Saturday, July 14, 2018

Hell Bound

In hell, none of the condemned believes they deserve to be there. And that’s fine, so long as they’re not foolish enough to try and do anything about it. For those that do, there’s always Satan’s Reaper–and chief bounty hunter–Daemon Grim. Feared throughout the many layers of the underverse, no one in their right mind dares to cross him.

However, when Grim discovers that someone has attempted to evade injustice, and seems hell-bent on gaining access to ancient angelic artifacts, proscribed since the time of the original rebellion in heaven, circumstances point to the fact they may be doing just that.

The question is...why?

Thus begins an investigation that leads Grim throughout the many contradictory and baffling levels of the underworld, where he unearths a conspiracy that is not only eating its way like a cancer through the highest echelons of Hellion society, but one which threatens the very stability of Satan’s rule.

How does Daemon Grim Respond?

Rest assured. It’ll be bloody, brutal, and despicably wicked.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Hell Hounds
"Black Gate Fantasy" Review

I'm sure fans of Daemon Grim and his slavering pack of Hell Hounds would love to see what one of the most widely read fantasy magazines in the world have to say about the Reaper's latest adventure?

Well, now you can...

My favorite byline?
"Weston delivers on this one with all the power of a brimstone-fueled pitchfork!"

And remember, if you want to find out what Black Gate thought about the very first full length novel featuring Satan's top bounty hunter,  Hell Bound, you can find out . . . 

Like what you see?
Then you know what to do...

The links are in the side bar.

Why not stop by one of the most critically acclaimed fantasy sites in existence and see what else might take your fancy? There's something there for everyone.

Friday, December 15, 2017

Hell Hounds – Meet the Pack
(Part IV)

I hope fans of Daemon Grim have been enjoying his latest adventure in the action packed sequel to Hell Bound - Hell Hounds.

It’s been fun helping you understand what makes his personal band of bounty hunters tick. And this week is no different. Although we’ve come to the end of our journey – this time around – some might say I’ve saved the best for last.


Well, our little dip samples conclude with the first ever woman to meet the physically demanding and mentally challenging standards to become a Hell Hound.

Who is she?
Say hello to the new pack puppy
Charlotte Corday
(aka – The Lady Gemini)

Marie-Anne Charlotte de Corday d’Armont – known simply as Charlotte Corday – was born in 1768 to a minor French aristocratic family. Born at the time of political unrest and patriotic zeal, she got caught up in the fervor of the Revolution and paid dearly for it when she was executed by guillotine when only twenty-four years old for the murder of Jacobin leader, Jean-Paul Marat – a person whom history calls the instigator of the radicalized course undertaken by the insurgents during the initial stages of the revolution.
(Marat was responsible for the political purge of the prisons. He believed France languished under the threat of invasion, and that those held in custody would rise up on their release and fight against the people. So he ordered them slain.
That led to a split amongst the factions, and especially those who were against such an aggressive stance.
Although a minor group, the Girondins played a leading role in the legislative assembly and promoted a more tempered course through which to engender nationalism. As such, Marat singled them out in particular.
Unfortunately for him, Charlotte sympathized with the Girondin movement, and became so concerned by Marat’s witch-hunt against his own people that she took it upon herself to visit his home on the pretext of providing valuable information regarding a supposed Girondin uprising. Once alone, she stabbed him whilst he was in the bath.
So sensationalized by politicking did her trial become that Charlotte became known as: “l’ange de l’assassinat,” – The Assassins Angel – and apt description of what was to follow following her execution by guillotine.

After arriving in hell, Charlotte went through the inevitable period of trauma and maladjustment. Like most of the condemned, she couldn’t believe her “righteous” act had resulted in damnation and an eternity of judgment. Her outrage led to a number of ill-advised run-ins with injustice. Sadly for her, she ended up pissing the wrong people off and Satan ordered the Undertaker to permanently disfigure her as an incentive to shut up and switch on.

And switch on she did. For once she resigned herself to her lot, Charlotte made the nature of her infinite punishment the subject of a whole new vocation. After changing her name to reflect the character of her deformity, she set about acquiring the expertise that would put Charlotte Corday—aka the Lady Gemini—on the map as one of the underworld’s most accomplished assassins.
So accomplished, in fact, that she drew the attention of Daemon Grim.
And the rest – as they say – is history…

How does Gemini take to her new role?

How does the rest of the pack take to her?

What augmentations is she granted on becoming the first woman to ever don the mantle,
Hell Hound?

