A world where myth, legend, and religion have been sacrificed on the altar of science.
“Full of imagery and soliloquy, cleverly structured and lucidly written. Really enjoyed reading this book.”
KK – Amazon UK
Forty-three years after the Silk Revolution, Corporal Ray Franklin, from the elite 10th Legion, stumbles across a secret that upends his life. His personal quest to find the twin brother he never knew he had takes him on a journey from the Bucket Towns of his birth through the deadly political schemes of the eponymous capital city of Aijlan. The suspense culminates in a thrilling showdown where a series of revelations punch a hole through the society Ray thought he was protecting.
Set against a background of genetic technology, a looming energy crisis, and modern day pain science, Franklin is an epic tale of haves and have-nots, where love, loss, loyalty, hate, and revenge stalk a dystopian society with roots in 21st century Europe.
An extract from Franklin – a brother in search of himself
(The Lords of Misrule: book 2) By Andy Graham
Waxed and Waned
Ray sprawled on the cave floor, the pain in his back forgotten. Something clipped his helmet, blinding him momentarily.
He spun, half-kneeling, swinging his rifle like a club. A howl seared the air. Fists slammed into his shoulders.
Ray lifted his head. Pushed himself upright. Brooke lay in a heap, legs pinned beneath her. The captain’s feet kicked, maimed fingers crushing his neck. Forcing himself into a stumbling run, Ray threw his weight into the angry, swollen flesh of the creature’s hip. It staggered. Aalok dropped, spittle dripping from his mouth.
Ray’s right arm hung by his side. It shouldn’t have come to this, he thought. The red light waxed and waned sharply, unveiling the carnage in a macabre stop-start comic book flicker: James twitching on the floor, Orr motionless, Aalok, Brooke fallen, Nascimento grappling the nightmare.
He pulled out his knife with his left hand. Stumbling forwards he stabbed at the twisting monster. Nascimento’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the blade slid into his flesh. His hold around the monster’s waist went loose. He sagged to the ground, the shock in his eyes fading with each breath.
“No!” Ray yelled.
He slashed. Hacked. A backhanded slap knocked him down, dazing him. The blade clattered to the floor. A multitude of scorched red figures leant over him, each one a fragment of the next.
“Never drop your weapon,” he mumbled, his fingers scratching at the rock floor. Aalok had taught him that.
He struggled as he was lifted into the air, his head spinning. “Technique is as important as strength.” Who’d taught him that? He didn’t know why he needed to remember it now, but he grasped for the memory anyway.
Another thought danced just out of reach where he couldn’t grasp it, something that was important. He hit the floor with a sickening thud. His head whiplashed over his pack.
His last memory as he lost consciousness was dunking the lieutenant-general of the 10th in the rapids which gave the legion their nickname. The winter sunshine reflected off the choppy white foam. He heard the cheers of the legionnaires in the clearing and saw the tears rolling down Rose’s face. She watched, defiant, proud, and afraid, calling his name, calling Rhys’s name.
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