Theo Paxstone relaxing

Silkscreen print, 18" x 24", from the Myths, Monsters & Machines show.

Myths, Monsters & Machines opening night!

My deepest thank to all the amazing artists, and everyone who came out to the show last night. It was a fantastic success and a jam packed house, despite the weather. 

The evening exceeded my every expectation and hope (save one)! 

The inimitable Scarlet Black put on a breathtaking fire dance (so good!), and Erica Balon painted up a storm while dramatically lit by car headlights, and all the wonderful art shone bright. 

The show will be up for a couple weeks, so if you couldn't make it to the opening, pop on down and give the exhibit a gander. 

You'll be glad you did. :-)

Come and see Myths, Monsters & Machines!

Grand opening Friday, September 28th, 2018, at Northern Contemporary Gallery!

Announcing Myths, Monsters & Machines art exhibit

From the mad, escapist mind of James Turner comes Myths, Monsters & Machines, an art show set in a magical, medieval world filled with steam powered machines and dread monsters. 

It's Medieval Fantasy meets Steampunk. 

In the land of Adryon, machinists mix machinery and magic, creating all manner of fabulous devices, mechanical giants, steam-power enhanced armour and more. 

Steam knights battle dragons, princesses use steam powered levitators, and dead dragons are animated with cogwheels and pistons.

 

The genre mash up is inspired by Theo Paxstone and the Dragon of Adyron, but that's just the port of departure for a trip into the imagination. 

We have an exciting roster of contemporary illustrators, including SPECTRUM award winners and WETA workshop artists. 

Currently accepting submissions. Note the show is curated. See details here.

Join us September 28, 2018 for the grand opening at Northern Contemporary Gallery, 

1266 Queen Street West, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

Damien Black reviews Theo Paxstone

Teacher Damien Black reviews Theo Paxstone and gives it five stars! Best of all, he sites the book as a perfect fit summer read for Middle School students (and up): 

 "It's the end of the school year, a summer of reading" is what I tell my students as I am preparing their summer homework package. Trying to pinpoint the kinds of books that can be enjoyed with prepared activities to follow up their reading. Theo Paxstone and the Dragon of Adyron by James Turner perfectly fitting summer read for Middle School Students and up. A medieval steampunk adventure that doesn't labor with boredom but also doesn't cheapen its exploits with lame humor, the writing by James Turner strikes a balance of wit, intrigue, and well-rounded characters, perfect for students looking to get into steampunk novels.

Read the whole review here. 

Theo Paxstone and The Witch-Queen: Prologue

Out of the haze of cascading rain rode a red knight. 

Lord Trent squinted down at the half-obscured figure before the castle gates. The armoured man was slumped forward atop a mighty warhorse. 

Who was this fool? 

Water dribbled down into Trent’s bleary eyes; he wiped the drops away in annoyance. He’d been expecting his brother Edmund, whom he’d sent east to escort a caravan of gold from Glittercave Mine. Edmund was a gundygut and a drinker, but who else could Trent trust with such a task? Now, Edmund was late. Waylaid perhaps. Or drunk out of his mind on the floor of a tavern, thought Trent angrily. But even Edmund wouldn’t be that stupid, knowing the punishment that’d await him. No, it must be bandits. Thieving peasant scum making off with his gold, heading for the hills to live like kings on Trent’s coin! And in this rain, he’d have no chance of finding or intercepting them. Well, tomorrow he’d hire the best trackers and hunt them down, and have every last one of them put to the sword. 

He hadn’t been expecting a knight. 

Was it another sign? There’d been that murder of crows earlier. They’d sat on the battlements and stared at him for hours before he’d had his archers drive them off. They’d retired to the woods lining the road between castle and town and cawed endlessly. Perhaps they were still there, shrouded in the rain. At least he couldn’t hear them now. 

Tomorrow he’d let the hawks out.

