Wednesday, April 30, 2014
THE ORIGINAL CREATURE
Dar Parsons's original concept art for the creature from Jeremy Lee Riley's novella "The Creature of the Baradoons".
Sunday, April 20, 2014
THE DARKNESS DREAD SKETCH BY JEREMY LEE RILEY
A sketch by Jeremy Lee Riley for The Shepherd of Evil, c. 2001. Look for Dar Parsons's own artwork to grace the novella's pages in the summer of 2014.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
SCOUT'S HONOR REVISED ARTWORK--FIRST LOOK!
Here is a first look at some of the revised artwork by Dar Parsons for the upcoming Scout's Honor paperback edition. This is his work in the raw (i.e., before he puts on the final polish) so one can only imagine how good the final product is going to look.
ARTWORK TO INSPIRE
SO WHY REVISE SCOUT'S HONOR?
Keep in mind, though, that this was my first published book (meaning I was feeling self-conscious, intimidated and overwhelmed by this massive beast called publishing), and I was writing against a deadline. Because of this, the resulting material, in my opinion, is a bit stiff and awkward in places. But the biggest complaint I have received from readers is that, though they enjoyed the overall story, they had a hard time getting through the opening chapter.
Rereading the story, I immediately saw what the problem was. The first chapter is pure exposition. Instead of getting the story rolling right out of the gates I have the main character expounding for countless pages about who he is and where he comes from. Not exactly edge of your seat excitement, I know. Please forgive me. I was younger then. Time and experience have allowed me to see the light.
Now that I have a couple more books under my proverbial belt (meaning that, though that massive beast called Publishing still looms over me, I have learned to stave off its advances with the point of my well-sharpened pencil) I decided the time was right to go back and do a polish on the book that started it all.
The first chapter has now been integrated into the rest of the story, allowing it to flow more naturally. We begin with events already in motion; the characters are established and the action is set to take off. The back story is then divided up and peppered here and there throughout the first two chapters. Hopefully (can't express that word enough), this will allow the readers to ease more comfortably into the world of Sidoria and its many strange, indigenous lifeforms. I also took the opportunity to fix a few awkward word choices and stilted paragraphs.
The result is a story I am more comfortable with asking people to pay their hard earned money for. A fun, fast paced, action adventure story in the same vein as Robert E. Howard's Conan stories, or Edgar Rice Burroughs's Warlord of Mars series (not that I'm conceited enough to compare my fledgling writing abilities to these great wordsmiths of the fantasy genre, more that their great work is what I'm aspiring towards).
And if the story was getting a makeover then why not the illustrations too? As with the prose, the artwork was a rushed job to beat the curse of the ever present deadline. Dar Parsons's work on the Deadlands series has grown by leaps and bounds in just over a couple of books. Not to say what he had originally produced for Scout's Honor was substandard, he just knew he could do better. Now he's had a chance to prove it, and brother (or sister), let me tell you, he delivers big time.
So, that is my long-winded explanation for the revised edition of Scout's Honor, A Tale From The Deadlands. Think of it as a 'director's cut' if you will. The creators' preferred edition of their work. We're excited with the upcoming paperback (and ebook version) and hope you will be too. Thank you for your time and happy reading.
--Jeremy Lee Riley
SCOUT'S HONOR, THE PAPERBACK
INFINITE WORLDS AT YOUR FINGERTIPS
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THE KING'S OF ANTIQUITY
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
THE SHEPHERD OF EVIL, A TALE FROM THE DEADLANDS
Copyright, 2014. All rights reserved.
THE DARKNESS DREAD EXCERPT
ONE
The
sign out front of the antique shop read: PARANORMAL PARAPHERNALIA.
One
look through the bars that adorned the plate glass window and James
could see how the shop had acquired its name. The interior was
crammed full with a bizarre collection of knickknacks, baubles,
furniture, and clothing from around the world.
