“Let me up! I have to go!” Cam struggled against the hand that gripped his shoulders and fought his efforts to rise.

“Easy there,” a voice soothed. “You’ve had a bad go of it. Take it easy.”

Cam looked around, wild-eyed, trying to figure out where he was and how he had gotten here. The featureless room provided no clues, and he did not recognize the thin-faced man whose grip on his shoulders kept him seated. “Where?” he panted, as his heart thudded.

“You’re at the Goat and Mare tavern. Paid for a room and food for your horse before you passed out. Had enough left over to hire a healer, too.”

“Healer?” Cam’s mouth was dry, and his hair hung lank in his eyes. He glanced down to see himself dressed in a sweat-soaked nightshirt amid tangled covers on a sturdy wooden bed.

The thin man gave him a reassuring smile. “That’s me. Beren. The innkeeper roused me and got me to tend you.” His smile faded. “Good thing. You were pretty far gone.”

“How long?” Cam croaked, feeling desperation rising in his chest.

“How long were you unconscious? Three days,” Beren replied. He shook his head. “Took magic and then some to keep you in this world. You had the cough bad, in both lungs. Almost didn’t make it.”

Cam pulled away from Beren and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ve got to go.” He tried to stand, only to waver and fall backwards, caught by Beren before he could tumble to the floor.

“Wherever you’re going, it’s got to wait a bit longer,” Beren said, easing Cam back into bed. “You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

“You don’t understand—”

Beren reached for a cloth in a basin on the bedside table and wiped the sweat from Cam’s brow. “I understand that you’ve been very sick and almost died. And from what you said in your fever dreams, you’re a young man with a vivid imagination.”

Cam groaned. “What… what did I say?”

Beren chuckled. “Quite a tale,” he replied. “You kept shouting for someone named Tris, about an ambush. Then you yelled for Carina as if you were looking for a lost child. Thrashed like you were fighting for your life. Took me and the innkeeper to keep you in bed at the worst of it. Thought we’d have to tie you down and gag you,” he added, only partly in jest. “Oh, and you kept apologizing to Ban for leaving him,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Sweet Lady and Childe,” Cam muttered, closing his eyes.

“Are you a courier?” Beren asked. “I understand that you have urgent business, but you’ll be too sick to travel within a few candlemarks if you leave now.” He held up a hand to forestall Cam’s protest. “Look, it’s already dark outside, and bloody cold. Let me do another healing and get some warm soup into you, plus a good night’s rest and a little whiskey. In the morning, you’ll be fitter to travel, though I’d advise at least another day’s rest. But at least you might not fall out of the saddle,” he added.

Cam wanted to argue, but his body betrayed him. He outweighed Beren by at least a stone, maybe more, and hard work made for strong shoulders and arms. Years of soldiering meant he should have been able to easily throw Beren off him and get free. Maybe he could have done so, but he didn’t try. He knew in his gut that Beren was correct, and the stakes were too high to risk another mistake.

“All right,” Cam conceded. “I’ll stay the night. But I have to leave in the morning. It’s important.”

“Where are you going?”

“Aberponte.”

Beren canted his head as he regarded Cam. “The palace city?”

“How far?” Cam had no intention of disclosing his mission. Not now, with so much blood behind him and so much at stake awaiting his return.

“A day’s ride, and that’s at a good pace,” Beren replied. “For the record, I also healed your horse. He’d been ridden hard.” Cam heard the judgment in Beren’s tone.

“Couldn’t be helped,” Cam murmured.

“Well, he’s got a proper stable and food, and he’ll not go lame on you.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“I’ll go see to getting you dinner,” Beren answered. “The whiskey will help you sleep, and I’ll mix some healing powders in with hot tea to help your lungs. It’s still against my advice for you to leave so soon, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stop you.”

The door shut behind Beren, and Cam let out his breath in a sigh that nearly set him coughing again. Not Beren’s fault. From his perspective, keeping me here makes sense.

