Top Secret Tape Discovered ... on my YouTube channel?!? ... Or perhaps just a trailer for everyone's favourite novel

Hidden Treasures are there to be found - Chapter Two of The Last King of Shambhala - Sample of my book

Prologue

Chapter One

CHAPTER TWO: Hidden Treasures are there to be found

This is a preview of my new book The Last King of Shambhala.

Petta Road State High School, Australia. Midgard, the land of the humans. Present day.

The school veranda was very quiet. There were the muted sounds of classes in session behind closed doors, kids in P.E. playing on the oval, and the soft chirping and buzzing of crickets and insects from the bushes and the trees outside ... but on the whole, very quiet.

Ebben peered through a window at his teacher asking his new class questions and writing on the board. Nobody noticed his presence.

He stood back from the window, careful not to leave his breath on the glass pane.

All of a sudden, as the glare hit the window, he caught sight of something behind him in the reflection. It was the face of a scarecrow with shiny black eyes. A deep chill rushed through Ebben’s body.

He softly gasped, spinning around and knocking over a rubbish bin. Clang.

Rubbish scattered across the hallway. The scarecrow was gone.

Ebben slowly let his breathing return to normal.

Carefully and quietly, he set the bin upright, and shooed off a pair of large crows inspecting the litter.
Nobody in the class heard him.

“Giving me more to clean up are ya, lad?” said an old groundskeeper hobbling down the veranda.
“Sorry,” Ebben muttered, looking up at the burly man. “Won’t happen again.”

“It’s fine,” the old man said with a twinkle in his eye – the one that wasn’t half-closed – and added, “Just tame ya wanderin' mind and get back to ya schoolin’. You’re late.”

Ebben swore at the groundskeeper under his breath as he sheepishly crept towards his locker.

In his head, he could hear a raspy voice calling his name over and over.

“Shut up,” he whispered. “Go away.” Ebben shook his head, trying to free himself of the voice. “Get lost.”

Ebben looked back at the old man. He didn’t notice – or pretended not to notice – Ebben’s mutterings.

Hurriedly, his nervous bony fingers worked the combination on his locker door.

“Please. Go away,” he pleaded under his breath to the raspy voice.

Suddenly, a cold hand squeezed his bicep.

Ebben, already on edge, clambered back into the lockers, dropping his bag and spilling its contents. An apple rolled down the hallway.

“Talking to yourself again, Ebben?” came a patronising voice.

Ebben’s eyes looked up to see Jayden, Matthew and Shane closing around him.

“I was talking to the groundskeeper,” Ebben lied. But the groundskeeper was now nowhere in sight. Ebben avoided eye contact. “I’m late for class.”

“But we were just going to welcome you to the school – formally initiate you,” came the voice again. It was Jayden.
Jayden drilled his foot into Ebben’s stomach. Ebben winced as he fell to the floor, but refused to retaliate.

The boys laughed.

“Didn’t they do this at your old school?” smirked Matthew, adding a kick to Ebben’s ribs.

“They did something similar,” muttered Ebben. “But they only made that mistake once.”

“Speak up, rat,” Jayden taunted.

“I got expelled from my last school. I promised my mum and aunt no more fighting.” Ebben held his hands up and displayed his open palms. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Hey,” Shane exclaimed, interrupting Jayden and Matthew’s ‘new boy interrogation’. “Check this out.”

Shane held up a rusty carved brass key with a blue stone on the end.

“It fell out of his bag,” said Shane.

“Give that to me,” said Ebben, scrambling to his feet.

“I don’t think so, chief,” said Shane, inspecting the key. “This will be worth a bit when we pawn it, I reckon.”
“It’d look good at my place,” laughed Matthew. “My little brother could play with it.”

“Give it to me,” Ebben said raising his voice. “My mum gave it to me, it’s very special and…”

“No, I think this is all we want actually, mate,” said Jayden.

Shane began swinging it about by the golden rope it was attached to.

“Give it to me.” Ebben moved to within an inch of Shane’s face.

“Or what?” Jayden hissed, pushing Ebben back. “Or what, mummy’s boy? You’ll tell your mummy on us?”

“Or you’ll be doing your school work from hospital for the next six weeks.”

“Big words for a...” began Jayden as he went to push Ebben once more.

But as he did, snap! Ebben grabbed Jayden’s wrist, pulled him in towards him, and rammed an elbow into his jaw with one fluid, lightning quick move.

Jayden slid down the lockers – unconscious before he hit the ground.

Matthew hurled his large frame at Ebben, as Shane hesitated for a split second. Thud! Whack!

Ebben side-stepped Matthew’s tackle, flung him into the lockers, and as Matthew turned his bleeding nose around, caught him square in the face with a side snap kick.

Matthew crashed down to the floor, not knowing which way was up.

Shane stared at the damage his friend’s head had made in the lockers.

Slowly he stretched out a shaky hand and offered the key back.

Ebben snatched the key. His eyes locked on Shane’s.

“Okay, now you know,” said Ebben, putting the key around his neck. “Now you know why I have to go from school to school. And why you shouldn’t touch things that aren’t yours. Is the lesson over, or do you want something to take home and reinforce what you’ve learnt?”

Shane turned on his heels and scampered down the slippery hallway.

