Heart of Fire

His young muscles strained as he brought the hammer down on the piece of metal over and over. Sweat poured from his brow as he worked until he was satisfied, and submerged it in a bucket of water. A soft growl slipped from his lips as he returned it to the furnace to reheat and continue his work. He clenched his teeth as the rage built within him. At last, the metal writhed and twisted into an unusable mass.

With an uttered curse, he threw the metal aside. He dragged a sooty, sweaty arm across his brow. He removed his gloves and slapped them across the anvil. Growling, the youth spun on his heels and stalked toward the side yard where he watched an older man work through a series of elegant and graceful movements that flowed one into the next.

As with the metal, the youth finally shouted out a curse.

The man finished his movements, offered a graceful bow to the unseen opponent, and turned to face the youth. “Yes, my boy? What has you so upset?”

He balled up his fists. “I’m done doing your work for you, old man. I won’t touch another piece of metal until you teach me properly.”

A slight smile turned up his graying mustache as he raised a salt and pepper eyebrow. “You haven’t done any work for me yet, my boy. I’ve seen the metal you’ve discarded.”

His dark eyes flared. He muscles in his jaw twitched. Curses in every language he knew rolled from the youth’s lips.

The older man shifted his weight to his back foot and folded his arms over his chest. He waited, silent and patient.

At last, the youth stood before him, thoroughly deflated.

“How many times must I tell you before you’ll believe me, my boy?” the older man asked. “You cannot allow your rage to control you. It will always end badly, if you do.”

With another growl and uttered curse, the youth spun on his heels, stormed out of the property, and down the crowded street. He bumped into several individuals before slamming hard into a large, solid form. Another growl and uttered curse followed an angry glare.

“What did you say, boy?” the burly man demanded.

The youth stumbled several steps down an alley. He found his only exit blocked by the large warrior.

The big man drew a pair of long swords. He had them spinning in intricate pattern as he advanced on the youth.

With a curse and a shout, flames leapt from the youth’s open palms. He lunged forward, gracefully dodged the blades, and grabbed the man’s forearms with a scream.

The man stumbled back with a startled shout and dropped his weapons. His garments went up in flames. After flailing wildly, he fell to his knees and dropped to his face. The fire went out beneath his girth and a weak, whimpering groan slipped from his lips.

A stifled cry escaped the youth and he stumbled off into the flow of traffic. Curses and shouts from the big man’s companions followed after him.

He awoke with a start. Sounds downstairs brought him to full awareness. As he entered the dining room, two figures bolted out the front door. A soft groan drew his attention to the form laying near the cooking stove.

“No,” he protested, grabbed a cloth, and tried to stem the bleeding.

The man placed a firm hand squarely on the youth’s chest. He muttered a phrase in his native tongue. A final breath escaped him and his hand fell to the floor.

Daylight and voices brought him groaning to consciousness.

“What happened?” demanded a powerful, magically enhanced voice.

“I got into a fight yesterday,” he mumbled, “and hurt a man. His companions sought revenge and killed my uncle.”

After several long minutes, the priest placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

Runaway

Tears streamed down her face, tracing lines in the dust. Her legs ached and feet throbbed. She stumbled blindly down the road. At least, she thought she was still on the road. It was difficult to tell. The sun had long since set.

She had no idea where she was. No idea how long she had been walking. No way to defend herself. No plan or purpose to her movements. All she knew was that she had to keep going.

As the leagues rolled by, she felt herself drawn. Nearly dragged, at some points. She still had no idea of where she was or where she was headed.

Then, out of the darkness, a form rose on the horizon. A small sound of surprise slipped from her lips as her bleary gaze traveled the length and width of the form.

As the sun lightened the eastern horizon, she stumbled through the main city gates. The guards barely glanced her way.

The early morning traffic threatened to overwhelm and swallow her.

At last, she stumbled up a set of stairs. She staggered through the space with a wave of murmurs and whispers in her wake. There, at the foot of a towering statue, she collapsed and the black nothingness of sheer exhaustion consumed her.

She was unsure how much time passed. She thought she remembered waking once or twice to a figure hovering over her. She knew time had passed, but was unsure how much.