An
African tribal mask with baboon features hung on the wall next to a
disturbing painting of a three-armed Cyclops embracing a lamb. Below
it sat a chair made of what appeared to be human bones. A bust of the
Greek monster, Argus, stood beside it. Leaning against the bust was a
Tibetan ceremonial staff. A meticulously handwritten sign claimed the
staff belonged to a Buddhist monk who had spent half his life in the
mystical valley of Shangri-La.
James
wondered if anyone was gullible enough to fall for such drivel, but
considering the three-thousand dollar asking price he figured anyone
with pockets deep enough to purchase such an item was doing so more
for the story than the staff itself. It would make an excellent
conversation starter.
The
really expensive stuff was locked away in glass cabinets. Items such
as Celtic rings engraved with strange runes, a gemstone necklace said
to belong to the infamous witch Marie Balcoin, a handcrafted onyx
jewelry box from India, and (surprise, surprise) several shrunken
heads adorned the shelves alongside signs detailing each item's
history and asking price.
James
grinned despite himself. He had heard the store's owner, Paul Delroy,
was an eccentric individual, and a cursory glance was all the proof
he needed that those rumors were true.
He
checked the entrance and saw that the roll gate was down and locked.
The shop's hours were listed as nine to five Monday through Friday,
and noon to five on Saturday. It was a quarter after five now. When
Delroy had called him at the Wharton
Gazette and requested an
interview, he suggested that James meet him at his apartment above
the shop after closing time.
James
walked around the side of the brownstone and found a private entrance
to Delroy's residence half hidden between two tall bushes. There was
no doorbell, but a large knocker in the shape of a bat stared at him
with red glass eyes. James banged the knocker against the door. While
he waited he checked his briefcase one last time to make sure he
hadn’t forgotten anything.
He
had been hounding Delroy for weeks hoping for an interview with the
reclusive antique dealer. Delroy proved a hard man to reach. All
calls to his shop and residence went straight to voice mail, and
James had been so busy at the Gazette,
as well as finishing the first draft of his latest true crime novel,
that he hadn’t been able to pursue the man as efficiently as he
would like.
The
Gazette
was James' main source of income. He worked the City Desk with a
preference for the Crime Beat, especially where serial killers were
concerned. He was fascinated with them. He had even helped the
Federal Bureau of Investigation on a case a few years ago involving
the Crossroads Killer, a deranged drifter who left a trail of bodies
throughout the Midwest. The case had led to his first best seller,
Tracks of a Killer.
Since
his first book, James had published two additional titles. Neither
was as successful as the first, and that was putting it mildly. An
utter train wreck was closer to the truth. But things were about to
change for the better. He had a good feeling that his upcoming book
would put him back in the spotlight, because this time he wasn't just
writing about the serial killer, he was going to take an active role
in his capture.
How
was that for a twist? He could already see the cover blurb: Best
Selling Novelist James Raghnall brings a vicious killer to justice in
this riveting new masterpiece.
The critics and public would eat it up, he was sure of it.
The
killer in question had committed a string of murders right here in
James' hometown of Wharton, Indiana. Four bodies had been discovered
to date, all butchered in or around their homes, their remains
arranged in bizarre patterns that had so far stymied local
authorities. James thought it was some kind of cult at first, but the
arrangements of the bodies did not match any known cult practices.
Wharton's
sheriff, Chris Baylor, had determined that the murders were committed
by a single individual, someone with a penchant for knives or the
equivalent thereof. Some experts were theorizing a sickle. All the
victims had been hacked and slashed to death. There was no
strangulation, no smothering, no blunt force trauma. Whoever this
person was, he liked it up close and messy.
James
checked his mini-recorder to make sure the tape was wound to the
start. He then placed it in the breast pocket of his blazer and
flipped through a yellow folder containing photos of the murder
scenes along with several newspaper articles featuring headlines like
‘Massacre on Forsyth Street’ and ‘The Wharton Goblin Strikes
Again.’
He had coined the
moniker ‘Wharton Goblin’ in one of his articles about the
murders. The name stuck and soon all the papers from Maine to Florida
were using the Wharton Goblin when describing the killer. This was
much to the sheriff’s chagrin. The last thing he wanted was a
public spectacle, the exact opposite of James, who saw these murders
as the perfect opportunity to rekindle his flagging writing career.
