Unbeknownst to him, Marco’s life teetered on the cusp of change.

Muttering curses under his breath, Marco trudged up the boardwalk with his backpack in tow. He was short on time and completely lost in the labyrinth that was Denrico’s seaport.

The merciless heat didn’t help either. His messenger’s uniform was crisply ironed this morning. If he wrung the sweat out of his shirt now he could irrigate a small farm for a day.

He cupped his eyes and scanned the pier ahead. Enormous trade galleons packed the crowded harbor. Never had Marco seen, much less set foot on, an oceangoing vessel. Today he had seen enough ships for a lifetime.

He slung his backpack across his opposite shoulder. The parcel inside was heavy. To make matters worse, it would be weeks before he could rid himself of its bulk. The parcel was addressed to Queen Catherine Saint-Saenz Lucinda of Avignary, and that was on the other side of the world.

A shout from nearby snagged his attention.

“Hey there, lad!”

Marco turned his head to look. An old crewman sauntered down the gangplank of a nearby ship. He was particularly ugly. Here was a man who looked like he threw rocks at beehives when he was a boy, except that the rocks were attached to a short stick, and the stick was still in his hand when the rocks hit the hives. His cleft chin extended beyond the arch of his nose, giving him a horrific underbite. He balanced a reed on his lips. When his jaws met to chew its stem, he looked as though he could sniff his chin.

The sailor planted himself in the center of the boardwalk, arms over his head as though signaling someone distant. “Hey!”

Marco held his breath as he approached. The sailor reeked of sweat. He hadn’t gone a step past when his backpack snagged, knocking him off balance.

“Whoa!” Marco yelled, whirling to face the old man.

The sailor’s eyebrows arched, resembling a pair of caterpillars on a twig. “Whoa yourself.”

Marco took a step forward. The old man put out his hand to stop him.

“Out of my way,” Marco said.

“That presumes you know where your way is.”

Marco stiffened at this affront. “You’d better have a good reason for obstructing Lord Amadis Eric’s mail.”

“Yup.” The sailor gnawed his reed.

“Well?”

"You don’t know where you’re headed.”

“You don’t either.”

"Don’t I?” The old man grinned a checkerboard pattern of missing teeth. Those teeth that remained were stained from years of neglect.

Marco tucked the backpack into his armpit. “What do you want?”

The sailor turned up his hands, palms out. “Meant no offense, lad. Old Turbo here only wants to help you. You look lost.”

“I am,” Marco admitted despite himself. He would never make his delivery if he did not first find his ship.

“Right, right.” The sailor touched his forehead and shut his eyes, pantomiming a diviner receiving a vision. “The sea spirits are calling. They tell me... They tell me you’re headed to Avignary.”

Marco crossed his arms. “Lucky guess.”

“Turbo doesn’t guess, lad.”

"So answer me this: where are the ships headed for Avignary?”

Turbo gnawed his reed. “That answer’s hidden in an old tale of the sea.” He cleared his throat. “The ship you seek flies a pennant blue as the sky on a summer day, red like the blood in your countrymen’s veins, and gold like, a... eh... Sorry, lad. I never was too good at rhyming sea tales. Rhythmic pentameter’ll be the death me, if I knew what that was.”

“What does this have anything to do with my getting to Avignary?” asked Marco.

“Rules of the sea, my boy. An old salt like me has to answer every nautical question by spinning a tale of the sea on the fly. And they don’t have to be true.” Turbo heldup an index finger to make his point. “But they have to rhyme. That’s the important part.”

"You’re senile,” Marco said.

“Aye, there’s a touch of madness in this here skull, methinks. Old injury. Musket ball to the noggin. But I tell you no lies. Avignarian ships fly blue, red, and gold pennants.” He pointed across the pier. “Head back the way you came to the branch and go two over.”

“Thank you,” Marco said before trudging away in a hurry.

Taking the old sailor’s advice, Marco backtracked up the pier and followed the boardwalk to a distant wing of the seaport. The ships anchored at this end of the harbor dwarfed even the freighters he had seen earlier. These giant barges floated so high on the surface of the ocean that the boardwalk between them seemed like a path through a valley. Each of them flew Avignarian colors.