Find out for yourselves in the novel that does what it says on the label:


Friday, November 24, 2017

Hell Hounds – Meet the Pack
(Part III)

By now, quite a few of you will have enjoyed the latest adventure to befall Daemon Grim and his pack of infernal bounty hunters – the Hell Hounds.

To increase your enjoyment in a way that helps you understand the mindset behind each main character, I’ve been giving you a little rundown on those individuals making up the Pack – as it’s unlovingly called by the denizens of hell.

This week should be fun, because I’ll introduce you to one of the basest, most disturbingly twisted, foulmouthed people who have ever lived. And that was before he wound up in hell.

Who am I talking about?

Meet Yamato Takeru’s pack partner
Champ Ferguson

Ferguson was born in Clinton County, Kentucky, on the Tennessee border, an area known as the Kentucky Highlands where people owned few slaves. The oldest of 10 children, Champ initially followed in his father’s footsteps by becoming a farmer.
Sometime in the 1850’s, Ferguson moved with his wife and family to the Calfkiller River Valley in White County, Tennessee. On the outside, he appeared to be an ordinary guy. However, there was something about him that earned a reputation for violence even before the American Civil War began.
(In 1858, he led a group of men who tied Sheriff James Read of Fentress County, Tennessee to a tree. Ferguson rode his horse in circles around the tree, hacking at Read repeatedly with a sword until he was dead. He also allegedly stabbed a man named Evans at a camp meeting, though Evans survived.)
That sadistic streak was given a new lease of life during the Civil War.
Let’s set the scene:
East Tennessee – a mostly mountainous region – was generally and, in many areas, strongly opposed to secession from the Union. The remainder of the state, which had more slaveholders, particularly in the plantation areas of West Tennessee, supported the Confederacy.
This historical division made East Tennessee a target for unofficial engagements by both sides. In addition, Confederate troops were committed to run-ins with local partisans, which took place far from the front.
From 1862, Tennessee was occupied by Union troops, which contributed greatly to tension and division. The mountainous terrain and lack of law enforcement during the war gave guerrillas and other irregular military groups significant freedom of action. Numerous incidents were recorded of guerrilla and revenge attacks, especially on the Cumberland Plateau. Families were often divided among their members. (For example, one of Champ Ferguson's brothers fought as a member of the Union's 1st Kentucky Cavalry and was killed in action).
Early in the war, Ferguson organized a guerrilla company and began attacking any civilians he believed supported the Union. And that was the problem, for many local feuds were carried out in occupied Tennessee under the guise of war.
Champ’s men cooperated with Confederate military units led by Brigadier General John Hunt Morgan and Major General Joseph Wheeler, and evidence suggests that Morgan commissioned Ferguson as a captain of partisan rangers.
Ferguson's men, however, were seldom subject to military discipline and often violated the normal rules of warfare. Following their captain’s lead, led them along a dark path and stories circulated about Ferguson's alleged sadism, including tales that he on occasion would decapitate his prisoners and make a sport of rolling their heads down hillsides.
It was said he was also willing to kill elderly, wounded and bedridden men.

At the war's end, Ferguson disbanded his unit and returned home to his farm. As soon as the Union troops learned of his return, they arrested him and took him to Nashville, where he was tried by a military court for 53 murders.
Ferguson's trial attracted national attention and soon became a major media event. One of Ferguson's main adversaries on the Union side, "Tinker Dave" Beatty, testified against him. Just as Ferguson had led a band of guerrillas against any real or suspected unionists, Beatty had led his own band of guerrillas against any real or suspected confederates. Not surprisingly each had done his best to kill the other. Ferguson acknowledged his band had killed many of the victims named and said he had killed over 100 men himself, insisting this conduct was simply part of his duty as a soldier. To no avail.
On October 10, 1865, Ferguson was found guilty and sentenced to hang. He made a statement in response to the verdict:
“I am yet and will die a Rebel … I killed a good many men, of course, but I never killed a man who I did not know was seeking my life. … I had always heard that the Federals would not take me prisoner, but would shoot me down wherever they found me. That is what made me kill more than I otherwise would have done. I repeat that I die a Rebel out and out, and my last request is that my body be removed to White County, Tennessee, and be buried in good Rebel soil.”
He was hanged on October 20, 1865, one of only two men to be tried, convicted and executed for war crimes during the Civil War. Following his wishes, Ferguson was buried in the France Cemetery north of Sparta, White County, Tennessee.