“Oi, you there!” he shouted down at the figure. “State your name and intent. And be quick about it, or I’ll have my bowmen make a porcupine of you!” Trent’s voice was a deep baritone, harshened by years of barked battlefield orders.

The knight’s rain spattered helm titled up, but the shadow of the visor kept the man’s face cast in darkness. “I am Sir Kel of the road.” 

From Albion, thought Trent, by the accent. A local boy. 

“Got lost in the rain.”

Trent grunted. You could hardly see a few dozen feet ahead in this dowpour. “I am Margrave Trent, Warden of the South Wornspine. These are my lands you’re wandering, not that you can see them. This is Castle Sunderstone.”

The knight bowed forward. “An honor, your grace.” 

It was indeed, thought Trent smugly. An itinerant knight should show proper deference. Such men had no master, but also no resources. “Where you headed, Sir Kel?” 

“I am on a quest.”

Trent’s ears picked up. “A quest, eh?” Trent had not been on a quest since he was a young man, when he had to prove his own bonafides to become a Knight of Catros. It’d been the most exciting time of his life. “What sort of quest?”

The red knight was silent. Trent thought he might not have heard the question and was about to repeat himself, when the man finally said: “Revenge, your grace.”

Lord Trent chuckled. Thirst for revenge was something he understood! Perhaps this knight was a kindred spirit, driven to deliver punishment upon anyone who dared do him wrong. 

He peered more closely at the knight: he wore expensive, if eccentric, red armour with steam powered limb enhancements, and sat atop a powerfully built war charger. It, too, had a finely crafted exoskeleton. Gnomite workmanship, without a doubt. Only the best could afford that. Very unusual for a knight of the road. He could sell that suit for a real steam mech, a fully armoured war machine that the Knights of Catros typically piloted. The man must be a romantic. Or perhaps it was a family heirloom of some sort. But there were advantages to such an archaic suit: on a horse, he’d be faster, and more agile, than a steam mech, especially in rugged terrain. Like a bandit. Trent rubbed his beard and considered this. Perhaps he could put the man to use. “Come inside, Sir Kel. Fill your belly and stay the night. Tell me of your quest. I may have work for you.”

“Thank you, your grace,” replied the knight. “I shall indeed!”

The hair on the back of Trent’s neck prickled at the man’s tone for some reason; he shook the feeling off. In the distance there was a loud screech, like that of a bird of prey, but deeper, more resonate. The red knight heard it to, and shifted in his saddle. But he didn’t seem alarmed. It was not a dragon, thankfully; Trent knew their foul roar, and this was something else. A dread horror, perhaps, that’d awakened and wandered down from the mountains. Trent shrugged. Nothing to do about it now. Trent and his knights would hunt it down and slay it in due course, if it dared to stay and pilfer. 

He turned his burly gatekeeper: “Well? Raise the gate!” 

Once down below in the warm belly of the keep, Trent ordered his kitchen staff to heat up the evening’s stew. He received the knight in the resplendent great hall, by the roaring fire. Above were mounted the skulls of basilisks and other beasts Trent had slain over the years. His greatest prize was the stubby skull of a pug razorback dragon he’d lured out of the Wren mines a dozen years ago. 

As soon as the red knight sat down, he began to eat.

Trent snapped his fingers and servants rolled a shrouded metal cage over. They positioned it by the table and then pulled the shroud away with a flourish, revealing a miniature woman inside, about a foot and a half high, perfectly proportioned. She wore an exotic dress of silk, adorned with resplendent jewelry. Her tiny features were finely sculpted, like porcelain. A scrawny servant opened the cage, and she sprang onto the table. She bowed to Trent with an exaggerated flourish, then to the red knight. A music box in the cage clicked and began to play, and she danced to it. Her movements were so graceful as to be hypnotic. 