James placed the folder back into the
briefcase and banged the bat-shaped knocker again. He began to wonder
if anyone was home. Delroy's message was as cryptic as it was
unexpected. He had left it on James' voice mail while James was
arguing with his boss about one of his stories being passed over in
favor of some fluff piece on the latest teenage fashion.
Delroy's
voice was refined and sophisticated, his pronunciation of every word
slow and deliberate. The message was short and to the point: “Mister
Raghnall, I understand you wish to speak with me in regards to the
Wharton Goblin case. I may have information you can use. Come by my
home after five. I trust you know where I live. Good day.”
James
had every intention of keeping the appointment. Not because he
thought Delroy possessed information on the Wharton Goblin. More to
the fact, he suspected Delroy was
the Wharton Goblin.
He
had no real proof outside of a writer's intuition. Delroy simply fit
the psychological profile of a serial killer. He had no wife or
children to speak of, few if any friends, and those who knew him
described him as a real odd duck; the kind of person who kept to
himself and only interacted with others when it was deemed necessary
to do so.
Delroy's
IQ was said to be well over a 160. One of those genius prodigies who
coasted through college and could have easily snagged any high-paying
job in the country. Hell, in the world.
This
begged the question of why such an individual was wasting his time
running an antique shop in bumfuck, Indiana. The red flags were so
obvious that James was surprised Sheriff Baylor and his button-down
brigade hadn't noticed them too, but Delroy wasn't even on the
department's suspect list.
James
came close to sharing his observations with the sheriff, but
reconsidered at the last minute. Why share the glory when he could
take it all for himself? Here was a chance to do something totally
unique. He could make himself the hero in his own story.
Not
that he was going into this blind, deaf and dumb. There was an
outside chance he was wrong about the antique dealer. Being a recluse
and a weirdo doesn’t automatically make one a serial killer. Still,
if he was right—and every instinct screamed that he was—then he
felt it prudent to bring along a little protection.
James
caressed the .22 pistol in his hip pocket. Its presence gave him the
confidence to see this mad scheme through to the end. He knocked
again, but there was still no answer. This was getting ridiculous.
James pulled his blazer tight against himself to ward off the chill
in the late October air and looked up at the second story window.
He
could see the faint glow of a light inside…and the silhouette of a
figure staring down at him.
The
hair stood up on the nape of James' neck. He stepped back for a
clearer look, but the figure was gone. Had someone been watching him
or had he imagined it? Just for the hell of it he tried the doorknob.
Anything was better than standing here in the cold, waiting for
someone who may or may not be home to answer. The knob twisted in his
grasp and the door creaked open.
James
was surprised. Delroy locked his store up tighter than a drum, but
left the door to his residence unlocked? Of course, it could have
been left open specifically for him. His arrival was expected, after
all.
He
peeked inside and saw a narrow hallway to the right of the foyer and
a staircase to the left. Macabre music drifted down from the second
floor. It sounded like Franz Liszt's ‘Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2’.
How
utterly proper.
“Hello?”
James called. There was no answer. He called again with the same
result. Maybe the music was drowning him out? That would explain why
Delroy hadn’t answered the door.
Decision
time. Should he enter or try back some other time? The answer was
obvious enough. Delroy had invited him, hadn't he? And who knew when
he would get another chance to speak with the man. There was a story
here, and reporters went where the story led them, plain and simple.
Here
goes nothing, James thought.
And
on the heels of that: No, not
nothing. Here goes everything.
He
stepped through the door and shut it behind him.
Now available on Amazon's Kindle and Barnes & Noble's Nook.
Copyright, 2013, Jeremy Lee Riley, Wamingo Publishing. All right's reserved.
ANOTHER REVIEW FOR THE DARKNESS DREAD. KEEP 'EM COMING!
Another review for Jeremy Lee Riley's novella, The Darkness Dread. Thanks, Kristin! And
you can rest assured you haven't seen the last of this dark and
disturbing world.
