CROWN OF AZT’NYR

CROWN OF AZT’NYR, by Mike Adamson, with art by Miguel Santos

 

Each Age shall know its hero. When times demand, unbeknownst to the man or woman whose stout heart shall be chosen, valour shall be demanded, and answered in full. When night would do battle with day, a mighty hand shall be raised in contest, and the earth and sky will know of whom their praises shall be sung. So do the stars and seasons foretell. Look to the west at the dying of the day, when the sun is in the House of the Fire-Beast, for thence cometh redemption.

―The Testament of Farnor

 

The simple fisherfolk in the hovels by the broad meander of the River Caloweth paused in their mending of nets as the stranger strode from the rampant jungle. He was tall, head and shoulders above the local stature, and broad as men were made. A face hardened by adversity was capped with a straggling mane of dark hair, and a cloak of lappa hide counterpointed a loincloth of fur and boots that had seen better days. A sword rode a baldric at his shoulder, a dagger at his side, and a pack was slung at his back. The crude fisherfolk looked around suspiciously, and many disappeared into their huts which crowded on a forest of stakes over the water; for strangers were mistrusted, and seldom did anyone appear from the emerald jungle stretching on across Farnor to distant Chelraam.

Their hetman stood his ground, and the stranger stepped forth with the rolling gate of one who had come far, striding from shadow into the golden light of day’s end. He raised a hard hand and spoke gruffly in the accents of the lowlands. “Greetings, friend. I must pass the river, and seek the service of your watercraft.”

The hetman’s greasy head twitched in an automatic shake. “No… Nothing for you here… Go.”

“Come now, friend,” the huge stranger went on in an as-yet amiable burr. “I ask a simple task and it shall earn you handsomely.”

A light came over the fisherman’s eyes at mention of money, and the stranger jingled a pouch at his hip. “Five myrkha…” was the fisherman’s demand.

“Two, and consider it generous.” The smile had not slipped but something in the big man’s attitude spoke softly to the hetman that the big man could as easily leave the fisherman sprawled with a concussion and take the boat, as pay for passage. He saw sense, accepted two brown coins, and in moments was punting the craft out upon the dark, languid flow as the warrior stood in the bow, staring off at the jungle opposite.

“You don’t see many strangers here, do you?” the warrior asked musingly, glancing back over his shoulder, but the hetman was tight-lipped. After a pause, he spoke again. “Did you see silver apes come this way earlier in the day?” Now the fisherman paused in his stroke, eyes widening. “I see you did. They must have made quite the spectacle, such monstrous beasts, crashing across this river.”

The hetman pointed to the far bank where young trees were splintered and pushed aside. “They came like the fury of the gods, made white water that rose to the sky, and drove on without pause as if at the tip of the lash.” He grimaced, made a hand-sign to the river gods. “They carried something… It may have been someone.” He shuddered. “I have said too much…”

“Not at all, friend.” The warrior let the point go and stared off at the shore. Indeed, the fisherman had told him all he needed to know.

Malovar was a world of riches and terrors, ripe for the plucking of those who dared, but ate up all unequal to the task; and misfortune and malice were the handmaidens of luck, coming equally for the high-born as the low. Well did the warrior Derros know this, had he not suffered the ignominy of false accusation and dismissal from the highest guard in the land? An old bitterness, he had come to live with it, but despite the resent he had nursed for years, he found a strange sense of loyalty and could not think ill of those who knew not all the facts. They spoke too soon, nothing more, and this charity of spirit set him apart from the scum and dregs of Farnor. He journeyed among them but had never considered himself more than an alien in their company.

Thus, when the voices of the jungle whispered of disaster, by drums and messenger-bird, he had left the river port of Ullmere and struck out for the road to Chelraam; but a half-day’s journey brought him to a scene of carnage. Burning wagons and dead men in the uniform of the monarchs of Tymass, splendid capital of Farnor… Draft-beasts were slain or released from harness and bolted, and a royal coach was overturned, torn apart as if by great force. A guard had lived long enough to mumble words of a terror that came upon them from the woods like a breaking storm and slew indiscriminately, all but the one who rode the coach… The soldier had died even as Derros put a water-skin to his lips.

Among the blood and mud he had found tufts of coarse silver hair ripped from limbs in their furious depredations, and knew the work of the great apes of Malovar. But this made no sense, they were usually placid and insular creatures, not given to aggression unless their territories were threatened. These southern jungles were their great range and men had learned to pay them respect.

