Tianna always thought that being the chosen one meant wielding a legendary sword. Instead, she’s stuck with a talking frying pan and the unenviable task of defeating the Dark Lord. With her battle-hardened uncle Thane, the wise muscleman Blarg, her determined little sister Rea, and Nyx, a cat with a suspicious talent for chaos, Tianna embarks on a not-so-epic journey.
In a world where dragons are glorified pests, gnomes ponder life’s big questions, and trolls prefer building bridges rather than hiding under them, the path to the Dark Lord’s fortress is anything but straightforward. With unlikely allies, absurd obstacles, and a destiny that seems to have misplaced the instruction manual, Tianna’s about to learn that heroism is a lot messier than the stories ever let on.
The Art of Myth-Direction is a witty, satirical fantasy adventure filled with quirky characters, unexpected twists, and a frying pan that is far more than it seems. If you’re a fan of humor and high-stakes absurdity, this is the tale for you—because saving the world never quite goes according to plan.
Tianna always thought that being the chosen one meant wielding a legendary sword. Instead, she’s stuck with a talking frying pan and the unenviable task of defeating the Dark Lord. With her battle-hardened uncle Thane, the wise muscleman Blarg, her determined little sister Rea, and Nyx, a cat with a suspicious talent for chaos, Tianna embarks on a not-so-epic journey.
In a world where dragons are glorified pests, gnomes ponder life’s big questions, and trolls prefer building bridges rather than hiding under them, the path to the Dark Lord’s fortress is anything but straightforward. With unlikely allies, absurd obstacles, and a destiny that seems to have misplaced the instruction manual, Tianna’s about to learn that heroism is a lot messier than the stories ever let on.
The Art of Myth-Direction is a witty, satirical fantasy adventure filled with quirky characters, unexpected twists, and a frying pan that is far more than it seems. If you’re a fan of humor and high-stakes absurdity, this is the tale for you—because saving the world never quite goes according to plan.
“And lo, they gathered at the appointed hour, bearing torches, dread, and absolutely no sense of self preservation.”
— Summoning for Fun and Profit, Sixth Edition
Amid the shadows of a moonless night, four hooded figures converged atop a jagged, windswept mountaintop, fueled by the kind of optimism that only denial and selective memory could provide. The cold was so biting it felt downright vindictive, as if the weather held a grudge against anyone foolish enough to venture this high. The tallest among them carried a tattered and charred tome bound in leather of dubious origin (certainly not human . . . probably). He cleared his throat with the gravitas of someone who hadn’t just tripped over a tree root on the way in.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” the Grand Harbinger of Doom began, his voice confident, like he had practiced talking in a mirror far too many times. “I hope everyone’s ready for some good old-fashioned summoning . . . and by ‘good,’ I mean better than last time.”
He paused, with an expectant grin on his face. He waited for laughter but was met only with the sound of a cricket coughing and the shuffle of awkward feet.
Undeterred, he turned to the hooded figure on his left. “Herald! How’s your mother? Well, I hope?” His tone was a masterclass in feigned interest, as if Human Resources had suggested he ‘show more interest in the team.’
“She was sacrificed last winter, your Grandness,” replied the Herald of Prophetic Hindsight, as though this was common knowledge.
The Grand Harbinger blinked, caught off guard, before he forced a chuckle. “Right, right. Well . . . we all make sacrifices.”
“Me mum’s doin’ well,” chimed in the Underseer of Trivial Mysteries. He spoke in a tone far too chipper for a moonless night filled with dark rituals. “Oy, figured you’d want ta know. She always asks after ya.”
“Right, well, let’s move—”
“Mom’s got the runs,” interjected the Keeper of the Snacks, a huge grin plastered across his face, eager to not be left out.
“I . . . what?” The Grand Harbinger looked as if he’d just been slapped with a wet fish.
