Series: The Castle in Kilkenny: Fairy Tales Book #6
Publisher: Buttercup Books
Pages: 210
Genre: Historical Fantasy / Fairytale Retelling
He has one last chance to be a fairy tale hero.
But she didn’t agree to be the damsel in distress.
When her longtime boyfriend unexpectedly slides a ring on her finger, Hannah is whisked from her everyday bedroom to a medieval ball. Hannah knew that Dylan would do anything to prove to her parents that he’s husband material, including going into the Fae world—but she never agreed to go through the Veil herself.
Now one of three princess sisters, Hannah is paired with now-Prince Dylan. But, homesick and blindsided, she pretends the Veil has wiped him from her memory.
As her prince scrambles in vain to be the right kind of hero, Hannah ignores her instincts and follows her new sisters onto a mysterious boat—which promptly sails them into a land of giants, magical traps, and enchanted pianos…and away from Dylan.
Read now to journey back to medieval Ireland, complete with the Fae and mythological monsters, in this fairy tale adventure and sweet “it was always you” romance.
But Morálta just shakes her head. “How should I know? I told you, I just work here.”
“What has happened to Mór and Nuala?” The words burst out of me.
She shrugs again. “I’m not in contact with the giants, so I don’t really have details. Last I saw, Red-beard was hoisting Nuala onto his pillion, and Mór was in Black-beard’s cart.”
“Are they safe?”
She gives me a strange look. “Safety is an illusion, Hannah.”
“But”—I wave my hands around this room—“any more danger than we are in, here?” Which might be considerable.
Morálta rolls her eyes. “It’s not like they are man-eating giants or anything. Black-beard really doesn’t care for those who don’t do their fair share of the work, so I dare say that Mór is going to be doing some scrubbing, and from what I’ve seen of her she’s not going to enjoy it. But hopefully you all have some true loves signed up to come and fetch you home again, right?”
“Maybe…”
Morálta does a double take. “Three princes, three princesses, et cetera, and you couldn’t even fall in love?”
“We didn’t have enough time,” I protest. “They just arrived last night.” Except me.
Morálta sighs, sounding put-upon. “And you couldn’t manage it in one evening? Young people these days. I don’t know why the Seven-Inch-Man didn’t give you three days, which would have fit better anyhow. I’ll put it in my Exit Survey when I finish up here. Now, did you want tea or did you not?”
We both murmur politely that we would like tea, thank you, and Morálta whisks away again.
That was possibly the strangest conversation I’ve ever had. Exit Survey?
Christy Matheson
Characters you connect with. Adventure. Love. Family… And endings that are more than a sugar rush.
When Christy Matheson is not throwing ordinary characters into fairy tales, she is busy raising five children. (Very busy.) She writes character-driven historical fiction with and without fantasy elements, and her “fresh, smart, and totally charming” stories have won multiple awards.
Christy is also an embroidery artist, classically trained pianist, and sews all of her own clothes. She lives in Oregon, on a country property that fondly reminds her of a Regency estate (except with a swing set instead of faux Greek ruins), with her husband, five children, three Shelties, one bunny, and an improbable quantity of art supplies.
Blood is the link between
humans, demigods, and demons
—and is the Blood Queen’s domain.
Brianag
The Blood Queen Chronicles Book 2
by David H. Millar
Genre: Historical Fantasy
Three childhood friends meet in the Scottish Highlands.
Two hold secrets. One may be a monster.
As Gràinne reached for the still warm heart, tendrils of the red mist
preceded her. When they touched the heart, she felt power drawn from the blood.
She steeled herself and bit into the organ. Such was the curse of the Blood
Queen.
Brianag is the sequel to The
Blood Queen. It is 384 B.C. Ten years have passed since Sidheag’s
execution. Gràinne Ni Fearghal, the Blood Queen, has ruthlessly consolidated
her grip on the eastern tribes and reigns as High Queen. Meanwhile, her
daughter imprisoned in a gilded cage grows in beauty and power and terrifies
her guardians—the demigods of the Aes Sídhe. She must escape. Her grandma, the
powerful Sídhe, Mongfhionn, agrees.
Brianag trembles at two questions: how will her mother receive her, and
can she be redeemed?
Sidheag, was not the only Blood Drinker. Two others, Áine and her
daughter, Leannán want vengeance for Sidheag’s death. Both claim to be
Sidheag’s mother. Yet is Sidheag dead?
Can Cassán, Dùn Brion’s king, control his temper and work with the
demigods to defeat the Blood Drinkers? Will the beast known as the Hound
destroy every living being with three barks or will the ancient Cait People
awaken and intercede?
Content warning: Brianag: The Blood Queen Chronicles contains scenes of sex and
violence appropriate to the time it is set in (400 B.C.). It is not recommended
for readers under 16 years of age without parental agreement.
“It is a
king’s decision,” said Brion. “It will not be you who deceives and delivers the lamb to the butcher’s
block,” retorted Eimhir.
True evil is a persistent and
tenacious beast. Its desire for existence is eternal and insatiable. It needs
to infect only one mind for its insidious philosophy to take root and spread.
It is 394 B.C. At a remote loch in the highlands of Northern Albu, a priest
sacrifices nine innocents. Below the water’s surface, a shape feeds on their
blood and begins to take form. Soon, it becomes sentient and begins to
hunt. Sidheag has risen.
