Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Robert A. Walker today, who will be unveiling an intriguing excerpt from their new fantasy series, The Legend of Baelon, Six Moons, Seven Gods. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into the intriguing world they’ve crafted in their latest work!

About the Book

Six Moons, Seven Gods

“One must be careful practicing deception. The easiest to deceive will always be one’s self.” 

The skilled thieves of the Takers Guild plot to overthrow the kingdoms of Baelon, but when their plans are thwarted by a prescient woman and her brooding daughter, they must turn to the League of Assassins for assistance. Meanwhile, retired royal guard Rolft Aerns returns to the palace of King Axil with an old score to settle. When they all cross paths–and swords–in the dark shadows of Fostead’s south end, nothing is as it seems and the murder count rises quickly. 

The long fingers of the Guild reach everywhere, and one overly ambitious thief is all it takes to spark a chain of events that will haunt the world of Baelon for many years to come. 

Six Moons, Seven Gods is book one in The Legends of Baelon.

You can find Six Moons, Seven Gods here:
Amazon

Excerpt

Night was falling as Sibil left the cobbler’s shop. She turned to watch its front door close, managing to wave before the cobbler’s wrinkled face and long leather apron disappeared inside. The small shop was, as the abbot had said, but a short walk from The God of Children’s House; she had had no trouble finding it following his directions. The abbot had given her a metal amulet in the shape of a rectangular shield the size of her palm. Its leather thong enabled it to be worn around the neck, but the abbot had told her to present it to the cobbler with one of her mother’s worn shoes upon arrival.

She had done so and, as predicted by the abbot, the cobbler—a kindly old man with a mop of white hair—had simply asked, “How do you come by this, my dear?”

And though it seemed a bit odd to her, she had responded as instructed: “Thank you for asking, Master Nash. Father Syrus prays for me.”

The cobbler had returned the amulet to her hand, folding her fingers around it. “Then I am at your service, madam. What can I do for you?”

When Sibil had explained her predicament, the cobbler had assured her that if she would return on the morrow at sunrise, he would have ready for her mother a pair of new turnshoes made of soft leather goatskin. There would be no charge.

Sibil retraced her steps down a narrow alley as her thoughts returned to her mother’s strange behavior. She had purposely ignored previous impulses to reconstruct the day’s events, telling herself she had more important things to pursue. She had first focused her energies on finding shelter, and then busied herself with the abbot’s offer of new shoes. Those would help her mother’s immediate plight, no doubt, but the woman’s physical ailments were clearly nothing compared to what was plaguing her mind. Things had not been right with her since Sibil’s father died. And they had gotten progressively worse. It was as though she had drifted away from her old self, and from those she had been close to. Sibil had not had a meaningful conversation with her for almons. There were sparks of life here and there, moments when Sibil dared to hope that her mother might be released from whatever enthralled her, but today’s events had seriously dashed any such dream. Aloof and withdrawn was bad enough. Now it seemed her mother was drifting from reality as well. Her irrational rants about the king and Sibil’s own safety were a new—

A violent force slammed into Sibil’s shoulder, knocking her sideways and into the alley wall. She lost her footing, falling to one knee, dazed. There was the sound of gravel grating under foot.

“Well now, lass, jest where might you be goin’?”

Sibil’s heartbeat quickened. She should have known not to take the alley. It was dark, but not so dark that she could not make out the shape of a tall man standing over her. She could smell him as well. Suddenly, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her head toward his crotch.

Sibil still held the amulet. Instinctively, she drove it as hard as she could up between the man’s legs. He gasped and released her hair.

“Bitch!” The man reached once more for her, but Sibil had already drawn her arm back. She struck him again with the amulet, in the same spot, only this time with more purchase and resolve. “Agh!” Too late, the man struggled to shield his privates.

Sibil stood, dropping the amulet as she reached frantically for the dagger beneath her coat. Her fingers trembled as they curled tightly around its hilt. She brandished the blade menacingly, panting as she sought to ward off her attacker.

“Bitch!” The man drew his own, much larger, knife. He lunged as Sibil turned and ran straight into the arms of an even larger man she had not seen approaching from the other end of the alley. She tried to push away, but already he had wrapped a strong arm around her, pinning both of hers and lifting her off her feet. Still holding her, the big man grabbed her oncoming assailant with his other arm and threw him headfirst against the alley wall.

