The Ashuak Chronicles
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The Ashuak Chronicles were first published in 2002-3 by HarperCollins Voyager division. Cover artwork for the original imprint was by Shane Parker whose work can be found via http://www.fantasygallery.net/parker/
The motivation for the Ashuak Chronicles was a homage to my favourite 'heroes' of the real world - Gandhi, Mandela, Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King, Christ - people who resisted tyranny and oppression, not with swords or power but with reason and love. It also looked at how and why people must not tolerate oppressive regimes of any kind. The aim was to create a fantasy story in which the central hero is as much pacifist as possible. The novels follow the core stories of three characters - Shana the gladiatrix, Sukaal the general of the ruling regime, and Alwyn the philosopher who seeks freedom for his oppressed people. Their human scale struggles are played out against a titanic struggle between the dragons released in the time of the Andrakis trilogy and the Alfyn. While the common themes and tropes of fantasy abound in the books - heroism, loyalty, magic, dragons - they are also socio-political explorations of human cruelty and greed for power. There are deliberate reflections on the impact of the Roman Empire and the British Empire on native populations. Blood was shortlisted in 2003 for the Aurealis Best Fantasy Novel Award. To celebrate twenty years since first publication, updated versions of the three books were released by Millswood Books in 2024. Cover design was generated using a combination of AI images, stock images and Photoshop. Print copies at $30 each plus postage can be ordered directly from me by emailing [email protected]. I will provide an invoice with details for payment and, upon payment, I will send you the books you order. Depending on the printer, the turnaround is usually 2-3 weeks. Currently, the three books are also available through Amazon Australia in ebook and print version via the following links: BLOOD PASSION FREEDOM |
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Original covers from HarperCollins 20023-3
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Sample chapter
Prologue
The old man used his polished oak staff to push up from sitting on the log, coughed, and spat to clear his throat. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his weather-worn tan smock, and hobbled forward two steps, before he said, ‘Come on, young man. The goats have wandered again.’
Erin brushed back his shock of jet hair, rose obediently, and followed the old man’s slow ascent of the hillock, clambering in spurts of youthful energy over larger rocks skirted by the old man.
At the crest, the old man halted under the shade of a low spreading tree to catch his breath, and Erin stood beside him to gaze across the shallow valley. The goats were fanning out, some in groups of three and four, some alone, foraging in the low bushes. Erin would have to herd the animals again. He judged, from the afternoon sun’s height above the peaks of the mountains of Jaru’s Wall, there was still a good margin of daylight to be had. ‘You are right,’ the old man agreed. ‘It’s too early to fetch them in. We can watch from here a little longer.’ He eased down awkwardly to sit against the tree trunk. Erin did not offer help. He offered to help the old man sit and rise, when he was first assigned to the goats, only to be abruptly told his help wasn’t needed. ‘When I am too old to get up, or sit down unaided, I will be too old to mind the goats,’ the old man said. ‘And when I am too old to mind the goats, I will be altogether too old.’ So, Erin refrained from offering, even when his mind and heart told him the old man needed his help, because the old man had great pride in himself and his independence.
Comfortable in the shade, the gnarled and wrinkled tree bark mirroring his skin texture, the old man opened the woven bag he carried and dug out two rock buns. ‘Sit, lad,’ he said. ‘The goats are happy, and it is a fine day. Sit, and share time with an old man.’
Erin squatted. He’d been the old man’s companion for two days and one night, and in that brief time the old man said little, except to share polite information, or give instructions. Erin considered the old man a sour spirit, but he was too unsure of himself or his goatherd role to complain. ‘Erin, isn’t it?’ Erin nodded, thinking the old man should know that. Perhaps his mind was growing feeble. ‘Do you know why you’ve been sent to me?’
‘To learn how to tend the goats.’
The old man broke a rock bun and passed one half to Erin. ‘In itself, a good enough reason, lad. Any man, worth his place, must know how to tend things. That’s why all the village boys are sent here, at this age,’ he said. The old man grinned and stared across the valley at the wall of grey mountains rising sharply into the dappled western sky. In winter, the peaks would shine with snow. Now, they were spires of naked rock. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. Erin relaxed, and bit into his share. Dry as the buns were, he was taking a liking to them, but he knew, after a week in the old man’s company, the buns would become less of a novelty. Then, he would be glad for home cooking over the hearth in Brightwaters. But that hope was weeks into the future. ‘You said you were an orphan, didn’t you lad?’ the old man asked, his bright blue eyes sparkling.
