Because life happens…

A challenge to use the word swaining
Requires some significant braining
As there’s so little chance
Of me writing romance
Then poor taste is the one thing remaining

Jane Jago

The Cursed Titans is the second book in the Tempest Blade series by Ricardo Victoria. 

The triennial Chivalry Games have returned!
After helping to destroy the Withered King, Alex and the rest of the group find out that saving the world has consequences. While he is secretly battling with depression and with the Alliance on the verge of collapse, a diplomatic summit and the Chivalry Games—to be held in the far off Kuni Empire—may give everyone the opportunity to turn things around. Alex builds a team to represent the Foundation in the Games, facing off against the best fighters in the world. When an ancient being tries to raise legendary nightmares known as Titans using the peace talks as a trap, Alex has to find a way to save everyone before it is too late. Alex must learn that he is not truly alone to save the world from the chaos of the Titans. In a world where magic and science intermingle, anything is possible.

Alex jumped from the third floor of the parking lot, using the Gift to slow the fall, and landed on top of the van, leaving a large dent. The noise startled the robbers, who stopped what they were doing, dropping the stolen boxes from the comic book shop.
“Who are you?” one of the robbers asked, startled.
“A hero who rises to beat the crap out of criminals like you,” Alex stood up, pointing at the man.
“Is this guy for real?” a second robber asked the first.
“A movie by Silver Harvest,” Alex continued narrating. “Soon in theatres.”
“Where did you came from?” a third robber asked.
“I can tell you, it wasn’t from that sewer,” Alex looked at his opponents, four grown, burly men in ski masks. One was carrying a bat. He smiled. There was no need for him to draw Yaha or even his bow. He wanted to win, but in a fair fight. And he didn’t want to kill them, just hurt them some.
“Since you don’t seem to be carrying heat, I will go easy on you.”
Alex jumped from the van’s rooftop with a double kick, hitting the two closest robbers in the face. He landed with ease, standing in a combat guard position, left hand and leg in front, leading, right hand and leg back. Both hands in a fist. A third robber ran towards Alex, trying to hit him with the bat. Alex pivoted slightly and caught the bat with his left hand. He took a moment to see the brand and the signature on the bat.
“A Pepe Cansino bat? Tell me you didn’t pay money for this,” Alex broke the bat with ease and punched the robber in the face with his right hand. “No, I’m pretty sure you stole it because no one would pay money for this shit.”
Alex then threw the broken half of the bat he was holding into the head of one of the robbers he had kicked, knocking him down once more. The three remaining robbers attacked all at once. Alex blocked the attacks to his left and right with both forearms, and then jumped to kick the one in the middle in the face, breaking his nose. The robber to his right charged once more at Alex, who received him with a strong kick to the stomach. The impact made the man throw up. Alex then proceeded to punch the robber to his left with a right hook straight into the union between the jaw and the skull. A crunching noise was heard.
“Sorry ‘bout that. I guess you will have to eat through a straw the next few months,” Alex said as he stood in the middle of four large adults knocked out cold, lying on the ground.
A few whimpers echoed in the parking lot. He heard a click and he sensed a small explosion of energy. Alex barely had time to dodge the bullet, leaning to his right. The projectile impacted on the van behind him. A fifth robber, who had come out from the back door of the shop looked startled, and his shaking hand pressed the trigger three more times.
Alex tried something very, very stupid and risky. Focusing the Gift, he reached with his mind to the electromagnetic field that emanated from his body when he was ‘on’. The same energy that fed his vest. Extending his hands, he directed the electromagnetic field to make it stronger in front of him. It felt like trying to push water. The more he pushed, the more resistance the field offered. But the small amount Alex managed to nudge it was more than enough, as it deflected the bullets away from him.

A Bite of… Ricardo Victoria

What have you most enjoyed about revisiting the world of Tempest Blades?

It was awesome. It was like making a trip to a new place with an old friend. It allowed me to work through some personal issues while having a new adventure. As well it allowed me to explore and expand upon the world of Theia and share more of it with the readers. There is so much to share and not everything made it into the book. I hope I can keep revisiting and exploring every corner of it. Also, seeing how the character have changed after their first adventure together, adding new members to the group made it feel like watching someone growing up.

Why does the anime style of fantasy hold such appeal for you?

