said the General. “News of your victories in Gaul and Persia has reached these shores. Your celebrity precedes you.”

“You mean my father’s celebrity,” I confessed, resignation in my voice. “His victories invite endless scrutiny and comparison. I fear his shadow will follow me to the grave.”

“He was a great general, Valentino,” Gaius said.

“A great general, yes,” I whispered inwardly. “A father—never.”

We passed through the phalanx corridor to find yet more soldiers, their ranks lining a road of mudbrick homes.

“Whoa!” they cried in unison, spears tilting to guide me toward my new dwelling—a modest house crouched in the shadow of a majestic, brilliantly painted palace.

I reined in my steed, struck dumb by the splendour above, a grandeur that seemed to enchant the entire city.

The General lingered behind, indulging my wonder as my eyes roved over the host of golden deities guarding the palace. Among them rose two colossal figures I knew from my wife’s stories and sketches.

Flanking the palace doors stood the jackal god Seth—twin sentinels of flawless onyx, each armed with gleaming golden spears. Their bodies gleamed with a king’s ransom: golden shendyt, thick bands encircling their dark arms, opulence poured into stone.

Yet what most arrested me was the vision upon the roof.

Elegant and proud, she stood atop the colossal pyramid-shaped roof: a statue of such beauty it defied belief. Never, even now, have I seen its like.

It enthralled all who gazed upon it; even the relentless sun seemed to bow in reverence. Suspended against the heavens, it poured radiance over the edifice, a caress of light upon the city and the vast sands beyond.

“By the gods,” slipped from my atheist lips as my eyes traced the contours of the white-and-gold statue of the goddess Isis.

Her wings, black and gold, unfurled with a span nearly as broad as the roof itself. Her regal head inclined, eyes of diamond sparkling as they cast a commanding gaze upon the world below.

This, beyond question, was the Queen’s palace, perched upon a broad hill of more than two acres, rising high above the common dwellings.

Its architecture, its artistry, eclipsed every suspicion I had harboured of Egypt’s barbarism. In that splendour, Alexandria revealed the magnificence the desert beyond had long denied me.

My gaze lingered on Isis until shadows broke the spell. Across a balcony below, three men stood half-hidden, their jewels flashing in the dusk. I felt their eyes measuring me, weighing my worth. I indulged them, meeting their stares until they looked away—just as Gaius called.

“Here we are, General. Welcome.” He dismounted before a two-storey mudbrick home.

I guided my steed forward and was greeted by seven bowing servants. A bald, tanned man in a white loincloth stepped forth and lowered himself. “My lord.”

“Ah, yes—this is Anu,” said Gaius, tapping his shoulder. “He’s in charge of the servants and keeps the place as well ordered as it is.”

I nodded. Anu, still slightly bowed, shuffled back to the entrance where the thick wooden doors gaped open.

Extending his arm, he beckoned us inside and guided us toward the rear of the sprawling home. The other servants followed close behind, fanning us with wide plumes.

The women especially caught my eye. Their white linen dresses clung to bronzed skin, a single strap drawn taut across the shoulder, golden sashes cinching narrow waists.

What held my attention wasn’t their indifference to their dark nipples pressing against linen, but their faces—adorned with grepond and kohl, their eyes deep with a seduction that could hold any soul hostage at a glance.

We stepped into the open courtyard where roasted antelope and rich wine perfumed the air. A feast stretched across a massive marble table, tempting my mouth to water.

“Centurion,” I called, motioning him from the shade.

“General.” He saluted.

“Prepare a contubernium and summon servants, along with three lectica, to greet my wife, Alexandria. She arrives early morning.”

“General!” He stamped his breastplate before hurrying off.

“Might as well pamper the girls,” I muttered with a snicker.

Shedding our sun-baked cuirass, we sat in soaked tunics to eat, drink, and talk until dusk crept across the courtyard.

The General, having gorged, leaned back, tapped his stomach, and belched. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Good luck, General. I must see my men at the garrison before I depart.”

We rose and clasped arms. “Very well. Safe journey,” I said with a grin. “And don’t go getting fat in Rome.”

“Fuck that. That’s exactly what I mean to do—food and fucking.” We laughed, and he departed, while I lingered to grow acquainted with my new home.