He slowed his pace to look at the ships more closely. These had square windows carved into their sides, some ships having one, others two rows running along their middles. He stopped in place, stunned, when he noticed that the ship before him cut away. The rear quarter of the ship’s side had been shorn off.

Sunlight glinted off of a dull metal tube sticking out of a stack of splintered wood. Marco cupped his eyes to peer inside, and realized that the metal was the lip of a cannon cast in black iron.

Marco was so engrossed with the warship that he wasn’t looking where he was going. He walked into the outstretched hands of a man standing in his path.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Marco said out of reflex.

“No harm,” said the man. He brushed the ruffles out of his red suede coat and adjusted his hat. After a beat, he added, “Admonisher caught your eye. It was to be expected. She is a remarkable ship, after all.”

He doffed his hat with a bow. “I am Alexis Mordail, corsair extraordinaire.”

Alexis’s overcoat drew back as he straightened from the bow, giving Marco a glimpse of the ivory-gripped derringer holstered at his waistband.

“Look,” Marco said, “I’m sorry to cut you off, but I’m lost and pressed for time. I’m looking for an Avignarian ship.”

“You’re in the right place,” said Alexis. “All of these are Avignarian.”

“Yes, I know, but I’m looking for one in particular. I’m on business, you see, and I can’t be held up any longer.”

“Ah.” Alexis gave a thoughtful nod. “Forgive me for not recognizing you earlier, sir. We’ve been expecting you.”

“It’s of utmost importance that I... wait, what?” Marco asked. He’d kept speaking over Alexis without listening to what the man said. “You’ve been waiting for me?”

“Of course.”

Marco’s shoulders bowed in a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank Kandensa.”

“Here, let me take that for you,” Alexis said, snatching up Marco’s backpack like a dutiful valet. “Follow me, please.”

Alexis led him past the warships, where a much smaller vessel awaited at the end of the pier. “This is Stormwind,” said Alexis as he led Marco up the boarding ramp. “She’s on loan to me for this special assignment.”

“What special assignment?”

Alexis stopped in place halfway up the ramp. “Why, you, sir.” He resumed walking. “She’s by far one of the finest caravels on the open sea,” Alexis went on, absently running the pads of his fingers along the ship’s rail as he stepped aboard. “I’ve a mind to own a vessel just like this – as a pleasure boat, of course – before I get old and relegated to telling rhyming nautical tales to random passersby.”

Marco’s brow knit. Sailors were strange people indeed.

Alexis put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Men poured out from the stairs leading below deck and assembled before him. Each of them stood shoulder to shoulder rigidly at attention, eyes trained at the horizon, arms at their sides, exemplifying the chiseled discipline that comes only through effective leadership.

“Mister Monkeygrip,” Alexis called out.

“Coming, sir!”

None of the men standing at attention had spoken. Then, suddenly, a tall youth with spindly limbs shimmied down from the mainmast, leaping between the rigging ropes like an ape. He dropped to the deck and tumbled with the fall, coming to his feet in mid-roll.

“Present and accounted for,” Monkeygrip gibbered. He snapped erect long enough to give a firm salute, then dropped to all fours with a crooked grin.

Alexis shoved the travel bag into Monkeygrip’s arms. “Take the gentleman’s personal effects to his quarters.”

Monkeygrip pressed the backpack to his chest with one arm and scampered through a door at the ship’s rear, jabbering all the way.

Alexis turned to face his crew. “Mister Kerrigan, if you please.”

A bald crewman with a face like creased leather hobbled forward. His tiny eyes were sunken deep behind his craggy brow, looking like two black raisins floating on the surface of a bowl of burnt oatmeal. Grease and sweat stains pocked his shirt, which frayed away at the sleeves, revealing giant bronze forearms. He slumped against a gnarled wooden crutch tucked under his armpit.

“Prepare for departure, Mister Kerrigan,” said Alexis with arms akimbo.

