Excerpt: THE BONE RAIDERS by Jackson Ford
The start of an edge-of-your-seat, action‑packed epic fantasy series from the irreverent Jackson Ford, where a wild band known as the Bone Raiders harness the power of gigantic, fire-breathing lizards to defend their homeland.
Read an excerpt from The Bone Raiders (US), available now, below!
One
Garrick
I was out taking a piss, and I nearly stood on her!”
Garrick slowly opened one eye. Which was a huge mistake, because that was when his hangover chose to announce itself by whanging hard against the inside of his skull. He closed his eye with a pained grunt, rolled back over.
When it came to pissing on people, he didn’t want to know. He really didn’t.
“Nearly kicked her in the head.” The speaker was old Batu, just beyond the flap of Garrick’s tent. The man was addressing a crowd, it sounded like: a hubbub of excited voices. “She was down in the long grass, all sneaky. If I hadn’t been keeping an eye out, no one would have found her. No one!”
Garrick rather doubted that. Batu couldn’t find his arse if the directions were tattooed on the back of his wrinkled hands. None of the villagers could.
A burst of agonising light lanced through his cracked eyelids. Someone, some deeply evil fuck, had pushed open the flap of his tent. He held up a hand, but it did no good whatsoever.
“Garrick, you need to come!” a hazy shape shouted. “Batu caught a raider!”
The shape vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Garrick propped himself up on his elbow, blinking, tongue sour in his mouth.
Raiders.
Been a while since any had come this way. The new Khan and his army were exterminating them, wiping them off the face of the Tapestry. All part of the Khan’s grand plan for this land.
A raider scout that allowed themselves to be caught was a very poor raider indeed. Chances are, old Batu didn’t know what he was talking about. Still, Garrick didn’t trust the villagers not to cock this up. Somehow.
With a sigh, he found his way to his feet, doing his best to ignore the horrid pounding in his brain. To his left, his anvil sat, dark and silent. Tools nearby, arranged neatly on a wooden bench.
He would have given anything to stay inside; the tent was unbearably hot, dust hanging in the still air. But it would be hotter out there, where the twin suns could cook you in your boots.
Garrick supposed he’d be needing his axe, for show if nothing else. It lay propped against the fabric wall. His fingers closed on the weapon’s worn haft. He slotted it into the sheath on his back as he stepped out, squinting into the searing midday light.
The blacksmith stood a head taller than anyone in the village. He was tanned and lined, but the skin at the neck of his sleeveless, boiled leather jerkin was still pale pink. Unlike the men of this land, with their neat goatees, his beard ran to his chest in a black river, flecked with grey rapids.
He’d come to the village a year before, a traveller passing through. He spoke the language, and had bartered for a place to sleep and a cracked bowl of millet broth. He’d ended up liking the place, and had stayed, offering his skills at metalwork. There were rumours of what had driven him from the west, whispers of scandal and betrayal. Garrick would only smile when asked, and say that it was a long time ago.
There were plenty of settlements just like this one in the massive, rolling grasslands of the Tapestry. It stood on a hillside, which ended in a cliff high above a rushing river. The colourful felt tents—gers, they called them in these parts—ran all the way up the gentle slope to the cliff edge.
As Garrick ducked out of his own ger, another villager brushed past him. This one was laughing—at what, Garrick didn’t know, only that they sounded nervous and they were way, way, way too fucking loud.
Garrick clutched his splitting skull; he’d once been told that the fermented mare’s milk they drank in these parts—airag, they called it—wasn’t that strong. He briefly fantasised about finding the man who’d told him that, and beating him to death. The basic stuff wasn’t, to be sure, but the people of this land had a way of distilling it that did horrible things to your brain.
He took several deep breaths. As he did so, and without really meaning to, he glanced to his left.
At the damned banner.
He’d been trying not to think about it; honestly, it was part of the reason he’d got so drunk last night. Soldiers had planted it two days before, at the bottom of the hill. Two white suns and a moon, crowned with orange flame on blue fabric, rippling in the warm wind. The Khan’s Will, it was called.
Raiders weren’t the only thing the Khan seemed set on exterminating. Villages like this one weren’t part of his grand plan. Ditto for the many groups of nomads wandering the Tapestry, with their horses and wagons.
The old Khan had been content to let all of them exist, as long as they paid him tribute. The new one? That evil little prick wanted everyone under his thumb. Which was bad news if you happened to like living out in the grasslands of the Tapestry.
