Why I wrote The Son of Thunder

I wrote Son of Thunder partly because of the absence of respect for faith in Rick Riordan's multi-million copy selling Percy Jackson series. In the first book, a principal character describes God as "metaphysics" and a corrupt preacher deceased is judged by Hades.
My writing isn't for the immature and here is an excerpt of a goddess discussing the spiritual with the protagonist. C.S. Lewis also had pagan concepts like wood nymphs but subordinate to God.

One of my key characters is a Valkyrie; Norse and Greek mythological concepts and figures are in the novel. I have excerpted a scene below.

Of course, the way I depict my character isn't the same as this artwork but perhaps it will give a reader an idea of the nobility and power I wish to portray, and the war between force of light and darkness.

Link to Kindle:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01F4GMGTM




Excerpt:

           I heard her shout to them, “WHICH ONE OF YOU GOONS SHOT OUT MY TIRE?”
            She pointed to the Ferrari’s dented fenders.
            “I swear by the sacred waters of Gjöll I will send you all to Náströnd!”
            Looking even more monstrous as they got closer and closer, the seven all laughed together—an ugly, grating, feral sound. One rider came in closer and his bike skidded to stop. I could see t

he cloud of dust he’d raised, even in the fading, gloomy light.
            His voice was guttural, worse than an angry WWF wrestler—deep, rumbling, and bestial, exactly as he appeared. His face looked wolfish; there’s no other way to describe it.
            He snarled, “Hand over your cargo!”
            Cargo?
            My mind screamed, “What cargo?”
            What the devil—literally—was he talking about?
            The “leader” of the gang—if that is what he was—then got off his bike and strode forward. I couldn’t get over how tall he was, like a pro basketball player except he was incredibly bulky. And how he could stay cool wearing that heavy black coat billowing in the wind I’d no idea.
            Still, at least I didn’t see him wield a gun or any sign of a weapon. Yet his whole posture and attitude was arrogant and cruel. Even through the goggles he wore, the yellow viper-like slit pupils of his eyes were pretty much a dead giveaway that the monster was utterly evil.
            “I’M WARNING YOU,” Val shouted, “REMEMBER MY OATH IF YOU TAKE A SINGLE STEP CLOSER!”
            His strides got even longer, and he laughed low in his throat.
            In a brilliant flash of light that stunned me, Val transformed to become exactly as I’d remembered her the other day except—amazingly—I thought she was even taller, stronger and more beautiful. To look directly at her actually hurt my eyes.
            In her right hand she grasped a silver-handled sword of incredible splendor; I didn’t think Excalibur could look any better—if Excalibur is out in the world somewhere. Its long, sleek blade seemed to have been forged not just from steel but from diamonds. Eerily translucent, it shined with a light all its own.
            While she brandished the sword and then began making it sweep around her head in whirlwind fast arcs so that her arm became a blur, the other evil riders kept circling, circling, their throats rumbling laughter as deep as their motorcycles’ engines.
            The wolf-monster actually tilted his huge ugly head back and howled—but with sheer, ugly animal pleasure—and from somewhere, probably deep in his cloak, a midnight black broadsword appeared in his enormous hands, a sword almost as long as I was tall.
            And then without warning, Val charged. She moved at least as swiftly as a cheetah, becoming just a blur.