Still wavering, eh? Still need a bit more before you decide to part with those all-precious coins and nab some copies of the Skein of Shadows novellas? That's perfectly understandable and The Wandering Men agree with you wholeheartedly! Most of us are as thrifty as the day is long!
To that end, we've decided to treat you all with a free excerpt of Fiend Fighter! That's right - absolutely free - and ya know what else? If you're not 100% satisfied with this excerpt, we'll give you your money back - all zero dollars and zero cents!
We're not worried - we know that your money's just as safe as those that bet on Farulazar, the Fiend Fighter in the excerpt below:
The crowd, its roar muffled by the thick wooden door, the rumble of their feet through the dark passageways, the sickly-sweet smell in the air - they all told a story. Sometimes, the story was one of excitement and thrill, as the handlers led the creature into the arena. Something great would happen, there would be sport. Money would be won and lost. But sometimes, well, sometimes the story was of another sort. And tonight, the story was...Saluthur.
"It is in the arena..." came a low, gravelly voice from behind, followed by the sounds of braces being buckled.
"Aye, it is, and on his wings, I hear a slow night."
Farulazar sighed, stood, and slapped his thick fingered hands together, the sound dying almost as it sprang to life, consumed by the dank, moss-covered walls. He stretched his left hand out expectantly, and into it slid a well-worn gladius, while his right slid into the straps of a wooden shield, its leather re-stretched more times than even he could count. He stamped his iron-shod boots, which alone among all of his gear were new.
With one last stretch, he nodded to his assistant, Korm, a dwarf who, like him, lived on the fringe of acceptance among their people. Their chosen profession, nay, trade, was not something that dwarves considered noble. Indeed, the entire concept they found contemptible. They were not alone, of course; as far as Farulazar knew, the sport was viewed with disdain by all the races of Crown. There had been a time when their scorn bothered him, but that was many years in a past that recorded every rotten, stinking, worthless year on his weathered brow. It had once been a challenge, but now it was...something else.
Farulazar pushed open the heavy wooden door and stalked down the darkened tunnel. The sounds came in waves down the stone corridor, at times muffled, at times clear. Bets were being made, odds determined, money being handled. There was a time when it was all exciting, when the sounds, the smells, the raw energy of the sport made him feel alive. Now, it was just noise, something that had to be endured every Travelday night.
This night would be no better - worse, actually, because the take would be small. To some, it was oh so important, for it was Long Night, the 8th day of Layfanil, the first month of winter. Coincidentally, this year it fell on Travelday. Next year, it would fall on the ominous Darkday. To Farulazar, it was really just another day, but to others it was a holiday, celebrating the beginning of the Demon Scourge so many years ago. A great day to them, but just another day, just another fight, and once a year, just another fiend for the dwarf. Perhaps a novice would be in the crowd, one with a large bag of gold that needed lightening.
Of course, a small take would annoy Alfem, his associate, the halfling who ran the wagers. Some small semblance of a grin spread on the grizzled dwarf
