DEL REY AND BANTAM BOOKS 2014 SAMPLER: Excerpts from Current and Upcoming Titles

By George R. R. Martin, Diana Gabaldon, Robin Hobb and 2 more

Discover life-changing worlds, old and new, with this eBook collection of seventeen excerpts from Del Rey and Bantam Books, featuring many of the biggest names and most exciting voices in science fiction and fantasy today.
 
Maybe you’re finally ready to take the plunge into an epic saga such as George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire or Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander. Maybe your inner Star Wars fan lights up at the thought of new novels that expand the canon of the original trilogy. Maybe you’ve been waiting for a sneak peek at the triumphant return of Robin Hobb or Peter F. Hamilton. Or maybe you’re curious about one of the exciting debuts, genre-bending trilogies, or short-story collections that come along every so often and upend everything you think you know about fiction. There’s really no good reason not to check out this sampler.
 
Ranging from space opera and high fantasy to alternate history and twisted fairy tales, this one-of-a-kind eBook includes excerpts from:
 
THE ABYSS BEYOND DREAMS by Peter F. Hamilton
CLASH OF EAGLES by Alan Smale
THE DARWIN ELEVATOR by Jason M. Hough
FOOL’S ASSASSIN by Robin Hobb
A GAME OF THRONES by George R. R. Martin
HALF A KING by Joe Abercrombie
THE LIES OF LOCKE LAMORA by Scott Lynch
OLD VENUS, edited by George R. R. Martin & Gardner Dozois
OUTLANDER by Diana Gabaldon
RED RISING by Pierce Brown
ROGUES, edited by George R. R. Martin & Gardner Dozois
A STUDY IN SILKS by Emma Jane Holloway
STAR WARS: HEIR TO THE JEDI by Kevin Hearne
STAR WARS: LORDS OF THE SITH by Paul S. Kemp
STAR WARS: A NEW DAWN by John Jackson Miller
STAR WARS: TARKIN by James Luceno
UPROOTED by Naomi Novik

• Language: English
• Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
• Release date: Jul 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9780804180924

George R. R. Martin

George R.R. Martin is the author of fifteen novels and novellas, including five volumes of A Song of Ice and Fire, several collections of short stories, as well as screenplays for television and feature films. Dubbed ‘the American Tolkien’, George R.R. Martin has won numerous awards including the World Fantasy Lifetime Achievement Award. He is an Executive Producer on HBO’s Emmy Award-winning Game of Thrones, which is based on his A Song of Ice and Fire series. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

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A Del Rey eBook Original

Compilation copyright © 2014 by Random House, Inc.

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-804-18092-4

This sampler contains excerpts from the following books:

Excerpt from Half a King by Joe Abercrombie © 2014 by Joe Abercrombie

Excerpt from Circle of Fire by Keri Arthur © 2001 by Keri Arthur

Excerpt from The Warded Man by Peter V. Brett © 2009 by Peter V. Brett

Excerpt from The High Druid’s Blade by Terry Brooks © 2014 by Terry Brooks

Excerpt from Red Rising by Pierce Brown © 2014 by Pierce Brown

Excerpt from Luck in the Shadows by Lynn Flewelling © 1996 by Lynn Flewelling

Excerpt from Outlander by Diana Gabaldon © 1991 by Diana Gabaldon

Excerpt from The Abyss Beyond Dreams by Peter F. Hamilton © 2014 by Peter F. Hamilton

Excerpt from Hounded by Kevin Hearne © 2011 by Kevin Hearne

Excerpt from Assassin’s Apprentice by Robin Hobb © 1995 by Robin Hobb

Excerpt from A Study in Silks by Emma Jane Holloway © 2013 by Emma Jane Holloway

Excerpt from The Darwin Elevator by Jason M. Hough © 2013 by Jason Hough

Excerpt from Children of Fire by Drew Karpyshyn © 2013 by Drew Karpyshyn

Excerpt from The Best of All Possible Worlds by Karen Lord © 2013 by Karen Lord

Excerpt from The Lies of Locke Lamora by Scott Lynch © 2006 by Scott Lynch

Excerpt from A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin © 1996 by George R. R. Martin

Excerpt from Old Venus © 2014 by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois

Excerpt from Rogues © 2014 by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois

Excerpt from Blood and Ice by Robert Masello © 2009 by Robert Masello

Excerpt from Railsea by China Miéville © 2012 by China Miéville

Excerpt from Oath of Fealty by Elizabeth Moon © 2010 by Elizabeth Moon

Excerpt from His Majesty’s Dragon by China Naomi Novik © 2006 by Naomi Novik

Excerpt from Uprooted by China Naomi Novik © 2014 by Naomi Novik

Excerpt from Clash of Eagles by Alan Smale © 2014 by Alan Smale

Excerpt from The War That Came Early: Hitler’s War by Harry Turtledove © 2009 by Harry Turtledove

Excerpt from The Best of Connie Willis © 2013 by Connie Willis

Excerpt from Star Wars: A New Dawn by John Jackson Miller copyright © 2014 Lucasfilm

Excerpt from Star Wars: Tarkin by James Luceno copyright © 2014

Excerpt from Star Wars: Heir to the Jedi by Kevin Hearne copyright © 2014

Excerpt from Star Wars: Lords of the Sith by Paul S. Kemp copyright © 2014

Excerpt from Close Reach by Jonathan Moore © 2014 by Jonathan S. Moore

Illustration of the S/V Freefall : Robert Perry, Robert H. Perry Yacht Designers LLC

Excerpt from Full-Blood Half-Breed by Cleve Lamison © 2014 by Cleve Lamison

Excerpt from The Forever Man by Pierre Ouellette © 2014 by Pierre Ouellette

Excerpt from The Faceless One by Mark Onspaugh © 2013 by Mark Onspaugh

Excerpt from Blackwater Lights by Michael M. Hughes © 2013 by Michael M. Hughes

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

These excerpts have been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of their respective forthcoming editions.

www.delreybooks.com

Dear Readers,

Every fan has had the same dream. You know the one. It might be opening an armoire in your grandpa’s country estate and finding fauns having a tea party. Or whirligigging in a magically spacious police box across time and space with a charming fellow in a fez. Or being drawn through a black hole in your galaxy-class spaceship into a parallel universe where you meet your evil goateed doppelganger. It’s the dream of finding a doorway to a new and magical world. But readers also know it’s not just a dream—books can be your magic doorway, and this sampler is  full of portals to new worlds.