Startled by the intense gaze, Erin hesitated, before answering, ‘Yes.’
‘Do you know who your parents are?’
‘You mean were?’ Erin corrected. He never knew his parents. No one ever mentioned them in his village. He asked about his parents, when he learned the people with whom he lived were not his parents, but the common answer was no one knew them. He was a foundling, abandoned on Letta and Jak Ostler’s doorstep. Letta and Jak took him in, but they were honest in telling him he was not their child. So, he assumed his real parents didn’t want him, or were dead. Besides, Jak and Letta were good parents, and he was happy in the village at the edge of the Lake of Tribes.
The old man continued to study Erin, as he said, ‘No, lad. I mean do you know who they are.’
His emphatic tone made Erin sit back on his heels. Caught between shock, curiosity, and disbelief, Erin could only blurt, ‘How do you know who my real parents are?’
‘To answer that question, you will have to know a great many things.’ The old man uncorked a flask and lifted it to his lips.
Erin remembered his thirst. He reached for his water skin that hung from his neck, and drank, but his mind raced with questions. What did the old goatherd know of his real parents?
The old man wiped his mouth and held his flask toward Erin. ‘Take a mouthful of this,’ he said.
‘I already have water,’ Erin replied politely.
The old man leaned forward, his eyes brightening again, and said, ‘Drink this, lad. It is more refreshing than any water.’
Erin understood he was not being invited to drink. It was an order. He accepted the flask and raised it to his lips. His first tentative sip tasted smooth, and sweet, like honey, and it flowed down his gullet, leaving his mouth and throat silken and faintly warm. His thirst, and a hint of hunger fostered by the rock bun, evaporated. The blue sky brightened and deepened in hue. He was relaxed, and yet, as he concentrated, he could hear ants moving between grass blades and feel the warm breeze brushing his skin.
‘I have part of a very long story to tell you, lad,’ he heard the old man say, though he had no compulsion to turn toward him. The old man’s voice resonated, as if he was speaking in and around Erin. ‘It’s a story you, alone, must take to heart. From it, you will know your parents, and their parents, and you will be reborn, because you will also know yourself. In the days to come, I will teach you the story, because it is your story. And you will also learn how important it will be for you to care for your herd, as any good shepherd should, for the wolves are many, and the dangers to your flock are as great as they ever were.’
Fascinated by the intense energy infusing him from the spreading glow of the strange drink, Erin settled beside the old man. A story. His parents. He leaned against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.
‘And the story must start with the great dragons,’ the old man was saying from somewhere deep within Erin’s mind, ‘for their part was the least known in the beginning, and yet it was the most to be feared in the events that brought us to where we are.’
The old man used his polished oak staff to push up from sitting on the log, coughed, and spat to clear his throat. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his weather-worn tan smock, and hobbled forward two steps, before he said, ‘Come on, young man. The goats have wandered again.’
Erin brushed back his shock of jet hair, rose obediently, and followed the old man’s slow ascent of the hillock, clambering in spurts of youthful energy over larger rocks skirted by the old man.
At the crest, the old man halted under the shade of a low spreading tree to catch his breath, and Erin stood beside him to gaze across the shallow valley. The goats were fanning out, some in groups of three and four, some alone, foraging in the low bushes. Erin would have to herd the animals again. He judged, from the afternoon sun’s height above the peaks of the mountains of Jaru’s Wall, there was still a good margin of daylight to be had. ‘You are right,’ the old man agreed. ‘It’s too early to fetch them in. We can watch from here a little longer.’ He eased down awkwardly to sit against the tree trunk. Erin did not offer help. He offered to help the old man sit and rise, when he was first assigned to the goats, only to be abruptly told his help wasn’t needed. ‘When I am too old to get up, or sit down unaided, I will be too old to mind the goats,’ the old man said. ‘And when I am too old to mind the goats, I will be altogether too old.’ So, Erin refrained from offering, even when his mind and heart told him the old man needed his help, because the old man had great pride in himself and his independence.