PROUD PAPA
Author Jeremy Lee Riley posing twixt two of artist Dar Parsons's cover illustrations for his Deadlands series.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
THE CREATURE OF THE BARADOONS EXCERPT
An excerpt from The Creature of the Baradoons. Written by Jeremy Lee Riley, with illustrations by Dar Parsons.
I. RAVEN’S
END
As
Recorded in the Journal
of
Dr. Demetre Jaeger
in
the year 1361 AE
The
dying man was discovered by a group of farmers and brought to my
office here in the town of Raven’s End.
I
had just finished my final appointment and was about to close the
office for an hour so that I might slip over to Roseby's Saloon for a
couple of drinks. It had been a relatively slow day consisting of a
sprained ankle, a minor cooking burn, and a fractured arm from
falling off a ladder. Nothing that would throw the town into turmoil
should their only doctor decide to drown his boredom in a schooner of
ale and a slice of Momma Roseby's mishmash pie.
I
was fishing through my pockets for the keys to the front door when it
crashed open, missing my face by mere inches. The farmers hurried in,
a half-dozen at least, and all sharing the same panicked expression.
In their arms was a writhing, screaming man drenched in blood.
My
first thought was that one of the farmers had fallen into the
combine. It wouldn't be the first time such a tragedy had occurred.
But I quickly recovered my senses and noted that the injuries
appeared to be the result of a vicious attack, most likely from a
wild animal.
The
farmers were all speaking at once, some nearly shouting in order to
be heard over the man’s screams. Their foreman, a broad-shouldered
giant named Huy, quieted them with a curt bark and then quickly
explained to me what had happened.
"We
was working the fields near the foothills. Séamus saw him first. He
was staggering along, barely able to walk. Looked like he'd come down
outta the mountains, but—"
"Never
mind that right now," I said. "Just get him on the table
and hold him." I
rummaged through the cabinets for my supplies while Huy and the
others heaved the man onto the operating table. They wrestled with
his flailing limbs, keeping him still long enough for me to
administer a sedative. Once it took effect and the man had quieted I
asked Huy to finish his story.
"He
was screaming something 'bout his village. Don’t know what he
meant, he wasn’t making much sense. We did what we could to stop
the bleeding but, gods, there's just…” Huy shot a queasy glance
at the man on the table. “There's so much blood."
I
ushered the farmers out the door with instructions to fetch the town
magistrate at once. I knew he’d want to see this. Once alone I
washed my hands and then removed the patient's clothing for a better
look at his wounds.
My
initial assumption appeared correct. The man had been mauled by some
sort of animal. He had suffered lacerations and punctures to his
head, neck, left shoulder, torso and left thigh. The wounds looked to
have been made by a carnivore with a jaw measuring around a foot
in width and a foot-and-a-half in length. The fact that he could
have sustained such injuries and still be drawing breath, no matter
how increasingly shallow, was truly remarkable.
The
man was shivering uncontrollably. With the amount of blood he had
lost he must have been freezing from the inside out. I needed to
restore his blood volume, increase the hemoglobin levels. But with
the primitive equipment at my disposal there wasn’t much I could
do. I didn’t even have a means of determining his blood type.
Perhaps if I was home behind the protective walls of Elysium I could
save him, but out here in these wastes his chances were next to nil.
The
man groaned and muttered something under his breath. Gently, I leaned
in close and asked what sort of animal had done this to him. His
shivering became more violent, his breathing more erratic. He let out
a high-pitched wail and clawed at my shirt with a trembling hand. I
took his hand in both of mine and told him that everything was going
to be okay. The most important thing for him to do right now was to
rest and regain his strength. The man responded with a
heart-wrenching sob.
I
let go of his hand and turned to see town magistrate Whelan Daumier
standing in the doorway. He was a tall, bearded man with a robust
frame and a mane of graying blonde hair that hung shy of his broad
shoulders. His faded blue eyes peered at me from the leathery folds
of his sunburned face.
Whelan
had been the magistrate of Raven’s End for going on twenty years.