Humans cannot defeat the abomination. Neither can Mongfhionn, the powerful
demi-goddess of the Aes Sídhe.
The only remedy is the Blood Queen, and Gràinne is the
reluctant heir to that throne. Will the Blood Queen stand alongside Mongfhionn
to confront Sidheag? The cost for Gràinne may be too much—unless her
daughter, Brianag, is in jeopardy.
Passions, always near the surface of the Gaels, burst into flames
in The Blood Queen, where father is pitted against son, mother against
daughter, sister against sister, brother against sister, and father against
daughter.
The Blood Queen contains scenes of sex and violence and uses language
appropriate to the period it is set in, i.e., 400 B.C. It is not recommended
for those under 16 without parental consent.
5/5 ★★★★★
Genre: Fantasy, Historical fiction
Review by Jan Foster/History Quill: Last updated Jun 12, 2023
A must-read Celtic ‘Game of Thrones meets Bernard Cornwell’, blending history
with dark fantasy and a truly terrifying villain. The Blood Queen will keep you
turning the pages deep into the night.
The Blood Queen is a dark fantasy
nominally set in 400 B.C. Scotland, wherein a misguided priest sacrifices
innocents in the hope of bringing forth an entity that will do his bidding. This
starts a tale of ‘be careful what you wish for’, as the entity – Sidheag –
forms a corporeal being and a consciousness complete with dark desires for
domination. No one can resist Sidheag’s allure and subsequent enslavement, and
few will survive her rampage across the land as she builds an army to fulfil
her calling.
Aside from the descriptive prose and the brilliant battle scenes, the equality
of the sexes feels genuine rather than a nod to political correctness. Women
rule, fight, murder and fornicate as violently and passionately as the men and
the female characters are badass!
I thoroughly enjoyed The Blood
Queen, even at its most uncomfortable. The historical accuracy of weapons
and battle strategies blended perfectly with the epic and fantastical
storyline. I loved the tiny moments of humanity within the bleakest moments.
Reading the novel felt like watching a horror movie unfold, compelling you to
turn the pages in the hope that somehow, against the odds, humanity will win.
Born in Belfast, Northern Ireland, internationally published and
award-winning author David H. Millar is the founder, owner, and
author-in-residence of A Wee Publishing Company—a business formed to promote
Celtic authors and literature.
David is the author of the five-volume, ancient Celtic-based Conall
series and the spin-offs The Dog Roses, The Dog Roses: Resolution, The Blood Queen and Brianag: A Blood Queen Novel.
David resides in Houston, Texas, with his family and two recent family
members, tuxedos Beau and Stiletto.
After spending two years away at culinary school, learning the arts of baking and magic, all Karl wants to do after graduation is return home to the kitchen where he grew up. However, when Karl’s adoptive uncle asks him to do a little favor for him along his journey, of course Karl says yes. He needs to find a missing person, one who may have been captured somewhere in Yaroi, a neighboring country to Karl’s home in Toval.
Finding the missing person is hard enough. Add in each of their secretive pasts, and the implications and dangers inherent with being a Prince of Toval, and a simple rescue turns into a deadly adventure. Especially once Karl learns just why Ama was arrested in the first place. Karl’s chances of returning home to use his newly honed baking skills dwindle as escaping the situation with their heads still attached is proving to be almost impossible.
Prologue
Ama knew how he had gotten into this situation. The Yarokai had excellent noses, so sniffing him out, tracking him down, and capturing him had been far easier than in most of the places Ama went to sneak around. Even his magic hadn’t been enough to prevent his capture, warning him too late that he should have taken his chances heading for the border rather than holing up and trying to hide.
What Ama didn’t know was how he was going to get out of this with his head still attached to the rest of his body. The Yarokai were, in general, a suspicious bunch, insular, and parochial. Any strangers in the cities within the country of Yaroi received extra scrutiny. Tracking them all had to be difficult, since the majority of Yaroi’s cities were coastal trade cities along the Eiroi Strait with merchants, sailors, and travelers from other countries coming and going constantly. They were the main entry port to the rest of the continent for land-based travel too, so Yaroi always had caravans of foreigners crossing through.
Ama had planned to blend in. He arrived at Yaroi’s capital city of Yari with a merchant caravan, acting as a guard to deter thieves, and then spent plenty of time each day visibly working to negotiate a contract to leave Yaroi with a different caravan. Only in the quiet hours around noon, when any good Yarokian was meditating and business was never conducted, or in the dark of night, had Ama tried sneaking around.
He had never failed so miserably.
Sensory deprivation was the worst sort of punishment for a Yarokai, so Ama’s cell didn’t have any windows to allow light or air in. The door was thick wood with only a small flap at the bottom to push meals through. While depriving sight, sound, and smell might be particularly terrible for the Yarokai, it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for Ama either, especially since he was basically convicted before they could put him on stage for a sham trial.
At least Ama would go to his execution knowing his last mission had been successful. Queen Trina would be relieved to know that much. Aunt Millie would be sad to know he was gone, although given her abilities, she probably already knew he was in trouble. She was too far away to help, though, so Ama wasn’t counting on that. Aunt Millie knew better too. In her four years since taking the throne in Namin, she had become a good and trustworthy ruler, and Namin was beginning to return to prosperity. She wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that, including engaging with Yaroi on his behalf, particularly after what he had just done. Even if Yaroi didn’t use military assets to attack Namin, they controlled the trade from the Eiroi Strait. If they leveled extra tariffs on Namese goods or simply refused to allow Namese goods to be traded through Yaroi ports, Namin’s economy would backslide. No, Ama was definitely on his own there.
