By Lynn Abbey
From the Bestselling myth experience sequence, Thieves' global (tm)Created by way of Robert Lynn Asprin & Lynn AbbeyReturn To town that will now not Die!Return To Thieves' World!Return To Sanctuary!Thieves' global was once the bestselling and primary of the shared global phenomenon, promoting good over 1000000 copies of anthologies detailing the exploits and intrigues of the high-born and low-born denizens of Sanctuary, a urban that has noticeable many masters.The Age of Ranke and the reign of Kadakithis, the profession of the Beysib, the battle of the gods and certainly the erstwhile Renaissance at the moment are all some time past. stories of heroes and villains, glory and savagery have all been relegated to the shadows of yesteryear as present-day citizens once more observe themselves to the duty to hand: survival.Only Molin Torchholder, architect of Sanctuary’s glory and grasp of her secrets and techniques. is familiar with the entire fact, yet he's demise . . . He needs to carry on until eventually he can move alongside the city's hidden background of empires come and long past and blood shed for cause and naught. helping him are a lowly laborer named Cauvin, himself a survivor of 1 of the city's darkest moments, and a tender boy named Bec.So many secrets and techniques and so little time. And as Molin’s chronicles of the previous spread, even darker forces go back, an evil that jeopardizes the very survival of a urban that formerly has continuously refused to die.Sanctuary - An Epic Novel of Thieves' international ushers in an entire new age of stories, an entire new age of Thieves' international.
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Additional resources for Sanctuary: an epic novel of Thieves' world
Example text
Molin struck again, as close to the same place as he could—witchcraft had restored his vigor, but it couldn’t replace the practice he’d missed over the last many years. The stranger cried out in pain. He curved over his leg like a reed in the wind, but backed away from a killing blow. “Prayer will not save you, Torchholder. You tore her children from her breast. You fed them poison and let them die. You wasted their blood! Wasted blood! She has thirsted all this time for yours—” The Dyareelan had proved that he knew whom he was attacking.
The clatter of the closing gate drowned out anything else Vurben might have said. “Did you hear that? The brazen cur,” Atredan complained. “You’re not thinking of running this Burggit to ground, are you? ” “For what? I did countermand his orders. ” “That man presumed to give you an order! He gave orders to an Imperial lord. He spoke to you as though you were another Wrigglie pud. He should be made an example of. Forget this Buggit; go to Captain Eraldus—he knows who puts food on his damn plate.
Let’s take the other way, Lord Torchholder,” Atredan pled, no longer hiding his fear. When he’d been a young man—or even a middle-aged one—Molin would have pursued the straggler into Ils’s temple. He had no quarrel with some Ils-worshiper who preferred chiseled stone to the pile of bricks outside the wall, but once the Hand had driven Ils’s priests out of His temple, they’d chosen His marble hall as the site for an altar to their bloodthirsty goddess. Molin had worked beside a score of priests representing almost as many gods to destroy that altar, that abomination.