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4.2 24
by Emma Bull

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Wyatt Earp. Doc Holliday. Ike Clanton.

You think you know the story. You don't.

Tombstone, Arizona in 1881 is the site of one of the richest mineral strikes in American history, where veins of silver run like ley lines under the earth, a network of power that belongs to anyone who knows how to claim and defend it.

Above the ground, power is also


Wyatt Earp. Doc Holliday. Ike Clanton.

You think you know the story. You don't.

Tombstone, Arizona in 1881 is the site of one of the richest mineral strikes in American history, where veins of silver run like ley lines under the earth, a network of power that belongs to anyone who knows how to claim and defend it.

Above the ground, power is also about allegiances. A magician can drain his friends' strength to strengthen himself, and can place them between him and danger. The one with the most friends stands to win the territory.

Jesse Fox left his Eastern college education to travel West, where he's made some decidedly odd friends, like the physician Chow Lung, who insists that Jesse has a talent for magic. In Tombstone, Jesse meets the tubercular Doc Holliday, whose inner magic is as suppressed as his own, but whose power is enough to attract the sorcerous attention of Wyatt Earp.

Mildred Benjamin is a young widow making her living as a newspaper typesetter, and--unbeknownst to the other ladies of Tombstone--selling tales of Western derring-do to the magazines back East. Like Jesse, Mildred has episodes of seeing things that can't possibly be there.

When a failed stage holdup results in two dead, Tombstone explodes with speculation about who attempted the robbery. The truth could destroy Earp's plans for wealth and glory, and he'll do anything to bury it. Meanwhile, outlaw leader John Ringo wants the same turf as Earp. Each courts Jesse as an ally, and tries to isolate him by endangering his friends, as they struggle for magical dominance of the territory.

Events are building toward the shootout of which you may have heard. But you haven't heard the whole, secret story until you've read Emma Bull's unique take on an American legend, in which absolutely nothing is as it seems...

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Editorial Reviews

Historians and westerns fiction writers have been rehashing the 1881 shootout at Tombstone's O.K. Corral ever since the dust settled that day. Nobody, however, has retold the story of Doc Holliday, Johnny Ringo, and Wyatt Earp with more panache than Tucson author Emma Bull. In this debut novel, she adds a generous dose of sorcery into the Wild West pudding. The frontier seems to be teeming with magic: Earp, Holliday, and newbie college dropout Jesse Fox are all tapping their inner magus. Adding to this stew of complication is attractive widow Mildred Benjamin, typesetter by day, penny dreadful writer by night. Territory adds an eerie fantasy edge to a redolent western showdown.
Adrienne Martini
Reality shifts like desert sand here. "You can't always tell the truth of a thing by looking," one character says, "no matter how clear you can see it." The same can be said of Bull's light but smart touch, which keeps the reader alert with rich period details that ring true and equally rich fabrications that subvert expectations.
—The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly

World Fantasy-finalist Bull (War for the Oaks) takes huge chances and achieves something distinctively wonderful with this subtle reworking of a western legend. The taming of Tombstone, Ariz., by Wyatt Earp, his brothers and their pal Doc Holliday is a cherished American myth of stoic heroism. Bull approaches the story from a different angle, considering matters that may or may not have escaped Wyatt's chilly attention. When tough-minded widow Mildred Benjamin and drifter Jesse Fox realize that dark magic is manipulating people for a sorcerer's selfish ends, they must decide what they can and should do about it, in the process discovering who they truly are. Mixing fantasy with Old West lore is risky, but Bull takes time to make the place and the people real before undeniably supernatural forces appear. The magic is less flashy than in many fantasy novels, but it's vivid and deeply felt. Readers will think about the story long after it ends, savoring the writing and imagining what the characters might do next. (July)

Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
VOYA - Sherrie Williams
Equal parts alternate history, fantasy, and Western, this remarkable book presents a unique look at the residents of Tombstone, Arizona, circa 1881. The names will be familiar to many readers because of the O.K. Corral exploits of Doc Holliday, the Earp brothers, Ike Clanton, and others. Events leading up to that famous, old West gunfight are featured but not the showdown itself. Instead the emphasis is on sorcerer Wyatt Earp, who manipulates events and the lives of the residents of the newly formed town for his own gain. Working against this dark sorcerer are Jesse Fox, a well traveled horse trainer who reluctantly possesses his own magical powers, and an independent widow, Mildred Benjamin. Their quest to find and stop the dark forces seeking to control Tombstone creates a spellbinding tale. This first volume in a planned two-book series presents a mesmerizing alternate history of the months before an iconic event in American history, the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. Bull's use of descriptive language is beautiful and striking, allowing the reader to pause and savor phrases that persist long after the book's final pages. The characters are well developed prior to the introduction of the fantasy elements, resulting in a level of realism exceptional in fantasy fiction. This book will appeal to adults as well as older teen readers. Although it stands well on its own, readers will find themselves eagerly awaiting the promised second installment of this thought-provoking story.
Library Journal

In 1881, the Arizona town of Tombstone, rich in minerals for the taking, becomes a magnet for men and women possessing special gifts or hungry for more power than they already have. To this region of natural magic come Wyatt Earp, a master of sorcery; Doc Holliday, whose power belongs to those who can take it; Chow Lung, a Chinese doctor with his own strange abilities; Mildred Benjamin, a writer of Western adventure and a true visionary; and Jesse Fox, a man with a talent for taming horses, among other gifts. The author of War for the Oakschooses one of the definitive legends of the Wild West as a setting for her latest tale of magic and mysticism, placing a unique spin on the motives behind American history's most famous gunfight. Elegant storytelling and strong characters make this a good selection for most adult and YA fantasy collections.

—Jackie Cassada
Kirkus Reviews
Bull (Finder, 1994, etc.) attempts to recast the events leading up to the gunfight at the O.K. Corral as a psychic battle between good and evil sorcerers. In 1881, following an attempted stagecoach robbery in which two men were shot dead, a pall hangs over Tombstone, Ariz. Rumors circulate that the gang included dentist Dr. John Henry "Doc" Holliday, a drunk and inveterate gambler who's somehow constrained to do the Earps' bidding, and Morgan Earp himself. A posse pursuing the robbers, including Sheriff Johnny Behan, deputy U.S. marshal Virgil Earp and Virgil's brother Wyatt, grab Luther King and throw him in jail. But, according to Harry Woods, editor of the Tombstone Nugget, King's told only what the Earps want others to hear and will soon be killed. Woods prevails upon his lady typesetter, journalist and writer Mildred Benjamin, to help him free King; Mildred asks an acquaintance, Jesse Fox, a horse-tamer and trainee sorcerer, to hire a horse for King. Though the escape apparently succeeds, later a severed arm-King's-thumps into the dust outside the Nugget offices, together with a talisman warning off sorcerers like Jesse. When a young Chinese prostitute is murdered, Jesse joins his mentor, the wise old physician Chow Lung, to investigate, wondering if somehow the Earps are again involved. But soon somebody shoots Lung dead. The town nearly burns to the ground. Clearly, an evil sorcerer is orchestrating events. Despite Mildred's skepticism, Jesse is forced to accept that he must do what's necessary. Talky, often impenetrable, and so what? An indigestible concoction that'll stick in most folks' craws.
From the Publisher

“Takes huge chances and achieves something distinctly wonderful… Readers will think about the story long after it ends, savoring the writing and imagining what the characters might do next.” —Publishers Weekly(starred review)

“Mesmerizing… Equal parts alternate history, fantasy, and Western. Remarkable.” —VOYA

“Lucid and genuine… Her achievement in making it all seem fresh and new is remarkable. Some of the exchanges between Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday, and others are genius-level in their sharpness and ingenuity.” —Jeff VanderMeer, Locus

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Read an Excerpt


By Emma Bull, Patrick Nielsen Hayden

Tom Doherty Associates

Copyright © 2007 Emma Bull
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-3108-3


The buckskin horse walked up Allen Street just before dawn. Its head was low, its dollar-gold hide was marked with drying sweat, and its black legs were caked with dust. The man on its back was slumped forward with his face in the tangled black mane. His hat was missing, showing hair as straight and black and disarranged as his mount's. A stain spread dark on the side and skirt of his brown canvas coat.

