Swords and sorcery.
Mythical creatures and unholy Demons.
Battles and betrayals.
Witches and Wizards.
Noble heroes and ruthless villains.
From the savage steppes of Nagali to the heart of intrigue in Quing Tzu, this anthology is packed with tales of the supernatural, of action and adventure.
Set in the same world as the epic fantasy Convent Series, beginning with A Dead Wizard’s Dream, this collection of eleven original fantastical short stories explores lands heretofore unseen in the series.
Featured in The Chronicles of Maradoum Volume 1 …
Li Mao and the Yaoguai
The Boulders and the Buffalos
Conn and the Faun
A Deadly Present for the Khan
Were-jackals
Kidnapping
Phut and the Blood Worms
The Waystation
The King’s Own Tournament
The Wish-Bird, the Qilin and the Demon
Arvid, Aslaug and the Undead
Swords and sorcery.
Mythical creatures and unholy Demons.
Battles and betrayals.
Witches and Wizards.
Noble heroes and ruthless villains.
From the savage steppes of Nagali to the heart of intrigue in Quing Tzu, this anthology is packed with tales of the supernatural, of action and adventure.
Set in the same world as the epic fantasy Convent Series, beginning with A Dead Wizard’s Dream, this collection of eleven original fantastical short stories explores lands heretofore unseen in the series.
Featured in The Chronicles of Maradoum Volume 1 …
Li Mao and the Yaoguai
The Boulders and the Buffalos
Conn and the Faun
A Deadly Present for the Khan
Were-jackals
Kidnapping
Phut and the Blood Worms
The Waystation
The King’s Own Tournament
The Wish-Bird, the Qilin and the Demon
Arvid, Aslaug and the Undead
Li Mao had been fishing for hours beneath the strangely wan, misty sky, and would likely be fishing for a few more.
“I know, I know, my friend,” he said.
He untied the string from around the cormorant’s neck, and it squawked at him in gratitude, flexing its long black, feathery neck. The bird would fish for him no more until he fed it; it was on strike. So, though his catch was meagre, he smilingly took a fish from his wicker basket and tossed it to the bird. The cormorant caught it deftly, threw its head back, made a couple of perfunctory biting movements with its long beak, and then gulped it down.
The bird squawked again, letting the fisherman know it was ready, and he retied the string around its neck. The string only indented the supple neck slightly; just enough to prevent the bird from swallowing any fish bigger than a finger. The little ones it could have for itself. Once the string was tied, the fisherman started bouncing up and down on his little bamboo raft and singing discordantly but happily.
“Go, bird, go! Catch me my dinner!”
He was in the middle of the river the locals called Windsong, and so the raft splashed about in the water, sending ripples out in all directions. Finally, the cormorant took the hint and dove smoothly into the water like it had been born to do so.
Li Mao watched the water as it settled, studying the landscape in the mirror plane. It was like another, upside down, underwater world was looking back at him. A bamboo stand on the left shore was reflected in the slow-flowing water, phantom blue bamboos growing down into the depths of the river, swaying with the current rather than the breeze. On the right, a tangle of brush preceded a small fir forest, which when submerged became a black hill reaching down, a great shadow in the river like some hidden leviathan.
Back down the river the way he had come, the fisherman could faintly make out the green smog of a birch wood and in front of it his home, small in the distance. He thought he could even see a finger of smoke curling out of the chimney. Towering above his home were the distant karst formations; great limestone ridges, towers and, hidden from sight, sinkholes, moulded over the millennia by the elements. There was something regal and indomitable about the green mountains.
Eventually, though, his smile wilted, and he rubbed his golden-skinned arm in concern. At fifty years of age, he was an expert on fishing and he knew when something was wrong. One of his other birds should have been back by now. He adjusted his wide, conical, straw hat and mopped his brow with the back of his hand. His hemp poncho and woollen tunic were making his skin itch as the heat rose. Noon must be approaching, Li Mao thought, throwing a glance skyward and frowning at the pervasive mistiness.
It was odd for it to be so foggy and so humid, almost like a great white cerement had been thrown over the land in preparation for its final rest. The mist seemed somehow oppressive, like it was bearing down on him, an inexplicable weight on his chest and shoulders. All the other fishermen had warned him not to come out today; they had said the fog was a bad omen. That was why he was all alone out on the river. It was normally peaceful out here, but not today. He began to shout and bang his long pole against the raft, splashing water on his sandaled feet.
