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Announcement: The Shadow Mark, by Mason Thomas

The Shadow MarkQSFer Mason Thomas has a new MM fantasy book out:

Auraq Greystone, once a military officer with a promising future, exists on the fringe of society. Accused of murder, Auraq is on the run from the ax—until two fugitives crash into his solitary life. One is a young man named Kane. The glowing marks on his arm pulse with an otherworldly power, and they have made him the target of a sinister organization called the Order of the Jackal. When the old man protecting Kane dies in an ambush, Auraq swears an oath to take his place.

But the runes are far more significant than they realize. They are a message from the shadow realm, a dark memory of the past—one holding evidence of a bloody massacre and its savage architect; one that will shake the kingdom to its foundation. Risking arrest and execution, Auraq fights to get Kane to the capital city where the cryptic marking can be unlocked. And with assassins close on their trail, Auraq might never get the chance to show Kane what’s in his heart—or the way their journey together has changed him.

The Shadow Mark is an epic tale of magic, murder, conspiracy, betrayal, and—for the two men tasked with unraveling the mystery—love and redemption.

A Lords of Davenia Novel

Dreamspinner | Amazon


THE NIGHT had taken on an ill wind.

It was enough to stir Auraq Greystone from his musings. He looked up from the flames of his small campfire and scanned the tree line. The clearing was still quiet, but Spirit had lifted her head from her feedbag. The young bay’s ears perked up, and she stamped her hoof twice. She sensed it too.

Auraq focused his attention on the night sounds in the surrounding forest. The campfire bathed the clearing in warm light but didn’t reach far beyond the first circle of trees. If anything was out there, he wouldn’t see it. Nothing out of the ordinary reached his ears. He lifted his nose and drew in a few long breaths—the smell of smoke from his fire, the sweet fragrance of the scorched meat on the spit, the lush forest loam beneath him—again, nothing he wouldn’t expect.

But a deeper, more primal sense registered something else. There was a trace of malice in the air. Faint, but undeniable. He could feel it brush against his skin like a night mist moving silently through the trees.

He sat very still, waiting.

He wondered if it was just his imagination. After his earlier run-in with brigands, he was understandably jumpy. But the feeling was prickly enough that he was reluctant to ignore it. Perhaps the wiser thing after all would have been to take a room at the inn he passed some ways back, but his purse had grown too light as it was. He didn’t need to spend good hard-earned coin on a needless luxury when he could make do perfectly well on his own in the wild.

Besides, a crowded inn could carry more danger for him than a dark forest in the middle of the night. There was no risk of someone recognizing him here.

Nothing happened. The forest remained still.

With a tight frown, he returned his attention to his dinner. The plump rabbit was nearly ready. Fat dripped down to sizzle and hiss on the hot coals. He gave it another quarter turn on the spit and then sat back again to stare at the flames.

Something moved out in the dark wood.

The sound was clear and distinct. A dry twig snapping. He lifted his head and his back straightened as his hand drifted to the hilt of one of the swords on the ground beside him. It could have been an animal out foraging, but something about the sound made Auraq reject that. He waited, straining to pick up anything beyond the crackle of the fire and the sizzle of fat. Then heard it again—the sound a boot makes when snapping a twig on the leafy ground. It came from the direction of the road. Auraq curved his fingers around the grip, ready to slide the blade from the sheath.

Brigands again? Either a new band was thinking he was an easy target or the same ones from before had returned, thinking to retaliate for their bloody failure.

The warm fire and isolation from the road had persuaded him to take off his heavy leather jerkin. He wore only his undertunic. Now, he wondered if he had the time to slip the jerkin on before an ambush. Unprotected, he could be killed by a well-aimed arrow or crossbow bolt. But even with his vest on, there were no guarantees.

More sounds. He could hear breathing now, and the whisper of brush being pushed aside. Someone was approaching his camp. Perhaps two by the close proximity of the sounds. Either they were poorly trained at stealth or no longer cared about being heard. Bandits were at times overconfident in their ability to overwhelm their victims.