The Khan wanted an army. He wanted manned borders, garrisons at areas of strategic importance. The official reason was to be ready if Dalai invaded, from the north, or Ngu, from the south. Garrick rather suspected it was because the man liked the idea of thousands of troops at his beck and call.
And instead of scattered villages and roving bands of nomads, he wanted a single shining city, with a giant wall and leagues of farmland. Karkorum. His capital. He wanted everyone in the Tapestry in one place, where he could keep an eye on them.
That was the point of the banner. Hello, villagers: those of you who can hold a sabre, deliver yourself to military training post haste. Those who can’t, deliver yourself to Karkorum, and report for work. Those city walls aren’t going to build themselves, and that grassland won’t become nice, ordered rows of crops unless you put your backs into it.
Didn’t like the idea? Didn’t fancy starving in a crowded, diseased slum, or suffering forced marches for no good reason? No problem. You could run, or you could… no, actually that was about it. Run, and hope you escaped the Khan’s notice, or that one of the battalions roaming the Tapestry didn’t come across you. Good luck.
The whole thing pissed him off. Life in the Tapestry was hard, but it suited him. Living in a nation-sized military camp did not.
Since the soldiers planted that banner, the whole village had been in an uproar. Everyone knew what moving to Karkorum meant—nobody came back from there. So they’d argued and debated and fought, and wasted valuable time.
Later today, the soldiers would be back, asking pointed questions about why the villagers were still here. The kind of questions that usually ended up with someone’s heart on a wooden stake.
Hangover or not, Garrick intended to be long gone before things got to the hearts-on-stakes bit. He had no intention of fighting in the army, or slaving away in the city, and he couldn’t stop the Khan on his own. This land was finished, but he wasn’t. He’d go north, over the mountains perhaps. To a place where they made booze that didn’t hollow out your skull from the inside.
Still, he’d deal with this raider situation first—if it was indeed a raider situation. Least he could do.
He frowned as he took in the crowd: an angry, noisy mess of people surrounding their captive. The crowd was moving, dragging their prisoner up the narrow street between the gers, stepping past the village’s single wagon—an ancient contraption with three remaining wheels, the bare axle propped up with wood blocks. In all the time he’d been here, Garrick had never seen it move. No one even seemed to know who it belonged to.
When this village decamped, headed to Karkorum to begin their fabulous new lives in service to the Khan, it would be the only thing left behind. A monument to what the Tapestry used to be.
He trailed the crowd as they dragged their prey to the edge of the cliff. The river sat fifty feet below, gleaming in the suns, reflecting a midday sky filled with puffy, billowing clouds. Beyond the river, shimmering grass stalks stretched to the mountains on the horizon.
He was going to miss this place. What a waste, to empty it of people, force them to live behind walls or in military camps.
There was a dusty, ancient wooden pole sunk into the ground near the cliff—Garrick had never got around to asking what it was for. Chances were, no one would know anyway. They were tying someone to it as he arrived, shoving her to sit on the dirt, binding her wrists above her head with a strip of rough cloth.
For once, old Batu had been dead right. This was no traveller. Travellers didn’t wear paint. Hers was a jagged red slash, running from right temple to left jawbone.
“Found her skulking in the reeds, I did!” Batu bleated, to anyone who would listen. “If I hadn’t had the boys with me, she would’ve run me through. Nearly took off Nugai’s ear before we got her pinned.”
Nugai grinned as several others slapped him on the back. Blood trickled down the side of his head, staining his beaded blue healer’s headband.
The scout wouldn’t stop struggling. She was young, twenty perhaps, with a round face and a hard twist to her mouth. Tall—over six foot, easily, with a body like a reed. Skin covered in nicks and scars, mementos of past battles.
Her hair wasn’t cut short, like so many other raiders. Instead, she had a single long, black braid running down to her waist.
One of the villagers grabbed it, laughing as he wrapped it around the pole and tied it to itself in a clumsy knot, pulling the scout’s head back against the hard wood. They’d taken her sash, and her faded grey deel hung open, the robe showing tough leather underneath.
Some of the villagers were passing the girl’s sabres around. The fact that she had two weapons was strange in itself: fighting with twin blades was stupid. It looked flashy, but you couldn’t defend yourself, or grapple. You’d get skewered if you didn’t move like lightning. It was exactly the kind of fighting that they liked in the palace in Karkorum, funnily enough, where all you had to do was entertain the Khan while he had his breakfast.