“Birds!” he called, cupping a hand to his mouth. “Birds! Where are you? Come back up, I’m starting to worry!”
The water rippled some twenty feet away from his raft, and Li Mao’s eyes widened. He was sure it had not been the ducks.
He stood very still for a while, feeling his pulse race. Then, something burst out of the water beside the raft, and Li Mao yelped in fright. He saw that it was one of the cormorants an instant later and would have felt chagrined, save that a large, toothy monster followed it up into the air a moment later, making the fisherman yelp again. He only saw the beast for a split second as its jaws snapped shut on the scared bird, and then blood and water spurted in Li Mao’s eyes. He jerked back, cried out and wiped his eyes, but by the time he could see again both monster and cormorant had gone. The fisherman would not have been sure it had ever happened at all if not for the blood stains on his clothes and raft.
If he had thought his pulse was racing before, now it was truly sprinting flat-out, fleeing for its life. His hands were slick on his pole, and he slapped his lips together, trying to wet his dry throat.
A minute later, the beast was back. A moment after that, Li Mao felt a tug on his leg and then he was in the river, his straw hat in the wind. He had managed to suck in a breath, which was fortunate as he was dragged straight underwater with the claws of the beast digging cruelly into his calf. Li Mao had no idea how fast they moved, but it seemed inordinately, supernaturally fast. The water rushed around him, bubbles obscuring his vision, and all he could see was varying shades of blue.
His lungs started to burn before long, and he was just about to give in to the voice in his head screaming at him to take a breath when they surfaced once more. Li Mao cracked his back on the rocky floor and groaned and gasped as the beast vaulted out of the water. Then, without slowing, it continued to drag him onwards and it was all he could do to keep breathing and stay conscious. The fisherman’s back was sore as it bumped over the ground, but it was not scraped raw thanks to the poncho. He could not lift his head to see the monster, though.
After only a moment, they were moving up and suddenly Li Mao was dangling upside down, hanging from the claws embedded in his leg. He felt warm blood dribble up his thigh toward his crotch. It occurred to him to scream then, but he just couldn’t muster the energy somehow. He was exhausted, not to mention dizzy from the rush of blood to his head. The monster bounded up rapidly, and the fisherman realised he was in a narrow, rocky tunnel when his face started bouncing off the walls. He guessed the beast must be unnaturally strong to be able to carry him up such a chimney.
Concussed and only half-conscious, Li Mao was finally dragged out onto a level floor once more, and a moment later he was released. Tiredly, he lifted his head and looked around through bleary eyes. What he saw woke him in an instant, like a splash of ice-cold water, and made him want to vomit in fear.
He was in a mossy cave lit by a beam of sunlight coming in through a small hole in one wall. The cave itself was not what made him want to vomit, however; it was the group of bloodcurdling monsters that dwelled inside. There were eight of them in total, all half-hidden in shadow. They were ten-foot-tall beings straight out of nightmare with large fangs and claws. All were covered in fur of varying hues, and all were topped by two long, sharp, ribbed horns at each temple, like a gazelle’s. All had the same six serpentine, yellow eyes with vertical black pupils – three in a row on either side of their face – and all regarded him in the same manner: hungrily.
Li Mao saw that the beast that had dragged him there had blue fur, through which poked numerous phosphorescent warts. The fisherman wasn’t sure if they were warts or cysts or pustules, but they looked disgusting. They looked ripe, ready to pop. The creature had a pointed face tapering towards its long, wolf-like snout, and it had a long, furry flipper for a tail.
The fisherman thought he was going insane when the blue beast said in a high-pitched rasp, “See what I bring my pack!”
The others shuffled closer, at the same time revealing and hiding more of themselves as they shifted through shadow, looking like inchoate Demons emerging from the void. Li Mao’s chin quivered, and he fought not to cry.
One of the monsters shoved past the others to get a better view of the man in their midst. The others gave way without dissent, for this one was larger than the rest, and blacker, too. It was covered in such dark fur that it looked like a hole in the world, like nothingness, rather than a colour. Its claws scraped the rock as it walked, upright, across the cave. As it passed through the sole beam of sunlight, Li Mao saw it more closely – and wished he had not. It, too, had glowing warts visible through its black fur, like bright blue stars in the darkest night. Its yellow fangs were huge, set into a wolf-like snout beneath its six hungry, hungry eyes. When it loomed over him, Li Mao thought he was going to faint.
