The End of All Songs (Dancers at the End of Time, Book 3)

The End of All Songs (Dancers at the End of Time, Book 3)

Michael Moorcock

Language: English

Pages: 242

ISBN: 0060129999

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Jherek Carnelian and Mrs Amelia Underwood return to the End of Time from their brief exile in the Devonian Period to find the world under attack from the Lat and extinction a very real possibility. The perfect occasion, then, for love to bloom, the secret of Jherek's past to be revealed and the true nature of time to be unveiled. . .

Prospero in Hell (Prospero's Daughter, Book 2)

Royal Assassin (The Farseer Trilogy, Book 2)

Soldiers Live (Chronicles of the Black Company, Book 9)

The Phantom Limb

The Midnight Queen (Noctis Magicae, Book 1)

Mentats of Dune (Dune: Schools of Dune, Book 2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

concern of a short while before: ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘this grub isn’t going to last for ever now, is it?’ ‘It will not last very long at all,’ said Mrs Underwood. ‘And the Lat will try to steal it,’ added Jherek. ‘They’ll ’ave a job there.’ Inspector Springer spoke with the quiet confidence of the professional protector of property. ‘Being English, we’re more fair-minded, and therefore we’ll keep strict control of the supplies. Not, I suppose, that we can let them starve. We shall ’ave to

century was a prison train bound for hell). What Moorcock may best be remembered for in the end is the (perhaps unique) interplay between modernism and postmodernism in his work. (But a plethora of discordant understandings makes these terms hard to use; so enough of them.) In the end, one might just say that Moorcock’s work as a whole represents an extraordinarily multifarious execution of the fantasist’s main task: which is to get us out of here. Recent decades saw a continuation of the

(skree) no more use in (roar) trying to do (yelp) anything (roar) more for these fools!’ The entire deputation, the Last of the Pweelians, began to waddle back in single file into their unwholesome spacecraft. Mongrove, remorseful, made to follow. ‘Dear friends – fellow intelligences – do nothing drastic, please…’ But the hatch squelched shut in his melancholy face and he uttered a lugubrious sigh. The ship did not take off. It remained exactly where it had landed, in silent accusation. Moodily

Amelia. In my wanderings I found Brannart. He plots something with the Lat.’ But she would not reply. Instead she began to sob. When he went to comfort her, she shrugged him away. ‘Amelia?’ She continued to sob until the scene of her party came in sight. There were still guests there, Jherek could see, but few. The Iron Orchid had not been sufficient to make them stay – they wanted Amelia. ‘Shall we rejoin our guests…?’ She shook her head. He turned the locomotive and made for the thatched

women?’ ‘Well…’ ‘Of course we’ll come, gorgeous groom.’ Lord Jagged leapt the gate to embrace the Duke before he departed. ‘And bring gifts, too. Green for a groom and blue for a bride!’ ‘Another custom?’ ‘Oh, indeed.’ When the music had faded Amelia pursed her lips and frowned at Lord Jagged of Canaria. ‘It is astonishing that so many of our old customs are remembered, sir.’ His patrician head moved to meet her eyes; he wore the faintest of smiles. ‘Oh, didn’t you know? In the general

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