Shadeborn: A Book of Underrealm (30 page)

After blooding himself in the independent film industry, he self-published his first book in 2012 and swiftly followed it with a stream of others, publishing more than two million words by 2014. Within months he topped numerous Amazon bestseller lists. Now he spends his time writing books and directing films.

A passionate fantasy author, his most popular series is the Nightblade Epic. However, he has delved into many other genres. Some works are for adult audiences only, such as
Non Zombie
and
Hit Girls,
but he has also published popular books for younger readers, including the Realm Keepers series and
The Ninjabread Man
, co-authored with Z.C. Bolger.

Garrett lives in Los Angeles with his wife Meghan, his children Dawn, Luke, and Desmond, and his dog Chewbacca.

Garrett can be found on:

BLOG:
garrettbrobinson.com

EMAIL:
garrettbrobinson.com/be-a-rebel

TWITTER:
twitter.com/garrettrauthor

FACEBOOK:
facebook.com/garrettbrobinson

epilogue

Rogan’s boots shuffled uncertainly through the Birchwood soil, his path swaying back and forth. He tried to muster his strength. It would not do for the Shades at his back to see their commander weak and wandering. His hand went to his chest with a grimace. Still the wounds had not fully healed, where the portcullis had punched through plate, flesh, and bone all at once.

His teeth ground together. He did not fear his father’s wrath. He feared his disappointment. Rogan was the favored son. He had been told this all his life. And now he had failed the man to whom he owed everything.

“Are you disappointed, my Son?”

Rogan staggered to a halt, as did the soldiers behind him. His eyes filled with tears at the voice.

“Wait here,” he said, keeping his back turned so they could not see his face. “Do not move without my order.”

He stalked off into the woods, toward the voice. He did not have to search far before he stopped, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Father,” he whimpered. He sank to his knees, leaves crunching beneath him. “My father. Forgive me.”

“Forgive? You committed no sin, child. Stand. This was no fault of yours.”

He bowed his head. “I took the task upon myself. Tomorrow should have been a day of rejoicing. We should have sent word to all the nine lands that the High King and the Lord Prince were dead.”

“I gave you your task, Rogan. The blame lies with me, not with you.”

Rogan shook his head fervently, almost maniacally. “No,
no
, Father. You are the greatest among us. No design of yours is at fault. I am your arm, meant to carry your aims, and I am weak.”

He felt the fingers resting on the top of his head, gently stroking his hair. His tears fell harder, and he curled in upon himself at the touch.

“When Trisken fell in the Greatrocks, I was wrathful. I held him accountable, for I thought he had underestimated the girl. But now I have made the same mistake. She was the perfect messenger, but I did not think she could save the High King.”

“I should have stopped her,” whimpered Rogan. “Forgive me.”

“You are forgiven. Her victory will soon be hollow, like wine turned to ash in her throat. The High King has lost this war before it is begun. For I have found the trail of my great foe, and soon your brethren will bring him to me.”

Rogan tensed, eyes glittering, and he looked up with hope. “You have found the Lifemage?”

He was greeted only by a smile.