He and I had been friends for most of that time. He was one of the
few decent people I’d met out in these wastes. Honorable to a fault
and dead serious about his profession, he did not play favorites when
it came to upholding the law in his town. I had learned that the hard
way when he once locked me up for public intoxication.
Whelan
nodded to me and had himself a look at the patient. “Heard the
farmers found him wandering through the fields,” he said. “Heard
he was losing blood by the bucket loads. How’s he still alive?”
“He
barely is,” I replied. “Frankly, I’ll be surprised if he
survives the night.”
The
man let out another moan. Whelan cleared his throat and shot me a
sidelong glance. “Can he...can he hear us?”
“I
doubt it. He’s pretty far gone. I wouldn’t be surprised if he—”
“CREATURE!”
The man jerked his head forward, screaming in our direction. “IT
CAME IN THE NIGHT! IT KILLED 'EM ALL! CREATURE! CAME IN THE NIGHT!
EVERYONE’S….dead.”
The
man’s voice cracked on the last word. Having used up the last of
his strength he laid his head back on the table, let out a shuddering
sob, and grew still. I checked for a pulse.
“Is
he…?” Whelan began.
“Aye,”
I said.
“What
was he going on about?”
I
was silent for a moment as I pieced the story together in my mind.
The picture that began to form was less than encouraging. “The
farmers said he came from the mountains. There’s a small village up
there, as I’m sure you know.”
“Wait,”
Whelan said, “are you saying that whatever did this to this man
also attacked the Taivan Village?”
The
village in question was a tiny community established in the Baradoons
by the Taivi mountain dwellers over a century ago. They stopped in
town from time to time to trade goods and stock up on provisions. The
general lot tended to be clannish and secretive, interacting with the
townspeople only when necessary. This had not won them many friends
with the locals.
I
retrieved a sheet from the closet and draped it over the body. “You
heard his final words, the same as I. ‘Everyone’s dead’. What
else could it mean?”
Whelan’s
face paled. “Gods, Demetre, I’ve kin up there.”
“I
know,” I said. “Let’s pray it was an overstatement on this poor
fellow’s part. He was hardly in a rational frame of mind.”
“Maybe
so, but something chewed him up and spat him back out. Crazy or not,
he went through an awful lot to warn us.”
I
shook my head. “Let’s say some kind of creature did attack the
village. There’s no way it could wipe out everyone. The villagers
have weapons, they have the numbers. There’s just no way.”
Whelan
looked a little relieved. “Maybe you’re right. But why didn’t
more people show up here? My son, he would’ve brought his family to
town first thing.”
The
thought had crossed my mind as well. Whelan’s son, Gerald, had
married Abelia, daughter of Ahren, the village’s chieftain. By law
Abelia was not permitted to leave her mountain home, so Gerald became
a member of the clan. They had a daughter, Branda, two years ago.
Gerald had a good head on his shoulders. If trouble had befallen the
village he would’ve been the first to get his family out.
“Maybe
he was afraid to make the long journey here with his daughter in
tow,” I said. “Those mountains can be treacherous, even to an
experienced climber.”
Whelan
ran his fingers through his beard, lost in thought. At last, he said,
“This guy’s gotta be full of it. There’s no way one animal
could wipe out an entire village.”
“The
man did say it attacked in the night, right?”
Whelan’s
brow furrowed. “I think so. What about it?”
“Well,
the villagers would’ve been asleep for the most part. They would’ve
been caught off guard. The village isn’t that big. There’s what,
forty-five…fifty people up there? They would’ve been disoriented,
disorganized. Easy prey.”
“Are
you saying they were eaten?”
“Maybe.
Whatever did this to this man is enormous. Didn’t you see the size
of his wounds?” I pulled back the sheet to allow Whelan another
look at the dead man’s ravaged body. “Naturally, it didn’t eat
everyone at once. Maybe it simply killed them and is saving the
others for later. You know it’s rather cold up in the mountains
this time of year, so the bodies would be well preserved for—”
“Enough!”
Whelan slapped a box of bandages off the counter and stepped to the
open door for some air. “Gods, my family may be dead and here you
are talking about them like they’re a frozen supper.”
