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Zusatztext "This book delivers exactly what its predecessor promised: the ability to bewitch the reader and to turn your expectations upside down." - Mihir Wanchoo! Fantasy Book Critic Praise for Kell's Legend! Book 1 of the Clockwork Vampire Chronicles: "Kell's Legend' is a roller coaster ride of a book that grabbed me right from the first page and tore off at a rate of knots like I hadn't seen in a long time." - Graeme's Fantasy Book Review "Kell's Legend is an iconoclastic melange of themes that incorporates devices from various genres-Moorcook/Gemmell heroic fantasy! steampunk! and horror. It is an exciting! brutal novel! soaked in testosterone and paced like a roller coaster. The sex and violence is visceral and the action is non-stop." - Red Rook Review Praise for Andy Remic's Previous Works: “...blood-spattered ultraviolence” - SFX Magazine ( November 2007) “War Machine is like the collected hardware spank banks of Chris Foss! Neal Asher and Jeremy Clarkson all mashed into one” - Death Ray magazine (January 2008) “Biohell can stake a claim as the finest viral nightmare since 28 Days Later” - Calum Waddell! SFX Magazine (January 2009) “His staccato prose is punchy and he delivers in the action stakes” - Alasdair Morton! SciFi Now Magazine (January 2009) Informationen zum Autor Andy Remic is a British writer with a love of ancient warfare, mountain climbing and sword fighting. Once a member of the Army of Iron, he has since retired from a savage world of blood-oil magick and gnashing vachines, and works as an underworld smuggler of rare dog-gems in the seedy districts of Falanor. In his spare time, he writes out his fantastical adventures. Klappentext Blood-Oil! Leseprobe SOUL STEALERS, BY ANDY REMIC Book 2 of The Clockwork Vampire Chronicles PROLOGUE Soul Stealers. It was an ink-dark dream. A razor flashback. A frozen splinter of time piercing his mind like a sterile needle. Nienna, beautiful Nienna, his sweet young granddaughter; they stood by the edge of a wide, sweeping river, spring sunshine warming upturned faces and glinting like diamonds amongst swaying reeds. Kell was teaching her how to fish, and he guided her hands, her long tapered fingers a contrast to his wrinkled, scarred old bear paws, hooking the bait (to which she pulled a screwed up face) then casting out the line. They sat, then, in companionable silence, and Kell realised Nienna was watching him intently. He turned, scratching his grizzled grey beard, eyes meeting her bright gaze, and she smiled, face radiant. “Grandfather?” “Yes, little monkey?” “Isn’t fishing… you know, unfair?” “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s like a trap, isn’t it? You dangle the worm on a hook, and the fish swims along, unsuspecting, and you whip him out and eat him for supper. It’s not fair on the fish.” “Well, how else would I catch him?” said Kell, frowning a little. He chuckled. “I could always throw you in – you could swim after all the little fishes, catch them in your teeth like a pike!” He moved as if to grab her, to toss her into the deep waters, and she squealed backing away fast up the bank and getting mud on her hands and clothes. Nienna tutted. “Grandfather!” “Ach, it’s only a little mud. It’ll wash off.” What Kell had wanted to say was that all life is a trap, a deceit, a bad con trick from a clever con artist. Life leads you on, life dangles tantalising bait on a dulled hook of iron – the bait being happiness, good health, wealth, joy – and you reach with both hands, mouth gaping like a slack-brained jester in the King’s Court but Life is a bitch and just when you think you’ve found it, found your dream, the line snags and you’re yanked by your balls, ...