“What this puny morsel?” the big black demanded in a bass rumble, pointing a claw at the trembling fisherman. “Pack need more! Need more!”
“Need more!” another echoed in a hiss; a green-furred creature with blue cysts and a scar running through one milky eye.
“This all I get,” rasped the blue beast stubbornly.
“This good, this good!” snuffled one of the monsters, coming for a closer look on all fours. It had reddish fur, dark like blood, and it sniffed at the fisherman like a huge, curious fox.
“So hungry! Been at sea so long!” whined another beast, its six eyes blinking rapidly. This one was grey, which made it look old to Li Mao. Its blue pustules throbbed alarmingly.
An orange-and-purple striped monster licked its lips and drawled almost urbanely, “Has been long time since we taste man! Mm, tasty!”
A golden-furred creature, its breath reeking of rotten meat, thrust its face close to Li Mao and then drew back, purring, “A hundred years since we see lands of man.”
“Is small, but can eat!” growled one of them, sounding youthful in its excitement. This one had stripy yellow and black fur, like a bumblebee. It prowled toward the fisherman, opened its maw wide for a bite, and Li Mao thought he could hear funerary bells tolling.
The big black smacked it back with a heavy paw, however, rumbling, “Wait! This puny. Me biggest. Biggest bit for me.”
“I bring! I bring!” argued the blue-furred monster that had dragged the fisherman off his raft. “Biggest bit for me!”
“For me! For me! Biggest bit for me!” the others roared disharmoniously.
“No!” the big black bellowed, swiping a claw through the air and silencing the rest. It was so loud it hurt the fisherman’s eardrums. “This small, too small! Me biggest. Me kill you. Biggest bit for me!”
The others growled quietly in the backs of their throats, their hackles rising, but none openly challenged the largest of them.
For some reason he could not explain, Li Mao chose that moment to squeak, “I’m not so small!”
All of the monsters’ eyes turned on the fisherman, and he wished he didn’t have a tongue. As it was, though, he did and he could never stop it from wagging when he was nervous.
“I mean,” he said in a small voice, “there once was a man in my village, when I was growing up, who was only four and a half feet tall. A full grown man! So, I’m not as small as him, obviously. The Gods know I’m not the biggest man in Maradoum either, but I like to think I’m a decent size … I don’t know what you’re used to eating, so I don’t know how I stack up. This one,” he gestured at the warty monster, “seemed good at swimming, so maybe you’re only used to fish and whatnot, in which case I bet I’m a pretty good catch by comparison. People tell stories about you, you know, about the Yaoguai. Only people think you’re mythical – just a tale to frighten the little’uns if they don’t eat their greens, ha! Anyway, they say you’re seen off the coast sometimes, snacking on fish.”
Why he was speaking of himself as food, he did not know. He hated himself while he did it.
“You speak! You know the Yaoguai!” several of the monsters, the Yaoguai, clamoured at once then, shuffling closer and making the fisherman flinch.
“Stories …” the big black repeated the word, his voice almost reverential. “You are storyteller! Tell story now. Eat later.”
Sitting on the floor and looking around at the beasts gathered around him, Li Mao suddenly felt like a schoolteacher surrounded by inquisitive children. He had their attention, and they were not going to eat him – not immediately anyway. So, he knew he had to entertain them somehow, to play for time while he came up with a plan. Surprisingly, a plan leapt into his mind full-formed as soon as he thought the word. He crossed his legs and cleared his throat.
He glanced around at the Yaoguai, forcing himself to make eye contact, to draw them in. Then, he began to tell his story in a slow, lilting, theatrical voice.
“Once upon a time, a greedy, greedy man became the governor, or Shenzhan, of our humble little province, Guifung. This man was so avaricious that he defied the Emperor’s laws and used his own personal army to force his people to work for him as slaves, digging riches out of the earth in the mines, panning for gold in rivers and streams. He forced hundreds of people to tend to thousands of silkworms, so that he could sell the decadent material they fashioned to enrich his own pockets.