I grew up watching cartoons and anime, so I like the idea of freedom it allows by mixing different, sometimes apparently contradictory concepts and make it work. The story becomes more about the characters and less about a rigid group of tropes. Anything can happen and that’s liberating as writer. I also enjoy the action packed, cinematic feeling it has, which contrasts nicely with the more heartfelt or dramatic scenes.

If you could give one piece of advice to your younger self as a writer, what would it be? 

Be patient, write for the fun of it and don’t let writing absorb you so much that you forget about taking care of other aspects of your personal life. For you writing is therapy, not a job.

A glimpse into the mind of eccentric, toy addicted genius Ricardo Victoria…

Born in the previously frozen landscape of Toluca, Mexico, Ricardo dreamed of being a writer. But needing a job that could pay the rent while writing, he studied Industrial Design and later obtained a PhD in Sustainable Design, while living in the United Kingdom. There, he did a few things besides burning the midnight oil to get his degree:
-Trained in archery near Nottingham
-Worked in a comic book store to pay for his board game & toy addiction
He is back now in Toluca, living with his wife and his three dogs where he works as an academic at the local university. has short stories featured in anthologies by Inklings Press and Rivenstone Press. He was nominated for a Sidewise Award 2016 for the short story Twilight of the Mesozoic Moon, co-written with his arch-nemesis, Brent A. Harris. You can reach Ricardo on Twitter or on his own website/blog or via email: scifantastique@gmail.com

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

The young and foolish may well expound a good deal of time and energy in search of the perfect sexual partner. The one whose touch turns your nether regions to a molten volcano, and whose manly appendage is capable of appendage-ing for a very, very long time.

Which may be enthralling when you are twenty, and even interesting when you are thirty. But, should mister pinky continue to be this athletic  when you are forty or fifty it becomes a valid reason for divorce.

To be brutally honest, a man who performs quickly and falls asleep promptly will be far easier to live with… and he probably won’t even notice when you can’t be bothered to fake orgasm.

Because life can be interesting when you are a character in a video game…

Milla thought of all the stories she had heard from the Visitors who had been to those distant lands in the Barren Steppes on the other side of the same Silent Sea which washed the beaches here.
“I’d heard the Lamia trapped unwary Visitors in their caverns and they had to pay a fine or perform many tasks to be allowed to leave.”
“And I have a bad feeling that might be exactly what’s happened,” Pew said miserably. “Only somehow it’s really happened. Like really really happened.”
Milla blinked a bit and tried to think what could be done. The Lamia were powerful people and she doubted they would be swayed by a bottle of fruit tea and a plate of flyberry cookies.
“I can’t even tell anyone,” Pew said, crest drooping in hopeless defeat. “They wouldn’t believe me. Anymore than they believe about you. And the Lamia are in an end-game zone so it’s not like I can just stroll in there and get him out. I’d need a group. Or a tank and heals at least.”
“A tank? That’s someone good at fighting?”
“Yes. Well, no. More good at keeping the mobs focused on them and tough enough to keep being hit without taking too much damage.”
Milla nodded not really taking in the details, an idea forming in her mind.
“Well I might be able to find one of those and One Eye has some healing potions for sale.”
Pew was staring at her as if she was speaking Elvish.
“I don’t think…”
“No. You don’t. That’s always a big part of the problem,” Milla agreed. “But I do. Fortunately. And I think we need to go on a venture and rescue String.”
Ruffkin leapt up and barked excitedly.
“But you’re an NPC – a quest giver. You can’t just travel around wherever in game. You have to stay here in Wrathburnt Sands. It won’t work.”
Milla got to her feet and started packing. She still had the backpack One Eye had given her and everything she needed to take slid into it. Then she turned back to Pew who was still sitting at the table, despondently munching on the last flyberry cookie.
“Why don’t you let me worry about that. Now you take Ruffkin to One Eye Rye and ask him to look after the little thing while we’re gone. You can pick up any supplies you need for the venture while you are there.”
Snout wrinkling a little doubtfully, Pew got up. Ruffkin seemed to know he was going to be left behind because his tail and ears were down.
“I can’t take you with us,” Milla explained stooping to give him a hug. “It’s too far and too dangerous for a little dog. Besides, One Eye will give you extra treats – he always does when we drop by his shop.”
Looking a little mollified, the dog trotted out after Pew. Milla gave her home a final glance, hoping she’d not be too long away, then closed the door firmly, linked her arm in Pew’s and took the path to the village. She left the two of them at the turn off to the pyramid, brushing aside Pew’s protests.
“Last time you spoke to the drakkonettes it was to shout names and charge at them,” Milla explained reasonably. “I think I’ll do better on my own.”
“Yelling ‘Leroy Jenkins’ isn’t shouting names.”
“They sound like two names to me.”
Pew had opened his mouth to argue again so she silenced him with a quick kiss and left him gaping after her for altogether different reasons from before. In Milla’s view they had been sort of boyfriend and girlfriend for several months now, so a kiss seemed in order.

