Tag: Castalia House

AUDIO: Rocky Mountain Retribution

We’re pleased to announce that The Ames Archives Book 2, Rocky Mountain Retribution, is now available in audiobook. Narrated by Bob Allen, it is 8 hours and 40 minutes long. Book 1, Brings the Lightning, is 7 hours and 56 minutes:

Walt woke from an exhausted stupor to find Isom shaking him relentlessly. “Lewis and Sandy are headin’ back, boss. They must have seen them coming.”

He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain as he sat up. “Thanks.”

They splashed water on their faces, then made sure the spare horses were still securely picketed. When Lewis and Sandy arrived, they formed a line inside the trees on the west side of the creek, their guns ready in their hands. Walt favored his Winchester rifle and Isom his shotgun, while the other two relied on revolvers.

“What did you see?” Walt asked.

Lewis handed him his spyglass. “Thanks for lettin’ us use that, boss. There’s four of them, drivin’ our seven hosses an’ a pack horse.”

“Four? Not five?”

“We only saw four, boss.”

“I hope the other one hasn’t turned off somewhere. You sure those horses are ours?”

“No doubt about it. I recognized at least four of ’em through that spyglass. I’ve ridden most of ’em before. Will’s hoss is still carryin’ his saddle.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

They tensed as the riders and horses appeared at the top of the gentle rise, heading down to the ford. Walt said softly, “Wait until they’re all in the water. Lewis, you and I will be on this side of the road. Isom, you and Sandy cross to the other side and cover them from there. Let me do the talking. If any of them show fight or try to run, shoot them down. Remember, they killed Will, so they don’t deserve any mercy.”

“Got it.” “Sure, boss.” “Yes, suh.” The replies came in ragged unison.

“All right. Let me make the first move.”

They waited, the tension ratcheting higher as the group drew nearer. Walt patted the shoulder of his horse as it moved restlessly under him. It wasn’t scout-trained, and he didn’t want it neighing or making any other noise that might warn the men.

He watched as the four riders drove the eight horses into the water, one of them on either side of the small herd and the other two behind it. He waited until they were in the middle of the stream, their mounts splashing and stumbling over the rocky bottom, all their riders’ attention fixed on controlling them and the horses they were driving, then said sharply, “Now!”

The four thieves jerked upright in alarm as they burst out of the trees, weapons leveled. “Nobody move!” Walt barked. “If you try anything, we’ll kill you. Get your hands up! Higher, damn you!”

“What the hell is this?” growled one of the strangers as he slowly, sullenly complied.

“You know darn well what this is. You stole those horses last night.”

“Huh?” The man strove to sound convincingly nonplussed. “We didn’t steal them—we bought ’em from a freight outfit outside Colorado City.”

“Suuuure you did. I daresay you’ve got a bill of sale for them, all nice an’ legal?”

“Well… not with me, I ain’t, but I got one back in Colorado City.”

“Like hell you have! That freight outfit is mine, and you stole those horses. You killed one of my men when you took ’em, too. Sandy, Lewis, fetch our horses out of the river, then, Lewis, you hold them clear of the ford. They’re leg-weary, so I doubt they’ll run off. Sandy, soon as they’re out of the way, get back here. Isom and I will cover these bastards.”

“Yo!” “Yes, sir!”

The two teamsters led the horses away from the ford, then Sandy hurried back. “What now, boss?”

“Cover them.” Walt raised his voice. “You four, ride slowly—real slowly—out of the water and line up here in front of me. Remember, you’re under our guns, and at this distance we can’t miss. Any tricks, and you’re gonna die real fast.”

He waited until they’d obeyed, then said, “All right, get your hands high again an’ keep them there. You lower your hands for any reason and we’ll shoot. Sandy, ride around behind them, keepin’ out of the line of fire. Take their handguns from their holsters and their long guns from their saddle boots. Put them on their pack horse for now.”

“Got it.”

It didn’t take him long to disarm them. He returned from the final trip to the pack horse asking, “What next, boss?”

Walt raised his voice. “One at a time, get off your horses, then hold your hands high again. Move real slow and easy.” He pointed with his rifle barrel. “You first. Move!”

The first thief dismounted very slowly and carefully, then raised his hands once more. Walt said, “Sandy, lead his horse clear of him. Take it to join the others with Lewis.”

“Yo!” The teamster gave the standard cavalry response as he moved forward.

The next two thieves dismounted just as carefully, and stood waiting as their horses were led away. The last man, still mounted, was growing more and more agitated. As Sandy led the third horse clear, he demanded, “What are you gonna do with us? Why take our hosses? You expectin’ us to walk wherever we’re goin’?”

Walt shook his head. “I’m going to tie your hands before I do anything else. It’ll be easier to do that with you on foot.”