Comfortable in the shade, the gnarled and wrinkled tree bark mirroring his skin texture, the old man opened the woven bag he carried and dug out two rock buns. ‘Sit, lad,’ he said. ‘The goats are happy, and it is a fine day. Sit, and share time with an old man.’
Erin squatted. He’d been the old man’s companion for two days and one night, and in that brief time the old man said little, except to share polite information, or give instructions. Erin considered the old man a sour spirit, but he was too unsure of himself or his goatherd role to complain. ‘Erin, isn’t it?’ Erin nodded, thinking the old man should know that. Perhaps his mind was growing feeble. ‘Do you know why you’ve been sent to me?’
‘To learn how to tend the goats.’
The old man broke a rock bun and passed one half to Erin. ‘In itself, a good enough reason, lad. Any man, worth his place, must know how to tend things. That’s why all the village boys are sent here, at this age,’ he said. The old man grinned and stared across the valley at the wall of grey mountains rising sharply into the dappled western sky. In winter, the peaks would shine with snow. Now, they were spires of naked rock. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. Erin relaxed, and bit into his share. Dry as the buns were, he was taking a liking to them, but he knew, after a week in the old man’s company, the buns would become less of a novelty. Then, he would be glad for home cooking over the hearth in Brightwaters. But that hope was weeks into the future. ‘You said you were an orphan, didn’t you lad?’ the old man asked, his bright blue eyes sparkling.
Startled by the intense gaze, Erin hesitated, before answering, ‘Yes.’
‘Do you know who your parents are?’
‘You mean were?’ Erin corrected. He never knew his parents. No one ever mentioned them in his village. He asked about his parents, when he learned the people with whom he lived were not his parents, but the common answer was no one knew them. He was a foundling, abandoned on Letta and Jak Ostler’s doorstep. Letta and Jak took him in, but they were honest in telling him he was not their child. So, he assumed his real parents didn’t want him, or were dead. Besides, Jak and Letta were good parents, and he was happy in the village at the edge of the Lake of Tribes.
The old man continued to study Erin, as he said, ‘No, lad. I mean do you know who they are.’
His emphatic tone made Erin sit back on his heels. Caught between shock, curiosity, and disbelief, Erin could only blurt, ‘How do you know who my real parents are?’
‘To answer that question, you will have to know a great many things.’ The old man uncorked a flask and lifted it to his lips.
Erin remembered his thirst. He reached for his water skin that hung from his neck, and drank, but his mind raced with questions. What did the old goatherd know of his real parents?
The old man wiped his mouth and held his flask toward Erin. ‘Take a mouthful of this,’ he said.
‘I already have water,’ Erin replied politely.
The old man leaned forward, his eyes brightening again, and said, ‘Drink this, lad. It is more refreshing than any water.’
Erin understood he was not being invited to drink. It was an order. He accepted the flask and raised it to his lips. His first tentative sip tasted smooth, and sweet, like honey, and it flowed down his gullet, leaving his mouth and throat silken and faintly warm. His thirst, and a hint of hunger fostered by the rock bun, evaporated. The blue sky brightened and deepened in hue. He was relaxed, and yet, as he concentrated, he could hear ants moving between grass blades and feel the warm breeze brushing his skin.
‘I have part of a very long story to tell you, lad,’ he heard the old man say, though he had no compulsion to turn toward him. The old man’s voice resonated, as if he was speaking in and around Erin. ‘It’s a story you, alone, must take to heart. From it, you will know your parents, and their parents, and you will be reborn, because you will also know yourself. In the days to come, I will teach you the story, because it is your story. And you will also learn how important it will be for you to care for your herd, as any good shepherd should, for the wolves are many, and the dangers to your flock are as great as they ever were.’
Fascinated by the intense energy infusing him from the spreading glow of the strange drink, Erin settled beside the old man. A story. His parents. He leaned against the tree trunk and closed his eyes.
‘And the story must start with the great dragons,’ the old man was saying from somewhere deep within Erin’s mind, ‘for their part was the least known in the beginning, and yet it was the most to be feared in the events that brought us to where we are.’