Plannik Chronicles

–   Excerpt  from Plannik Chronicles Book I   – 

–  From Chapter 2:  The Crimson Dagger  –

On the blending alter a dirk belonging to the first Prophet Master, Spalang, begins to spin on its tip, firing the joining furnace.

The prophet initiate must now grip a new, raw blade with all his might, thrusting it into the belly of the glowing alter. Pain such as never before threatens to consume him as it fuses into his hand. It feels as though a volcanic acid is ripping him, coursing through his veins, scalding every cell, nerve and fiber.

It takes the combined strength of two Prophet Guardians to wretch the initiate arm from the binding, firey mass. The blade luster’s in bright blood crimson, dripping essence of the ancients mingled with that of the new Prophet Master. This ceremony forever linked him not only with all that has been, but generation’s to follow.

The dirk, fused into the hand, begins to glow brightly, until the binding light is all that can be seen. The new Prophet Master screams a final agony as the blade completes its task, carving to the precise form of its master’s essence. His very being. As the light begins to fade, a fiery finger lashes out, carving his name into the face of time, alongside all masters from the beginning.

One day this master, too, will surrender his life to time. On that day he shall return to the sacred caverns, adding all that he has become, his essence, flesh, life and secrets, to those who shall follow.


–   From Chapter 3:  The House of Teetha   –

      Six hooded figures stepped into view. Cantrell could not have known of them until that very moment. All but one remained behind Prophet Master Tellen. This one walked toward Cantrell, turned and stood at his side.

Tellen spoke with rumbling ceremony, raising both head and hands.

“These are Tecal. Keepers of the Carving Caverns. Holy Warriors,” He said. His focus turned to the woman standing next to Cantrell. “This is Tecal-Kara. Today, she is to be your guardian,” he said, stretching a long arm toward her.

Kara brushed back her hood, shaking shoulder length brown hair splashing over high cheeks. Green eyes, sullen and serious. A single crimson arc crested over her right cheek. Kara is a portrait of quiet elegance, attractive and fiercely resolved.  Tellen turned his attention to Police Chief Kalan.

“Kompa-Kalan. We are grateful for your assistance,” he said.

Kompa-Kalan. . .” Cantrell mouthed without sound. The Tulkan clan reference took him by surprise. “There is more to our new Chief than I am aware,” he thought, carefully studying the man.

“Time for you to go,” Tellen told the Chief. Kalan cut his eyes toward Cantrell, savoring surprise with a wide grin.

“Looks like it’s your pony ride pal. But when you return, we have a lot to talk about,” Kalan said, turned and departed.

“Killa Madag has known this day would arrive with noble passion. The time has come to harness shame for the cleansing. TECAL – POMFA!” Tellen commanded, a powerful tenor filling the cavern.

Tecal Kara took two long steps away from Cantrell. She, along with the other cavern warriors, reached into their robes and withdrew magnificently crafted bone handled whips. Intricate silver and crimson patterns cut into opulent ivory, glistening in the hand of the determined warriors. Moving as one, they hold the coiled whips over their heads. And with a graceful sweep cast the reels lashing outward, flicking a wrist at its length. The lashes explode with a thunderous CRACK, flaring in blood red. A bolt of crimson lightening dances in front of them, spitting a torrent of red energy savagely splashing against the cavern wall. Wounds the size of a man’s head gouge into the stone, patterning a perfect circle. Silence surrenders to a vicious, rolling echo.

Cantrell watches the display unfold with amazement, deadly elegance fostering a frightful chill. He turns toward Kara.

“I think Madag might know we are here now,” he said.

“Honor is not a thief that prowls without sound,” she declares proudly. “Madag alone must choose the face of his fate.”

“POMFA-TA!” Tellen commands. “Seize honor!”

Do not leave my side,” Kara said. “On this day – you wear my honor.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am,” Cantrell answered timidly, precisely equaling her pace. “Never been one to wrinkle a ladies honor,” he added with a low moan.

# # #

Plannik Chronicles, book I, is near complete at about 80,000 words. Anticipated completion this year, mid to late 2017.

And will be seeking representation


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