Some worlds you may have heard about from fellow travelers and always longed to visit yourself: Be among the millions who have already been enthralled by the bloody, beautiful world of Westeros in George R. R. Martin’s A Game of Thrones. Westerosi veterans can check out stories from anthologies edited by GRRM himself, Old Venus and Rogues. Or join the pilgrimage of Diana Gabaldon fans to romantic, eighteenth-century Scotland with Outlander (soon to be a new television show on STARZ). And then celebrate the joyous homecoming of Robin Hobb’s beloved Fitz and the Fool series, which began with Assassin’s Apprentice and has its first new installment in ten years in the upcoming Fool’s Assassin.

It can be especially wondrous to journey to a fantasy world of myth and legend, dragons and wizards. Joe Abercrombie is one of the true masters of fantasy, and he has conjured a thrilling new world in the Viking-esque kingdom of Half a King. In Uprooted, Naomi Novik brings you to a fairy tale world that both recalls the classics of the Brothers Grimm and modern updates like Maleficent and yet tells a story like none you’ve ever known. And if you’re more of the vagabond highwayman sort of traveler, join the marvelously mischievous thief Locke Lamora in Scott Lynch’s The Lies of Locke Lamora.

Or perhaps the sort of traveling you like is time travel—this sampler will also take you into the magical history of our world. Meet Sherlock Holmes’ brilliant, witty, magical mystery–solving niece in Emma Jane Holloway’s A Study in Silks. And in Clash of Eagles, Alan Smale re-imagines the history of our nation—if the Roman Empire had come to our shores and battled with Native Americans.

Then take this pocket-sized time machine to the future, with Pierce Brown’s Red Rising, and join the Sons of Ares in overthrowing an oppressive ruling class on Mars. Or join Captain Skyler Luiken’s  ragtag crew of scavengers in the post-apocalyptic space adventure The Darwin Elevator. And then there’s the mind-expanding Commonwealth saga of Peter F. Hamilton, whose Abyss Beyond Dreams will take you across the universe and back again.

But sometimes the most memorable journeys are to a place that we think we know well but learn to see in a whole new way. Here are first looks at four new Star Wars novels, the first to tie in to the new film continuity: Lords of the Sith by Paul S. Kemp, exploring the relationship between Vader and the Emperor; Heir to the Jedi by Kevin Hearne of Iron Druid fame, following Luke Skywalker’s adventures between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back; a look at Tarkin, the mysterious legend from James Luceno, who brought Darth Plagueis to life; and John Jackson Miller’s A New Dawn by John Jackson Miller, an original prequel to Star Wars: Rebels.

All these excerpts and much, much more are included within these pages.  So step into that plutonium-powered sports car, leap on the back of a mighty dragon, and beam yourself up to your spaceship—it’s time to discover new worlds you’ll never forget.

—The Del Rey Editors and Staff

Half A King

by Joe Abercrombie

Joe Abercrombie is one of the gods of epic fantasy—and on July 8, he unleashes his best book yet. Half a King is the story of Yarvi, the unlikely heir to the throne—a clever, thoughtful boy with a crippled hand who feels out of place in a violent, Viking-like society. But when his father is murdered, Yarvi becomes the king—and begins a journey that will change him, and the kingdom, forever.

"Half a King is my favorite book by Abercrombie so far, and that’s saying

something."—Patrick Rothfuss, New York Times bestselling author of The Wise Man’s Fear

1.

THE GREATER GOOD

There was a harsh gale blowing on the night Yarvi learned he was a king. Or half a king, at least.

A seeking wind, the Gettlanders called it, for it found out every chink and keyhole, moaning Mother Sea’s dead chill into every dwelling, no matter how high the fires were banked or how close the folk were huddled.

It tore at the shutters in the narrow windows of Mother Gundring’s chambers and rattled even the iron-bound door in its frame. It taunted the flames in the firepit and they spat and crackled in their anger, casting clawing shadows from the dried herbs hanging, throwing flickering light upon the root that Mother Gundring held up in her knobbled fingers.

And this?

It looked like nothing so much as a clod of dirt, but Yarvi had learned better. Black-tongue root.

And why might a minister reach for it, my prince?

A minister hopes they won’t have to. Boiled in water it can’t be seen or tasted, but is a most deadly poison.

Mother Gundring tossed the root aside. Ministers must sometimes reach for dark things.

Ministers must find the lesser evil, said Yarvi.

And weigh the greater good. Five right from five. Mother Gundring gave a single approving nod and Yarvi flushed with pride. The approval of Gettland’s minister was not easily won. And the riddles on the test will be easier.

The test. Yarvi rubbed nervously at the crooked palm of his bad hand with the thumb of his good.

You will pass.

You can’t be sure.

It is a minister’s place always to doubt—

But always to seem certain, he finished for her.

See? I know you. That was true. No one knew him better, even in his own family. Especially in his own family. I have never had a sharper pupil. You will pass at the first asking.

And I’ll be Prince Yarvi no more. All he felt at that thought was relief. I’ll have no family and no birthright.

You will be Brother Yarvi, and your family will be the Ministry. The firelight found the creases about Mother Gundring’s eyes as she smiled. Your birthright will be the plants and the books and the soft word spoken. You will remember and advise, heal and speak truth, know the secret ways and smooth the path for Father Peace in every tongue. As I have tried to do. There is no nobler work, whatever nonsense the muscle-smothered fools spout in the training square.

The muscle-smothered fools are harder to ignore when you’re in the square with them.

Huh. She curled her tongue and spat into the fire. Once you pass the test you only need go there to tend a broken head when the play gets too rough. One day you will carry my staff. She nodded towards the tapering length of studded and slotted elf-metal which leaned against the wall. One day you will sit beside the Black Chair, and be Father Yarvi.

Father Yarvi. He squirmed on his stool at that thought. I lack the wisdom. He meant he lacked the courage, but lacked the courage to admit it.

Wisdom can be learned, my prince.