Sibil squirmed, but the big man held her tightly with one arm. With the other, he pried the dagger from her hand.

“I’m going to let you go now. No further harm will come to you.”

Sibil found herself standing on her own, unsure of what to think. The big man held her dagger by the blade and offered it to her. “Take it and be off.”

What’s happening? Sibil hesitated before instinct overrode all else. With another surge of adrenaline coursing through her veins, she snatched her knife and ran.

About The Author

Robert A. Walker

I grew up in a small Northwestern town in Massachusetts. My father was a professional editor, so I’m sure the itch to play with words is something I inherited from him. I was always writing stories as a youth, and my dad would scribble all over them before handing them back to me. When I graduated college, I packed everything I owned into a small car with a rusted-out floorboard and headed west. I wound up in California where I found not only employment, but a
wife, and we have lived here happily with our dogs and a view of the Pacific Ocean ever since.
When I’m not fabricating tales, I can be found competing on local tennis courts or working on a
never-ending list of DIY house projects.

You can find author Walker here:
Author Website

If you are an author and wish to be featured as our guest or if you are a publicist and want to get your author featured on TRB, then please get in touch directly by e-mail at thereadingbud@gmail.com

Welcome to TRB Lounge! We’re thrilled to host author Andrew Goliszek today, who will be unveiling an intriguing excerpt from their new fantasy series, Like Embers in the Night. Dive in and get an exclusive sneak peek into the intriguing world they’ve crafted in their latest work!

About the Book

Like Embers in the Night

During Stalin’s brutal reign of terror, Janek, a Polish soldier, and his wife, Wanda, endure the horrors of Soviet labor camps and Siberian gulags as World War II rages across Europe. While millions perish, they endure the invasion of Poland by Germany and Russia and then miraculously survive mass deportations, imprisonment, torture, and starvation. Broken both physically and emotionally by their near-death experiences and the unspeakable atrocities of dictatorships and of war, Janek and Wanda are reunited seven years after he marched off to defend his country. They must begin a new life and try to forget the many scars of their past, but where? And can they ever truly forget all that happened to them while they were apart…

You can find Like Embers in the Night here:
Amazon

Excerpt

Slumped almost lifelessly against the tufts of her chair, Wanda stared out an open window overlooking a lovely garden. Warm August rains had colored the grounds with a sea of vibrant flowers, their scent filling her room like a bouquet, though she barely noticed. Occasionally, even the most insignificant events would trigger memories from a time long gone: a soft whisper, a faint smell, the delicate warmth of a child’s breath against her face, the soothing melody of a Mozart sonata. It was at those moments that Wanda would waken from her darkness and, with a look of fear spreading across her face, remember her family in Radom, who had no idea that a hundred miles south, the skies rained gray with the ashes of a thousand souls. On most days, they hardly detected the grainy soot around them, or even witnessed an evening sunset because the five incinerators in Auschwitz burned bodies day and night. Before long, everyone in Radom simply got used to it—a lingering grit that filled the air and settled upon the smallest things: a blade of grass, a delicate flower, a pat of butter spread on toast, a tongue that flicked unconsciously to rid itself of a strange and fleshy taste that hours earlier had been someone’s husband or wife.

    Wanda’s memories these days came in and out, bubbling to the surface, then vanishing as if someone had reached in and wiped them away. On especially bad days, her world was a blank slate. No parents or grandparents to remember. No children or grandchildren to bring joy into her life. Not even a husband to keep her warm at night as she slept. The good sisters of Saint Francis who ran the Catholic nursing home tried as best they could to ease the bouts of anger and depression that overcame her. It didn’t help that Wanda, afflicted with worsening dementia, had, on some days, reverted to speaking Polish to everyone around her. 

    That particular day in early August started out as a good one. Perked up and searching the room for anything familiar, her eyes sparkled as she caught glimpses of happier days, but suddenly turned despondent when she remembered the day she’d seen her beloved Janek for the last time. He was eighty-six years old when she walked into his hospital room in Pensacola, Florida—a gentle shadow of a man with a Polish accent, a kind but stoic face, and such remarkable stories of love and suffering and war that they’d forever changed the way his children and grandchildren looked at life. The few friends he had knew him as John, but he preferred Janek, one of the few reminders he had of his beloved Poland. His hazel eyes, so animated they seemed to dance, would glisten with tears whenever he spoke of what his wife and daughter had endured in the brutal labor camps of Siberia; and it was at those moments when Janek’s eyes would harden and expose the very depths of his soul.