The early morning sun danced over her face, bringing her fully awake. She sat bolt upright and looked around. Her surroundings were unfamiliar. She pushed herself to the edge of the small and simple pallet, and tried to stand. Her legs trembled and her knees threatened to buckle. As she dropped back to sit, her stomach voiced its disdain.

A gentle knock sounded at the door. Before she could answer, it swung open wide. A lithe figure entered balancing a tray and carrying a pitcher.

“Oh,” breathed the figure as she turned to face the girl, “thank the goddess you’re awake. You had us terribly worried. I was going to fetch the high priestess if you didn’t wake by midday.”

The girls brow furrowed. “Who are you? Where am I? How did I get here?”

The rich aroma of roasted meat filled her nostrils and again her stomach complained.

Color shot through her face and she clamped her arms around her abdomen.

“First things first,” the older-looking woman replied and placed the tray on the bed in front of her. “I’m Priestess Sophia Brooke and you’re in the temple of Jade in the capital city of Debash. We have no idea how you got here, where you came from, or even who you are. Three days ago, at dawn, you stumbled into the sanctuary and collapsed at the feet of the statue of our blessed goddess. Now, eat. I’ll return when you’re done and then we can talk.”

The door closed behind her with barely a sound. The girl was left alone. Ravenous as she was, she ate slowly. She washed everything down with long sips of cool water from the pitcher. As she ate, she took in the simplicity of the room. Gray stone walls stood unadorned. A small wash basin and pitcher stood in the corner, next to a small chest with three drawers.

Sophia returned and dropped onto the bed across from the girl. “Now, lovely girl. Do tell . . . who are you? Where did you come from? And why are you here?”

“My name is Lirin Vibert,” she answered at length. “I’d rather not talk about my past, if it’s all the same to you. Not yet, anyways. I don’t know why I’m here. I just know that I had to get away, and this is where I was led.”

After several long minutes of silence, the priestess nodded. She stood and motioned for Lirin to follow. “Come, I’ll show you your new home.”

Prince of the Blood

Back to back the pair stood. One wielding a pair of elegant scimitars, the other a powerful long sword. A half dozen orckind surrounded the duo.

“Not exactly how you planned your first day out of the citadel, is it Darius?” the one with the scimitars snickered as he turned aside a violent thrust with his left blade.

“You’re enjoying this a little too much, Tarak,” his compatriot shot back and brought his sword down in a powerful overhead chop that opened the creature from shoulder to hip.

Twin blades glittered in the shafts of midday sun cutting through the heavy clouds. With matching thrusts, he lanced two creature through opposing eyes. “What’s the point of doing something if you don’t love your work?”

An uttered curse slipped from the man as he turned his sword to deflect a downward strike. His arms trembled beneath the force of the blow and he clenched his teeth.

A volley of arrows rained down on the pair from the man’s left.

It took all his companion’s considerable skill to knock them aside and keep his opponent at bay. “Hakuma be damned,” he grumbled, invoking the god of war. “Where did these ugly beasts even come from? And how’d they get reinforcements so quickly?”

A response formed on Darius’ lips when a figure sprinted past the pair and disappeared in the direction of the arrows.

Tarak set his left blade spinning while he thrust repeatedly with his right, driving the two creatures back. As fluid and graceful as a dancer, he sliced across the left monster’s throat, spun, and brought both blades down from right to left opening a bloody pair of gashes that finished off the second creature.

Darius, meanwhile, not nearly so practiced or elegant, finished the final orc with his sword through its lung.

“Your man has impeccable timing,” the half-elf praised, as he wiped his scimitars clean on the nearest orc. “I didn’t even hear him coming.”

The man shrugged and bobbled his head. He followed his companion’s lead and sheathed his long sword. “I often forget he’s about. We’re lucky he’s such a skilled swordsman and familiar with this land.”

Tarak thumped Darius soundly on the shoulder. “Let’s head back toward camp. Our relief should be along shortly. You look in desperate need of a strong drink and a soft woman.” With a bawdy laugh, he motioned the younger man to follow.

“You acted recklessly, my lord prince,” stated a voice behind him as the pair made their way toward the citadel. “What would you have done had I not arrived when I did?”

Darius dismissed the concern with a wave of his had. “Tarak and I had everything under control.”

An exasperated sigh and an uttered curse followed them down the corridor.

