Merry Snowmen!

Just a bump for Polly’s knitted creations, as promised!

The description from the store:

A charming knitted snowman that will add a touch of holiday cheer to your home. This snowman stands at approximately 8.5 inches tall and is made from luxurious white chenille wool.

Each snowman is one-of-a-kind and comes with a matching scarf and hat to keep him warm. Additionally, he is adorned with festive Christmas lights that add a cozy and whimsical touch to any space.

This knitted snowman is the perfect addition to your holiday decor and will make a great gift for your loved ones.

I’ve seen these in person, and handled them, and they’re really soft and pretty handsome! Here’s the link to the Etsy Store if you’d like to treat yourself to one!

The Big Push

Ok. So here we are. I have received the final covers from the Pixel Wizard Ken Dawson over at Creative Covers. Further, I have completed the revisions from Polly at Magic Pencil. I can honestly say, I have some of the best freelancer support going.

As an aside, Polly is also a knitter, and has made some fab snowmen for Christmas and is putting them on Etsy, so look out for the link. I don’t have permission for photos yet, so they will be forthcoming.

They deserve more than I can do for them here, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention them. A lot of people go into my books behind the scenes, so thanks to all my family and friends for help, support and protecting me from the doubts within.

To get to the meat of the post, here’s the book cover, finalised and tidy:

Copyright: Arron Owen

War Mages: Sharpshooter will be available soon. I currently have an outstanding Submission with a Publisher, but they allow the submission of previously independently published books, so I feel safe enough to go ahead on this one, in the highly likely event they decline.

Just for transparency, this book already had an ISBN registered before it went anywhere near that publisher. I do this so it’s copywritten and protected, and I do it in every instance before sending queries. To me, this is standard practice. Technically, you’ve got the date of receipt of letter or email (sent box, anyone?), but an ISBN, even one provided by Amazon is ironclad.

However, my comments on plagiarism are for another post.

“But Arron, you mad fool, why risk everything on such a brazen scheme? Can’t you wait?” I hear you cry.

No. No I can’t.

It’s simple – I love this book (all my books, in fact) and it has been keeping me sane and driving me to despair in equal measure. It’s the longest I’ve taken on a book – the better part of two years – and I’m very happy with it.

It’s time to set it free.

Well – almost. Watch this space!

War Mages Monday (III)

I’m wondering if I should title these with the chapters the extracts come from. What do you think? Let me know in the comments!

Anyway, here’s this week’s preview of the hellscape that is Sharpshooter.

When the team left the arming room, they found the submarine had been lowered into position. Walking down the quay, a sailor directed them to stand back when the war machine was placed into the water. Under the surface, shapes broken by ripples, Archer could make out a wheeled trolley of some kind, linked to a long chain he followed back to one of the capstans.

The ventral hull of Orca was slapped by the swell, a playful tap under the tummy of the iron beast, telling of the rising tide. It may have been shallow water, but it was just the cupped hand of a mighty ocean, and thinking about it made Archer wince. He’d already been tossed about in the air, but he relished the idea of being crammed into a bully beef can under the water even less, especially if the Germans were on the prowl.

Given a choice, he’d rather be hip deep in mud.

Finally the boat settled, displaced water rushing up around it. The Italian crew boarded smartly, having done it a thousand times. It was meant to inspire confidence, but they would be going two men short of their complement in order to squeeze the soldiers and their esoteric equipment into the tub. Nine people trapped in a cigar case, breathing each other’s scent. Or at least when they eventually submerged.

‘What do you know about the plan?’ Archer asked Captain Corvalho.

‘Little,’ she replied firmly, ‘and that’s the way I want it, English.’

‘You’re not coming in with us?’

‘Hopefully not. Taking a boatload of Bambini to the beach and back is enough, no? Ciao Charles!’ she waved to Garfield, who merely scowled.

‘Antwerp isn’t a holiday resort,’ Archer protested.