Beren didn’t know the fate of the kingdom depended on a vial of elixir in Cam’s saddlebags, hard-won from the witches of the Sisterhood hundreds of miles away.

Didn’t know what Cam had sacrificed to get this far. That he’d abandoned his friends and his sister to slavers, left them to fend for themselves in the vague hope that Ban Soterius and Tov Harrtuck could get them free. One of those friends was Tris Drayke, the only hope neighboring Margolan had to unseat its Usurper King. For all Cam knew, he had damned Margolan to flames and chaos by his choice.

All to save another kingdom and another king. His home, Isencroft, and his monarch, King Donelan. Because the other thing Beren didn’t know, that no one outside the palace’s inner circle knew, was that Donelan was dying. Dark magic brought on a wasting disease, and Donelan’s strength faded daily. That was why Cam and his twin sister Carina had left on their desperate mission months ago, searching out the reclusive Sisterhood in search of a cure. They hadn’t counted on getting tangled up in Margolan’s bloody coup, or having the caravan they traveled with be captured by slavers. Cam, Soterius, and Harrtuck had escaped by sheer luck, with Cam so badly injured his friends had taken him to one of the Sisterhood’s citadels, and wasn’t it just the way luck worked, those witches had the antidote Donelan needed.

Cam had to choose. His king or his sister.

Soterius and Harrtuck swore they would rescue Carina and the others. Cam knew they would try. But Carina was his twin, his responsibility. Tris Drayke and Jonmarc Vahanian and the other members of the caravan were his friends. And he had turned his back on them, gritted his teeth and done his duty, ridden in the opposite direction as hard as he could. Ridden through his tears, pushing himself and his horse to the breaking point, dodging the Usurper’s soldiers during the long trek across Margolan, fighting his way through a roadblock at the Isencroft border that left him bloody.

He’d bound up his wounds, chased off the pain with whiskey and slept a few hours, then gotten back in the saddle. If he could reach Aberponte in time, get the antidote to Donelan, then at least some good would come out of the sacrifice. The king and the kingdom would endure. The next morning, Cam ignored the healer’s protests and heaved himself up into the saddle. His gelding, a solid black, massive horse named Dimonn, snorted in recognition.

“There’s food and water and wine in your saddlebags, some bread, tea, and whiskey too, for the road,” Beren said, making no attempt to hide his opinion of Cam’s choice. Cam wondered if the healer would change his mind if he knew what lay at the heart of Cam’s obsession, knew that the king’s life hung in the balance. Then again, Cam was a patient defying orders. Maybe his opinion wouldn’t change a bit, no matter what. Cam wouldn’t get the chance to find out.

“Thank you. For everything.” Cam put his heels to Dimonn’s sides and took off at the fastest sustainable pace he could muster.

When Cam and Carina had gone looking for a cure, they had both left behind clothing worthy of the King’s Healer and King’s Champion for nondescript garb that would not attract attention on the road. Now, Cam knew from the sidelong glances he received that his torn, muddy, and bloodstained outfit gained him notice for all the wrong reasons. Onlookers might think he stole the horse, but the witches had given it to him along with the tack — though he had no way to prove it, should anyone ask.

Other travelers got out of his way as Cam’s horse thundered down the road, bent on making Aberponte in as little time as possible. Despite Beren’s magic, Cam could feel the illness still lurking in his body, not completely vanquished, merely pushed back to await another chance. I’m not important. I can be replaced. Isencroft can’t afford to lose its king.

Cam rode into the night, until he knew his fever had returned and vertigo forced him to admit that he needed to rest or risk falling out of the saddle. Paying for the inn and healer plus the stable costs had taken almost all the coin Cam had. The food in his saddle bag might last him until Aberponte, with luck. He found a quiet barn, saw to Dimonn’s needs, and fell asleep on a pile of straw, with the precious saddlebags beneath him, his sword still on his belt and a knife clutched in one hand.