I
mentally kicked myself for my insensitivity. “I could be wrong,”
I said. “I am just theorizing, after all. I mean, the only way we
can be certain is if we go up there and see for ourselves.”
Whelan
didn’t answer for some time. He leaned against the door frame,
staring out at the mountains that towered over the town like a
giant's hand reaching for the heavens. The Baradoons rose along the
northern border of Eulimi, separating the region from neighboring
Nabron. It was one of the largest mountain ranges in the known world.
Its five peaks, Tos, Nambre, Haelia, Vair, and L'Deia, varied in
height, with its tallest, Nambre, around nine-thousand meters high.
The
Baradoons were shrouded in mystery, and was the stuff of legends even
during the Age of Kings. It was once believed that the mountains were
home to the sky god, Valdueis, who watched over all from his great
throne high atop Nambre's summit.
Raven's
End was founded by miners near the southeastern base of L'Deia half a
century ago. The iron ore they extracted from the rock was lucrative
enough to attract other prospectors, and with them came the usual
assortment of boomtown followers, including families, merchants,
saloon owners, whores, religious fanatics, and broken men looking for
a fresh start.
The
town flourished, becoming one of the richest in the Deadlands. This
was due in part to adventurers and explorers who came from all over
to brave the Baradoons' treacherous terrain and attempt to chart its
many nooks and crannies, pouring much of their wealth into the town’s
economy in the meantime.
The
mountains have never been mapped entirely. Unpredictable weather,
treacherous terrain and unexpected mishaps were to blame for that.
Explorers have died, been injured, disappeared, or just given up and
returned home in frustration.
Many
have told stories of strange occurrences in the dead of night; the
sound of footsteps outside their tents, accompanied by strange,
guttural sounds. Their pack animals have been found slaughtered and
their supplies strewn for miles up the mountainside. Some even claim
to have seen hairy beast-men watching them from far off distances.
I
have always taken such tall tales with the proverbial grain of salt.
Sounds in the night could be any manner of wildlife, from shadow cats
to wolves. As for the beast-men; if I had to guess, I would say they
were the product of mass hysteria brought on by altitude sickness or
the irrational need to believe in something that wasn't really there.
But
that was before Huy and his companions had brought the Taivi man into
my office. His death had created more questions than answers. Most
prominent among them was what sort of creature could have caused such
fatal injuries?
The
mountains were vast; any number of undiscovered species could have
flourished there, free of our interference. But the Taivi had lived
in these mountains for generations without any harm coming to them.
Could a whole village have truly fallen prey to this thing overnight?
Even
if that was possible, why the sudden attacks? Had the creature
entered their territory in search of food? Had the Taivi instigated
the attacks somehow? Or was the dead man on my table its only victim,
his ravings about a ravaged village the product of a traumatized
mind?
So
many questions. My overworked mind couldn’t settle on just one.
Whelan
drew a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh before turning to
face me. He was doing his best to remain calm, but concern for his
family was playing havoc on his nerves. "I'm going up there,"
he whispered. Once he had spoken the words out loud a sense of
urgency came over him. He grabbed my coat and shoved it into my hands
as he steered me towards the door. "It's my duty to go. I'll put
together an expedition and we'll see if this man's story is true or
not."
"And
if it is?" I asked.
Fire
danced in Whelan's eyes. "Then so help me I'll hunt this
creature into extinction!"
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-creature-of-the-baradoons-dar-parsons/1116391816?ean=2940148651727
Copyright, 2012, Jeremy Lee Riley, Wamingo Publishing. All rights reserved.
Copyright, 2012, Jeremy Lee Riley, Wamingo Publishing. All rights reserved.
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THE FIRST DARKNESS DREAD REVIEW
We're off and rolling with our first review of The Darkness Dread. Keep 'em coming!
Friday, April 11, 2014
THE DARKNESS DREAD ILLUSTRATIONS BY JENNIFER BAXTER
Copyright, 2013, Wamingo Publishing. All right's reserved.
