Author: John Brown

Four days ago I was on my hands and knees in the garden, muttering, “My ring. Where is it? Where is it!” 

I could have been Bilbo out there among the tomatoes. I could have been Gollum—though I’d have to endure a long, worm-filled diet to play that role convincingly. 

I’ve been married thirty-six years to a good woman. You’d think a wedding ring is just a ring. 

But it isn’t. 

Someone memed me Boromir holding up the ring on a chain and saying, “It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing.” 

And I thought, how true! It makes me wonder if Tolkien ever lost his wedding ring. 

For two days I searched the ground where I’d lost it—a long hedge of tomatoes and the sagebrush hill behind where I’d tossed split fruit. For two nights I went to bed feeling the absence on my hand, as if something vital had been taken from me. 

Then, with the help of a Garrett ACE 250 metal detector I rented from a fine establishment in Logan, Utah, I found it. 

It was just lying there in the open in a spot I’d checked half a dozen times. The detector beeped. And there it was. 

My precious. My precious, precious reminder of thirty-six years with my admirable wife and our four wonderful daughters. It feels so good to have it back on my finger. 

How strange that so many memories are wrapped up in so small a thing. It almost demands a new story about a magic ring. In fact, the experience might just influence the ending of ASSASSIN. That’s how writing works sometimes—life drops the ideas right in your tomato patch. 

Speaking of ASSASSIN, it is coming along nicely. Ferran and company just turned a major corner with the help of a spunky kid in the city. And there’s an exciting scene coming up where all heck is about to break loose. 

On another note, many of you have asked about GLORY, the fourth book in the Dark God series. It’s next in the queue. I’ll write that climax as soon as I finish ASSASSIN. I already have an opening, a rough outline, and plenty of notes—dogmen, dreadmen, Glories—the works. It’s coming, and I think the revelation of what’s really happening will surprise you. 

Finally, I’m not dead yet, nor am I the fount of all wisdom, but I can say this: spend time with those you love, laugh with them, go on adventures. Because one day you’ll lose your ring—or some other small token bound up with all of it—and know exactly how precious those memories are. 

Peace out, my fellow dreadmen and fell maidens. 

This last June, I stood outside Warwick Castle next to a longbowman and stared up at the massive structure. The curtain walls rose forty to fifty feet high. The great tower soared even higher—one hundred and twenty feet. But it wasn’t just the walls. 

The moat. Holy schnitzel, folks, the MOAT. 

On one side of the castle, the River Avon provided a barrier. On the other, a dry moat stretched forty to sixty feet wide and twenty to thirty feet deep. Standing at the bottom, you’d be staring up at seventy feet of turf and stone. That’s like staring up at a six-story building—with armed soldiers waiting at the top. 

My only thought was: good night, what kind of madman would assault these defenses? 

The answer, of course, is almost no one. Medieval sieges were usually about starving the defenders out, not storming the gates in a blaze of glory. Unless you had a trebuchet—which I also saw demonstrated that day. 

It was the kind of moment that makes a writer’s brain spark. Assassin, the fourth book in my Drovers series, is set in the capital city of Broniss, which bristles with towers and walls of its own. Standing there at Warwick, I realized: no sane army would attack such walls directly. Which is why the High King of Osson has other dark plans. 

Of course, Warwick had more than just military lessons. There was a falconry show where hawks, vultures, eagles, and even a condor soared just above our heads. Here’s a tip. If you go, sit on the benches, not under the tree. The benches are where you get the most flyovers.  

There was a dungeon tour that turned into a hilarious series of skits, complete with a plague doctor and a judge who convicted one of us.  

And afterward, we went into the city to a Thai place called The Giggling Squid (yes, that’s really its name). The food was amazing. 

It was a glorious day, and it reminded me that some of the best research often comes from first-hand experience. Although some things—like being pierced through with a sword—I’m happy to leave to my imagination. 

I’m back at the desk now, hard at work on Assassin. It’s turning into a terrific ride, and I can’t wait to share more soon. 

Here’s to Ferran, Sura, and Lagash—will they foil the traitor’s plot and stop the hashida’s creature, or will Ferran and the others fail and find all their dreams dashed to pieces?  

You’ll soon be able to find out.  

Sincerely, 

John