 

~

 

“What have we got here?”

Cam woke to see three men in a ring around him. He castigated himself for letting anyone sneak up on him. His training and experience should have had him awake and ready to fight long before they got so close, but he knew exhaustion and lingering illness were to blame.

“A broke traveler,” Cam replied, shifting so that his cloak let the knife and sword remain hidden, and glad he had buried the saddlebag with the elixir in the straw.

One of the ruffians glanced toward Dimonn. “Pretty nice horse for a beggar. Him and that saddle’ll bring a coin or two, I reckon.”

“Touch my horse and I’ll kill you.” Cam rose to his feet slowly. The thieves took a step back, and Cam wondered if they had misjudged their mark. He stood a head taller than two of the young men, who barely looked to be out of their teens. Time in the king’s army and before that, as a mercenary, had put muscle on Cam, broadened his shoulders and filled out his arms. He guessed that he might weigh more than two of his would-be attackers together.

“Three to one is pretty good odds, old man.” The leader of the gang tried for flippant, but Cam heard the nervousness in his voice. Cam snorted in derision, guessing he might be five or six years their senior, though hardship made him feel much older.

“Last chance to walk away.” Cam hoped the thieves took the bright glint in his eyes as madness instead of fever.

The man to Cam’s right lunged forward, answering with his knife. Cam blocked with one arm, then brought his sword in an arc, slashing his attacker deep from hip to shoulder. His opponent fell back, gurgling blood, but the other two pressed forward, too proud to back down.

The thief in the middle came at Cam with his knife gripped for an overhand strike. Cam’s blade cut his belly open before the ruffian got close enough to strike, and left him tripping on his own steaming entrails. A slash across the throat ended his suffering with more mercy than he deserved.

The third man had the good sense to run. Cam debated pegging him between the shoulder blades with a throwing knife, but didn’t want to go to the effort of retrieving his weapon.

“So much for a good night’s rest,” Cam said to Dimonn, grabbing his saddlebags from the straw. He smoothed his hand down the sleek, black neck, fished out a small, hard apple from his provisions for the horse, and dragged himself back up into the saddle.

Soldiering had taught Cam to sleep in the saddle, to ride while half dead. Cam slowed Dimonn’s gait on a deserted stretch of road and took what rest he could, unwilling to risk stopping again. Long before dawn he urged Dimonn on, picking up the pace until they thundered past farmers in the field and peddlers by the side of the road.

Cam’s heart gladdened as he recognized landmarks. Not too much farther. Almost there. When they came to a crest in the road and he glimpsed the castle’s towers in the distance, Cam nearly wept. He ruffled Dimonn’s mane affectionately. “We just might make it,” he murmured, as much to encourage himself as the horse.

By midday, his hands shook enough that Cam stopped to make a small fire and brew some of the tea Beren had sent with him. He felt the flush of returning fever, knowing it from the ache in his bones, different from the warmth of the sun on his skin. He felt worn thin, by travel and desperation, grief and guilt. A good soldier lays down his life for his liege. All I have to do is live long enough to deliver the vial.

Yet despite weariness, fever, and exquisitely sore muscles, Cam did not want to die. He trusted Soterius and Harrtuck with his life, had entrusted Carina’s life to them as well, but it sat wrong with him to have turned and run, no matter what the stakes. Unfinished business lay behind him, beyond the borders of his homeland, across the neighboring, war-torn kingdom of Margolan. It’s not just Carina. The crown of Margolan, the kingdom’s fate, hangs in the balance with Tris’s. I might have turned the odds, if I had stayed. I should have been part of that fight, killing the slavers, freeing the captives.

Yet despite recriminations, Cam knew he could champion only one cause at a time, and the witches of the Sisterhood had been clear about priorities. He hoped the witches’ prophecies and foresight were true, though he generally believed only the proof of his own senses. Alone on his long ride, Cam had chanted two prayers to the Sacred Lady. Please, let me reach Donelan in time. Please, let Carina and the others escape.