He held his left hand, such as it was, up to the light. And hands? Can you teach those?

You may lack a hand, but the gods have given you rarer gifts.

He snorted. My fine singing voice, you mean?

Why not? And a quick mind, and empathy, and strength. Only the kind of strength that makes a great minister, rather than a great king. You have been touched by Father Peace, Yarvi. Always remember: strong men are many, wise men are few.

No doubt why women make better ministers.

And better tea, in general. Gundring slurped from the cup he brought her every evening, and nodded approval again. But the making of tea is another of your mighty talents.

Hero’s work indeed. Will you give me less flattery when I’ve turned from prince into minister?

You will get such flattery as you deserve, and my foot in your arse the rest of the time.

Yarvi sighed. Some things never change.

Now to history. Mother Gundring slid one of the books from its shelf, stones set into the gilded spine winking red and green.

Now? I have to be up with Mother Sun to feed your doves. I was hoping to get some sleep before—

I’ll let you sleep when you’ve passed the test.

No you won’t.

You’re right, I won’t. She licked one finger, ancient paper crackling as she turned the pages. Tell me, my prince, into how many splinters did the elves break God?

Four hundred and nine. The four hundred Small Gods, the six Tall Gods, the first man and woman, and Death, who guards the Last Door. But isn’t this more the business of a prayer-weaver than a minister?

Mother Gundring clicked her tongue. All knowledge is the business of the minister, for only what is known can be controlled. Name the six Tall Gods.

Mother Sea and Father Earth, Mother Sun and Father Moon, Mother War and—

The door banged wide and that seeking wind tore through the chamber. The flames in the firepit jumped as Yarvi did, dancing distorted in the hundred hundred jars and bottles on the shelves. A figure blundered up the steps, setting the bunches of plants swinging like hanged men behind him.

It was Yarvi’s Uncle Odem, hair plastered to his pale face with the rain and his chest heaving. He stared at Yarvi, eyes wide, and opened his mouth but made no sound. One needed no gift of empathy to see he was weighed down by heavy news.

What is it? croaked Yarvi, his throat tight with fear.

His uncle dropped to his knees, hands on the greasy straw. He bowed his head, and spoke two words, low and raw.

My king.

And Yarvi knew his father and brother were dead.

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Circle of Fire

by Keri Arthur

Keri Arthur has delighted fans with her Riley Jenson and Dark Angels series, but before Riley she penned a number of other novels which we are now re-editing and releasing to the mainstream market.  The hallmarks of a Keri Arthur novel are strong women, hot men, steamy sex, and a great crime to unravel, and Keri’s older titles have all of this in spades and are every bit as entertaining as her later books.

The latest in our series of reissues is the Damask Circle series, starting with Circle of Fire, and continuing in Circle of Death and Circle of Desire.  The Damask Circle is a secret organization charged with policing the paranormal world, and which serves as the narrative bridge that ties these three stand-alone stories together.  Here we have three different haunted heroines and three different tortured heroes, each finding the other in the midst of mayhem and murder.

So welcome to the Circle with this excerpt of the first book, Circle of Fire.

MADELINE SMITH DIDN’T BELIEVE IN GHOSTS—NOT UNTIL the night Jon Barnett walked into her life, anyway. Maddie drew her legs up to her chest and held them close. Maybe walked was the wrong word to use; his method of movement seemed more like floating.

Outside her bedroom, the branches of an old elm scraped back and forth across the tin roofing. The wind howled around the old house—an eerie cry that matched her mood of anticipation and fear. Snow scurried past the windows, a stark contrast against the blackness of the night.

It felt oddly fitting to be sitting on her bed, waiting for the arrival of a ghost while an early winter storm raged outside.

Only he insisted he wasn’t a ghost at all.

She tugged the blankets over her knees and wondered if she should stoke the fire with a little more wood. Maybe the heat would keep him away. Or maybe he’d gotten tired of his game and simply forgotten about her. She believed that the desperation in his eyes was real enough; she just didn’t believe that he was real.

Perhaps he was just a figment of her imagination—a last, desperate escape from the loneliness of her life.

The clock on the mantel began to chime quietly, and she turned to look at the time. One-thirty. Maybe he had forgotten about her …

Madeline.

She closed her eyes, uncertain whether fear or the unexpected pleasure of hearing the low velvet voice one more time had caused the sudden leap of her heart.

Madeline, he repeated. This time a hint of urgency touched the warmth of his voice.

He stood in the shadows to the left of her window. Despite the storm that raged outside, he wore only a short-sleeved black shirt and dark jeans—the same clothes he’d worn when he had first appeared last night.

Tonight there was something different about him, though.

Tonight he looked afraid.

But he wasn’t real, damn it! How could a ghost feel fear?

"Madeline, you must help me."

She closed her heart to the desperate plea in his voice. What he was asking her to do was impossible.

I can’t. She avoided his gaze and fiddled with the fraying edge of the blanket. I don’t know you. I don’t even believe that you exist. How can you expect me to leave everything I have on the word of a ghost?

You must! The sudden sharpness of his voice made her look up. All I’m asking is for you to travel across the state, not to another country. Why are you so afraid to leave your retreat?

Maddie stared at him. He seemed to understand altogether too much about her. No one else had seen her fear—not even her sister, who was as close to her as Maddie ever allowed anyone to get these days.

There’s nothing wrong with being cautious, she said after a moment.

He studied her, amusement flickering briefly in the diamond-bright depths of his blue eyes. I never said there was. But life has to be lived. You cannot hide forever.

She ignored the sliver of alarm in her heart, ignored the whispers that demanded she ask how he knew so much about her, and raised an eyebrow. And what does a ghost know about such things?

He sighed, running a hand through his overly long hair. In the light of the fire, slivers of gold seemed to flow through his fingers. I’m no ghost, Madeline. But I will be if you don’t help me soon.

Alarm danced through her heart. What do you mean?

He walked across to the fire and held out his hands, as if to capture the warmth of the flames. Hair dusted his arms, golden strands that gleamed in the firelight. His fingers were long and smooth and tanned. Lord, he seemed real—and yet, if she looked closely enough, she could see the glow of the fire through his body.

"I mean that I’m stuck down this damn well, and I can’t get out. I will die, Madeline, unless you help me."

