With The Fifth Sorceress and The Gates of Dawn, the two previous volumes of the masterful epic The Chronicles of Blood and Stone, Robert Newcomb surged to the forefront of fantasy, proving himself the peer of Goodkind, Jordan, and Martin. Now, in The Scrolls of the Ancients, he takes his spellbinding saga of magic and adventure to harrowing new heights as Prince Tristan and his twin sister, Shailiha, face an ancient evil that threatens to bring death-or a corruption worse than death-to all that lives. . . . THE SCROLLS OF THE ANCIENTSVolume III of The Chronicles of Blood and StoneTristan and Shailiha are the Chosen Ones, prophesied to unite the opposing magics of the dark Vagaries and the benevolent Vigors. With the destruction of the Gates of Dawn, it seems that the wounded kingdom of Eutracia will at last have the chance to heal-and the Chosen Ones, under the tutelage of wizards Wigg and Faegan, can fulfill their rightful destiny.
Showing 1-2 of the 2 most recent reviews
1 . It was good
Posted March 31, 2010 by The Reading Nurse , Pleasanton, CAI really enjoyed the 1st 2 books in this series. This book was exciting for the most part, but for me, it fell flat at the end. It still makes you wonder about what's going to happen next!
2 . Excellent story
Posted January 08, 2010 by blugreen , washington, dcI was worried that the author might lose his momentum, but was not disappointed at all. Another great book! Buying the next one.
December 31, 2003
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Excerpt from The Scrolls of the Ancients by Robert Newcomb
And a great calamity shall befall the nation after the second earthly death of the Chosen male's seed, for the endowed and the unendowed alike of the already beleaguered land shall find themselves in chains, with little hope of return.
"page 553, Chapter One of the Prophecies of the Tome
Whump! . . . whump! . . . whump! . . . The two massive sledges came down on the large, simple block of wood in perfect unison, one after the other, monotonously marking out the beat. Its cadence rarely varied. A sledge in each hand, the awful, barely human creature continued to bang out the mind-numbing rhythm as the filthy slaves seated in rows before him toiled endlessly.
Whump! . . . whump! . . . whump! . . .
Built for war, maneuverability, and speed, the ship was unusually large. Christened the Defiant, she carried four full masts and a hundred oars. The cramped oaring stations lay one deck down, and smelled of sweat, urine, and slow death.
Fifty such rows stretched down the dark interior of the hull, a single, wide walkway separating them into two equal halves. Six male slaves toiled in each of the divided rows, making six hundred of them on this deck alone. They had few breaks. They were forced to row whenever the wind was directly behind them, or the ship was in the doldrums, or simply, it seemed, when impatience overcame their new taskmasters. And even when they were allowed a few moments of rest, they remained chained in place, unable to stretch their muscles to rest their weary backs.
The slaves wore nothing but soiled loincloths. Their callused, bleeding hands were chained together and their feet were in shackles, communally chained to the deck. Escape was impossible. Even if one or more of them somehow freed themselves of their bonds, there would be nowhere to go except overboard, to drown in the icy waters of the Sea of Whispers.
They had been at sea for fifteen days. Legend had it that no ship had ever sailed farther than that-ships that tried never returned home.