He caught movement. The firelight reached out just far enough and at the right angle to catch the white of a tunic sleeve.

“Ho there!” came a warm and friendly call. A leafy branch was lifted aside and a shape emerged from the darkness. “Hail and good eve, friend. You’ll not be needing that weapon for us.”

An old man stepped into the clearing. His face was a chaos of white hair, but among the mess, Auraq spotted a gentle smile peeking through. A rustle of foliage behind him announced the arrival of a second visitor. A man much younger than his companion. Twenty maybe. He stood partly in shadow behind the old man’s shoulder.

“We saw your fire from the road, good sur.”

Auraq didn’t respond and held his fingers to the hilt of the sword. He waited, measuring the two of them, wondering if this was an elaborate ruse to get him to lower his defenses.

“We hoped you’d be kind enough to share it with us at this late hour. We have provisions we could share in return for the kindness.”

The two hovered at the edge of clearing waiting for an invitation. The old man was dressed simply, but well for travel. Heavy breeches and thick boots for long days on foot, a tunic and jerkin and a thick woolen cloak. He had a small canvas haversack on his shoulder and a line of pouches and purses on his belt. Auraq caught the glint of metal underneath the cloak. A dagger or short sword, still sheathed. The younger man was less adequately attired. His boots were well-worn, and he had on only a thin tunic with no cloak upon his shoulders. A bulkier pack was slung on his shoulder.

The old man maintained his warm smile down at Auraq, but the younger man stared at his boots and shifted awkwardly. Nervously. When the moments lumbered by without a response from Auraq, the younger swore under his breath. “Leave it, Tan,” he grumbled. “Let’s return to the road. We’ll find something.”

Auraq felt his mouth turn down. He thought he’d traveled deep enough into the wood to not be seen from the road. He’d been romanced by the clearing he’d found, counted himself lucky at finding it in the gathering dark, and hadn’t bothered to check if it was safe. He’d been foolish and sloppy. If they had spotted his fire from the road, others might too.

The old man must have seen the change in Auraq’s expression. He nodded in resignation. “Sorry to disturb ya, then.” He glanced at his companion over his shoulder and signaled with his head to leave. “We’ll leave ya to—”

Auraq broke in with a grunt deep in his throat. “No.” He lifted his hand from the hilt of the sword. These two were just as they seemed—travelers like himself, out on the road at too late an hour. “You’ll find nothing nearby on the road tonight.”

The two stood frozen, the younger one half turned to head back into the trees. They exchanged glances, telling Auraq they weren’t sure if it was an invitation. Auraq wasn’t sure either, until he found himself gesturing toward the ground on the opposite side of the fire.

“Oh, many thanks, sur. Many thanks,” said the old man. He scrambled to join the fire. Dropping his haversack, he lowered himself to the ground and extended his hands toward the flames. “Oh, it’s a cold one tonight, sur. It would have been a long night without your generosity.”

Author Bio

Mason Thomas began his writing journey at the age of thirteen when his personal hero, Isaac Asimov, took the time to respond to a letter he wrote him. He’s been writing stories every since. Today, he is ecstatic and grateful that there is a place at the speculative table for stories with strong gay protagonists.

Mason, by all accounts, is still a nerdy teenager, although his hairline and waistline  indicate otherwise. When his fingers are not pounding furiously at a keyboard, they can usually be found holding a video game controller, plucking away at an electric guitar, or shaking a twenty-sided die during a role playing game.

Mason will take any opportunity to play dress up, whether through cosplay, Halloween or a visit to a Renaissance Faire. He pays the bills by daring middle school students to actually like school and encouraging them to make a mess in his science classroom. He lives in Chicago with his endlessly patient husband, who has tolerated his geeky nonsense for eighteen years, and two unruly cats who graciously allow Mason and his husband to share the same space with them. 

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