“Aye,” he shouted back. He faced his mates. “You heard the man. Get this barge moving.”

All at once, the crewmen scattered to their respective duties.

Monkeygrip skittered out from the rear of the ship and let out the sails. Three enormous men wrestled with a hoist to draw up the anchor. Kerrigan took his post on the bridge, overseeing the activity on deck with the tiniest motions of his even tinier eyes. In the midst of the uproar, Marco turned in place to watch as the men around him worked with mechanical precision. It was extraordinary.

Alexis squeezed Marco’s arm gently, catching his attention.

“Please sir, follow me,” he said, sweeping his other hand out before him. They cut through the commotion on the deck, headed for the stateroom at the ship’s rear. Alexis was first to reach the door and he held it open for Marco.

“I trust you will be comfortable,” Alexis said.

The quarters were sumptuously furnished. A fine writing desk stained glossy black sat at the end of the room, accompanied by a plush chair tucked under it. A globe of the world cast in bronze stood within arm’s reach of the desk. In the opposite corner, a wardrobe sat on brass lion’s paws. A massive four-post bed occupied half of the room. Just by the look of it, Marco presumed that he could lie down at the bed’s center and stretch out, and yet still not reach its corners.

“This is magnificent,” said Marco as he stepped inside.

“I’m pleased you think so. These are my quarters. I’m rather particular about my furnishings, you see.”

Marco blinked. “So where will you be staying?”

“I must oversee the repairs to Admonisher. Kerrigan will serve as acting captain in my absence.” He pinched the brim of his hat between his thumb and forefinger and tipped it down briefly. “Safe journey, sir.”

“Goodbye,” said Marco as Alexis left.

Marco rounded the desk and sat in the chair. The globe beckoned for his attention, just asking to be spun dizzily.

Monkeygrip had left his backpack on the desktop. Marco undid the buckles and peered inside it to make sure nothing had been removed. Tasked with such important business as he was, he could not be too careful. The parcel was still inside and padlocked. The letter strapped to it bore an unbroken wax seal. Neither showed signs of tampering.

He looked up with a start as Kerrigan appeared at the doorframe.

“We’ll be leaving shortly, sir,” Kerrigan said. “Captain Mordail asked me to tell you.” He glanced over his shoulder and back again, his eyes merely a dull glimmer beneath the shelf that was his forehead. “Also, there’s someone here to see you, sir. I’ll be leaving you to your business.”

Marco rocked forward in his chair as his visitor came in.

A dragon. Never before had he seen one in person. If it was scaled, walked on two legs, and talked, then it was a dragon by Marco’s reckoning. That, or an exceptionally well-trained iguana.

Smallish in height, the dragon seemed smaller still with a giant like Kerrigan beside him. He had the look of a human bureaucrat, dressed in a black straight tie and crisp white shirt tucked neatly into his pinstripe slacks. Navy blue scales covered his body, from the tips of the frilly crest atop his head to his clawed feet. His tail ended in a broad spade that hovered above the floor but never touched it.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the dragon said with a bow.

A pair of enormous folded wings jutted out from where his shirt had been tailored to accommodate them. “I am Kuril Krenarin,” the dragon went on, “of Emperor Rao Ordan’s Bureau of Foreign Affairs. On behalf of our country, we are most pleased to have you as our guest.”

There was no mirth in Kuril’s words. He smiled out of cordiality alone. Marco fought hard not to wince as there were many pointy teeth in that mouth.

“I trust you have your letter, sir?” said Kuril.

“Oh,” Marco sputtered, prying his eyes from the dragon’s fangs. “Yes, of course.”

He reached into his bag and handed Kuril the envelope.

Kuril glanced down at it but did not take it. Instead, he waggled his talons in a render unto me flourish.

“Your letter of introduction, please?” Kuril insisted.

“I didn’t think I’d need one,” Marco said.

“Well, perhaps a person such as yourself needs no introduction. But a letter of introduction would be helpful to identify you, sir.”