Tarak chuckled to himself and shook his head.

Taking a Break

Why I do this:

What is the motivation for the world I’ve created? Why did I start writing this series in the first place? Is the watermark on that artwork really dated “2003”? Why have you chosen now to go into details about this type of things?

It all started early in 2003 while watching the previews at the beginning of a Saiyuki video. There was a commercial for The Twelve Kingdoms and it was showing this girl with red hair fighting a large group of soldiers. “That’s her!” I realized. That’s the main character for the book series I’m finally going to write and publish. Here’s where I stipulate that I’d written several iterations of the idea that would ultimately become the Way of the Fist series. However, that character clinched it for me.

So, that’s when I sat down and started to write the pantheon of the world I called Terra. I fashioned it after the Greek pantheon because, at that time, not only was I a huge student of Greek mythology, but I was a teen in the 1990s and so grew up watching Xena: Warrior Princess, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, X-Men: the animated series, and (in the 80s) She-Ra, Voltron, and Sailor Moon. I named two of the deities after my children and two others after near and dear friends. The Royal Tournament of Iskenderun’s reigning champion, I named after my step-son. As the years have gone by I’ve named shop keepers and soldiers after friends who have made an impression or who have passed.

As I got going, the story line evolved and I quickly realized this would be a multi-book production. Over the course of half a dozen composition notebooks (several have, regrettably been lost in my multiple moves) the whole thing began to unfold. And then I got divorced and The Way of the Fist was back-burnered.

After I published The Zoey Jane Files (https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/24758) I returned my attention to The Way of the Fist. Older, wiser, and more experienced, I expanded the story to encompass more of the world. I added characters (Kaylin, Tarak, Hajib, the whole of the Vahkahran, Anya, Glaive, etc.) I added storylines to up the stakes for the final three books (yes, this will still be an 8-book series). I applied what I had learned in my various professions over the years, as well as my continuing education (I returned to college in spring 2024 to eventually get my PhD in prion research) to lend authenticity to certain portions. I learned how to research, and so I do, ad nauseum, to make it as real and believable as possible while still making it engaging. I learned how to market and promote my work (at the end of December I had “sold” a total of 1096 books between the eight I have published so far).

As a result, this world has become real. All those living in it invade my thoughts and every part of my life at all hours of the day and night. I’m currently working in geriatric health care and talk to one of my residents about my work on a regular basis. When I swim laps after work, before my classes, all I think about is the section of the book I’m working on, at present. During my down-time and between classes I’m at my tablet writing or editing.

So, now that I’ve sufficiently rambled, I’ll include the links to all my social media that promotes both series. And, now you know (at least a little) why I do what I do.

Book Series:

Way of the Fist: https://www.smashwords.com/books/booksbyseries/101784

The Zoey Jane Files: https://www.smashwords.com/books/booksbyseries/24758

Facebook:

https://www.facebook.com/heather.wrightbarone

https://www.facebook.com/ZoeyJaneFiles

https://www.facebook.com/HMBaroneAuthor

Instagram:

https://www.instagram.com/hmbaronewriter

Tiktok:

https://www.tiktok.com/@hmbaronewriter

Youtube:

https://www.youtube.com/@hmbarone-writer

Spotify (though I’m currently not supporting them because of their ICE promotions):

https://www.anchor.fm/heather-barone

Thank you for your continued support.

Artwork by Rachelillustrates on Instagram @rachelillustrates

Self-Imposed Exile

He pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders as the wind raced down from the northern reaches of Morgath. An uttered curse slipped from his lips as he checked his blade to ensure it did not stick in its sheath, should he need it. His gaze moved along the tree line nearly half a league away. “What creature in its right mind would be out here in weather like this?” he grumbled through chattering teeth.

“There are easier ways to dispatch yourself, my lord prince,” stated a voice behind him. “More pleasant and comfortable as well.”

His blade stopped inches from the big man’s throat. “I could say the same to you,” he shot back.

“Why are we here, my lord prince?” the big man persisted. “You weren’t expected to begin your service for another five years.”

The youth dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. He returned his sword to its sheath with a heavy sigh. “You know why.”

Thick, wool-covered arms folded over a broad chest. “Remind me.”