An ore wagon thundered by, murdering sleep for newcomers who weren't accustomed to the sound. A few drowsy, half-drunk miners trudged toward the shafts that rimmed the town, clutching their coats to keep out the cold spring air. Neither the miners nor the wagon driver so much as glanced at the man on the horse. A man slumped on a horse wasn't enough to make a baby stare in Tombstone.

The horse stopped uncertainly at the edge of the street, outside a building tricked out in turned porch posts, raised moldings, and gold paint. Yellow light glowed in its window and through the open double doors. The murmur of men's voices and the clank of glass against glass reached the street.

The buckskin seemed to expect the man to rouse himself, fling the reins around the hitching rail, and clatter across the boardwalk and through the doors. When nothing of the sort occurred, it stepped forward, once, twice. A fly bit it, and it flinched. At that, the rider slid out of the saddle like an unstrapped pack, and landed hard on his back in the dust.

A man peered out the door. His face was round, blunt-nosed, and topped with a pile of sandy-red cherub curls; a moustache, an imperial, and a scowl kept it from outright childishness. He was red-eyed with liquor and smoke. His shirt was wrinkled, and sweat made dark half circles under his arms.

"Hell. Some damned drunk fool fell off his God-damned horse." He stepped unsteadily to the edge of the boardwalk and frowned over the still figure. "Well, shit. Milt, Billy!" he called back over his shoulder. "Give me a hand!"

Chairs scraped inside, and Milt and Billy pushed out onto the walk. Milt, the older of the two, sent an arc of tobacco juice into the street. "Just because you can't play cards worth a fart doesn't mean you can break up the game."

"Help me haul this kid."

Billy, taller than the other two, bony at the joints like an adolescent wolf, looked down at the boy in the street. His eyes grew wide. "Jesus, Ike," he said with the suggestion of a squeak. Then he seemed to recollect himself; he settled his face into an awkward sneer. "Better him than me."

"Quit yammering and take his legs."

They picked up the boy and maneuvered through the doors. They slung him, not very gently, onto the surface of the table closest to the window, scattering the components of their interrupted poker game. The bartender, nodding behind a copy of yesterday's Epitaph, ignored them.

There was only one player still sitting at the game. When the three men dropped their untidy burden in front of him he sighed heavily. "I believe," he said, "I am being inconvenienced."

"Sorry — Milt, go fetch Goodfellow — but the doc'll want the light." Ike jerked his thumb at the lamp shining down over the table. "Fellow's been shot, don't you see."

The bartender looked up sharply over his newspaper. "By God, Ike, if he bleeds on that table, you'll clean it up."

The seated man raised a corner of the boy's coat and extracted a glass half full of whiskey from under it. He took a swallow. "Anyone you know?"

Billy answered. "He might be Sarey Diaz's brother, up from Cananea."

"Hell, no," replied Ike, chewing his moustache. "Seen him before, though. He was riding drag with Leonard and Crane on a herd going up to Chandler's ranch."

"Is he still alive?" asked the seated man.

"Seems so."

Another heavy sigh; then the last of the whiskey went down his throat. "Yes, he would be."

* * *

Doc Holliday looked down at the wounded boy on top of his cards and tried to think of something else. He clutched at irritation over the spoiled game: now he'd never know if Milt Hicks had had anything when he raised the second time.

He wasn't drunk enough for dying boys, especially ones he wasn't responsible for. To have this one land in front of him — if he signified what Doc suspected he did — was a foul sort of practical joke.

The fever swelled in his skull, buzzed in his ears. His lungs were like hot lead bars inside his chest — lead bars you could cough up a piece at a time. He ought to be in bed, not on display in the front window of the Oriental. Damn Morgan for a perfect empty-headed, God-forsaken idiot.

He was lucky it was Frank Leslie tending the Oriental's bar. Frank did what Wyatt told him to, and Doc, in Wyatt's absence, could sometimes pass for the voice of Wyatt. He'd bullied Frank into selling him a bottle.