Maddie closed her eyes and tried to stifle the rising spiral of fear. Not for her safety, because she sensed this was one ghost who would cause her no harm. It was just fear of … what? She didn’t know, but there was something about this apparition that made her wary.

Perhaps she should play along with him. Surely he’d eventually tire of his game and leave her alone. Or perhaps she was just going mad, as most of her so-called friends had insisted she would.

Yet those same friends had never understood what she was, or what she was capable of doing. Nor had they ever tried to help her.

Why can’t someone else rescue you? You must have friends. Why don’t you go haunt them?

Believe me, I would if I could.

His tone was dry and left no doubt that he would rather be anywhere else than with her. Bad news when even a damn ghost doesn’t want your company. So why can’t you?

He frowned. I don’t know. Some force keeps driving me toward you. I have no choice in the matter, Madeline. You’re all I have.

And you refuse to help me. The unspoken rebuke was in his eyes when he glanced at her. Maddie bit her lip and looked away, watching the snow continue its dance past her window. Maybe she was going mad. She was beginning to feel sorry for a ghost.

Why would you be able to reach a complete stranger and not anyone of real use to you?

I don’t know.

He hesitated, so she quickly said, If you want my help, you at least owe me the truth.

Fair enough. He turned his back to the fire but kept his hands behind him, as if still trying to warm them. Whatever this force is, it brings with it a sense of danger. And it’s connected with you somehow.

He seemed to say an awful lot without actually saying anything, Maddie noted. Maybe her ghost had been a politician in a former life.

That made everything so much clearer, she said dryly.

He shot her a look that was half amusement, half frustration. Someone close to you is in danger and, somehow, they’re drawing me to you.

Besides her sister Jayne, the only other person who qualified was Jayne’s son, Evan. And if he did have that sort of power, it would be a recent development, meaning it was highly unlikely he’d have the sort of control Jon was suggesting. No, she thought grimly, there was only one uncontrolled misfit left in their small family unit.

So how did you end up in the well?

Someone shot me when I was out exploring. He shrugged. I must have fallen in.

Maddie raised an eyebrow. From what she could see of him, there was remarkably little evidence of a bullet wound. "Then you are dead."

He sighed and closed his eyes. I was hit in the arm. The fall could have killed me, but I was … lucky.

The arm closer to her was a suntanned brown, well muscled and remarkably free of wounds. His hands were still firmly clasped together, which surely wouldn’t be possible if the other arm had a bullet wound. Maybe it was her ghost who was mad, not she.

Why can’t I see any sort of wound, then?

Because I’m here astrally.

That doesn’t really explain why you’re standing there with no wound. Or why she could see him. From the little she knew of astral travel, she shouldn’t have been able to do that, let alone interact with him.

You’re not seeing the wound because I don’t want you to.

Which was probably a good thing, given that she did want to get some sleep tonight. Why don’t you just shout for help?

As I explained before, I can’t take the risk. Someone is out to get me. If they think I’m still alive, they’ll just find me and finish the job.

A chill ran through her. It could have been an accident.

No.

She closed her eyes at the soft certainty in his voice. "Then if I come to help you, my life could be in danger."

How would they know you’re there to help me? You’d just be another tourist passing by.

The sudden weariness in his voice made her look at him. His form had faded slightly, merging with the night. Something was wrong, something more than the fact that he’d been shot. And she sensed that he wouldn’t tell her what. "Who do you mean by they?"

I’m not exactly sure. But someone in this town knew why I was here, and they moved pretty swiftly to get rid of me.

Then tell me again what town you’re in, and why you’re there. If he was going to continue haunting her, she should at least try to understand a little more about him. And last night she’d been too busy trying to convince herself that he was nothing more than a vivid dream to really listen to anything he said.

He stared at her, then shook his head. How many times do I have to repeat myself before you believe me?

His voice held an edge of desperation that made her wince. You mentioned some town—Sherbrook, wasn’t it?

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if battling to remain calm. Sherbrook is the name of the inn. The place is Taurin Bay.

An odd sense of foreboding ran through her. Evan had attended a school camp in Taurin Bay only a month ago. Jayne had gone along as cook and chief pot-washer. That force you said was driving you to me—was it male or female?

Male. He paused, eyes narrowing. Why?

Evan—something told her it was Evan. Maddie licked her lips and wondered if she should call her sister—or was she just worrying over nothing again?

Maddie, what’s wrong?

She stared at him blankly for a moment. My sister has a thirteen-year-old son named Evan. Both of them were in Taurin Bay last month.

Damn! Jon ran a hand through his hair, then abruptly walked forward, stopping only when his knees touched the side of her bed.

He was close, so close. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, feel the whisper of his breath wash across her skin. Could smell him—a faint scent of cologne mixed with hints of earth and sweat. But he wasn’t real, damn it!

"Over the last two years, sixteen teenagers have been taken from their homes and haven’t been seen alive again. In each case, no locks or windows were disturbed. And each time, the teenager was taken on the next full moon after their families returned from Taurin Bay."

Her heart leaped. She raised a hand to her throat and tried to remain calm. Evan is safe at home. This is ridiculous.

Someone is drawing me here, Madeline. Someone who knows he’s in danger. You’re the connection between us. Tonight is a full moon. Go call your sister.

She scrambled off the bed and ran to the bedroom door. Then she hesitated, looking back at Jon. He hadn’t moved, but his body had faded, losing its shape to the darkness. Only his blue eyes were still bright.

Go call her, he said. Then come to me. Save me.

Maddie turned away from his plea, though she knew he wouldn’t be there when she returned. She ran down the hall to the phone in the kitchen, turning on lights as she went. Somehow, the darkness seemed too intense to face alone.

Fingers trembling, she picked up the phone and dialed Jayne’s number. It seemed to ring forever. Maddie bit her lip, hoping nothing had happened, hoping that Evan was in bed and safe.

Hello? a croaky, half-asleep voice said eventually.

Jayne, it’s me, she said without preamble. Is Evan there? Is he all right?

There was a slight pause, and Maddie could hear the rustle of blankets as her sister shifted around in her bed. Of course he is. Why?

Because I’m a fool; because a ghost told me he may be in danger. Humor your little sister and just go check, will you?