Trent watched the knight with sharp eyes, waiting for his reaction. Surely he’d never seen something so marvelous, so fine, so cultured before. The red knight didn’t look like he attended court much: the man had long, stringy black hair and a scruffy beard. His features were sharp and his eyes dark. There was something familiar about the man, but Trent couldn’t remember where he might have met him. At a tournament, perhaps. Had they jousted? Fought some foul beast together? The armour the knight wore was even finer than he’d thought on closer inspection, engraved all over with gnomite runes. Beneath the armour he wore faded but rich clothes, topped by a high collared frill around his neck. It looked uncomfortably tight.

The knight’s eyes were caught by the miniature dancer. “Remarkable,” he muttered, his mouth half-full of stew. She was casting her spell upon him, leaving him enraptured, as Trent knew she would. “That’s a minuret, yes?”

Trent nodded with satisfaction and ignored the man’s poor table manners. His pet was having the desired effect. “Yes, one of the finer creations of the God-Kings,” he said. The dreaded God-Kings had oppressed humankind for eons, and used their magic to twist humans into tailored servants, pets for specific tasks. “Her name is Safa.” He smiled and waited for the inevitable comment about how expensive she must be. Few lords in Adyron could have afforded such a prize, for her kind were almost extinct. It’d taken some effort to acquire her.

“I’ve never seen one before,” said Sir Kel, slurping stew. “Must have cost you.”

“Quite,” confirmed Trent, picking lint off his sleeve. “Even the queen herself only has a small troupe. Mine can sing, too. And recite poetry.” 

The man nodded absentmindedly, and focused on his stew. No comment on Safa’s marvelous dancing, no song request! Trent fought down building annoyance. The knight was on a quest for revenge, he reminded himself. That could make a man single-minded, even rude. But Trent would only tolerate so much disrespect.

“I saw that a lot of trees been cut down along Forest Cairn Road,” said the knight, hefting up his stein and taking a swig of beer. With his free hand, he pulled at his neck collar. 

Trent found the collar tugging oddly annoying: why didn’t the man open it up, or take it off? He switched his attention to Safa. He liked this part of her routine, for it was especially complex. She’d been born knowing it; it was as natural to her as breathing. 

The knight looked at Safa, then back at Trent. “Those were sacred trees. Sleeping arbors.”

“Eh? Oh, aye,” said Trent. “So say my druids. And by Sturn it annoys the faeries. I’ve offered compensation and they’re not taking it.”

“You must need the wood.”

“Building ships in Osta. Big ones, and they’re paying enough to make it worth the trouble. You know this region then?”

“Thought I did. Changed since I was last here. The mill by Riverfork is gone.”

“Belgrain Mill?” asked Lord Trent, puzzled. He shifted in his seat. “That was torn down ages ago.” Decades, even. Back when Trent was a boy. He looked closer at the man. They’d met, but where? When? The knight didn’t seem old enough to…

“And the peasants? I know this region has had… problems.”

The man knew the area indeed! “In the east, always. You’re a fellow noble, you know what they’re like."

The knight nodded, his eyes piercing and bright. "Ungrateful. Disobedient." 

"Aye!" said Trent, throwing out a hand to Sir Kel. "I give them more holidays, they want more pay. I give more pay, they want more holidays. Never satisfied! Even my generosity has limits. No end of grief, you've no idea what I've had to deal with. We’ve been replacing them with Chateni stock.”

“Chateni?” The knight gave him a quizzical look with his piercing dark eyes.

“Chattel. Bred for field work. Imported from across the Midsea."

"Is that necessary? Sounds expensive." 

"My father’s heart was broken by the peasant revolt of sixty. They killed my uncle, his favourite brother, and after all we'd given them. Like it meant nothing! A more generous family of lords Adyron has never seen, let me tell you. What does that say, eh? Well. Mostly Chateni around here now. No will of their own. Do what they’re told. Obedient kittens. Just not very good in a fight, other than as fodder. Not like us.”

Sir Kel sat back in his chair. It creaked under the weight of his armour. He adjusted his collar again. “No, not like us.”