THE DARKNESS DREAD
Written by Jeremy Lee Riley. Interior illustrations by Jennifer Baxter. Cover by Joe Swan. Available for only $.99 on Amazon's Kindle and Barnes & Noble's Nook.
http://www.amazon.com/The-Darkness-Dread-Jeremy-Riley-ebook/dp/B00CA16EF2/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1397224847&sr=8-2&keywords=Jeremy+Lee+Riley
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-darkness-dread-jeremy-riley/1115071893?ean=2940016574950
THE CREATURE OF THE BARADOONS SKETCH BY JEREMY LEE RILEY
Copyright, 2012, Jeremy Lee Riley, Wamingo Publishing. All right's reserved.
CAVALRY SCOUT BY JEREMY LEE RILEY
The cavalry scouts are the elite of Elysium's grand armies. Because the Elysian empire is walled off from the rest of the world by a series of stone and earthen fortifications it was only a matter of time before overcrowding led to disease, starvation, and death. The scouts were formed as an answer to this growing problem. Their mission is to patrol the Deadlands in their mobile headquarters called Skiff-tanks (think of a battleship on a continuous track), search for new land for the empire to expand upon, and wipe out any and all opposition to their cause.
Jeremy Lee Riley explains that when he created the cavalry scouts he pictured them as a combination of the Greek Spartans, the Roman Centurions, and the US Marines. Total badasses, the best of the best. In theory, one of these guys could take out a dozen Deadlanders. While the Deadlands is comprised of various warrior tribes, these guys are professional soldiers. And the advanced weapons and technology at their disposal (Elysium is a technologically superior race compared to the rest of Sidoria) gives the scouts an edge over any enemy force they come up against.
Copyright, 2011, Jeremy Lee Riley, Wamingo Publishing. All right's reserved.
DAR PARSONS'S ILLUSTRATIONS FOR THE CREATURE OF THE BARADOONS
Here are some of the illustrations by Dar Parsons for Jeremy Lee Riley's novella The Creature of the Baradoons (a tale from the deadlands).
See more of his artwork in the pages of The Creature of the Baradoons, by Jeremy Lee Riley. Available on Amazon's Kindle and Barnes & Noble's Nook.
http://www.amazon.com/THE-CREATURE-BARADOONS-Tale-Deadlands-ebook/dp/B00BA4XBCO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397224847&sr=8-1&keywords=Jeremy+Lee+Riley
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-creature-of-the-baradoons-dar-parsons/1116391816?ean=2940148651727
Copyright, 2012, Wamingo Publishing. All right's reserved.
See more of his artwork in the pages of The Creature of the Baradoons, by Jeremy Lee Riley. Available on Amazon's Kindle and Barnes & Noble's Nook.
http://www.amazon.com/THE-CREATURE-BARADOONS-Tale-Deadlands-ebook/dp/B00BA4XBCO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397224847&sr=8-1&keywords=Jeremy+Lee+Riley
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-creature-of-the-baradoons-dar-parsons/1116391816?ean=2940148651727
Copyright, 2012, Wamingo Publishing. All right's reserved.
THE DELETED AFTERWORD TO SCOUT'S HONOR (A TALE FROM THE DEADLANDS)
Here is the deleted afterword to Scout's Honor. I thought about including it in the book but reconsidered at the last minute. It gives a little insight into the creation of the planet Sidoria and its characters.
AFTERWORD
Scout's
Honor is the first book in a planned pentalogy that includes The
Creature of the Baradoons, The Shepherd of Evil, Marauders’ Glory,
and The Havoc Bringers. Each story is self-contained, though
characters and events will cross over from book to book, linking the
series together as a whole. We will also delve deeper into Sidoria’s
history as we move along, exploring its regions, species,
civilizations, and so forth.
I
began work on the Deadlands Saga in 1999, though Sidoria’s origins
can be traced back to a camcorder movie I shot with my friends in the
summer of 1994. I was big into westerns in those days and decided to
tell a story about gunfighters battling over two halves of a treasure
map. Original, I know, but cut me some slack; I was still green
behind the ears at the time.
