Harley J. Sims

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"Milton meets Tolkien [...] with a touch of Deadpool humour."

My illustrated fantasy epic the Unsung. is now available at Amazon (worldwide) and Chapters-Indigo (Canada). 

Chapter VIII
The Day and the Knight

Melgard was weaponless, but no part of him seemed unarmed. Those few on the avenfeld who saw the face of the troll saw its will balking, the dripping of its nose drumming atop the tension. Things might have soothed themselves, but for the hounding of the troll’s henchmates, who with their unseen numbers had busied the companions of the wounded man, and sent three of their own bursting from the thicket of onlookers to howl and bait their fighter back to bloodlust. They were not trolls themselves, these men, but wargish knaves all of them. If they saw the touchwood smoking between Melgard and their own fighter, they showed nothing but a wish to blow on it. They called their man spitted meat, that he liked it from both ends. Their swords they waved about them, limbering up their own arms even as they goaded their swordless friend to slaughter.

     “Hie ya from my path,” the troll said to the knight.

     “No. This was not a fair contest.”

     “Yawr seekin fair fights, yawr in the wrong trade.”
    “This is not a battlefield. Not yet.” 

     “I’ll crack ya. Old man. Them nicey weeds. Yaw’re all the mince under that.”

     The troll’s voice tortured speech. Its words were like finery bubbling to the surface of a pot into which civilized men had been thrown fully clothed.
from the back cover:

This is Norráma. 

It is now the Age of Life. 

Everything that breathes has a soul. 

Man is but one of the World’s children. 

Knaks is a kingdom of Men. Its King is descended from Woden Himself. He will not share the land his ancestors have housebroken. 

But the World is older than this one Age. Forgotten horrors writhe beneath its newborn skin. 
Gloryseekers, desperate for renown, prod every boil they can find. And what bursts forth, not all of it can be stopped.

A self-taught swordsman from the downfallen north. 

A great tuskcat, his steed and soul-brother. 

A demoniacal warrior-wizard wielding powers he does not understand. 

A thuggish priest of a backbench earthGod. 

A man of nine bloods, whose genetic roulette has made him a superman. 

What they awaken overflows the scales of Good and Evil, and threatens to drown the very world they sought to champion.

A masterwork of worldcraft; a tribute to its genre; a work of fantasy decades in the making. The Unsung explores the edge between boldness and blindness, pitting indomitable hope against devastating loss, and asking what it is to live by the words 

"If you’re not remembered, you never existed."

Copyright ©2019
There is a lot of epic fantasy out there. 
More than any other, it's the genre that turns readers (and gamers) into writers. 

We imagine a better place; we want to bring people there. 

Language provides the timber, and we build a bridge.

Then what makes the Unsung. different?

I suppose I should be careful.

Borges wrote that  'God must not engage in theology
The writer must not destroy by human reasonings the faith that art requires of us'.

But Zadie Smith also said that "writing is the exact opposite of therapy'
and I can work with that one better.

the Unsung is literary fantasy.
This is a fact, not a boast.
If you don't love the wild magic of words themselves - 
if you see them as labels
and not as rocks kept ever damp and slippery by the rivers of meaning they cross,
then keep moving.

In the Unsung., the familiar is not a path, but a threshold.
The more steps you take, the less familiar it will become.

I promise
by the end, 
you will not know 
where you are.

Withstand Oblivion.