At least Ama had visited home recently, to see all his aunts, uncles, and cousins, and had visited Namin too. Seeing Aunt Millie was always fun. She had been too busy at the time to really talk though. The last time Ama had actually sat down with her alone for more than a hurried lunch, before she went on to her next meeting and Ama returned to work, had been four years ago, right after her coronation. Ama had hoped her words at the time meant he had a happy future in front of him, but now he knew better. She had meant he shouldn’t worry about his future because he would be executed before he had a chance to actually achieve his dreams.
“If you want my advice, I think you should continue adventuring on Prince Braxton’s behalf. Have some fun for a few more years, and maybe someday you’ll find whatever it is you’re actually searching for.”
Even Toval, who had assigned him this delicate mission, wouldn’t be able to save him. They couldn’t admit they had sent him to Yaroi, that they were involved at all, nor that they knew Ama even existed—all for the same reasons Namin wouldn’t dare help Ama. No, Ama had to take complete responsibility for this fiasco. That was the only way to save Toval and Namin, as well as to ensure the last parts of this mission were successful.
Ama shifted on the hard stone bench, the only furniture in his cell, and leaned against the rock wall, attempting to get as comfortable as possible. He tried to focus on happier memories as he waited to die.
The first time he had seen Prince Braxton, looking so strong and powerful on a horse as he rode through Ama’s home village. Ama making the decision to help Prince Braxton any way he could and going about gathering information so he could convince Braxton to hire him. The second time he had seen Braxton, he had snuck into Braxton’s camp and startled him. Once Braxton calmed down, Ama had managed to convince Braxton Ama was only there to share information. That memory made him smile.
Another of his favorite memories was more recent. Namin’s aggressions against Toval had grown too much, so Toval had decided to intervene by sending troops to support a coup. Braxton had asked if Ama might be able to find someone suitable to sit on the Namin throne after they removed the king of the time, which meant finding someone capable of wielding Namin’s royal magic. Ama had traveled only a few hours before finding Aunt Millie, who had chosen to come to him, to support Ama in Ama’s quest to help Braxton in any way the Tovalians needed. Now Aunt Millie was Queen Carmillian of Namin.
Ama couldn’t say how much time passed as he sat in the tiny prison cell, inwardly focused on his memories —a couple days, at least, but he couldn’t be sure. Food came, but not at regular intervals, so Ama couldn’t use that to gauge time. After what felt like a very, very long time, he finally heard the scrape as the lock was turned. The door opened with a slow groan, the light beyond almost blinding Ama. He blinked, trying to clear the spots from his vision, and a grinning guard eventually came into view. A pair of manacles in his hands were held out in Ama’s direction.
“Your punishment has been decided,” the guard stated as Ama stood and walked over to the door, arms outheld for the guard to place the manacles around Ama’s wrists. He didn’t say anything more, instead, shoving Ama forward so he stood in the middle of a circle of guards. They walked for a while, the floor sloping slowly upward, only the torches set into the walls at intervals supplying any light. The group paused when they reached a door, then waited for the guard in front to unlock it and pull the door open. He stepped aside and waved for Ama to go through first.
The guards and the excited crowd surrounding the perimeter of the stone-flagged amphitheater just outside the door let Ama get a good look at his punishment for a few long moments. Eager anticipation emanated from the crowd as they let him take it all in. Ama swallowed hard, but his resolve was firm. He would complete his mission no matter what they did to him.
“Anytime you want to tell us everything, this will stop,” the guard growled in Ama’s ear.
“There’s nothing to tell. I didn’t do anything wrong,” Ama replied. He tried to sound unconcerned, but his throat was dry and stomach clenched. He had hoped for a quick hanging or beheading, not a slow death like this, but either way, he would endure–for the sake of everyone he had to protect.
When Mell Eight was in high school, she discovered dragons. Beautiful, wondrous creatures that took her on epic adventures both to faraway lands and on journeys of the heart. Mell wanted to create dragons of her own, so she put pen to paper. Mell Eight is now known for her own soaring dragons, as well as for other wonderful characters dancing across the pages of her books. While she mostly writes paranormal or fantasy stories, she has been seen exploring the real world once or twice.
Twenty-two-year-old Simon White begs for a place on Captain Dinesh Martin’s pirate ship, the Arrow. When he proves hilariously inadequate at most tasks, he finds himself in the captain’s quarters as cabin boy, housekeeper, and bed warmer.
Captain Martin used to be a British naval officer, until he became disenchanted with the hypocrisy, racism, and classism of the institution and embarked on a life of piracy. He runs an organized and efficient vessel and prides himself on the men with whom he surrounds himself. He is esteemed and admired, and he gives them as good a life as they’ve ever known.
But Simon has more than a few surprises up his sleeve, including some frightening powers, and Dinesh learns that sometimes a pretty appearance and amenable disposition can fool even an experienced man of the seas.
The bustling port city on the southern shores of Jamaica ran with booty and blood. The Brethren of the Coast or, more familiarly, men of dubious employ, otherwise known as pirates, came to the city to trade the goods they had amassed at sea in questionable circumstances. Of course, there was honour among thieves and all of that, but there were also short tempers and ravenous appetites for more than food and good ale.
