Oathblood (Vows and Honor, Book 3) by Mercedes Lackey

By Mercedes Lackey

This intriguing new anthology contains a new novella that includes Mercedes Lackey's hottest heroines, Tarma (one of the sword-sworn and so much feared of all warriors) and Kethry (who wields magic and guns for the better good), whose fates are by surprise sure jointly in blood by way of the powers that regulate their destinies. additionally integrated within the targeted quantity is the total selection of Lackey's brief tales approximately those courageous sisters as they resolution the decision in their destinies with sword and sorcery!

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Additional resources for Oathblood (Vows and Honor, Book 3)

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Couldn’t defeat the progress of science: blow into the bag, pee in the bottle, blood smear under the microscope and there you were, fucked without a kiss. Charlie looked up, neck aching from the effort. To his right, the bridge illuminations necklaced the Thames, chokers of ambers and yellows and whites and reds. Charlie blinked, trying to sharpen the blur. Too bright to be Battersea Bridge. The Albert then. Shit: he’d done it again. He peered across the road for confirmation and got it from the road sign.

Up to here with traitors and super-spies,’ he said. For some inexplicable reason, the Ministry of Works, which was responsible for government decoration, considered buildings south of the river to be modern, for which Wilson was grateful. There was the obligatory bookcase, with its stuck-together tomes, but otherwise he was spared Naire-Hamilton’s working conditions. There were even two Dora Carrington pictures on the wall. The window view of the river included St Paul’s and the furniture was sufficiently contemporary not to make the television set, on which Wilson sometimes watched afternoon horse racing, appear obtrusive.

Charlie thought he should have received a pension. They were awarded for hernias and other army disabilities. And he was bloody sure that’s what he had – a provable disability from stamping around national service parade grounds in boots weighing a ton and over which they’d made him crouch, day after day, burning out the toecap lumps with a hot spoon and then polishing and spitting and polishing and spitting, to get a shine. It was to escape from the parade ground that he’d sat the examination for the intelligence corps, competing with the Sandhurst failures who gargled their words and had MG sports cars to take advantage of the weekend passes they always seemed able to get.

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