He levelled his gaze at the bigger man and then matched his posture. “I couldn’t stay in that castle. There were too many memories. Too much sadness. Too much death.”

“Death is a part of life, my lord prince.”

“Thank you, Sol,” he glowered. “You know, you don’t have to stay with me. I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself.”

A deep, rumbling laughter bubbled up from the man’s chest.

The prince continued to glare.

Sol raised his hands and patted at the air in an attempt to calm the prince. “I’m well aware of your skills as a swordsman, my lord prince. But the Titans’ Guard is hardly the place for someone who has seen too few battles.”

“If I should fall in service to the kingdom, my father still has my sister,” he retorted.

“Harrumph,” the big man trumpeted as his arms crossed his chest once again.

He dismissed the big man with a wave of his hand. “I plan to stay until my commander sends me home, or my father summons me. And we both know which is more likely to occur.”

A low growl of disapproval rumbled behind him.

“You might as well start a sheltered fire. We’re here for the long haul.”

Artwork by Rachelillustrates

Samurai General’s Daughter

She lounged comfortably on the curving slope of the roof with her feet propped against one of the dragon sculptures that doubled as a downspout. A slight, amused smile turned up the corners of her mouth as she watched the maids rushing about calling her name. She stifled a giggle as their tones turned frantic.

“Keiko,” the voice came from behind her and above.

A heavy sigh slipped from her lips as she half turned and glanced up at him.

“Your father would not approve of you teasing them like this,” he scolded.

She pushed herself to her fee. “My father isn’t here. Therefore, he doesn’t get a say in my actions.”

He slid down the tile and stopped in front of her. His arms folded over his chest and he glowered down at her.

With an uttered curse, she a sigh and threw her hands in the air. After another minute, she jumped down and landed in front of the younger of her two maids.

Th slightly older woman screamed in dismay and stumbled back several steps.

A moment later, something soft but solid connected with the back of her head. “That was unnecessary, Keiko,” her older maid scolded. “Your father will hear about this.”

She shot a glare up at the figure receding from the edge of the roof. “If he was that concerned about me and my behavior, perhaps he should . . .” Her words fell away as her gaze fell on the figure striding through the front gate. “Dah,” she breathed and hurried toward him.

With a single, fluid motion, the samurai general swung from the saddle and pulled her against his lacquered, banded-mail chest. “Why do your maids look so distressed?” he asked in her ear. “Especially Aiko.”

She did her best to look innocent.

He frowned and held her out at arm’s length. “Keiko.”

Her brow furrowed to match his. “What? My studies are complete. I even spent time training. Why is it so wrong that I wanted a little time to myself?”

A heavy sigh exploded from his lips and he shook his head.

At that, Keiko took the reigns of his steed and led the animal to the stables. She turned her attention to grooming the horse until Aiko came to call her for dinner. “I’ll be there in just a minute

Artwork done by Rachelillustrates

Colorful Child

He sighed as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and then raked his fingers through his hands. For several long minutes, he stared at his son from behind his study desk.

The boy, dressed in bright colors, flowing fabrics, and a delicate sword dangling from his left hip. He shifted from one foot to the other. He grinned broadly as he toyed, absently, with the pommel of his sword.

“What am I to do with you?” the man grumbled as he placed his palms flat on the desk.

Absently, he tilted his head and regarded his father as the amusement swept in to join his delight. “Send me to Bethsaille, sir. Allow me to bring honor to this family.”

The man’s brow furrowed deeply as he pushed himself to his feet. “Why Bethsaille?”

He gave a noncommittal gesture. “And why not? It will get me out of the house and take the attention from the family.”

His father moved around to stand before the boy. Large, strong hands fell on slender shoulders. “That’s not a good enough reason.”

The boy stood still and held the man’s gaze. “Because I’m good, sir. But I want to be better. I want to be the most powerful warmage Terra has known since Mistress Shilaley Lightwing.”

A slow sigh escaped from the man. His hand moved to the boy’s head. “If that is truly whata you desire the I will see to the arrangements. You will be a member of Bethsaille at the start of the next semester.” He stepped back, turned on his heels, and left thee room.

For several long minutes, the boy stood staring after the older man. At last, a sound of delight sliipped from his lips and he sprinted off down the corridors to his room.

