Dreams of Winter - A Forgotten Gods Tale Book 1 by Christian Warren Freed Book Tour and Giveaway :)
Dreams
of Winter
A
Forgotten Gods Tale Book 1
by
Christian Warren Freed
Genre:
Fantasy
Under
the rigid guidance of the Conclave; an order of holy men seeking to
bring back the glory of the time of the gods, the Order of the
Inquisition and their Prekhauten Guard divisions the seven hundred
known worlds carve out a new empire with the compassion and wisdom
the gods once offered. But a terrible secret, known only to the most
powerful, threatens to undo three millennia of progress. The gods are
not dead at all. They merely sleep. And they are being
hunted.
Senior
Inquisitor Tolde Breed is sent to the planet Crimeat to investigate
the escape of one of the most deadly beings in the universe.
Amongeratix, one of the three sons of the god-king is loose once
again, the fabled Three. Tolde arrives on a world where heresy breeds
insurrection and war is only a matter of time. Tolde is aided by
Sister Abigail of the Order of Blood Witches in his quest to find
Amongeratix and return him to Conclave custody before he can begin
his reign of terror.
What
he doesn’t know is that the Three are already operating on Crimeat.
Each serves a different emotion: Vengeance, Sorrow and Redemption.
Their touch drives the various characters beyond themselves and
towards an uncertain future that can only end one of two ways. Either
the Three win and finally destroy the gods, or humanity stops them
and continues to survive.
Christian W. Freed was born in Buffalo, N.Y. more years ago than he would like to remember. After spending more than 20 years in the active duty US Army he has turned his talents to writing. Since retiring, he has gone on to publish 17 military fantasy and science fiction novels, as well as his memoirs from his time in Iraq and Afghanistan. His first published book (Hammers in the Wind) has been the #1 free book on Kindle 4 times and he holds a fancy certificate from the L Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest.
Passionate
about history, he combines his knowledge of the past with modern
military tactics to create an engaging, quasi-realistic world for the
readers. He graduated from Campbell University with a degree in
history and is pursuing a Masters of Arts degree in Military History
from Norwich University. He currently lives outside of Raleigh, N.C.
and devotes his time to writing, his family, and their two Bernese
Mountain Dogs. If you drive by you might just find him on the porch
with a cigar in one hand and a pen in the other.
The
Bloody Man arrived at night. Twice the size of a mortal man, he
didn’t move, didn’t even blink. The villagers of Kovlchen were
both frightened and amazed. No one had ever seen anything like this
before. Prayers were whispered, blades sharpened. The man was heavily
muscled, sculpted almost, and completely covered in dark crimson
blood. Arms at his sides, he stared out at the world with empty eyes.
Villagers flocked to see the Bloody Man, if such a being might be
called a man. Those daring enough moved closer, eager to get a better
look. Mothers hurried their children home, lest they become
contaminated or infected.
A
week passed and with it the novelty. People talked less of the blood
covered man. The mayor and constable decided that, while the man had
not so much as blinked during in the time since his arrival,
something had to be done. They sensed a latent threat and gave voice
to that paranoia. A town meeting was called in the local tavern.
“The
question is not what as much as when,” Mayor Zenningberg told the
assembled audience. “This bloody man represents a danger we have
never experienced.”
“But
he has done nothing,” farmer Aenni reasoned. The old man was well
known for his wisdom. “How can we act against a being that doesn’t
even seem to breathe?” “That is not the point! Sure, the bloody
man may not have acted against us yet, but that is not to say he
won’t soon,” Zenningberg insisted.
A
chorus of cheers and murmurs filled the room. The people were
frightened. That much was certain. An undertone of fear laced the
smoke thickened air. Old and young alike could feel it. Danger
lingered just beyond the borders of common sense. The bloody man was
a danger. He must be dealt with.
Zenningberg
held up his hands for silence. It took a moment, but the crowd
finally stopped their chatter long enough for him to continue.
