Teagren is convinced that High Prince Cecil desires her to be his bride, for he has bestowed upon her the Kiss of Promise. However, the King invokes the traditional Quest and a young woman from each of the seven lands of Dhaneira is chosen to participate. Each has one magical kit bag which includes one magical gift to aid them on the journey. Cecil may choose his bride from the contestants who return to Zabetha within a year and a day with a Token from each land. Teagren thinks the Quest is just a formality. Of course she will return on time...and of course Cecil will choose her.
She hasn't counted on Kosse, the bespelled prince who requires a kiss to wake him...and she can't get the token from underneath his body with him asleep. She hasn't counted on Esdras, the young hero-in-training. She hasn't counted on the vegetarian dragon named George, the needle in the haystack, or the frog who has been turned into a prince. She especially has not counted on the magical gifts of the other contestants.
Will Teagren get what she wants...or will she want what she gets?
Auralia lay still as death, like a discarded doll, in a burgundy tangle of rushes and spineweed on the bank of a bend in the River Throanscall, when she was discovered by an old man who did not know her name.
She bore no scars, no broken bones, just the stain of inkblack soil. Contentedly, she cooed, whispered, and babbled, learning the river's language, and focused her gaze on the stormy dance of evening sky--roiling purple clouds edged with blood red. The old man surmised she was waiting and listening for whoever, or whatever, had forsaken her there.
Those fevered moments of his discovery burnt into the old man's memory. In the years that followed, he would hold and turn them in his mind the way an explorer ponders relics he has found in the midst of ruin. But the mystery remained stubbornly opaque. No matter how often he exaggerated the story to impress his fireside listeners--"I dove into that ragin' river and caught her by the toe!" "I fought off that hungry river wyrm with my picker-staff just in time!"-- he found no clue to her origins, no answers to questions of why or how.
The Gatherers, House Abascar, the Expanse--the whole world might have been different had he left her there with riverwater running from her hair. "The River Girl"--that was what the Gatherers came to call her until she grew old enough to set them straight. Without the River Girl, the four houses of the Expanse might have perished in their troubles. But then again, some say that without the River Girl those troubles might never have come at all.
So, now. One day soon they hang me for a rogue. Fair enough. I have earned it a hundred times over, I reckon, and that's leaving a lot of acreage unexplored. The jest of it is, the crime for which I swing is the one offence I never did do. The sheriff will have it that I raised rebellion against the king.
I didn't.
Oh, there's much I've done that some would as soon count treason. For a fact, I et more of the king's venison than the king has et bread, and good men have lost their heads to royal pikes for far less; but in all my frolics I never breathed a disloyal word against the crown, nor tried to convince any man, boy, horse, or dog to match his deeds to mine. Ah, but dainties such as these are of no concern when princes have their tender feelings ruffled. It is a traitor they want to punish, not a thief. The eatin' o' Red William's game is a matter too trifling—more insult than crime—and it's a red-handed rebel they need. Too much has happened in the forests of the March and too much princely pride hangs in the balance to be mincing fair about a rascal poaching a few soft-eyed deer.
Until that ill-fated night, Will Scarlet ran with King Raven and his band of merry thieves. Ran fast and far, I did, let me tell you. Faster and farther than all the rest, and that's saying something. Here's the gist: it's the Raven Hood they want and cannot get. So, ol' Will is for the jump.
Poor luck, that. No less, no more.
They caught me crest and colours. My own bloody fault. There's none to blame but the hunter when he's caught in his own snare. I ask no pardon. A willing soul, I flew field and forest with King Raven and his flock. Fine fun it was, too, until they nabbed me in the pinch. Even so, if it hadn't a' been for a spear through my leg bone they would not a' got me either.
So, here we sit, my leg and me, in a dank pit beneath Count de Braose's keep. I have a cell—four walls of stone and a damp dirt floor covered with rotting straw and rancid rushes. I have a warden named Guibert, or Gulbert or some such, who brings me food and water when he can be bothered to remember, and unchains me from time to time so I can stretch the cramps a bit and wash my wound. I also have my very own priest, a young laggard of a scribe who comes to catch my wild tales and pin them to the pages of a book to doom us all.