But he wasn’t allowed to rest for long. Satan had been watching events closely and had designs in mind for this cold and callous killer, especially as his tracking skills were close to that of his chief bounty hunter.
Not a day had passed before the undead Champ Ferguson was reanimated – his senses, strength and speed augmented – and set the poignant task of hunting rebels, these ones dissenters and revolutionaries against the despicable doctrines of the devil.
And he was a natural. For nobody he has ever been set upon has escaped.
(Mind you, that might also have something to do with one of the other little adaptations the Undertaker was authorized to make. You see, Champ’s favorite tidbits are the body parts of those he’s sent to apprehend) yum yum!
By the way...this is what he looks like now in armor:

And there you have it, a bluntly straight little introduction to the best tracker this side of infernity, apart from Daemon Grim himself of course.

But don’t take my word for it.

D’ya Wanna see just how brutal and crass Champ can be?
Then look no further:


Friday, November 17, 2017

Hell Hounds – Meet the Pack
(Part II)

As I mentioned previously, now that Hell Hounds has had a chance to pick up the scent of things in the world of dark fantasy, I thought it would be a good idea to introduce you to the starring cast of the book’s namesake – The Hell Hounds themselves.

Last time out we took a closer look at the pack leader – Nimrod – Daemon Grim’s closest friend and supporter for thousands of years.

Today – we’re going to find out more about one of the most fascinating warriors in history.
Meet Nimrod’s own right-hand-man
Yamato Takeru

Originally known as Prince Ōsu, Yamato was a legendary prince – and despite his heritage,  a ninjutsu master of the Yamato dynasty – and son to Emperor Keikō, who is traditionally counted as the 12th Emperor of Japan.
When alive, Ōsu had something of a violent, ruthless temperament and slew his older brother. Fearing who else he might kill among the royal family, Emperor Keikō sought to keep him at a distance and perhaps cause his downfall by sending him to the Izumo Province and then the land of Kumaso – (which today are in the eastern part of Shimane and the Kumamoto Prefecture).
However, Ōsu succeeded in defeating every enemy sent against him, in one case, cross-dressing as a maid attendant during a drinking party. One of those he defeated but left alive praised him far and wide, giving him the title Yamato Takeru, meaning The Brave of Yamato.

Regardless of his son's increasing fame, Emperor Keikō's mind was unchanged. Instead, Keikō sent Yamato Takeru to the east where people still dared to disobey the imperial court. There, Yamato met his aunt, Princess Yamato-hime, the highest priestess of Amaterasu at Ise Grand Shrine. Princess Yamatohime showed him compassion and lent him a holy sword named Ame no Murakumo no tsurugi (Kusanagi no tsurugi), which Susanoo, the brother god of Amaterasu, found in the body of the eight-headed great serpent, Yamata no Orochi.
It was while he was in the eastern lands that Yamato Takeru lost his wife Oto tachibana-hime during a storm when she sacrificed herself to soothe the anger of the sea god. Though Yamato defeated many enemies, he became embittered. As he returned home, he blasphemed a local god of Mount Ibuki, which sits on the border of Ōmi and Mino Provinces. The god cursed him with disease and he fell ill and died circa 114 C.E.
The possessions of the dead prince were gathered together along with his fabled weapon – the Sword of the Gathering Clouds of Heaven, and they can still be seen this day in Atsuta, Japan. Yamato himself was interred at Ise and his tomb is known as the Mausoleum of the White Plover. A statue of Yamato Takeru stands in Kenroku-en in Kanazawa, Ishikawa.

Of course, pilgrims will find nothing there, for Yamato was such a prolific killer that he was condemned to spend all eternity in hell.
Arriving in the underworld, this former undefeated prince wasn’t in the least bit intimidated and put his former talents to use, savagely murdering anyone who stood in his way. So prolific were his antics that they came to the attention of Lucifer himself, who subsequently tasked his Reaper to assess the ninja warrior’s suitability for a higher level of dishonorable service.
Yamato passed that assessment, and, after a visit to the Undertaker where his violent temper was molded and directed in a colder, much more focused and balanced outlet, Yamato Takeru was ordained into the Ancient Disorder of Hell Hounds where he has served with distinction for two thousand years.
Even better, his elevation unlocked within him a whole new level of ninja skills, and now, Yamato is enhanced by elemental abilities that grant him a distinctive edge in virtually every circle in existence.

And there you have it, a detailed introduction to a character who is one of Daemon Grim’s most dependable henchmen. But don’t take my word for it. See for yourselves, in:


Friday, November 10, 2017

Hell Hounds – Meet the Pack

Now that Hell Hounds has been unleashed on the world and you’ve had the chance to delve into dark and dangerous goings on in the underverse, I thought it might be a nice idea to introduce you to the cast.
Fans have already met Daemon Grim, and by now, will understand a little more about what drives him to serve as death’s ambassador in the most ruthless realm in existence.
But what about those he leads?
In particular, exactly who are the Hell Hounds that assist him in hunting down some of the underworld’s most dangerous, despicable despots? Let’s find out, shall we…
Meet the Lead Hell Hound

Nimrod was once a “biblical figure” described as a king of Shinar (Assyria/Mesopotamia), who, according to the Books of Genesis and Chronicles, was the son of Cush. That makes him the great-grandson of Noah.