Food and ale…
I licked my cracked lips and huddled deeper into the threadbare jacket I’d pulled off a washing line an hour earlier. It was the only clean thing on me, in fact. My other garments were stained and filthy, like my frigid skin.
So far, this coastal town hadn’t fulfilled its imaginary promise of a fresh and welcome start. I’d left the town of my birth to embark on a new life, thinking that my luck might be better in Port Royal.
Born in Spanish Town to missionary parents, I had been orphaned at twelve, following a calamity that had left them dead, and I was lucky enough to have been taken in by a friend of my mother’s, who saw to it to educate and care for me as best he could. My life was decent, though dull, until the age of twenty-one when he died of yellow fever, and I was forced to look to my own means for survival. I should have found my own way before that advanced age, but Carago had enjoyed looking out for me, since his wife had died in birthing his only son, who had lived for three days before following her.
Perhaps my childlike attitude and spoilt sense of entitlement were due to Carago’s fatherly indulgences, although innocence had flown from me long before his passing.
So far, in Port Royal, I’d been attacked at knifepoint by a fearsome fellow the night after I’d arrived and also robbed of all my belongings but for a meagre allotment of coin that I’d hidden in my boot. He’d left me with a sore shoulder, a black eye, and a newfound respect for, and fear of, strange men.
In Spanish Town, my encounters with strange men had been more cordial, although nothing I would ever have described to Carago, who, to my bad luck, had held a similar attitude to those of my father and wider society. An unruly mop of red hair and a face full of freckles had ensured me a boyish countenance that I’d likely retain into middle age—God willing I got there to enjoy the benefit. Men liked the look of me, to be frank, and I hadn’t lacked for companionship, although only in brief, physical bursts that had still proved rewarding.
I’d heard of the Brethren of the Coast—supposedly a breed of men who’d taken to a life of piracy with a different kind of philosophy, holding themselves to a higher standard than the average swashbuckling vagabond. If these visionaries did, in fact, exist, and if I could find one of them and beg for a place aboard his ship, perhaps I could prove my worth and gain passage off this pisspot of an island. A life at sea was a much better prospect than one on land at this point, and I was ready for an adventure.
I ducked into a tavern called The Penny Whistle to get out of the rain that now came in torrents, but not before I became soaked to the skin and chilled further. Quite a sorry thing to be so adrift at twenty-two, bedraggled and wet and without prospects.
The tavern was warm, at least, and nobody turned me out. A fire roared and crackled in a large hearth, in front of which a motley group of strangely attired men were seated at tables, their attention captured by an imposing figure who stood with his elbow on the mantle as he regaled them with animated voice and gestures.
I slunk to a stool by the bar and sat, my stomach cramping as the scent of cooking food filled my nostrils. I soon found myself as transfixed as the others.
The man was everything a pirate captain ought to be.
He was of indefinable race—likely a mixture of at least two. He was exceptionally handsome in a way far beyond his physical appearance, which was unique and appealing. And he was an excellent orator, regaling his audience with honeyed words and dramatic cadence.
He wore the jacket of a British officer, although the item had seen years of wear, and the badges had been removed, or torn from the cloth. The garment looked fine on him and gave him a ruffled distinction. His shirt and breeches were navy issue as well. He looked more put together than his crew, who sported the mismatched garb of unaligned men of the sea. He had the accent of a British officer and the elocution of a magistrate.
The serving wench made her presence known, approaching the captain, laughing in the way women do when they want a man to think of them fondly. But as far as I could tell, her charms weren’t working upon him.
The crew was another matter.
“Oy, my darling, come here and perch on me knee awhile,” a heavyset fellow suggested, leering at the young woman and waggling his eyebrows.
“Now, now, Mister Denbrooke. What would your wife think?” the captain said with an indulgent smile.
“My wife, Captain Martin,” Mr Denbrooke said, “is probably spreading her ample thighs for the butcher and the baker at the moment. So she wouldn’t care a damn.”
Captain Martin. I’d been right in my supposition.
“Oh, go on,” the girl said and flounced to the bar where she frowned and pretended to be unaffected by the captain’s disinterest.
Everyone laughed and the captain grinned wider.
“Never was able to keep her satisfied,” Mr Denbrooke continued. “I’ve only got one cock, and she likes to have three at once.”
The men laughed and Captain Martin nodded.
“Hmm. Well, I can’t fault your wife for that,” he said.
The men laughed harder and some even hooted, and my foggy brain couldn’t keep up.
I concentrated on dealing with the hunger pangs that assailed me and rehearsed ways I could approach this formidable man who took up space with such entitled ease.
“Hello, my name is Simon White. I’d like a position on your ship.” Or, perhaps I should say, “Simon White here. You gotta place for me on board?” or “I’m strong and quick—when I’m fed, at least—Are you taking on crew?”
None of these were likely to get me what I needed, so I sat there, suffering, whilst they shoveled beef stew into their gobs and tore up whole loaves of bread to devour amongst themselves. My mouth became dry as I watched. What I wouldn’t do for an ale or even a paltry glass of water.
There were things I’d thought about doing. Things that men paid dearly for in the back alleys and the whorehouses. But I couldn’t bear the thought of trading an activity I enjoyed so much for food and drink or coin. I hadn’t gotten to a point so desperate to fall into that. If I could only get onto Captain Martin’s ship, I wouldn’t have to contemplate a life of whoredom.