Marco’s brow furrowed. “Why is everyone calling me ‘sir’ all of a sudden?”

“Shall I call you something else, sir? Lordship, perhaps? Ambassador?”

“Ambassador?”

“Do you prefer that one?”

Marco swallowed hard. “Why would I?”

Kuril’s eyes narrowed. “Well, sir, that is who you are, isn’t it?”

Marco's (mis)adventures have only just begun! Want to see what happens next? Click here to continue reading.

Still want more? Check out The Gullwing Odyssey in our bookstore.

Let's face it -- adventuring is not the safest of professions. Even the best of adventurers get hurt. And if the length of their injury list is any measure, the characters of The Gullwing Odyssey are by far not the best of adventurers.

While an exhaustive list would be tedious, here we've posted some of their more interesting -- as in genuinely awful or humorous -- personal injuries.

These come courtesy of Dr. Desmoulin Jonas's medical clinic -- "handy enough with a scalpel to be your surgeon, barber, and tailor!"

Broken nose -- killer hummingbird
Facial bruising -- leapt through a pub window
Severe chest contusion  -- wild animal attack
Cracked ribs -- wild animal attack
Abdominal impalement -- airship crash-landing
Blunt trauma to side of head -- struck with flat of a sword

Severe nervous trauma -- extreme verbal abuse
Crumpled snout -- bashed with a shield
Bruised talons -- punched an assailant
Full-body first degree burns -- magic spell
Electrocution -- magic spell

Facial laceration -- wild animal attack
Internal hemorrhaging -- walking into a hail of bullets
Broken ribs -- point-blank gunshot wound
Facial contusions -- group beating

Flesh wound -- glancing pistol shot
Mild abdominal contusion -- kicked by a man on a horse

Three teeth knocked out -- biting an assailant
Facial contusions -- group beating
Black eye -- group beating
Life-threatening abdominal laceration -- dueling injury
Bruised ribs -- magic spell
Fractured clavicle -- gunshot wound

Abdominal impalement -- crossbow bolt
Assorted bumps and bruises -- crashing his airship into a warship below
Head trauma -- musket butt to the back of the head
Blunt facial trauma -- group beating
Two teeth knocked out -- severe beating

Want to see just what sort of trouble this motley group of misfits get into (and out of)? Check out The Gullwing Odyssey. It's a fantasy/comedy adventure of epic proportions, and not your typical swords and sorcery novel. Expect spectacular magic. Expect plenty of laughs. But above all, expect the unexpected.

Click the book cover image for more information.

Want to read some sample chapters? Sample the first three chapters for free.

Cyan Wraithwate’s campaign in the Elashi Southlands had come to a standstill. He was loath to admit it, even to himself, but he was terrified.

The battle fought a week from yesterday brought him closer to death than ever before. A chance arrow struck him dead-center in the chest, punching clear through his breastplate, knocking him off his horse. He awoke hours later in his tent, his wounded chest swollen and warm, in frightening contrast to how clammy he felt.

He sat cross-legged in his tent, elbows propped on his thighs, face in his hands. He hadn’t left his tent in days.

A rustle at the tent’s entrance drew his attention.

“This had better be important,” Cyan spoke into his hands.

“Good evening, Captain Cyan,” said his visitor.

He did not recognize this man’s voice. Cyan raised his head.

Standing by the tent flap was a lanky wisp of a man enveloped in yellow robes. Every inch of him was draped in yellow fabric except for his clean-shaven head.

Cyan frowned. No doubt this man was a wizard. Cyan had never met a wizard he liked, much less would trust with anything more important than latrine duty.

“Why are you here?” Cyan asked.

The man paced inside with an imperious air. “General Godfrey sent me. He is disappointed over the news that his shining young protégé has lost impetus.”

“If all he sent you out here to do is recite the obvious, then you can save your breath and leave.”

The man drilled into Cyan with his steel blue eyes. “I am known as Wren. And I did not come solely to discuss the obvious.”