Once the bully was out of view, Ebben wheezed, clasped his chest, hunched over, and squeezed his eyes shut. Almost immediately, a red rash spread from under his school shirt to around his neck.

He swore.

“Ebben Alexandrov,” came an authoritative voice. “I think I’m going to have to call your aunt in again.”

Ebben looked up with a pained expression to see the headmaster crouching on his haunches, inspecting the unconscious Jayden and Matthew.

“My office. Now.”

Click here for Chapter Three. This is a preview of my new book The Last King of Shambhala.

The Ninjas of My Blog and the 'About Me' Section

Drawing of the archetypical ninja, from a series of sketches (Hokusai manga) by Hokusai. Woodblock print on paper. Volume six, 1817.

Dark clouds glided over the crescent moon. Few guards walked the fire lit passageways of the stronghold. The time to scale the walls and enter at the designated entry point was now.

But there was something that held the ninjas back...

'The Last King of Shambhala'. The alter ego of Daniel Grant Newton, the kick-ass author of this blog, and author of the book that is not about him, but conveniently of the same name. A convenience that may prove confusing for readers, but that which would favour the Judo Lords of Google.

He was the target, but also the biggest threat to any ninja. His mere name made one loyal ninja go to the market instead of coming on the mission, one stay home, one eat roast beef, one not eat roast beef, and made yet another run, run, run all the way home.

Don't be mistaken - these ninjas were freakin' awesome with their swords. Their master had even announced that this generation of ninjas were: "freakin' awesome with their swords."

(Their spirits had been ceremoniously bound to their sword at birth, and they were to never use another sword in their life.

They trained with the same sword night and day. And they were able to fling their sword about with ease and precision, slicing through watermelons hanging from beams in the dojo.

All ninjas have watermelons hanging from dojo ceilings at all times, and these ninjas had videos of themselves on YouTube cutting through them in slow motion to a backing of energetic freeware music. So you know they are the real deal.)

But as they say, the pen is mightier than the sword, and the keyboard is mightier than the pen. And being a writer and an artist, 'The Last King of Shambhala' (or Daniel Grant Newton if you will), was proficient with both pen and keyboard. He could touch type with one hand and twirl a pen as to created the illusion that it was made of jelly with the other hand.

This struck fear into even the coldest assassin ninja. They pull their electric blankets over their head at night fearing his pen and keyboard combination moves.

Finally, one ninja, the leader, growled at his companions. "Do not just stand there. We have a job to do."

His ninja companions had all accidentally been exposed to a poisonous gas on their last mission that, although did not handicap their poison-proof bodies, made them lose their short-term memory. This proved handy if they were being interrogated, but a menace when they had a job still to do.

"What was our mission?" they asked in unison.

"Our mission," said the leader ninja, "was to get inside the head of The Last King of Shambhala so we can write an About Me section for his blog."

One ninja stepped forward. We'll call him 'Fred' for convenience sake. And we'll call the leader ninja 'Dominick'.

(In reality, ninjas don't have names. They just have a grunt that identifies them. This grunt is derived from the noise made by their first kill.

Unfortunately for 'Dominick', the leader ninja, his first kill was a horse. He had accidentally kicked it too hard with his ninja legs when he wanted to proceed forward. But as tradition insisted, he was henceforth known as "Nnaaayyyy".)

Back to the story...

Fred, the ninja who stepped forward, asked, "But we know so much about our target. We know his real name is Daniel Grant Newton. We know he is writing a novel series called the 'Akashic Records Series', and that the first book is 'The Last King of Shambhala'. We know he began life with reading and writing difficulties, jumbling letters and writing letters back to front and upside down. We even know we are a figment of his imagination. We know enough to write the 'About Me' section ourselves."

(At this point you may be wondering how Fred, who apparently lost his memory, can remember these details about Daniel's life.

Great question. Fred's memory, as well as the other ninjas affected by memory loss, was actually a very weak ploy in progressing the story. It helped explain certain story elements by needing Dominick, the leader, to explain information to the reader that the ninjas should already know, but suddenly began working without warning when convenient to the lazy writer.

It was thus classified as 'temperamental convenient memory loss'. This can affect mates who owe you money, or criminals caught by law enforcement officers. See a movie if problems persist.)

Dominick nodded as he heard Fred rattle off facts about their target, before holding up a hand to stop him.

Their leader knew that Fred was right, but he also knew getting inside Daniel's head would reveal much more than simple facts. Human beings were not 2D as some of their literary counter parts are. We are not all characters from the movie 'The Tourist'.

Dominick turned away from his companions for dramatic effect, and the other ninjas appeared out of focus like they were in 'Bold and the Beautiful'.

"Fellow ninjas, there is more to..." he began, but was interrupted by a whistling noise and a strong breeze.

He spun around with his sword poised. All his ninja companions had been knocked unconscious.

"Daniel?" whispered Dominick. His eyes scanned the shadows. "I know you are there. You will surrender, and give me a proper 'About Me' section for your blog. I will not leave without it."

Suddenly, with a stroke of the keyboard, Dominick had his feet swooped from underneath him. He hit his head hard, but before his eyes flickered to black, he saw Daniel Grant Newton - The Last King of Shambhala - standing over him.

"Perhaps, but not today," wrote Daniel. "We shall meet again, Nnaaayyyy. Sleep well."

And with that, a proper 'About Me' section for this blog was lost forever.