AE Lister is a Canadian non-binary author with a vivid imagination and a head full of unique and interesting characters. They write explicit, adult LGBTQ+ romance. They also write much less graphic Young Adult LGBTQ+ romance under Alison Lister.
Brimstone & Blades Maria Alexander Publication date: June 3rd 2025 Genres: Fantasy, Historical, Young Adult
It’s 1689. Sixteen-year-old Julie de Maupin is on the run with her boyfriend, a young swordmaster named Sérannes. They perform sword fights and songs in taverns to survive. But when a diabolical creature kills Sérannes, it also injures Julie in the attack. Plunged into the dangerous world of French magic, Julie needs to return to Paris to find the great magician that can heal her devastating wound so she can avenge Sérannes’s death. On the way, she finds the creature is controlled by a necromantic coven called the Shadow Holders. Defeated during the Affair of the Poisons, they’ve returned but this time with traitors in the royal court to crush Louis XIV and terrorize France. With her found family of magical and moggie misfits, Julie must use her sword, wits, and gender-bending wiles to send the threat back to Hell. But will they be enough? Magic is illegal, and so is dueling. But that won’t stop La Maupin.
Maria Alexander is an Amazon #1 Bestseller of Young Adult Horror. Her short stories and nonfiction essays have appeared in numerous publications and acclaimed anthologies alongside living legends such as David Morrell and Heather Graham.
Her debut novel, MR. WICKER, won the 2014 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel. Her first YA novel, SNOWED, won the 2016 Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a Young Adult Novel, and was nominated for the 2017 Anthony Award for Best Children’s/YA Novel.
She lives in Los Angeles with two ungrateful cats, a Jewish Christmas caroler, and a purse called Trog.
A combat pilot and his magically-inclined mechanic discover the limits of loyalty, love, and friendship when they’re tasked with tracking down magical artifacts popping up around WWI’s Western Front.
Title: The Shards of Lafayette: Drops of Glass Book 1
Author: Kenneth A. Baldwin
Pages: 380
Genre: Historical Fantasy
1918. France. Reports of unexplained rogue attacks have come in from both sides of the Western Front.
When Marcus Dewar is tasked with investigating the aerial bombardments, it’s not because of his aviation record. To make a name for himself, he will have to escort his best friend, a woman named Jane Turner known for her witchlike repairs on damaged aircraft, through some of the war’s most dangerous battle zones.
But when they learn the rogue pilots seek out arcane devices filled with magic powerful enough to alter the war, it will take more than some hedgewitch tactics and smart flying to return with their lives.
And in a conflict that values human life so little, that’s the least they have to lose.
“I Convinced Mustermann to leave them here as a sign of good faith.” Smith’s eyes glossed with a peculiar sheen. He laughed to himself and whispered. “I’ll be damned, but they work.”
I stared, grasping now for the first time the importance of Smith’s experiment.
“You watched the fight through the goggles?” I asked.
“Hardly thought to grab them when the bomber showed up, but I’m sure glad I did.”
Marcus squirmed beside me.
“What do you mean they work?” he asked, a trace of anger on the edge of his voice.
“I mean that while Private Whiskey pulled his risky spiral, it just so happened to coincide with the German’s bottom gun jamming.”
“How do you know?” Marcus stammered.
But we all knew, at least after the fact. The bloated pause before Lufbery opened fire—a gun jam would explain it. A flash of sympathy for the pilots raced through me. How they must have panicked when they realized…
“It’s just like Mustermann said,” Smith replied, tossing the goggles brusquely to Marcus. “There’s something inside of you that goes off. And as you believe it, the plane gets a bit of a glow to it. Like the glow of a Christmas tree from down the hall after too many drinks. Hazy like, almost blurry. It’s like you could swear someone was shining a blue flashlight on the jammed gun.”
I turned to Marcus. Part of me wanted to flaunt how I’d been right, that the magic was real, but the danger of the immediate situation cut the wind from my sails. Instead, I hoped he would at least see reason. He saw red.
“Luf downed that plane because he’s the best pilot we have.”
Smith raised his eyebrows.
“Best American pilot, you mean.”
“Best Allied pilot.”
“Not by the numbers,” Smith said flatly.
“Then forget the numbers,” Marcus spat back, his voice raising.
I furrowed my brow.
“Marcus, you have to start believing. Why else would the Germans send a bomber after Mustermann if not to keep him quiet? These goggles are important. This mission is important. They must be on to something.”
“On to what?” Marcus asked. He shook his head “What? Blue flyers and special goggles? Smith, what if this is all part of a larger cup and ball routine? If I were Ludendorff, one of my top priorities would be finding a way to make the other Allied commanders lose faith in General Pershing. Isn’t this type of goose chase exactly the thing to accomplish that?”
“You think the Germans would sacrifice a Gotha bomber in a show of pageantry? Have you lost your mind?” I asked incredulously.
“I appreciate the point you’re trying to make, Marcus. But like it or not, she’s right.” He looked at the goggles with a faraway frown. “It’s too many validations. I don’t know if those goggles are some kind of military innovation or if they’re the product of some devious enchantment or what, but they worked for me just now. Could it be that the Gotha had some type of technology synched up with these goggles to show me what I expected to see? Maybe. But that’s not technology our government has any idea how to replicate.”
