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The Heart of Tarkon by S.C. Meakin

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Genre/Category: Fantasy Books
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The Heart of Tarkon by S.C. Meakin
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Ebook Synopsis

Unaware of dynamic influences working on subtle levels, Hanor's awakening to latent powers inside him leads to the discovery of energy centres of a mystical order - incredible forces that are as mystifying as they are intriguing. Embarking on an epic journey, his greatest challenge is not surviving the countless monsters and life-threatening situations, but the discovery that Beings of planetary proportions exist - Great Makers who are the Initiators of Life on every World. A humbling experience, but he is yet to face the greatest evil of them all at The Centre Vale - the Planetary Dweller.

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Emerging from the depths of Space, the Great Maker kept searching for a World devoid of life. A Planetary Being of immense size and power, the Maker  is a creator of  life, and its Keeper. Directing forces of the one Universal Spirit, its plans are far beyond mortal understanding. Initiating life on countless Worlds, but the next one was to be the most testing ofall.

The red desolate Planet rotates dimly before it. Forging Mind  with  Matter,  the Maker fires a white beam of power at the dusty surface. Another follows as rocks turn to lava, sending aftershocks rippling across the barren terrain. Five strikes of  dynamic energy inflame the once deserted World.

Surrounding the glowing Sphere, the Great Maker embodies the hot fiery Planet within itself. Sowing the seeds of life, its Soul… infuses.

Snapping awake, daring to believe his call had finally been answered, Brandor leapt out of bed, images from the compelling dream still clear.  Picturing  the point  of white  light hovering before a throne, it was just what he had been hoping for. Lighting a lamp before scurrying over to his clothes, the same words kept repeating to ensure he did not forget. Estimating it to be a short-turn before sunrise, it did not matter, such was his  delight that things could at last start moving.

Waiting many seasons for a sign from the Sacred - those Greater Lives that govern this World, he had started to wonder if anyone was listening. As a Dai-laman, he along with the remaining members of the Hisian-set had detected terrible corruptions in the ethers over recent seasons. One of numerous natural forces underpinning life here in The Freelands, grim manipulations by their ancient adversary  now  warranted  action. Travelling extensively to muster a defence this past season, but not everyone had been persuaded. At least this new directive would enable him to try again.

Adjusting loose attire for comfort before pulling on his speckled light-grey overcoat, he made for the door and down the arcing stairs. Packing a few  essentials  for  his long  trip, he started to hum before muttering those essential words.

“A Point of Light… in the heart of a High-house  Heir.”

As simple as that, all he had to do now was find the right one.  The nearest  High- house was Manson, but its Heir was far from worthy of such an honoured blessing. Deciding the most likely place was the House of Rovot, its eldest son Hasdam a shining example of how to live, if anyone deserved the attentions of the Sacred it was him.

Not bothering to leave a message for his colleagues, knowing they would not shift from their own work anyway, such unsupportive attitudes no longer bothered him.  Viewing such an escapade as a waste of time, time that could be spent finding an answer  to dispel the coming shadow, he sighed when climbing up onto Tunder, his sturdy two- legged Kyboe.

On his own again, when the tall doors of the Sleep opened, the old man sped out into the crisp red dawn. Riding hard between wild-bush and tree, he had not  felt this hopeful  for a long time.

Tossing and turning from another unsettled sleep, the dream mocked briefly before drifting away with its unnerving story. A repeat performance of the past three nights, they were now taking their toll on Hanor. One image in particular lingered like  an ache. A   field soaked in blood, but its meaning was lost within the obscure details. Dismissing it as an over-productive imagination, he had little choice if he intended to get back to sleep. Curling into a ball under the covers, he tried shutting out the light filtering through the wooden shutters.

“Hanor…! Are you up yet?” a sudden voice yelled  from outside.

Bane, his ever-present curly-haired friend had promised to call if the weather was good. ‘Not now’ Hanor thought, snuggling deeper into the  warmth.

“The girls are going to the lake,” Bane yelled, unsurprised that Hanor was yet to appear at his window. The early morning sun was already radiating its mid-morning glory. “Hanor…!” Bane snapped again, irrelevant that his friend was the son of a High-man. Frustrated as usual by Hanor’s lack of enthusiasm before half-turn of the day, it went against everything he believed in. Blessed with bags of zeal himself, his friend was going to miss out if he did not move.

“What is the matter with you?” Hanor called down, yawning. Clambering around, he searched for his elusive clothing discarded randomly the previous evening. “What am I doing up at such a ridiculous short-turn of the day,” he grumbled, putting on a dappled rustic top along with a neat pair of grey shorts. “Do not want to look too refined,” he mused, the prospect of seeing Lara, the girl from the Cropping Village of Sorle, instilling   a sense of purpose.

His Father, High-man and ruler of Manson was tolerant of his pastimes, albeit only just. Obeying his Mother’s wishes, ensuring leniency by mixing well with the people of Manson and the surrounding areas, he knew his Father feared one day he might run off with a  young maiden unsuitable for the House of Manson. Not that the idea was a bad  one. After all, there were only three that had caught his eye since the last double moon. Wetting down his silky black hair, with a quick gurgle and rinse of mint-salt to guarantee the freshest of smiles, his lifelong friend barked again from below.

“Are you coming or not?”