Our king summoned us on his great crusade to bring right to the northern world, and to avenge his brother foully slain by the treasonous Slavs. We followed him with glad hearts and high courage, willing to endure the vicissitudes of war to serve our beloved homeland. But we found little glory and much pain. By the time we had crossed the harsh steppes of Slavia, and reached the border of Wolfland, many of us had died, many of us had run away, and most of those left were sorely afraid. There was worse to come…

Just before sunset on the day that changed many lives forever, we arrived in a broad, cold, flat-bottomed valley after running the gauntlet of the most frightening weather I have ever known: an ice storm of unprecedented ferocity in which sharpened spikes of frozen water as long as a man’s finger rained from the sky, piercing unprotected skin like vicious arrows. My companions and I were among the last arrivals as we were carrying several of those who had been injured by the cruel ice. We were cold and wet, but glad to get out of the screaming wind with its cargo of flying death. King Steven rode among us on his great horse, Deathbringer, lifting our spirits us with his very presence and promising victory would be ours on the very next day. I cheered and clapped along with my comrades, but a still, small voice inside my head insisted that our great king was lying, and that nothing lay before us except more pain and misery.

I was helping to tend the wounded, and my friends were occupied in a fruitless search for firewood, when the valley was filled with the strains of unearthly music. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere, it chilled and heated the blood, it uplifted the spirit and cast down the soul, it was beauty and ugliness, it was kindness and cruelty. I fell to my knees on the ground. A hand shook my shoulder. ‘Look up there.’

I forced my eyes upwards and I beheld her, silhouetted against a blood-red sunset. It was the Winter Queen in all her glory, mounted on her coal-black stallion, and with the Diadem of a Thousand Stars winking on her brow. As I watched, her horse rose on his hind legs and stayed there with the lady’s hair streaming behind her in the wind, and dyed crimson by the setting sun. Then I heard her voice, as cold and precise as the shards of ice that pierced our skin that afternoon. It went straight to my heart and lodged there like a dart.

‘Here is blasphemy dressed in the clothes of piety. Here is the brother of an oathbreaker bringing an army to do war on the innocent and the brave. Know that this will not be tolerated. Your forefathers in Valhalla spit upon your names. Men of Scandi, return to your homes and consider your sins, lest the wrath of the Gods fall on your heads. You have until sunrise tomorrow.’

And then the stallion rose into the air once more before disappearing as mysteriously as he arrived. The rocky promontory stood empty, and the song of the Gods slowly faded to nothing.

Our king fell back in his saddle with a face the colour of ashes. Then he rallied. ‘Trickery’ he cried in a great voice with spittle flying from his lips. ‘Trickery and witchcraft. I promise half my kingdom to the man who brings me the head of that foul sorceress.’

Some ran for the cliffside clutching weapons and ropes, but I, and many others, had heard what we had heard, and our hearts felt like shards of ice in our breasts.

It was a long night, a very long night, during which the discomfort of our bodies mirrored the disquiet of our souls. We were in a bad way, with little food, no firewood, and tents so sodden they froze as we tried to erect them. Even among the rawest recruits, it was noticed that the king and his Ox Guard did not share in the discomforts of the army. Savoury smells emanated from the tight circle of the royal encampment, a great fire burned to warm the royal heart, and the sound of drinking songs split the solemn night air. The mood in the camp grew more and more restive as the night wore on, and when the lords who had come here to support the king went to the circle of his guards to beg firing and sustenance for their men they were driven away with harsh words and sharp pikes. Nobody knew what the morrow would bring, and many of us endured a night of terror.

I sat alone on the frozen tundra with the words of the lady alternately burning and freezing in my breast. I wanted to run away, but I could not. I had to wait for morning in the hope of seeing the Winter Queen once more – even if it cost me my life.

From The Barefoot Runners by  Jane Jago

The sign swung in the breeze: The Land Where Dreams Come True.

She pushed open the door and handed over her wad of cash, impatiently scrawling her signature at the bottom of many pages of legal bumf.

It wasn’t until she found herself sitting in a narrow white bed that she even wondered how her dreams might be made flesh. But flesh they were, that came to tear and torment. Her tortured screams ripped the air about her head.

The white coated ‘nurse’ looked down on her without a shred of compassion.

“We’ve never had one die on us before…”

©️jj 2018

Ian Bristow talented artist, musician and author tells the Working Title Blog how he created the covers for each of the books in Transgressor, Fortune's Fools first trilogy: The Fated Sky, Times of Change and Dues of Blood.

WTB: These covers are photo-manipulated designs. Can you explain what that means?