“But, sir—”
Sharp shouts from Dupont and Atkins cut short our conversation. Calls for help mixed with rudimentary commands in German.
“This day keeps getting better,” Smith said as he peered through the trees toward the wreckage. “The pilot survived.”
– Excerpted from The Shards of Lafayette: Drops of Glass Book 1 by Kenneth A. Baldwin, Eburnean Books, 2023. Reprinted with permission.
Guest Post
The Inspiration Behind The Shards of Lafayette by Kenneth A. Baldwin
Somehow, I got my hands on a copy of the personal diaries of Lieutenant Colonel Georges Thenault. It’s difficult to say what drew me into the pages, but I don’t doubt that somewhere inside of me a boyhood fascination with Charles Schultz’s Snoopy going wing to wing with the Red Baron lives on.
Thenault was the captain of a volunteer fighter squadron in WWI called the Lafayette Escadrille at a time when they didn’t even know to call them fighter squadrons yet. A group of American guys left their Ivy League educations to go and help France in its war against Germany. Many of them started as ambulance drivers, but somehow they ended up in airplanes. Thenault, a French officer, was assigned captain of this group, who wanted to name themselves the American Escadrille, but due to the United States’ neutrality, couldn’t do so without invoking the German ire and threatening relations between France and Uncle Sam.
Instead, they conjured up a name from the memory of the Marquis de Lafayette, a similarly young guy who gave up similarly great wealth to come and volunteer for the American Revolutionary War.
I found reading Thenault’s firsthand account of managing this rowdy group of young men nothing short of magical, as I did the rudimentary and clumsy exploration of motorized flight, something that had been discovered by mankind only a decade earlier.
The Lafayette Escadrille captured my attention as firmly as it captured international attention during WWI. I wanted to explore the human magic that drove so many pilots like them to take to the skies and risk everything for the great game of combat aviation.
But beyond that, the bonds of friendship and love between fellow pilots, even when they were on opposite sides of the war, are so strong that they still have emotional power today.
So, I set out to tell a story about a young man who wanted glory as a combat pilot and his best friend, a woman known for her magical aviation repairs.
I wrote the novel while in isolation during COVID, and I wanted to see how far friendship could stretch, to examine how important it really is to the human experience, by placing it under enormous, arcane pressure.
I also wanted to represent WWI in a way that is often neglected. I’ve had many readers refer to Drops of Glass as a “cozy war story,” and I don’t know if I’d go that far, but I’m proud of the moniker. It means that I was able to represent the human experience in the war out of the trenches in a meaningful way. Hopefully, those who read it can remember that the men and women who fought between 1914 and 1918 were more than lice-covered trench rats.
They are what we are built upon.
About the Author
Kenneth A. Baldwin writes stories that blur the lines between history, magic, dreams, and reality. He loves finding oddities in history books with unbelievable tales or unexplained phenomena. His first series, The Luella Winthrop Trilogy, takes place during just such a time when late 19th-century Victorians struggled to balance a surge of occultism and never-before-seen scientific advancements.
Before he started writing novels, Kenny paid his way through law school by writing, performing, and teaching humor. You can still catch him on stage or in corners of the Internet that feature sketch and improv comedy. Now, he lives nestled under the Wasatch Mountains with his wonderful wife, sons, and Golden Retriever.
Book Title: Conquist Author: Dirk Strasser Publication Date: September 1st, 2024 Publisher: Roundfire Books Pages: 360 Genre: Historical Fantasy
Capitán Cristóbal de Varga’s drive for glory and gold in 1538 Peru leads him and his army of conquistadors into a New World that refuses to be conquered. He is a man torn by life-long obsessions and knows this is his last campaign.
What he doesn’t know is that his Incan allies led by the princess Sarpay have their own furtive plans to make sure he never finds the golden city of Vilcabamba. He also doesn’t know that Héctor Valiente, the freed African slave he appointed as his lieutenant, has found a portal that will lead them all into a world that will challenge his deepest beliefs. And what he can’t possibly know is that this world will trap him in a war between two eternal enemies, leading him to question everything he has devoted his life to – his command, his Incan princess, his honor, his God.
In the end, he faces the ultimate dilemma: how is it possible to battle your own obsessions . . . to conquer yourself?
Huarcay had no sense of being watched when he made his way through the darkness. Why would he? He had done this many times since the company left Machu Picchu. The wind had abated and had left a biting chill behind. After entering a small tent on the northern edge of the encampment, he carefully tied the entrance and lit a candle.
He placed a jug of corn beer and a plate of roasted guinea pig at the feet of a dark figure propped up on a low wooden bench. “I’ve brought you fresh chicha, Grandfather, and the cuy has been cooked in the earth oven until it’s soft and sweet.”
The dark figure seemed to nod in response as it contemplated Huarcay with bottomless eyes.
“We’ve finally had the news we have been waiting for, Grandfather,” said Huarcay. “The chaski has been sighted and the bearded ones are preparing to follow.”
He reached down and started taking off the dark figure’s sandals. “But as usual, I’m too absorbed in my own concerns, Grandfather. How are you? Have the servants still been treating you well?”
He held one of the figure’s feet in his hands and started rubbing it. “You’re cold, Grandfather. I’ll ask the servants to bring you an extra blanket.”
