Publishers:
Jo Fletcher Books
Category:
Epic Fantasy
Age range:
Adult
David Hair

Mage's Blood

Moontide Quartet

The Moontide is coming, and the world stands on the brink of war….Every twelve years the tides sink to their absolute lowest and the Leviathan Bridge rises above the waves, linking the Eastern and Western continents for twenty-four short months

The Rondian Emperor, the overlord of the West, is hell-bent on ruling both continents, and for the last two Moontides, his crusading armies have crossed the bridge and raped and pillaged their way across Antiopia.

Now the next Moontide is almost here.  As the battle-mages of the Third Crusade gather in the West, holy shipped is declared in the East.  This time the two civilisations will clash as never before.

And three ordinary people - a failed mage, a jaded mercenary and a lowly market girl - are about to discover that their actions may determine the fate of nations.

The Moontide Quartet: an epic fantasy rich in intricate plots, intrigue and treachery as vast forces collide and ordinary people make heart-rending choices that will shake the world.

‘A world writ larger than life….Similar in scope to George R.R. Martin and Robert Jordan..and is sure to please those authors’ many fans’

Library Journal starred review

EXTRACT

As the sun stabbed though a cleft in the eastern mountains, a thin wail lifted from a midden.  The refuse heap lay downwind of a ramshackle closer of mud-brick hovels.  The quavering cry hung in the air, an invitation to predators.  A lurking jackal soon appeared, sniffing warily.  In the distance others of his kind yowled and yapped, but this close to prey, he moved in silence.
There: a bundle of swaddled clothing amidst the waste and filth, jerking spasmodically, tiny brown limbs kicking free.  The jackal looked around then trotted forward cautiously.  The helpless newborn went still as the beast loomed over it.  It did not yet understand that the warm embracing being that had held it would not return.  It was thirsty and the cold was beginning to bite.
The beast did not see a child: it saw food.  Its jaws opened.
An instant latter the jackal was hurled through the air, its hindquarters smashing against a boulder.  It writhed agonisingly and tried to run, sliding down the slope it had so gracefully ascended, its eyes flashing about, seeking the danger it had never sensed.  One hind leg was shattered; it didn’t get far.
A ragged bulk wrapped in cloth rose and glided towards the beast, which snapped and snarled as an arm holding a rock emerged and rose and fell.  there was a muffled crush and blood splattered.  From amidst the filthy cloth a face emerged, a leathery-faced old woman with wiry iron hair.  She bent until her lips were almost touching the jackal’s muzzle.
She inhaled.