Jayne sighed. Maddie, have you been drinking again?

Maddie closed her eyes. Whenever Jayne thought she had a problem, she asked the same question—even though it had been six years and ten days since Maddie had last had a drink. She hadn’t touched alcohol since the fire that had taken her husband’s life. The experts had never found an explanation for that fire, though they had theories aplenty. Maddie knew the truth, but she wasn’t about to tell anyone—not even her sister.

She cleared her throat. No. I had a dream, and I want to reassure myself he’s all right.

For God’s sake, it’s almost two. Annoyance ran through Jayne’s voice, but at least she was still listening. She hadn’t yet slammed the phone down.

I’m well aware of the time. It will only take a minute to check on Evan. Please.

I guess I’d better, her sister muttered, or you’ll be calling all night again.

Maddie heard Steve, Jayne’s husband, murmur something disparaging, then the squeak of springs as Jayne got out of bed. Maddie grimaced, hoping she was overreacting. Hoping Jon wasn’t right. She stared out the kitchen window as she waited, watching the snow flurries dance across her yard. Then she heard the sound of returning footsteps and felt her stomach knot. Please let Evan be safe.

Evan’s sound asleep in bed, Maddie. Jayne’s voice was a mix of exasperation and annoyance. And so should you be.

This time Jayne did hang up on her, but Maddie didn’t mind. Jon had been wrong. Evan was okay. She replaced the receiver, then thrust a shaking hand through her hair as she sagged back against the wall in relief. Maybe Jayne was right. Maybe all she needed was a good night’s sleep—something that had eluded her ever since her world had disappeared into flames.

She closed her eyes, fighting the memories, fighting the sudden need to wash the pain into oblivion with a drink. That chapter of her life was over. She would not return to it, even through memories. And if Jon did come back, she’d tell him to go find someone else to haunt. She wasn’t interested—not if the cost was to make her sister think she was stranger than ever.

HIS ONLY CHANCE OF SURVIVAL WAS A WOMAN AFRAID OF life. Jon shook his head at the irony of it and leaned wearily against the cold stone wall of the well. He’d seen the fear in the amber flame of her eyes, in the tremor in her hands as she ran her fingers through her chestnut-colored hair. She was afraid to move from the safety of her home.

And he would die if she didn’t.

He smiled grimly and stared up at the pale stars twinkling in the dark bracket of sky far above him.

How he wished he could fly, simply wing his way up out of the well to freedom! But with his arm like this, he couldn’t even climb. He glanced down, noting that his flesh had swollen around the handkerchief he’d tied across his forearm.

Someone had shot him, but not with a gun, as Madeline had presumed. Someone in Taurin Bay knew what he was. He’d used arrows made of white ash, a wood that was deadly to those with magic in their souls when embedded in their flesh.

He’d broken off most of the shaft, but a section remained, and while it was probably the only reason he hadn’t bled to death, it was also slowly but surely killing him.

Oddly enough, he felt no pain. Not now, anyway. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the numbness beginning to infuse his body. Or maybe he was as thick-skinned as many of his friends believed.

He grimaced and closed his eyes. He’d thought about dying many times in his life, but he never thought death would come like this, with him lying helpless and alone in the cold, cold night.

And yet, in some ways, it was oddly fitting. He’d spent most of his adult life alone, so why not die the same way?

He wouldn’t have cared much, either, if only he’d had the chance to see his family one more time and explain why he’d avoided them so much over the last ten years.

An owl hooted softly in the distance. He listened carefully, then heard the soft snap of wings, the small cry of a field mouse. If the owls were out looking for a meal, it meant there was no one about to disturb their hunting. And therefore, no one hunting him. Trapped down this damn well, he’d be easy pickings. A day had passed since he’d been shot. By all rights, he should be safe from attackers, but he’d learned over the years never to relax his guard.

He toed the water lapping the edges of the small ledge. The water had been his salvation in more ways than one. It had broken his fall and, no doubt, saved his life. And it was drinkable, which meant he wasn’t in any danger of dehydration. But it might yet kill him, too. His abilities gave him some protection against the cold, but he knew he was starting to push his limits. His plunge into the water had soaked every bit of his clothing, and now he was so cold it hurt to move.

If Madeline did find the courage to come to his rescue, she might discover nothing more than a five-foot-ten-inch icicle.

Madeline—what was he going to do about her? How could he convince her that she was sane and that he really needed her help? What had happened in her life that made her so afraid?

A wave of dizziness hit him, and there was nothing he could do except ride out the feeling. He probably had enough strength left to contact her one more time. If he couldn’t convince her to help him, he’d just have to hope that someone in the Circle realized he was in trouble and came to his rescue.

Because if someone didn’t, more kids would die.

THE SNOW HAD TURNED TO RAIN, WHICH FELL IN A SOAKING mist. Rivers of water were beginning to run past the house, scouring tiny trenches along the freshly graded driveway. The tops of the cedars, claret ashes, and silver birches that crowded the fence line were lost to the mist, and though dawn should have come and gone, night still seemed to hold court.

Maddie raised the coffee mug she held between both hands and took a sip. The wind was bitter, but the wide old verandah protected her from the worst of the storm, and her threadbare coat kept her warm enough. She couldn’t face going indoors just yet. As much as she’d tried to go back to sleep, she couldn’t. The old house suddenly felt too big, too full of ghosts …

Except for one.

She sighed and leaned back against a verandah post. She couldn’t shake Jon from her thoughts. Couldn’t shake the desperation she’d glimpsed in his eyes.

What if he really was in need of her help?

She sipped her coffee and stared out across the snow-flung wilderness of her yard. In a last-ditch effort to salvage her life, she’d moved to Oregon to be a little closer to her sister and nephew, and had bought this house and its untamed three acres six years ago. It had become her haven, the one place she felt truly safe. Or it had until a ghost had started invading her nights.

Still, she had no real wish to be anywhere else. The flowers she raised in the barn she’d converted to a greenhouse made small luxuries possible, and she had enough money invested to see her through the hard times. Even Jayne had given up her efforts to get Maddie back into what she called mainstream life.

Maddie chewed on her lip. The question she had to face was clear. Could she simply stand by and let Jon die?