You might be thinking, “Hang on, what would the great-grandson of Noah be dong in hell?”
The answer? Exactly what he does best: killing!

The only clues you get from the Bible is a references in Genesis 10: 9 & 10 that states:
“he displayed himself a mighty hunter in opposition to Jehovah. And the beginning of his kingdom came to be Babel and E’rech and Ac’cad and Cal,neh in the land of Shinar.”

Extra-biblical traditions explain things further. Nimrod’s tastes included the hunting of men, and as a builder of many cities throughout the region, he was the originator of the concept behind the Tower of Babel. Yes, he wanted a grand monument to glorify his supremacy and teach men how to challenge God himself and take revenge for the destruction wreaked upon mankind during the flood.

Look how God reacted. Genesis 11:6-9 states: After that Jehovah said: “Look! They are one people and there is one language for them all, and this is what they start to do. Why, now there is nothing that they may have a mind to do that will be unattainable for them. Come now! Let us go down and there confuse their language that they may not listen to one another.” Accordingly, Jehovah scattered them from there over all the surface of the earth, and they gradually left off building the city. That is why its name was called Ba’bel, because there their language was confused and they were scattered.

Yes, to prevent that city’s construction, God himself confounded the original language all mankind spoke at that time to prevent them from being able to communicate effectively. That’s why – when people cluck away in front of us or speak in a dialect we can’t comprehend – we sometimes say they’re “babbling on” (Babeling – on), a throwback to the time of what would have been Nimrod’s greatest accomplishment.

Condemned, Nimrod was just the kind of rebellious soul Satan needed to set a fire under the rabble infesting every level of hell. And he did just that, proving his unworthiness countless times, so that he ended up being chosen by none other than the Grim Reaper himself to be anointed into the Ancient Disorder of Hell Hounds.

Nimrod is Grim’s closest fiend and confidant, and they have worked together now for close to four thousand years due to the vagaries of the warped Sheolspace continuum binding the underverse together.

So there you go. A timely introduction to a character I’m sure you’ll get to know and love.

See what you think of the way Daemon Grim’s right-hand-man accounts of himself, in:


Thursday, October 26, 2017

Thursday Clip

From Hell Hounds
(It's like Jaws set in hell - only with more blood and teeth)