The boat grounded on a shingle beach on the far side and Derros stepped ashore with a nod of thanks. The fisherman punted back into the flow and hurried home, and the warrior squared his shoulders. The apes could not have left a clearer trail to follow, and he suspected darkly he knew where they were bound… And what they carried. For nowhere among the pitiful remains of the column had he found a body which might belong to the one the guards had escorted.

 

#

 

Evening thickened as he strode swiftly on the track of the apes. His pupils expanded and he moved with silent grace, learned in the wilds of this great and terrible realm. As the stars glimmered in the fading sky, ring-light flooded the woods with its spectral silvers and milky whites, the glorious arch from horizon to horizon a pale band in the daytime sky but the nightlight of the ages, which meant true darkness came seldom to Malovar. Several moons glimmered in slim crescents above and below the ring plane, which found its apex a little above half way between horizon and zenith.

By the soft light the warrior jogged on in the chittering, hissing jungle, aware of the life around him, knowing to pause and melt into shadow when the acrid odors of things large and predatory reached his sensitive nostrils. Two hours after leaving the river he was close to his quarry, for the forest thinned and on a hillock arose the ancient temple of the ape god Azt’nyr, built by the distant ancestors of the Farnorians in an age when the giant apes had won the fear and supplication of humankind. Long unkept, it had fallen into ruin and only its towering stupas rose against the glory of night, limned with ring-light and crowned with ten thousand stars.

The apes called the woodland around it their home, and carefully shunned the humans who passed by in modern times; thus Derros’s surprise when woodsmoke came to his nose and the noise of a multitude to his ears, and when he reached the edge of the forest he beheld an encampment of pavilions and tents around a central fire, where vagabonds and bandits caroused by night. Far back in the dark he caught the great apes standing like sentinels, mistrustful, squinting at the light of flames in unnatural fascination. They did not like humans so near their sacred spaces, but so long as they were not directly provoked, they were not ready to drive them off.

There were many brigands and bandits in the hinterlands of Farnor, armed savages who preyed on town and village, and their nomadic nature made them difficult for the Tymassian army to deal with. Out here in the great green mass they were of little import and found a haven from justice; they had no stomach to offer battle to monarchs and had kept an uneasy peace for many years.

The tracks of the apes lead directly to this encampment.

With a deep breath, Derros adjusted his baldric and cloak against the cooling night and strode without hesitation across the open grassland below the hillock into the circle of firelight painting the tents. The din of conversation and revelry faded at his appearance … to a deathly silence punctuated only by the crackle of flames. Every eye was on the warrior, and hard hands worried at knife-hilts as dark eyes squinted in the sudden glee of sport.

“Who are you? What do you here?” was the grunted challenge from bearded lips as a dark warrior set down his ale jack.

“Just a traveler who would share your fire, if he may.”

The words provoked a gust of laughter throughout the throng, and Derros smiled genially, almost inanely, already knowing their custom.

A swarthy warrior with shaven head and tattooed face rose from the fire and faced him, bare-chested and tensed as if for combat. “These are the sword-brothers who give fealty to our warlord-master Sharnek. Know this, stranger: none may speak to the brothers, none may treat with them nor share their meat, who has not already proven his mettle, by killing one of them.” The last was said with a grin of sick humor, displaying filed teeth.

“Really?” Derros said mildly in the hush. They barely saw him move as he stepped forward in a blur, obliquely across the warrior, to snap a kick to his right knee, sending him down in a tumble. Derros took the shaven head in his hands, twisted, and the loudest sound was the dry snap as the neck broke cleanly. Shocked faces all around registered the kill, as Derros dusted his palms and spoke softly. “Now may I warm my hands?”

The silence lasted a few heartbeats, then swelling laughter greeted him, and the striking of a staff on a great metal gong hushed all, drawing attention to the pavilion beyond the fire, where drapes were being drawn back and a powerful figure in furs and leather stood bathed in the flicker. A hard, cruel face was outlined in thin moustaches and jaw-beard, and Derros knew he confronted the master.

“You’re a confident son of a lappa,” the warlord grunted. “Very well. You have our attention. What is it you desire, beyond fire and meat for the night?”

“The least I may do is replace the swordsman it cost me to win that attention.”

“You want to join the brothers? Find easy pickings?”