She shrugged dismissively, clambering onto the deck, quickly swarming up the short ladder of the conning tower, beckoning them to follow. Eisner grinned and stepped off, mistiming his step against the slight rocking of the deck in the cradle beneath the submarine. Archer grabbed him, pulled him upright at the last second. The German nodded his thanks and climbed on, followed by a cautious Ross.

Archer took one last look at the storehouse, wondering if he’d ever see it again. The Italian Captain told him it used to belong to a trading group called the Hanseatic League, a society of merchantmen and sailors from the 17th Century. The lamps all along the dock were at full light, casting a strange glow over the dark vessel and the deep black of the sea outside.

Hopefully, the moon would be the only companion to their voyage.

***

War Mages…Wednesday?

My internet b0rked over the weekend, so this instalment is a little late, apologies!

Boots smashed in time along the corridor, a trample of men marching in line. Checking his watch, Garfield didn’t expect this to take long. When a man was offered a reprieve from death, only a lunatic would refuse. He found he was drumming his fingers to the tattoo of the march. Either side of him were Canadian officers, making up a hastily convened panel, a hard-faced Major on his left, and Captain Edmond Carter to his right. Carter was an intelligence officer, Garfield’s opposite number in the Canadian Corps.

The doors of the tiny room burst open, and the Royal Military Policemen escorting the prisoner quick-timed into the room, forming a guard either side of a giant with copper hair. His shoulders were broad and he was tall, every inch a bruiser Garfield wanted nothing more than to aim at Fritz. The prisoner’s eyes bored a hole into each wall in turn, then the ceiling. He ignored the panel, eyes flicking, repeating the pattern over and over. Far from defiant, to Garfield, the prisoner looked unsure. He reasoned it fitting, because the documents on the table were damning.

Harold Ross, Sapper, 1st Canadian Divisional Engineers, was sentenced to death a week before, and it was sheer fortune that his name dropped across Garfield’s desk as part of general dispatches. As an intelligence officer, the mundane military circulars carried stories between the taut lines, stories he could use to the army’s advantage to prevent squandering precious resources for the war effort.

Since he was in charge, Garfield drew the silence out – one of his greatest weapons in attrition to get his own way, to let the mind of his opponent do all the work for him, to envision the terrible consequences of refusal. It seemed as though he didn’t have to do much. Ross was looking queasier by each tick of the clock on the wall, a metronomic torture. Finally, after three long minutes, Garfield broke the tension by introducing himself.

The prisoner licked his lips. ‘Just say your piece and let me go.’

‘Sir,’ Carter insisted, archly.

‘You’ll stay until I am finished,’ Garfield said, letting the impudence slide off him. ‘You want to die a coward, Private Ross?’

The Canadian soldier was sweating, eyes almost feverish. He erupted, seizing the table with a roar, but Garfield was already up and moving, spine screaming from the sudden exertion. Finding the Webley revolver on his belt, he stopped when he realised the tight quarters would brutally punish a missed shot. Besides, he saw the look of sheer panic on Ross’ face. He’s terrified, but not of us. ‘Don’t be a fool, man! Listen to me!’

The RMP Corporals tried to stop the burly prisoner, but Ross shrugged them off, using the table as a shield and battering ram, driving them back, fighting his way to the door. The room was a whirlwind of scattering papers and violence, Carter going for his own pistol, ready to execute the death sentence there and then, to bring down the rampant moose in their midst.

‘Stop!’ Garfield barked, shoving Carter’s hand.

Too late.

***

‘Cennytaph’.

(Inspired by Rudyard Kipling’s “Tommy Atkins”)

Them boys up at Theipval Ridge,

Yes, them blokes on the Somme,

“What have them boys been up to,

Where have them passed and gone?”

That short lad ‘e were bare sixteen,

Who put that ‘elmet on.

“Why’d that young ‘un lie so,

‘Gainst a bugle’s bloody song?”

And women with white feathers,

To shame ‘em all along,

“Why does ‘is mother cry so,

T’is fault ‘e signed on.”

And them blokes up in Whitehall,

All at large and livin’ fat,

“You can’t ‘ave the cennytaph,

We’s been through all a’ that.”

