Far Shore

Kerry Hancock

Description

The Mistress and the Sworn children have entered Merdom, the fourth child must be collected. Will The Mistress survive her time there or will King Magnus see fit to take his revenge? Meanwhile, all is not well in The Warm Realm. Shayla strikes a blow to each of The Kingdoms, will The Oracle help as she has promised? As this gripping trilogy concludes, The Mistress, The Sworn children and all the forest creatures must fight for their very survival.

Sujets

• Fantasy (canción de Mariah Carey)
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 06 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781398464704
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

The Far Shore
Kerry Hancock
Austin Macauley Publishers
2023-01-06
The Far Shore About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76
About the Author
Kerry Hancock lives in Kent with her husband and two dogs. Her passion for reading led to her taking up the pen herself and now she writes full time. She has a great respect for the natural world and often turns to Mother Nature for inspiration when writing.
Dedication
For Reggie
Copyright Information ©
Kerry Hancock 2023
The right of Kerry Hancock to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398464681 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398464698 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781398464704 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2023
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ®
1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
1
Milo Lightfoot flew through the air, desperately trying to keep his many tattered coats and cloaks hugged to his body. His tricorn hat had popped off like a cork and been whisked away into the distance. As the ground beneath him loomed closer, he screwed up his eyes against the harsh rush of air that battered his face. He had to think fast. With a quickly mumbled spell and a desperate fumble under his garments for a talisman, he bumped and rolled to the ground in a shambled heap.
“Mer be blessed!” He chuckled to himself as he checked his limbs for breaks and tried to stand, then realised he was still shackled to the water nymph. “Oh!” he whispered as the limp and soggy body of the nymph hung from the chain. “Oh well.” He chirped as he unlocked the wrist cuff and rolled the dead nymph down a small hill. The many creatures and wonders concealed about his person all chattered and squealed at the impromptu flight across the Unclaimed Lands. He checked all his pockets and pouches, reassuring and cooing to his pets.
Milo Lightfoot found that he was still capable of sadness when he scooped out the crumpled, dead body of one of his extra-large spiders. “You were one of my favourites, old friend.” He sighed, as he flung the leggy mess across the grass. He straightened up and brushed himself off, readjusted his woollen hat and stepped forward when something caught his eye. Mmmm , he thought as he pulled out an old, dirty spyglass and squinted into the distance.
“Jengo!” He whispered wickedly under his breath. “Now this should be interesting.” He fell to the ground and moaned and groaned for help, all the while searching his pockets for something incredibly special indeed.
Jengo had raced as fast as he could towards the Far Shore, hoping to catch up with the Mistress and report of Prince Lexion’s death before she made it through the gate. His paws were raw and his muscles cramped, but a steady pace he would keep. He headed into the Unclaimed lands with the hope of finding her at the Halfway, and with the tavern in sight he had stopped for a moment’s rest. Then he had heard it. A small cry. A pitiful squeal. Jengo stood and sniffed the air, nothing, no danger, no animal. He padded slowly towards the strange noise. As he rounded a small cluster of trees he saw a heap upon the ground. It looked like a pile of tattered cloth. He sniffed again, still nothing. He ventured closer. Milo Lightfoot called for help once more, in the most pathetic voice he could muster. Jengo, being the most honourable of wolves, stepped forward.
“What ails you?” he enquired. Milo Lightfoot kept silent. “Can I offer assistance?” he asked. Again a small cry for help came from the rag pile. “I am Jengo. Are you hurt?” When the most glorious of wolves was in striking distance, Milo put his heinous plan into action. As quick as a whip he snapped out his wrist from under his cloaks and robes and released his shanzy chain of mastery. As it snaked its way around Jengo’s neck all thoughts of the Mistress and the Sworn children were washed from the wolf’s mind.
“Now I have myself a pet to be proud of!” Milo Lightfoot bragged to himself. “Now I have the mighty Jengo at my beck and call. What do you say, DOG!” Milo Lightfoot tugged sharply on the shanzy chain and Jengo, the once proud and fearless wolf of the forest, gave a pitiful whine and followed his new master.