The pig was young and wary, a yearling boar timidly testing the wind for strange scents as it ventured out into the honey-coloured light of a fast-fading day. Bran ap Brychan, Prince of Elfael, had spent the entire day stalking the greenwood for a suitable prize, and he meant to have this one.
Eight years old and the king's sole heir, he knew well enough that he would never be allowed to go out into the forest alone. So rather than seek permission, he had simply taken his bow and four arrows early that morning and stolen from the caer unnoticed. This hunt, like the young boar, was dedicated to his mother, the queen.
She loved the hunt and gloried in the wild beauty and visceral excitement of the chase. Even when she did not ride herself, she would ready a welcome for the hunters with a saddle cup and music, leading the women in song. "Don't be afraid," she told Bran when, as a toddling boy, he had been dazzled and a little frightened by the noise and revelry. "We belong to the land. Look, Bran!" She lifted a slender hand toward the hills and the forest rising like a living rampart beyond. "All that you see is the work of our Lord's hand. We rejoice in his provision."
Stricken with a wasting fever, Queen Rhian had been sick most of the summer, and in his childish imaginings, Bran had determined that if he could present her with a stag or a boar that he had brought down all by himself, she would laugh and sing as she always did, and she would feel better. She would be well again.
All it would take was a little more patience and . . .
New rulers of the realm (the Normans) meant strange new laws in the land. One of the most hated was known as Forest Law--a set of highly questionable legal codes designed solely for the benefit of the crown-wearer and his cronies, and not at all confined to "forests" as we understand the word (areas of dense woodland), but could encompass large tracts of grassland, marsh, and moorland. Entire villages were razed and burned to the ground, sometimes because the settlement occupied land that the king, or members of his court, had identified as prime real estate for hunting. Other times destruction was inflicted as punishment for an infraction--such as rebellion or treason--by the local lord....
All of a sudden it was a serious crime to trespass on royal land, and the hapless victim caught within the royal forest precinct faced losing a hand or an eye at best, or if worse came to worst, death by hanging.
"Hills of Hazor take you," I swore for at least the tenth time since first light. My sword hacked at thick underbrush, but when I shouldered my way forward, a twig snapped back to hit my face. I cursed the day I'd met the last Restorer. It was because of her that I was battling through this forsaken forest below Cauldron Falls. My blade deserved a more substantial enemy.
A squint-eyed badger rambled out from a thornbush and paused to sniff the air. It bristled and ducked back under cover. Wise plan. I was hungry. Stinging beetles landed on me from the low-hanging branches overhead. I swatted them away and stalked onward.
Why hadn't I convinced Tristan to leave her in Shamgar when she first turned up? A witness to his crime, and he had brought her to our refuge in the deserted city. Typical. He was a naïve idiot sometimes.
She hadn't looked very threatening that day--rain-soaked, bloody, and unconscious. If only I'd known then how much trouble she was capable of causing. What was that old saying? Don't judge a rizzid's menace until you see its teeth.
The trouble had started when a deep scrape on her face healed. Instantly. Hairs on my neck pricked as if I'd touched a misaligned magchip. I'd heard the old stories but I'd never seen it happen. It had been years since our people had chased after a mythic Restorer, but I knew the signs.
Exactly the kind of problem we hadn't needed. We would have been in enough danger if she were just a Council spy or some other enemy. But as I had watched her wounds vanish, I knew that if she also had Restorer powers, things were going to get very complicated.
And they did.
August Adams has failed his family before. He's sacrificed relationships in pursuit of adventure, fame, and money. Now the very lives of those he loves depends on his ability to decipher a centuries-old puzzle encrypted in the colorful hand-pained illuminations that adorn three rare Gutenberg Bibles.
It's a secret that could yield unimaginable wealth, undermine two major religions, and change the course of Western civilization. Two ruthless, ancient organizations are willing to do anything to get their hands on it. And August has the span of one transatlantic flight to figure it out.
If he fails, those he holds most dear will die. If he succeeds, he'll destroy a national treasure.
