K. EASON lives with her husband and cats in Southern California, where she teaches first-year composition students about food writing and the zombie apocalypse (not at the same time!). Her publications include the On the Bones of Gods trilogy, the Thorne Chronicles duology, and the Weep duology. Her short fiction has appeared in Cabinet-des-Fées, Jabberwocky 4, Crossed Genres, Kaleidotrope, Ink: Queer Sci-Fi's Eighth Annual Flash Fiction Contest, and the Shapers of Worlds III anthology. When she's not writing or commenting on essays, she's probably knitting and playing D&D.

Enemy was a Kindle First selection in May 2016 and reached #4 in its categories on the Kindle store. In addition, Eason's How Rory Thorne Destroyed the Multiverse was a Kirkus pick for best SFF of 2019. It was also an Editor's Pick at Amazon and a pick for best SFF of the month in Library Journal, on Amazon, and at Barnes & Noble.

On the Bones of Gods 2 - Outlaw by K. Eason

In the heart of the Illhari Republic…

Snowdenaelikk returns to Illharek, the city—and life—she rejected, looking for help against the vengeful dragon god rising on the border. With her comes Veiko, her outlander partner who can talk to the dead. But instead of allies, Snow finds conspiracy. The enemy's already in Illharek.

And when the city falls, the dragon will be waiting.

 

REVIEWS

  • "A solid entry into the fantasy genre, [Enemy] boasts strong sociopolitical themes and unique, layered characters."

    – RT Book Reviews

  • "This is rich, complex, and realistic world building with societies, religions, social-classes, and self-interest all in conflict."

    – To the Shelves

  • "This might be the best fantasy series you have never heard of."

    – Michael Mammay, author of Planetside
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

The stolen sword hissed past Snowdenaelikk's head, smashing through branches instead of her skull, scattering pine needles and shards of bark. Fair enough. That big-boned toadfucker was swinging like he had an axe, not a legion blade. Broad strokes, graceless, with all his weight behind them. All a woman had to do was get out of his way.

Which she had, except the once; and then he'd damn near sliced off her arm. Blood all over, tingling fingers, lucky she still had all five. At least it wasn't her sword arm. Thank luck for that. Thank whatever spirits

not the God, never again the God

watched over half-blood conjuring heretics. She struck back at him, left-handed. Put a deep cut above his right knee, crossways and up, into the meat of his thigh. He staggered back. Snow showed her teeth, more grimace than grin, and came in again. Moving rough, but still fast. Still hard.

She folded sideways, made him pivot after her on his wounded leg. Felt the hiss and whistle as his blade cleaved past her. Angled herself and gave ground, step by slow step, and tried to remember the motherless terrain. Spring-melt mud underfoot, mixed with slush. The rotted half log one, two, there to step over it. The trio of saplings. She found the big evergreen with its head-high scatter of branches, turned so that it wasn't quite at her back.

The Talir came at her again, an ugly backstroke that would open her up like a fish. She ducked and twisted at the last moment. He tried to correct, couldn't. Snagged his blade on the big evergreen, a shallow slice through the bark that scrubbed all the force off his strike and slowed him down.

She jagged in close, aiming for the spaces in his stolen armor. The Dvergiri weren't a large people, even the women; the Talir was four kinds of idiot not to have patched the gaps. She drove the seax—not a stabbing weapon, not meant for this—into his ribs. Worked the blade into the space between bones, hoping to catch a lung. And then she pulled the blade out, dragging on skin and muscle, a hitch at the end when the seax caught suction before wrenching free. She spun away. Focused on keeping hold of her blade and her last meal and staying upright.

The Talir's shout ended in a gurgle. She'd got the lung, then. Meant this toadfucker'd die without a chirurgeon's help. And the nearest chirurgeon wasn't interested in helping him. The nearest chirurgeon had her own wounds to occupy her attention.

Snow took herself a safe distance before she looked down at her right arm. The fingers were cold, numb, locked into claws. The forearm bone wasn't bent. Wasn't grinding. Might be nerve damage, yeah, or cut tendons. The chill on her skin had nothing to do with shock. Please, she could make the fingers move, even if she couldn't feel them, please—

And there, yes, she could. Snow clenched her teeth hard on a backsurge of nausea. Not enough air for her lungs. High-pitched whine in both ears. Her vision hazed soft on the edges. She blinked. Still hazy, and a headache lancing in behind. And that meant—

Briel.