Red Heir #1
Summary:Imprisoned pickpocket Loth isn't sure why a bunch of idiots just broke into his cell claiming they’re here to rescue the lost prince of Aguillon, and he doesn’t really care. They’re looking for a redheaded prince, and he’s more than happy to play along if it means freedom. Then his cranky cellmate Grub complicates things by claiming to be the prince as well.
Now they’re fleeing across the country and Loth’s stuck sharing a horse and a bedroll with Grub while imitating royalty, eating eel porridge, and dodging swamp monsters and bandits.
Along the way, Loth discovers that there’s more to Grub than meets the eye. Under the dirt and bad attitude, Grub’s not completely awful. He might even be attractive. In fact, Loth has a terrible suspicion that he’s developing feelings, and he’s not sure what to do about that. He’d probably have more luck figuring it out if people would just stop trying to kill them.
Still, at least they’ve got a dragon, right?
Summary:
Royal envoys Calarian and Benji embark on a quest in the alpine duchy of Tournel. Things go rapidly downhill when the duke plummets to his death from the tower wall. Whoops—that's going to be hard to explain. And it’s not as though they can just grab the nearest human and make him the new duke.
Or can they?
Enter one Lars Melker, a slightly gullible cowherd built entirely of muscles and sunshine, who happily accepts their word when they tell him he’s the duke now.
Soon Calarian and Benji are knee deep in teaching Lars how to fake it until he makes it. They're also dealing with mountain trolls, a monster, a missing cow, and, most shocking of all, a growing realisation that their elves-with-benefits arrangement might be turning into something with feelings.
Add in their mutual attraction to Lars, and suddenly the hills are alive with the sound of emotionally compromised collectivist anarchist elves.
Also, what’s the deal with those leather shorts?
Socially Orcward #3
Summary:Dave is a simple orc with a simple life. He has his dragons, his music, and his friends, and that’s mostly enough. Sometimes though, he gets lonely and wishes there was someone he could share his interests with—maybe even someone he could hold hands with, although he knows it’s not likely that there’s a special person out there for someone who’s seven feet tall and green to boot.
So it’s a delightful surprise when Simon Perrin, the new kitchen boy, not only knows all about dragons, but seems to like Dave as much as Dave likes him back. But all is not what it seems, and Simon is hiding a dark secret. There are sinister forces at work, and Simon needs to find a way out of the situation he’s trapped in. If he doesn’t, it could mean disaster for the entire kingdom of Aguillon, and an even more terrible fate for Pie, Dave’s beloved fingerdragon.
When Dave discovers Simon and Pie are in danger, he’s swept up in a rescue mission that spans an ocean, tests a friendship, and has more dragons that you could poke a lute at. It’s going to be a wild ride—literally.
Red Heir #1
Loth sighed and rattled the chains of his manacles, but they remained stubbornly affixed to the cold stone wall of the cell in Delacourt castle. Delacourt castle, like the rest of Delacourt, was a total shithole. Loth had only been here a few days after stumbling off the ship from Callier, but he felt more than qualified to make that judgement call. His head throbbed, either because of how much ale he’d had to drink last night or because the guards hadn’t been gentle with him during his arrest. His memory of the events wasn’t crystal clear, but his favourite blue doublet had a tear in it, and he was fairly certain he’d never get the stains out of the knees of his pants. Which, not for the first time, but Loth preferred to be on his knees by choice, and not because he was being dragged through the muddy streets by a bunch of thugs wearing the livery of the crown. Waking up in chains wasn’t his favourite way to start the day either, that was for sure. Not unless he’d agreed to it beforehand.
“I suppose you’re wondering how I got into this mess,” he announced loudly in the gloom.
The pile of straw on the other side of the cell rustled, and a grubby face appeared. “I wasn’t. I don’t care.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Loth said to his cellmate.
“Then who were you talking to?” his cellmate demanded, jutting his jaw out.
“I was soliloquising,” Loth said. “Well, I was hoping to, but somebody won’t shut their mouth.”
“Why don’t you shut your mouth?”
Loth snorted. “How can I soliloquise if I do that? Now, hush.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re wondering how I got into this mess.”
“I am not wondering!” his cellmate snarled. “I am trying to sleep! Shut up!”
“Since you’re awake,” Loth said, “and apropos of nothing, you wouldn’t happen to know what the penalty is in these parts for pickpocketing, would you?”
“I hope it involves cutting your tongue out.”
Loth hummed. “That would be a terrible loss. My tongue would be mourned throughout the land.”
“I doubt that very much,” his snappish cellmate replied. “You haven’t said anything of import yet.”
Loth grinned. “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t mean for talking.”
Eyes widened in the shadows, and then the straw rustled again as his cellmate attempted to bury himself under it. “Shut up!”