Wren reached over his shoulder and slung off a small shoulder pack. He withdrew a forearm bracer polished to a high gleam. Two serpents were embossed into the metal. One coiled into a horizontal figure-eight pattern and the other did likewise, but vertically, bisecting the first.

Cyan’s eyes flitted down at the armor and back up to meet Wren’s. “Apparently, you got your facts wrong,” he shouted, yanking his shirt open to reveal the bandages on his chest.

“You jump to conclusions,” said Wren. “Wear this, and you need not don any more armor.”

“You’re a closeted academic.”

“Is it that you are afraid?”

“You’re wasting my time.”

“See that I’m right,” Wren spoke over him. “Try it on.”

Cyan held his tongue, but shot Wren such a look of derision as would make a nun faint. Grudgingly, he obliged. The bracer fit as though it was made just for him; the leather straps did not even need adjusting to fasten the armor to his forearm.

“And now?” Cyan asked.

“Now we do a test,” said Wren, an instant before snatching a dagger from beneath the folds of his robe. Cyan roared with surprise as Wren’s knife flashed before him. A chill entered his body through his neck.

Cyan fell, cupping his wound with his hands. Blood surged between his fingers. Everything went gray, then black.

* * *

Cyan awoke with a start and kicked off the ground, springing to his feet and hollering all the while. Wren pointed his fingers and launched a smoldering ray of fire at Cyan that exploded at his chest. The burst knocked Cyan head over heels, landing him onto his back with the wind knocked out of him.

It hurt too much to move. Cyan’s body let up wisps smoke.

“I am going to kill you for that,” he wheezed.

“For what?” Wren asked, arrogant as ever.

“For…” Cyan trailed off.

“For killing you?” Wren suggested.

“Yes.”

“But did I really kill you?”

“No,” Cyan stammered. “No, I suppose not.”

Damn Wren for being right, he spoke the truth. Cyan touched his injured neck and found that the flesh there was intact. Even his puncture wound in his chest was gone.

“Now you see the power of the bracer,” said the mage. “Each time you are laid low, it will bring you back and grant you monstrous strength. But there is a catch.”

“Isn’t there always?”

“You must not take the bracer off,” Wren said with emphasis.

Groaning, Cyan brought himself to sit up. “Is that all?”

Wren nodded.

“Good. Get out of my sight.”

Daybreak saw Cyan astride his horse at the head of his army. His troops fell into position around the palisade wall of an Elashi hamlet. This would be a difficult siege. The week-long hiatus he had given the defenders plenty of time to make preparations.

He called out to the people behind the walls, “Open your gates and surrender, and we shall be lenient with you. Refuse, and we will burn you out of your homes.”

The Elashi men on the palisade catwalks held up both hands with middle fingers held high. Cyan was unfamiliar with Elashi culture but knew enough to recognize this for a rude gesture.

He gritted his teeth. “You brought this upon yourselves!”

Raising his battle-ax, Cyan gave the signal for the battering ram to advance. His army gave way to a crew of engineers pushing a wheeled ram. The engineers butted the device up against the palisade gates, then rocked the ram’s head back on its fulcrum to send it careening into the fortifications.

The ram stuck the gate with a deafening crack of splintered wood.

Coarse yells went up just as the ram smashed the gate. Cyan’s horse reared as Elashi ambushers surged from out of hiding behind the palisade’s blind spots. The ambushers fell upon the siege engineers’ flanks like a wave at sea, utterly cutting the hapless men down.

Suddenly the sky darkened as though by a swift moving cloud. Cyan looked up, for a moment taking his eyes off the action, and saw that iron barbs rained down upon them.

He had led his men into a trap.

Cyan tugged on the reins and his mount threw him to the dirt. His shoulder gave a sharp pop on hitting the ground. Wincing, he dragged himself along one-handed, fleeing from the defenders’ charge. His horse gave a panicked scream as the hail of falling arrows tore into its flesh. It reared again and toppled over onto Cyan, crushing him under its weight.

* * *

He awoke in a panic. Facedown and gasping for breath, he spun onto his backside and sat up.