Derros bowed shallowly.

“Welcome,” Sharnek hissed softly. “But know all eyes shall be upon you until you have proven your worth, won our trust, not merely our respect for your skills.” He sank into the only chair, a carved throne beyond the fire, and gestured for his people to resume their meal. The body was dragged away by two warriors as a drummer began a deep rhythm and the hum of voices developed once more. Derros sank down by the blaze and a goblet and wooden dish of food were thrust upon him—apparently they had belonged to the man he slew, and were now his by default.

He ate impassively, eyes and ears open to the swell of converse around him, though those nearest guarded their words with great care. Trust must be earned, as the leader had said, and not until some of the bandits began a game of shell was Derros welcome, mostly for the coin at his belt. He played round by round as the game of tossing shells down upon a roughly marked board progressed, but after a while the gong sounded again and all eyes went to the pavilion, where a flogging triangle had been made up from dry branches and a man in fine robes was being tied.

“What is this…?” the warrior murmured.

“Never trust a sorcerer,” a drunken tribesman chuckled through his whiskers. “All their skills and they can no more hit the target than a one-eyed archer.” The others laughed as the rich robes were torn from the victim’s back and Sharnek took his place of honor to watch.

“This fellow’s offence?” Derros asked, still nursing ale in the goblet; his head was clear and would remain so.

“Bringing the servant when the mistress was the prize,” another muttered. “Charm the apes, easy—find the princess, that’s the hard part.”

Sharnek raised his arms for quiet. “Today your chief was made a fool of. Any who have served a day in my army knows this to be unwise.” Some laughed nervously, most held silence now. “Such is neither forgiven nor forgotten. The sorcerer Detheran made magics at my commission, and failed utterly to do more than bring the eye of Tymass upon us. Tomorrow we travel west and south, and trust to our gods of carnage to bring us pickings. For now, we punish the insolence of the trickster who made mockery.” He took his seat and nodded to the scourger, a big soldier who waited with a plaited single-tail stockwhip coiled in his brawny fist. “100 strokes, and should he live through it, any fool with a use for a broken magician may have him!”

The whistle and crack of the lash was a terrible metronome in the night air as a scribe took tally with chalk and slate, and the sorcerer’s back was destroyed. His screams were terrible as the work was done, and Derros watched with stone-like expression. He had seen dire things aplenty in his life, this was but one more, but the delight in the savage eyes around him was sickening. Out in the darkness, the grunting of the apes came to him as they reacted to the cries, advancing to peer into the firelight, and some beat the ground with great fists, though they drew no closer. The warlord beckoned a slave to fill his goblet. He reclined comfortably to enjoy the entertainment, while the slave circulated with the pitcher, supplying the wants of many.

She was a lithe and lissom young woman of dark hair and pale limbs, barely clad in scraps of silk, and went about her work with downcast eyes and an expression held utterly neutral—Derros guessed she had not long been a captive. As she passed nearby he extended his goblet silently and received a libation, letting his eyes go from the awful spectacle to the prisoner… What he saw by the firelight, and by the lambent sheen of the great rings above, struck him doubly speechless, and he watched the final reduction of the victim with a now stony reserve.

At last the lash fell silent and the prisoner was untied, held between two guards. He was mercifully unconscious, and the warlord dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Dump him outside the camp. Let him live or die by the will of the gods.”

By the flames, Derros returned to the game and played with skill, round by round beginning to win. He was also cheating to do so, and a vein throbbed at his temple with the enormity of his risk. If the bandits realized, they would have him over the fire before he could draw a blade. He sipped sparingly, bet much, and the other players were soon grumbling that he was taking their coin, but his luck held. The stack before him grew as an hour went by and the camp settled toward drunken laze, the chieftain’s bard told tales for his master’s amusement, and the gamers grew tired of losing.

Before a knife could be drawn, Derros rose and hefted his bulging purse. “A hundred myrkha!” he roared, “… for one hour with that slave!” He pointed to the dark girl whose fair skin glowed in the firelight, and all were struck silent by the stranger’s audacity.

The bard broke off and Sharnek slowly rose from his throne, stepped into the circle of light and regarded the warrior across the wide, red embers. “A lot of money. You part with your winnings so easily, a mere hour’s fun?” Derros let the offer stand. “Well, as that coin came from soldiers’ pay, it had best come to me so I can pay it back to them.” Derros tossed the leather bag through the firelight and Sharnek caught it deftly. He grinned evilly and gestured to a nearby vehicle. “The supply wagon is at your disposal. We shall allow the slave her dignity—for one night, at least.”