And the cards were good, better than medicine. He'd rather play with clever players, but he'd settle for Ike and Billy Clanton and Milt Hicks. Doc loved the cool, relentless logic of the cards. They had no pity or fear or doubt; they fell as they fell, and anyone who regretted or begged them or raged at them was a fool. Sometimes he wished he could be part of the deck. A red jack, maybe, expressionless, with two heads and no ass.

Now here was this corpse, or soon-to-be corpse, reminding him that flesh was frail and plans were made to totter and fall.

At the corner of his eye, he saw someone step through the doors. Milt with the doctor. Goodfellow must have come in his nightshirt, Doc thought as he looked around. But it wasn't Dr. Goodfellow.

Doc could measure and judge a man or woman at a glance; any decent card dealer could. He might choose to fly in the face of his judgment, but he always took that measure. He didn't gamble.

The man who stood framed in the doorway could be read like a book printed in three languages, none of which Doc felt he properly knew. He straightened a little in his chair.

He wanted to know how the man's eyes moved, but the newcomer wore dark spectacles like a blind man, smoky green glass in gold wire frames. His wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat deserved better treatment than it had received of late. His hair, probably brown under the dust, hung in a plait to his shoulder blades, the way some Indians and a few of the Mexicans wore theirs. Doc guessed he'd been clean-shaven a week ago.

The nap was worn off his corduroy sack coat at the sleeve hems and elbows and collar; Doc was puzzled to make out its original color. The waistcoat underneath was missing a button, and there was no collar on his shirt. The buckle of a gunbelt showed at his open coat front.

The newcomer swept his hat off and moved to slap it against his thigh, then seemed to reconsider. Good; the dust would have choked them all. The man surveyed the room and its inhabitants, and spotted the unconscious boy.

"Oh. There he is." He moved toward the table. Doc expected him to take the spectacles off then, but he didn't. It was like looking into the blank dark eyes of a locust.

"If you're a friend of this gentleman's," Doc said, "I feel I should warn you that he has a God-damned large hole in him somewhere."

The newcomer laid two fingers to the boy's pulse just below the jaw. He frowned. "No, not a friend. Have you sent for the doctor?"

"Heavens, no," said Doc, and saw Ike twitch. "We had a mind to let him bleed to death and see how long it took."

The man smiled — good white teeth — as he folded back the boy's coat and pulled up the checked shirt underneath. Doc stayed where he was. He was afraid he might sway if he stood up.

The man fumbled at his trouser pocket, but the gunbelt got in his way. His eyebrows dropped down to meet the spectacle frames. He unbuckled the belt in a single smooth motion and dropped the rig on the chair next to Doc. Doc made a point of studying it over, just to see what its owner would do, which was exactly nothing. A blued, long-nosed Colt Army with walnut grips, in worn leather.

"My name's Jesse Fox." The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Unlike the rest of him, the handkerchief looked clean.

"Pleased," Doc said. "Dr. John Henry Holliday, at your service." In his own ears it sounded like an alias. Nobody called him John, and precious few called him Dr. Holliday.

"You're a doctor?" Fox's hands stopped above the boy's ribs, and his face turned to Doc.

Doc grinned. "Dentist."

"Oh. Would you pass me that whiskey, please?"

Doc looked at the bottle on the floor beside him, that he'd snatched off the table when Ike made to drop the boy on it. "Only if you intend to drink some."

"Let's pretend I am." Fox stretched his hand out for the bottle.

Doc looked up into Fox's face. No threat or plea — only the neutral, polite smile and the outstretched hand. Doc passed the bottle even as he wondered why he would do any such thing.

And of course, Fox poured it on the wound. At least I hadn't bought the good stuff.

Fox made a Ladies' Aid Society noise — tsk, tsk — and did something with the handkerchief and the wound. "I hope the doctor's close."

"Funny how you went right for the spot," Ike said suddenly. Doc almost jumped; he'd forgotten there were other people in the room. "Maybe you shot him."

