All things dragon

They come in bigger sizes

Anyone with an interest in Warhammer will have noticed this by now. Yup, the Storm of Magic has hit the Warhammer World, bringing all sorts of monsters and weirdos out from the shadows. Naturally enough, BL decided to release a brace of books to accompany the launch of the game expansion, all of which are available to preorder now.

Razumov’s Tomb is by Gemmell-award winning supremo Darius Hinks, The Hour of Shadows is by the master of Fantasy darkness C. L. Werner, and Dragonmage is by me.

It’s the first time I’ve written about dragons, and it was a lot of fun to do. Storms of Magic are when the biggest, nastiest creatures in the Warhammer world start to crawl out of the woodwork, and they don’t come much bigger and nastier than the firedrakes of Ulthuan.

At the time of writing this there are no excerpts from the novellas up on the main site, so I’ll put a very brief snippet from Dragonmage up here. Hope you like it.

There was a mind, older than the bones of the mountain in which it slumbered. It glowed in the dark like an ember, almost cold, red-brown against infinite dark.

No thoughts stirred in that mind. No movement registered against the cloak of dull, dormant shadow. It was on the hinterland between life and death, the grey shade-realm between energy and inertia.

It had lingered there for centuries. It was deep in the great sleep, buried faster than pearls in the lightless trenches of the ocean.

There was no self. No presence. No heartbeat, no breath.

Just a faint glow, ash-warm in the heart of the darkness.

It didn’t sleep as a mortal slept. A mortal mind dreamed. A mortal mind expected awakening. Mortal flesh twitched and moved, stirring in advance of the dawn.

This sleep was a finger’s breadth from oblivion. It was the sleep of an intelligence that didn’t expect the dawn. It had seen so many dawns that the rotation of night and day, year on year, had ceased to be more meaningful than the void in which it lingered.

It was the sleep of vastness, the sleep of a being whose age had passed in flame and for which the residual world was a fragile ghost-image.

Rathien reached out, gingerly extending the flicker of light that was his own mind. For a moment, there was something; a stirring, a sigh, a wisp of air.

Then nothing.

The mind was cold.