No sign indicated that anyone heeded his supplications, but if he had to hold faith in anything, he clung to the hope that Istra, the Dark Lady, patron of outcasts and hopeless causes, might grant him favor. Cam drew in the reins and brought Dimonn to an abrupt halt as he stared at the ruined bridge in front of him. He could see the tallest spires of the palace city in the distance, but a wide, swift river flowed between him and Aberponte, and the stone bridge across lay in complete disrepair.

He cursed under his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. The fever had returned, nearly as bad as before, so that his ears rang and his throat felt as if he had swallowed glass. The road from here to Aberponte would take him about half a day, depending on his speed. Cam looked upstream and downstream, and saw no other bridges. He eyed the river, but it ran too swift and deep to attempt fording, even if he and his horse were not so exhausted.

Weariness settled in his bones as Cam considered his options. He would have to retrace his route to go back to the last main road that ran parallel to the river. Riding upstream from there would bring him closer to Aberponte, where the city’s traffic might warrant more bridges. The farms downstream were unlikely to require as many crossings. The new route would cost him time Donelan didn’t have.

“Come on, Dimonn,” Cam said, patting the horse’s neck. “We’re going to have to go the long way round. I promise you a nice stall in the palace stable and the best horse food in the kingdom when we finally get there.” Cam himself longed for a hot bath, a good healer, and a clean bed.

Clouds rolled in as they traveled upriver. The day, which had been sunny and temperate, grew dark and much colder. Cam pulled his tattered cloak close around himself and shivered. He knew fever as much as the weather set the chill in his bones, but it made him no less cold. Before long, rain pelted down, slowly at first, then falling fast and steady.

“Keeps getting better and better,” Cam muttered as he hunched against the wind, pulling his hood out to shield his face. It didn’t take long for him to be soaked through. Darkness kept him from seeing the spires of Aberponte, but he kept his attention fixed on the horizon, where he knew the city awaited them.

He passed an inn, glowing brightly with its promise of shelter and food, but kept on going. They were too close to stop now; with luck, they could be at the palace before the night was far spent, and he had no coin to pay for dinner or a room anyhow. Cam’s hands gripped the reins, white-knuckled, cramping from clenching tightly in the cold, and he wondered whether he would even be able to walk once they reached the city, from so many candlemarks spent in the saddle. He’d ridden like this back when he fought with the mercenaries, but he was in his teens then, and quicker to heal. Now, he felt every knitted bone and old scar beneath aching muscles.

Dimonn’s pace slowed. The road lay slick with mud, ruts hidden by pools of dark water. Every step splashed Cam with cold, filthy slush. Once they passed the inn, no other travelers ventured out on the road, leaving them alone. Cam managed to light a pierced tin lantern, protected from the wind and rain by its perforated metal sides, and with the moonlight that sometimes filtered between the clouds, it sufficed to show their path.

The next bridge arched across the river sturdy and whole, and Cam bit back a yelp of relief. “Let’s go,” he urged Dimonn, sure that he recognized the crossroads and that the journey’s end lay almost in sight.

He should have known better.

Just over the bridge, Dimonn faltered as one hoof sank into a hole hidden by standing water. The horse whinnied in pain, and the sudden shift tore the reins from Cam’s faltering grip, pitching him into the mud.

“Easy there,” Cam coaxed as the horse limped sideways, huge eyes staring at him. “Easy.”

He moved to examine the damaged leg, relieved to find no broken bone, but certain the misstep had lamed Dimonn nonetheless. Cam tore off a piece of his shirt to wind around the leg for stability, all that he could do until a dry barn and the king’s farrier were within reach.

“Guess we both walk from here,” Cam said with a sigh, knowing that Dimonn could no longer bear his weight. “Better get to it. Not like the palace is getting any closer on its own.”