“She’s Black Hands!” someone shouted. “Has to be!”
“Not a chance,” said another voice. “We sent them running ages ago.”
Garrick grunted at that. There wasn’t much we about it, if he remembered right. Just him.
“Arkan’s Eagles then. None of them even know the right way to hold a blade, no surprise one of them got herself caught.”
“Down by Arsi’s tent.” Batu was still going. “Found her myself when I went to take a piss!”
Garrick crouched, studying the scout. She caught his eye and actually snarled at him. It sounded forced, theatrical, like a mummer in some play.
He found he pitied her, just a tiny bit. If you had to pick a career with no future in the Tapestry, being a raider was at the top of the list. Even the ones still out there, which apparently included this young pup, were on borrowed time.
Awfully hard to make a living as a raider if there were no settlements left to raid, after all. Or if the army is taking special pleasure in wiping you out.
You could give up, of course. Pretend to be a villager, or try to join the army yourself. Just another citizen obeying your Khan’s orders. But if they caught you…
There was something about this raider, though, that made the skin on the back of his neck prickle.
“Who do you ride with?” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “Speak.”
She spat at him. The glob of spit didn’t quite make it, splashing into the dirt. The raider lashed out with her unbound feet, catching nothing but dust. Twisting against the rope around her wrists.
There was a necklace at her throat, most of it hidden beneath her leather armour. The thing prickling the back of Garrick’s neck started to move down his spine as he reached over, snagging the string, ignoring her bared teeth. Lifting it out.
Bones.
Polished white chips, threaded on the woven string.
Most raiders in the Tapestry weren’t worth a damn. You could fight them off on a good day, stand your ground. But most didn’t mean all. And there was one group in particular, a group who Garrick had only heard of, never actually seen…
Panic had a strange way of showing itself. For such a vicious emotion, it always came on gradually. The set of someone’s shoulders. A tiny crack in another’s voice.
It started to spread through the villagers behind Garrick the moment they saw the bones. The woman gave him a slow, twisted smile, and for the first time, she spoke. Above the trembling murmur of the crowd, her voice carried perfectly.
“You are so fucked.”
And just like that, the villagers lost their minds.
They all started shouting, bumping into each other, scrambling in their haste to get away. One of them still held the scout’s sabres, nearly impaling another villager as he spun in place. A word kept coming up, rising above the tumult again and again.
Rakada.
Garrick didn’t believe in the gods of this land. Didn’t believe that Father Sky and Mother Earth had woven the Tapestry, thousands of years before. But he couldn’t help himself thinking, just for a second, that they were vindictive bastards nonetheless. First the Khan’s Will, and now this? What else could possibly befall this village?
He forced himself to look away from the woman’s triumphant smile. “Enough,” he bellowed.
Amazingly, they listened.
He turned slowly, taking in the frozen villagers. His hangover was gone. This was why they needed him: to be a steady hand when others wavered.
He couldn’t protect them from the Khan’s Will, no one could… but he could stand firm against raiders. Even these raiders.
“Bayar,” he said, his lips barely moving. The man with the sabres gazed up at him, trembling. “Get everyone to safety. Take them to the river, and follow it east. Where it widens, the grass is tall enough to hide in.”
There was the sound of wood on leather as his axe slipped free. “The rest of you: with me.”
“Do you know what the Rakada are?” one of the women snarled. “Do you know what they do?”
“You want your bones hanging from their horses, pale man?”
“It’s a trick! It has to be! We need to fight.”
“No no no. We ransom her, yes? Back to those monsters.”
“The Bone Raiders won’t care. Cut her throat, and have done with it! One less raider to fight later…”
Garrick tested the weight of his axe. How much time did they have? Minutes? How long before the Rakada missed their scout? He listened hard, forcing his way past the panicked voices of the villagers. Listened for the sound of howling, carried on the wind.
The sound of rattling bones.
They didn’t come. Instead, there was a very peculiar, rumbling growl.
Garrick turned, thinking it was too late, that the Rakada had already arrived. But the thing coming along the edge of the cliff towards them, from the north, wasn’t a raider. It wasn’t a soldier, come to carry out the Khan’s orders.
It wasn’t even human.
Garrick had heard stories of war elephants, in the kingdoms beyond the mountains. He’d seen huge crocodiles in the rivers of the southern deltas. The thing walking along the cliff looked as if a sorcerer had melded the two, brought them together to create the single biggest creature Garrick had ever seen.