“People died on their feet for him, unable to ever take a rest, unable to keep up with his outrageous taxes. They brought him gold and gems, exotic food and drink, spices and herbs, ornaments and gaudy clothes … But it was never enough. It is said the Shenzhan lived in a palace to rival the Emperor’s, a palace made of gold and filled with paintings and tapestries and busts and statues, each worth a fortune. It is said he ate a different dish from a different plate every day, using only the finest and most expensive of china, that he owned every type of beast known in Quing Tzu, that he had the largest army in the Empire, that he had concubines enough to sleep with five a day and still never sleep with the same one twice before he died.
“Still, it was never enough … and so he continued to work his people to death, never rewarding their toils. While the Shenzhan gorged on roasted pigeon and rabbit stew and plum duck, his people starved. The Emperor of Quing Tzu ordered him to change his ways, to protect his people rather than abuse them, but he ignored the warning, confident in the might of his army. Eventually realising the Shenzhan had gone rogue, the Emperor marched his armies on the province and on its governor.
“As it turned out, though, he needn’t have bothered. Sick of the Shenzhan’s selfishness and greed, the people of Guifung rose up against him in the biggest rebellion the province has ever seen. It was peasants against armoured warriors, peasants against the largest private army in Quing Tzu, pitchforks against katanas. And yet, the peasants had right on their side. They may have been half-starved and overworked, but they had passion and the will to make the world change. In a pitched battle, they would have lost for sure. As it was, though, they took the city streets as their own, hiding in shadows and lashing out at the Shenzhan’s forces whenever they could with hit-and-run tactics.
“Through such guerrilla warfare, they were able to decimate the Shenzhan’s army; he did not know what else to do but root them out in their homes, and so he kept sending in more and more men. The peasants knew the cities, however, knew the streets. They knew their homes better than the army, better than any palace-dweller. They killed the soldiers in the streets one by one, dropping rocks on their heads from rooftops, shooting arrows from high windows, slinging stones from the shadows, a knife in the back.
“Soon, the Shenzhan didn’t have enough men to both protect himself and root out the traitors in the town. At that point, he stopped sending in soldiers, too afraid for his life and his riches to risk losing more men. By then, however, it was too late. The people had sensed his fear, had seen him hide in his golden hole. Like wild dogs, they sniffed out the fear and followed it to its source.
“It’s said the Shenzhan wailed to see the populace of his province bearing down on his palace, torches, pitchforks and the swords of dead soldiers in hand. It’s said he tried to flee with as much of his wealth as he could carry on his ceremonial barge, the largest but slowest vessel in his fleet. He did not get far before the barge was caught and sunk and the Shenzhan himself was hauled back to shore.
“The people of Guifung cheered to see their Shenzhan brought low before them, brought to his knees in the mud. They erected a gallows as fast as they could. For all the people he had enslaved, for all the lives he had ruined, for all the families he had destroyed, for all the people that had died under his rule, they strung him up and they hung him from the neck until his legs stopped kicking!
“Then, freed from his gluttony and enslavement, they took all the food he had hoarded for himself and distributed it among the starving masses. They tore down his palace and distributed his incredible wealth among themselves. Without the Shenzhan, the people of Guifung were finally able to lead the lives they had dreamed of, lives of prosperity and endless joy! All they had to do was take their fate into their own hands. All they had to do was remove the one obstacle in their way. All they had to do was kill their leader.”
The moral of the story dawned on the big black too late. Snarling at the last words, the terrible beast rose to its full height, cysts throbbing. It cast itself at the man with a bestial roar that froze Li Mao’s blood in his veins. The beast was too late, though. The rest of the Yaoguai had understood the parable as well and they were on the big black in a flash, all of them sinking teeth and claws into their leader’s vast frame simultaneously.
The big black bellowed in pain and rage and beat at its attackers with its claws, but there were too many of them. Seven against one is poor odds even for a monstrous Yaoguai. The others tore at their leader’s flesh, burst its pustules and gouged out chunks of it between their teeth while it screamed. As they did so, Li Mao was up and moving fast.
Sprinting over to where a chink of sunlight perforated the mossy cave, he kicked the wall as hard as he could. The stone crumpled beneath his foot, and he felt his heart leap with hope. Imbued with fresh vigour, he kicked again and again.
