Unbound: Tales by Masters of Fantasy
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Not bound, as a book. Free.
Like Unfettered before it, the contributing writers of Unbound were allowed to submit the tales they wished fans of genre to read—without the constraints of a shackling theme.
The result is magical. Twenty-three all-original stories are sure to captivate you—some will move you to tears while others will keep you turning the pages long into the night. The power of Unbound lies in its variety of tales and the voices behind them. If you are a fan of discovering new writers or reading the works of beloved authors, Unbound is for you.
Return to Landover with Terry Brooks. Go to trial with Harry Dresden and Jim Butcher. Enter the Citadel and become remade with Rachel Caine. Survive a plague with John Marco and his robot companion Echo. Be painted among the stars by Mary Robinette Kowal. These tales and the others that comprise the anthology are only bound by how enchanting and enthralling they are.
Here is the line-up:
- Small Kindnesses by Joe Abercrombie (Shev & Javre)
- An Unfortunate Influx of Filipians by Terry Brooks (Landover)
- Mr. Island by Kristen Britain
- Jury Duty by Jim Butcher (Dresden Files)
- Madwalls by Rachel Caine
- The Way Into Oblivion by Harry Connolly
- Uncharming by Delilah Dawson
- All In a Night’s Work by David Anthony Durham
- Son of Crimea by Jason M. Hough (Zero World)
- Dichotomy of Paradigms by Mary Robinette Kowal
- A Good Name by Mark Lawrence (Broken Empire)
- River and Echo by John Marco
- Seven Tongues by Tim Marquitz
- The Siege of Tilpur by Brian McClellan (Powder Mage)
- Fiber by Seanan McGuire
- Stories Are Gods by Peter Orullian (Vault of Heaven)
- Heart’s Desire by Kat Richardson
- The Hall of the Diamond Queen by Anthony Ryan (Raven's Shadow)
- The Dead’s Revenant by Shawn Speakman (Annwn Cycle)
- The Farmboy Prince by Brian Staveley
- The Game by Michael J. Sullivan
- The Ethical Heresy by Sam Sykes
- The Rat by Mazarkis Williams
Unbound is filled with spectacularly wonderful stories, each one as diverse as its creator.
You will be changed upon finishing it.
And that is the point.
is, I wrote the letters for she was not capable with her maimed hand. The content consisted of, as one may guess, sentiments of youth, the sentiments of love. I recall a few I wrote Mr. Grindle during our courtship. She narrated, blushing girlishly as she did so, and I inked the papers wondering throughout it all how such an odd looking fellow, with all his deformities, could capture the heart of this sweet young woman. "Lydia," I said, "what will you do if he is able to leave for his own
can. Cherish his memory, yes, but live on." I stroked her hair, which spilled out from beneath her bonnet, and whispered any comforting platitudes I could think of till she calmed. In time, we separated. * * * * * We strolled in silence along the Shore Road toward the village. As we drew abreast of the Hutchinson home, the doctor stepped outside, still garbed in his mourning clothes. "Lydia, one moment please." He carried a book. "Yes, Dr. Hutchinson?" she asked. "My dear girl, I know how
rationality. This was a woman who had seen a great deal, had been amused by very little of it, and who would not be easily made a fool. She finished scanning the document and glanced up at the defendant. “Mister Luther?” she said. The bruiser in the bad suit rose. “Yes, ma’am.” “I see that you have taken it upon yourself to serve as your own defender,” she said. Her tone was bored, entirely neutral. “While this is your right under the law, I strongly advise you to reconsider. Given the
hiding in my house for two days! Are you the rescue party we’ve been waiting for?” “I suppose so,” Ben said. “Took your sweet time getting here, didn’t you? Get after those things before they decide to come back! You got to figure out which way they’ve gone first. They fly, you know, so they could be anywhere!” Ben looked at Questor, who shrugged. “Where is everyone?” he asked the old man. “They’re hiding in their houses, you dang fool! You think they want to get eaten like Jens Whippet or
snow and icy winds and our gods are many just as yours. The men of Christendom call us Vikings, axemen, and they fear us.” “Snow?” Snaga sat cross-legged and patted the ground for Harrac to join him. “You have to learn to trust me before I tell you about snow. I wouldn’t want you to call me a liar.” Harrac crouched, wary, eyes on the straight iron sword now laid across Snaga’s lap. “You don’t have an axe.” All Broken Bowl’s cattle and cowrie shells might buy him an iron sword, but not one so