Chronicles of The Life-Taker!

Welcome all to another John Garrett Stuff newsletter! This one will be focused on news of my fantasy novel "The Life-Taker" and related topics.

First I want to give a special welcome to a bunch of new readers today. Many of you are here due to the giveaway I ran of The Life-Taker novel, so I hope you've had a chance to read it and I really hope you enjoyed it. I hope even more that you stick around for what's coming next.

GOOD REVIEW(!)

I mentioned in a previous email (newcomers can see my email archives here), that I had bought myself a Kirkus Review for The Life-Taker novel.

Kirkus is an independent review service that's been around for almost a century. They'll give your book an unbiased review for about $450 (I paid $375 during a promotion they were running), but they don't promise a *good* review.

So I rolled the dice and I came out pretty good. Here's the review excerpt they wrote:

While I didn't receive their top "starred" review, I got a pretty good overall review which you can read in it's entirety here:

https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/john-garrett/the-life-taker/

So while they had some issues with the story, this tells me that my writing isn't complete and total dreck, I guess.

Now, how does this help me?

It remains to be seen. I placed the review excerpt on my Amazon page and plunked it out on social media, too. Maybe it will be the deciding factor if someone is on the fence about buying it.

CHRONICLES OF THE LIFE-TAKER

No, that isn't the name of the second novel, that one is called The Return of The Life-Taker.

"Chronicles" was actually a failed experiment with Amazon's Kindle Vella serialized fiction service.

The idea was that you would put up weekly (or even daily) episodes of your story, and people would pay "tokens" to read your stories.

Well, I discovered quickly that Kindle Vella is not very popular and people aren't really reading it, so I stopped posting stories there.

However, this left me with nowhere to put these tales.

"Chronicles" features Kurzhon in smaller stories that just don't belong in his larger novel adventures, but I still wanted to tell those stories somewhere.

Therefore, I'm going to post those stories in here for the time being and see if they are well received.

So on that note, please enjoy the first chapter of "CHRONICLES OF THE LIFE-TAKER". I'll see you guys next week!

For centuries, they had plagued the lands of Straifus.

This plague was not formed of pestilence or of vermin, but was instead made up of legion after unending legion of the most vicious, merciless fighters ever known.

These men came from the burning hot, blistering cold land of Vultaika. It was a place not truly a part of Straifus, and yet far closer than most would like, for it was separated from Straifus only by narrow, easily traversed water.

Time and again these hard men, marked by the dark brown skin of their bodies, dark eyes of their faces, and even darker hearts in their breasts, swarmed over Straifus, destroying nations, alliances, breaking history.

When a nation fought alone, they were defeated. When the nations banded together, they were defeated. Even the much vaunted Drakes could do naught but slow them down.

If those cold Vultaikans had been interested in rule, they would surely have taken all of Straifus.

But they did not want to rule. They fought for their God, Holy Vultaan. He was their God of War, their Master of Battles, their Lord of Strife. They fought for a God the rest of the known lands did not acknowledge.

Until one day, a day within living memory, the Vultaikans disappeared.

They did not die. They were never defeated.

They were simply gone.

All but one.

* * *

It was a gray morning on the road. Cold and gray.

The pine forest on either side of the wide road, though presumably teeming with life, seemed still and silent.

Despite the cold, there had been no snowfall yet. It would be heavy snow when it finally came. The man walking the road thought it would be only a matter of days now.

Even so, it did not matter to him. As a Vultaikan, perhaps the last Vultaikan the lands of Straifus would ever see, it would have to be much colder than this for him to even notice, much less be discomforted.

This man was Kurzhon, called The Life-Taker by many, and for good reason.

But the lands of Straifus were vast, and composed of an abundance of disparate nations, each striving against the other, each with their own irreconcilable ways.

There were yet many in those nations who thought The Life-Taker a myth. Or even if real, perhaps his martial skills were exaggerated. Surely the tales could not be true?

Alas, too many had discovered that some parts of the tales, the very worst parts, were true.

Some claimed him a giant, as tall as the tree-tops, but any who came upon him on the road now would clearly see he was just a man. A very large man, perhaps even a huge man, but still a man, usually at least a head taller than anyone around him.

And no, his skin was not the dark of ebony glass or black pitch, but it was a dark brown color that was out of place in most of Straifus, save for the far northwest.

The man’s body was a study in hardened, battle-earned muscle, and the scars that crisscrossed his form had been won from a lifetime of fighting.

He was dressed bare to the waist, except for a sparse harness that crossed his chest and allowed him to fasten a large, ugly battle-axe to his back.

The man wore leather banding from forearm to bicep, and unremarkable black pants that disappeared into well-worn black boots.

Finally, those who had seen him would agree, it was his face that was most important. Not his bald head, but his face. A face with a scowl as it’s resting expression.

Looking out from that face would be his eyes. Cold, merciless, remorseless eyes.

And yet, there was a burning fury behind them. Those who found that pair of eyes focused on them would never forget it, assuming they lived past the moment.

Kurzhon, called The Life-Taker, traveled one of the northbound roads out of Banrata, a nation at the southeastern tip of the continent of Straifus.

