Crown Prince follows a man whose extraordinary gift of Sight is a double-edged sword, allowing him to glimpse danger but never freeing him from his own pain. What was the inspiration for the setup of your story?

The New Blood Saga began with a recurring dream so emotionally intense that I would wake up in tears. I finally had to write it. The dream gave me the emotional core but not the characters, so I drew on my background in philosophy — especially my fascination with Socrates — to create Natharr, a man seized by the Daemon of Sight much as Socrates was seized by the Daemon of Philosophy. I already loved drawing maps, and one of them provided the world the story needed. I set out to write a single novel, but the emotional weight and complexity quickly outgrew that plan. I expanded to a trilogy, reading each night’s pages to my wife, whose psychology background helped me refine pacing and character realism (particularly with the female characters). As the world deepened with its history, mythology, and pantheons, I realized even three books weren’t enough, so I allowed myself six. However, while writing book six, my wife asked why it felt like I was rushing. When I told her it was because the story “had” to end in six books, she simply said, “What if I give you permission for more?” And that opened the door to the full eight-book saga.

Natharr avoids feeling like a traditional heroic archetype. How did you approach writing a character who is both capable and deeply constrained?

First of all, thank you. I try to do that with everything I write to at least some degree. When I’m writing anything, whether it’s a novel, a poem, a news story, or just developing a character, I come up with the kernel of the idea, then I think about all the others I’ve read that are similar. Truth of the matter is that all of fantasy if Homer repackaged. So I look for the common thread from all that I’ve read. Then I ask myself, “How can I do the opposite?” What I end up with is rarely the opposite, but it’s usually different enough that it takes readers by surprise. If I manage that, then I’ve achieved my goal: take something that has been done before (to some degree) and throw it on its head. As far as being both capable and constrained, that’s the easy part. Here’s why. Although I pretty much stopped growing when I was 12 (I’ve grown maybe two inches since then), I was a giant growing up. As a result, playing with my friends, doing nothing different than they were doing, I would accidentally hurt them. I didn’t mean to, I always felt horrible, then their parents would make it a thousand times worse. If I wasn’t already crying because I hurt my best friend, then I would be when his mom reamed me for what I’d done. From a very young age, I was fighting internally to control impulses, not rough-housing with my friends because I was so much bigger than them, even when they were having the time of their life. When I started wrestling when I was 6, my workout partners were 9 or 10 because they were my size. They had been wrestling a lot longer and beat me to death every day. I hated wrestling. When the next season came around, my dad (who was also one of my coaches), told me that he knew it was hard my first year, but he thought I had learned a lot. So, if I wrestled one more year and still hated it, I could quit. He was right. That year, I was an All-American in both freestyle and Greco-Roman and, at the peak of my career years later, was world-ranked and qualified to represent the United States in Greco-Roman. So, where normal life left me walking around in a straitjacket, wrestling gave me an outlet where I could let go. There are aspects of Natharr that have similarities, and were easy to write, because I didn’t even have to think to know how it felt.

The Elder and the warped space near the end introduce a new layer of mystery. What role does that kind of surreal element play in the larger series?

Huge. It’s called the All-White Realm or the Faceless Realm. It changes everything in more ways than I could possibly list. Nor would you want me to, because every one of them would be a spoiler. Ellis the Elder is just as significant, aside from being many readers’ favorite character. He is fun, enigmatic, deep, tragic, essential, and also changes everything, much like the other. 

Can you give us a glimpse inside the next book in the New Blood Saga? Where will it take readers?

The cast of characters grows significantly. Some are loveable, some are not. Some are respectable, some are not. Some seem like a real problem from the first moment but are not. Some readers will hate, some readers will love. Some will be hated, but their persona will be understandable, perhaps even worthy of sympathy. Very little in the New Blood Saga is black and white. 

TAGLINE:

The future of Mankind relies on the Guardian of Maarihk. Can a mysterious Order help him repair the damage of choosing happiness over duty?

BACK COVER COPY:

Despite the Guardian of Maarihk being condemned as anathema, and his very existence relegated to legend, Natharr resumes his ancient responsibilities as Mankind’s protector. He joins with a mysterious Firstborn companion, Ellis the Elder, to journey into the snowy reaches of Biraald, where his Sight promises he will find those who secretly adhere to the ways of the Olde Gods.

