Shader has failed and Sektis Gandaw now holds all the pieces of the Statue of Eingana. Despair hangs like a pall over the battered armies of Sahul and Aeterna. It’s now just a matter of time …
A sliver of hope comes in the form of Shadrak the Unseen, who has the means to travel to the source of the coming cataclysm, the black mountain at the heart of the Dead Lands on Aethir.
But Shader, Shadrak, and Rhiannon discover that Aethir brings a new set of challenges: the Sour Marsh—an oozing malignancy from the nightmare realm of Qlippoth; an arrogant senate that seeks to appease rather than fight; and a volatile secret at the heart of the ravine city of Arx Gravis: a dwarf with no name who could prove the most stalwart of allies… or the deadliest of foes.
Old love has turned sour and regrets run deep. Shader is sick of killing, but can see no other way. Rhiannon’s last defense against all she has lost is a self-destructive rage; and Shadrak’s niggling conscience is causing him more trouble than he needs. Loyalties are called into question, yet all three must bury their differences if they are to find a way into Sektis Gandaw’s impregnable base and prevent the Unweaving of all things.
The third part in the bestselling SHADER series, which has regularly been a bestseller on multiple platforms.
A DWARF WITH NO NAME
Dwarven City of Arx Gravis, Aethir
One year before
The Battle of the Homestead
So much blood.
Canals of it running through the streets of Arx Gravis. It dripped from the walkways and bridges like diseased rain, making the waters of Sanguis Terrae, the great lake at the foot of the ravine, a perfect match for its name. It even flowed along the corridors of power all the way to the Dodecagon, and though he knew the council chamber better than any other dwarf, knew the twelve stone doors were hermetically sealed, Thumil kept expecting the first trickle of red to seep through them, pool beneath the debating table, and rise till it drowned him and Cordy, that bald bastard Aristodeus, and … He looked at the once familiar dwarf twitching with nerves or damped down rage at the head of the table, scarcely dared take in the black axe clutched to his armored chest in white-knuckled hands. Looked and went blank. He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say the name. It hardly seemed to fit anymore.
He straightened his blood-spattered robe. Hard to believe it had once been white. What must he have looked like now? Nothing like one of the Council of Twelve, that’s for sure. Any illusions he might have had about status, about being untouchable in dwarven society, had scattered like rats before a mouser.
All he could focus on was those dead eyes that used to have the hue of walnut, at once sad but twinkling with good cheer.
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French
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Already translated.
Translated by Cécile Bénédic
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