|Posted on June 12, 2017 at 10:50 AM|
About the Book
Title: The Laird of Duncairn
Author: Craig Comer
Genre: Gaslamp Fantasy
The year is 1882 Scotland, and the auld alliance betwixt king and fey has long been forgotten. Men of science, backed by barons of industry, push the boundaries of technology. When Sir Walter Conrad discovers a new energy source, one that could topple nations and revolutionize society, the race to dominate its ownership begins. But the excavation and use of this energy source will have dire consequences for both humans and fey. For an ancient enemy stirs, awakened by Sir Walter’s discovery.
Outcast half-fey Effie of Glen Coe is the Empire’s only hope at averting the oncoming disaster. Effie finds herself embroiled in the conflict, investigating the eldritch evil spreading throughout the Highlands. As she struggles against the greed of mighty lords and to escape the clutches of the queen’s minions, her comfortable world is shattered. Racing to thwart the growing menace, she realizes the only thing that can save them all is a truce no one wants.
Craig Comer is the author of the gaslamp fantasy novel THE LAIRD OF DUNCAIRN and co-author of the mosaic fantasy novel THE ROADS TO BALDAIRN MOTTE. His shorter works have appeared in several anthologies, including BARDIC TALES AND SAGE ADVICE and PULP EMPIRE VOLUME IV. Craig earned a Master’s Degree in Writing from the University of Southern California. He enjoys tramping across countries in his spare time, preferably those strewn with pubs and castles.
“What regiment are these soldiers from?” asked Effie. “They don’t appear Scottish.”
Murray’s lips twitched, almost in a grin. “Does it make a difference to you?” She tried to think of a response, but her tongue tied. He couldn’t contain his mirth. “I believe you already know the answer. You strike me as a rather intelligent woman.”
“Don’t let your general hear you say that.”
“The intelligent part, or the use of the word woman?”
Both, she thought. She was woman enough in most men’s eyes, yet her blood was different, and that kept her from ever truly being human. At least in the eyes of people like Edmund Glover and Sir Walter Conrad. And Murray. That thought shouldn’t bother her any more than the others, but it did.
“Newcastle, then,” she said.
“Northumberland Hussars brought up to quell the fey disturbances,” Murray confirmed.
She smirked. The volunteer cavalry unit was well-known for putting down overly-ambitious unions of miners and fishermen. In 1831, it had even fired on its own countrymen. “To protect the interests of the Hostmen, you mean. It is their money that drives this sudden interest in the Highlands, isn’t it? For centuries they have been nothing but barons of the coal trade. Why do they now back a man like Sir Walter Conrad?”
Murray blinked, an expression of surprise crossing his face. “Surely you’ve heard the chatter in the coffeehouses? Coal has had its day. Its supremacy won’t last forever, and the Hostmen want to keep their true monopoly, that on energy. Money and energy drive the world, and there isn’t one without the other nearby.”
“So they fund research into alternatives.”
“And work against other sources they can’t dominate.” He raised an eyebrow. “Namely, stardust.”
The insinuation was clear—the fey were a problem the Hostmen could not control. The hatred of her entire race boiled down to a handful of men who wanted their heirs to live as opulently as they had. A flare of rage swept through her so intense it brought tears to her eyes.
Effie exposed her hand to the growling bear. Her fingers found Rorie’s head and gave him a few soothing strokes behind the ears. A rumble came from deep in his gullet, as fierce as his wee body could muster. Frigid wind blasted them as they hid behind a large boulder atop the crown of Ben Nevis, the highest peak in the Highlands. A stranger had come to speak with her employer, Thomas Stevenson. Not an odd occurrence, but for a fortnight Rorie had groaned and whined, pawing for her attention as if disturbed by dark thoughts, trying to plead with her that something was amiss. And now that the stranger had come, Rorie’s discomfort had turned into malice.
“If only I could peer into that head of yours and see what the fuss is about,” she said, planting her hands firmly on her hips.
Rorie squatted on his haunches with a big huff, turning his head away. Though preferring the wild of the forest, he behaved himself around others when she asked. And only because it was she who asked. The bond had something to do with her Sithling blood, but Effie couldn’t explain how it worked. It was as much a mystery to her as any of the uncanny bonds she’d made with woodland creatures, lazy housecats, and goofy hounds over the years. As much a mystery as why the queen and all the lords of London abhorred her kind, though she’d done nothing to warrant their wrath.
Rorie had been loyal to her ever since she’d convinced Stuart Graham to rescue him from a carnival the prior year, saving him from a brutal—and probably short—life of baiting. But he’d never acted so ill-tempered. Had the stranger come to take him away? Or was it she who should be fearful? By sight alone, the stranger wouldn’t know her for a Sithling. Short of stature, with a young woman’s curves and chestnut locks clipped about the shoulders, she lived her life amongst the Scots all but unnoticed, the truth of her mixed fey blood hidden.
Yet such reliance on appearance was a false safety.
Her hair whipped about her face, blinding her until she swept it back. The lodge of the Scottish Meteorological Society perched only a short distance away, a cozy, timbered house well-weathered from years of driving gales. Its chimney puffed white smoke, teasing her with thoughts of hot tea and honeyed biscuits. But that was where Mr. Stevenson had taken the stranger, and he’d instructed her not to return until he bade her. She blew into her hands for warmth, vexed by the riddle of the strange visitor, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.
“I’m going for a closer look,” she said to Rorie. “Wait here.” Hoarfrost crunched as she shifted her weight and slunk forward. The frozen dew crusted the fern and bracken around the lodge, radiating a cold that sank into her bones. Her olive-colored dress and drab woolen coat were serviceable enough, but they did little against the cutting winds atop the mountain, winds that drove in the damp air as if she wore nothing as all.
Categories: Book Excerpt