THE LOST LEGENDS,
A new anthology by Adam Jones and others, is out now!
GET YOUR COPY
HERE
Old magic. New stories. Lose yourself in a fantasy anthology where adventure and mystery wait on every page. The Lost Legends is bursting with mystical rivals, crafty elves, elusive vampires, and everything that makes fantasy the most fun genre in fiction.
The Lost Legends contains thirteen new stories from talented and award-winning authors, including Rachel Neumeier, Sarah Bale, Kristen Bickerstaff, Michael Hustead, Adam D. Jones, A.E. McAuley, E.S. Murillo, Madelin Pickett, Abigail Pickle, and Ryan Swindoll.
EXCERPT
Aoife hated these stupid boots.
She cracked an eyelid open and dragged one ponderous shoe up into the air. She held the boot up until her leg trembled from the weight, then let it drop to the ground with a loud thunk. The iron sole clanged against the loose white rocks scattered around the quarry mainway, shocking Bran into jumping off of his perch on the boulder next to her. He shot her a baleful look, his dark eyebrows cranked down low.
“I don’t see why I had to wear these,” she complained. Even with the layer of leather between her and the iron, the soles of her feet itched abominably.
“They’re mule-kickers,” Fynn said from under the brim of his outlandishly large southern hat. She couldn’t even see his sharp features underneath the brim, tipped down as it was to shield his face as he napped. “It’s so you blend in. Well, as much as you can blend in. Not many with elvish blood this way, and you know how superstitious the folks in Grimnal can be. Can’t have potential clients turning us down on sight alone.”
Aoife ignored the comment about her appearance, though she did tuck a stray white lock of hair back under her kerchief. The tight braided coil of hair trapped under there itched too, and her own foolishly large hat trapped the sweat trickling down her scalp, making her feel grimy. She thought longingly of the last time she’d had a bath, before their ill-fated river job a month ago.
Blend in. She rolled her eyes. By the look of the menagerie of people hawking their wares on the quarry’s mainway, blending in was laughable. Between the hedgewitch cloaked in smoking incense (and not much else) and the merc whose stone-colored skin spoke of at least a drop of troll blood, she was not the oddest one here.
The hat did hide her dully-pointed ears, she had to admit, though there was no hiding her distinctive green-gold eyes. Or the thick strokes of her brand, white lines stark against the brown skin of her cheek, elegant in their cruelty. Aoife traced its familiar outline, a circle broken by a jagged slash. Even Grimnalians who’d never so much as smelled the bluebell-scented air of the Vyoathe Forest would know what it was. Only one sort was branded on the face in the so-called Civil States. Murderer.
GET YOUR COPY
HERE