“Like hell! You’re gonna kill us!” The man’s voice rose in a shrill, desperate cry as he whipped the hat off his head with his left hand and thrust his right into its crown. Instantly there came a deep, deafening boom as Isom fired one barrel of his shotgun. The man rocked back in his saddle as a hole appeared in the center of his shirt, which instantly turned a deep blood-red. He gurgled in agony, slumped forward, and toppled to the ground. As he did so, a small gun fell from his right hand. His horse jumped forward, startled.

The action was over almost before it started. The other three thieves stood rigid, their faces turning even paler than before, their hands still in the air. Walt and Isom covered them while Sandy rode after the horse, led it to Lewis, and handed him its reins.

Crisis & Conceit: a review

The first review of Volume II of my collected columns:

Great read from a gifted writer

As stated in the description, this book is a collection of Vox Day’s published articles from 2006 – 2009, a time of immense changes in the political and economic landscape. This collection is historic and will make some future thesis writer extremely happy with a progression of articles that week by week chronicles the changing face of America and the World, with a lens that addresses religion, politics, soccer, NATO and, most tellingly, economic forces. There he is, in black and white, foretelling the meltdown of world markets.

It may be that his greatest strength is his well versed long view of history. He has the knowledge of the past and the flexibility to apply that learning to the issues of the present. There is a great depth of understanding of macro and micro movers across many civilizations that adds a welcome sense of gravitas to his writing.

His opinion of George W. Bush is not flattering to President Bush, but in hindsight, I believe Vox Day’s opinion is painfully accurate. A disappointed libertarian at heart, his view of the 2008 election over the course of the year is a prolonged scream against what most of us did not see coming. His disdain for John McCain as a candidate is almost as venomous as his disdain for Hillary, whom he refers to as The Lizard Queen. The articles also cover other candidates, including some things I had not heard about Obama, but were about rumors swirling around Obama that were not being covered or investigated by the media (February 25, 2007!). I was shocked to realize that the Obama cover-ups started so early.

His articles also foretell the the immigration issues that about to engulf the entire world in a few short years.

An excerpt:

Rainbow mutations
March 27, 2006

What does the shape of a Minneapolis stripper’s naked bottom have in common with a landmark of English finance? And how is it possible that the color of the roadside prostitutes in Italy can harbor any implications for the ability of a New York woman to stay home with her children? The point of commonality, as it happens, is historical patterns of migration.

In 1990, Umberto Eco wrote an article titled “Migrazioni”, which was published in L’Espresso. In that essay, he presciently noted that what Europe was undergoing at that time was not a phenomenon of immigration, but of migration. The difference is significant and one of degree—an individual can immigrate or emigrate, but only a people migrate.

Eco observed that migrations result in inexorable changes to the region of destination, changes to the normal form of dress as well as changes to the color of skin, eyes and hair. A secular humanist in good standing, he adroitly avoids committing the grand faux pas of criticizing this hybridization, fatalistically accepting the inevitability of a new Afro-European culture. For to even hint at criticism would, of course, be crude racist ethnocentrism of the first degree, and not even the reputation of one of the world’s leading intellectuals could survive accusations of that.

But what the great dottore mentions only in passing, and what the defenders of the diversity faith avoid discussing like sorority girls pretending not to hear a bulimic sister purging her caloric sins in the neighboring stall, is that changes to the political culture as well as the physical mean are likewise unavoidable. For 40 years, the people of nations such as Denmark, France, Germany, the Netherlands and the United Kingdom believed it was possible to bring Muslim immigrants into their countries in order to replace their declining workforces. They believed their governing elite’s assurances that prolonged exposure to the French or English way of life would suffice to turn these immigrants into ersatz Frenchmen or Englishmen.

What they did not realize was that their governments were not permitting immigration, but were instead inspiring a mass migration. Now, there are demands for Sharia in the land which once mobilized against a Catholic armada, the French are showing signs of wishing to revive Maurice Papon’s practice of baptizing Algerians in the Seine and even the notoriously tolerant Dutch are beginning to question the once-sacrosanct notion that all cultures are created equal.

While in the United States, Islam is still an issue of immigration, not migration, this does not mean that Americans are not facing their own migrational challenge. With the importation of 30 million immigrants of varying degrees of legality in the last 35 years, most from Spanish-speaking countries that have never known individual liberty or free markets, combined with 34 million native women listening to the siren song of feminism and putting family life on the back burner, the probability that America will be able to retain its unique political identity and the tattered remnants of its Constitution are rapidly decreasing.