The sun was half set. The battle was over. The bodies of an entire Elashi legion were fanned out in a circle around him, with him at the center.

Cyan stood. The palisade was leveled. Beyond it, waning daylight shone through black billows of smoke as the Elashi settlement burned.

“By Nordon,” he whispered. Had he done this? He wasn’t sure. He held up his forearm for a better look at his enchanted bracer, turned it one way then the other for any clues it might hold.

This was too much. Wren had gone too far. Cyan’s orders were to subdue the Elashis, not to decimate them. It might be years before the Elashis would be in any shape to offer up regular tribute. This would get Cyan court-martialed for sure.

He tugged at the bracer’s leather straps. As he undid the first band the bracer began to grow warm.

“What the…?” he muttered, then broke into a scream. The bracer glowed with searing heat like a blacksmith’s forge. Smoke rose from his burning flesh. Cyan clasped the bracer with his other hand to yank it free but scalded himself and tore his hand away.

As abruptly as it began, the burning sensation stopped. The bracer had become a sooty black color. The leather straps that fastened it to his arm were gone. It had become a solid metal tube fused to his skin.

The world spun. Cyan clutched at his temples. His vision rippled as though running water fell before his eyes. When finally his senses settled down, he realized he was no longer in his tent. Cyan stood in a cavernous library. Books were stacked in shelves that ran floor to ceiling as far as he could see.

He was not alone.

“You tried to take the bracer off, didn’t you?” said Wren in a matter-of-fact tone.

Cyan spun to face him. “You!” he bellowed. “You tricked me!”

“Did I?’ Wren asked. “I gave fair warning against taking it off.”

“You didn’t say this would happen.”

“I felt I didn’t need to.”

Cyan glowered at him.

“Was I not perfectly clear?” Wren went on.

“Then how did you expect me to take it off once I was through with it?” Cyan asked.

“It would have been simple, if you had come to me first.”

Touché, Cyan thought. “What do you mean would have been?”

Wren frowned at having to state the obvious. “I mean, it’s now going to be a lot harder to take it off.”

“So do it,” said Cyan.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” he shot back.

“It’s too late for me to do that now.”

Cyan reached between his shoulder blades and drew his ax. “I don’t have patience for your word games, wizard. So you’d better start making sense before I cut it out of you.”

“You don’t understand the powers at work here,” Wren explained. “That one bracer has more power infused in it than any living creature can ever imagine. With it on you can be like a god, undying and eternal. But to safeguard against someone taking this power from its wearer, it bonds itself to the flesh of the user when someone attempts to remove it.”

Cyan eased his stance, lowered his ax slightly. “So I’m a god now, am I?”

“You are immortal,” said Wren.

“For how long?”

“For as long as you are alive.”

“That’s forever, right?”

“So long as you wear the bracer.”

“What if it comes off?”

“It won’t.”

“So then I’m a god?”

“Maybe.”

“Answer my questions!”

“I thought I had,” Wren drawled. He clasped his hands at his chest. “You will forgive me, as I am very busy. There is other work I must attend to. Should you need further assistance, merely call my name.”

Wren extended a hand and a small white card popped into being between his fingers. Cyan took it and glanced it over. Printed on the card was the mage’s name and occupation – Wren, Owl Mage.

“So now what…” Cyan began, and cut off. He was back on the outskirts of the Elashi village. Wren and his library were nowhere to be seen.

“Hmph. Wizards. Always here one minute and gone the next.”

Cyan yawned. It was late and the moon was high. Such a thing for a god to require sleep, he thought. He trudged into the village and spent the night in a burnt-out shell of a house.

He slept a scant few hours before the sky burned rosy orange from the rising sun. His pupils stung in the morning light. Cyan rolled over and faced the wall. Today he had no reason to wake up early. His campaign was over and so was his career – not that a god needed such things.

It was not too long after that Cyan finally roused. His parched throat yearned for water. He felt like he hadn’t had a drink in weeks.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the heels of his palms and stopped in mid-motion. The touch of cold iron against both sides of his face prickled his skin. Eyes still cupped, he blinked, then slowly drew his hands away from his face.