Loth leaned his head back against the wall and chuckled. Well, at least he could entertain himself while he was here, right? His cellmate—a drab, grimy creature who appeared to be mostly composed of straw—was just the sort of prickly arsehole that was fun to torment. It was especially fun since they were chained to opposite walls, and Loth had already checked his cellmate couldn’t reach him. If he attempted to attack Loth in a fit of rage, he’d be brought up short. Loth had learned very early in life that with a mouth like his, he’d needed to develop a very strong sense of self-preservation to go along with it.
Not that the straw man opposite was really any kind of threat. Loth was reminded of an angry rodent—a quivering bundle of impotent rage, but more amusing than dangerous. He decided to poke at the little wretch some more, if only to entertain himself. “What are you in here for, anyway? Let’s see if I can guess.”
“No!” The grubby urchin snapped. “Go away!”
“Well I would, but...” Loth rattled his chain. “I’ll tell you what, though. I get to ask you three questions, and then I get three guesses. If I can’t work out your crime, I’ll be quiet for the rest of the day. Deal?”
The straw parted and the boy—no, young man—sat up. He was older than Loth had first thought, long and lanky, and his features were fine enough to be called pretty under all that dirt, but he was still a dishevelled mess. “You’ll really shut up?”
“I’ll definitely think about it.”
The boy tilted his head slightly, considering, and his hair flashed red in the sliver of sunlight coming through the tiny barred window. His shade of red was lighter than Loth’s, but then, Loth’s came courtesy of henna rather than genetics. His eyes were quite lovely. They shone bright green as the sunlight caught them. What a shame his scowl ruined what little he had to work with. “Fine, but yes or no questions only.”
Cheeky little shit.
“I suppose I could make that work.” Loth didn't really think he could guess the boy’s crime, but he was going to have a lot of fun trying. Redheads were so easy to make blush—in all sorts of places.
Loth looked at the boy and made a contemplative sound, and yes, even the weight of his gaze was enough to make his victim’s cheeks flush pink.
“Hmmm.” Loth mused aloud. “I doubt you’re a whore, although you’re definitely pretty enough—I’d pay at least a gold coin.”
The young man’s mouth dropped open, his face went beet red, and his eyes widened, in mortification or scandal, Loth wasn’t sure which.
“Actually, I take that back. With a prissy attitude like yours, you’d need to pay me, not the other way around. You’re more frigid than an ice giant’s ballsack, aren’t you?” Loth held one finger up when it looked like his cellmate was about to interject. “And before you ask, that wasn’t a question, it was a speculation, so it doesn’t count.”
The boy might have been frosty, but his glare was pure fire.
“Hmm.” Loth sucked on his teeth for a moment. “I wonder if it’s an arrestable offence in this part of the kingdom to be a rude little twat. Because in that case, you may be looking at the death penalty. I’ll bet it’s something incredibly base though and suited to your low station. Like turnip theft, or horse buggery.”
The young man's lips thinned and Loth could see the internal struggle going on.
It was a struggle that the youngster inevitably lost when Loth added, “Just out of interest, were you the buggerer or the buggeree? Was there some sort of harness, or do you carry a footstool with you? The height difference intrigues me, so do tell.”
“How dare you!” he burst out. “I am a political prisoner, not a—a—”
“Lover of horses?” And oh, but wasn’t that interesting? Because Loth had no doubt that this scruffy, grubby little mouse, despite his appearances was, in fact, no peasant. He might have looked like one, but his accent gave him away. And, unlike Loth, that accent probably wasn’t faked. “Political, you say? Do tell. Are you the illegitimate spawn of a ranking official? Are you perhaps a spy?”
“No, and no,” the boy said, outrage magically vanishing. “That’s two questions,” he observed, quietly smug. “One more and you have to be quiet.”
Perhaps he wasn’t as dim as he appeared.
Loth grinned. This was definitely entertaining, and he had no intention of being quiet regardless of what he’d said earlier, so he resolved to come up with the most ridiculous thing he could, just to see the boy stammer and sputter and blush some more. “You do look like you’ve been here rather a long time. And you don’t have the features of a commoner. Plus, you’re awfully bossy for a little slip of a thing. Could it be, I wonder? Is it possible that you, my little grub, are in fact the long-lost Prince Tarquin of Aguillon, rumoured to have been locked away by his uncle?”
He was teasing of course. Despite the rumours perpetuated by idiots and bards—same thing, really—Loth would bet the entire contents of his purse (two silver pieces and a loose button) that Prince Tarquin wasn’t lost, and instead was exactly where his uncle had left him—in several pieces in an unmarked grave. That was politics for you.
The boy narrowed his eyes and jutted his chin out. “And what if I were?” he demanded mulishly.
Loth hummed thoughtfully. “No, you’re definitely a horse fucker.”
The boy roared in rage and leapt at Loth, despite the futility of such a gesture. His chains brought him up short, about halfway across the cell.