For example, the vast majority of native-born Americans of African and European descent consider the notion of a supranational American Union with Canada, Mexico and various Central American countries to be unthinkable and would oppose it if they recognized it to be the natural progression from NAFTA and the FTAA. But is the same true of the growing Spanish-speaking population across the Southwest, an outspoken segment of which is already calling for closer ties with Mexico? As recent events in Afghanistan and the Palestinian Authority have demonstrated to all and sundry, democratic institutions are not capable, by themselves, of moderating ideology, religion or cultural identification.

It is unlikely that Europe can solve its demographic problems without violence—Eco seems uncharacteristically untroubled when he notes that periods of mass migrations are not known for being peaceful—but it is not necessarily too late for the United States. The answer is simple, but it will require inspired leadership that is conspicuously lacking today. If America is to remain America, sovereign, liberal and free, then her people must completely turn away from the ideologies of multiculturalism, immigrationism and feminism. If they do not—and continue on the present path—she will not be sovereign, liberal or free within four decades.

This country, like her Old World progenitors, stands on the brink of precipitate change. In embracing the rainbow, America has been engulfed in its lethally mutating rays and the resulting cancer will surely kill her if it is not removed in the near future.

Excerpt: Crisis & Conceit, 2006-2009

The following is an excerpt from my new book, Collected Columns Vol. II: Crisis & Conceit, 2006-2009. It is 630 pages and retails for $6.99.

Who’s really riding the weaker horse?
July 31, 2006

When people see a strong horse and a weak horse, by nature, they will like the strong horse.
—Osama bin Ladin

In examining the events of the past five years, it is increasingly apparent that Western leaders and commentators alike have fundamentally misconceived the relative positions of the primary parties in this third great wave of Islamic expansion. While there are nearly as many grand strategic recommendations floating around the Internet as there are editorialists, it is intriguing to note that virtually none of the Western analysts have grasped the basic reality that from the perspective from which a clash of civilizations must be considered, it is the West that is the weak horse.

The overwheening confidence which so often colors statements from men such as bin Laden and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad always rings strange in Western ears. It stands so powerfully at variance with what we know of Western wealth, technology and military advantages that it seems to be indicative of false bravado at best, at worst, clinical insanity. The fact that this sort of thing sounds exactly like Baghdad Bob’s surreal rantings only makes it that much more difficult for anyone to take it seriously.

And yet, history is rife with examples wherein a wealthy or more technogically advanced society is defeated by its lesser rival. Despite its lack of a navy, the intrepid Romans defeated Carthage on both land and sea, while the technical superiority of its machine guns, tanks, submarines, rockets and airplanes were not enough to allow the Germans to overcome the allies in World War II. The knights of Western Europe lost numerous battles and a number of wars to Mongols, Magyars, Turks and Saracens even though none of their enemies could stand before an armored cavalry charge.

Neocon ravings notwithstanding, national will, (or more accurately, cultural will), is not the issue at hand here. The majority of Americans are largely indifferent to the Bush administration’s Global Struggle Against Violent Extremism while an ovewhelming majority of the rest of the West is openly against it. But most Muslims are similarly indifferent to this third round in the great clash of civilizations too. An anecdote from William Manchester’s biography of Winston Churchill is most informative in this regard:

During the early 1950s, when this writer was living in Dehli as a foreign correspondent, social scientists began a comprehensive poll of Indian villages to determine how many natives knew British rule had ended in 1947. The survey was aborted when it was discovered that a majority didn’t know the British had even arrived.

And while it might be tempting to dismiss those Indians as ignorant illiterates, it might be illuminating to ask your neighbor if he knows the name of his congressman, his state representative or his city councilman.

Christendom has twice previously endured periods of Islamic expansion and even managed to roll back Islamic gains with the Reconquista, and, more temporarily, during the Crusades. But that was when the Christian West saw Islam as an enemy and bitterly contested it on every side. Now, a secular West no longer sees itself as a player in the great game, but as a referee, and views Islam as being merely one of the various contestants.

The unavoidable challenge is this. In the same way that atheism provides no moral basis for an individual to resist evil, secular, religious-neutral government provides no practical foundation for opposing Islamic expansion. If Congress funds no mosques, neither can it prevent them from being constructed by militant Saudi Wahhabists. If the Supreme Court requires no one to pray towards Mecca, neither does it allow the banning of immigrants on the basis of a religious adherence to jihad. The range of options accessible to the leaders of the West are formidable; they are also irrelevant.

Bin Laden’s statement about horses can perhaps be best understood thusly: Unlike its Christian predecessor, the secular West is structurally incapable of resisting an Islamic expansion due to its demographic disadvantages and philosophical weaknesses. If this is an accurate characterization, one can only conclude, unfortunately, that bin Laden’s statement is logically, historically and psychologically sound. Certainly the actions of the West’s leaders, especially those of the Bush administration, have done nothing to disprove the assertion, the establishment of a modern-day Kingdom of Acre in Iraq notwithstanding.