    Wanda remembered that morning like it was yesterday, picturing the ventilator tube snaked down his throat, his frail chest rising and falling to the rhythm of oxygen that kept his heart from stopping until his family could all gather and say goodbye for the last time, staring at his ashen face as she thought back to a life that most people would find unimaginable. Her bony fingers clenched as if holding onto something precious, she looked at a small painting of the Virgin Mary, then glanced around the stark room. Something familiar pervaded the silence. She felt alone, as she did on most days, though she rarely knew it or even cared, until her memory suddenly returned and she would whisper, “Janek. Where are you, my love?” 

    For the entire minute she was lucid, Wanda remembered pressing Janek’s cold hand into hers, thinking that he had no business being alive; that his children and grandchildren should not have been born; that whosever’s life he’d ever touched or changed, made better or worse because of his existence on earth, would be as different as night and day. And that whatever he’d done in his next forty-six years, whatever contributions he’d made, significant or not, would have vanished like dust in the wind were it not for the fateful day he’d risked his life and walked to freedom while twenty-five thousand other Polish soldiers marched in lockstep to Stalin’s execution order and on to their graves in the Katyn Forest.

    Over the years, Wanda had heard the tragic story of Stalin’s Katyn Massacre and the Polish soldiers executed and thrown into mass graves where they lay buried and forgotten for decades. Though she’d never spoken of it herself, and it pained her to listen to Janek’s heart wrenching tales of war, she’d accepted that, for him, it was cathartic. But as she grew older, and because she’d experienced more pain in seven years than most women would suffer in a lifetime, she prohibited even a mention of anything Russian, especially when Janek would describe a time in history when hell, in all its fury, had made its home on earth.

    Wanda’s Poland, with a population of only thirty-five million, was the only Allied nation that fought in World War II from the opening salvos of Nazi occupation and Russia’s invasion in 1939 until Germany’s surrender a week after Adolf Hitler had committed suicide in 1945. For its size, no other nation on earth had given as much or had suffered more than Poland: millions sent to gulags or deported to labor camps in Kazakhstan and the frigid regions of Siberia; millions more exterminated in concentration camps dotted across the Polish landscape; countless men, women, and children starved, tortured, murdered, and worked to death simply because they were Poles. By the time the war ended, its population had been reduced by at least ten million. To survive six years of the two most brutal regimes in modern history was not only unlikely, it was truly a miracle. But amongst the ashes and smoldering ruins, broken lives and unspeakable horrors of war, miracles did happen; survivors who’d lived to tell their children of war and gulags, of victors and unlikely heroes, trying in vain to forget the shocking cruelty of a world that had taken everything they had from them, living their lives in the shadows as if no one else in the world cared. It’s said that these heroes are like embers in the night, glowing brilliantly in the darkest moments of history, forever changing the course of humanity, and then, just as suddenly, vanishing as distant memories fade and the world forgets what ordinary men and women did when hope was gone and all seemed lost. Wanda and Janek were two of those seemingly ordinary people, and on that day and at that moment in Sandusky, Ohio, Wanda remembered.

About The Author

Andrew Goliszek

After receiving a Ph.D. in Physiology from Utah State University, Dr. Andrew Goliszek was a research associate at Wake Forest University School of Medicine in both the department of Physiology and the department of Medicine. Following that, he was Associate Professor of Biology and Human Anatomy & Physiology at North Carolina A&T State University where he developed and taught 6 undergraduate and graduate course. He has written numerous books and articles, was principal investigator on several NIH biomedical research grants, and was recipient of the prestigious College of Arts & Sciences Faculty of the Year Award for excellence in teaching, research, and student advising. 

You can find author Goliszek here:
Website

If you are an author and wish to be featured as our guest or if you are a publicist and want to get your author featured on TRB, then please get in touch directly by e-mail at thereadingbud@gmail.com