4 Blades of Ruin - New Book Cover!

 I have a NEW cover for my latest book, 4 Blades of Ruin. It, along with all my books, is available on Amazon!

4 Blades Of Ruin Book Trailer

 

Here is a book trailer created for    4 Blades Of Ruin. I hope you enjoy it. 

4 Blades Of Ruin is a collection of action-packed fantasy tales featuring Conan, Kull, Bran Mak Morn, and Solomon Kane as they battle supernatural threats, face ancient wizards, and embark on perilous quests.

Daggers At My Back - King Kull Audio

 Here is an audio excerpt from a King Kull story, Daggers At My Back, in the book 3 Blades Against Darkness. The book is available in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition, on Kindle, and as an audiobook. They are all available on Amazon

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1EdVC9Mi1lWM2nKEZHPD5rklyg6zI6B9-/view?usp=sharing

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3 Blades Against Darkness - Conan Story Excerpt

 Here is an excerpt from a Conan the Barbarian story that is featured in my book, Three Blades Against Darkness. The book is available in a graphic version, a non-graphic version, Kindle, and as an audiobook. All of them are available on Amazon. The story is entitled:

Rendezvous With Death

THERE had been a longstanding feud between the neighboring countries of Brythunia and Nemedia. Neither nation could recall a time when there was no strong animosity between them. Wars, rivalries, skirmishes, and assassinations came and went, but nothing was ever resolved; only new grievances. Certainly, peace was not a desired goal.

It was hardly necessary to say which nation began this latest war, as each was always eager to fight the other.

Nemedia, not wishing to lose too many of its own people, hired a mercenary band from half a score of nations. They were good fighters if paid well enough.

The mercenary band, numbering almost four hundred men, was ordered to hold a pass where a Brythunian host of the same number was suspected of attacking. The main Nemedian force was sent to the south, in a push for the Brythunian capital.

Nygard, a warrior of the Aesir, had been with the mercenary band for almost a year. He stood straight and tall, well-muscled but limber. He had a ruggedly handsome face, with a straight nose, a wide mouth, and light grey eyes. His hair was blonde, and his trimmed beard held a hint of red. He had come to Nemedia with a reputation. Many had heard of him.  In his life, he had seen many battles, killed many foes, and seen many comrades die. Killing and fighting were the two things at which he excelled. 

When the mercenaries reached the pass they were to hold, they found the Brythunian host before them. There were more than expected. The leader of the mercenaries, a Kothian, cursed the Nemedian commanders. He did not know if their intelligence regarding the enemy's numbers was poor or if the Nemedians were purposely sacrificing the mercenaries. The Kothian consulted with Nygard, whom the Kothian knew was an experienced warrior. The two of them were contemplating issuing a retreat order when they received information that their escape route was blocked by another contingent of Brythunians of comparable size. The Kothian and his men were outnumbered four to one. They could not surrender. That would mean death. Death was inevitable. The only choice now was to surrender and be killed, or to fight and die. The Kothian knew the men under his command. There was only one choice. Better to die standing with a sword in your hand.

Seeing that the Brythunian forces were holding their position, presumably waiting for the outnumbered force to surrender, the Nemedian mercenaries attacked the enemy force closest to them. The armies collided with shouts and the clashing of swords and axes on shields. 

The Brythunian side did not expect this, and some fled at the sheer viciousness of the Nemedian mercenaries. The mercenaries could have defeated one of the Brythunian armies, and were indeed in the midst of slaughtering them, when the other contingent of Brythunians joined the fray and the tide turned. 

Nygard was killing more than his share, slaying with his broadsword and fending off attacks with his small, metal buckler strapped to the back of his left hand. He hacked and stabbed relentlessly as bodies fell at his feet, and he was forced to move on so as not to stumble over the corpses. More times than he could count, his metal helm had fended off blows. Nygard did not appear to tire of the carnage, but he did notice the enemy soldiers were closing in around him. He feared most of his comrades had fallen. The enemy soldiers who hemmed him in grew cautious after seeing their comrades fall mercilessly before the blonde warrior.

Nygard was aware of another warrior approaching him, cutting a deadly swath through the enemy. The man was younger than Nygard, with black hair under a horned helm. This man’s eyes were volcanic blue, and he roared as he slew.

“Come and die, you hellhounds!” the dark-haired warrior bellowed, as if to let Nygard know he wasn’t alone.