“We’re warriors! Guardians Pity our blood’s been diluted by peasant stock. What’s done is done, though. My sons, they’re half the man I am. Makes me weep, it does, but hard to find pure bloods. You know what it’s like. You have children?

“I did.”

“Ah,” said Trent slowly. “Shame. No man should outlive his children. Plague?”

“No,” said the red knight softly. “They were killed.”

Trent nodded in sympathy. If Trent’s own children had come to harm, he’d butcher the perpetrators, along with their wives and children and friends, for good measure. “Made them pay, I trust?”

“Not yet.”

This, then, was the man’s quest. “I wish you success, Sir Kel, for every terrible crime deserves a suitably terrible punishment. Tell me, how’d your children die, if I may ask?” He wanted to know the details, what injustice fed the rage. Rage got a man up in the morning, gave purpose to his day. 

“They were burned alive, before the gates of this very castle,” said Sir Kel evenly.

Trent slammed his beer down and scowled, displeased. "Just what did ye mean by that? What are ye trying te suggest?" His mind raced, trying to think of the last burning. He couldn’t remember. 

Sir Kel got to his feet, armour clattering.

Trent pushed his chair back, getting clearance from the table so he could move quickly in any direction. He touched at his side for his sword, and made eye contact with the guards stationed at the hall entrance. He jerked his head at the red knight, and they approached, drawing their swords.

The red knight’s head tilted at the sound of blade scraping scabbard.

“I was there,” said Sir Kel. “At the peasant revolt of sixty. Your soldiers tied my children to stakes. You set them alight.”

Trent gaped at the man. He remembered that night as a nightmare mix of sights and sounds. The strong wind, scented with dry leaves, blood and manure. Half-naked prisoners huddling together for warmth, eyes filled with fear. He remembered his father and brothers, glaring at the prisoners before the castle gates. He remembered white hot rage, too, for the peasants had not only betrayed his father, they had sought help from witches. Witches were enemies of the earth. That hubris had destroyed the ancients, and nearly the world itself. 

“I listened to them scream. Mika. Chana. Belana. Ordren.”

“Rebels and witches!” roared Trent, leaping to his feet. "How dare ye impugn my honor! I did no wrong. But ye? You’re a coward! Ye hide for decades, then enter my castle under false pretense, posing as friend, drinking me ale, eating me food! Ye have no honour! I should have put ye out of ye misery then. I should have…” Trent's voice caught in his throat. His eyes bulged at the red knight. “I… did kill ye," he croaked. “I remember now. I… I cut off ye head…” 

"…And put it on a pike,” finished the Red Knight. He yanked down his collar, exposing a ragged, lumpy scar that circled his pale throat. 

Trent’s blood ran cold. 

"Your gold will not be arriving,” said Sir Kel and drew a ragged-edged sword. 

Safa squealed and fled, running nimbly between the hall's tables and out of sight. 

In the distance, the castle's tower bell began to ring.

That damned witch, thought Trent. The one they’d never caught. This must be her work! He nodded at his men. “Kill this bloody cur!”

A guard struck, his blade cutting into Sir Kel's shoulder, but he barely flinched. The guard yanked at it, trying to dislodge it. Red mist poured out from the gash.

                                                                    

“I have come for you, Lord Trent,” declared the Red Knight, eyes aglow. “And not even death itself can stop me.” 

Outside the great hall came the sound of blades clashing, and then… screams.