Among the jeering, laughing throng of warriors, Derros stalked to the slave, took her by the arm and hustled her to the wagon a little way from the light, thrust her up into the bed and climbed in. Another slave ran to offer him an oil lamp and he took the ceramic cup-like creation with its steady yellow flame and set it on a crate before drawing the hides across the open end of the wagon.

The girl was crouched at the far end, breathing heavily, eyes like a startled forest creature, and her fists were clenched as if thirsting for a weapon. He recognized so much in the pride of her expression, the power of her stance, and knew she could give account of herself. Her training had been superb. He drew breath to speak but she was quicker, rising to her own defense as though it may be the last thing she did, exploding into action almost faster than the eye could follow.

Derros half-turned, blocking downward with an open hand to take her across the shin as she sought to place the ball of her foot between his thighs, and her flick-jab took him in the temple, opening a cut at his eyebrow before he could block, but he had her next blow timed and her small fist disappeared in his massive hand. He drew breath to speak in a strained whisper, but she pivoted and a foot rose in an arc to strike for his temple again. The smack of flesh on bone carried clearly and he lost grip on her fist for a moment, in which she planted her foot firmly to his middle and shoved him back.

Before she could find some weapon among the gear in the wagon, he raised a hand and whispered savagely, “I mean you no harm… Princess Therolynn!”

Her eyes could go no wider and she took a moment to find her voice. “How…?” she whispered.

Derros eased up, cuffing at the blood on his cheek and fighting the singing her kick had left in his ears. He tapped the side of his neck, up among his hair. “The birthmark. It’s a closely guarded secret that every female of the Blood carries the mark of Tymass.” He smiled with a spread of his hands. “And only a member of the Royal Guard would ever know that, even if it came to him from a companion.”

She uncoiled from her combat-ready tension and squinted in the faint light. Her voice was the hiss of a drawing blade. “If you betray me, all Farnor will suffer.”

“I trailed you here for other purposes,” the warrior added. He drew breath, raised his hands, palms outward, gesturing for peace, then inclined his head to the gathering outside. “Moan now and then.”

She was outraged at the suggestion but realized the deception was obliged to work for both their sakes. The fight faded from her and she nodded grudgingly. Derros leaned against the body of the wagon and set it rocking gently, contributing a few grunts as they went. “So what is that purpose?” she asked after a while.

“To spirit you out of here. Clever, pretending to be your own serving girl.”

“The apes…” Her beautiful face was a mask of the horror she had seen. “They did slaughter. My guards, my servants… I have never seen such carnage. And they carried me off. As all sign of rank and privilege was lost as they carried me through the jungle and across the river, pretence seemed safest.” She let out some loader moans. “I was on my way to Chelraam for diplomacy, none imagined a warlord would strike a royal column.”

“So the sorcerer took a flogging for nothing,” Derros mused.

“True. But I waste no tears on his sort, his dark arts served Sharnek’s ambition to hold me hostage to the wealth of Tymass.” She moaned louder in time with his rocking of the wagon. “So, warrior…”

“Derros, my princess.”

“You have a plan, I assume?”

“Not really.”

“Then let us leave while the dark commands the senses.”

“We may not get far.”

They swayed and groaned for a while, building their tempo a little before she said, “This is the temple of Azt’nyr, the ancient ape god. There is a tale which tells of a treasure within its haunted halls. My teachers instructed me to believe it true… Will you trust me?”

“This treasure…?”

“I am no great sorcerer, but even I know how Detheran controlled the apes. He reinvented what lies in Azt’nyr’s crown.”

“You could turn the apes on the bandits?”
“I’m sure of it.” She shrugged, dark eyes flashing. “We can’t hide here and pretend to play all night.”

She was correct, Sharnek may grow curious and rob them of their private space at any time. Derros had bought an hour, but whether they would enjoy it was in the lap of the gods.

Their eyes met for a difficult moment and with a final massive shake of the wagon and chorus of groans, they subsided. Derros grinned and slackened his sword in its sheath at his shoulder. “Blow out the lamp,” he murmured.