Beside him was his steadfast companion, which was a horse, who he had named Horse.

Kurzhon did not care to ride unless urgency demanded it. Right now, he had accomplished many tasks he had set for himself in Banrata, so he decided that it would be acceptable to relax for a time, until the pieces of his next plans came into his orbit.

He knew the nation of Banrata would not be sorry to see him go. Kurzhon managed to circle back to that divided country every few years, hoping to stir up dissent, foment chaos, and widen the cracks in the already-failing monarchy.

It was not full-blown civil war yet, but it would be soon. He thought one more trip in a year’s time or so would tell the tale.

He chuckled to himself, thinking of the minor noble whose estate was likely even now being overrun with Royal troops.

Kurzhon had put the ideas in his head. Told the Baron that he should be the one to lead Banrata, he should be the one with the vaults full of gold, harems of women, and the love of the people.

The Baron had believed it.

Fool, thought Kurzhon, laughing louder. His harsh, barking laughter rang out in the crisp morning air.

Finally, his laughter subsided and Kurzhon inhaled a deep breath of cool air.

Good times, he thought.

The King would no doubt grant the seized lands and income to one of his own coalition, further angering his enemies.

Banrata was a cesspit of a nation to be sure, but Kurzhon had found the large country held no end of resources. He could always find some manner of fun, information, coin, women, and many opportunities for battle.

It was too bad the country was so friendly to the hated Drakes, one of which he had killed not even a day earlier.

He had no fear of Drakes, but thought it best to be elsewhere when one of their own was killed. When such an event occurred, they began buzzing around like hornets when their nest had been disturbed, interfering in business and making life in general somewhat bothersome.

Kurzhon’s mood began to shift as his thoughts turned more fully to the Drakes, those gray-cloaked, arrogant, self-appointed lawmen of Straifus.

There was always a pompous Drake underfoot when you had important business to conduct. You could count on that.

Another certainty would be the words “fair” or “justice” coming out of their mouths every other moment.

In Kurzhon’s case, words to the effect of “we are arresting you and placing you on trial” were said, usually shouted, over and over until he was forced to silence the Drake… with his axe.

Kurzhon’s face darkened as he walked the road with Horse. This happened when his thoughts turned to Drakes, as he could not prevent what happened next.

As always, his mind drifted onto the Drake’s patron Goddess, Rhona the Wise.

Rhona, the Huntress. The Warrior. The Goddess of Plenty. And somehow, the Goddess of Peace.

Bile rose in Kurzhon’s throat. How he hated Rhona, but few in this forsaken land knew the truth about her. He spat in disgust.

Only he and his fellow Vultaikans knew that Rhona was a usurper. A vile, inferior twin to his own God, the God of his people. Mighty Vultaan.

Vultaan, the Master of Battles, God of Strife and Fury.

A foul trick had been played upon Vultaan by Rhona and the other Gods. The end result being all the mountains of the world dropped onto him, trapping him. Anything less than every last measure of Vultaan’s power at all times to hold up the mountains would see him destroyed, crushed into nothingness.

Kurzhon gritted his teeth at the thought of his God deep under the earth below him, desperately waiting for his followers to release him. Waiting for vengeance.

He was brought out of his own thoughts when he became aware of a nearby, out of place sound. As if in confirmation, Horse whickered and adjusted his gait.

Kurzhon placed a hand on the animal to steady him.

At first he thought his obvious mood change had upset the horse, as Vultaikan steed were ever aware of their master’s bearing.

But then he realized he was wrong.

Horse was just letting him know they were no longer alone.

For good measure, Kurzhon cursed bitch-goddess Rhona again for distracting him, then focused his full attention on his surroundings.

Now that he was paying attention, he could easily detect three people shadowing him from the forest alongside the road.

Two were on his right, and one on his left. They were clumsy and ill-suited for this task. It had only been his preoccupation with the hated Rhona that had allowed these fools to go unnoticed for this long.

A poorly-voiced hawk call came from one of the stalkers on his right.

Kurzhon shook his head in disgust. He could see where this was going. The road curved up ahead, and he had no doubt there would be some kind of obstruction there. The hawk call had just alerted those ahead to his presence.

The only question was… would they try to kill him, or simply block the way and demand payment?

He smiled. It didn’t matter. He was certain one way or the other his axe would soon be covered in blood. Unworthy blood.

Continuing his forward movement, Kurzhon rounded the bend in the road. His suspicions proved correct.

Blocking the way was a dilapidated wagon filled with old hay. A man’s body was laying face down in the pile.

There was no horse or mule attached to the wagon. Kurzhon suspected these sorry highwaymen could not afford one, and so made it appear as if the animal had run off.

Before the wagon stood two figures. A young, thin woman with long blonde hair and fair, pale skin, who was pretending to be menaced by another youth. This one was male, also thin and pale, but quite tall. He had short brown hair and held a long dagger. He lunged unconvincingly at the girl several times.

Kurzhon smiled at the obvious ruse. It looked as if he was supposed to believe the girl some sort of noble, or at least a wealthy merchant’s daughter.

The cut of her blue dress was certainly refined, but it’s condition was well-worn, and as such it no longer denoted any sort of high station.