As the servants drifted away for the night, I carried my wine and began my inspection.

My weary steps led me to my chamber, a sanctuary at the heart of the house. Its broad bed stood on cool marble, veiled by flowing curtains that swayed in the night breeze. Crickets sang their rhythm outside, and beyond the window the moonlit courtyard offered a quiet backdrop to my slumber.

The suffocating heat roused me at dawn, my mouth parched, my head pounding, eyes blurred, and skin drenched in sweat-soaked cloth. The servants had already returned, guiding me to the refuge of a cooling bath.

Perfumed and oiled with lotus and papyrus, I was dressed and stationed outside under guard, acknowledging curious passersby as I waited for my beloved.

As the dreaded heat of midday swelled, a sudden buzz rippled through the city. Citizens flocked south in eager droves.

I rushed to the second floor to peer down the street, my heart pounding with the certainty that love and instinct had guided me true. And there they were—the returning soldiers, escorting my beloved family.

Two of the three litters cradled my daughters, reclining behind sheer curtains, their small hands waving playfully to the mesmerized throng.

And then—a vision. My wife.

A chuckle escaped me. I should have expected nothing less. While my daughters rode in comfort, she boldly sat astride a horse, like a man, defying every convention. The spectacle left even hardened soldiers rooted in place, murmuring in astonishment.

If her audacity did not ignite the city’s chatter, her beauty surely did. Call me biased, but it was not only her striking figure that held them captive—it was her angelic countenance, her sun-kissed skin, her unusually light green eyes, and the cascade of fiery curls streaming down her back. Strands danced with the horse’s gait, brushing her freckled cheeks like flames kissed by the wind.

It was a scene so well-choreographed it etched itself into memory—and, I dare say, into the lustful hearts of the city’s men. Their admiration for her beauty could only be eclipsed by mine, as I marvelled that such a woman could love me.

As she trotted gracefully behind our daughters, smiling at her admirers, her gaze locked with mine from the balcony. My star-crossed eyes met hers, and her smile widened as she urged her horse forward, emerald eyes never breaking from me.

I rushed downstairs, heart hammering, and fell to my knees as my daughters leapt from their litters into my arms. Their fevered kisses and embraces smothered me as I stroked their perfumed hair.

“I missed you, my girls!” I confessed through laughter and a torrent of fatherly kisses.

“Eww, Dad,” they cried in unison, wriggling free. Yet their whispered reply—“We missed you too, Daddy”—burned sweeter than any victory. Then, like children do, they darted into the house, already forgetting me.

I closed my eyes, drew a breath of contentment, and turned just as my wife dismounted, ignoring the crowd to fix her gaze solely upon me—her infantilized, enraptured husband.

Her wide eyes and beaming smile met mine. “It’s only been a few days, Val.” She flushed, glancing at my men. “I mean… General Valentino,” she added, snapping a mock salute—before betraying herself with a snort.

Fuck the men.

I pulled her into my arms, coiling around her firm curves, lips tracing her neck beneath the veil of auburn curls. The faint perfume lingered, mixed with the salted dew of sweat glistening on her skin.

“Mmm, I missed you, my love,” I breathed into her ear, drunk on her closeness.

Her warm breath answered with a playful nibble, her body pressing against mine, breasts firm to my chest, her longing no less fierce than my own.

Shrewd Minx. She knew that, were it not for the cluster of people around us, I would have taken her right there and then.

PROLOGUE

 

 

The first child vanished on a moonless night. By the seventh, people had stopped counting.

Cradle your imagination, dear reader, and allow my words to weave a spellbound tapestry across these waiting pages. Lean closer—for as you turn each leaf, the realm of Pangerath shall unfurl its mysteries like a cloak of living enchantment. Yet before we begin, our journey must first step back through time, into an age long past, to uncover the truths that shaped the story you now hold.

The roots of Pangerath reach thousands of years into the sands of Upper Egypt. But that is a story for another day. What I share now takes place many ages later—long after Pangerath was severed from the motherland, hidden from the eyes of men.

It is a tale of courage and loss, of friendship tested by darkness, of hearts that clung to hope when the world gave them none. In these lands, choices carve the path of destiny. Yet I ask you: do we shape our fate, or has it already been written by a hand unseen?

This is their story.
Their choices.
Their destiny.