As he sat in an oversized chair pouring over the pages of his latest acquizition, a knock sounded. He noted his place, turned the book onto the arm and moved to answer the door.

The boy found himself tumbling head over heels backward and slammed into the foot of his bed. He scrambled to his feet and jerked his sword from its sheath. With several gestures and a word, a translucent rainbow shield rose from the floor to surround him.

“Impressive,” his attacker muttered and fliked his wrist. Dozens of tiny blue spheres flew through the air and slammed into the boy from every direction. “But, you can do better.”

With another gesture and word, he launched his own berrage of colorful missles flew out to slam into the bigger man, rocking him back on his heels.

“Better,” he remarked. He stumbled back and brought up his blade as the boy followed his magical attack with a sword strike. “Impressive,” he rebutted and flung his fingers out wide.

A cry of dismay escaped the boy as he landed on his bed, bounced off, and hit the floor. His breath exploded from his lungs as he landed. Dark sparkles dance in front of his eyes as he struggled to retain his grasp on consciousness.

His master stood over the boy and nodded. “Not bad. We have a great deal more work to do, if you plan to enter Bethsaille for the next semester.” He turned and walked away. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

He laid there until the sky darkened. At last, he clambered to his feet and headed to the dining hall for the evening meal.

Of the Plains

The grass rippled around her, masking her movements and hiding her dainty figure from sight. She hurried along, crouched and barefoot. Her gaze never left the pair of figures with their backs to her. A faint smile turned up the corners of her mouth as she stopped and closed her eyes to listen.

After several agonizing moments, she dropped to her knees and put her ear to the ground. Several heartbeats later, she heard footsteps moving through the grass behind her. There they are, she told herself. She scrambled forward, keeping below the grass, and took out the boy to her left.

She pulled his feet from under him and pressed her dagger to his throat. He held up his hands in silent surrender and scowled.

With a sharp nod of satisfaction, she turned her attention on his companion a few feet away. Again, she launched forward. She took him down at the knees and he quickly surrendered. His scowl was deeper than his counterpart’s.

She put her ear to the ground a second time. The pair sprinted toward her location from opposite directions. With a sly smile, she scrambled forward to her original position. A silent thanks to Lilith, their patron goddess, slipped from her lips as the pair passed within spitting distance of her.

The two found their fallen companions and shouted curses.

With a resolved nod, she skirted around behind the pair. She crept up on the boy to her right from behind. As with the first boy, she took his feet from under him with a sliding tackle. He grumbled a curse as he surrendered.

“Only one left,” she murmured as she crept forward until she could see the last boy.

He stood with his back to her, surveying his surroundings.

She sprang at him.

The boy spun as she lept forward to tackle him, and landed a solid blow to the side of her head.

A heavy grunt escaped her as she hit the ground. A quiet groan followed as darkness threatened to consume her. She pushed to her feet, then  and shook her head to clear it.

“Not bad, Kimshira,” praised a voice behind the group. “If that were anyone but Naphir you would have gotten them all.”

She rubbed the tender spot on her head and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

The older woman nodded. “You should. And keep honing your skills. You’ll make an excellent scout someday.” She turned to Naphir whose chest swelled with pride. “I’m sure you’ll be a great warrior in no time.”

Touch of Greatness

The boy leaned over his steed’s neck. He tightened his leg muscles as he tangled his fingers in her mane. With his free hand, he drew the sword from his left hip. It swept in a glittering arc, neatly severing the straw target in half.

He gave a sharp whistle and the mare whirled in a tight circle, charging back toward a pair of straw targets to the boy’s right. With a fluid move, he swung a leg over his mount’s neck and wrapped it around the stirrup. A blade now in each hand, he leaned out nearly parallel to the ground and burried a sword in each figure’s chest.

A second whistle had the mare whipping about once more. The boy balanced on his steed’s back as she loped between the two targets in the opposite direction. He pulled his blades free, slammed them into their sheathes, and guided his mount to stop in front of the big man who stood watching with his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

The boy tilted his head up slightly, acknowledging the observer. When no response was forthecoming, he slid from the saddle and guided his mare to the corral. There, he removed the saddle, brushed her down, gave her a bucket of oats, and turned her loose.