2
Day and night Thistle had tended the King, his raging fever had required many cold cloths and she and Illiwig had taken turns soaking them in the stream behind the house. She had cleaned and bound his hands and tended his many cuts and scrapes. Now she sat and waited.
“Any improvement?” Jug asked, entering the cottage with fresh wood for the fire.
“A little.” Thistle sighed as Illiwig took the wood from Jug and gestured for him to sit. Thistle shuffled to Illiwig’s side and the pair turned narrow eyes on Jug.
“Now don’t take on when I asks you what I’m gonna ask you.” Illiwig’s voice took on a serious tone as he placed a protective arm around Thistle’s shoulder.
Jug frowned.
“Ask away, friend.” Jug was a little confused at the frostiness of the two.
“Me and Thistle been talking like and we just don’t buy the story.” Everyone just stared at each other. “What I means to say is we just don’t think this man here is a lowly tinker.” Jug wriggled in the Mistress’ chair. “See! I knew something weren’t right!” Illiwig declared, noticing Jug’s discomfort at being questioned. “Come on now, spill!” Illiwig was indignant at being kept in the dark.
“Ok, ok, but if the Grey finds out I’ve told you he’ll…”
“He’ll what?” The Grey queried, as he slunk into the room.
“Ah, Grey, there you are. Illiwig and Thistle have questions…” Jug felt his cheeks redden as he slumped back into the chair. His nerves had been in shreds these past few days at keeping such a huge secret.
“Do they indeed? Well, ask then.” The Grey sat by the fire in front of Illiwig and Thistle and cocked his head, waiting.
“Well, me and Thistle here… well we was talking and we just don’t believe this here man’s a tinker.” Illiwig rushed the last few words and gripped Thistle’s shoulder tighter.
“And why is that?” The Grey asked licking his lips. Illiwig drew a large breath to steady his beating heart.
“Well to start with this man has the finest boots upon his feet that old Illiwig has ever seen. Second under his dirty clothes this man was as clean as a whistle and lastly this man has a king’s sovereign on a chain around his neck!” The last few words Illiwig almost shouted. The Grey chuckled.
“You are an observant little fellow. As you two have been prying and poking around you might as well know. But mark my words you will wish that you didn’t.” All eyes followed the huge wolf as he rose and padded over to the man wrapped in blankets on the floor. “This, my inquisitive little friends, is King Maximillian. Father to Prince Lexion, who is currently dead and buried behind the cottage.” The Grey sniffed the air.
“Mer be blessed!” Thistle gasped.
“But how? Why?” Illiwig had removed his arm from Thistle’s shoulder and was starting to pace the room.
“I do not know the details of why he was in the forest or what he was seeking, but I hope it was not his son.” The Grey headed for the door and turned. “Come and get me as soon as he wakes.” Thistle nodded. “As soon as he wakes, goblin.” Thistle nodded more swiftly.
For two more days Thistle tended with cloth and gentle hand and on the third morning the King opened his eyes.
“The seed! The cold realm!” He croaked loudly, starting to thrash in his blankets.
“Now, now, calm yourself, sir. You are in no fit state to stand.” Thistle tried to restrain his hands but the King would not be deterred.
“You don’t understand! Please, I must get to the Oracle! My city will fall!” The King’s eyes were wide with lunacy, his face was bright red and sweaty. “My sword, bring me my sword!” The King had managed to throw off his coverings and was crawling towards the door.
“Help me! Someone help!” Thistle screamed trying to hold him down.
“Out of my way! Out of my way! If I fail all will be lost!” The King was grappling at Thistle’s feet, trying to stand.
“Thistle!” Jug hollered as he raced into the cottage followed by an armed Illiwig.
“For the love of Mer, help me, Jug.” She shuffled aside as Jug bent to restrain the King and Illiwig raised his garden trowel, ready to strike.
“There is no call for violence, Illiwig.” The voice that came from the doorway was so soft, so calm, everyone turned. The doorway was glowing with a delicate, white light. “Be still, King Maximillian of Meridien.” Michael gently swept an arm across the room. Everyone shielded their eyes from the brilliance of his presence. The King closed his eyes and slumped against Jug’s chest. As Michael stepped into the cottage the glow dissipated and a tall, robed man stood before them, human-looking, except for the eyes. The ever-piercing eyes looked down at the bedraggled four. “That’s better, now to business. Ah yes, Jug, God has a task for you.”
“Michael!” The Grey declared as he skidded to a halt just in