When the lights of Aberponte finally grew near enough to be more than pinpricks in the gloom, Cam groaned with relief. He felt almost as lame as his horse after finishing the last few miles on foot, sloshing through ankle-deep water and mud, soaked to the skin. Cam leaned heavily on Dimonn for both support and warmth, shivering uncontrollably, sure his lips were blue.

The gates of the city had not closed for the night, but the guards looked askance at the ragged man and his injured horse as Cam and Dimonn made their way inside. He knew how he must look, especially since he had not bothered with a shave or a haircut since leaving the Sisterhood weeks ago. Such things seemed unimportant in the midst of a quest to save a king, though now Cam regretted not pausing at the inn to make himself presentable.

“Be gone. There’re no alms for you here,” one of the guards said, regarding Cam with distaste.

Cam drew himself up and squared his shoulders, pushing back his hood. “I am Cam of Cairnrach, the King’s Champion. I’ve returned from an urgent mission. I must see Major Wilym immediately.”

The two guards exchanged a look and burst out laughing. “You want me to fetch the head of the Veigonn guards into the rain for you? Do you mean to beg him for ale money? Piss off.”

Cam moved forward, as if to go around the guards, but they closed ranks, blocking his way. “I am the King’s Champion, and I must get through,” Cam repeated through gritted teeth. Anger, fear, and frustration simmered just beneath the surface, straining what little control remained.

“No one told me to expect any ‘King’s Champion’,” the second guard sneered. “If it had been so goddess-damned important, they’d have made sure we knew when they did the roster.”

Cam forced himself to take a deep breath, though his fists balled at his sides. “Let me through, or Crone take my soul, I’ll see you’re clamped in irons.”

His threat won a barked laugh from the taller of the two guards. “Last warning. Be on your way, or you’ll be the one behind bars.”

Cam’s patience reached its end, with so much at stake and finding himself blocked from his goal so close to completion. He reached to draw his sword, ready to fight his way through, and three more guards emerged from the darkness, their weapons already in hand.

“Don’t.” The command came from a tall, thin captain whose expression made it clear that he intended to take out his unhappiness about being in the cold rain on Cam.

“I am Cam of Cairnrach, King’s Champion. I must see Wilym!”

The captain’s gaze flickered between Cam’s sword and the good horse, and then back to take in his ragged appearance. “I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he growled. “No one’s seen the King’s Champion in months, or heard tell of where he’s gone. I believe you might have stolen his sword and his horse, but if he’d been expected, I’d have heard.”

Cam’s jaw ached from being clenched hard enough to break a tooth. Cold rain made the torches by the gate waver and gutter, filling the night air with the smell of smoke. “They didn’t know I’d come back today. Now let me through.”

He knew that the average soldier had no idea what the “King’s Champion” looked like, had never met him or expected to do so. Cam’s usual place when at the court was at Donelan’s side, or close at hand, far from the barracks of the common soldiers. On a better day, he might be grateful that the guards did their job so diligently, but tonight, sick and wounded and cold all the way to his marrow, he didn’t feel thankful at all.

“Get out of my way!” he growled, trying to shoulder through, and found himself staring at three resolute swordsmen who would not be as easy to best as the ruffians in the barn. Under normal conditions, Cam knew he might fight his way clear, but not now, even if he were willing to draw blood from his own side’s forces.

“Take him to the stockade,” the captain ordered. “I’ve had enough of this foolishness for one night.”

Cam held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, but sought the gaze of the captain for one last try. “Please,” he begged. “The king is sick. I must get through.”

“You’re not going anywhere on your say-so alone,” the captain snapped. “You can dry off in the jail while we figure out what to do with you.”

Cam slumped in defeat and the soldiers lowered their weapons. It was the only chance Cam would get, and he seized it, slamming his shoulder into the captain to send him staggering into one of the swordsmen. Cam drew his sword, lunging at the nearest guard, aiming to wound, not kill. He heard shouts as guards on the wall raised the alarm, and kept fighting, even as more soldiers came running. Only cold steel against his throat made him halt.