If ever there was a place to embody nature’s beauty and myth, peace and peril alike, it was Pangerath. No land upon Earth could rival its splendor—untouched by modern man, preserved in secrecy since the reign of the Pharaohs. Ancient magics shrouded its borders, keeping its wonders hidden and its people bound within. Legends whispered of it—Atlantis, Lemuria, the Bermuda Triangle—but all were shadows of one truth: there was only ever Pangerath.

Rolling emerald hills gave way to forests of towering oaks and redwoods, where rivers born of the Hellwyn Mountains spilled into Lake Tyrn in a silver veil. From there, waters fanned outward to nourish villages and fields before plunging in a hundred-foot fall to the endless ocean. To the east, vast Lake Windemere shimmered, its streams threading lifeblood through the land.

Three kingdoms flourished here. In the south, Bubastis, its golden banners graced with the black falcon. At the heart of Pangerath, Tanis, its crimson flag coiled with a serpent poised to strike. And in the tranquil north, Piramesses, bearing the white banner of the Eye of Horus, rimmed in gold.

For many years, peace held.

But peace, like glass, can shatter with but a touch.

Rumors began to spread—children missing from Bubastis and Tanis. No traces. No reasons. Whispers of a name carried on the wind: Malus.

Hidden deep in the south, in caverns carved into the underworld itself, he built his horde. A wizard both brilliant and cruel, whose heart had long since turned black. Tall and gaunt, with hair dark as a raven’s wing and eyes cold as obsidian, Malus bore the mark of his father’s violence—a scar carved deep above his left eye.

Raised under an iron fist, denied love, he embraced power as his only companion. He bowed to no one—not kings, not witches, not even the gods. He swore never again to be weak, never again to be struck down.

The boy who once longed for his father’s approval had become the man who would seize a throne of his own—no matter the cost.

And so began the age of Malus.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

TO BE KING

 

 

A storm brewed over lower Pangerath as winter crept in on the heels of war. In a village beyond the shadow of King Jyl’s castle, the cold wind swept down from the northern cliffs of Hellwyn Mountain. Trees shed their last fire-hued leaves, bending beneath the force of the gale. Branches cracked and tore away, carried screaming into the night by the storm’s ruthless embrace.

Then came the screams.

They pierced the wailing winds, shattering the restless night. Cottages burned in sudden eruption, flames clawing high into the heavens, showering the darkness with embers that spiraled upward before vanishing into black. The village bell tolled, iron-voiced and urgent, summoning all to flee. Scouts thundered on horseback toward the castle, cloaks snapping in the wind, while smoke rolled over the battlements and seeped into the nostrils of the waking garrison.

Within the walls, soldiers stumbled from their beds, confusion clouding their eyes. Some scrambled half-armoured to the ramparts, where torches and great braziers bled firelight across the stones. They gazed out over the field below. Fearful villagers, some barefoot, clutching children, others clutching nothing at all, ran toward the moat, shouting for sanctuary. Others fled westward, toward the shrouded forests.

The castle itself, a bastion of stone, stood tall against the night. Its curtain walls bristled with watchtowers, and its wide moat shimmered with the silver light of a newly revealed moon. With a groaning of iron, the chains strained as the drawbridge lowered, ushering the scouts and terrified citizens inside. Archers hurried along the battlements, peering into the smoke-choked dark, while weary knights hastily donned armour and mounted their barded steeds.

The defenses bristled into order. Heavily armed cavalry gathered as vanguard, while ranks of foot-soldiers took their place with long, gleaming spears, the metal tips catching the moonlight. Behind them, shielded infantry formed up, their breaths steaming in the cold.

Overhead, the storm broke just enough for the hunter’s moon to cast its cold gaze upon the invaders.

They came like a nightmare brought into flesh.

At the fore were black-armoured knights astride massive warhorses, their serrated lances poised to strike. Behind them swarmed the goblins—creatures twisted and vile, their leathery skin blotched and wrinkled, their long hooked noses dripping foul spittle. They scuttled forward, knives and crooked swords in hand, their blackened teeth glinting through snarls. Drool dripped from their chins to the trampled earth, leaving a stench of rot in their wake.

And behind them came the Orcs.