As the Yaoguai bore their leader down to the ground, covering it in their writhing bodies of varying hue, Li Mao kicked the wall a fourth time and the limestone gave way easily beneath the hard sole of his sandal. He was suddenly looking out over the anarchic, green-and-white tors and troughs of a karst landscape, and beneath him the Windsong river churned and frothed, white at the mouth, in the grip of rapids. It was a more southern stretch of the river than where he had been fishing, but he recognised it easily. Rocks clattered down the mountainside, setting off further rockslides along the way in a great rumble like thunder. The stones splashed into the river below.
The sound of the rockslides was enough to distract the Yaoguai, who had almost finished their grisly business, although Li Mao could still clearly hear the big black’s plaintive roaring. Snarling and snapping their gory jaws, the Yaoguai tore across the cave toward the fisherman, unwilling to let their prey escape. Li Mao would never forget the sight of them in the increased light from the gaping hole in the wall. Chunks and ribbons of their fellow’s sundered flesh hung from their great yellow fangs, and their many eyes were wild, aglow, with the need to feed.
He lost sight of them, however, as he tugged his poncho over his head. Then, he turned his back on them and leapt out of the gap in the cave wall into sunlight. Little did he know he jumped a scant second before claws clutched the air where he had been standing and teeth rent the place his head had occupied. With the dying howls of the big black and the furious growls of the other Yaoguai, who were too scared to follow, ringing in his ears, Li Mao fell.
He held the poncho above his head, each hand grabbing a corner, and the wind whipping up past his ears and making his eyes stream suddenly caught on the thick fabric. With a lurch, Li Mao levelled out and then he began to float down more slowly, buoyed by the air resistance on his poncho, which had puffed up like a taut sail. Drifting down slowly, like a feather on the breeze, the fisherman was able to direct his movement by tugging at one side or the other of his poncho. So, soon enough, gravity called him home and his beloved Windsong river swept him up in its rabid embrace.
He made his way straight home, and from there to the closest village. There was not a proper town or city around for leagues in the backwater province. When he got to the village, the people there were understandably, infuriatingly sceptical.
“Yaoguai?” the village elder, Sum Fi, repeated after Li Mao had told his story. He puffed on his pipe, and thick wreaths of pungent baui smoke filled the air. “You expect us to believe there are Yaoguai in the mountains?”
“I suppose there are Faeries in the streams and Spriggans in the trees, too, eh?” sneered a fat woman called Fan Wong.
Her husband, Huaxia Wong, spoke up beside her, “There hasn’t been a Yaoguai sighting reported for a thousand years! We all told you not to go out into that cursed mist. You’ve let your imagination get the best of you!”
“It’s been about two hundred years actually,” Sum Fi corrected, looking troubled, blowing smoke through his nose. He was an old, bald, stick-thin man, whose golden skin hung in droops and folds off his bones. He was the records keeper in the village; if anyone knew when the Yaoguai had last been spotted, it was him. “We thought they were all gone …”
Huaxia frowned and crossed his brawny arms. He was a big, strong man with a thinner, leaner face than Li Mao’s, like a greyhound rather than a husky. His big bushy brows were heavy and low over his dark eyes like storm clouds.
“They are all gone!” he insisted.
“Of course they are!” Fan snapped. “They’re just a legend, just a story!”
“You say one dragged you underwater and you came out on top of a mountain?” Sum Fi said, shaking his head. “I don’t know how it can be, but you’re not one for lies, Li Mao. I know this as well.”
Li Mao bowed slightly to the old man in thanks. He was unsure how to convince them he was telling the truth, but then a thought occurred to him – Huaxia was fond of gambling.
“What will you lose if you come with me to check?” the fisherman asked. “You, Huaxia, and a few others could come without repercussion. Your sons can do your work and there are others to pick up the slack as well. If I am lying, you lose nothing. If I am telling the truth, however, the village could be in danger and we could save it by going up there now and killing those beasts before they get hungry again and come down here and kill us all! I’ll even sweeten the pot. Like I said, if I am lying, you lose nothing. Add into the bargain this – if we get there and there is no evidence of the Yaoguai, I will withdraw from the fishing competition next week.”
It was an annual fishing competition held in the village, and Li Mao was a shoo-in for the win. He was the finest fisherman around. Huaxia was a close second. So, Li Mao was offering to forgo the substantial prize money, allowing Huaxia to win and claim it. With Li Mao gone, Huaxia would be the sure thing.
