New article on Frank Frazetta!http://new-iron-age.blogspot.com/2016/05/death-dealer.html
The wind driven ahead of the storm was heavy and smelled of war, and in among the ruins it gathered up dust and whirled it into the shapes of devils out of the past. All around reared statues and reliefs cut by the hands of men who were almost gods, and now carved again by the wind and the sand of the desert. Al’kirr stood in the shadow of giants and the dying sun glinted on the spears of her warriors. She stood ahead of them, on a point of sand-blasted stone, and looked north to where the dark shadow of her enemy came over the earth.Riding ahead of the storm, below a darkening sky that flickered as though the lighting itself lashed them on, came the riders of Masur the Dragoncrowned. His men rode behind him in a sweep of black-robed riders, cloaks billowing in the hot wind. She saw the gleam of storm-fire on spears and swords, heard the thunder of hooves beneath the growl of the storm. Two hundred men at the least, each of them a hardened desert hunter and killer, each with blood on their hands and on their swords.Al’kirr awaited them with her bow in her hands, sword sheathed at her side. Her men wore red, in honor of their ancestors who once ruled this place. She wore red and gold, for she was their Queen, the Heir of the Stormriders. Above her veil, her eyes were wide and glinted like gold, rimmed with kohl and indigo. She crouched down and put her hand on the rock, felt the vibrations of the horses. She had less than a hundred men, all of them weary and thirsty. A moon of battles, a moon of blood, and now this remnant of her army waited here to die, in this place where once her bloodline were as gods.She gathered up a handful of sand and felt it sift through her fingers, then she stood and let it fall, judging the wind. It was chaotic, swirling and eddying on the forward edge of the storm. Al’kirr had hoped to lose him here, to shelter in the ruins while the storm came in and drove him away, but he would not stop, and now it seemed they would spill their blood upon this ancient sand while the skies thundered and cast down fire.
New story is up!http://new-iron-age.blogspot.com/2016/06/the-war-beast.html
Magan pressed onward through the jungle darkness, bloodied and exhausted, his body aflame with a dozen lesser wounds. The undergrowth ripped and tore at him, and he used his sword to hack at the vines that barred his path. The moon was high, and though the vaulted canopy of trees he saw the glow of it like silver whenever the branches parted enough to let it through.Weariness dragged at him, and he ached to stop and lay down his body on the steaming forest floor and rest. He dared not, for he knew they were coming behind him. He did not hear them; he did not see them, only the blood-scent on the night wind bore any warning of their approach. The huntresses of the black jungle, the shapechangers, the Shanjama.He did not know how long it had been since the ambush. A day? Two? The days were filled with mist, and the rains that fell at noon obscured the sky. He wandered in among the mighty trunks of the ancient trees, ever watchful for the many dangers of the highland rainforest – the snakes and venomous insects, the hungry reptiles and stalking leopards. Now he was far from the places known to men, deep in the trackless jungle, and he knew worse than vipers awaited him here.
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