After reading the third book of this series, his wife, Robin, insisted that the novels needed to get out there. When Michael refused to jump back onto the query-go-round, she took over the publication tasks and has run the business side of his writing career ever since.
In today’s turbulent publishing environment, Michael and Robin embrace hybrid authorship and utilize self-publication, small presses, and Big Five publishers to ensure that Michael’s works are available to the widest audience possible. They also actively help fellow authors (both aspiring and established) by sharing what they’ve learned through online posts, free in-person seminars, and courses for Writer’s Digest. Michael can be reached at:
Website: riyria.com
Facebook: author.michael.sullivan
Twitter: @author_sullivan
Email: [email protected]
READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT
Age OF Swords
BOOK TWO OF The Legends of the First Empire
We hope you have enjoyed Age of Myth, the first book in the Legends of the First Empire series. We’re pleased to present you with a sneak peek of the second book, Age of Swords, releasing in the summer of 2017. Enjoy!
CHAPTER ONE
Broken
Most people believe the first battle of the Great War occurred at Grandford in the autumn, but the truth is it started three months before on a beautiful summer’s day in Dahl Rhen.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Gifford knew he would never win a footrace. He was late coming to this realization; everyone else knew it the day he was born. His left leg didn’t have much feeling, couldn’t support his weight, and dragged. His back wasn’t much better: Badly twisted, it forced his hips one direction and his shoulders another. For years he held out hope he’d get better. He’d believed that if he tried hard enough, long enough, he could straighten up and stand on two feet. It never happened.
But his leg and back weren’t the worst of it.
Gifford was cursed with only half a face. He had the other half, exactly where it ought to be, but like his leg, it, too, was useless. The left side didn’t move at all, making it difficult to see and torturous to talk.
But his face wasn’t the worst of it.
When he was eight, Gavin Killian had dubbed him the goblin, and Myrtis, the brewmaster’s daughter, said he was broken. Of the two he preferred goblin—at the time he’d had a crush on Myrtis. When growing up it seemed everyone had called him something, none complimentary. Over the years the names faded. No one called him the goblin anymore, and although people probably still thought he was broken, no one said it—at least not to his face.
But the name-calling wasn’t the worst of it.
He had trouble controlling his bladder. The accidents occurred mostly at night, and he frequently woke in a soaked bed. For most of his life his “morning baths” had been the worst of it. Yet as with all his other adversities, he’d found a way to cope, a way to persevere. He drank sparingly and never at night. Even on the coldest winter nights when the villagers of Dahl Rhen huddled together in the main lodge for warmth, he always slept alone, which was easier than he would have liked.
Although Gifford’s roads appeared narrower, rockier, and strewn with more thorns than others, he always found a way to deal with life’s setbacks. Nothing came easy, but Gifford refused to see himself as a victim. He was alive, generally happy, and people loved and praised the pottery he created. That was more than many people had, and more than enough to satisfy Gifford.
And yet whenever he looked at Roan, he knew the worst of it—the worst part of being him—was that the only thing he truly wanted was forever beyond the reach of his feeble body, and no amount of positive thinking would change that.
Roan lashed the wood-and-tin contraption to his left leg, tightening the leather straps. She knelt before him wearing her work apron, a smudge of charcoal on the side of her nose. Her hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, which was so high on her head that it looked like a rooster’s crest.
Her clever little hands were marred by dozens of cuts from working with sharp metal. He wanted to hold them, kiss the wounds, and take the pain away. He’d tried once, and it hadn’t gone well. She’d pulled away, her eyes wide with fear and a look of horror on her face. Roan had an aversion to being touched, and not just by him, thank Mari. Mountains of praise for his beautiful cups and amphorae wouldn’t have been able to offset the anguish if her reaction had been limited to him.
Roan yanked hard on the ankle strap and nodded with a firm, determined expression. “That should do it.” She stood up and dusted her clean hands symbolically. Roan’s voice was eager but serious. “Ready?”
Gifford answered by pulling himself up with the aid of his crafting table. The device on his leg, comprised of wooden planks and metal hinges, squeaked as he rose, making a sound like the opening of a tiny door.
“Do you have your weight on it?” she asked. “Put your weight on it. See if it holds.”
For Gifford, putting weight on his left leg was akin to leaning on water. But for Roan he’d willingly fall on his face. Perhaps he could manage a roll and make her smile. She rarely smiled and never laughed. If only he’d been born with two stout legs, strong and agile, he’d dance and twirl like a fool and make her smile, make her laugh. Gifford would show Roan what he saw when he looked at her, but broken as he was, the twisted potter made a poor mirror and could only cast back a shattered reflection.
Gifford tilted his hips and out of faith and love, shifted some weight to his left leg.
He didn’t fall. A strain tugged on the straps wrapped around his thigh and calf, but his leg held. His mouth dropped open, his eyes widened, and he saw Roan grin.
By Mari, what an amazing sight.
He couldn’t help smiling back. He was standing straight—or as straight as his gnarled back allowed—he was winning an impossible battle using magic armor Roan had fashioned.
“Take a step,” she coaxed. Both hands were clenched in fists as if she were hanging on to something invisible in front of her.
Gifford shifted his weight back to his right side and lifted his left leg. Swinging forward, it squeaked again. He leaned and took a step the way normal people had done a million times. The moment he did, the brace collapsed.
“Oh, no!” Roan gasped as Gifford fell face-first, barely missing the set of newly glazed cups drying in the morning sun.
His cheek and ear slapped the dirt, jarring his head. His elbow, hand, and hip took most of the punishment. To Roan, it must have looked painful, but Gifford was used to falling. He’d been doing it all his life.
“I’m so, so, so sorry.” Roan was back on her knees bent over him as he rolled to his side. Her grin was gone, and the world less bright.
He couldn’t help feeling it was his fault. “I’m okay, no pwoblem,” he said. “I missed the cups.”
“The hinge failed.” She struggled to hold back the tears as her injured hand ran over the brace.
How many cuts came from building that brace for me?
“The strut bent,” she said. “The copper just isn’t strong enough. I’m so sorry.”