In Myrlyn’s Gate: Vladimir Dragol XIII had an immense task–convincing the world he was
not following in his ancestors’ bloody footprints.

Myrlyn’s Gate is a fantasy/suspense novel

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EXCERPT: Myrlyn’s Gate

Vladimir Dragol XIII had an immense task–convincing the world he was

not following in his ancestors’ bloody footprints.

When the chance to prove himself came in the form of an attractive princess on a quest to save world, how could he refuse? There was a slight problem–the

princess loathed the Dragol line.

There was also the dilemma that others alluded to in the quest

prophecy–a dragon trainee and wizard’s apprentice–wanted nothing to do with the task.

Through Myrlyn’s Gate was another foretold member of the quest

who had no idea what was in store for him, including a midnight raid on the

Dickeyville Grotto in the strange land of Wisconsin.

Together the quest mates would battle rogue dragons, a demented king¹s army and bikers at a bar in Bear River, Iowa.

EXCERPT

Garin hesitated, dazed by the fierce headache. It was time to silence the bell. He didn’t feel strong enough for the deed, but there was no other choice. He reached out and picked up the receiver.

“What?”

“Mr. Garin Hemphill?”

“Yeah.”

“Good morning. I’m calling about our new triple-paned aluminum storm windows now on sale…”

Garin had predicted the night before that it was going to be an ugly morning, the kind that made dying in one’s sleep an attractive option. The suspicion first reared its ugly head at two a.m. when a blurry-eyed Garin first noticed the army of dead beer cans littering the war zone of the kitchen floor. A few of the casualties had even made it to the living room before giving up the spirit.

Luck was certainly not on Garin’s side. He had hoped to sleep through the morning and most of his hangover.

“I don’t need new windows. The ones I have are perfectly good.”

“But sir, you haven’t seen our deluxe, triple-paned, easy access windows guaranteed for the life of you or your house, whichever goes first. What’s your heating bill?”

“What?”

“Your heating bill. Our windows can slash your heating bills in half.”

Garin stretched the phone line and slumped into a kitchen chair. He winced at the bright morning light streaming in through the rippled glass of the old windows.

“My heating bill is fine. I don’t need new windows.”

“What color is your house?”

“What?”

“What color is your house? We also have a full line of enamel coated window frames that can be matched to any house color.”

Garin guessed the telephone call must be some kind of penance. What other reason could there be for this torture?

“And?”

“And what?”

“What color is your house?”

“Chartreuse.”

“What?”

“Chartreuse.”

‘You’re putting me on. Your house is yellowish-green?”

Garin rubbed his eyes and wondered if the cord would reach all the way to the medicine cabinet where the aspirins were located.

“Yes, chartreuse. Do you have some kind of problem with that?”

“No, it’s just that we don’t get many chartreuse houses. Did you pick that color?”

“What?”

“Did you pick that color?”

“As a matter of fact, no. My mother picked it fifteen years ago. Of course it’s getting a bit faded, but it is still recognizable as…”

“As…?”

“Shit.”

“Shit?”

“Shit. I just saw something fly by my window.”

“An aluminum window?”

“No, a tiny dragon.”

“What?”

“A dragon.”

“Now, is your window an …”

“I just saw a tiny dragon fly toward the barn.”

“Listen, if you don’t want to buy new windows, why don’t you just say so?”

“I have said so.”

“You want to buy new windows?”

“No, I don’t want to buy new windows. The ones I have are good enough.”

“But sir, you haven’t seen our deluxe, triple-paned easy access window guaranteed for the life of you or your house, whichever comes first. What’s your heating bill?”

“What?”

“Your heating bill. Our windows can slash your heating bills in half.”

Garin staggered across the kitchen and hung up the phone. There was some guilt involved. He’d read a recent Associated Press story about the psychological problems experienced by telemarketers. Continual rejection, much of it very rudely worded, resulted in severe trauma. The suicide rate for telephone salespeople, the story claimed, was almost as high as for people who consistently listened to country music.

He didn’t bother putting on a shirt or shoes, wearing only his jeans as he rushed out the door. He was numb to the gravel under his feet as he picked his way across the rocky and weedy farmyard. He climbed the fence of the empty cattle yard, walked past the wooden feed bunks and stopped at the barn door. This was going to be as bad as answering the phone, he worried, and stepped inside.

It was worse than answering the phone. Five people were sleeping in a pile of straw thrown down from the mow. Four looked as if they were dressed for a Robin Hood movie. The fifth was clad in the leathers of a biker, but instead of a big Harley, sprawled across most of the concrete floor was an immense black dragon.

Garin only had so much stamina and it gave out when a small wyvern darted into view and stopped only inches from his nose. They stared at each other eyeball-to-eyeball before Garin’s legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor.

ALSO BY DAN EHL

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BLURB:

As a private inquisitor, Jak Barley’s job is fairly mundane-finding errant debtors and missing property, or proving the unfaithfulness of roving spouses. It’s not a vocation that makes many friends.

Though a frequent patron of dark, wretched bars seldom visited by the more fastidious citizens of Duburoake, he still can be squeamish about some things – such as ghosts and rabid magicians.

Barley’s latest cases are just that more upsetting, dragging him into contact with sinister specters, malicious mages, irate harpies, creepy death deities and royal plots.

It will take all of his backstreets cunning to stay alive, as well as the help of alchemist Olmsted Aunderthorn, his half brother, who uses the latest metaphysical laboratory techniques in solving crimes.

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