His blades came free of their sheathes as he turned to block the big man’s attack. He turned the single sword aside with his right-hand blade and came across from low to high with his left. He watched the fabric part and a fine line of crimson bloom as he brought the blade back to the defense.

A feral growl escaped the big man and he stumbled back several steps. He gripped the wound and put up his own weapon. A string of curses slipped from his lips and he backhanded the boy sending him tumbling head over heels into the corral fence. At that, he spun and stalked toward his tent.

The boy watched him go. After a moment, he returned his swords to their sheathes. He rubbed his jaw, now tender from the blow, and pushed himself to stand. With a series of muttered curses of his own, the boy stalked toward a group on the far side of the sprawling herd of sheep.

“Beat your pa again, Naphir?” the biggest of the group asked.

The boy growled and nodded.

“You can stay with me,” he offered. “I’m on watch until midnight.”

A look swept around the group and the other boys wandered off to see to their other responsibilities. The two were left alone with only the sound of the sheep bleating between them.

Ice Princess

She lowered her gaze as her father and brother strode by. Reflexively she took half a step back and folded her hands behind her back.

Once the pair were farther down the corridor, she turned and continued in the diretion they had come. She raised her hand and knocked on her mother’s sewing room door. Upon instruction, she entered and gave her best court curtsy.

“Good morning, my daughter,” the woman murmured.

“Greetings, my queen,” the girl replied as she dropped down beside her mother. “You were missed at the morning meal.”

The queen glanced out her window and inclined her head slightly. “I wasn’t hungry. Thank you for your oncern.”

She sighed and shook her head. “As you will, my queen. What have we on the agenda for today?”

“We need to finish our preparations for the midwinter festival,” her mother explained. “There are still several details we need to attend to.”

“Yes, my queen,” stated the dainty princess. “I’ll see to them personally.” She stood and gave another curtsy. At that, she turned and left the room.

Two slender figures fell into step alongside her as she started toward the queen’s audiance chamber.

“How fares the queen mother?” the one on her left questioned.

“I’ll send the royal healer to see to her on our way to speak with the performers,” she explained.

The one on her right fideted with her fan. “Should we be concerned?”

The priness dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “I promise, all will be right with our world by the time the midwinter celebration begins.”

At that, the pair let the subject drop. They followed their priness to the queen’s audiance hall where half a dozen performers patiently awaited them. With a slight nod, she made her way to the hair beside the queen’s throne and gracefully lighted on it.

“Greetings, one and all,” the princess beamed.

“Greetings, Priness Anya,” they replied in unison.

“You are all invited to join in the festivities for this year’s midwinter celebration,” Anya declared. “You will be positioned at key loations throughout the city.”

A murmur of surprise and delight rolled through the group.

Anya did not miss the look of concern that flitted between Irina and Demetria. After a moment, she dismissed everyone with a wave of her hand. “I’ll be in touch with each of you about your performance locations.”

With a series of bows and curtsies, the group exited the audiance hall.

“What now, my princess?” Irina asked.

Anya motioned to the page boy near the door. “Send them in,” she instructed.

The boy nodded and swung the doors open wide. Several chefs and bakers strode in. After a moment of hesitation, they approached their princess.

“You are the best in the kingdom,” Anya stated. “We’d like to enlist your services to provide for the citizens of this city during the midwinter festival.”

A murmur rippled through the group. They looked to one another and nodded.

“We would be honored, my lady princess,” stated one of the chefs.

So the day passed. Anya sat next to her mother’s throne and saw to the business of the midwinter festival.

Demetria and Irina came and went.

At one point, Anya noticed her father and brother pass by the door as a group of locals departed.

The sun slipped below the horizon as the royal healer approached the princess. “You mother, the queen is resting comfortably. I gave her a breathing treatment of herbs. The cook has a separate collection of herbs to add to her teas and baked goods to speed along her healing.”

Anya inclined her head. “My thanks to you.”

He swept a bow, turned, and left.

With a heavy sigh, she rested her elbows on the arms of the chair and massaged her temples.

“You should eat, my lady princess,” Demetria stated. “The hour grows late and you have been  busy for the better part of the day.”

At that, the pair guided her to the dining hall.

Artwork by Rachelillustrates