The clock ticks, the suspense mounts, and the body count rises as August pits his knowledge and his love for his family against the clock, secret societies, and even Johannes Gutenberg himself
Rising author Jonathan Rogers' takes biblical fiction to a new level in imaginative fantasy.
Inspired by Tolkien and Lewis Georgia-born author Jonathan Rogers will thrill faith fiction readers of all ages. Desiring to teach his own boys about moral excellence, and encouraged by recent John Eldredge and James Dobson blockbusters, Rogers explains:
"Books like WILD AT HEART and BRINGING UP BOYS remind us that to raise a God-fearing boy is not to domesticate him, but rather to harness and direct his sense of adventure - his God-given wildness. But parents inspired by these books still face the challenge of finding books that will inspire their boys. The Bark of the Bog Owl grows out of my desire to write that kind of book."
Jonathan Rogers grew up in Georgia, where he spent many happy hours in the swamps and riverbottoms on which the wild places of The Wilderking are based. He received his undergraduate degree from Furman University in South Carolina and holds a Ph.D. in seventeenth-century English literature from Vanderbilt University. The Bark of the Bog Owl has already found a receptive audience among Jonathan’s own six children. The Rogers clan lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where Jonathan makes a living as a freelance writer. The Bark of the Bog Owl is his first novel.
Rogers' characters have as much in common with Huck Finn as they do with Frodo Baggins. The author himself says the swampy settings of the novel are rooted in his native Georgia, and those places lend a freshness to the story not found in many other modern fantasies.
"The trilogy tells the story of Aidan Errolson, a shepherd boy who finds out that it is his destiny to be the Wilderking, the long-prophesied wild man who will come from the forests and swamps to set things right in the island kingdom of Corenwald. Along the way he falls in with the feechiefolk, a tribe of semi-civilized swamp people who fight too much, cry too easily, laugh at jokes they’ve heard a hundred times, and smell terrible. I like to call the Wilderking Trilogy a “fantasy-adventure story told in an American accent.”
His Majesty, King Darrow of Corenwald,
Protector of the People,
Defender of the Faith,
Keeper of the Island
Tambluff Castle
West Bank of the River Tam
Tambluff, Corenwald
My Dearest King--
You will be glad to learn that I am still available for any quest, adventure, or dangerous mission for which you might need a champion or knight-errant. I specialize in dragon-slaying, but would be happy to fight pirates or invading barbarians if circumstances require. I would even be willing to rescue a fair maiden imprisoned by evil relatives. That would not be my first choice, since I am not of marrying age. Still, in peaceful and prosperous times like these, an adventurer takes whatever work he can find. As always, I am at your service and eagerly await your reply.
Yours very sincerely,
Aidan Errolson of Longleaf Manor
P.S. I have not yet received an answer to my last letter - or to my fourteen letters before that. Mail service being what it is on the frontier, I assume your replies were lost. I hope you don’t mind that I have taken the liberty of writing again.
Holding the stiff palmetto paper between ink-stained fingers, Aidan admired his letter one more time before rolling it and putting it back in his side pouch. The mail wagon wouldn’t be by for another couple of days, and he thought it best to keep the letter on hand, in case another postscript came to him. Besides being an avid letter-writer, Aidan Errolson was a warrior and an adventurer. He lived to ride with King Darrow’s armies. He thrilled to hear the clank of plate armor, the bright ring of a sword unsheathed. He would rather sleep on a bedroll in a battle camp than in the finest bed in the finest castle in all of Corenwald.
At least, that’s who he was on the inside.
In Bark of the Bog Owl, we are introduced to Dobro and the Feechies. How did you come up with the idea for the Feechie people—their distinct culture?
Believe it or not, there's a person out there who inspired Dobro! I came back to my hometown for a couple of summers, while I was in the PhD program at Vanderbilt, to work for a remodeling crew. I worked with a fellow named Jake, who lived way out in the woods somewhere. Most nights he went out hunting wild boar in the riverbottom forests. He didn’t carry a gun. He had some dogs that would catch the hog, and he’d whirl in with a length of rope and tie it up. He and his buddies would carry the boar out of the woods on a pole, alive. He came to work crying one morning because an alligator had eaten his dog. I thought, "Wow, what a world this is; I'm living this suburban, academic life, but I'm working shoulder to shoulder with a guy who lives this way!"
