*Gold Award-Winner in The Coffee Pot Book Club Book of the Year Awards 2024 in the Alternative Historical Fiction / Historical Fantasy Category*
Oaths of Blood
The Oaths of Blood Saga, Book #1
by Logan D. Irons
Publisher: Aethon Books
Pages: 392
Genre: Historical Fantasy
Oaths of Blood is an action-packed grimdark historical fantasy set during the Crusades, in the vein of Joe Abercrombie, Bernard Cornwell, and John Gwynne.
In 1099, the armies of Christendom march for Jerusalem. Mercenary captain Robert Cutnose finds himself in the belly of a siege tower waiting to storm the walls in a desperate attempt to take the city.
But what they find inside the city is far more terrifying than the arrows and spears that fly their way...
After a savage attack by the moonlight, Cutnose’s lifeblood leaks from his veins, and he is thrust into an immortal war between the Order and their prey they simply call the Hunted. Each desires to own a relic with power far greater than he could ever imagine. With the aid of a secretive party of warriors, he must track down the man who ripped out his throat in the blink of an eye, for if he does not, his future as a human will be short.
As he crawls deeper into the shadows, it is clear, only oaths made in blood survive.
A war-filled journey through the crusades and into the depths of the ancient Noctis Bellum. Filled with legendary characters both barbaric and gray, driven by valor and treachery alike!
As the day breathed its last, so did the inhabitants of Jerusalem. The smoky tendrils of slaughter carried on into the waning light. The crusaders had bled both Jerusalem and the heavens of all its life blood leaving only a pallid pink sky in its wake.
The screams continued to erupt in the chaos that had swallowed the city, both poignant and jarring, as the waking of an ancient man. The people’s cries were ones with which Cutnose was familiar, the distinct pitch of a pig squealing or the screeching of a wounded calf, all blending into a single hellish choir. The gut-wrenching tumult were accompanied by the shod-hooves and boots echoing over stone streets from outside the enclosure of the Temple Mount.
Opposite the dying city, the inner courtyard of the Temple Mount was almost peaceful, if one could ignore the raping and pillaging raging outside its walls. Cutnose had posted men atop the gate as lookouts, for every crusader had seen the golden dome and wondered how many riches he could pry from its walls.
William the archer pointed out a growing inferno in the Jewish part of the city and Cutnose joined him to watch. Fire leapt around the edges of the giant building zealously reaching for the roof. “Buildings like that burn hard on their own,” Cutnose said.
“Aye.”
Cutnose turned to peer at the golden dome. “We may be next. Keep your eyes sharp.”
“I will, captain.”
Cutnose left the archer to his watch.
He found Pagan and Roger laying on their bellies across the stones of a cistern, cupping their hands and slurping crisp water from the fountains. Cutnose knelt to wash off his face and scrub his hands then proceeded to clean the blade of his axe.
He dipped the axe blade beneath the surface and used a calloused finger to scrub. Left for too long, blood and gore corroded the metal, weakening its edge over time until it broke under pressure. Rubbing a finger along the blade, he noticed an uneven chip. He’d need to see a blacksmith when this was through and have him sharpen the gouge out. He secured the axe back on his belt.
He rolled his shoulders out, wishing to be free of his mail coat, but any veteran knew that residing in a captured city presented a whole other set of dangers than the assault itself. A sharp whistle came from across the courtyard. Every man turned toward William crouching on the wall. Cutnose wiped his hands on his soiled reddish cloak, stolen from an Eastern Roman soldier long ago. He stood to get a better view of the archer.
William knelt along with Peter, spying between the embrasures. William signaled to Cutnose opening and closing his fist spreading his fingers five times. Twenty-five against his twelve. He growled; Tancred should have left more men. He eyed the Temple of God with its gold roof and blue sides. It bequeathed utter and total commanding opulence. It was only a matter of time before more men wanted a piece of the heavenly riches for their own.
Cutnose gave no orders to Ralph, his second was already on the move. Both men understood what was at stake. It was the tightness of two warriors who had fought together for over a decade. There was a trust between them. A shared knowledge that one could be relied upon in life and death.
Ralph pointed at each man, his scale armor dully glinting in the dying light. The men hustled upright from where they rested, ignoring the exhaustion of campaign, donning helms, hefting weapons, and banding together into a cohesive unit.
Shields kissed as they interlocked close to one another. The men brandished their weapons ready to do the devil’s work. Roger centered the line and Ralph took his place upon the other side. The best warriors would anchor either side, more likely to withstand a flanking attack. They kept the men situated and presented an organized mass of soldiers.
William and Peter ducked along the wall moving into an angled position to shoot down at the enemies’ flanks, and to a degree that would avoid hitting one of their brothers if the shot went wide or high. They looked to Cutnose waiting for a signal, arrows nocked, bows half drawn.
If he could stop Christian blood from being spilt, he would, especially with poor numbers. In the same vein, he’d rather burn in Hell than let these men pass through without a fight. Any man who stood in the way of a payout was a dead man.
It was not long before a band of crusaders drenched in blood from helm to boot approached the walls as demons crawled from Hell itself. The rival crusaders skulked into the courtyard one by one through the gate. Without as much as a word, they quickly noted the men barring their path and formed a rival wall of man, metal, leather, and brawn. Spears dipped forward, their line bristling like a hedgehog.
Cutnose peered at Ralph. The old warrior’s eyes hardened. Their opponents were experienced soldiers. Then there were the spears, almost every enemy soldier carried one, giving them an extended reach, which would cause his numerically inferior company an issue. If it came to a fight, things would turn ugly fast.
The two groups stared at one another. Neither approaching the other. A man forced his way from the back, shouldering through his men. His frame was broad and thick with muscle and a bushy black beard ran down the front of his lamellar scale armor. Each scale was metal including rounded pads that were tied over the shoulders to allow flexibility and protection. He held a long axe with a bearded blade. He sneered at them.
Logan D. Irons
Logan is the author of the grimdark historical fantasy The Oaths of Blood Saga.
A lifelong traveler, he has visited over 50 countries for both for work and for pleasure. Lifted in Arnold’s childhood gym in Austria, asked his wife to marry him in an abandoned castle in Ireland, bartered for jewelry in a Kuwaiti souk, drank beers and sang quite poorly German songs at Oktoberfest in Munich, and burned a Viking ship during Hogmanay in Edinburgh.
Fantasy, historical fiction, and history novels dominate his library. In particular, the works of George R.R. Martin, Steven Pressfield, Bernard Cornwell, and Robert Jordan inspire his work. He currently resides in Virginia, a place with enough history to keep him busy until the end of time, with his wife, son, and a dog named Ronin the Barbarian.
If he has free time, which is rare, he throws axes (usually at targets), is physically active, and loves taking his family on adventures.
And he’s convinced his nieces he’s a werewolf…
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