They towered over the goblins, pale-skinned with jutting tusks and frames that dwarfed men. Some were mountains of corded muscle, their scarred hides slick with the sheen of oil-sweat, others bloated from excess, their bellies swinging beneath crude pelts. Spikes of leather and bone adorned their hulking shoulders. From their necks hung trophies—skulls, teeth, even entire spines strung like grisly garlands. Their weapons, massive hammers and double-edged axes, gleamed with a promise of ruin.

The smell of them was foul—mud and blood and something worse, something oily that clung to the back of the throat. They wallowed in filth to guard their skins against flame, their yellowed claws sinking deep into the dirt as they shifted, eager, restless.

And through the ranks ran a single truth: they fought not for glory, but for blood. And for fear—fear of the one who commanded them.

Fear of Malus.

The blood of men and the thrill of conquest, crowned with the spoils of war and the lamentations of the weak—such was all the reward the horde required.

From a hilltop, Malus watched. His hooded cloak shadowed his face, but the glint of the silver serpent atop his black crystal staff—its ruby eyes gleaming, ivory fangs bared—betrayed him, a snake not unlike its master.

Below, the King’s defenses waited in terror. Mercifully, the wind had risen, dragging a pall of black cloud across the hunter’s moon. The battlefield lay cloaked in a shifting veil, revealing only shadow-shapes of the horde. The clang of armour carried across the night; beneath it, one could almost hear the frantic beating of countless hearts—man, horse, and beast. Warm breath steamed into the freezing air, rising like smoke. Behind it all, the burning village cast a fiery glow that turned the fog into a restless sea of shadow.

The warhorses of Bubastis pawed the earth, nostrils flaring, eyes wide and white with unease. Golden caparisons bearing the black falcon sigil draped their flanks. Plates of shining steel covered their necks; horned chaffrons crowned their heads. Their riders tugged at reins, pulling down visors, silver armour crested with the falcon flashing faintly in the gloom. Lances tucked under their arms, their shields small and round, they braced for the charge.

Malus lifted his staff. Thunder answered. He slammed it into the earth, and the ground shook. His army roared as one and surged forward.

The men of Bubastis quailed, yet held their ground. Few had ever seen war; none had seen this. The captain rose tall in his saddle, his voice cutting the storm:

“Men! This night we show these usurpers that a man defending his home is a DRAGON!”

The men roared back, striking sword against shield, their voices carrying through the fog.

“Let them hear our hearts!” he bellowed. “Let them know their end has come! RAAAAAAAA!”

The roar swelled, echoing like thunder along the wall. Then the captain, proud and grim, dismounted to stand with his soldiers in the vanguard.

Through the fog, the dark shapes came at last. The captain dropped his arm.

Archers dipped their arrows into pots of liquid fire, drew, and loosed. The night filled with the hiss and rush of a thousand burning shafts, a storm of flame that blotted the moonlight. The hiss gave way to the wet thump of impact. Screams erupted—horses shrieking, goblins howling, Orcs bellowing as serrated iron tore flesh. Some burst into flame, writhing, their skin blistering as molten cloth seared them alive.

But the horde came on. The thunder of hooves shook the ground. The captain turned to his men.

“Shields!”

With a crash, the foot soldiers dropped to one knee. Bronze shields slammed to earth, spiked bosses jutting forward. Spears bristled above the wall of metal. They clashed their weapons against the shields, a deafening rhythm that rolled across the field, drowning fear in a storm of sound.

And still the darkness advanced.

The screams of dying men and beasts clawed at the ears of those behind the shield wall, yet the iron barrier could not mute them. Should they survive, that sound would haunt their dreams until death.

Beyond the mist, hidden from their fearful eyes, the knights of Bubastis—once two hundred strong—were cut to half. Yet still they did not yield. Lowering lances, they charged again.

The clash came like thunder. Lance struck lance. Iron split against armour. Horses collided, shrieking. Men were hurled from saddles, their bodies striking the earth with sparks of steel on stone. Unridden horses fled into the night, wild-eyed, hooves lashing at phantoms.

The knights of Bubastis fought on, breath ragged, swords drawn, determined to carve their brothers a chance at survival. But the black lances found them, piercing silver plate, turning bright armour crimson. The charge dissolved into slaughter.

