The Son Of Dark MobiPocket
By Jeremy Higley
A thousand years ago, the wizards of the Nynsa were tricked. They failed to follow the prophecy of the Darksome Thorn, and now the greatest evil of their time has survived into the next age. They will do anything the fix their mistake.
The Darksome Thorn, meanwhile, has revealed a new prophecy, and the very evil they failed to kill is working to use that prophecy to his advantage.
Forces of evil run rampant in the land of Duskain. Ancient powers are stirring. A greater darkness is imminent...
...and Skel, the foster son of an elephant herder, finds himself caught in the middle of everything...
Genre: YA Fantasy
Sensuality rating: 1
Cover Art by Simon Nightingale
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PDF / ePUB / MobiPocket / POD print
The elephants were restless.
Mynjar felt a twinge of unease as he left them to graze. The sun was near setting, and a long day’s travel had left the elephants famished. They tore at the grass of the plains greedily with their powerful trunks, spraying clumps of moist dirt about them like whales churning spray in the ocean. Or so he imagined.
He chuckled. His wife, Talon, always said he had a way with words. They never sounded as good aloud as they did in his thoughts though.
Mynjar was a large man, built like a wall of poorly cemented boulders. His long black beard and copper Eltar skin covered a very plain, honest face. He was not the sort of man anyone would generally suspect of shrewdness, or even ingenuity, whatever his wife might say.
Speaking of Talon, the poor woman was probably still setting up the tent, hindered by their little girls. The youngest, little Smyra, was barely a year old. She was a feisty one, getting into whatever mischief her awkward toddling could carry her to. He should definitely go help, if only with watching that one.
Leaving the elephants stamping and chewing, Mynjar walked back to the circle of tents he and the other Eltar nomads called home. Most tents were already up. He saw his wife pulling little Smyra out of a dirty bundle of old rivercane while their two older daughters struggled to lift a tent pole between them.
Talon started when she saw her husband. She was a very short woman, her head only coming to Mynjar’s chest. Her long black hair was put up in a tightly woven braid, something she had never done before Smyra had come around. Her skin was darker than Mynjar’s, as she had a purer Strein ancestry, and though she was five years younger than Mynjar, only twenty, her face was prematurely lined with anxiety.
“I meant to have dinner waiting,” she apologized, putting Smyra down again and hurrying over to the other two girls to help them lift. Mynjar easily lifted the adjoining pole and tied the two together with a short length of twine.
“A late dinner never killed a man,” Mynjar said, pleased with how wise that sounded. He’d have to remember that one.
His wife gave him a harried smile as she freed the cook pot from a rucksack and started gathering dried elephant dung for the fire. She tried hard, that one. Always moving, never feeling her work was done. Mynjar wished he had the words to comfort her, to let her know her efforts were always so much more than enough.
He finished setting up the tent while she started a small cookfire outside it. On a colder night they might build the fire inside, but tonight the plains promised a warm, comfortable sleep.