IB: Absolutely. Photo manipulation is the process of taking a photo (free of copyright) and making changes to fit the needs of whatever art you are creating (I use Photoshop). In this case, the goal was to reach a look that felt sci-fi, yet low-tech world. How one approaches the process will depend on how well they paint on the digital platform (if they do at all). I do a lot of painting over the top of the photos I manipulate, so essentially they are half painted, half the photo underneath. In the case of the first and last covers, I 3D modelled the ships to add more customization. This isn’t common practice for a photo-manipulator. They would usually go and find a copyright-free image and use that. But I like to make things as unique as possible, if and where I can. You will also notice the laser fire on the second cover, which is painted in, as well as the cannon. Again, these are just things to fit the needs of the cover and make the work unique.

WTB: Which was the most difficult cover of the three to create?

IB: The first one was the most difficult because the focal point is the ship, which meant quite a lot of messing with placement as well as getting the shadow cast and lighting correct to ground it in the scene. Additionally, there was the matter of searching for the look that would encompass the entire trilogy. This tends to make the first cover in a trilogy the hardest. Or at least the most time-consuming.

WTB: Which is your favourite of the three covers?

IB: I have reasons why I like them all, as I do with all my art because I invest in it. But since that doesn’t answer the question, I will say I think my favorite is the third one; for two reasons. One being the subtle ship in the sky really turned out how I envisioned it and that feels good. And two being that I was able to take the original scene and change the season to winter by painting in snow. That was something of a challenge to get right, and I was pleased with the outcome of it.

The new covers are available from today and The Fated Sky is FREE until Friday to celebrate!

If you would like to find out more about Ian Bristow's cover designing services, go to Bristow Design or look for Ian on his Website, check out his awesome timelapse art videos with his own original music on YouTube or follow him on Twitter.

Rupert booked them a holiday. 

It sounded romantic, until Laura found out that the Camel Trail has nothing to do with camels and everything to do with cycling. Seventeen bloody miles of cycling.

There was worse to come. She learned that the next day they were to pedal thirty miles from Padstow to Fowey. 

Breakfast time, bright and early, and Laura was nowhere to be seen. Rupert went to wake her, with an indulgent smile on his big red face.

The note read ‘Camel Trail gave me Camel Toe. Gone home…’

As far as I know they never spoke again.

©️jj 2018

From The Fated Sky part one of  Transgressor Trilogy by E.M. Swift-Hook

They rode in silence through the streets of Alfor. The townsfolk moving quickly aside to let the Warlord and his entourage pass and then standing to watch as they went by. Some cheered half-heartedly, but most had sombre faces. Durban nodded and grinned at people he knew and caught a small wineskin thrown to him by one, a gorgeously dressed young man, whom he rewarded with an extravagant blown kiss. But he was fully aware of the dark and hostile glares which were directed at the man beside him.
Then someone yelled from the back of the crowd: “Gut the murdering bastard!”
And like a flame touched to dry tinder an ugly murmur spread quickly and rose, as the braver or more foolish amongst them, hurled abuse at Jariq.
“Baby-butcher!”
“Rapist!”
“Murderer!”
The voices seemed torn at random from the seething heart of the throng, as though the bitter hatred had swelled up and found tongue through a few individuals who spoke for them all. Durban glanced curiously at Jariq, who was riding stiffly in the saddle, his face set and his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance. Only the slight tightness of his lips betrayed his feelings.
“I never realised you were so popular,” Durban observed in an undertone. “Does this happen often?”
The Vavasor’s lips curved now into the grim travesty of a smile.
“Only in Terzibrand – I did not think to hear it in Alfor.”
“Don’t you think you should silence them?”
Jariq gave a brittle laugh.
“What’s the point? They’d only shout louder next time.”
“Your men are getting angry.”
It was true. The outriders of Jariq’s elite troupe were eying the crowd to pick out the source of the shouting and throwing appealing looks towards the Vavasor, eager to avenge the insults to their commander in blood. Then a stone flew out of the throng to glance off the Vavasor’s burnished metal vambrace. As Durban watched, he saw something within Jariq snap like a brittle twig and the Vavasor reined in his pony so sharply that it reared up in protest.
“Death of the gods,” he roared. “Must I put up with this cowardly babble?”
The crowd grew oddly quiet and the Warlord’s entourage ground to a jumbled halt behind them. They were about level with the entrance to the plaza and a knot of Zoukai had joined the throng. Durban felt the exultation of a master playwright, watching the first performance of his prize production. He had stopped his own pony a few paces behind the Vavasor, leaving Jariq alone centre stage, trembling with rage. His mount was now sidestepping nervously beneath him, its stubby ears flattened against its head. His words could incite a riot or initiate a massacre and at that moment Jariq looked quite prepared to do either or both. He took a breath and raised his voice to reach to the back of the crowd.
“The Fair is over. The entertainers are gone. Is this how you must now amuse yourselves? Bringing shame on your city and your Castellan by insulting the Most Honoured One, Qabal Vyazin and his retinue? Go back to your homes and your daily business. Be grateful that your sons and daughters do not know the meaning of war. Be grateful that the Warlord protects the people of his kinfolk and will stand between you and an army of conquest when the time comes.
“Only a foolish man will set a lapdog to guard his house. If you want protection for your children and your trade, you need men of spirit, men of war and not gelded eunuchs.”
His eyes raked the crowd as he spoke, challenging and defiant and Durban could see none brave enough to meet his gaze.
“Ride on!” Jariq’s voice rang out incisively and the Warlord’s escort resumed its interrupted passage through the city.