The lizard—that’s what it was, a fucking lizard—was twice his height at the shoulder, with a massive, muscular body swaying from side to side. Scales the colour of summer grass. The tail swished the air, the end a thick, bony club the size of a boulder.
Four powerful legs stuck out, thick as tree trunks, the knees bent at ninety degrees. Feet with splayed, hooked claws as long as sabres. Garrick stared, mouth slack, amazed at how quietly it walked. Something that big shouldn’t be able to move that silently. It wasn’t fair.
And the head…
A full half of its length was taken up by a long, tapering snout; the teeth reminded Garrick of the knives he’d made when he was still an apprentice smith. Jagged and uneven. Behind the teeth was a forked tongue the length of a man’s arm, purple as mountain flowers. Two horns stuck up from the top of its head, little nubbins of grey bone.
The crowd froze, trying to understand what they were seeing. Because araatan—that was the name for them, wasn’t it?—didn’t come into the Tapestry. They didn’t come anywhere near the Tapestry. They lived in the distant Baina Mountains: solitary, retiring animals that ate goats and wild horses, along with any tragically unlucky tigers who got a little too ambitious with their hunting grounds.
Garrick had certainly never seen one—and definitely not one casually marching into the village, a hundred miles from the nearest mountain. It didn’t make sense.
For a strange moment, he wondered if the captive scout might have summoned it—that this was the Bone Raiders’ real trick, that they could somehow command araatan. But no, the bound woman was staring at the animal too, eyes huge and horrified.
The lizard’s eyes found Garrick, each as big as his head, yellow and feral. Before he could even suck in a breath, it started to move faster, feet pounding the earth. Coming right for him.
Move, Garrick thought. And he did.
Not even close to fast enough.
An enormous, clawed foot took him at the waist. His left leg bent the wrong way, snapped like a twig as he crashed to the ground. Axe gone. He couldn’t cry out, couldn’t even breathe.
Hot breath on his face, stinking of old meat. Jaws, teeth, tongue, open wide above him. If he could just find his axe…
The jaws didn’t snap shut. A bright point glowed inside them, and a wave of hot air buffeted Garrick, thick and syrupy. The screams of the villagers rose around him.
No—!
And then there was nothing but fire.
Two
Sayana
Sayana had grown up in the palace, in Karkorum.
From a young age, her parents made her attend court. Scholars filled her days, drilling her in manners and elocution, teaching her how to comport herself with grace and modesty. They taught her that there was a correct and eloquent response for every situation.
Unfortunately, her education didn’t include what to say if you were tied to a pole while a giant lizard burned a man to a crisp in front of you, then ate him. So what came out of her mouth was: “Holy fucking shit!”
The beast bent its gigantic head down, snapped its jaws around the blistered, twitching hulk, and ripped it off the ground. Sayana yanked hard at her bound wrists, twisting back and forth. Which not only didn’t work—at all—but ripped her skin to shreds and made her pull a muscle in her shoulder, because of course it did.
She was the only person actually trying to get away. Everyone else—everyone, every last soul in the village—just stared at the araatan in frozen shock as it swallowed its prey.
That lasted until the idiot holding Sayana’s sabres dropped them into the dirt. The lizard immediately lunged forward, plucked him up in its jaws, and crunched down.
At that point, the entire crowd lost its collective mind. They scattered, screaming, scrambling. It was the smart thing to do, and very bad news for Sayana, because she was still tied to the pole.
“Hey.” She gave her wrists, tightly bound above her head, another futile yank. She couldn’t quite believe things had gone this wrong. “Don’t just leave me here!”
The other Rakada weren’t going to get there in time—they were probably still waiting for her to come back from her scout. The chances of them appearing to cut her loose were about the same as the lizard moving on without noticing a tasty and conveniently tied-up meal.
“Oh, Father Sky shit on your heads,” Sayana yelled at the scattering villagers. She usually did her best not to take the names of the Weavers in vain, but honestly. She scooted round on her backside, trying to get behind the pole. It wouldn’t help, but she had absolutely no idea what else to do.
Of all the raids to go completely wrong in the worst way possible, it just had to be this one, didn’t it?
It had been weeks since they’d found a village or a band of nomads to raid: everyone was leaving, forced by the Khan to travel south to Karkorum. The Rakada were low on food, supplies, everything from needle and thread to spare stirrups, and they’d really needed this raid to go right.