“The runs,” the keeper repeated helpfully. “Y’know. The trots. The squirts. The—”
“Yes, thank you, I got it.” The Grand Harbinger’s expression shifted from indifference to mild horror. “Your mother . . . she . . . didn’t help with the snacks . . . did she?”
“Oh yes, sir,” the keeper replied with earnest pride. “She always helps with the snacks.”
The Grand Harbinger took a moment to process the information.
“Right. Let’s . . . not think about the snacks right now.” I should’ve stayed in public relations, he thought grimly.
He rubbed his temples before forcing his professional smile back into place. Clearing his throat again, he tried to recover his air of authority, glancing around the group.
“Right, right . . . right . . . moving on!” He took a quick breath. “Underseer, bring forth the sacrifice.”
There was a long pause. The group exchanged nervous glances. After an uncomfortable beat, the Underseer of Trivial Mysteries sheepishly raised his hand.
“Me mum said I weren’t allowed ta do no more sacrifices,” he mumbled. He held up a wicker basket overflowing with tiny orange vegetables. “I thawt we may, you knows, use these ones instead.”
The Grand Harbinger’s face fell. His carefully crafted aura of leadership had begun to slip.
“What are those? Baby carrots?”
“Yeah, well, they came from me own garden. Grew ‘em meself, I did. See, the tome says ta sacrifice an innocent, right? So I thinks to meself, well, what’s more innocent than a baby carrot, eh? I figures, why not, y’know?”
The Grand Harbinger froze, his expression blank, as if his brain had crashed while trying to decipher the logic. After a long pause, he finally sighed. “I suppose we have no choice. But we are going to have a long talk after this is over.”
The Underseer of Trivial Mysteries returned a sheepish grin.
“Tonight, we summon forth the Dark Lord, Emperor of Eternal Midnight, Devourer of Suns, Master of the Abyss, Scourge of All That is Good.” The Grand Harbinger spoke with grave seriousness. “May his power rise once more to rain chaos and destruction upon the world.”
The group struggled to chant in unison. Their voices were a mismatched jumble of lows and highs, guttural and squeaky. As the Grand Harbinger raised his hands, signaling the next part of the ritual, he shot a glance at the underseer.
“And now! The sacrifice of the innocent!” the Grand Harbinger said, with an air of theatrics. The hooded figure remained oblivious.
The Grand Harbinger cleared his throat, murderous intent on his face.
“Hmm?” The underseer finally looked up. “Oh, right!” With great enthusiasm, he upended the basket of carrots into the center of the group. They hit the ground with a soft thwump. He grinned expectantly at the Grand Harbinger, awaiting praise.
The Grand Harbinger returned a stiff, insincere smile. How did I get stuck with these morons?
His ruminations on the shortcomings of his underlings were interrupted by a low rumble that echoed across the mountaintop. The earth shuddered beneath their feet as a jagged rift tore through the soil. A chasm of molten flame erupted from the bowels of the underworld. It cast an infernal glow that bathed the plateau in hues of violent orange and bloody red. From the depths of this hellish wound, a figure emerged. Cloaked in darkness so profound it devoured the very shadows around it.
The Dark Lord had arrived.
The Grand Harbinger wasted no time. He dropped to his knees. “Oh, Mighty Lord, we have summoned you to bring forth chaos and despair upon this world!”
The Dark Lord’s eyes burned with the incandescent fury of a phoenix imprisoned in a sulfur mine, but as he gazed down upon the sacrificial offering, his expression softened into one of unfathomable bewilderment.
The group exchanged nervous glances. Each silently prayed that a carrot wasn’t about to end their pathetic existence. After a long, uncomfortable pause, the Dark One spoke, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble.
“WHAT . . . IS THIS?”
“A sacrifice of the purest innocence, my lord!” the Grand Harbinger stammered, his voice wavering, his bow deep enough that he could taste the ground.
“CARROTS?” The word hung in the air, heavy with disbelief, as if the Dark Lord himself couldn’t fathom the depths of their idiocy.