If she believed him, the answer was no. But that was the crux of the matter. Part of her was afraid to believe, and part of her was afraid not to. She took another sip of coffee and shivered as the wind ran icy fingers across the back of her neck.

Then she stiffened. Something told her she was no longer alone. Slowly, she turned.

Jon stood several feet away, his face as pale as the snow behind him, blue eyes still bright despite the shadows beneath them. He looked like death, and the thought chilled her soul.

What can I do to make you believe me? he asked softly.

There was a hoarseness to his voice that had not been evident a few hours before, an edge of weariness and pain that tore at her need to stay safe.

"Maybe it’s not a case of me believing you. Maybe it’s just a case of knowing I can’t help you."

He ran a hand through his hair and looked away, appearing to study the silvery drops dripping steadily from a hole in the gutter. Then you have killed me as surely as those who shot me, he whispered after a moment.

No! She closed her eyes. How could she ever survive the weight of another death, whether or not it was her fault? Isn’t there someone I could contact, maybe a friend in a better position to help?

My companions live in Washington, D.C., and my time is running out. He looked at her. You’re my only chance, Madeline. Please.

Something in his eyes made her want to reach out and touch him. She clenched her fingers around her coffee cup and turned away, knowing she had to react with her mind—not with her emotions, and definitely not with her heart. They had only led her to tragedy in the past.

Why won’t they suspect me?

You are … ordinary.

Ordinary. She almost laughed at the bitter irony of it. How often had she heard that in the past? No one suspected the truth, not even her own sister.

Madeline, I don’t mean—

It doesn’t matter. She turned to face him. I can’t change what I am. Nor can I deny that I’m afraid. But I just can’t run off wildly without some proof.

He sighed. I’m in no position to prove anything.

Mist drifted around him, darkening his hair where it touched. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel the heat of his body, to hold him close and caress away the lines of pain from his face. Maybe I am insane. I want to touch this ghost in ways I never touched my husband. Shaking her head, she stepped away from him.

Something flickered in his blue eyes, and a slight grimace twisted his generous mouth. It was almost as if he’d sensed the reason for her fear. But that’s ridiculous—he’s a ghost—an astral traveler—not a mind reader. The sharp ring of the telephone interrupted the heavy silence. Maddie glanced at her watch and frowned. It was barely seven. Who would be calling at this hour? She headed inside to answer it, then hesitated, meeting Jon’s steady gaze.

We won’t meet again, he murmured. He reached out, as if to touch her cheek, then let his hand fall. For that, I’m sorry. Stay safe, Madeline.

No … Maddie watched him fade until there was nothing left but the warmth of his voice in her thoughts.

She closed her eyes and fought the rise of tears. Damn it, why should she cry for a ghost when she hadn’t even cried for her husband? She bit her lip and watched the mist swirl around the spot where he’d stood. Maybe because Jon had shown her more warmth in the few hours she’d known him than Brian had ever shown in the six years they were married?

The insistent ringing broke through her thoughts. She took a deep breath, then ran down the length of the verandah to the back door, fleeing her thoughts as much as running for the phone.

Slamming the door open, she snatched the receiver from the hook. Hello?

Maddie?

She froze. It was Jayne … Oh lord, let Evan be safe. Yet the note in her sister’s voice told her something was terribly wrong. What is it?

It’s Evan, Jayne sobbed. He’s disappeared, Maddie. Just gone … without a trace.

Buy the book!

The Warded Man

By Peter V. Brett

Every great hero has an origin story. The Warded Man is the origin story of one of fantasy’s greatest new heroes: Arlen, the fabled Warded Man of the title. In The Warded Man, demons walk the Earth at night, and humankind cowers in walled cities and behind magic wards. But Arlen discovers a way to fight back against the demons—and may be the hero to lead the rise of mankind.

But author Peter V. Brett has an origin story of his own. Whilst humbly toiling for years in the publishing industry, Brett began writing The Warded Man on the subway on his Blackberry—a seven-year epic quest that eventually led to the creation of one of the most exciting new epic fantasies going. Brett began with his lifelong love of classic fantasy like Tolkien and Terry Brooks and then dragged the genre into the modern age with deep characterization, non-stop action, and a tough, gritty, wholly twenty-first century sensibility.

The Warded Man is just the first in the five-book Demon Cycle, and with every book, this epic world grows bigger, deeper, and just plain cooler. The sequels, The Desert Spear and The Daylight War are available now.

CHAPTER 1

AFTERMATH

319 AR

THE GREAT HORN SOUNDED.

Arlen paused in his work, looking up at the lavender wash of the dawn sky. Mist still clung to the air, bringing with it a damp, acrid taste that was all too familiar. A quiet dread built in his gut as he waited in the morning stillness, hoping that it had been his imagination. He was eleven years old.

There was a pause, and then the horn blew twice in rapid succession. One long and two short meant south and east. The Cluster by the Woods. His father had friends among the cutters. Behind Arlen, the door to the house opened, and he knew his mother would be there, covering her mouth with both hands.

Arlen returned to his work, not needing to be told to hurry. Some chores could wait a day, but the stock still needed to be fed and the cows milked. He left the animals in the barns and opened the hay stores, slopped the pigs, and ran to fetch a wooden milk bucket. His mother was already squatting beneath the first of the cows. He snatched the spare stool and they found cadence in their work, the sound of milk striking wood drumming a funeral march.

As they moved to the next pair down the line, Arlen saw his father begin hitching their strongest horse, a five-year-old chestnut-colored mare named Missy, to the cart. His face was grim as he worked.

What would they find this time?

Before long, they were in the cart, trundling toward the small cluster of houses by the woods. It was dangerous there, over an hour’s run to the nearest warded structure, but the lumber was needed. Arlen’s mother, wrapped in her worn shawl, held him tightly as they rode.

I’m a big boy, Mam, Arlen complained. I don’t need you to hold me like a baby. I’m not scared. It wasn’t entirely true, but it would not do for the other children to see him clinging to his mother as they rode in. They made mock of him enough as it was.

"I’m scared, his mother said. What if it’s me who needs to be held?"

Feeling suddenly proud, Arlen pulled close to his mother again as they traveled down the road. She could never fool him, but she always knew what to say just the same.