We will return to Wrathburnt Sands by E.M. Swift-Hook next Sunday.

Return to Wrathburnt Sands was first published in Rise and Rescue Volume 2: Protect and Recover.

August for the children is a small eternity
The time when school goes out to play
And weeks so seem to stretch away
And endless dreaming fills each day
And summer’s path’s a golden way.

August for the farmer is the time to gather in
To combine harvest wheat and rye
To cut them down and pile them high
To stack the bales and let them dry
Until the the last has been set by.

August for the worker is the time to holiday
To pack the bags and pack the car
To make a journey near or far
To see new sights, drink in new bars
And kiss beneath the twinkling stars.

August is the season that closes summer’s book
It takes the flowers and doth them press
Between the pages, to impress
The memories of summer’s dress
As autumn’s change her hands caress.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Defeat was always a bitter cup from which to have to swallow, but Kahina Sarava determined from the first that it should not define her.
True, she now had to endure exile in the grand house she liked the least of all she owned. It was a sprawling, over-ornate residence built in the heart of great natural beauty and originally intended as a place where she could entertain and impress the powers of Central. It suited her political enemies to have her there, isolated and cut off from any place of influence. But, it was not entirely without benefit. Freed from the endless need to joust for political advantage, she had considerably more time for some of the other things that mattered. Such as pursuing her lifetime’s work: Future Data.
So she stood, back straight, defying her age as the fussily dressed man climbed from his vehicle and walked the short distance to where she waited in front of the main door to her house. The security people who flanked her on either side, guards set to both protect and contain her, stiffened visibly as her visitor approached.
“Garn, what a delight to see you.” She had been expecting him. Though when the brief message informing her of a visitor had come through earlier that day, his name had not been mentioned. “I think this must be the first time we’ve had a get together since you arrested me. What would bring you all the way from Central to visit me in person? I am sure you could gloat quite adequately over link.”
He was a big man in many uses of the word, and it amused her to make him feel uncomfortable. There was little enough by way of human entertainment for her here and no small responsibility for her incarceration rested on his shoulders.
“Right,” he said, and she could see he was sweating despite the temperature being pleasantly cool. “Maybe we could go in and talk somewhere a little more private.”
“I can offer you anything here, except privacy.” She made an elegant gesture with her hands, unfolding them to indicate the attentive security detail. “I am not permitted that even when I sleep. My link connections are watched and my conversations monitored.”
Garn Jecks seemed unperturbed, but then his mind was not very flexible. If he had arrived with a fixed idea of some objective he wished to achieve, that would be both the full extent and narrow focus of his thinking. Laser like — if a laser were some solid substance and not fluid photons. Such inability to embrace the broadest view whilst still keeping the details in sight irritated Kahina. Her own mind suffered no such limitations, and she tolerated it poorly in others.
“I will make the necessary arrangements,” he told her. Matching actions to words, he turned to issue brief orders to the security detail, then added more by link to the invisible watchers who controlled the remote monitoring of her residence. They all moved quickly to obey, but then he was their supreme commander, the man in charge of the Coalition Security Force.
A short time later, Kahina found herself sitting in her favourite room, ambianced to remind her of her mother’s study with shelves of books and curios, heavy looping curtains at the windows and the antique wooden desk. She had chosen not to occupy the desk, Jecks wasn’t someone who would be in the slightest bit intimidated by her doing so. Instead, she sat in one of the comfortable, deep-cushioned chairs set either side of a beautifully carved and inlaid table. Jecks sat opposite her having just dismissed the last of his entourage. He was visibly discomfited. Kahina played the perfect hostess.
“Can I offer you any refreshments? It’s not the shortest of hops here from Central.”
“Right. It’s not. But thank you, no. I’m a bit pressed for time.”
She couldn’t resist another dig.
“I am fully accessible by link, you know.”
Jecks didn’t trouble to answer that. His preoccupation was blinding him and Kahina wondered if the poor man was even aware how much that showed.
“There has been a — a development.”
“A development?”
He almost squirmed.
“I have just received some information which has brought into question our previous conclusions regarding the Future Data project.”
