Vi’s mouth dropped open. Then the insanity of voicing her wild suspicions made it snap shut. What was she going to do? Challenge a madman, tell a king his wife was carrying two different men’s sons, and throw an insane hope at Kylar as if it would make up for Elene’s death?

No, she would say nothing, not until she knew, maybe not for a long time. But if Elene and Kylar’s child somehow lived, Vi swore—swore!—that no one would hurt him.

As the ceremony ended, Vi looked surreptitiously at Kylar. He stood tall. Even as tears coursed down his face, he seemed unburdened, more at ease, more confident, more . . .  himself, than Vi had ever seen. She came and stood beside him as the mourners walked into the glorious spring sunshine to look out over their clean white city. Ten thousand red tulips were a reminder of the blood that had purchased it. Kylar took Vi’s hand and squeezed.

meet the author

BRENT WEEKS was born and raised in Montana. After getting his paper keys from Hillsdale College, Brent had brief stints walking the earth like Caine from Kung Fu, tending bar, and corrupting the youth. (Not at the same time.) He started writing on bar napkins, then on lesson plans, then full time. Eventually, someone paid him for it. Brent lives in Oregon with his wife, Kristi. He doesn’t own cats or wear a ponytail. Find out more about the author at www.brentweeks.com.

A Preview of "ORCS"

introducing

If you enjoyed BEYOND THE SHADOWS,

look out for

ORCS

by Stan Nicholls

Stryke couldn’t see the ground for corpses.

He was deafened by screams and clashing steel. Despite the cold, sweat stung his eyes. His muscles burned and his body ached. Blood, mud and splashed brains flecked his jerkin. And now two more of the loathsome, soft pink creatures were moving in on him with murder in their eyes.

He savoured the joy.

His footing unsure, he stumbled and almost fell, pure instinct bringing up his sword to meet the first swinging blade. The impact jarred but checked the blow. He nimbly retreated a pace, dropped into a half crouch and lunged forward again, below his opponent’s guard. The sword rammed into the enemy’s stomach. Stryke quickly raked it upward, deep and hard, until it struck a rib, tumbling guts. The creature went down, a stupefied expression on its face.

There was no time to relish the kill. The second attacker was on him, clutching a two-handed broadsword, its glinting tip just beyond the limit of Stryke’s reach. Mindful of its fellow’s fate, this one was more cautious. Stryke went on the offensive, engaging his assailant’s blade with a rain of aggressive swipes. They parried and thrusted, moving in a slow, cumbersome dance, their boots seeking purchase on bodies of friend and foe alike.