Then that arsehole almost stepped on her, during her scout, and now this… thing showed up. What was the fucking araatan even doing here? They lived in the mountains. They didn’t hunt in the grasslands…
One of her sabres was a few feet away, lying in the dirt, and you know what? She could contemplate the mysteries of araatan behaviour later. Preferably when she was very far away, and had drunk enough airag to make a horse black out.
Swallowing her panic, Sayana thrust her feet out to snag the weapon. If she could drag it close enough, even just get a toe on it…
She strained and strained, heel digging a furrow in the dirt, but it was no good. Too far. And it wasn’t like there was another blade nearby; not so much as a skinning knife.
She was going to die here. The thought was cold, thin as a needle.
Sayana had never regretted becoming a raider. She’d hated the gilded cage she was born into, hated having every moment of her entire life chosen for her. Hated that she was expected to be quiet, obedient, submissive—to everyone. Her parents, her future husband, even the children she was expected to have.
No other raiders, as far as she knew, had grown up in the palace. But living in a village or as part of a nomad band wasn’t much better. It was hard work, obligation, marrying who your parents told you to, working the jobs the elders demanded. The Tapestry was beautiful, but if you lived in a village like this, you didn’t get to appreciate it. Your life was one of service, and for some people, it chafed and bit like a badly fitted saddle.
Being a raider meant freedom. Doing what you want, when you wanted. Riding under open skies, with nobody but your clan to answer to. It meant living a life where you could enjoy the Tapestry, enjoy the Weavers’ work.
Whenever any Rakada doubted what they were doing, whenever anyone had second thoughts, Chimeg—their Chief—reminded them what this life offered. You could live in normal society, working from suns-up to suns-down doing what you were told, just to survive… or you could reach out with both hands and grab hold of what you wanted.
It was worth killing for. If you were smart about it—and the Rakada were—you never killed anyone you didn’t have to. That was the price, and Sayana paid it gladly.
But there was a flipside: death could come for you too. You accepted the risk, accepted that any day could be your last (which meant you’d better make the most of the one you were currently living).
Sayana had always thought it was a fair trade. Until now, tied to this pole, which had made her start to question her life choices.
Her eyes landed on a stone in the dust, a little smaller than her fist. One of its edges was jagged, and it was just within range of her left foot.
No way. A stone wasn’t a blade, and even positioning it…
Then again, it was that, or dinner.
There was only one way this went down. Only one way to get the stone where she needed it. Still, she cast her eyes skywards, suddenly regretting her earlier outburst. “Little help?” she asked, in case either of the Weaver gods were listening, and would perhaps take pity on her by conjuring up a handy sinkhole that would swallow the lizard.
To the surprise of precisely no one, this didn’t happen. “Right,” Sayana muttered. “Understood. Thanks ever so much.”
She began kicking at the top of her left boot with her right, winkling her foot to help it along. The boot was good leather, worn and comfortable, and fitted snugly. Getting it off was agonisingly slow, and at every second, she was convinced that the lizard was going to turn around, look at her like she was an idiot, and then eat her.
Finally, her foot was free. She skittered the stone towards her, snagged it between big toe and second toe, immediately dropped it. Picked it up again, foot muscles already starting to cramp, holding it as tightly as she dared.
She scooted her butt forward, away from the pole, sliding her back down the wooden surface—as far as she could, anyway, with her hands tied above her. Then she lifted her legs off the ground, bending at the waist, her abs screaming at her. She’d always been grateful for her hip flexibility, which allowed her to bend double with ease, but she’d never once thought it might save her life.
If she could get her feet up and over her head, get the stone to her questing fingers…
No good. There was still several inches between her feet and hands. She needed to get her butt and her lower back even further forward, squeeze out just a little bit more from her hips.
She thrust her head and torso out, away from her bound hands—and immediately jerked to a stop.
Her braid. It was still tied around the pole.
Sayana snarled in disbelieving fury, twisting her head back and forth, trying desperately to undo the loose knot. The others were always giving her shit about her braid. You spend too much time trying to keep it clean, Sayana. Someone can grab it in a fight, Sayana. It’ll get you killed.
Well, fuck them. Just because she wanted to get as far away from the palace as possible didn’t mean she couldn’t keep at least one thing from her old life. All the same, she was really glad the rest of the Rakada weren’t around to see that they were right about her hair getting her killed.