“My
friends, I love this village. I have spent my entire life here and
devoted the last fifteen years to making it the best village in the
middle kingdoms. The Baron of Berchenfel has used this as his model
community. That being said, we cannot allow this thing
to
remain here. The longer he stays the more danger we are in.”
“Danger
from what? He hasn’t moved at all.”
Zenningberg
caught the familiar face of Prentiss. He snorted. The lad was the
local troublemaker, a youth who did not see the value in the wisdom
of his elders. The boy needed to keep his mouth closed and go about
his business.
“Prentiss,
imagine what would happen when he does move. That creature has got to
be nearly ten feet tall. And look at the muscles on him. He’s a
beast of man and I for one do not wish to find out what he means to
do.” Zenningberg smiled to himself. He could feel the mood of the
crowd shifting back towards him. “Let us not forget that he came
here by supernatural means!”
“Prove
it!” Prentiss shouted.
“How
can you deny otherwise?” came a frail voice from the back of the
room.
All
eyes turned to see Father Dorchea striding towards Zenningberg and
the podium. The Father was the most respected man in the village.
When he spoke, people listened.
His
stern eyes leveled on the crowd. He was a thin man, old and covered
with liver spots. His hair, what was left, was thin, close cropped
and streaked gray.
“This
Bloody Man is a message, sent to us by the Gods to confront our sins
against the Fathers,” he told them.
“Father,
the gods do not always interfere with the whims of man. What have we
done to draw the wrath of the gods?” asked the mayor.
Father
Dorchea slid through the crowd to stand beside his friend. “My
friends, who are we to question the creators of all life? Are we not
the children of gods? The very spark sent unto this world to bring
joy where once only darkness reigned. This is not an easy thing of
which I speak. My heart aches from the signs before my eyes. The
Bloody Man is a bane to our continued existence.”
Arguments
spread through the crowd. Some for, some against the continued
presence of the Bloody Man. Perhaps the worst part of the situation
was that gnawing uncertainty buried within each of them. Uncertainty
can be a powerful emotion; strong enough to spark unabashed fear or
peak the highest curiosity. Fear slowly won out. The tide of emotions
turned towards the bitter prospects of the potential horror the
Bloody Man represented and how best to deal with the situation.
It
was all talk until Jarris Thoom came in carrying the limp form of his
youngest daughter. Tears streaked his cheeks and his voice trembled
as much as his waning strength. “The Bloody Man! It was him! He
killed my Elisa!”
Zenningberg
bellowed for quiet. “How Jarris? How did he do this thing?”
Jarris
sank to his knees. He cried uncontrollably, gently placing Elisa’s
body on the dust covered wooden floor. “Those kids,” he
whispered. “I told them not to go near him. I told them, I told
them, I told them.” He looked up into the panic stricken eyes of
both the Father and the Mayor. “They just wouldn’t listen. They
had to go play near this monster. And he killed her!”
Zenningberg
passed Father Dorchea a sidelong glance. In a voice just loud enough
for the two to hear, he said, “that settles it. We have to get rid
of him somehow.”
Dorchea
nodded and dropped down to comfort poor Jarris.
“Everyone,
listen to me!” the Mayor roared to be heard. “Go to your homes
and find what weapons you can. Tonight we will end the threat of this
Bloody Man. Go now!”
“And
what of the gods? Will they not punish us for what we seek to do?”
Prentiss asked accusingly. “I don’t believe much in gods and
signs, but if what the Father and poor Jarris Thoom said are true
then something must be done, but violence is not the answer.”
“There
is no other way!”
“He
has already killed once, are you so willing to let him do it again?”
Zenningberg asked.
Prentiss
shook his head. “A moment ago we all preached peace and now look at
you! Nothing more than a blood thirsty mob! We were not raised this
way. This village has avoided going to war for three generations and
now we throw it all away on the whim of a single incident? I cannot
stand for this.”
“Our
paths have already been chosen!” Father Dorchea replied. “The
gods demand action.”
“And
if we die?”
“Then
the gods decreed.”