E.M. Swift-Hook

“It’s a long way up.”

“It’ll be worth it when we get to the top,” he promised. 

“But what’s up there?”

He wouldn’t say, just laughing and tugging her along in his wake. 

When they reached the top of the hill she looked around in bemusement. It was just another hilltop. Then he turned her so she was looking at a stand of trees and a white stone that stood among them.

“Sacred to the memory of Arthur Merryweather,” she read.

The sudden tears filled her eyes.

“Oh. You’ve found it. After all these years. You found my dad’s grave…”

©️jj 2018

An extract from the new Felix the Fox book In Numina by Assaph Mehr

A rich landlord finds tenants are abandoning his apartment buildings, spouting tales of horrific events and whispering that the old gods – the numina – came alive and cursed the buildings.

Enter Felix, a professional fox. Dressed in a toga and armed with a dagger, Felix is neither a traditional detective nor a traditional magician – but something in between. Whenever there is a foul business of bad magic, Felix is hired to sniff out the truth. Now he must separate fact from superstition – a hard task in a world where the old gods still roam the earth.

This extract comes at a low point in the case, Felix has broken a leg and is mostly confined to home. He has managed to deactivate some curses (in the form of tabella definiones – curse tablets – but is yet to go after the person who commissioned them. In comes Araxus, his magically talented but mentally unbalanced acquaintance. This is how Felix deals with things, when he gets stuck.

As if to reinforce that point in a grim reminder of my past, the next morning I found Araxus knocking on my door. Bedraggled, stooped, unwashed, unshaven. But his green right eye was looking at me openly, and the mad black one seemingly under his control.
“Do you have a pig?” he asked before I could say anything.
“Ah…”
“Never mind, you will. It’s about the tabellae defixones that we disposed of the other day. Do you still have them?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Why?”
“I wanted to check something.”
My hackles rose. “Do you think they are not inert? I thought we disposed of their magia safely.”
“We did, we did. They are nothing but plumber supplies now. Could I see them, please?”
“Did you think of something new?” I asked, and motioned for him to follow me to my study. I dug out the curse tablets and handed them to Araxus.
He took one from my hand and unfolded it carefully. I looked at him examine the engraved signs. As he read, his green right eye clouded, darkened, became as black as his mad left eye. Clouds drifted past my window, and the room acquired a dark chill.
“Well?” I asked. “What is it?”
He raised his head and looked at me, both eyes black and focused on me, his gaze boring into my soul, my spine shivering and broken ankle suddenly aching more. “It’s as I feared,” he said, voice rasping. “There is more baaa to this than a baaa curse. It’s not a mere supplication to the major baaa gods, it’s almost a love sonnet baaa to invite them to procreate. Do you realise what this baaa means?”
“It means you are insane.”
“No! It means that the black sheep has three bags of wool! Baaa!” And with this he broke into a mad little jig, reciting a silly children’s ditty about lambs. After a while I gave up trying to restore his reason, and — somewhat fearful that in his mad state he might reactivate the curse tablets — escorted him out of my house.
I decided I needed some time away from everyone, and that I would not be getting it at home.
My mobility impaired, I could not take on another case. I was in no condition to walk far, but I limped down to the docks between the grain and fish markets, found a good corner, chalked ‘FORTUNES TOLD CURSES IDENTIFIED’ on the wall, sat down on a folding stool, put on airs, and busied myself with a scroll of Assyrican star-gazing that looked impressive with all its strange and foreign symbols.
People being what they are, especially sailors and dock workers, I scraped enough small coins that day to cover a night of drinking. Calculating people’s horoscopes is tedious, but at least cleaner than haruspicy. One sailor wanted me to write a curse against his fellow, whom he swore stole his lucky fascinum when they were asleep. I scribbled a supplication to Hygieia — about as magical as a bucket of piss — to withdraw her protection from the thief’s health. I also sold him a mild laxative in the guise of ‘special medicine’, and told him to slip it in the evening meal whilst at sea to make the guilty party revealed to all. On the off-chance he was wrong about the culprit, the laxative was to go into the main pot, with the supplication into the fire. I taught him a meaningless doggerel to repeat, so I could claim it was his fault for botching it. Thoughts of future winds generated below decks by an overly flatulent crew cheered me up.

