Harley J. Sims

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

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.
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 ©2018

from Chapter 1 - The Innocents   

     It is said that should a people wither toward selfdom—should they know the world and turn away knowing, closing border and mind, to make a world only of their own—that after a time, he will come to unmake it. Some tales say he comes from the sky, others from the sea, still others from the igneous blood of the world which remains untouched during the cycling of Ages. In his wake, however, he leaves not a trace of those he consumes. He is effiat; the ontoclast; the nothingmaker. He does not simply eat. He uncreates. Their breaths he unbreathes. Their words he unsays. Their bodies he unbegets.

     "Whomsoever he takes he tears from the Weave, leaving not their absence nor their void, but their entropy, the very gaping need of them, ragged in the itness, which can never again be fulfilled. And thus do the brokers of souls repossess what they consigned, not through extortion or murder, but through the annulment of genesis.”


     Despite the horrors he breathed, Shard looked tenderly upon the faces of his companions, like a man who has scared his children only in the hope their fear might one day save them. None of them said a word, but returned his look pleadingly, begging him go on to the part of the story where all is made well again.

      But Shard would not lie.