None of this means that Islam cannot be turned back a third time; it does, however, suggest that the concept of Western secularism is doomed to failure one way or another. Secularism does not inspire, it enervates. The spirit which led to the sapping of British spirit and the decline of the Raj has been at work in America for decades, it should surprise no one that the lion’s heir is following the mighty tracks of its predecessor.

The impotence of secularism is only the first of several realities that must be recognized if the West is to survive its third test of character. Here are some other important verities:

  • Democracy does not reduce radicalism or inhibit religion.
  • Exposure to Western culture does not eliminate radicalism. Even complete immersion in it does not guarantee its elimination.
  • Western shock and awe cannot impose permanant defeat upon an Eastern culture of retreat and regroup.
  • Technological proliferation is inevitable. This includes nuclear weapons.
  • Internal dissension, not external force, ends offensive expansion.

The West turned back the forces of an expansionary Islam twice before. Those hoping to see it turned back a third time would be wise to examine precisely how it was accomplished on the previous occasions.

IN PRINT: The Green Knight’s Squire

Gilberic Parzival Moth is a strange and lonely boy who has grown up without a father, raised by a single mother who moves from town to town in fear of something she will not name. His only friends are animals, with whom he has always been able to speak. But when he awakens one night at the Thirteenth Hour, and sees for the first time the cruel reality of the secret rule of Elf over Man, he begins to learn about his true heritage, the heritage of Twilight.


And when his mother finally tells him the terrible truth of her past, he must choose whether to continue running with her in fear, or learning how to fight against ancient powers that are ageless, soulless, and ultimately damned. THE GREEN KNIGHT’S SQUIRE, the first volume of MOTH & COBWEB, is an astonishing new series about magical worlds of Day, Night, and Twilight by John C. Wright and consists of three books:

  • Book One: Swan Knight’s Son
  • Book Two: Feast of the Elfs
  • Book Three: Swan Knight’s Sword

John C. Wright is one of the living grandmasters of science fiction and the author of THE GOLDEN AGE, AWAKE IN THE NIGHT LAND, and IRON CHAMBER OF MEMORY, to name just three of his exceptional books. He has been nominated for the Nebula Award, for the Hugo Award, and his novel SOMEWHITHER won the 2016 Dragon Award for Best Science Fiction Novel at Dragoncon.

But Malwyn has been driving the production elves hard, which is why we’re also pleased to announce a new ebook as well, namely, the second volume of my collected columns, which is entitled CRISIS & CONCEIT, 2006-2009.

Three-time nationally syndicated columnist Vox Day has been one of the most astute observers of the American political scene since the turn of the century. Known for successfully predicting the financial crisis of 2008 as well as the election of U.S. President Donald Trump in 2016, the iconoclastic writer’s work appeared regularly around the country in newspapers such as the Atlanta Journal/Constitution, the Boston Globe, the San Jose Mercury News, and the St. Paul Pioneer Press.


Beginning in 2001, Vox Day wrote more than 500 columns for WorldNetDaily and Universal Press Syndicate. CRISIS & CONCEIT, 2006-2009 is a collection of the columns published between the years 2006 and 2009, and addresses a wide variety of subjects, from economics and the financial crisis of 2008 to atheism and the history of war.



It is available at the Castalia House bookstore as well as from Amazon.

NOW IN PRINT: Rocky Mountain Retribution

In the post-Civil War West, the railroads are expanding, the big money men are moving in, and the politicians they are buying make it difficult for a man to stand alone on his own. So, Walt Ames moves his wife, his home and his business from Denver to Pueblo. The railroads are bringing new opportunities to Colorado Territory, and he’s going to take full advantage of them.

Ambushed on their way south, Walt and his men uncover a web of corruption and crime to rival anything in the big city. And rough justice, Western-style, sparks a private war between Walt and some of the most dangerous killers he’s ever encountered, a deadly war in which neither friends nor family are spared. Across the mountains and valleys of the southern Rocky Mountains, Walt and his men hunt for the ruthless man at the center of the web. Retribution won’t be long delayed… and it cannot be denied.

ROCKY MOUNTAIN RETRIBUTION is the second book in The Ames Archives, the Classic Western series that began with BRINGS THE LIGHTNING. Author Peter Grant is a military veteran, a retired pastor, and the author of The Maxwell Saga and The Laredo Trilogy. Now in paperback for $12.99.