“Drop your sword, or I slit your throat,” a voice hissed against his ear. Cam let his weapon fall, hoping that he had raised enough of a ruckus to attract the attention of a more senior officer, someone who might decide to check into the wild claims of a madman at the gate. He let himself be led toward the stockade, glancing over his shoulder to assure that one of the guards had hold of Dimonn’s reins. Inside the small jail, rough hands shoved Cam into a cell and locked it behind him. He sank to the straw-covered floor, too cold and exhausted to argue, leaning back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

Cam might have slept, or he might have lost consciousness. Voices roused him, arguing.

“It could have been a trap.” It sounded like the captain, a note of defensiveness in his voice.

“Exactly how often does someone show up claiming to be the King’s Champion? Is it a common thing? Once a week? Oh, here comes another one? Is that it?” Cam recognized the voice and managed an exhausted smile.

“I haven’t ever seen the King’s Champion in person,” the captain retorted. “How am I supposed to know whether it’s him or not? For all I know, he’s a spy and I wasn’t letting a spy into the palace on my watch.”

“Your stalwartness is commendable, but it needs to be tempered with intelligence,” Wilym snapped. “I should have been notified immediately. You’re relieved from duty until further notice.” He paused. “Give me the damn keys.” The key clanked in the lock and the cell door screeched open, and then Wilym knelt beside him, lifting him to his feet and getting under his shoulder to help him stand.

Cam looked up as a lantern lit up the small cell. “I figured… if I made enough noise… you’d find out.”

“I’m sorry about this, Cam. I got here as soon as I heard. By the Whore! It’s good to see you, even if you look like shit.”

“The elixir. It’s hidden in my saddlebag. Sisterhood swears it will work. Take it. Come back for me.” He shifted to see Wilym’s face. “Donelan — is he—?”

Wilym nodded. “He’s alive, but he wouldn’t have made it much longer. And no, I’m not leaving you here. Trygve can heal you once he’s given the elixir.”

“And my horse,” Cam managed. “Lame.”

“I’ll have the farrier tend him. First things first. Come on, we’ve got a king to save.”

The guards at the gate had the good graces to look abashed as the head of the elite Veigonn warriors half-carried their former prisoner beneath the archway. Two more of the Veigonn met them inside, and someone slipped a dry cloak around Cam’s shivering form as they made their way into the palace. Cam thought Aberponte had never looked so beautiful.

“Take this to Trygve,” Wilym ordered one of his men once they were inside the building. “Tell him the King’s Champion brought what we sent him for. He’ll know what to do with it. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

“Go,” Cam urged. “I remember the way.”

Wilym fixed him with a glare. “Trygve doesn’t need me to administer the antidote. I’ll get you to your room before you fall down, and have a servant bring you dry clothing and draw a hot bath. I’d warrant you could use a good meal and some whiskey, too.”

Cam lacked the energy to argue, leaning heavily on Wilym until they reached Cam’s room and he sank into a chair. “I’ll send someone up right away, and bring you news once we know something,” Wilym promised. He paused in the doorway. “It’s damn good to have you home. The kingdom’s in your debt.”

Cam slumped in his seat, barely registering the words. He had completed his task, finished his mission. Donelan would live. But as exhaustion overtook him, all Cam could think about were the ones he had left behind.

A few candlemarks later, Wilym returned. “A bath and some clean clothes do wonders for you,” he said with a smile.

“Trygve patched up what he could,” Cam said, taking advantage of being back in the palace by sipping at a goblet of the king’s best brandy. “I’m mostly tired and saddlesore. It’ll heal with time.”

“The farriers took care of Dimonn. His leg is fine. Thought you’d want to know.”

Cam nodded. “Thank you.” He was quiet for a moment. Wilym leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, waiting. “Have your spies heard anything out of Margolan? Any word?”

Wilym shook his head. “No. Nothing specific. The Usurper is still on the throne, and Tris Drayke has gone to ground. If he were dead or captured, we’d hear.”

