Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Of A Dark Heart (Legends of Nowhere, Book 1) by Chris Foster

Release date: May 31, 2016
Subgenre: Urban fantasy

About Of A Dark Heart


A supernatural killer. A prophetic gargoyle. A tale of revenge.
Excalem wants vengeance.
His daughter lay cold upon the coroner’s slab. Someone had taken her from this world. Yet there was no trace of harm. There were no answers to the questions he asked. She was simply gone. Pale. Cold. Dead.
Excalem hands in what little morals he had in exchange for the sword.
Walking through the desert, cracked terracotta under his feet and endless blue above he thinks he has gone mad. Or died. He is out of water, out of place and feels out of time. This is a world he didn’t believe in not long ago. Nowhere both its name and description. He cannot stop, he is the cat after the rat but the dog is coming.
Both pursued and pursuing, he knows only one thing.
There will be vengeance.
The Gargoyle said so, and rocks don't lie.



His boots had worn away their soles, becoming little more than leather ankle warmers. His feet were left to walk directly on the simmering ground. His eyes struggled to look up, instead seeking refuge in the deep cracks of the earth. Each jagged cut through the dust covered land was like a guiding track for his eyes to follow.
Then it stopped.
He stopped.
It took a few moments for his mind to realise he could continue walking without the guiding tracks of broken soil. Raising his head he registered the sight before him.
There was a girl no older than five staring at him. She looked very pretty in her pink polka dot white dress. He looked at her. She burst into tears and ran away. Shaking his head he raised a hand against the sun and looked more closely. A knee high picket fence stood before him. On the other side of it appeared to be a town.
Nothing more than a couple of sandstone buildings. Judging by the smell there was a pub and maybe some sort of enforcement agency. Enforcing what would be an interesting question.
Stepping over the knee high gates he shuffled down the main street, blisters on his feet bursting and scarring. There were locals going about their business, discussing other locals. In the centre of the road was a sign post, its worn wood scratched with the word LAST.
Leaning against the post was a portly man with mutton chops. He stood in boots made from snake's skin. A bowler's hat couldn't quite contain his curly ginger hair. A large sunburnt nose was supported either side by wobbly cheeks of economic size. Wearing an old Victorian suit, the man was chewing on a greasy leg of lamb roast. Fat was dribbling down across his face, his cheeks wet with the greasy film. An enthusiastic bite caused a large squirt of liquid lard to cover his monocle. Removing it with his free hand, the man was about to rub it against his shirt when he saw the Swordsworn.
"Well, I do say, if I was a bettin' man, I'd say ya'll be a new face in town. Yessir that would be them there words I would say. I'd bet the last of my here lamb roast on it. But a bettin' man needs a bettin' man, so are you a bettin' man, John?"
The Swordsworn stared at the man. His feet were burnt and his stomach empty. At least his mind showed intelligence in its hallucinations. It knew what he needed.
"Where is this place?"
Whistling the man jerked his thumb at the sign above his head.
"Can't ya read, Johnny boy? Sign says FIRST, so I'd wager this here town be called FIRST!"
Reading the sign again the Swordsworn clearly saw the word LAST. Grunting he stared at the food.
"What's your name and how did you get a roast here?"
Wagging a fat, grease covered finger at him, the man then smacked his forehead. The sound was far louder than expected, echoing down the street.
"Why, my manners have gone a runnin' it seems. My name's Willy Wilson. And you'd be Johnny, am I right, or am I right, or am I so wrong I've actually made it all the way back to right again?"
Shaking his head the Swordsworn grunted.
"My name's Excalem."
Willy Wilson went quiet at that. His jovial face sunk.
"I wish you hadn't said that."


About Chris Foster:

Chris Foster is the Australian author of The Cassé Lands Series, a number of award winning poetry collections and numerous manuscripts that are 'currently under construction, please wear your hardhat'.
Besides writing bestsellers he enjoys fishing, playing games (board, tabletop, video, in fact anything with dice or numbers) and will occasionally be seen helping little old ladies across the street or carrying their shopping.
Generally he can be found glued to his desk wallowing loudly while surrounded by towering skyscrapers (ceiling scrapers?) of manuscripts and post-it notes. Currently he has over twenty manuscripts in progress.
He does try to keep his imagination under control but occasionally it overpowers him and a new book appears.

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