From the reviews:

  • Great reading even if you don’t regularly read Westerns…. As with Brings the Lightning, the technical details of rugged living, especially regarding firearms, make the novel that much more immersive. Don’t give this one a miss!
  • The second western by Peter Grant, it’s IMHO better than the first. I haven’t read many westerns since Louis L’Amour passed on, and none that were worth my time until these came along.
  • A nice continuation of a great western saga. Mr. Grant does his research and it shows in his writing. love the storyline, character development and action scenes.
  • This is the second of Peter Grant’s western series “The Ames Archives” and it’s fantastic. I never thought I’d like westerns, but this is a great book on grit and frontier justice. Grant takes pains to accurately portray life in that era using many real locations and historical events as backdrops to the story.
  • Grant has crafted another excellent throwback to the golden era of western novels. But it’s more than a throwback, really. The two books so far in his Walt Ames series really stand on their own as a solid reads, any way you want to measure them today. What really stands out at the forefront of this novel (and its predecessor) is how well researched it is. Grant took painstaking measures to make sure that all of the details, from the geography to the firearms, are completely accurate for the era. And the amount of detail provided is excellent. He doesn’t overwhelm us with historical details or exposition that overly explains things, but there’s plenty of detail to bring the world to life.

Over the target

Castalia House author Ivan Throne is catching major flak from antifa as a result of his effective efforts against them. He’s not exactly what one would call upset about it.

If you want to support Ivan in his ongoing war against antifa, I strongly recommend buying his book, THE NINE LAWS. Because we’re not going to win the cultural war for Western civilization by playing defense.

Excerpt: CITY BEYOND TIME

CITY BEYOND TIME: Tales of the Fall of Metachronopolis by John C. Wright. Now in paperback.

Smiling down into her eyes, he said, “I have something wonderful to show you, my dear, my love. Come along.”

He put his long, buff-colored coat around her shoulders. “But it’s not cold today.”

“Not today,” he said, and he took her by the hand and led her up the hill.

At first they passed the trees which lined the stream, and when they came among the trees, autumn colors were blooming among the leaves. And with their next few steps, they trod upon a multi-colored carpet of fallen leaves, and bare branches overhead swayed in wintry winds.

When they reached the gardens, he picked her up, so that her slim white shoes would not be wetted by the snow. The fountains were clogged with ice, the marble goddesses and heroes were pale with frost, and the dry grape arbors had icicles depending from the lattice work. She shivered against his chest.

He put her down once they had circled the main house, and little shoots of spring grass were shooting up amidst the profuse beds and congregations of Maytime flowers.

By the time they approached the main door, the grass was green and long, the sun was hot, and the elms and oaks had gone from buds to thick and verdant summer leaves.

A double row of oaks lined the drive leading to the main doors of Ophion House. Lelantos gently pushed Catherine into hiding behind a tree, and pressed close behind her, his arms to either side of her, supporting her. She was nearly fainting, and stood grasping the tree for support, staring at the house.

She saw that his Roadster stood idling in the circle before the doors, festooned with ribbons and flowers, with long strands tied to the rear bumper trailing shoes and cans. On the stairs of the portico, a noisy, cheerful crowd stood facing the doors, men dressed in handsome black tuxedos, women garbed in silks and satins, with flowers woven in their hair.

“It is now a year later,” he breathed in her ear. “I wanted you to see our wedding day.”

A great cheer went up from the house, and the women threw rice into the air as the bride and groom appeared at the door.

Catherine clutched the bark to the oak, and her breath caught in her throat. “That’s me!”

“That’s you. Run forward now, and you might catch the bouquet.”

But Catherine did not move. “Oh,” she sighed, “Oh my… I look so happy. Look at how I’m laughing! Look at my dress! It’s gorgeous! I want a dress just like that for my wedding!”

Her face flushed with joy, standing on tip-toes, the bride smiled and waved toward the oak trees as if she knew they were there, as a lacey white veil, sheer as smoke, floated around her flower-crowned head. The bridegroom winked in their direction. Then the crowd swirled in around the newly-married pair, shouting with good cheer.

The couple fled the pelting rice, laughing, and leapt into the waiting Roadster. With a humming roar, the machine whirled down the lane between the trees, a cloud of dust speeding away behind it.

The noise of the crowd faded away like the sound of an old newsreel. Lelantos walked toward the house, drawing an amazed Catherine drifting, eyes wide, behind him. By the time they reached the lowest step, it was dusk, and the crowd had vanished. When they reached the door, the stars were gleaming cold in the dark above, and the hall clock was whirring and ringing midnight.

“How can this be possible?” Catherine breathed softly.

“All men can reach with their minds into the past and future, with memory and imagination. My family was forced to learn how to bring ourselves along as well.”

“Forced?”