“Come then, Satan, and face us,” the First called into the night, “bring your harbingers and show us your quality . . . if you dare?”
The Seven waited.
A resounding silence was the only answer to their challenge.
Stamping forward, the First of the Seven reversed his blade and stabbed its tip into the ground. Splinters radiated away from him across the tarmac like fingers of asphalt lightning. Lengthening, they spawned a series of fissures that rent the earth in one place after another, spilling conveyances and smaller buildings alike into widening chasms. The primary archway leading onto the bridge shuddered as bricks—stressed by unexpected shearing—exploded, showering fleeing denizens in a volley of lethal shrapnel. Small craft moored along nearby havens smashed together in freak swells, and damned souls cried their last as each hungry abyss silenced their protests in a final crushing embrace.
In that brief opening gambit, more than a thousand of the unworthy perished without recourse. Burst pipes spewed water and effluent onto sidewalks already slick with rain. Snapped cables lashed out blindly, spitting sparks and flames onto those too slow or injured to care. Nodding in apparent satisfaction, the First resumed his place.
The Second now strode forward to circle his brothers. Surveying the carnage about them, he cast his refulgent gaze upon those fools in the distance who thought they were safe. His eyes crackled with energy and suddenly, fleeing wretches were encompassed within a skein of electrified intent. Spinning like marionettes, they were helpless to resist the charged commands of their puppet-master and danced and jerked, coiled and writhed, until eventually they blackened and fell, gums bared in a rictus of death.
Erra noticed the moment his second cut the strings, for scores of spent bodies flopped limply to the ground; their final expirations marked only by wisps of oily gray smoke curling idly from lips crisped to ash.
Clutching his sword to his chest, the Third of the Seven stepped back into the center of the ring. He took a deep breath and exhaled a freezing haar high into the sky. The rain was instantly transformed; each drop becoming an icy splinter of death, cruel and sharp. Shards heavy enough to puncture steel and pierce flesh hammered down onto the arrested flow of traffic. Muted cries echoed out from those still trapped in their vehicles as each was impaled, again and again, by a verglas fusillade that gave no quarter. The Third breathed once more, and those wails cut off as shocked casualties were coated in a rime that frosted their blood lilac, then blue, and finally, unsullied white.
In conclusion, the Third waved his dazzling sword in an arc through the air. Even the river succumbed to his might as a glaze of ice clenched its way from one bank of the river to the other. Without waiting for the transformation to run its course, the Third turned on his heel and nodded to the next enforcer in line.
The Fourth didn’t even bother to lower his blade. Instead, he merely pointed with one finger toward those hiding in doorways or cowering within the ruined shells of the nearest buildings. Where his hand passed, boils broke forth, covering faces and exposed skin in a sea of blisters that swelled and popped as if the flesh on which they festered were melting. People fell to their knees, gagging and retching, helpless to prevent congealing fluids drowning them from the inside out. Eventually, they weakened, only to expire in a pool of their own filth.
His work done, the Fourth smiled, lowered his weapon to the ground, and ran that same finger of destruction across the pommel of his weapon with loving care.
So great was the press of those clamoring to get free across the bridge that people were hard-pressed to make headway. Tight packed, they pushed and they shoved and they jostled—falling more often than not—only to be trampled into a bloody pulp by those in too much of a panic to care about anyone but themselves.
Spotting their dilemma, the Fifth of Seven broke into a run. As he moved, his cloak fell away, revealing a churning, tumbling matrix of flickering death. Honed and needle sharp, he tore into the milling throng like a razor-edged tornado, lopping limbs and shredding sinews left, right and center. Having cut a swath through the main body of the crush, he whirled in a haphazard fashion from side to side, spilling guts and opening throats, and putting those who still possessed legs to rout.
As abruptly as it began, the whirling dervish stopped and a glowing Titan stood forth; sword shining, knee deep in severed heads, torn torsos and the spilth of intestines.
“It is fitting,” he declared, though to whom, Erra could not discern.
Now the Sixth moved forward to face the River Tombs directly. Taking position, the enforcer thrust his blade toward the heavens. The falling torrents turned into a deluge of biblical proportions, its leaden weight flattening anything that moved and knocking breath from the lungs of victims desperate to cling to whatever measure of unlife they had left.
When it came, respite was as sudden as it was unexpected, for a squall blew in from the west that swept all signs of the storm away and out toward the sea. Even from his position high in the cloud mass, Erra could hear the cries of release from those who thought the nightmare was over.
Their relief was short-lived.
Down below, the ground began to tremble and a distant growl lifted itself above the background din of a city under siege. A dark mass appeared on the horizon, roaring closer and higher with every passing second. In less than a minute it had clarified into a foaming frothing wave-cap of malevolence. Amazingly, the towering cliff seemed content to restrict itself to the confines of the frosted Tombs. But there was a reason for that. The Sixth reached out with one hand as if inviting an embrace from a long lost friend. Then he clenched his fist and the crest broke like an avalanche, thundering down out of the night sky to smash the ice apart and scour the banks clean of any sign of life. Jetties, docks, wharfs and quays; waterside developments, walkways and ornamental gardens. Anything and everything that once identified the river’s course as part of a throbbing metropolis disappeared amid turgid currents that scourged one of Olde London Town’s greatest landmarks raw.
And still it came.
The weight of a mountain struck Black Tower Bridge square on. Ancient stones thrummed and metal girders squealed. And as the ninety-foot high wall of glacial water sped by, the one thousand ton leaves of the center span went with it, tumbling over and over in an aquatic blender that gradually pulverized the tempered steel into scrap.
Only then did the breaker begin to subside.
Taking his time, the Seventh marked those that yet remained alive and shrugged his mantle free. Heroic in form, he looked magnificent as he hefted his sword in blazing arcs that fried the air and blistered concrete. Feral glee scarred his countenance and an abrupt concentration of incendiary focus caused all those within his sight to howl in pain. Some dived for cover behind walls and ramparts. Others threw themselves into exposed sewers or the river itself. Regardless, no matter where they stood or cowered, stragglers recoiled in panic as embers kindled deep inside their bodies.
That heat grew exponentially, sparking an expanding eruption that rushed through organs and airways alike until it burst from every orifice and exploded from every extremity.
Denizens ignited, careering hither and thither like phosphorous flares until they could stand no more. Flesh seared and cracked. Ululating screams choked off. Carbonized bones crumbled and fell.
And suddenly, all was still.

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And Remember:
Hell Hounds is now available to buy