The
movie quickly descended into the usual amateurish, poorly shot,
horribly acted claptrap that kids with too much imagination and not
enough experience or technical know-how produce. It became clear from
the first shot that this would not be a western in the traditional
sense. We tried to film in isolated locations but still managed to
get the occasional car or modern building in the background.
I
wasn‘t sure how I was going to fix the problem. A friend suggested
that it could be a western with electricity like in the old Roy
Rogers films, or maybe even a post-apocalyptic world. I wasn’t big
on either suggestion, deciding instead to set the story on another
planet; perhaps somewhere in the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy. Let’s
call the planet ‘Sidoria’. Yes, that has a nice ring to it. But
why are there humans on this alien world? Well, obviously Sidoria was
terraformed and colonized during the dying days of earth and then
forgotten as the space race continued to adapt terrestrial life forms
on other planets.
Those
left behind were forced to adapt to their surroundings or die. Eons
passed and mankind endured. The old ways were forgotten. New races
were born, and with them new languages, new gods, and new ways of
waging war on one another.
A
rather complex explanation because you could see a BMW in the
background of my little camcorder movie, but it planted the seeds of
an epic story in my young mind that I would revisit often in the
years to come. First I attempted to turn it into a screenplay, but I
found this to be too limited a medium to tell my tale. I wanted to
explore the geography of my planet, visit its indigenous species, and
uncover its history. The best way to achieve this would be to create
a series of adventures following a group of characters across
Sidoria’s rugged and dangerous terrain.
You
hold in your hands the end result of all those years of labor and
love. Scout’s Honor takes place roughly thirty years before the
other books. It introduces characters that will return in subsequent
stories and sets the tone of the books as a whole. Each story is told
from a character’s point of view, be it a journal entry, a
transcribed confession, or, as here, a memoir. The idea behind this
is that at some point the planet was rediscovered and all of these
first-hand accounts of life in Sidoria’s Deadlands were collected
into a series of books.
I
hope you had fun reading Scout’s Honor, and that you will return
to further explore the Deadlands and its colorful and morally
ambiguous characters. We’ll be waiting for you.
—Jeremy
Lee Riley
Indianapolis, IN
2011
THE CREATURE OF THE BARADOONS (A TALE FROM THE DEADLANDS)
Set on the planet Sidoria. When a stranger arrives in the town of Raven's End, mortally wounded and raving about a creature that wiped out his mountain village, the town's magistrate puts together an expedition to hunt down and destroy the creature. But when their journey into the Baradoon Mountains takes a turn for the worst, the hunters discover that the greatest threat to their survival may well be each other.
Featuring breathtaking illustrations by Dar Parsons. Join the expedition as they go in search of THE CREATURE OF THE BARADOONS.
Not enough for you? Then how about join the honorable ranks of the Cavalry Scouts and save the empire of Elysium from an army of Deadlanders in SCOUT’S HONOR - Available Now!
Amazon's Kindle: http://www.amazon.com/THE-CREATURE-BARADOONS-Tale-Deadlands-ebook/dp/B00BA4XBCO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397224847&sr=8-1&keywords=Jeremy+Lee+Riley
Barnes & Noble's Nook: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-creature-of-the-baradoons-dar-parsons/1116391816?ean=2940148651727
REVIEWS FOR SCOUT'S HONOR (A TALE FROM THE DEADLANDS)
The reviews are in for Scout's Honor. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read our first book and leave us feedback.
Scout's Honor, a tale from the deadlands. Written by Jeremy Lee Riley with illustrations by Dar Parsons. Available on Amazon's Kindle and Barnes & Noble's Nook.
http://www.amazon.com/Scouts-Honor-Tale-From-Deadlands-ebook/dp/B0075LZ8MM/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1397224847&sr=8-3&keywords=Jeremy+Lee+Riley
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/scouts-honor-jeremy-riley/1110282273?ean=2940014530088
http://www.amazon.com/Scouts-Honor-Tale-From-Deadlands-ebook/dp/B0075LZ8MM/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1397224847&sr=8-3&keywords=Jeremy+Lee+Riley
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/scouts-honor-jeremy-riley/1110282273?ean=2940014530088
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