LAST SON OF THE WAR GOD

In the backcountry of Idaho, a tribe of men are hunting and killing with a dream of returning the world to an earlier time. A time when courage and prowess in the field determined a man’s worth. A time when the strong took what they wanted, and the weak cowered in fear.  

Mike Bryant has come to the wilderness to die. Tired of the trappings of modern life, his will to live has run out. But when he crosses paths with a group of warriors who challenge him, he suddenly finds purpose. Mike is no ordinary man. Frozen and given up for dead, an inner core of rage ignites a fury few have seen and lived. Deep in the White Cloud Mountains, a demon is awakening. The Last Son of The War God was forged in the storm of blood and fire. And now he’s angry.

Service to the War God requires few rules. Rituals are optional, and the code consists of less than one might expect. But if there is one thing the War God will not tolerate, it’s an imposter. A false disciple unworthy of worship at the alter of blood. And when his gaze casts upon them, punishment is always due. The War God has chosen his champion, one of his favorite sons. And by the time the dust settles, one thing will be clear. If you choose the War God as your deity, you had better have what it takes to measure up. Consequences are eternal. 

From The Book:

Mike spotted a large pine tree slightly off trail and quickly ducked behind it. This new comer wasn’t exactly following the tracks, but was coming close enough it should work. He crouched down with one eye peeking around the trunk. If it looked like the loner was coming straight at him, all he had to do was slide around until his body was out of view. And if he passed from to far out to grab, well, this worked equally well from behind. Gambling on percentages, he lined up with what he hoped was the stragglers right side. Only 10% of the world is left handed, which meant that a man carrying a rifle tends to point the muzzle left. Right hand on the trigger, it is the most natural way to do it. And if it was only carried in one hand, that also tended to be the dominate hand. Getting control of the gun was step number 1. All the hand-to-hand skill in the world falls apart with a 7mm magnum in your chest. There are a number of ways to take out a sentry in the real world, none of which are likely to ever make it into a Hollywood movie. The preferred technique was ten rounds of suppressed rifle fire from extremely close range, followed by a coffin kill in the head to be sure. A 175 grain Sierra Match King from down the street was a close second, but neither was really an option right now.

His heart quickened as the light grew closer. He thought again of how much time he had to get this done. He was at least 500 meters from the main pack, unless they had doubled back. Possible if either they knew his trick, or just grew weary of following. He hoped he had a least a minute of separation, or this was likely to go bad. There absolutely wasn’t a better option though, he needed a weapon badly. And even without a weapon, he was likely to freeze to death tonight without clothing or a fire. He had checked his pockets on the ambush line, empty as the day they left the factory. It was now or never. The man was almost on him. He closed his left eye, so that at least one of them wouldn’t lose the adaptation to darkness.