“Ooh, do it, husband,” said Fan, her fat face wobbling with excitement. “Prove him a liar and win the competition!”
Huaxia nodded and uncrossed his arms. “Very well. I accept your terms. If there are no Yaoguai, you withdraw from the fishing competition. And if there are Yaoguai, we slay them where we find them.”
Li Mao sighed with relief. Huaxia was a prominent figure in the village. With his support, they were sure to find a few men to deal with the monsters.
Huaxia Wong and a few of his friends followed Li Mao back to the karst mountain where the fisherman had escaped the Yaoguai. After a long and arduous climb, they at last made it to the top, to the hole in the mountainside leading into a mossy cave. They could smell the beasts before they even entered.
The cave was a bloodbath. Gore streaked the rocky walls and puddled on the uneven floor. The drip-drop of blood droplets dropping from the ceiling was the only sound, a macabre chime. Li Mao and the villagers held their superfluous rusty weapons in front of them, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Eight bodies were scattered around the cave, all bloody and holey, covered in bite marks. Huaxia Wong was struck speechless by the sight of the bizarre furry creatures with their wolf-like snouts, their six eyes apiece, their flipper-tails and their oozing pustules.
He turned to the fisherman. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Li Mao. I will never doubt your word again, I swear it on all the Gods!”
“It’s understandable, Huaxia,” Li Mao said, laying a hand on the other’s shoulder. “It was a tall tale, after all. I’m just glad it’s all over now.”
“What do you think happened here?” Huaxia asked, pinching his nose.
Li Mao looked around. “I think somebody convinced them to tear one another apart. I think there was a power vacuum and they all tried to fill it. I think they fell victim to their own nature, just as do we all in the end.”
Huaxia nodded, not understanding. Then, he flinched. “There’s one still alive!” he said, pointing and backing away a step.
Li Mao followed his finger and saw the blue-furred creature, the one that had pulled him off his raft, twitch. The fisherman carefully advanced on the battered and bitten Yaoguai, hatchet at the ready. He had only ever used the blade to chop wood; he had never thought he would be facing down a mythical beast with it one day.
The blue beast wheezed and spat blood and Li Mao inched closer, certain now that it was on its deathbed.
“You!” it managed to rasp when it laid eyes on him. It looked scared and angry, not hungry anymore. “You do this to us! You kill us! A hundred years we live, and you kill us! You call us monster, but Yaoguai only kill for food. You kill us, but you not eat. You kill us with stories!”
“You killed them with stories?” Huaxia repeated in awe, looking on Li Mao in a new light.
“I suppose I did.” Li Mao’s hatchet clove down and the Yaoguai never spoke again.
Back at the village, Li Mao, Huaxia Wong and the others were received as heroes, particularly once their exploits had been described. Li Mao was hailed as the finest of them all, the man who had killed the legendary Yaoguai with only his words.
When Sum Fi offered him the position of village elder along with a substantial monetary reward, however, he declined, saying, “I only wanted to catch some fish.”
He took only enough for a few cormorants to replace those he had lost, and the following day found him fishing again.
This anthology of short stories provides little vignettes into the well-crafted fantasy world of Maradoum. Each story is self contained and follows characters from a lowly fisherman to retired highland warrior. There are warlords, magic, dragon-like-creatures and even zombies! Some of the characters or stories seem familiar but are given a new twist. Others are entirely new and refreshing. All are masterfully written.
I really enjoyed all the stories and that not all had a happy or expected ending. I think my favorite may be the first one Li Mao and the Yaoguai which tells the story of a simple fisherman outsmarting a pack of wolf-like monsters with just the power of his words. I also enjoyed the relationships and character development that the author was able to craft in such a tight space.
Although each story is short, the writing is so skillful that each one is a perfect self contained world. Every word is doing work and each description helps move the story forward. Vignette is the perfect word to describe these stories because they give us a little window into the universe of Maradoum. This world is so diverse and varied in climate, culture and descriptions that it is truly a marvel how the author was able to pack in so much in such a short page count.
Many of the stories clearly leave the door open for more about the characters or plot lines. I have not read anything else from this series so I am not sure if these are Easter eggs that give backstory or prequel to existing characters or if they are just setting up upcoming books, either way they do a great job of peaking one’s curiosity to read more.
These stories have certainly whet my appetite for more from Maradoum and I can’t wait to read more!