“They were heading for Principality,” Cam said quietly. “Donelan’s on good terms with King Staden, isn’t he? If they make it, perhaps Staden will send word.”

“He would.” Wilym tilted his head, watching Cam closely. “I know you’re worried about Carina. Perhaps one of the king’s mages—”

“No,” Cam said, a little more sharply than he intended. “Magic attracts attention, the wrong kind of notice. I’m just going to have to wait it out, and trust the Dark Lady’s favor.”

After a few minutes of silence, Wilym cleared his throat. “Donelan sent me to fetch you. He’d like to give you his thanks in person.”

“Just doing my duty.”

Wilym fixed him with a look. “I think we all know this went beyond that. Come on.”

King Donelan lay propped up with pillows in his massive four-poster bed. Cam saw the toll illness had taken in the king’s thin face and tired gaze. Yet even after all he had suffered since Cam left Aberponte on his quest, Donelan looked much improved.

“My Liege.” Cam sank to one knee.

“Rise, Cam. And come closer.”

Cam did as he was bid. He had spent enough time in the king’s presence that the circumstances were familiar, though they could never be entirely comfortable. “You look well, My King.”

“You’re a fine liar, Cam of Cairnrach. I look like shit. But I’m improving — thanks to you.” Donelan met his gaze, and Cam read the understanding of what the journey had cost. “Tomorrow, we’ll see what can be done, for Carina, and for your friends. Tonight, you’ve earned your rest and my gratitude. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years, it’s to take your comfort where you can.” He managed a smile. “That is an order from your king.”

“As you wish, My Liege.” It would be futile for Cam to ride back across a war-torn kingdom to find his friends. His place was here, in Isencroft, beside his king. But he looked out the window toward the rising sun, toward Margolan, and knew his loyalties were divided. Be safe, my sister. And may the Dark Lady’s hand be upon you, until I see you again, Carina.

 

 

 

 

 

Gail Z. Martin Biography

 

Gail Z. Martin is the author of The Shadowed Path, part of the Chronicles of the Necromancer universe (Solaris Books); Vendetta: A Deadly Curiosities Novel in her urban fantasy series set in Charleston, SC (Solaris Books); Shadow and Flame the fourth and final book in the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga (Orbit Books); and Iron and Blood a new Steampunk series (Solaris Books) co-authored with Larry N. Martin. Scourge: A Darkhurst novel, the first in a brand new epic fantasy series, debuts from Solaris Books in 2017.

 

She is also author of Ice Forged, Reign of Ash and War of Shadows in The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga, The Chronicles of The Necromancer series (The Summoner, The Blood King, Dark Haven, Dark Lady’s Chosen); The Fallen Kings Cycle (The Sworn, The Dread) and the urban fantasy novel Deadly Curiosities.  Gail writes three ebook series: The Jonmarc Vahanian Adventures, The Deadly Curiosities Adventures and The Blaine McFadden Adventures. The Storm and Fury Adventures, steampunk stories set in the Iron & Blood world, are co-authored with Larry N. Martin.

 

Her work has appeared in over 35 US/UK anthologies. Newest anthologies include: The Big Bad 2, Athena’s Daughters, Heroes, Space, Contact Light, Robots, With Great Power, The Weird Wild West, The Side of Good/The Side of Evil, Alien Artifacts, Cinched: Imagination Unbound, Realms of Imagination, Clockwork Universe: Steampunk vs. Aliens, Gaslight and Grimm, Hath No Fury, The Journey, ~We Are Not This, The Baker Street Irregulars, and In a Cat’s Eye.

 

Find her at www.GailZMartin.com, on Twitter @GailZMartin, on Facebook.com/WinterKingdoms, at DisquietingVisions.com blog and GhostInTheMachinePodcast.com, on Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/GailZMartin and  free excerpts on Wattpad http://wattpad.com/GailZMartin.