The knot came loose. Sayana gasped in triumph, pushing her lower back even further away from the pole, lifting her feet as high as they would go, toes screaming at her as they clutched the stone. Her core trembling, burning, fingertips stretched out.
With her luck, this was exactly when the lizard would notice her. She wouldn’t just die, she’d die looking exceptionally stupid.
Her fingers brushed the stone’s surface…
And she had it. Gasping as she let her legs fall back, eyes on the lizard. Weavers’ Breath, the beast was big; she was drowning in its shadow. It chewed on its prey, head bent, its back to her. That huge tail thrumming the air.
Slowly, she rotated the stone until the jagged edge faced in. The edge alone wasn’t going to be enough. She’d have to use her hands to saw the fabric back and forth.
She got to work. Every time the stone slipped, even a little, her heart threatened to smash right out of her ribcage.
One of the villagers crept into view. The one whose ear she’d nearly sliced off, wearing the blue headband of a healer. He circled to the rear of the lizard, holding a rusted sabre. Why he chose that weapon when a perfectly good pair of sharp blades lay in the dirt by his feet, Sayana didn’t know. Quite what he thought he was going to do with the blade was even more of a mystery; taking on an araatan with it would be like trying to kill a mountain with a tree branch.
“Over here,” she hissed, pausing her work on the fabric for a second. “Cut me loose. I can help!”
She wasn’t going to help. She was going to run as fast and as far as she could, but he didn’t need to know that.
The man ignored her, focusing on the lizard. He raised his sabre, and in that moment, the beast twisted, lunged and ripped him off the ground.
“Oh, come on!” Sayana howled as blood spattered the dirt. She started sawing at her bonds again, frantic, back and forth, back and forth. She had no idea if it was working—
—and then her hands were free, springing loose so fast she wasn’t ready for it.
She scrambled up, dust caking her one bare foot. Several gers were on fire now, black smoke curling into the blue sky. She darted forward, and grabbed her boot, followed by her closest sabre. She turned to get the other—and stopped.
Her weapons should have been next to each other in the dirt. Someone—maybe the healer, maybe the lizard itself—must have kicked the second blade out of reach. It now lay very close to the beast’s clawed rear foot.
Fine, she’d lied about her braid being the only thing she’d kept from home. Her sabres were old friends, ones she used to sneak away from court to train with. And it wasn’t just about losing something special. The thought of having her sabre end up in the hands of a clueless villager, one who could boast about taking it from a Rakada—a Rakada who ran away, no less—was impossible to stomach.
The beast had its back to her still, tail swishing, the thick knot of bone dragging a furrow through the dirt as it tore at the now very dead healer.
She wasn’t going to waste the chance. She tiptoed towards the creature, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, eyes on her lost sabre.
Almost there. She reached out a hand…
Which was when the beast swung its head around and stared down at her.
“Awesome. Masterfully executed. Frequently hilarious.” — Nicholas Eames, author of Kings of the Wyld
WE DIDN’T START THE FIRE . . . BUT OUR GIANT FIRE-BREATHING LIZARDS DID.
You don’t f*ck with the Rakada. The people living in the grasslands of the Tapestry call them the Bone Raiders, from their charming habit of displaying the bones of those they kill on their armour. But being a raider is tough these days. There’s a new Great Khan in the Tapestry. He plans to use his sizeable military to get rid of the raider clans. And then there are the huge fire-breathing lizards that are straying into the grasslands a little too often these days.
Sayana is a raider scout. She knows that to protect their way of life, she needs do something drastic. Like convincing her clan to ride those huge lizards, instead of horses. Sayana doesn’t know how to do it without being eaten and/or cooked alive, but she’d better figure it out fast – or she and her clan, along with every other raider in the Tapestry, will be wiped out.
“Ford begins this new series with quirky characters, loads of great action sequences, and his trademark brand of humor.” — Booklist
“The Bone Raiders is a relentlessly cheeky, ofttimes unserious, and undisputedly rip-roaring bit of fantasy that can only be written by Jackson Ford. Badass female protagonists, found family, and giant lizards — what more do you need? Add this one to your TBR. I fully guarantee you’ll be entertained.” — FanFiAddict
For more from Jackson Ford, check out:
The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t With Her Mind
Random Sh*t Flying Through the Air
Eye of the Sh*t Storm
A Sh*tload of Crazy Powers