Really though, he should have been glad, because if he’d still been sitting where he was a moment later, he would have been crushed by the collapsing wall as an orc barrelled through it.
Elf Defence #2
“To be fair,” Benji said as Duke Klaus of Tournel plummeted down the side of the tower and hit the ground with a sickening splat, “that was mostly gravity's fault.”
Calarian leaned over the edge of the tower and inspected the impact zone far, far below. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “This is a terrible beginning to this quest!”
Benji shrugged and inspected his fingernails, squinting in the sunlight.
Calarian sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Go to Tournel,” Quinn had said. “They’re the victim of mountain troll attacks, and the duke has asked for our assistance. Find out what’s happening, and report back to us.”
“Oh, and Calarian?” Loth had added in a tone far too casual to ring entirely true. “Why not take Benji with you?”
Calarian loved quests. He’d been playing Houses and Humans since he was a child, but the shine had somewhat worn off the game since he’d helped rescue Loth and Quinn from a dank cell and restored them to the throne of Aguillon after defeating Lord Doom. Well, he’d restored one of them, and the other one had just gone along for the ride. The point was, Calarian was much more interested in real quests these days, so an adventure with besieged dukes and rampaging mountain trolls? That had definitely piqued his interest even if, as Benji said, it made him a bootlicker and a class traitor for taking orders off parasitic human kings who only existed to prop up a corrupt feudalistic system that oppressed the working people and whose heads would be the first on pikes when the revolution came.
Benji tended to talk like that a lot.
In retrospect, Calarian wasn’t at all surprised that Loth and Quinn had wanted him to take Benji with him. Especially since Benji kept loudly insisting that he didn’t even want to live at the palace and was only staying to ensure Loth and Quinn didn’t devolve into despotic warlords who had been corrupted by power, and it definitely wasn’t because the beds were soft and the food was good and Calarian was there, and anyone who said that was the real reason was a liar.
Everything had gone well, at first. They’d taken a week to get from Callier, the capital of Aguillon, to Tournel. Duke Klaus, a hearty old man with fluffy white hair and a welcoming smile, had been very happy to receive them. He’d filled them in on the strange mountain troll attacks, and personally escorted them up to the top of the tower, where he’d leaned out to show them exactly where the last mountain troll had collided with the keep—which was right when Benji had sneezed behind him, causing him to overbalance and, well, splat.
And here they were.
“It could be worse,” Benji offered. He didn’t seem nearly bothered enough by the dead duke spread beneath them, in Calarian’s opinion.
“Worse? How could it possibly be worse?” Calarian demanded.
“Well, he could have grabbed my hand and taken me with him, and that would have been a real loss,” Benji said.
Calarian wondered for a split second if it was too late to shove Benji over the edge, but restrained himself. Collectivist anarchists didn’t, as a rule, murder members of their own collective. Besides, Benji did have certain redeeming features.
He pushed down his murderous impulses and said, “You know we were just supposed to help him with his mountain troll problem?”
Benji glanced over the edge of the parapet, and then back at Calarian. “Well then, we’ve succeeded. I mean, he doesn’t have a mountain troll problem anymore, does he?”
“Benji, you killed the duke.”
Benji held up his finger. “Accidentally! And I do actually feel a little bit bad about that.”
“Do you?”
Benji chewed his lower lip. “I mean, he seemed nice. For an oppressor of the people.”
“You don’t even like people!”
“That’s also true,” Benji said. He flicked a shank of black hair over his shoulder. “I don’t even like people, and I’m still fighting for their rights. That’s so selfless of me. I’m actually amazing.”
“You are amazingly full of shit!”
Benji looked genuinely taken aback. “What’s your problem, Calarian?”
Calarian rolled his eyes. “My problem, Ebenjilarian, is that our quest is to help the duke, and you just killed him! How are we meant to explain that, exactly?”
“Well... he must have been some sort of villain. It’s a well-known fact that villains generally hurtle off cliffs or towers to their deaths. It’s a rule.”
“He wasn’t a villain! He was nice! We met him at Loth and Quinn’s wedding, remember?”
Benji wrinkled his nose and blinked. “No.”
“He was nice!” Calarian repeated. Though the duke had been getting on in years, he’d still been in good shape. Well, barrel shaped actually, but that had been a good enough shape for the ladies, when combined with the wicked twinkle in his eye. In fact, Calarian distinctly recalled that the duke had disappeared with one of the giggling maids for a while, only for the young woman to return flushed, smiling and, for some reason, smelling faintly of ginger. “You really don’t remember him from the wedding?”
“I barely remember him from a minute ago.” Benji shrugged. “Anyway, I’m sure we can get another one.”
“What?”
“Get another duke,” Benji said. “There’s bound to be another one around here somewhere.”