Kahina considered feigning surprise.
“Oh?”
Jecks looked as if he had swallowed something that settled ill in his stomach. For a moment, he glared at her.
“So you already knew.”
She didn’t trouble to reply, instead allowing her expression to reflect the untroubled confidence she was feeling. Jecks muttered something under his breath then started pulling up a remote screen of what appeared to be some security surveillance. Not the best quality and from a static camera, but when he zoomed the image and froze it, the result was perfectly clear.
“Oh dear,” Kahina said gently. “How very embarrassing for you. I wonder what you plan to do about that?”
Jecks pulled at his neckline as if it were too close about his throat.
“It’s not what you…”
“Oh, but I rather think it is.” The first taste of victory after such a bitter defeat and three years of exile was so sweet. She leaned forward, unable to suppress her delight and not caring that it showed. “I rather think you need me again.”
Jecks physically recoiled from her.
“Kahina, I — “
“Var Sarava,” she corrected him. He looked as though she had slapped him hard across the face and Kahina smiled. “You are of course quite right. I knew already. Or should I be more accurate and say that Future Data informed me of there being a high probability that those two would resurface in this timeframe.”
“Then you know why I came.” Jecks sounded defeated now, resigned to some inevitable and inescapable fate. Which, Kahina supposed, was not too far from the truth of things.
“Of course I don’t know,” she snapped. “I’m not a mind reader. Future Data may inform me what is likely to occur, but it’s not yet capable of attributing motive to the behaviours it predicts. Why did you come?”
“It wasn’t my first choice, but Ilke Dray suggested…” Jecks stopped himself and took a breath instead. Wise man. Kahina could feel the pressure of her fingers closing into tight claws.
“How is dear Ilke these days?” Then she lifted a forbidding hand, forcing the fingers to uncurl, as Jecks opened his mouth to tell her. “No. I really don’t want to know. I’m sure she will be going about her busy little life in her busy little way. And of course you don’t need to tell me why you are here, that much is obvious. What I want to know is what do you have to offer me in exchange for my assistance at this time?”
Jecks wore the look of a man being asked to sell his mother.
“Var Sarava, you can’t seriously intend to turn the security of the Coalition into an auction?”
“Why not? I have what you need, and you can procure it nowhere else. That would seem to me the basis of a price negotiation. I am sure you have authorisation to offer me something or you wouldn’t have come.”
“I can’t reverse the decision of the courts. I can’t turn back the clock and restore your good name. I can’t undo what has happened.” He sounded quite upset about it too.
Kahina got to her feet as gracefully as her age allowed and crossed the room to the antique desk. She loved the smooth feel of the polished wood as she slid her hand beneath it to release a secret catch. It was a wonderfully archaic hiding place. She slipped the data stick into her hand and turned back to Jecks, holding it up for him to see.
“This is everything you need to know to deal with them — if you are willing to pay the price I ask.”
“I’m not authorised to offer you anything.” He sounded in pain.
“Then it’s good that I’m not asking you for any ‘thing’. I have only one demand to make.”
“The head of Ilke Dray?” Jecks suggested, his voice slightly strangled. And, for a moment, Kahina had to wonder if he was being serious. Perhaps he was.
“I have no idea what I might do with such a completely vacuous item,” she told him. “No. I couldn’t care less about Ilke. And the price I’m going to ask isn’t unduly expensive. I merely need to know you will pay it when the time comes.”
“What is it?”
“I want Durban Chola.”
She wasn’t sure if it was relief or appalled amusement that motivated his response. “Chola? What the…? I mean, why?”
“I really rather think that’s my business, don’t you?”
Jecks looked as though he was being forced to swallow a large, irregularly shaped solid object.
“Right. Yes. Of course. I think we can do that.”
It was that easy.
Crossing back to the chairs, she settled herself comfortably again before holding out the data stick to Jecks. He took it as if it were a sacred relic, then busied himself with his links for a few moments as he prepared it to read. She could tell when he had done so. His expression shifted. Hardened.
“This contains nothing. Just two names.”
“That is more than enough for now, I assure you. If you were intelligent enough it would be all you needed, but I am quite aware you will be returning to ask me for further guidance.” It was why she felt so confident that he would pay her price in the end.
Jecks was frowning as if trying to read some deeper meaning into what he had been given.
“One is someone I know quite well and I can see the sense in it, they’ve worked on this before — but who in the name of all sanity is Halkom Dugsdall?”
Kahina, her objective achieved, sat back serenely and smiled.