 Nygard recognized the man as a fellow mercenary, though he did not know the warrior’s name. Soon, the two stood back-to-back, hacking and stabbing at an incredible rate. Bodies piled up at their feet. At one point, a wounded Brythunian who lay on the ground grabbed Nygard by the ankle in an attempt to trip him. Nygard cut the man’s hand off at the wrist, but in its death grip, the hand still clung to Nygard’s ankle. With a quick kick, Nygard dislodged the hand, and it struck a shocked Brythunian in the face.

From the corner of his eye, Nygard saw a savage-looking Brythunian with his axe raised, ready to come down on Nygard’s head, but in a flash, the black-haired youth thrust the tip of his blade into the Brythunian’s heart, and the axe-wielder fell away.

Amazingly, the two men held their own against all odds. Their swords cut down the Brythunians like wheat at harvest. Bones crunched and broke. Limbs and heads were severed, and brains dashed out. The mercenaries’ blades pierced armor, flesh, and organs. Pain-filled cries and moans of the Brythunians filled the air, while the only sounds emitted from the black-maned and blonde-haired warriors were their own steady breathing.  

Some Brythunians fled the scene, not wishing to lose their lives at the hands of these two berserkers, who appeared possessed by killing and bloodlust.

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

New Covers!

 I took the advice of an artist and designer I met on FB and had new covers designed for my books, Three Blades Against Darkness and Four Blades of Ruin. These new covers are for the non-graphic hardcopy and Kindle editions that are available on Amazon. Click on the cover for the link.

Solomon Kane Story Excerpt

 I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from one of the Solomon Kane stories entitled:

Demon of Darkness

The area is also known for its wide, open moorlands, and just south of the moorlands is the town of Kirkland. It was evening when Solomon Kane walked into Kirkland.

He found an ale house on the edge of town. It was a humble domestic dwelling, and was operated by Travis March, the landlord and proprietor. The old wooden sign over the door depicted three crowns.

When Kane entered, all heads, including Travis March and nine patrons, turned and stared at the tall, dark stranger whose hat brushed the top of the doorframe. The patrons, all locals, some farmers and craftsmen, all regarded the rapier at his side, the dirk in its scabbard, and a brace of pistols tucked into his belt. The stranger was dressed in the style of a Puritan, black and unadorned. He wore tall riding boots and a black cloak. The man had a dark pallor and a serious, almost grim demeanor, and the sharp eyes that peered from under his broad-brimmed hat were cold and grey. Seeing the armed stranger, three of the patrons walked out the door, as they had no desire for any intrigue. Kane watched them walk out and closed the door behind them.

The room had a low ceiling with wooden beams, blackened by age and smoke that came from a stone fireplace. Rushes lined the bare floorboards, and benches lined the walls.

Kane regarded each of the patrons, then approached the low fire and warmed his hands from the night’s chill.

Travis March approached him warily.

“Wine?” asked Kane.

“No wine—ale. The best home-brewed ale for miles around.”

Kane nodded. In a minute, the man brought a blackjack of ale. Kane drank it down and looked in the cup.

“Landlord, did you plan on charging me full price for this cup of ale?” Kane asked.

“Why, yes, sir. Why do you ask?”

“There appears to be a good amount of pitch in this cup.”

March took the cup and looked in it, showing surprise and confusion at how that could have happened.

“Pardon me, sir. Let me refill this for you at no added expense.”

The patrons in the room sniggered, for they had seen March use that cup on unsuspecting customers before. They looked at the stranger and motioned at a seat on one of the benches. Kane sat. After some initial hesitancy, they accepted Kane into their group and began questioning him about all kinds of matters: what’s your name? Where are you from? Where are you going? It took the Puritan some time to get used to their distinctive accent and manner of speech; still, Kane found the northerners blunt and direct, yet friendly.

When Kane said he was headed across the moors, they grew a bit pensive. It was fine to travel across the moors, but under no circumstances was he to go through the middle of the moors and was to avoid Blaec Moor altogether.

“Why is that?” the Puritan asked.

“Because it’s haunted.”

“It’s evil.”

“No one goes there.”

“As you value your life and your reason, stay away from Blaec Moor!”

Then began a series of local folklore about Blaec Moor that Kane could not help but think was enhanced by too much drink. Stories of animals on the moor disappearing, and even residents of Kirkland who went missing and were never seen again. Some of the stories stretched back generations and were passed down father to son and mother to daughter. One story that patrons of the Three Crowns could attest to, which was recent, was the strange sounds drifting across the moor at night.