The
simple answer was chilling. An eerie silence settled over those
gathered for a tender moment. The atmosphere stifled. A choking
feeling hung at the back of everyone’s throats. Jarris Thoom solved
it all in a single act of violence. Hatred and rage collided in his
mind, creating a super emotion that no sense of morality or reason
could overpower. He looked up at the young Prentiss.
“That
thing killed my little girl!” he roared. Jarris moved quicker than
anyone anticipated. On his feet and dagger drawn before they could
react, he plunged the old, nicked blade deep into Prentiss’ chest.
The youth fell with a cry, dark blood flowing down his tunic.
In
that moment every bird launched into the sky. A thunder clap so loud
it shook the foundations of the world began a whirlwind. The Bloody
Man blinked once. The emotions he felt were indescribable, but he’d
felt them before. More than once he had been forced to act in
response, lest they become too much even for his soul to bear.
Strength filled his muscles and his skin danced with electricity that
glowed blue in the dark of night. The first to die were those
closest. At nearly twelve feet tall and thicker than three men put
together, the Bloody Man swung his fists like clubs, smashing and
crushing bone and muscle. Men and women ran screaming. Some tried to
make a stand, but it was not enough. Nothing was enough to stem the
tide of violence pouring from the Bloody Man. It was a scene from
Hell. Broken bodies began to pile up. Hatred so deep it set fire to
every building in sight consumed the village. The Bloody Man did what
the gods had created him to do. He killed. And killed. And killed
until there were none left to oppose him.
Mayor
Zenningberg died from fright. His old heart couldn’t comprehend the
sights opened to him. Father Dorchea knelt before the Bloody Man and
prayed for those few moments before his head was crushed like a piece
of rotten fruit in the Bloody Man’s mighty fist. And then the
Bloody Man stopped suddenly. His eyes opened and he saw the
devastation he had caused for the first time. Not a soul lived in the
village of Kovlchen. Even the smallest dog and youngest child had
been killed, their bodies a travesty of human form. Homes and shops
were leveled. The entire area looked as if a massive earthquake had
ravaged it. He tilted his head back, horrified at what he had done.
“NOOOO!”
he cried, and dropped to his knees in misery.
Not
again, he shook his head. Not again. Tears spilled from his eyes. The
destruction burned what was left of his heart, ate at the depths of
his soul. Pain and suffering seemed his eternal companions and he
didn’t know why. These people had done nothing to deserve the
horror he’d unleashed. Murder. That’s what it was. Sheer, brutal
murder. No one would ever learn what had happened to the quiet
village of Kovlchen on that dark autumn night. An entire people were
destroyed before the sun had the chance to rise.
The
Bloody Man cried for them all. Every last soul he sent back to his
father caused a tear so large it created a sea of raw agony. He sank
to his knees. The old doubt had returned to his soul. He remembered
why he had fled humanity so many centuries ago. He wasn’t made for
this life, but there was no alternative. The Bloody Man yanked
himself to his feet. His movements were timid, like a scolded child.
Ever
had he been this way. The gods had cursed him. The Bloody Man walked
through the carnage, praying for a sign of life. Death mocked his
efforts. Agony filled faces stared back at him. He heard their
twisted laughter echoing back from the depths of Hell. This seemed
his lot in life. Suffering. His soul cried through the dark hours of
the night.
And
then he found it. Found that single spark of life that suggested hope
had not died. He knelt down beside the body of a small child and
gently cradled her in his massive arms. A tear fell, splashing on her
cheek. The girl groaned and breathed deep. She opened her eyes;
radiant green and speckled with fear.
“Shhh,”
he whispered. “Do not be afraid. I will not harm you.”
She
screamed and struggled in his grasp.
“Please,”
he pleaded. “I will not hurt you.”
He
finally set her down, expecting her to flee. But she didn’t. She
stood fast and stared back in wonder.
“What
happened to my momma?” she asked. Her voice was strained and
broken.
He
bowed his head. “I am sorry.”
The
Bloody Man stood and turned to leave.
“Wait,”
the girl asked. “Who are you?”
He
stopped long enough to look back over his shoulder with pained eyes.
“Sorrow. My name is Sorrow.”
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