The figure’s grimace was almost a smile.
“I’m at the crossroad now, Grandfather. There’s no path back from this decision. I need to know what I’m doing is right.”
He reached out for the figure’s desiccated hand and kissed it. “Whisper the words to me.”
Huarcay stood up and leaned forward, his cheek touching the mummy of his long-dead grandfather. He lowered his voice so that not even the wind could capture it. “Grandfather, give me your wisdom.”
The air around Huarcay froze and the words echoed inside his head.
You are worthy. Do what will make you great.
Huarcay smiled and kissed the mummy on the lips.
Author Bio:
Dirk Strasser’s epic fantasy trilogy The Books of Ascension—Zenith, Equinox and Eclipse—was published in German and English, and his short stories have been translated into several European languages. “The Doppelgänger Effect” appeared in the World Fantasy Award-winning anthology Dreaming Down Under. He is the co-editor of Australia’s premier science-fiction and fantasy magazine, Aurealis.
Dirk was born in Germany but has lived most of his life in Australia. He has written a series of best-selling school textbooks, trekked the Inca trail to Machu Picchu and studied Renaissance history. “Conquist” was first published as a short story in the anthology Dreaming Again (HarperCollins). The serialized version of Conquist was a finalist in the Aurealis Awards Best Fantasy Novel category. Dirk’s screenplay version of Conquist won the Wildsound Fantasy/Sci-Fi Festival Best Scene Reading Award and was a featured finalist in the Cinequest Film & Creativity Festival and the Creative World Awards.
In the ruins of a fallen Empire, the first ever female pilot takes part in a flying boat race to free her people from the foreign oppression…
Title: The Flying Barons of Negriponte (The Aether Empire Book 1)
Author: James Calbraith
Publication Date: September 20, 2023
Pages: 134
Genre: Historical Fantasy/Candlepunk
They killed her father. They took her ship. But nothing will stop Ikaria’s vengeance.
Forty years since Constantinople fell to the Venetian flying citadels, high-altitude Aether racing is the favoured pastime of bored, wealthy Latin nobles. Ikaria, proud daughter of a legendary Aether engineer and one of the best racing pilots in the Aegean, is determined to uncover the truth behind her father’s mysterious disappearance at the end of the last Grande Regatta of Negriponte.
Driven by the thirst of vengeance and pursuit of engineering excellence in equal measures, Ikaria vows to win the next Regatta herself – and to find out what really happened to her father. But there’s a catch: a new Imperial edict bars her, and anyone not of noble blood, from taking part in Aether races. To her rescue comes Sire Mikhael of Chiarenza – an enigmatic handsome young Greek turncoat in the service of new Latin masters. His motivations unclear, the source of his funds and supplies a secret, Ikaria nonetheless agrees to accept his help: together, they set out to challenge the supremacy of the six Hexarchs, the infamous Flying Barons of Negriponte.
A black-headed gull landed on the bowsprit. It glanced around, confused as to why a small, sleek sailboat suddenly appeared in its path in the middle of a billowing cloud hundreds of feet above the surface of the sea. Its eyes met Ikaria’s; the bird squawked in indignation and spread its wings as if to protest this sin against God and nature. A sudden, violent gust pushed it off the spar. Still squawking in disgust, the gull continued on its way while the boat pushed onwards, deeper into the cloud and out the other side.
A white-washed dot of Saint Elijah’s chapel appeared among the rocky outcrops, marking the eastern end of the Chalcis Pass. Ikaria reached under her tunic and took out a small brass key, inlaid with a piece of ruby glass, hung on a silver chain at her neck. Gingerly, she inserted it into a slot in the side of the Caput Chamber and turned it a quarter to the right. A conduit linking the Inhibitor Retort with the Tribikos Manifold hissed, indicating a forming air gap. She turned the spigot in the nozzle, releasing half a dram of the Inhibitor into the Sublimation Aludel. It took another few moments for the reaction to start. She turned to the Hygroscope and observed the four liquids behind the pane of rock crystal: a mixture of quicksilver, aqua fortis, brine and fish oil, each coloured with a different hue of vitriol, indicated the proportion of gaseous Quintessence – the Naviferous Aether – in the air under the hull. The liquids bubbled behind the crystal, reacting to a sudden change in pressure, then stabilised at the new levels, layer upon layer, at their respective measuring notches carved in the crystal pane. And then – a new layer emerged where there shouldn’t be one: a fifth, ruby-coloured liquid filled out the unmarked space between the quicksilver and aqua fortis.
– Excerpted from The Flying Barons of Negriponte by James Calbraith, Flying Squid, 2023. Reprinted with permission.
Guest Post:
How Punk is your Candle?
From its origin, the term ‘steampunk’ was tongue-in-cheek. A play on ‘cyberpunk’ invented only because cyberpunk was a popular genre at the time (early 1980s), it was always more about the ‘steam’ component – the aesthetics and fashions of Victorian industrial era, the steam engines, the top hats, the airships, the pipes, valves and pulleys, the brass, leather and glass – than the actual ‘punk’.
The ‘punk’ of cyberpunk had a clear meaning: anarchy, evil corporations, dystopian collapse, sex, drugs and rock’n’roll amid a cyber future. Not so much steampunk: moral dilemmas and philosophical musings often give way to simply looking cool and having romping adventures in a steam-powered mechas, or fighting gothic monsters in a moody mansion. The importance of aesthetics over story could be the reason why steampunk, unlike cyberpunk, is better represented in visual media – animation, graphic novels, video and tabletop games – than literature.