 

#

 

The moons were far over to the west when Derros and Therolynn dropped silently to the grass and crawled through the long, flickering black shadow of the wagon. The flames destroyed the night vision of those who sat close, and only a handful of guards stood out on the perimeter, their backs to the light, leaning tiredly on spears. When the voices of the camp were a soft murmur in their ears, the fugitives paused, the princess pointing to a strange scene in the soft ring-light.

The sorcerer’s body had been dumped out in the dark, and around it had gathered three of the silver apes. The giants, three, four times taller than a man, sat about the prostrate form, grumbling softly to one another, and one stirred the body with a massive forefinger, eliciting a groan of misery. They started back momentarily, then drew close to sniff the iron-salt odor of blood. The apes growled mistrustingly, but the largest took up the fallen mage with astounding gentleness and bore him softly into the shadows … to his death or recovery none might guess.

The nearest guard’s attention was on the apes and stayed fixed as they ambled slowly on their way, and Derros and Therolynn were past him in the long grass before he looked again to his fore. The temple rose above them into the stars, its elegant towers silhouetted against the glow of the rings, darkening now as the shadow of Malovar swept across the glistening, icy planes in the sky.

“Hurry, we must have ring-light,” the princess whispered, and they rose into a shambling run, trusting to distance to keep them from sight. Their deception would win them a few minutes yet, but soon the wagon would be inspected. They made their way up the shallow slope to the concourses of steps, where great statues of apes guarded the way, and the must and dust of ages clung to the stonework. Creepers adorned with fantastic blossoms had overgrown the pillars and arches, and night-birds sang from the shattered roofs. Far above, a mighty silver form sat placidly upon an open ledge and unseen eyes watched the intruders.

Within, ring-light and the glow of the moons shafted through open colonnades and the thousand broken stones above, glimmering on jungle growth that forced between the paving. A shaft of milky radiance fell full upon the towering statue of Azt’nyr at the far end, where the tallest stupa stood open to the heavens. Together the fugitives ran for the imposing outline of the ape god where he sat upon a dais, a colossus of carven laterite, and began to ascend in the pale wash of the rings.

They were halfway up the network of eroding blocks when a great cry went up from the camp and the ululation of warriors whirling their blades foretold carnage to come. “I hope your teachers were right,” grunted Derros as he struggled over a shoulder and dropped a hand to heave the princess up and thrust her on above toward the stylized crown at the god’s brow.

A grumbling in the dark brought their eyes around, provoking a thrill of horror in them. Azt’nyr may receive devotions no longer, but they trespassed in his shrine, and the mighty silver form advancing through the body of the temple, knuckle-walking softly on great thews, reminded them what happened to those who desecrated the shrines of deity. They could not stop, the oncoming cries of the warriors told them death was near in more ways than one, but when the ape let out a thunderous roar they felt the temple shiver to its foundations.

No matter, the bravest of Sharnek’s brigands broached the line of columns and flung themselves upon the flanks of the towering idol, climbing with fevered haste,  and the warrior drew his sword in a whisper of steel, braced on the statue’s shoulder to do battle. “Hurry!” he hissed as Therloynn found her footing and scrambled ever higher. In another moment combat was joined and he swung with the sword in his left fist, right snagging a hand-hold on the raw stone. Sparks flashed in the gloom and the bell-like chime of steel rang under the remnants of the stupa’s dome, as first one, then another swordsman challenged him for his perch.

 

 

Below, the giant ape watched with narrowed eyes, snarling, excited, thumping the flagstones in its consternation to see battle in this sacrosanct place, and when Derros pitched one attacker headlong into space, the ape howled its glee, grabbing the body and hurling it into the darkest corner.

On the shoulder of the god, Derros fought like a man possessed, eyes wild, thews corded with effort, beating down upon the blade probing from below for thigh and belly, and when he gave back to recover his balance, the bandit was over onto his perch in a heartbeat. Now they fought toe to toe, no room for error, and blind instinct sent Derros’s blade in a wheeling uppercut that split the bandit from belly to chin and sent him plummeting to the unforgiving stones.

At the open colonnades appeared, one after another, the silhouettes of the giants, and outside, the oncoming line of warriors, bearing torches and blades, faltered. Derros glanced up and he and the princess eyed each other with a sense of having burned all bridges, before Therolynn scrambled up the last courses of stone to the crown.