“We come from a future of fire. The smoke of the burning has blotted out the sun, moon, and stars. It is a time of darkness; the streams and seas are turned to blood. Earthquakes swallow islands into the ocean and throw down mountains. Mankind has died in plague and poison, or burnt, or choked, or starved, or drowned or been buried alive. The first father and mother of my family, Lif and Lifrasir, the last of all mankind, escaped death by fleeing down the corridors of Time. We don’t know why. Perhaps the moment when there was no future left at all allowed the past to open up her gates. The pair fled to the farthest future, after time itself had ceased, exhausted, and discovered the empty towers of Metachronopolis, the golden City Beyond Time. New names were given them, Chronos and Rhea, when they mounted the diamond thrones and donned the robes of pallid mist. They opened the mirrored gates of splendor into the creation reborn.”

She looked around at the summer night, at the rustling trees and the silent statues in the moonlight. “I thought things would blur and flicker when we time-traveled.”

“I only stepped on the same hour each day as we came up the hill.”

“And what year is it now?”

“It is midnight of our wedding day; as we came up stairs, I only took strides measuring an hour. The house is empty; all have gone to celebrate.”

“But why didn’t things jump when we went from one hour to the next? I didn’t see the stars spin, or the clouds whip past.”

“Nature admits of no discontinuities, no gaps. The force of Time will always mend itself, to make things appear as likely and as near to right as they may be.”

“And if you go back and shoot your father before you were born?”

“I would never shoot my father. He owes me money.”

“No, seriously.”

“Time would conspire to supply you with a father as near to yours as it might do. Even his name might stay the same. You have encountered odd and inexplicable coincidences? These are the scars of time, the ripples of my brothers as they pass among you. Where time cannot make a clean and even compensation for some paradox, unlikely coincidences attempt to supply the deficit. If they can. If they can.”

“And if no coincidence will stretch that far?”

A strange and haunted look came onto his face. “Without the strong foundation of cause and effect to sustain oneself, one fades. One becomes a paradox, an apparition, and then a ghost, a shadow, a whisper, a memory, a forgotten dream, and eventually… nothing.”

The Galactic Liberation continues

From Hugo Award finalist David VanDyke and million-selling science-fiction legend B.V. Larson comes Book 2 in the epic military space opera adventure saga, Galactic Liberation. Commodore Straker’s rebellion grows in strength–but his enemies are growing even faster. Faced with a dozen rebel planets in their territory, the Mutuality finally takes notice of the upstart known as the Liberator, and they gather a vast fleet to crush him.

Preparing for a titanic interstellar battle, it’s clear Straker has no chance. His tiny enclave of free planets can’t survive the weight of a thousand worlds. His own officers realize this, and some of them begin to turn against him…

In a desperate attempt to halt their inevitable destruction, Straker and his team set out to capture the largest ship ever built. The monstrous vessel is well-defended and contains secrets no one suspects. Unleashing its power might turn the tide of the war–but it may also doom humanity.

BATTLESHIP INDOMITABLE is the second book in the Galactic Liberation series. The series starts with Book 1, STARSHIP LIBERATOR.

From the reviews:

  • This second book picks up shortly after the first one (and is superior to it). While the first book was focused on mechsuit and ground combat, this second entry in the series returns to what VanDyke is extremely talented at: realistic space combat between huge armadas, backed up questions about political and philosophical superiority. Overall the pacing is better than the first, and we get to see more of Straker’s naiveté with field command come to the fore – meanwhile the Galactic Liberation continues on in wonderful glory with some pretty impressive weaponry and logical space battles that conform to real-world physics. 
  • Straker and his team are faced with overwhelming odds. To combat this situation his decides to capture the largest ship ever built….it also has a weapon of unimaginable power……not to mention a surprise of its own! I very much recommend this book.
  • BV Larson is one of my favorite authors. Great science fiction read that keeps you entertained with page turning suspense. Keep up the good work.

I thought this one was even better than the first one myself. Good, inventive space opera. Now available from Castalia House in both hardcover and paperback editions.

NO GODS, ONLY DAIMONS

The post-World War III world is a radically different place where magic and technology have become one in the violent struggle for global influence between nations. The rising powers of Persia and Musafiria are challenging the longtime dominance of the weakened Western powers, as the increasing use of magic provides them with a more level playing field.

Supernatural creatures from other planes are summoned and wielded as readily as machine guns and explosives by the special forces of the rival militaries, the most deadly of which are the elite contractors for the Nemesis Program. Both conventionally and unconventionally trained, the Nemesis Program is the hidden blade of the Hesperian National Intelligence and Security Agency, a weapon as lethal as it is deniable. But although they are given considerable leeway, not even Nemesis operatives are allowed to covenant with archdaimons… which poses a serious problem for Luke Landon when a simple assassination of a scientist goes badly awry.