That's the idea of the Feechiefolks—their wild existence is buzzing in the trees around the civilizers, and the civilizers don't quite realize it. I had thought, back when I worked with Jake, "If I ever write a book, I'd love to have Jake in it." And there he is! Dobro is a bit exaggerated—Jake wasn't quite that wild, but he was pretty wild. That notion of valuing physical courage that's so important to the Feechiefolks came from Jake and his crowd. I might value physical courage, but I'm not going go out in the woods and tie up a wild boar!
Even though Brandilyn Collins writes suspenseful books (and we all know how I feel about being scared!), I seem to have gotten into the habit of reading a lot of her books, at least her Kanner Lake series. So when book three Crimson Eve came out recently, I decided to get a copy to talk about here."Really, is a heinous murder any reason to devalue such a glorious piece of real estate?"
The words rolled off the man's tongue in a luscious British accent and with a hint of tease, lending him a cocky James Bond air. He was dashingly handsome (a good British description, what?). Dark hair, rich brown eyes, a jaw cut just so--not too square, but firm. Carla Radling glanced at his left hand. No ring. But then he'd already intimated he was single. A real-estate developer, he'd said over the phone yesterday. And apparently rich, although no proper English gentleman would say so. He was "seeking a beautiful and private piece of property near water as a second home," and the half-page ad in Dream Homes had caught his eye. If he liked the place, he'd pay cash.
To think she'd complained about the high cost of the ad.
Behind them, the heavy wrought-iron gates of the estate that once belonged to the late actress Edna San closed with a muted clang. Carla steered her white Toyota Camry down the impressive driveway curving through the forest. Her client, David Thornby--although James Bond fit so much better--dignified her front seat. His legs, in impeccable beige trousers, were confidently apart, his left arm draped over the console, fingers casually drumming. His navy sport jacket boasted a thousand-dollar weave.
So what can we learn from these paragraphs? We figure out that Carla, the MC, is in real estate and that she is very hopeful of clinching a large deal today...and maybe more. We see a clear picture of the man--David--and a sense of the location. And knowing Brandilyn Collins, the hint that all is not as it seems is not far in coming.
When reporter Hudson Ambrose hears an early morning call on his police scanner about an injured person at a bus stop on Las Vegas Boulevard, he rushes to the scene to get the scoop.
His world is blown off its axis when he discovers a murdered homeless man with a bankbook in his pocket showing a balance of almost one million dollars. Should he wait for the police, knowing the case will get lost in reams of red tape, or swipe the bankbook and take the investigation--and perhaps a chunk of the money--into his own hands?
With sirens bearing down on the scene, Hudson makes an impulse decision that whisks him on a frantic search for answers, not only about the mysterious dead man, but about the lost soul lurking within himself.
Uncovering bizarre links between a plane crash, a Las Vegas pit boss, a dirty cop, and a widowed Atlanta business mogul, Hudson is forced to find out: who was Chester Holte, what was he doing on the streets, and why are his homeless friends convinced he was an angel in disguise?
I'd seen stiffs at crime scenes before, one flat on his back in the middle of his garage with a twelve-inch meat cleaver sticking straight up out of his rib cage like a Halloween prank; self-inflicted, to boot.
But this one beat all.
I got there before the cops. Saw the guy from my Mustang GT. It was 5:54 a.m.
He was positioned upright at one of the dozens of covered bus stops along the Strop. Beneath flickering fluorescents, it looked as if he was just sleeping, like a thousand other bums scattered like garbage across the sand-blown outskirts of "fabulous Las Vegas." I rolled down my passenger window and leaned closer. Blood, dark like burgundy wine, but thicker--a pool of it, absorbed into the seat of his pants and ran shiny down the concrete block he was perched on, forming another smaller puddle beneath his black Converse high tops.