And that old Tommy Atkins,

‘Is lights all blown to hell,

Feet all soaked and rotten,

Wounded cryin’ out as well.

‘E’s sure to feel the comfort,

Of the feathers an’ the fat,

And some dying flowers laid,

By some tosser bowler ‘at.

Them boys up at Theipval,

An’ they fellas at the Somme,

And Passchendaele, and Vimy Ridge,

Bloody Wipers, Nimy Bridge,

The list grows on and on –

What have them blokes been up to?

Where have they all gone?

A generation silenced,

By bloody bugle song.

War Mages Monday (II)

Just to continue the trend, here’s another instalment of my upcoming novel War Mages: Sharpshooter.

He cast his gaze out, over the lines of trenches stretching away into the distance, a giant zip, or maybe a scar, cut into the flesh of the Earth. Stretching all the way from Switzerland up to the French coast, it was an incredible feat of engineering and misery. He spotted what he took to be a vulture, circling the battlefield he’d just left, until it powered against the wind, and the sun betrayed the length of wing only an aircraft possessed.

‘Ware behind!’ Archer yelled, straining against the harness to shake the shoulder of the pilot.

Jackson’s head swivelled briefly. ‘Good eyes! Be a dear, and man the Lewis?’

The output of the engine moved up a gear, increasing the strange noise that accompanied a propeller under strain. The aircraft pitched right, going up in a hard turn to evade the raptor streaking down to tear them apart. Archer’s Runebolt was next to useless here; weight of fire was the order of the day. He seized the Lewis gun.

Not even qualified on the infantry version, with its distinctive cylindrical cooling jacket and shoulder stock, this thing was an amalgam of tubes and rivets, with what appeared to be spade handles bolted to it. The difference was stark, and finding the cocking handle took a moment. Seizing it, he charged the gun, giving the bulky pan magazine a brief glance as it chugged round, settling the first .303 cartridge into the breach.

With only heartbeats before their opponent was on them, he wrenched on the Scarff mount, surprised at how easy it was to manipulate, before pointing the automatic gun in the direction of the enemy aircraft. The Bristol Fighter pitched and thrashed as they fought for altitude, the stink of engine fumes caught at the back of Archer’s throat, the pap-pap-pap-pap of linked enemy machineguns reached his ears a moment after the snap-crack of bullets they spat.

Jackson’s desperate dodging meant the attack missed anything vital, especially the vulnerable flesh of the crew. The bright red plane flew by them, searching for a better angle of attack. The colour and markings hadn’t escaped the pilot. ‘It’s Manfred!’ he shouted. ‘Give the Baron some breakfast!’

Heart sinking, Archer didn’t need telling twice. He allowed the swooping crimson plane a generous lead with the light machinegun as the Flight Lieutenant took further evasive action. A chattering stream of red tracer fire sliced harmlessly into the blue sky, the bullets tumbling short of the enemy plane. His first dogfight was going to be a lethal learning curve.

If Archer could ride, he suspected this was what a runaway horse was like; the beast cantering across uneven ground, just wanting to be free of the rider. It certainly didn’t resemble the illusion of considered, artful acrobatics he observed from the trenches when there was an air battle. He deemed the chief quality of being a pilot was a cast-iron stomach.

Displacing the fear of falling by shooting at the Red Baron, the brilliant crimson Fokker biplane painted a superb target against the infinite backdrop. Yet despite changing elevation, or point of aim by desperately flailing the Lewis like a fly-swatter, hitting was proving frustrating. He cursed himself first, then the gun; despite the lively recoil, it was a dead thing in his hands, so unlike his own rifle. In mockery, the German Ace once again filled the air around Archer’s head with bullets.

***

War Mages Monday (I)

As promised, here’s a snippet of Sharpshooter. I may run a weekly release anywhere from 200-500 words depending on how it goes. Enough to be a quick read. Without further ado, here’s the first:

Prologue:

MONDAY, 11th AUGUST, 1919. 0303Hrs

Alarm bells rang out across Antwerp’s fortified containment wall, spurring the Imperial German Army to man their positions. A network of crenellated battlements, machinegun emplacements, field phones, searchlights and anti-aircraft cannon awaited any intruders. Dozens of highly trained men, armed with the finest weapons and equipment, spilled forth onto the wall, only to stand there gawping and powerless.