“When did this happen?” Kane asked.

“Only at night. Different people have told this same story many times. If you go deep enough into the moor at night, you will hear it.”

“And what does it sound like?”

They all looked at one another as if to form a consensus.

“Like no sound we ever heard before,” one man said.

Another man added, “It’s hard to describe.”

And another said, “I’ve heard it. It’s like some horde of ghosts crying out like lost souls, or demons bemoaning their fate. It’s an awful sound, sir… awful.”

“We thought of going out there, but none of us was eager to discover the source.”

“He means none of us were brave enough to go. I’ll have no part of it.”

Solomon Kane nodded as he wondered what could be behind these strange occurrences.

For what the proprietor said was a nominal fee, Kane was permitted to sleep on the floor of the Three Crowns that night. In the morning, he headed north for Blaec Moor.

Blaec Moor lived up to its name, as it was one of the bleakest places in all England. It was a distinctive landscape; vast, inhospitable, and wild. A constant shadow was on the moor, and a chilling wind swept across the uplands with little to break its stride.

Solomon Kane wrapped his long black cloak about him, for the wind carried a chill that had little to do with the temperature. He stopped to survey the terrain before him and to catch his breath, for he had been walking for hours, his long legs shod in cordovan leather boots, eating up the miles. His keen grey eyes peered out from under his wide-brimmed hat.

The wide uncultivated uplands held few trees, but mainly low-growing vegetation such as dull-purple heather, weedy grass, and peat. In the low-lying areas, there were bogs and rushes. He had not scared up a grouse or a skylark in a while, but adders seemed plentiful. Dark clouds hung low over the land, creating a gloomy, moody atmosphere. Looking at the Puritan, one would suspect he would fit in very well in this place, as he appeared dark and gloomy as well.

Kane walked on, looking like a grim, black shadow moving across the moor.  

It was getting to be evening by the time Kane came across a village: small stone-and-timber homes with thatched roofs clustered together for protection and fellowship. From a distance, he observed the village but saw few signs of activity. Even the farm animals barely moved about in their pens or in the yards. It was late summer, but here there was the gloomy aspect of fall. The constant wind from the north brought a chill, but still the Puritan thought it was more than that. Overall, he felt the portent of evil hanging over the village like the clouds; it was in the very air. Kane was attuned to it, like a sot who could detect the smell of drink. There was something so wrong here that he could not deny nor turn away from it, as if he were drawn toward iniquity as other men are drawn toward beauty and virtue. The Puritan had to know the source of this maliciousness, and if he could, he would destroy it. He approached the village warily.  

He chose a door at random and knocked upon it. 

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!

Bran Mak Morn Story Excerpt

I am very excited about my latest book, 4 Blades of
Ruin, a series of short stories of Robert E. Howard's heroes, Conan the Barbarian, Bran Mak Morn, Solomon Kane, and King Kull. The book is available on Amazon in a graphic edition, a non-graphic edition and on Kindle. Here is an excerpt from one of the Bran Mak Morn stories entitled:

Nil Desperandum

Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts, peered out from under concealment among the trees. Even if Caius Dracus or any Roman had been looking directly at the Pict, they would not have seen him, camouflaged as he was. Bran watched the Romans march down the road toward the trap he had set. Hidden among the pine and fir trees that grew on the incline next to the trail, his men lay waiting. The Pictish king had thought of this plan weeks ago, when, after Bran and his men set fire to a Roman watchtower, the Romans retaliated and then marched on a Pictish village, burning it to the ground. Bran knew if he repeated an attack on the Romans, they would retaliate. If the Roman army was anything, it was predictable. The Pictish king would have his revenge.

Lying still undercover, Bran listened to the tramp of Roman feet and the rattle of their armor and weapons. He shook his head at their foolishness. They marched as if announcing their coming.  

Mak Morn watched the Romans getting closer. He had to trust that none of his men would give away their location. Living their lives close to nature, Picts respected their environment and natural settings. They were well known for blending into their surroundings, whether it be the woods, tall grass, or even the rock. Bran had seen how some of the smaller men could find hiding places in rock crevices where it did not appear possible.

The Romans were close now. Bran raised his arm. His men’s eyes were on him. Almost there. Now!