Calarian narrowed his eyes. “There isn’t. Klaus didn’t have any heirs. Did you even read the information about Tournel that Quinn gave us before we left?”
“No,” Benji said. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known there was going to be a test.”
Calarian sighed and looked out at the view. The landscape was strikingly beautiful. Jagged mountain peaks pierced the sky, snow-capped and dazzling. Lower down on the mountainsides, impossibly green grass grew, dotted with wildflowers. Calarian thought he could even see someone dancing across the meadow in the distance. The brisk, invigorating breeze carried the faint sound of distant cowbells.
The small village of Tournel itself, nestled between the mountains, was made up of wooden houses, painted in bright colours, with sharply pitched roofs. Most of the houses were adorned with decorative carvings and mouldings, and reminded Calarian of gingerbread cottages.
The castle seemed a relic from an older age; it was a squarish stone building with a single tall tower which made up part of the town walls. Everything was very picturesque and lovely, apart from the remains of Duke Klaus splattered at the base of the tower.
Calarian sighed again. They were supposed to be getting a report about the mountain troll attacks from Duke Klaus, but whatever information the old man had been keeping in his skull was now unfortunately scattered over quite a largish area of ground. How was Calarian supposed to complete this quest without Duke Klaus? Ask the duke, Quinn had said. He’d been very clear on that. Calarian shot a glare at Benji, and for another moment was tempted to tip him over the edge of the tower too.
Although...
Benji was right about one thing, and not just about how many times he could make Calarian come before his vision went fuzzy. (Five in one night, for the record.) Talk to the duke, Quinn had said, but he hadn’t specified whichduke. And surely the fact that Duke Klaus hadn’t nominated an heir meant that the position was wide open.
“What?” Benji asked. “You’re staring at me and you’re thinking. What?”
“We could get another duke,” Calarian said.
“That’s what I said!”
“Yes, but when you say it you’re being ridiculous,” Calarian said. “When I say it, it means I’ve got a plan.”
Socially Orcward #3
Once Simon had finished eating, a woman who was obviously the cook crooked a finger and beckoned him over. “Take the scrap buckets up to the dragon hatchery,” she said, “and be careful not to drop them going up the stairs. If there’s nobody there, leave the buckets just inside the door.”
Simon nodded, his heart beating faster. “And they’re real dragons?”
Cook fixed him with a stern look. “Of course. But be sure not to touch them. Dave’s very particular about his dragons.”
“Dave?”
“The dragon keeper. He’s an orc,” she added casually and Simon felt the blood drain from his face. Nobody had mentioned anything about orcs!
“Is...” Simon dropped his voice to a whisper. “Is he dangerous?”
Eat him? Simon’s eyes widened and his heart thundered in his chest.
There was a tugging on his sleeve and he looked down to see James grinning up at him. “Dave doesn’t eat people. They’re teasing.”
Simon’s knees went weak with relief, and he had to put a hand on the table to steady himself. “Th-thanks,” he stuttered out.
“Spoilsport,” Millie muttered at James, who stuck his tongue out in reply.
Lisa likes to tell stories, mostly with hot guys and happily ever afters.
Lisa lives in tropical North Queensland, Australia. She doesn't know why, because she hates the heat, but she suspects she's too lazy to move. She spends half her time slaving away as a government minion, and the other half plotting her escape.
She attended university at sixteen, not because she was a child prodigy or anything, but because of a mix-up between international school systems early in life. She studied History and English, neither of them very thoroughly.
She shares her house with too many cats, a dog, a green tree frog that swims in the toilet, and as many possums as can break in every night. This is not how she imagined life as a grown-up.
Lisa has been published since 2012, and was a LAMBDA finalist for her quirky, awkward coming-of-age romance Adulting 101, and a Rainbow Awards finalist for 2019’s Anhaga.
To connect with Lisa on social media, you can find her at the links below.
Sarah started life in New Zealand. She came to Australia for a working holiday, loved it, and never left. She lives in Western Australia with her partner, two cats, two dogs and a life-size replica TARDIS.
She spends half her time at a day job and the rest of her time reading and writing about clueless men falling in love.
Her proudest achievements include having adult kids who will still be seen with her in public, the ability to make a decent sourdough loaf, and knowing all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody.
She co-authored the Adventures in Aguillon series with Lisa Henry. Socially Orcward, the third book in the series, was runner up in the Best Asexual Book category in 20201's Rainbow Awards.
Lisa Henry
EMAIL: lisahenryonline@gmail.com
Sarah Honey
EMAIL: sarahhoneywriting@gmail.com
Red Heir #1
KOBO / iTUNES AUDIO / AUDIBLE
Elf Defence #2
KOBO / iTUNES AUDIO / AUDIBLE
Socially Orcward #3
KOBO / iTUNES AUDIO / AUDIBLE
Series
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