In Numina is the sequel to Murder In Absentia: Togas, Daggers, and Magic. You can also find some free short stories about Felix on the Egretia website.

A Bite of... Assaph Mehr

Q1: If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?

I’d love to be close to classical Europe again. Hope on a train or a short flight, and visit museum, historical sites and what not. It’s probably the one thing I miss most about moving to Australia – it’s just so far away from everything!
That said, I think I’d also love not just where, but WHEN. When I visit ancient sites, heck even when I walk in the “old” streets of Sydney (with building under 150 years old – practically new), I only half pay attention to traffic. The other half of my mind is always seeing things as they once were. I’d love to visit some of those historical places when they were in their prime, see how they really were and how close my imagination filled in the details.

Q2: Which aspects of you are in Felix and why do you feel it is those ones that came through?

There is a lot of me in Felix. Not surprising, really. He’s more gregarious in social situation, though I’d say he’s probably still just a high-functioning introvert. He likes to solve things by himself, by thinking them through (like me), even though he’s very effective in face to face human interactions (unlike me).
He’s a bit of a jack of all trades, master of none. When I used to role-play, most of my characters were that way. Specialisation, as Heinlein once said, is for insects. Just like in my day job and in my author life I tend to pick up broad knowledge and enough skills to get the job done, so does Felix. He never completed his arcane studies, he didn’t stick long in the legions, he learned the art of investigation but went on his own quickly enough. It’s that unique blend of skills – plus his (unlike mine 😉 looser morals – that make him such an effective paranormal trouble solver.

Q3: Who, outside of family and friends, would you most want to read and enjoy your books?

There are authors I admire, some of whose characters influenced Felix. Steven Saylor, author of the Roma Sub Rosa series starring Gordianus the finder, for example. Mr Saylor was very gracious when I sent him an early copy of my novel, and had some encouraging words. Lindsey Davis, author of the Marcus Didius Falco mysteries, on the other hand refuses to read anything by fans of her works.
Ruth Downie, author of the Medicus Roman Mysteries starring Gaius Petreius Russo, was also very supportive. When Felix needed a medic in my upcoming novel, I borrowed Russo – with Ms Downie’s permission!
And there are others, so many others, who’s work influenced me and my writing. Harry Turtledove (the master of alternate histories), Boris Akunin (with his amazing detective Erast Fandorin), Barry Hughart (whose Number Ten Ox is still my favourite historical-fantasy-detective), and many, many others. I’d like to think it’s only a matter of time till I could hold a discussion with them, with turning into an awestruck, blubbering fool.

Assaph now lives in Sydney, Australia with his wife, kids, cats, and – this being Australia – assorted spiders. By day he is a software product manager, bridging the gap between developers and users, and by night he’s writing – he seems to do his best writing after midnight.

You can catch up with Assaph on his website, Goodreads or on Twitter and Facebook 

The statue’s flat, fish eyes followed her wherever she went. She was afraid, but he was cold marble. How could he hurt her?

Yet his fixation with her even disturbed the other statues who creaked and groaned their disapproval.

“Leave her,” Zeus growled, but his sea brother sneered.

“I want.”

“You may not.”

“Stop me…”

The statue of Poseidon was presumed to have fallen from its plinth and it lay on the floor broken into a thousand pieces. Only its eyes were alive and they rolled across the floor to lay at her feet, looking up her skirt.