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason a Fortune’s Fools book by E.M. Swift-Hook

This is the Amazon brought in a van
Drove by a grumpy and greasy young man
Parcels for Eeyore and Tigger and Pooh
And maybe a present for our baby Roo
The boxes are brown and of similar size
And sometimes the contents are quite a surprise
The van farts and grumbles and drives through the wood
Its engine is shot and its tyres are no good
But still it continues delivering joy
To lavender ladies and geeky small boys
Past houses where breakfasters crouch round the telly
Belching exhaust smoke increasingly smelly
This is the Amazon tracked on computer
That never arrives at a time that will suit ya

©jj 2020

My dear Readers Who Write,

You will know of me as the renowned author Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and have no doubt heard of the wisdom and erudition I have been putting forth in this highly enlightening series ‘The Thinking Quill’.

It is one’s intention today to depart from the pathways of rectitude and face squarely the chimera that is the erudite composition of a review.

“Now what,” I hear you ask, “has led our Ivy into these shark-filled shoals?” The answer, mes petits, is a review one recently received for that epitome of literary elegance that is the science-fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’. Some ignorant pensioner posted her abusive opinion and graded my magnum opus with a solitary gold-star. Her supposed ‘review’ was a single sentence in length: “This is the worst pile of crap masquerading as sci-fi I have read in over forty years.” One realised instantly the poor deluded female must be both menopausal, thus in her dotage, and also clearly the victim of dementia, so generously forgave her on the moment.

But it awoke me to the imperative of inducting the future generations of Readers Who Write into the subtle nemeton of the reviewers craft. No student of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV should be reduced to the single sentence, no matter how pithy when they are casting supreme judgement upon the literary ejaculations of fellow authors. So, it falls upon me to ensure you are equipped with the knowledge and skill to dissect the entrails of another’s corpus.

Now, there will be those misguided souls among you who have, until now, seen it as their deity-sent duty to encourage the writer and coddle his artistic soul with warming and conspicuously kindly rumination on the opus before them.

I rail against such foolishness. Nay, I cry. Nay, nay and thrice nay. The very existence of the reviewer demands a harsher task. Armour yourself with erudition, take up the sword of experience and the bows and arrows of superior lexicography, and sally forth to slay the mythical monsters of pusillanimous prose, insufficiently exquisite world building, flat ‘realistic’ characterisation, and unimaginative, ‘logical’ plot lines.

Take up your weapons and do battle.

Let your words and wit be as a scalpel with which you excise the necrotising flesh of mediocrity from the bones of boredom, the tendons of tedium, and the entrails of excruciating entropy.

Should any work not meet the most stringent demands of taste, texture and testicular terpsichory, one must be not afraid to consign the script to the dungeons known as ‘did not finish’ and to expostulate one’s redaction as coolly as a surgeon whose sharpened scalpel removes disease to save life.

Take as your talisman the words of that divine dame whose perfect pinkness and portentous prose shows all lesser mortals the direction in which the glorious Muse may be cajoled by an author of superlative talent and all superseding sensibility. Consider the exquisite gentility of her delicately virginal heroines and the craggy, all-embracing masculinity of her manly heroes. It matters not what the genre, take the advice of one upon whose knowledge you may safely depend and use the words of the divine dame as the yardstick by which you judge all literary pretensions.

Once you find a manuscript worthy of your attention, husband your gilded heavenly bodies with care, awarding each and every one as parsimoniously as if it were a child of your own bosom. Let not the spirit of generosity move you to sprinkle planetoids with a lavishness beyond the desserts of that which stands before you.

I present to you my own formula for asteroid assignation.

One heavenly body: some slight little thing. An example being Dying to be Roman, by those dreadful women who I allow to benefit from my enormous popularity

Two sleeping satellites: a book with sufficient eclat to hold one’s grudging respect. An example being  JRR Tolkien’s fantastical travelogue.