That’s not to say there’s nothing important that steampunk can tell us as a genre. The Victorian era was the time when our modern world was being forged; women fought for their rights, as did the working classes; slavery was finally abolished in the West, but exploitative colonial empires thrived; the entire world became truly interconnected for the first time, with steamers plying the oceans from Tokyo to San Francisco and from Cape Town to Vladivostok; revolutions were slowly brewing that would soon bring the downfall of empires that had lasted for centuries. These are all themes that a good steampunk story should, and will, explore, in all its top-hatted, be-goggled glory.
And then there are all the other ‘-punks’. Like the Watergate building giving a part of its name to all the political scandals since, so did Steampunk help to define all the genres that emphasised retrofuturistic aesthetics. Clockpunk for Renaissance and Da Vinci-inspired mechanisms. Dieselpunk for the 1940s era, with combustion engines replacing steam and black leather trenchcoats instead of frocks. Decopunk for Art Deco. Atompunk for the 1950s – think Fallout, Bioshock. For the age before Clockpunk, the High Middle Ages – in which my new book, “The Flying Barons of Negriponte” is set – no single good term has yet been invented. There’s Candlepunk, which I prefer to use myself, but I’ve heard of Castlepunk, Monkpunk and even Dungeonpunk. Once again, all these terms focus on the aesthetics of the setting: the source of power is alchemy and primitive clockwork; the fighting is done with swords, crossbows and, depending on the fictional century, early gunpowder; the mood is dark, foggy and brooding, all hooded monks in candle-lit rooms and armoured knights sinking in the bogs. But if you can’t find enough of the ‘punk’ element – dystopian social commentary – in the era of crusades, heresies, plagues, robber knights and peasant revolts, are you even trying?
About the Author
James Calbraith is a Poland-born Scottish writer of history-adjacent novels, coffee drinker, Steely Dan fan and avid traveller.
Growing up in communist Poland on a diet of powdered milk, “Lord of the Rings” and soviet science-fiction, he had his first story published at the ripe age of eight. After years of bouncing around Polish universities, he moved to London in 2007 and started writing in English. Now lives in Edinburgh, hoping for an independent Scotland.
His debut historical fantasy novel, “The Shadow of Black Wings“, has reached Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award semi-finals in 2012. “The Year of the Dragon” saga sold over 30,000 copies worldwide.
His new historical fiction saga, “The Song of Ash” has been on top of Amazon’s Bestseller lists in UK for months.
Nice Victorian ladies don’t run off to find legendary lost cities.
Empire of Shadows (Raiders of the Arcana Book 1)
Expected Publication Date: April 2, 2024
Genre: Historical Fantasy/ Gaslamp Fantasy
Nice Victorian ladies don’t run off to find legendary lost cities.
One trifling little arrest shouldn’t have cost Ellie Mallory her job, but it’s only the latest in a line of injustices facing any educated woman with archaeological ambitions.
When Ellie stumbles across the map to a mysterious ancient city, she knows she’s holding her chance to revolutionize Pre-Colombian history. There’s just one teensy complication. A ruthless villain wants it, and Ellie is all that stands in his way.
To race him to the ruins—and avoid being violently disposed of—she needs the help of maverick surveyor Adam Bates, a snake-wrangling rogue who can’t seem to keep his dratted shirt on.
But there’s more than Ellie’s scholarly reputation (and life) on the line. Her enemies aren’t just looters. They’re after an arcane secret rumored to lie in the heart of the ruins, a mythical artifact with a power that could shake the world.
Between stealing trousers, plummeting over waterfalls, and trying not to fall in love with her machete-wielding partner, will Ellie be able to stop the oracle of a lost empire from falling into the wrong hands?
Empire of Shadows is the first book in Jacquelyn Benson’s smart, swashbuckling Raiders of the Arcana series. Read it now and dive into a rip-roaring historical fantasy adventure perfect for fans of Romancing the Stone and The Mummy.
“I would advise you, young man, to take care around anyone with the
surname Firefax. I know not if the rumors be true that they be king killers,
but they are, without any doubt, a dangerous family.”
Legend tells of a city of gold on a phantom island. The wealth of that city
could end the American Revolution. But the only person who knows the
island’s location is the world’s deadliest assassin. And
he’s not giving up that secret without a fight . . .
1781. New England.
The world’s oldest family of high-profile assassins, the Firefaxes,
have been killing off dignitaries—and being well-compensated to do
so—for centuries. The family is thrown into turmoil by their
patriarch’s death and the return of their cunning, cruel prodigal,
Murdoch. Murdoch is the only one left who knows where the Firefax wealth is,
kept on a secret island. But Murdoch’s former protégé,
now turned nemesis, Istäni, who is the leader of a British intelligence
network, and Murdoch’s former colleagues from a Continental
intelligence network are looking for that wealth. These spy networks are
bent on tracking down the legendary treasure, whatever the cost, but may
have met their match in this wily, dysfunctional family of killers.
About the Author
A.M. Vergara is a physician assistant and paramedic. When not writing,
reading, or working in the hospital or on the ambulance, she can be found
outside, hiking, camping, riding her mule, foraging for edible mushrooms,
field-herping, or playing her banjo.