Bodies piled. Some knights, trapped beneath their fallen brethren, gasped for air through the weight of corpses. Others, visors pressed into crimson sludge, drowned silent, eyes wide with terror, their mouths filling with blood and mud.

From the fog, only riderless horses returned, their eyes rolling white, breath steaming as if chased by death itself. The captain saw—and bowed his head. He drew the deepest breath of his life, clenched his jaw, and bellowed:

“FOR OUR BROTHERS! FOR OUR FAMILIES! FOR OUR HOMES—MARCH!”

Side by side, the foot soldiers rose. Shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield, they marched forward. Fear burned in their eyes, yet they did not falter. Not now.

The fog broke. Orcs, goblins, and the remaining black knights loomed, monstrous silhouettes wreathed in mist and steam. The spears of Bubastis bristled, but the enemy’s lances stretched longer, hungrier.

The clash was merciless. The foot soldiers’ shields rang, spears thrust and broke, but Malus’s abominations came without pause. They feared no death, nor cared for friend or foe, hacking wildly with blade and hammer. Blood sprayed. Orcs tore arms from torsos. Goblins sank teeth into exposed flesh, grinning through gore as they licked blood from their lips.

The air stank of iron, sweat, and burnt flesh. Soldiers tasted blood in every breath, the sharp tang of fear and cold night. The green fields of Bubastis drowned beneath a blanket of corpses. Boots splashed in pools of crimson as the survivors trudged on to death or glory.

The black knights rode through the mire, their horses soaked to the chest in blood, beards of dripping crimson staining their chins. Behind them came Malus.

He advanced slowly, the silver serpent of his staff gleaming. At his side walked the Harbingers.

Seven feet tall, their skin was inked with hieroglyphic sigils, their eyes black and empty as tombs. Each bore the colour of his mastery—red for fire, blue for water, brown for earth, white for air. Even their eyelids were branded with symbols, so that when they blinked, their gaze was never free of magic’s mark.

They were not men. They were hunger wearing flesh. Fear itself took form in their presence, and the soldiers who dared meet their eyes saw only their own deaths reflected back.

Clad in leather dyed the colours of their craft, the Harbingers required no heavy armour. Their strength lay in sorcery, not steel. Long, lustrous robes covered their frames, fastened with wax-dipped twine. Hieroglyphs of ancient power stitched the hems and hoods, their glowing motifs proclaiming the elements they commanded.

Their faces, shadowed by deep hoods, remained a mystery. Only the faint gleam of inked symbols that crept across their chins and lips betrayed the horrors beneath. Their hands—tattooed in the same forbidden script—remained hidden within wide sleeves, fingers cupped around staffs crowned with crystal orbs in which fire, water, air, and earth writhed restlessly.

  • Peto, robed in deep blue, carried the ocean in his orb.

  • Sakkara, in crimson, bore the restless flame.

  • Setna, white-robed with black sigils, was master of the air.

  • Herihor, in brown and green, held dominion over earth.

They advanced as Malus’s soldiers fell back to drink and breathe. Low chants curled from their lips. The air turned heavy, charged with power.

Then came ruin. Arrows of flame and shards of ice tore through the ramparts, archers falling screaming from their posts. Setna lifted his staff and a colossal hand of cloud and wind clawed the sky, seizing men from the walls and dashing them against stone with sickening cracks. In moments, the defenses crumbled.

When the slaughter ceased, the drawbridge was gone, replaced by a bridge of living earth that Herihor called forth with a single word. Malus led his horde across.

The castle streets ran red. Men, women, and children—slain without mercy. Goblins gorged on the dead and dying. Orcs, crouched in pools of blood, crunched bone as their victims still twitched. Pleas for swift death were met with laughter. The stench of burning flesh and spilled entrails thickened the air until even the soldiers gagged.

Inside the great keep, the final stand was brief. Fire melted armour to flesh; winds crushed steel and bone alike. Men frozen mid-scream shattered beneath falling marble as Herihor split the ceiling with a tremor.

The throne room burned with shadow and flame. Stained-glass windows, once glowing with false tales of noble kings, bled colours across white marble now slick with blood and mud. The golden chandelier swung wildly above, its light scattering into the gloom.