A pillar of greasy smoke told them more than they wanted to know long before they reached their destination. They were burning the dead. And starting the fires this early, without waiting for others to arrive and pray, meant there were a great many. Too many to pray over each one, if the work was to be complete before dusk.

It was more than five miles from Arlen’s father’s farm to the Cluster by the Woods. By the time they arrived, the few remaining cabin fires had been put out, though in truth there was little left to burn. Fifteen houses, all reduced to rubble and ash.

The woodpiles, too, Arlen’s father said, spitting over the side of the cart. He gestured with his chin toward the blackened ruin that remained of a season’s cutting. Arlen grimaced at the thought of how the rickety fence that penned the animals would have to last another year, and immediately felt guilty. It was only wood, after all.

The town Speaker approached their cart as it pulled up. Selia, whom Arlen’s mother sometimes called Selia the Barren, was a hard woman, tall and thin, with skin like tough leather. Her long gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore her shawl like a badge of office. She brooked no nonsense, as Arlen had learned more than once at the end of her stick, but today he was comforted by her presence. Like Arlen’s father, something about Selia made him feel safe. Though she had never had children of her own, Selia acted as a parent to everyone in Tibbet’s Brook. Few could match her wisdom, and fewer still her stubbornness. When you were on Selia’s good side, it felt like the safest place in the world.

It’s good that you’ve come, Jeph, Selia told Arlen’s father. Silvy and young Arlen, too, she said, nodding to them. We need every hand we can get. Even the boy can help.

Arlen’s father grunted, stepping down from the cart. I brought my tools, he said. Just tell me where we can throw in.

Arlen collected the precious tools from the back of their cart. Metal was scarce in the Brook, and his father was proud of his two shovels, his pick, and his saw. They would all see heavy use this day.

How many lost? Jeph asked, though he didn’t really seem to want to know.

Twenty-seven, Selia said. Silvy choked and covered her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. Jeph spat again.

Any survivors? he asked.

A few, Selia said. Manie—she pointed with her stick at a boy who stood staring at the funeral pyre—ran all the way to my house in the dark.

Silvy gasped. No one had ever run so far and lived. The wards on Brine Cutter’s house held for most of the night, Selia went on. He and his family watched everything. A few others fled the corelings and succored there, until the fires spread and their roof caught. They waited in the burning house until the beams started to crack, and then took their chances outside in the minutes before dawn. The corelings killed Brine’s wife Meena and their son Poul, but the others made it. The burns will heal and the children will be all right in time, but the others …

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Survivors of a demon attack had a way of dying soon after. Not all, or even most, but enough. Some of them took their own lives, and others simply stared blankly, refusing to eat or drink until they wasted away. It was said you did not truly survive an attack until a year and a day had passed.

There are still a dozen unaccounted for, Selia said, but with little hope in her voice.

We’ll dig them out, Jeph agreed grimly, looking at the collapsed houses, many still smoldering. The cutters built their homes mostly out of stone to protect against fire, but even stone would burn if the wards failed and enough flame demons gathered in one place.

Jeph joined the other men and a few of the stronger women in clearing the rubble and carting the dead to the pyre. The bodies had to be burned, of course. No one would want to be buried in the same ground the demons rose out of each night. Tender Harral, the sleeves of his robe rolled up to bare his thick arms, lifted each into the fire himself, muttering prayers and drawing wards in the air as the flames took them.

Silvy joined the other women in gathering the younger children and tending to the wounded under the watchful eye of the Brook’s Herb Gatherer, Coline Trigg. But no herbs could ease the pain of the survivors. Brine Cutter, also called Brine Broad-shoulders, was a great bear of a man with a booming laugh who used to throw Arlen into the air when they came to trade for wood. Now Brine sat in the ashes beside his ruined house, slowly knocking his head against the blackened wall. He muttered to himself and clutched his arms tightly, as if cold.

Arlen and the other children were put to work carrying water and sorting through the woodpiles for salvageable lumber. There were still a few warm months left to the year, but there would not be time to cut enough wood to last the winter. They would be burning dung again this year, and the house would reek.

Again Arlen weathered a wave of guilt. He was not in the pyre, nor banging his head in shock, having lost everything. There were worse fates than a house smelling of dung.

More and more villagers arrived as the morning wore on. Bringing their families and whatever provisions they could spare, they came from Fishing Hole and Town Square; they came from the Boggin’s Hill, and Soggy Marsh. Some even came all the way from Southwatch. And one by one, Selia greeted them with the grim news and put them to work.

With more than a hundred hands, the men doubled their efforts, half of them continuing to dig as the others descended upon the only salvageable structure left in the Cluster: Brine Cutter’s house. Selia led Brine away, somehow supporting the giant man as he stumbled, while the men cleared the rubble and began hauling new stones. A few took out warding kits and began to paint fresh wards while children made thatch. The house would be restored by nightfall.

Arlen was partnered with Cobie Fisher in hauling wood. The children had amassed a sizable pile, though it was only a fraction of what had been lost. Cobie was a tall, thickly built boy with dark curls and hairy arms. He was popular among the other children, but it was popularity built at others’ expense. Few children cared to weather his insults, and fewer still his beatings.

Cobie had tortured Arlen for years, and the other children had gone along. Jeph’s farm was the northernmost in the Brook, far from where the children tended to gather in Town Square, and Arlen spent most of his free time wandering the Brook by himself. Sacrificing him to Cobie’s wrath seemed a fair trade to most children.

Whenever Arlen went fishing, or passed by Fishing Hole on the way to Town Square, Cobie and his friends seemed to hear about it, and were waiting in the same spot on his way home. Sometimes they just called him names, or pushed him, but other times he came home bloody and bruised, and his mother shouted at him for fighting.

Finally, Arlen had enough. He left a stout stick hidden in that spot, and the next time Cobie and his friends pounced, Arlen pretended to run, only to produce the weapon as if from thin air and come back swinging.

Cobie was the first one struck, a hard blow that left him crying in the dirt with blood running from his ear. Willum received a broken finger, and Gart walked with a limp for over a week. It had done nothing to improve Arlen’s popularity among the other children, and Arlen’s father had caned him, but the other boys never bothered him again. Even now, Cobie gave him a wide berth and flinched if Arlen made a sudden move, even though he was bigger by far.

