Howling Dark by Christopher Ruocchio


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Howling Dark

Howling Dark (Sun Eater Book 2) by Christopher Ruocchio
English | 2019 | Sci-Fi | ePUB |3.0 Mb

Howling Dark : Hadrian Marlowe is lost.

For half a century, he has searched the farther suns for the lost planet of Vorgossos, hoping to find a way to contact the elusive alien Cielcin. He has not succeeded, and for years has wandered among the barbarian Normans as captain of a band of mercenaries.

Determined to make peace and bring an end to nearly four hundred years of war, Hadrian must venture beyond the security of the Sollan Empire and among the Extrasolarians who dwell between the stars. There, he will face not only the aliens he has come to offer peace, but contend with creatures that once were human, with traitors in his midst, and with a meeting that will bring him face to face with no less than the oldest enemy of mankind.

If he succeeds, he will usher in a peace unlike any in recorded history. If he fails…the galaxy will burn.

“Lord Commandant?”

The fog was clearing, retreating into the depths of history and of time as yet uncounted. I could still hear shouts, sobs, and I knew they were my own, conducted through bone and time to make me feel and see the horrors of my past because to know them was to be alive. Hard fingers tore my clothes that night in Borosevo, Cat’s body sank into the canals . . . At once sharp as new experience, my memories retreated from me like votive lanterns to the skies. I grasped at them, and found my arms like trunks of lead, unmoving. Warmth was rising in me, chasing out that pelagic cold, bleeding in from both my arms.

Bleeding.

I was in a bed. Or else in something very like a bed, and someone was standing over me. I beheld old Tor Gibson, his gray eyes green in my delirium—green as his robes—his leonine mane and whiskers bristling in the wind off Meidua’s waters.

“Dead?” I croaked, unsure if I meant himself or me.

The old scholiast smiled. “Not yet. We might avoid that yet.”

“Lord Commandant, lie still please.” That strange voice. Familiar. It came from Gibson’s mouth, or so I thought. “You’re still fugue-blind.”

“No,” I said, looking at the scholiast. “I can . . . can see Gibson.”

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