Three asteroidal amplifications: a volume where one is sufficiently engaged to need to peek at the ending to ensure one’s favourite characters survive. An example being ‘Game of Thrones’ – who’s bid for more shining lights was only scuppered by a little over fondness for violence within its pages.

Four twinklies: a work of superlative excellence. An example being the understated, linguistically purist, Gorean Saga

Five golden galleons: reserved for the work of the divine dame whose bejeweled pink slippers I am unworthy to kiss.

In conclusion, dear RWW, let your metaphysical pen be as feared in reviewing as it will become beloved in creation.

Lire Bon!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

Listen to Granny because Granny always knows best!

So. Who the feck invented holidays or vacations as the French and our colonial cousins call them?
And to what purpose?
I mean. Pack a suitcase with your most impractical clothing, load up your kindle with romantic novels (pauses to evacuate the bit of sick in the back of throat), leave your best mate in kennels, sit in a tin can in the sky, then spend two weeks beside a pool crammed alongside half a thousand red, sweaty people.
Why?
Can somebody just tell me why?
What the heck is that all about? Hours and hours in a tin box that smells of breath mints, mothballs and haemorrhoid cream – with the added delight of a courier in an ill-fitting blazer (with mismatched dentures and a very sketchy idea of the holiday itinerary and any places of interest en route). Hotel rooms with brushed nylon sheets. All-you-can eat lunchtime buffets. Cream teas with stale scones. Three-course ‘evening meals’ with canned soup and arctic roll.
Not in this life.

On the morning of his fiftieth birthday Daniel Danielssen, ninth of his name, Emperor of the Southern Continent, and Lawgiver to the Northern Confederation, woke up with the feeling that this was going to be a very good day. He poked his current lover ungently in the ribs. ‘Up, lazybones, or we won’t have time for breakfast before the hunt.’ Without waiting for a reply, His Imperial Majesty rolled out of bed and headed for his bathroom where his valet was already filling the tub with steaming water. ‘May the gods smile on your nativity, Highness.’ The Emperor smiled his thanks before lowering himself into the tub and accepting the proffered bar of scented soap.
Daniel was determined to make the most of the day, relishing the prospect of a day hunting to be followed by a formal banquet at which he planned to surprise the assembled company with an Imperial edict outlawing slavery across the southern states. Having spent a decade on the Ivory Throne, he felt that it was about time he stopped being a figurehead and began to actually use his Imperial powers. He had no illusions about how this new law, plus an Emperor determined to be more than a face on the coinage, would be received in many quarters, but he would have the element of surprise on his side, and, short of murder, he couldn’t see how anyone could stop him.
As a bonus, the family of his beloved wife would be among the biggest financial losers in the abolition of slavery. As he rose from the steaming water the Emperor allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction and thought that he may even find the time to visit the exquisite home of his official mistress if the hunt did not run over time.
However, even as the royal valets dressed their master for the festive hunt, plans to dislodge His Majesty were falling into place in a house not far from the Imperial precinct. A severely aesthetic-looking elderly gentleman sat behind an ornate desk and addressed a group of tough types who seemed out of place in his opulent library. ‘No survivors’, he said severely. ‘Lessons must be learned.’
‘Does no survivors include your revered daughter?’
‘Especially my revered daughter. Those who cannot control either themselves or their spouses must pay the penalty for disappointing me.’ The men raised clenched fists to their brows and filed out of the room.
When the door closed behind the last bravo, the old man gave vent to a sardonic laugh. ‘More than a figurehead? Outlaw the slave trade. I think not.’
Two hours later the birthday hunt clattered out of the palace courtyard, led by the Emperor himself mounted on a magnificent black stallion and dressed for the hunt in gilded leather.
Who exactly fired the arrow that ended the Emperor’s life wasn’t known at the time, but the moment it was confirmed that His Majesty had indeed shuffled off this mortal coil the rest of the plan swung into motion and a band of masked assassins entered the palace via a maze of secret tunnels, whose location should have been known only to members of the Imperial family. Within an hour of the Emperor’s death, almost the whole of that family lay dead inside the locked doors of the private royal apartments. None was spared, from the Emperor’s ninety-year-old uncle, to twin baby princes in their cradles. Even as the palace guard began assaulting the doors with a hastily-fetched battering ram, the hired bravos searched desperately for the last remaining member of the royal house. Fifteen-year-old Princess Ana was nowhere to be found.

From The Long Game by Jane Jago.