Bran lowered his arm, and a flight of spears were loosed at the Romans. Two spears barely missed Caius Dracus, who drew his gladius and yelled, “Ad Scutum Clina! To your shield, turn!”

Arrows rained down from the trees and onto the Romans, but most were deflected by the large, curved rectangular shields. The shields were made of multiple layers of wood glued together, and covered with leather and canvas, with a metal boss fixed in the center.

“Testudo!” Dracus shouted, instructing his men to create a tortoise formation of interlocking shields in front and overhead, creating an almost impenetrable shell.

The Picts exhausted their arrows and rushed at the Romans with swords and axes, screaming their war cries.

Bran focused on only one man. The centurion was his. Bran ran down the slope, picking up speed, aiming directly for Dracus. Bran leaped at the Roman and knocked him from his horse as Dracus called out orders to his men. In the impact, Dracus lost his short sword, and the force of Bran’s attack sent them across the road and down the slope, locked together in a strong grip. They tumbled down the incline, rolling faster and faster as nothing impeded their descent, neither man releasing his opponent. They were still gripped together when they landed in the swift-flowing river, which carried them along and away from the battle. Now Dracus’s armor put him at a disadvantage, weighing him down, but not much more than Bran’s mail shirt helped keep him underwater. Somewhere before landing in the river, both warriors lost their weapons, and the two fought hand-to-hand, trying to drown the other. The Pict managed to get behind the Roman and wrapped his legs around the centurion’s torso, while his right forearm clamped around the man’s throat. Dracus felt his vision grow dim until the current threw them against a boulder in the river with resounding force. Bran struck the rock with his head, and he lost his grip on the centurion. But even this did not shake them apart. They sought each other's throats in hopes of drowning their foe. At one point, Bran found himself being forced under the water for a long time. Struggling against his opponent, he fought his way to the surface and gasped for air. The pair went over two short waterfalls, but still they refused to break their hold on their opponent. After a long, mortal struggle, they released one another, choking and sputtering. The current slowed and thoroughly exhausted, they each dragged themselves onto the riverbank, half-drowned and breathing heavy. They lay upon the grassy sward about thirty feet apart, coughing up water and trying to regain their breath. Finally, they each turned and glared at one another. Slowly, they stood weaponless. Each read the hate in the other’s eyes. Neither thought of their men left on the road nor of how they were faring. They were too far away to care. Their only enemy was before them; that is all they knew or cared about.

This was Bran Mak Morn, Dracus surmised. He had heard stories of the Pictish king and had been given a physical description. The man stood somewhat taller, and his skin was a bit lighter than most of his people. His wet mop of dark hair hung in his eyes. He was not as tall as Dracus, but compact, with a powerfully built body, and the eyes that glared at Dracus were piercing with a visage set like the hard, flinty stones of this country.

     The Pict faced his adversary in a crouching attack posture, every muscle tense, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral gesture.

Almost casually, Dracus began taking off his armor. He removed his scarf, his curiass, his belt and straps, and all his undergarments. His helmet was lost in the river. 

Bran Mak Morn looked at the Roman curiously, nodded, then stripped off all his clothes. The two warriors faced one another naked. They were both well-muscled, but the Roman was a bit taller and had a longer reach. Dracus had been a wrestling champion in Rome and was technically proficient. Bran had naturally grown up wrestling, as did every boy of their clan, and was quite adept. The Picts' form of wrestling was not as structured as Greco-Roman wrestling. Bran’s advantage was his fierceness, a wild animal-like fierceness. There were no rules and disciplines, there were no fouls, but this was a combat between two warriors, and Bran would try to refrain from biting and eye-gouging if he could. 

“I would wager you are Bran Mak Morn, King of the Picts,” Dracus said.

Bran did not confirm or deny, but said, “And you are the centurion Caius Dracus of the Twelfth Legion.”

Dracus gave a brief bow, complimenting the Pict.

“I’d like to know the source of your intelligence gathering,” the Roman said.

“A Roman would not understand it. It is carried on the wind,” Bran said. “The trees speak to us.”

Dracus smiled at this. He knew he was about to engage with a savage, undisciplined, and unsophisticated barbarian. Still, he had heard rumors of Black Bran, the hereditary king of the Picts, and as king, he held some honor. Though, how much honor could a barbarian have? Dracus crouched and approached his opponent warily, his hands in motion, his fingers splayed.   

All of Stephen Gaspar's books are available on Amazon!