Fox raised his face in Ike's direction. "Positively I shot him. He was stealing my horse."

That shut Ike up. And Doc, too, but he recovered quicker. "Mr. Fox, Ike Clanton. The young man with him is his brother Billy." Fox gave them each a polite and distant nod. "You appear to be wearing most of the dirt between here and Prescott. Whereabouts did it happen?"

"I was camped two hours north of here."

"And this fellow showed up on foot?"

"Maybe someone stole his horse." The face around the spectacles was perfectly expressionless.

Doc grinned and leaned back in his chair. This was as good as a play. And useful, perhaps. He stole a glance at Ike and Billy, and decided that, with a little prompting, they'd remember the conversation.

"He's got his hair braided up like a squaw," Billy said suddenly, as if it had taken him that long to recall where he'd seen it.

"Or a Chinaman," Ike said. "No, on Chinamen it's longer. You're right, Billy, it's a squaw braid."

"I hear fellas who've got the syphillis wear dark glasses. Light hurts their eyes." Billy shot a look at Ike and grinned.

A pity that Billy took his older brother for his model. And it was just like Ike to wait until a man had proved himself polite and sober, and had taken off his gun, before he poked at him.

But for all the reaction of the round green lenses, they might have spoken Russian.

"Say there, fellow," Frank broke in from behind the bar. His eyes shifted from Fox to Ike and Billy. "If you're meaning to stay in here, I'll mind that gun for you."

What's the matter, Frank? Doc thought. Getting too old to duck?

"Certainly. Thank you." Fox lifted the gunbelt off the chair and pushed it to Frank across the bar, as if he'd offered to take his hat and coat.

"Who says that's your horse?" Ike asked. "Might be this fella's, and you were the one doing the stealing."

"If I'd done it, my feet wouldn't hurt, and I wouldn't be standing here on them discussing it with you. I suppose you mean trying to do it."

Ike frowned at Fox as if he wasn't sure he'd been answered.

A crack of laughter escaped Doc before he could swallow it. "These fine distinctions are wasted on Ike," he said. Ike turned his frown on Doc. "This boy's in no condition to tell his side. Lacking that, you might want to back your claim with something."

Fox sighed. "What would you have done for fun if I hadn't shown up?"

"Won money off these boys until they quit."

Ike opened his mouth to reply, but Milt burst through the doorway with Doc Goodfellow behind him. He stopped at the sight of Fox. Goodfellow ran into Milt from behind, swore at him, and pushed past to the table. Fox stepped aside.

The doctor jerked open the wide mouth of his leather bag and began to pull things out: two brown bottles; a canvas bundle that unrolled to show the bright chrome of scissors, probes, and retractors; a wad of cotton lint; a scalpel case. Doc rose and moved away from what had become a surgery. He didn't like to linger in places where life and death were smiling at each other over their cards.

"Gunshot?" Goodfellow asked the room.

"Yes, sir," Fox replied.

Goodfellow spared him a glance before turning back to his work. "Anybody who knows how it happened should tell it to Ben Sippy."

Fox turned to Doc. "The law?"

"City marshal. But Goodfellow's a damned high stickler about these little disagreements." Doc watched Goodfellow out of the corner of his eye, and was sorry to find himself ignored.

Fox sighed. "As well now as later. Where do I find him?"

"City offices are on Fremont. North, and a block west. It'll be another hour before anyone's there."

"Then I guess I'll sit on the doorstep." Fox turned toward the door.

Ike stepped into his path. "You plan on telling him about that horse?"

Fox, from the set of his head, just stared.

Doc ambled to the end of the bar. He wanted to watch Fox's face for this. Ike must be even more drunk than he was himself.

"Well?" Ike stuck out his chin. "I'll wager you can't prove that's your horse."

Fox's voice was so soft Doc had to hold his breath to hear it. "I don't feel like taking your money."

Stand aside, Ike, Doc thought happily. Stand aside or prepare to throw down. The room was thick with the feeling before the lightning. But Fox's gun was behind the bar. Had he forgotten he wasn't heeled?