A zeppelin, enwreathed in flames, was on collision course with the remnants of Antwerp Cathedral. Losing altitude rapidly, it dived towards the containment walls, ready to collapse on itself at any second, back broken. Landing lines snagged momentarily on the parapets, but any attempt to grasp the cables dangling from the balloon was as pointless as it was suicidal, as the cables whip-cracked free.

Rotor engines growled, protesting against fate, the remaining crew fighting to prevent hellfire raining onto those below as the massive envelope was consumed. The airship fell inexorably into the heart of the Antwerp Exclusion Zone, illuminating the last vestiges of stained glass in Cathedral before brutally crashing in a screech of metal and a thump of air. The beached, blazing whale, crumpled before rolling to starboard.

A dragon’s throat roared, belching dark red fire and choking black clouds as the canvas torpedo exploded, marking the pre-dawn in the prison city.

***

Best Laid Plans

Sharpshooter has hit a stumbling block or three, which means my release date will be pushed back. I hoped to have it out this year, but it’s looking likely that it will go into 2024.

Now this is annoying, but it is completely my own fault, not that of my Dauntless Crew, busy proofing and cover wrangling. Besides, I said I’d get it done in the financial year 23/24, and this technically gives me until April 2024.

I hope it’s sooner rather than later.

Anyway, that’s your lot for today.

Beginning Monday, I’ll start dropping a few excerpts from ‘Sharps’, maybe about 500 words or so.

Sequel Bait

I’ve been working on War Mages again, only this time, the second book. I was torn between calling it Stormtrooper and Hard Target, but here’s the blurb anyway.

***

The Great War is paused by a ceasefire. Brokered by the Americans, it allows families across the world to count the cost. Still, the terror casts restless shadows, and when rumours a young Tsarina survived the brutal massacre of her family, a King seeks the same answers as everyone else.

Veteran sniper and War Mage Daniel Archer must lead his colleagues into the depths of Russia, a country wintering in the grip of harsh civil war. Unable to trust anyone, they must rely on their arcane talents, training and wits to discover the truth – and survive – against a backdrop of betrayal, murder, and the spectre of war renewed.

***

In other news, whilst my cover designer is working on finishing the back and spine for my print books, I thought I’d give another publisher/agent a go. Nothing to lose, right?

Have a good one, Adventurers.

Battle Dressed

Change of pace for today/this week. After firing Warhammer at everyone, it’s time to actually promote my own stuff:

This is the final test version cover of my upcoming novel War mages: Sharpshooter.

Big thanks to my cover designer Ken. Seriously, this guy is making some real moves, so it’s amazing he even has time for the likes of little old yours truly. He’s absurdly professional whilst still being a great bloke, so if you’re in the market…

So Arron, when is this mighty, 96,000 word tome going to drop, I hear you cry.

I’m hoping to try and get it out in November – appropriate – but I doubt I’ll be that lucky. I may do a double-feature where I bump out my usual Armistice Day poem and release a couple of chapters (more than you’d get in a sample from Amazon) but from further into the book, so everyone gets a bite of it.

I was going to say ‘the exciting stuff’ but trust me, this book is wall-to-wall action with just enough room to breathe before another grenade goes off, maybe. You’ll have to decide for yourself.

I may also approach a vanity publisher to do a special collector’s run of properly produced hardbacks – since Amazon do ‘Case Laminate’ which is nice and everything, but it’s not the same as those professionally bound books.

I may also find a book signing opportunity and see if I can get some very cheap knick-knacks to give away as merch. That could be pie in the sky though.

Further, I might explore the possibility of an Audiobook (since Ken also does audiobook covers, the clever kid). I’d need to find a pro narrator, possibly another freelancer, but this all hinges very much on a triumph of hope over adversity.

Anyway, I’m rambling. Onward, Adventurers!