The Dark One crouched, as if unsure how to approach a vegetable. He pinched a single carrot between his fingers like it was the most fragile artifact in the universe.
“Baby carrots, my Lord,” the Grand Harbinger offered weakly.
“They’re organic!” the underseer chimed in, a hint of pride in his voice.
The Grand Harbinger closed his eyes, despair tightening his chest. For the love of all that’s unholy, please . . . stop . . . talking! He didn’t dare open them again, bracing for the end. This is how we die. Sacrificed on the altar of stupidity.
The Dark Lord’s burning eyes swept across the group, his gaze sharp enough to gut a stone golem. A thick, suffocating silence fell over the mountaintop. Every muscle in the Grand Harbinger’s body tensed, bracing for the inevitable annihilation.
Then, with an ominous crunch, he took a bite.
“HMM. NOT BAD.”
The underseer beamed. “Knew you’d like ‘em!”
Without another word, the Dark Lord turned, his cloak billowed dramatically as he strode away. Around his neck, a heavy chain glinted in the dim light, the brilliant blue gem at its center practically humming with power—something that would probably be important later. The Grand Harbinger scrambled to follow, whispering frantic apologies and promises that next time, they would sacrifice something more fitting.
As the underseer trailed behind, he couldn’t help but muse aloud, “Maybe next time we try cherry tomatoes.”
As the group vanished into the night, somewhere, inexplicably, a magic sword blinked into existence, wondering how it had gotten there.
Living at the edge of the Empire in the town of Nothing-to-See-Here, Tianna works hard to balance her job at the local tavern with raising her little sister Rea and her cat Nyx. Everything changes when a weapon of legend reveals itself to Tianna, showing her grim visions of the Dark Lord’s army. There’s just one problem: the magical weapon happens to be a talking frying pan. Unfortunately for Tianna, the journey just gets stranger from here, as she sets out alongside her uncle Thane, a man of many secrets, and Blarg the Unstoppable Doorhammer, a warrior who loves to smash, on a truly unforgettable adventure.
As a reviewer of indie fiction, I’ve read great books, terrible books, and everything in between. But every so often, I come across a true gem that validates my entire career. The Art of Myth-Direction by M. L. Tilford is one such literary treasure. Imagine, if you will, the best roleplaying game session ever, turned into a novel that’s so immersive it feels cinematic. Tianna, the reluctant hero, sets out on her mission to defeat the Dark Lord and fulfill her destiny. Unfortunately, destiny doesn’t come with an instruction manual, and Tianna finds endless mayhem as she traverses the freezing wilderness. Thane is the backbone of the group, his common sense and serenity contrasting with Blarg’s good-natured ‘smash first’ attitude. Little Rea is surprisingly nuanced, as determination and anxiety fight deep within her spirit. Nyx is a true cat in every sense of the word, locating the perfect nap spot before leading his clueless humans to safety…again. Sword the Frying-Pan of Legend is endlessly sarcastic, hoping for a chance to finally engage in combat instead of running away all the time. Together, this motley crew must escape psychedelic gnomes, navigate a carnivorous treasure room, and evade cuddly critters bent on destruction as they race to fight a Dark Lord unlike anything they could have imagined.
The action is unparalleled, the fight scenes are engrossing, and the motivations of the characters feel so real, it’s like stepping into a movie. There are a few small type errors, and Rea’s dagger somehow shapeshifts into a slingshot along the way, but these minor imperfections in no way detract from the brilliance of the whole. With wit, humor, and a story filled with the unexpected, this book showcases the absolute best of independent fiction, earning five out of five stars.
Containing fatalities, blood, crude humor, psychedelic mushrooms, and fantasy violence, this rip-roaring fantasy adventure is perfect readers 13 and up who love epic journeys with a side of belly laughs. Each page will have you on the edge of your seat, as this ragtag group of heroes faces the hilariously unbelievable. I can’t wait for a sequel!