Although Biraaldi bloodlines show their Firstborn heritage more clearly than even in Maarihk itself, the two nations have never enjoyed peace. It has been far worse since the rise of Brandt the Usurper to Maarihk’s throne. Natharr and Ellis must navigate the threats not only against the Firstborn, but the Maarihkish, as they seek out the sympathizers he Saw who are brave enough to resist Maarihk’s tyranny. Only then can the damage be repaired from when Natharr chose personal happiness with Darshelle and the young crown prince over his weighty responsibilities as Guardian of Maarihk. 

SAMPLE

Natharr leapt up and forward, arching his back, and the blade of a short sword sliced the air only a whisper away from his shoulder blade. He whirled immediately, slashing at the men at his back, but had to turn the attack into a defending stroke, and chopped down into one attacker’s blade, then reversed the motion to feint at the body before striking at the sword in a disarming attack. Their blades threw sparks and the soldier’s eyes bulged, big and brown, as his short sword twisted in his grip and flew to the ground, vanishing in the snow. Normally, Natharr would have pressed the advantage, at least bloodying the unarmed man to make him less of a threat when he retrieved his weapon, but the others were already surging forward to give their companion the necessary cover to rearm himself. Once again, Natharr was impressed with the training of these garrison line troops.

Natharr whirled away and leapt over the top of the snow, throwing a new cloud of white, and he saw Martice and Ellis. They stood, rooted in the knee-deep snow as if they were frozen. The old man’s face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, but the expression on Martice’s face was clear enough. Her eyes bulged and her mouth was open, a look of horror that took a strong woman and transformed her into any maid caught in a difficult situation. He was having a hard enough time fighting so many men in the deep snow, he did not need the distraction of the two of them acting like idiots waiting to be told what to do.

“The trap door!” he yelled, leaping over the top of the snow. “Get through it!”

They did not move.

“Now!”

Natharr turned hard to the right and the soldiers followed. He hoped he could keep their attention on him, rather than turning back toward the Elder and the woman, but that was not certain, particularly when he had just yelled instructions. Swords flew at him in rapid succession. By turning so sharply, he had closed the gap between himself and his pursuers, allowing three to get ahead of him, limiting his paths of escape, all of them back toward Ellis and Martice. His sword arm was heavy, his shoulder and wrist burning; his legs were becoming leaden from fighting through the crusty snow both as he raised each foot and as it came back down. He had to even the odds and he had to do it immediately. There was no telling how much longer he could keep this up. He was only a man and he could do only so much for so long, despite his Sight helping him ward off the worst of their sword strokes.

He attacked.

The three that had cut him off cried out, eyes bulging, as Natharr took his long sword in both hands to rain a barrage of strokes at their heads and shoulders. They stumbled backward through the snow, then one backed into the stiff branches of a pine. His eyes flicked upward for the briefest instant, but it was all the distraction Natharr needed. He swung his sword in a wide arc that ended with a wrist-wrenching impact as his blade bit into the man’s arm at the base of the shoulder. The soldier cursed and dropped to his knees, bright red spraying across the snow as he clutched at the wound. The bone had stopped Natharr’s edge from severing the limb, but the Guardian knew the man would not wield a sword for the garrison again.

It was blind luck that the second of the man’s two fellows ran headlong into him, flipping right over the top of him, upended as they both cried out. Natharr hacked at the man who fell atop his fellow, and his sword point sliced through the man’s fleshy backside, then the Guardian was off again, leaping over the top of the snow. The icy crust seemed thicker, or maybe it was just fatigue beginning to weigh him down, his knee throbbing as if aflame as his ankles started to ache, the repeated impact of the tops of his feet against the underside of the crust taking its toll.

“You heard him!” he heard Ellis yell. “Go through!”

Natharr cursed under his breath. It would be just like Martice to refuse to flee. He glanced toward her and saw that the old man held her aloft, arms locked around her chest. To the Guardian’s surprise, she did not resist. She simply dangled there, staring at Natharr as if stricken. It was that glance that turned Natharr’s head enough to see that Tavish was running through the snow toward him, throwing up his own wake of white, sword also clutched in both hands. The lieutenant sought to cut off Natharr’s path of escape. Tavish’s face was a mask of rage, cheeks red, and he was roaring like a Great Beast. Teeth gritted, Natharr planted his heels to stop and change direction, but his boot soles found no purchase and shot out from under him. The Guardian belched out an inarticulate sound as he fell backward, arms windmilling, despite the length of deadly, blood-wet steel in his hand. Tavish came in at him, unrelenting, sword raised over his head in both hands —

END OF SAMPLE

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