Two thrones awaited at the room’s heart, gold and silver, crowned with falcons of black onyx. Before them stood King Jyl, trembling sword in hand. Behind him, his wife clutched their two young sons, pale and silent in their night-robes.

The king’s voice broke as he shouted, “Why, Malus? WHY?” His sword shook though he tried to keep it level. “What have we done to deserve such effrontery?”

Malus stood before him, shadow cloaking his features. His Harbingers fanned out at his sides, their hoods lowered just enough to reveal their dead, inked eyes.

He stepped forward, striking his staff upon the marble. The sound echoed like thunder.

“You dare ask me why?” His voice was calm, cold, steeped in disdain. “You and your kind sit upon gilded thrones, basking in your false virtue. You belaud yourselves as righteous while you trample those beneath you. My father among them.”

The king’s jaw tightened. He spat his reply, trembling with fury. “Your father was mad! And was it not you who struck him down?”

Peering up at the king, Malus did not answer at first. His silence was not mercy, but disdain. When he finally spoke, his voice curled like venom.

“My father was denied a throne,” he snarled. “Denied the luxuries handed to men like you, not by merit, but by birth. Your name. Your bloodline. I charge you as the architect of his demise. And I stand now as your judge.”

He paced slowly, staff striking the marble with each step, the sound echoing like a funeral drum.
“Why should you rule, while I scavenged in the dirt? Why should you wear a crown while I bled for scraps? My father faltered, but I shall not. Where he failed, I will triumph.”

He turned, sweeping his arm toward the trembling queen and her sons. His lips curled into a sneer.
“As you now… clearly see.”

King Jyl raised his sword, though his hand shook. His voice broke with anger.
“I did not seek this crown! It was my birthright—passed from father to son, earned by their deeds, not stolen.”

Malus’s eyes blazed. “Earned?” he spat. “You have not earned it. You are no king. You are a shadow draped in gilded cloth. And this ‘birthright’ dies here—with you. Your bloodline ends tonight.”

The king faltered, his gaze falling to his wife and children. Tears welled as he dropped to his knees.
“Take me,” he begged. “Spare them, Malus. I beg you—spare them.”

Malus laughed, low and cruel. “All is mine already, once-king.” His eyes burned with a fire that was not human.

Desperation overtook Jyl. With a strangled cry he lunged, blade raised high.

But Malus merely tilted his head. He whispered a single word: “Frendo.”

The king froze mid-strike. Invisible force seized him and his family, lifting them into the air. Their bodies trembled, wide-eyed with terror, as the space around them constricted. Bones cracked like snapping branches. Their mouths opened in soundless screams, the air itself stolen from their lungs. Blood-tears welled and spilled as flesh gave way beneath crushing pressure.

One by one, their bodies collapsed in on themselves, leaving only grotesque husks of skin—empty vessels leaking dark sludge onto the red carpet. Their eyes were gone, black hollows weeping a final crimson slop.

The throne room fell silent. Only the faint drip of blood echoed in the vast chamber.

Malus regarded the remains with no more interest than one might show to broken pottery. He turned to his Harbingers, a smug grin twisting his lips.

“Leave no stone unturned,” he commanded. “No life shall be spared—save the women and children. Send them to Seta. Let the tale of tonight spread across Pangerath. Let it be known that no pretender shall ever rule over me. I am their judge, their executioner, and their sentence is close at hand.”

He turned, walking slowly from the room, each strike of his staff against the marble echoing like a death knell.
“Destroy it all,” he said over his shoulder. Then, glancing once more at the twisted remains, he added with cold satisfaction,
“Leave the vessels where they lie. We will build upon their remains.”

The Harbingers bowed low.
“It shall be done, my lord.”

COMING SOON TO THE PANGERATH SERIES

PART TWO OF PANGERATH...WAR.  HAS FINALLY ARRIVED ON AMAZON i HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!!

The wait is over. Book one of a three part series,Pangerath is  here!  A fresh new author whose style reflects the literature of modern day.  Emotionally charged with twists at  every turn, a hold your breath series only truly revealed in last book of the series.

The New York Times

 

Thrilling in the extreme, Pangerath is a definite page-flipper.

The Washington Post

FOLLOW ME

  • Facebook Social Icon
  • Twitter Social Icon

© 2023 by Samanta Jonse. Proudly created with Wix.com

bottom of page