Download Madness in Solidar (Imager Portfolio, Book 9) by L. E. Modesitt Jr. PDF

By L. E. Modesitt Jr.

4 centuries after its founding, Solidar's Collegium of Imagers is in decline, the exploits of its founder, the mythical Quaeryt, principally forgotten. The Collegium is so missing in management that the loss of life Maitre needs to summon Alastar, an imprecise yet proficient senior imager from Westisle a long way to the south who has little wisdom of politics within the capital, as his successor. while Alastar arrives in L'Excelsis and turns into the hot Maitre, he unearths disarray and shortage of self-discipline in the Collegium, and the ruler of Solidar so hated through the excessive Holders that they freely consult with him as being mad. To make concerns worse, neither Rex Ryen, ridiculed as Rex Dafou, nor the excessive Holders have any recognize for the Collegium, and Alastar unearths himself in the course of an influence fight, with Ryen tough that the Collegium eliminate the most powerful excessive Holders and the army management in flip plotting to topple Ryen and spoil the Collegium. even as, Ryen is tough the excessive Holders pay an immense elevate in taxes whereas he initiates a grandiose development venture. And all that, Alastar discovers, is barely a fragment of the issues he and the Collegium face.

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Madness in Solidar (Imager Portfolio, Book 9)

4 centuries after its founding, Solidar's Collegium of Imagers is in decline, the exploits of its founder, the mythical Quaeryt, principally forgotten. The Collegium is so missing in management that the demise Maitre needs to summon Alastar, an imprecise yet proficient senior imager from Westisle a long way to the south who has little wisdom of politics within the capital, as his successor.

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Additional info for Madness in Solidar (Imager Portfolio, Book 9)

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A long spar of rotten wood pierced his armour, burying itself deep in his shoulder-blade. The pain was excruciating, an all-consuming fire rising up from the blackened wood to spread through his body. Kaspar’s screams were wretched as he grasped the spar and drew it out of his flesh. The rotten wood flaked and powdered, leaving splinters beneath his skin. Through his screams he heard the unmistakable sound of laughter. He lifted his head to see a sallow-skinned man, rank with the corruption of the charnel house step into the clearing, though to call it a man was a lie.

His fist clenched around the hilt of his sword, and rammed it into the dead man’s chest, up between the third and fourth ribs. The blade cut through the dead man’s heart. Kaspar jerked it savagely, and jammed the blade down again, working the thing’s ribcage open with a crack of bones. A third blow opened it up fully, tearing through the striated muscle, and even as it grasped for his throat, he leaned down to reach in with his bare hands and tear out its heart. Whatever ungodly force had animated the corpse, rending its heart was enough to drive it out.

It wasn’t weighted to be thrown, but that didn’t matter. It missed the laughing man’s face by inches and slammed into his shoulder, cutting off his laughter in a choke of pain. It wasn’t enough. And he wasn’t ready to die. Kaspar waited for the killing blow but it never came. He struggled to roll over, to face his own death, to look it in the bogged eye. He slumped onto his back, gasping through clenched teeth as another wave of agony surged through him, from the wounded knee up through his chest.

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