Both arms were covered in iron up to his elbows.

Cyan shook his head. He held up his left arm for a closer look at the bracer. On this arm was the one Wren had given him, he was sure of it – it was embossed with coiled snakes. The bracer on his other arm wasn’t there yesterday. He held it up, searched for buckles and found none.

“H-how?” he stammered. Cyan clasped his mouth with one hand, staggered backward and fell on his backside. Raspy little breaths wheezed through his fingers. He rapped on new bracer with his opposite fist. It sounded hollow.

“How can this be?” He held his arm out and turned it around. His right arm from his elbow to his fingertips was encased in iron.

He felt the need to scream. At that instant, Cyan cocked his head back, clenched his eyes shut yelled Wren’s name.

When he opened his eyes he was in a dark, stuffy laboratory. Fumes rose from cauldrons and open beakers, making the atmosphere heavy. Wren sat at his desk, looking more amused than surprised. His workspace was cluttered with notes and papers stacked messily atop it and peeking out from its overfilled drawers.

“I take it that you are having some kind of trouble?” Wren asked.

“Oh not at all,” Cyan said with a sarcastic grin, “unless you call my skin turning to lifeless metal trouble!” He held up both arms. “Look!”

“Such is the price of immortality. Did you think it would come without a cost?”

“This is not what I signed up for.”

Wren spread his arms. “What is more timeless than iron? Iron does not die. And with proper care, iron never corrodes. Look at all the statues of war heroes – they’re all made of iron for a reason. And now you can be just like them.”

A fine sweat broke on Cyan’s brow. He was not sure whether Wren had meant Cyan would end up like the war heroes or their statues.

“I don’t want this,” said Cyan. “I want my body back.”

Wren steepled his fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“What do…”

“I said I’m sorry,” Wren spoke over him.

“That’s not good enough!” Cyan shouted.

Wren’s eyebrows dipped sharply at the inner corners. “It is not possible to reverse the effects of the bracer now,” he said flatly.

“There has to be a way.”

“There isn’t. No mortal has the power to undo the magic that binds the bracer to you…”

Cyan grit his teeth. “Then who does?”

Wren’s mouth pressed into a tight line.

“Damn it, you know something I don’t, don’t you?” Cyan yelled. He reached across the desk and grabbed Wren by the collar, dragged him across the desktop.

“Tell me what I need to know!” Cyan shouted into Wren’s face.

“Cyan…”

“What?!” He shook the mage to rattle the answer out of him.

“There…” Wren stammered. “There exist four sage dragons.”

“Quit with the fairy tales, wizard. Dragons don’t exist.”

“They do exist!” Wren clutched Cyan’s wrists in his hands. Much as he struggled, he could not wrest free of Cyan’s grip.

Cyan cocked back a fist.

“I’m telling the truth!” said Wren.

Cyan drilled his eyes into the wizard’s quivering face. If Wren spoke any lies, he would have detected them out by now. “Keep talking, wizard.”

Wren’s eyes flitted between Cyan’s and his fist. “Four sage dragons guard the treasures of the elements – earth, wind, water, and fire. With their powers you can undo the binding force of the bracer, maybe even revert your metal body back to flesh.”

“How do I find them?”

“Put me down first.”

“How do I find them?” Cyan repeated, shaking the mage with each word.

“I will give you a charm…”

“Oh no,” he cut him short. “Not that again. I’m through with magic.”

“No, no, it’s harmless, really! Trust me!” Wren pleaded.

“Unless I try to take it off, right? Then what’ll happen? For all I know you could be giving me something that will phase me out of existence for good.”

“No, this charm is completely safe, I promise. Now please, put me down so I can get it for you.”

Cyan paused a beat, then shoved Wren back across the desk. Wren rolled of the workspace and onto the floor. The wizard got to his feet and dusted himself off.

“Right… well…” Wren trailed off.

Cyan gave a slow deliberate nod. Even without words, the message was clear: “Get on with it.”