The boy wore drab brown pants and a tunic, both of which had been patched many times over. His dark maroon cloak had visible holes in it, and was clearly unraveling at the seams.

As he drew closer, Kurzhon heard the rustling from the forest on either side of him grow louder.

A piercing scream erupted from the girl as she threw herself to the ground. Her hand shot up in a warding motion as if to protect herself from the boy with the dagger, from whom she was obviously in no danger.

Then she pretended to notice Kurzhon. Her face, full of false terror, turned toward him.

“Please, good sir! Please! HELP ME!” she screamed.

Kurzhon sighed, again shaking his head. Releasing his grip on Horse’s reigns, he stepped forward.

“I would be happy to help. Which one of you should I kill first?” His deep voiced rumbled and carried across the road.

The two erstwhile actors froze, then looked at each other.

Recovering first, the girl spoke again.

“Sir, please, I beg of you! I need help!” she cried out, and Kurzhon noted a better effort to convey fear was given this time.

Stepping closer, Kurzhon smiled. The smile was not friendly.

“Again, I offer my help. Again, I ask, which of you wishes to die first?”

The forest seemed to grow very still at that moment. Kurzhon continued.

“Shall it be you, my lady?” Kurzhon asked, the sneer apparent in his tone.

Then his eyes cut to her ‘attacker’.

“Or should I begin with you, patchwork bandit?” he asked, not expecting an answer. Kurzhon turned his head to look at the wagon.

“Would the man feigning death in the wagon care to die for real? Or perhaps your compatriots in the forest would agree to be first?”

No one spoke. The silence was near total. Although there was a slight breeze, it was so minor it barely produced even a rustle of branches.

Kurzhon held in his laughter as he watched the false expressions on the faces of the two youths slowly replaced by flat, undisguised malice.

The man in the wagon turned himself over and sat up.

“Well,” he said flatly, “it looks like we have ourselves a whip-smart wanderer here.”

The man stood up from the wagon. Kurzhon could see he was much older than the two in front of him, perhaps the father of one or both.

Though not as tall as Kurzhon, or the youth with the dagger, the man was above average in height. Kurzhon took in his weathered appearance and drab, frayed clothes. The man’s brown hair was graying at the temples and thinning on top, but he was solid, and carried himself well.

Kurzhon said nothing as the man reached into the hay and pulled out a short sword.

“This could have gone quick and easy,” said the man, “you might have even got a sweet kiss from Mina here.” He gestured the short sword at the thin blond girl, who smirked mischievously in return.

The man stepped in front of the two youths. Kurzhon thought he must be a former soldier from his bearing and stance.

“But now you had to go and get all smart.” The word ‘smart’ was roughly emphasized. The two youths chuckled at that.

Then the man whistled sharply, and the rustling sounds from the forest started up again.

Kurzhon watched as two more ragged-looking youths emerged from the trees on his right, each holding long daggers and wearing similar patchwork clothing. On his left another boy worked his way out of forest.

This last one moved slowly, as he was holding a bow and arrow trained on Kurzhon. Curly black hair framed his face. The boy’s eyes were wide, and it seemed to Kurzhon as if the arrow may fly at any moment.

Kurzhon shook his head. None of these fools, excepting the man with the short sword, could be older than twenty. Not that their young ages would elicit sympathy or apprehension from him. Never that.

“Just do what you’re told,” the gray-haired man said. “Hand over everything you got and you live. Understand?”

“You never answered my question,” Kurzhon said.

“What?” The gray haired man asked, now obviously annoyed.

Kurzhon spread his arms to include all of the bandit troupe.

“I asked,” Kurzhon said, voice booming out into the gray morning, ”which one of you wants to die first?”

The gray haired man grimaced and shook his head.

“We don’t got time for this,” he snapped. “Bart! Loose!”

As soon as the command was shouted, the black-haired youth, apparently named Bart, let the arrow fly, aimed directly at Kurzhon’s chest.

It never reached it’s destination. Faster than the bandits could track, Kurzhon’s arm shot out and the arrow was caught in his fist.

To the onlookers, an arrow had suddenly bloomed in the large man’s hand as if by magic.

Kurzhon squeezed, snapping the arrow in two. He dropped the pieces to the ground at his feet.

The bandits looked on in astonishment.

Kurzhon was not finished. Less than a heartbeat later, he spun. In one smooth motion he both drew his axe from it’s back harness and threw it with all his might.

It flashed unerringly across the road, spinning like lightning, then embedded itself into the black-haired youth’s chest.

The boy flew backwards as if yanked off his feet by a rope. His body smacked against a tree and then slid down to the ground.

Bart had not made a sound as he died.

Kurzhon turned his back on the now-dead archer. He faced the remaining bandits, who one by one tore their wide eyes from the body of their dead friend to look at his killer.

“Who will be next?” Kurzhon asked, his deep voice flat, face dark, all amusement drained away.

The man with the short sword recovered first.

“He threw ‘is weapon away! He’s unarmed!” he shouted.

Surging forward, he waved to his companions.

“ATTACK!”

—CHAPTER 2 COMING NEXT WEEK!