She screamed…

©️jj 2018

They went, with Danny stopping only to pat Sam awkwardly on the shoulder. About two minutes later Sam heard Anna shriek then giggle. He ran, and was upstairs and back in time to see Danny running from the kitchen with Anna in hot pursuit. He grabbed her from behind and kissed her very thoroughly, just because it pleased him to do so. She relaxed against him.
“What was that for?”
“Pure pleasure.”
She purred in his arms like a contented cat, then stirred and looked up at him.
“That bugger Danny,” she said darkly “sneaked up on me and tickled my ribs till I could barely stand up.”
“The swine. Shall I beat him for you?”
“Nah. I sicced Bonnie on him. She’ll chase him around the garden till he falls over. Then stand on his chest and lick him into submission.”
Sam pulled her closer.
“God, woman. I so love you.”
“Love you back much harder.”
Then an exasperated voice from the direction of the orchard called them back to real life.
“Help. Will somebody help. This bloody dog has me down and she’s not letting me up.”
Sam whistled and Bonnie came to his side immediately with her tail lashing and a light of unholy glee in her eyes.
“What you been up to Bon Bon?” he asked fondly.
She leapt up to lick his chin, before sitting demurely at his feet. Danny loomed out of the darkness with mud on the knees of his trousers and a generally dishevelled look.
“You, dog,” he said with pride in his voice, “are a proper bugger.”
Bonnie wagged delightedly then went into the kitchen and pointedly studied her tin of treats. Anna obliged, giggling as she did so.
“Maybe that’ll teach some people not to sneak up on unsuspecting females with their tickling fingers.”
Danny ambled into the kitchen in her wake, dropping Sam a wink in passing.
“Couldn’t help it. I love to hear you giggle. Now didn’t somebody promise me a glass of wine before bed?”
“No. Actually they didn’t, but I’ll get you one anyway. Sam?”
Sam nodded and they ended the day around the kitchen table in perfect amity.

It was well before seven the next morning when Sam felt Anna stir in the bed next to him. He reached over and switched on the bedside lamp before catching her in a bear hug.
“Good morning, beautiful.”
She rolled over to lay on top of him, nose to nose.
“Good morning yourself. You are bright and early.”
“Well. It’s my wedding day. I’m going to marry the love of my life. Just too excited to sleep.”
“Me too. Whatever shall we do with ourselves?”
Sam grinned and flipped them so that he was on top of her and kissed her till she was breathless.
“I’ve got a present for you.”
“I can feel that.”
“That wasn’t actually what I meant, but now you come to mention it. You want?”
He bit the side of her neck, then twisted his head so his teeth could graze her breast. She responded by groaning and grabbing a double handful of his hair.
“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” Sam shifted his hips so his fingers could tease her. She was wet and ready, and writhed under him like a snake. “You are insatiable, woman.”
Then he could speak no longer as his need rose to meet hers.

When he could think again, he grinned and kissed Anna gently.
“I really do have a wedding present for you.”
He jumped out of bed and retrieved the parcel from its concealment in the bottom of his wardrobe. Anna sat up and he put it gently in her lap. She looked at the wrapping.
“You never wrapped this.”
“No. Paul did that. But I made the present.”
She opened it slowly and carefully, then sat in silence for a moment looking at the smooth wood.
“Oh Sam. It’s beautiful.”
She lifted the lid, and took out the sectioned tray, before giving Sam a puzzled look. He slid up the front panel to display the hidden drawers.
“Oh Sam. It’s beautiful. And you made it just for me.”
Slow tears dripped down her cheeks and Sam wiped them away with his thumbs.
“The box has one more secret,” he said. “Just press the tiny brass catch in the corner of the drawer.”

Anna pressed it, and yet another drawer slid out from the base of the box. It contained an envelope, which Anna opened carefully to find a card inside on the front of which was a picture of herself with Bonnie, laughing at the camera. She opened the card. Anna from Sam. A ring has no end and neither does my love for you. You hold my heart in your tender hands, please always love me like you do today.

Anna carefully put the box to one side and then threw herself into Sam’s arms.
“Oh my love. I’ll always love you. Will you do the same for me?”
Then, after a very satisfactory interlude of kissing and whispering, she looked at him from the corner of her eyes.  “Tell me something. How long did it take you to make my box?”
“Best part of a year. I started it after about our third date. It made me feel closer to you when we were apart.”
She cradled his lean cheeks in her hands.
“I love you Sam Henderson.”
“And I love you Anna Marshall. Hey. The next time we make love, you’ll be Anna Henderson. My wife as well as my love.”

Jane Jago

She waited for him in the empty restaurant. He came. Dead on time and stood looking down at her.

“How do you know my offer still stands?”

“I don’t. But I had hope.”

“It still stands. Fifty thousand dollars for twenty-four hours of your life. Starting now.”

He took something out of his pocket. It was a dog collar. He buckled it around her throat and clipped on the leash that went with it. 

“Two paces behind me.”

The next morning her husband had the wherewithal to pay his most pressing creditors. But he never saw his wife again.

©️jj 2018