“It is here!” she gasped. “A casket of glass, as the legends told, charged with the magic of the rings through tens of thousands of nights!” She leaned over the headpiece’s tines. “Throw me your knife!” He sent it up to her and she knelt at the very crown of Azt’nyr as, one by one, the great creatures filled the temple. The stench of the vast bodies was strong, and all Derros saw was death on their glistening fangs, even should the warriors now peering silently from behind the beasts not do for them. He had not imagined this as the outcome of his rescue bid.

When the princess smashed the glass with a blow of the knife hilt the apes roared and pounded the flagstones, the stink of their breath washing up the statue. Derros knew his blade was worthless against those giants, and regretted ever following their trail. First one, then another, came closer, titanic arms reaching up the image of their ancient namesake as if in supplication, and the warriors of Sharnek chanted softly, afraid to break the spell but willing vengeance nonetheless.

The first notes from above were like crystal, like silk, the sweetness of the ring-light made tangible, and Derros looked up. Outlined against the celestial glow, the princess stood proud and calm above the old god’s brow, and held at her lips a flute… The notes drifted into the blue night gloom and reverberated in the temple, a blanket of peace descending as if divinity stroked each fraught mind and heart; and the silver apes fell back upon their haunches, their snarls quieting to murmurs and grumbles, and the regular breathing of huge chests.

The spell was mesmeric, soon a half dozen apes squatted below the statue, calm as disciples at the knee of their sage, and the magical music floated in the dark like the exotic perfumes of the great blossoms. But the moment could not last forever, and Derros raised his sword as he spoke, his voice washing out through the echoing gloom as a base-note beneath the melody.

“Warriors of grim Sharnek, listen to me. As surely as Detheran commanded the apes, so shall the sorceress who stands above us all. Now they are at peace. Pray not that she play a different tune!” The bandits and cut-throats down in the sky-glow muttered and shuffled, and many made hand-signs to ward evil, some kissed amulets and whispered prayers to their own grim gods, and Derros pressed on. “Go! Run for the jungle, leave Farnor behind, and look not back lest death await you in the terrible jaws you raised by black sorcery! Go! Go!”

A babble broke among the brigands and they fell back, superstition overcoming their fear of Sharnek, and, though orders and threats were bawled out in the night, nothing could induce them to return.

 

#

 

Daylight found the hillock deserted, the camp abandoned, and the great apes lolled at peace in the shade of the jungle. Of Detheran there was no sign, nor of Sharnek, when warrior and princess emerged from the ruins.

Derros snagged a cloak from a warrior’s kitbag and the darkly beautiful woman swirled it on with thanks. “It is a long way to Tymass,” she murmured. “Best to be away.”

“A dangerous road,” Derros finished. “I will see you home, my princess.”

“And we shall speak of how a member of the highest guard in the land can preserve his loyalty even when wronged.” She smiled, and hefted the flute, now wrapped in a scrap of silk. “Truly this has great power, and we must learn it. Such magic must not be at the beck of every warlord who covets a throne.”

Derros stopped, eyed her with a difficult squint. “Do you truly know the dark arts, my princess?”

Her smile was sunshine and washed away his doubts. “No, loyal Derros. They are the arts of the light. A gulf echoes between them, and they are equally strong, but proceed from different intent.”

She slipped the flute into the girdle at her waist and hefted a hood against the early sun, and the pair strode together into the morning mist, on the long journey back to glorious Tymass.

 

THE END

________________________________________

Mike Adamson holds a Doctoral degree from Flinders University of South Australia. After early aspirations in art and writing, Mike secured qualifications in both marine biology and archaeology. Mike has been a university educator since 2006, has worked in the replication of convincing ancient fossils, is a passionate photographer, master-level hobbyist, and journalist for international magazines. Short fiction sales include to Metastellar, The Strand, Little Blue Marble, Abyss and Apex, Daily Science Fiction, Compelling Science Fiction and Nature Futures. Mike has placed over 180 stories to date, totaling nearly 900, 000 words in print. Mike is currently preparing his first Sherlock Holmes novel with Belanger Books, and will be appearing in translation in European magazines. You can catch up with his journey at his blog ‘The View From the Keyboard“.

 

Miguel Santos is a freelance illustrator and maker of Comics living in Portugal.  His artwork has appeared in numerous issues of Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, as well as in the Heroic Fantasy Quarterly Best-of Volume 2.  More of his work can be seen at his online portfolio and his instagram.