Survivors! Bil Baker called suddenly, standing by a collapsed house at the edge of the Cluster. I can hear them trapped in the root cellar!

Immediately, everyone dropped what they were doing and rushed over. Clearing the rubble would take too long, so the men began to dig, bending their backs with silent fervor. Soon after, they broke through the side of the cellar, and began hauling out the survivors. They were filthy and terrified, but all were very much alive. Three women, six children, and one man.

Uncle Cholie! Arlen cried, and his mother was there in an instant, cradling her brother, who stumbled drunkenly. Arlen ran to them, ducking under his other arm to steady him.

Cholie, what are you doing here? Silvy asked. Cholie seldom left his workshop in Town Square. Arlen’s mother had told the tale a thousand times of how she and her brother had run the farrier’s shop together before Jeph began breaking his horses’ shoes on purpose for a reason to come court.

Came to court Ana Cutter, Cholie mumbled. He pulled at his hair, having already torn whole clumps free. We’d just opened the bolt-hole when they came through the wards … His knees buckled, pulling Arlen and Silvy down with his weight. Kneeling in the dirt, he wept.

Arlen looked at the other survivors. Ana Cutter wasn’t among them. His throat tightened as the children passed. He knew every one of them; their families, what their houses were like inside and out, their animals’ names. They met his eyes for a second as they went by, and in that moment, he lived the attack through their eyes. He saw himself shoved into a cramped hole in the ground while those unable to fit turned to face the corelings and the fire. Suddenly he started gasping, unable to stop until Jeph slapped him on the back and brought him to his senses.

They were finishing a cold midday meal when a horn sounded on the far side of the Brook.

Not two in one day? Silvy gasped, covering her mouth.

Bah, Selia grunted. At midday? Use your head, girl!

Then what …?

Selia ignored her, rising to fetch a horn blower to signal back. Keven Marsh had his horn ready, as the folks from Soggy Marsh always did. It was easy to get separated in the marshes, and no one wanted to be wandering lost when the swamp demons rose. Keven’s cheeks inflated like a frog’s chin as he blew a series of notes.

Messenger horn, Coran Marsh advised Silvy. A graybeard, he was Speaker for Soggy Marsh and Keven’s father. They prob’ly saw the smoke. Keven’s telling ’em what’s happened and where everyone is.

A Messenger in spring? Arlen asked. I thought they come in the fall after harvest. We only finished planting this past moon!

Messenger never came last fall, Coran said, spitting foamy brown juice from the root he was chewing through the gap of his missing teeth. We been worried sumpin’ happened. Thought we might not have a Messenger bring salt till next fall. Or maybe that the corelings got the Free Cities and we’s cut off.

The corelings could never get the Free Cities, Arlen said.

Arlen, shush your mouth! Silvy hissed. He’s your elder!

Let the boy speak, Coran said. Ever bin to a free city, boy? he asked Arlen.

No, Arlen admitted.

Ever know anyone who had?

No, Arlen said again.

So what makes you such an expert? Coran asked. Ent no one been to one ’cept the Messengers. They’re the only ones what brave the night to go so far. Who’s to say the Free Cities ent just places like the Brook? If the corelings can get us, they can get them, too.

Old Hog is from the Free Cities, Arlen said. Rusco Hog was the richest man in the Brook. He ran the general store, which was the crux of all commerce in Tibbet’s Brook.

Ay, Coran said, an’ old Hog told me years ago that one trip was enough for him. He meant to go back after a few years, but said it wasn’t worth the risk. So you ask him if the Free Cities are any safer than anywhere else.

Arlen didn’t want to believe it. There had to be safe places in the world. But again the image of himself being thrown into the cellar flashed across his mind, and he knew that nowhere was truly safe at night.

The Messenger arrived an hour later. He was a tall man in his early thirties, with cropped brown hair and a short, thick beard. Draped about his broad shoulders was a shirt of metal links, and he wore a long dark cloak with thick leather breeches and boots. His mare was a sleek brown courser. Strapped to the horse’s saddle was a harness holding a number of different spears. His face was grim as he approached, but his shoulders were high and proud. He scanned the crowd and spotted the Speaker easily as she stood giving orders. He turned his horse toward her.

Riding a few paces behind on a heavily laden cart pulled by a pair of dark brown mollies was the Jongleur. His clothes were a brightly colored patchwork, and he had a lute resting on the bench next to him. His hair was a color Arlen had never seen before, like a pale carrot, and his skin was so fair it seemed the sun had never touched it. His shoulders slumped, and he looked thoroughly exhausted.

There was always a Jongleur with the annual Messenger. To the children, and some of the adults, the Jongleur was the more important of the two. For as long as Arlen could remember, it had been the same man, gray-haired but spry and full of cheer. This new one was younger, and he seemed sullen. Children ran to him immediately, and the young Jongleur perked up, the frustration melting from his face so quickly Arlen began to doubt it was ever there. In an instant, the Jongleur was off the cart and spinning his colored balls into the air as the children cheered.

Others, Arlen among them, forgot their work, drifting toward the newcomers. Selia whirled on them, having none of it. The day is no longer because the Messenger’s come! she barked. Back to your work!

There were grumbles, but everyone went back to work. Not you, Arlen, Selia said. Come here. Arlen pulled his eyes from the Jongleur and went to her as the Messenger arrived.

Selia Barren? the Messenger asked.

Just Selia will do, Selia replied primly. The Messenger’s eyes widened, and he blushed, the tops of his pale cheeks turning a deep red above his beard. He leapt down from his horse and bowed low.

Apologies, he said. I did not think. Graig, your usual Messenger, told me that’s what you were called.

It’s pleasing to know what Graig thinks of me after all these years, Selia said, sounding not at all pleased.

Thought, the Messenger corrected. He’s dead, ma’am.

Dead? Selia asked, looking suddenly sad. Was it …?

The Messenger shook his head. It was a chill took him, not corelings. I’m Ragen, your Messenger this year, as a favor to his widow. The guild will select a new Messenger for you starting next fall.

A year and a half again before the next Messenger? Selia asked, sounding like she was readying a scolding. We barely made it through this past winter without the fall salt, she said.