NO GODS, ONLY DAIMONS is the first volume of The Covenant Chronicles, an exciting new supernatural Mil-SF series by Kai Wai Cheah, the Hugo-nominated author of Flashpoint: Titan, which appeared in There Will Be War Vol. X.

This modern supernatural Mil-SF novel is pretty wild and has nearly as much crazy, over-the-top action as a Larry Correia novel. It’s DRM-free and available on both Amazon and at the Castalia House store. In light of our long term concerns about Amazon’s viability as a publishing platform, we would encourage you to use the Castalia House store; both EPUB and MOBI editions for Kindle are available there. But either option is fine with us for the time being.

I should also mention that all four Moth & Cobweb books by John C. Wright are now available on the Castalia House store as well.

  1. Swan Knight’s Son
  2. Feast of the Elfs
  3. Swan Knight’s Sword
  4. Daughter of Danger

Moth & Cobweb Book Five, City of Corpses, will be out later this month.

EXCERPT FROM NO GODS, ONLY DAIMONS:

We dropped to the ground.

“AK fire,” Pete reported.

Several more bursts rang out, echoing through the city. The sound bounced off and around concrete and glass, coming from everywhere.

“Multiple shooters,” I added. “Can’t tell direction.”

“Can’t be more than a couple blocks away.” He picked himself up. “We gotta stop them.”

“Roger,” I said. “I’ll try to find them with open source intel.”

“I’m gonna get my long gun.”

“Go.”

He sprinted to a car parked down the road. I got to a knee and scanned around me. Civilians were still walking down the street, oblivious to the autofire raking the air, or froze in place. A couple actually stopped to stare at us. What the hell was wrong with people?

I powered up the Clipcom. An array of icons washed over my field of view. I touched the control button, freezing the screen in place, looked at the Memet icon and released.

The app booted. A deluge of raw information, updating every moment, flooded my cascade. Every major news agency reported a shooting in progress at Lacey’s in New Haven. An eyewitness had uploaded a blurry photo of a gunman racing into the department store, wearing a chest rig and cradling some kind of AK, maybe an AK-122.

Another photo showed a jinni. It looked like an old man with swarthy skin, flowing white hair and a thick beard, though his muscles were hard as rocks. But past his waist, the rest of him was a lion with exaggerated limbs, scaled up to support his mass. His tail whipped at air and spat venom—it was no tail, it was a snake.

This was a si’la in its default form. And si’lat were expert shapeshifters.

Pete slung a messenger bag around his neck, stuffed with everything the self-respecting gunfighter needed for an active shooter scenario. From the trunk he produced a Varangian Tactical carbine. It was one of the many, many variants of the AR-855 rifle; this one was designed by Special Operations veterans for their exacting needs.

As he checked the chamber, he asked, “Luke! Need a gun?”

“Got another rifle?”

“Just a pistol.”

“I’ve got mine,” I replied, drawing my SIG. “We’ll make do.”

He jumped into the driver’s seat. “What are we facing?”

I got in beside him. “Multiple shooters and jinn are hitting Lacey’s. Numbers unknown. AKs, grenades and at least one si’la.”

A fresh image appeared in the cascade. An ifrit, inside the mall.

“And an ifrit,” I added.

The car’s engine hummed to life. “Good thing I loaded aethertips.”

“Me too.”

We hit the road. I tuned the radio to the news and listened to a news station rattle off reiterations of the original active shooter report. The gunfire grew softer; the shooters must have moved indoors. Pete zipped through traffic, slipping past civilian cars too close for comfort.

“They’re inside the mall,” I said.

“Must be hitting the lunchtime crowd.”

Closing Memet, I opened Eipos, the preferred Internet telephony service of the Program, and dialed 911. The dispatcher picked up immediately.

“Emergency 911, this call is being recorded. How can I help?”

“We are two off-duty Federal agents responding to the shooting at Lacey’s,” I said. “Tell the first responders not to shoot us.”

“Okay, may I know what you look like?”

“Two white males. I’m wearing a black jacket, red shirt, blue jeans. I have a pistol. Partner has green polo shirt, khaki pants. He’s got an AR-855.”

“All right. What’s your name and which agency do you come from?”

I hung up and turned to Pete.

“Brick, comms on Eipos.”

I called his number. Pete grunted. Moments later the call window filled the screen. He was taking the call on his implants. I handed the app off to the holophone, piping sound into my buds, and cleared my field of view.

Pete slammed the brakes and worked the wheel. We fish-hooked right, stopping in front of the department store, just barely missing a parked van. As we jumped out, a civilian almost collided into me. People were fleeing the area, but the roads and sidewalk were streaked with blood. A dozen civilians were lying on the ground, bleeding.

“Any idea where they’re at?” he asked, shouldering his rifle.