Wren went to his cluttered chest of drawers and dug through them, spilling papers onto the floor. “I found it,” he said, holding up a crude necklace. It was nothing more than a loop of jade suspended from a cord.

“Put this around your neck,” Wren said, handing it to him. “It’s a wind charm. It will take you wherever you want to go instantly.”

Cyan opened his mouth to speak.

“And no, nothing will happen to you if you try to take it off,” Wren preempted him.

It was with no slight trepidation that Cyan slung the necklace on. To his relief, the wizard had told the full truth this time. Nothing utterly detrimental had stricken him. Yet.

“What do I do once I’ve talked to the dragons?” Cyan asked.

“You need for them to lend you their treasures, each representative of the elements they stand for.”

“I need one treasure from any one of them?”

“No.” Wren hesitated. “All of them.”

Cyan scowled.

“They will test you,” Wren went on, “to see if you are worthy of their gifts. Once you have all four you must return here, and using their combined powers I might just be able to free you from the bracer.”

Arms crossed, Cyan could not believe what he was hearing. Dragons did not exist – they never did. They were beasts slain by knights in fairy tales. He shook his head. Almost as unbelievable was that, for a moment, Cyan actually thought Wren was telling the truth.

He gave a sigh. “What do these treasures look like?”

“No one knows,” said Wren. “No one has ever seen them.

Cyan nodded. “So now what?”

Wren froze in the middle of straightening the creases in his robe. “Tell the wind charm where you want to go.”

It occurred to Cyan that he didn’t know where any of the dragons were.

“You’re overthinking this,” Wren said. “Just tell it you want to go to the abode of the earth dragon.”

“Why should I go there first?”

Wren threw up his arms in exasperation. “Stop making this difficult. Just go.”

Cyan snatched up the charm and gripped it in his fist. “If this thing drops me into a fiery volcano, I’m going to claw my way out and come after you personally.”

It was faint, but Cyan saw Wren’s throat bob as the wizard swallowed hard.

 The charm glowed bright green in Cyan’s hand. Wren’s papers rustled as a gust of wind kicked up, swirled into a vortex that began to whirl around Cyan. The world beyond the rush of air stretched into streaks of color.

“A final word of caution…” Wren shouted over the noise. “Try not to die too many times.”

“Or else what?” Cyan yelled back.

“I'm not sure,” said Wren.

That very second there was a bright flash of green and the next thing he knew he was falling to the ground face first.

This excerpt is from R. Perez de Pereda's upcoming novel, The Many Deaths of Cyan Wraithwate. It's a sword and sorcery fantasy with an ironic twist published by Darkwater Syndicate. The novel is available in all ebook formats, as well as in paperback from our bookstore.

Born in Cuba in 1941, Ramiro Perez de Pereda has seen it all. After fighting communist insurgents at home, in 1959 he left Cuba for the United States where he made a name for himself working with blue-chip corporations. He has since retired from the business world and now devotes himself to his family and his writing.

Ramiro, who writes under the name R. Perez de Pereda, is the author of several dozen short stories and poems. A lifelong fan of fantasy in all its forms, in his youth he was a big fan of Robert E. Howard's work, particularly the Conan the Barbarian series.

Unabashed heroics. Nonstop peril. Romance. These are the things Marco keeps clear of. Unfortunately, that's exactly what's in store for him.

Set in a sixteenth century fantasy world, The Gullwing Odyssey tells the tale of Marco Gullwing, a young man who takes his menial job much too seriously. He wants nothing more than simply to work his menial messenger job until he can retire. But when an unusual assignment sends him across the ocean, he finds himself without a means of getting back home. No sooner has his journey begun than he is beset by a neurotic bureaucrat, an overzealous knight, a headstrong princess, and a conniving wizard, each with his or her own agendas.

Pulled in so many directions at once, Marco sees sour prospects for attaining his modest retirement dreams, much less getting out of the whole mess alive. Will Marco rise to the challenge and be the hero he tries so hard not to be?

Check out the series website for more info: www.GullwingOdyssey.com

Sample the first three chapters for free.

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