Kirkus reviews Theo Paxstone

Kirkus reviewed Theo Paxstone and had this to say:

"Turner (Rebel Angels, 2013) writes in an easy-to-read prose that manifests Theo’s enthusiasm for the world of steam knights, particularly the gadgetry associated with their mech steeds: “More mighty mechs lumbered past, banners fluttering from their copper antennae. Inside each sat a knight in a gyroscope-stabilized cockpit, set in the front of the chassis, ahead of the thrumming engine.” The geography and culture of Adyron are boilerplate fantasy fare (with some particular indebtedness to George R.R. Martin). What Turner brings to the table is the steampunk element of the impressive, dragon-battling mech suits. For some, this will be enough to keep them interested in Theo’s journey, though more traditional fantasy fans may find the gearhead talk a bit boring. While the characters fit comfortably into archetypes, some manage to shine despite this, including Theo and, particularly, Sir Bentham. The author’s dialogue enlivens the story with wit and color, as do his skilled black-and-white illustrations. Not much in the plot is completely unanticipated (though Riley turns out to have more surprises than expected at the outset). Even so, the world of Adyron should grow on the audience as the intricate back stories of the various parties begin to reveal themselves. For readers, the probability of further adventures with Theo and his friends will likely seem a delightful proposition. Full of dangerous flights, mistaken identities, and kids who show incredulous grown-ups that they are more than able to handle themselves, Theo’s tale should satisfy young readers looking for a bit of speculative escapism."

So overall, pretty positive. I tried to keep any tech talk in the book to a minimum, but it may not be minimal enough. I was looking more at medieval history than Martin, but it's the same source material, ultimately. The sequel to Theo Paxstone will show the world in greater and more distinct detail.

The book does have lots of influences, though: every television show and book I've ever read. They all swirl around in my subconscious, congealing into my own unique vision. Hopefully, it's greater than the sum of the parts.

I've noted a few surprising influences in the sequel.

All part of the journey.

Read the whole Kirkus review here.

Bookroom Reviews takes a look at Theo Paxstone and the Dragon of Adyron

Mark Graham has this to say about it:

"James Turner wrote this book to inspire a reader’s imagination and creativity. I was reading this book and the one part that really hit me was on pages 250 and 251, when James wrote the scene describing a spider in minute details that brought back my worst nightmare.  This brings me to the work of the illustrations that were black and white throughout the book, even though they were black and white sketches they were detailed that let the reader really picture the scenes that are written."

Check out the full review here.

Theo Paxstone and the Dragon of Adyron on Sci-Fi Talk with Tony Tellado

Chatted with the fabulous Tony Tellado of Sci-Fi Talk the other day about Theo Pastone and the Dragon of Adyron. Take a listen to Episode 319 of the podcast.

Theo Paxstone sketch: Dragon attack!

Wind, scented with death, ruffled his hair and fluttered his clothes. Hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his stomach tightened into a knot.
He wanted to run, to scream, to find somewhere to hide. But he couldn’t move.

His eyes locked on the living nightmare above, an enormous beast encased in black gleaming scales. It was a dragon, and it had just passed less than a hundred feet above, its black leathery wings spread wide like sails.

It headed towards the River Green and the festival tents. A dozen vultures followed in its wake.

Theo stood, paralyzed, as if the dragon might notice if he blinked. Then he shuddered and jerked about as if coming out of a deep freeze. “Ho-leee!” he gasped, gulping night air. “Oh, Gods, oh Gods, Ollie! Did you see that?”

“No,” said Ollie. “Let’s get out of here.”
Theo took a step forward, puzzled. “Ollie... What’s it doing?”

“Nothing good, don’t want to know, and neither do you,” said Ollie, ruffling his feathers. “Time to go, time to go, Theo.”

Theo stood transfixed, as white hot flame gushed from the dragon’s maw. It raked the top of the main tent, which rippled as flames danced over it.

A gash opened up, ringed with flame. Burning fragments of fabric detached and curled away on currents of superheated air.

The beast banked sharply, swooping low over the south tent. It stretched out its talons and slammed them into the top, knocking the support poles. The tent shuddered and partially collapsed. The dragon beat its wings and rose swiftly up into the night. It belched fire as it soared past the King’s dirigible, setting it alight. The stricken craft careened earthward, wreathed in flame.

“Holy fireballs!” shouted Theo.