A string of shots split the air.

“Inside!” I replied unnecessarily.

We charged through the front door. I broke off to cover the right while he moved left. More gunfire erupted deeper inside the mall, punctuated by single shots. The shooters had left a trail of broken, bleeding bodies in their wake. Brass shells glittered in pools of blood. Most of the casualties had been shot repeatedly in the torso and then once more in the head.

We tracked the shooters by their gunfire, brass and empty mags. By the destruction they left in their wake. We ran past a shot-up McDonald’s, the customers bleeding and moaning, the golden arches destroyed by a burst of gunfire. Past an electronics shop, everything and everyone inside slagged. Past a schoolgirl, clutching at her bleeding leg, crying for help.

Pete faltered at the last. Halted for a moment. Shook his head and kept running.

This wasn’t our first ride at the rodeo. First neutralize the threat and then tend to the wounded. Reversing the priorities would leave the bad guys free to kill even more, and that would not do.

May the 4th be with you

We’ll be launching a new supernatural Mil-SF book tomorrow, but due to the aforementioned date, the author and I decided that it is time to formally announce that the creative deconvergence project I’d mentioned a few months ago is not only well in the works, but has now entered the editing phase. The first two novels will be published this summer.


An excerpt from FARAWAY WARS: EMBERS OF EMPIRE:


Not a day went by that Vel Exollar didn’t think about the war. His brief, but brilliant career as one of the Insurgency’s ace fighter pilots remained a source of pride to him. But after spending his youth flying from one hidden base to the next in between hit-and-run strikes against supply convoys, shipyards, and imperial weapons installations, he’d been very much enjoying the relative relaxation of life as the captain of Lady Haut-Estas’s private starliner.

Now he marched through his ship’s spotless white corridors, sumptuously carpeted in scarlet. The air smelled of fear, tension, and spilled wine. Flanked by a pair of ensigns as he ordered curious passengers who had ignored the ship-wide order to return to their cabins, Vel was forced to consider the unpleasant possibility that his current employer’s decisions might have spurred his old friends to new violence.

Vel trudged over the plush carpet lining the corridor as if it were a path leading to a gallows. He’d known perfectly well that Lady Jesla’s plan was not without risk. Some might have even called it rash, and once again he asked himself why he’d agreed to it. Had he simply grown restless after playing it safe for so long?


Perhaps she reminds me too much of her mother.

But regardless of whatever had inspired him to roll the dice one more time, the luck that had always sustained him before finally ran out at Koidu. A galaxy cruiser belonging to the Commonwealth had shown up just as what was supposed to have been a harmless demonstration had gone to hell, and now it appeared that even a single misstep could lead to a second civil war throughout the galaxy.

Despite his worries, Vel tried to remain focused on the task at hand. Hiding in Anat’s magnetosphere should buy them some time. The massive spacestorm would render them essentially invisible to the deep space sensors of any ship that might be following them. His priority now was getting Jesla to safety, then scrubbing every trace of her presence on board. He knew there was a science research lab on one of the minor moons that might serve as a temporary safe haven for her until she could be rescued. It would be risky, and it would cost him a ship’s boat as well as two or three of his best crewmen, but it could be done.

Deep willing, we just might pull this off!

A sudden shock that caused the deck to ominously vibrate derailed Vel’s train of thought. The two junior officers burst into action, casting about for threats and shouting demands for status reports into their comms.

The blaring of alarms silenced the men’s voices as wall-mounted warning lights flashed. A man whom Vel recognized as a minor dignitary raced down the intersecting corridor, leading his wife by the hand while carrying their daughter in the crook of his arm.

Vel pressed a hand to his earpiece and subvocalized to the ship’s A.I. on his command channel. “Ship, what was that?”

“Something hit us, Captain, at very low velocity,” the A.I.’s interface construct answered in a pleasant feminine voice. “Nevertheless, hull integrity has been breached.”

“What? Where?”

It wasn’t possible! How could a low-velocity impact breach the ship’s armored hull? The ship’s sensors might have missed some minor orbital trash or even a micro-asteroid in the space storm, but then the impact should have been at least consistent with the ship’s speed.

“Hull breach, Captain. Confirmed. It’s in the cargo hold.”


“Seal the hold! And lock down all security doors, now!”

“Sealing hold, Captain. Security lockdown in progress.”

 A cold spike of dread rushed through Vel’s veins and sent him racing down the hall with the two confused ensigns trailing behind him. He knew it was already too late to get Jesla off the ship. As he ran, he could hear doors slamming down and iris valves sealing themselves shut.

“Ship security, this is the Captain. All squads, arm yourselves immediately and take up positions outside the cargo hold,” he barked into the comm. “We’re being boarded.”