By Angus Watson
LEGENDS AREN'T BORN. THEY'RE MADE.
Dug Sealskinner is a down-on-his-luck mercenary touring south to hitch up with King Zadar's military. yet he retains rescuing the incorrect people.
First Spring, a toddler he reveals scavenging at the battlefield, after which Lowa, considered one of Zadar's such a lot fearsome warriors, who has vowed revenge at the king for her sister's execution.
Now Dug's at the mistaken aspect of the thousands-strong military he was hoping to hitch -- and worse, Zadar has bloodthirsty druid magic on his part. All Dug has is his battle hammer, one small baby, and one unpredictable, highly-trained warrior with a lust for revenge that may get all of them killed . . .
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Additional info for Age of Iron (Iron Age, Book 1)
I found myself ravenous and full at the same time, freezing and flush, dangerously open and totally intimate. In the end, it was up to him to break our contact. In a flash of insight I saw disappointment in what Nordeen perceived as his own weakness. I couldn’t help but remember what the Dogon had said about healers being the death of the warrior’s spirit. A day and a half in Avignon touring the streets, and I can’t figure out if I’m just too bat-shit to realize no one’s actually following me, or if I’m just too anxious to truly notice.
She can move things . . ” “Yes. But she also can hear thoughts . . telepathic. ” I’m angry and don’t bother hiding it. ” she barks at me from too far of an emotional distance to expect to be heard. “What did I say? ” She slaps me hard enough to break one of her fingers. Other customers react. I don’t. ” She has no words for me. Instead she drops a twentypound note on the table and walks out the door. I take a second to survey the restaurant, to see if anyone follows her. When no one else does, I do.
The woman with the smell of donkey sausage on her hands behind me has broken two bones in her life. Ten people have hypertension. Five people are drunk. I’m swimming in their biorhythms. “Ticket, please,” the conductor asks me. Missed him. Damn. I just felt a mass of cells and neurons. I give him his billet, and he stops looking at me as a hobo. At least temporarily. Fuck him. Parkinson’s is maybe five years away for that guy. I’m not mad at him, really. More at myself. I’m used to combat situations where I can trash about recklessly or covert ops where no one knows what I can do and I operate with impunity.