Fox drew his spectacles a little way down his nose. That was all: just slid them down and studied Ike over them like someone's maiden auntie might.

Fox's eyes were a penetrating light brown. The lamplight caught in the nearest one, like a glass of good bourbon with a flame shining through it.

In that suspended moment, Doc was gripped by a feeling he couldn't name. It wasn't fear. He feared only one thing, and no man could bring that down on him. But it was enough like fear to make him heedless of the weight in his lungs.

Ike stepped aside, his mouth pressed shut under his moustache. Fox pushed the spectacles up. The lightning had struck and gone, and left cold empty air behind it.

Fox walked outside. Ike, Milt, and Billy followed him, unconscious as ducklings. Doc pushed away from the bar and followed, too, as far as the doorway, where he leaned.

There was a buckskin horse of exceptional quality tied to the rail. It raised its head, nostrils flaring, as Fox reached the edge of the boardwalk.

"That's a handsome fellow," Doc said.

Fox glanced back and smiled. Then he untied the horse, laid the reins loose over the saddle, and walked away into the street.

Halfway across he stopped and whistled, three carrying notes.

The horse's ears swiveled at the sound. It lurched away from the rail and covered the ground between it and Fox in a few brisk steps. Fox looked over his shoulder at the men standing outside the Oriental and nodded. Then he turned back up Fifth Street with the horse behind him like a dog at heel.

"You forgot your iron," Doc called after him.

Fox stopped and looked back. The round green lenses flashed in the dawn.

"It'll wait for me," he replied. He, and the horse that was unquestionably his, went on up Fifth and passed out of sight.

Doc laughed.

"That son of a bitch is looking for trouble," Ike grumbled.

"I doubt it," Doc replied. "But if he is, you're not the man to bring it."

"What's that mean?"

"Not a thing, Ike. You do as you please." Doc smiled up at the morning sky. He felt pleasantly tired, sleepy even. Now he could go back to Fly's and maybe catch a few winks before he set off after the posse.


Mildred Benjamin regularly stepped out her front door braced for whatever practical joke Nature had prepared. This morning she found the best one of all: perfection.

She stood squinting and wondering like a creature let out of the Ark. The air was cool, and fragrant with sage from the foothills. Some freak breeze had laid the dust and smoke from the mines, and the Dragoon Mountains looked as close as the other end of town. The sky was blue and wide in a way she could never describe in letters to her sisters in Philadelphia. The closest she'd managed was that, out here, you understood the true circumference of the Earth, because you could see it reaching past you on every side.


Excerpted from Territory by Emma Bull, Patrick Nielsen Hayden. Copyright © 2007 Emma Bull. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Emma Bull's War for the Oaks won the Locus Award for Best First Novel. Her subsequent works have included Falcon, the Hugo, Nebula, and World Fantasy Award-finalist Bone Dance, Finder, and (with Steven Brust) Freedom and Necessity. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.

Emma Bull’s War for the Oaks won the Locus Award for Best First Novel. Her subsequent works have included Falcon, the Hugo, Nebula, and World Fantasy Award-finalist Bone Dance, Finder, and (with Steven Brust) Freedom and Necessity. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.

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Territory 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 22 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Thank you for Jesse Fox. Thank you for Mildred Benjamin. Thank you for Chu. Mostly, thank you for a Tombstone with bones and flesh and spirit.
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afar More than 1 year ago
Great read, sort of an unfinished ending though.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
When I heard that a known literary fantasy writer like Bull had taken on a story set in Tombstone during the time before the gunfight at the OK Corral (a subject about which I have a certain amount of knowledge and affection), I HAD to read it. I was well rewarded. This is a straightforward story with mystery and secrets in every corner. There is always a feeling of portents at the reader's back, even when events seem to roll along an unobstructed track. While her take on certain historical characters won't match everyone's, it makes sense within what is known of them and within the story. All of her characters are well-constructed. Even the secondary characters are made three-dimensional without too much time taken from the main tale. The story of the Tombstone women story is as important as the men's villains are shown to have a good side, while those who turn to ill also reveal what is good in them. I rarely find so much complexity in a story that appears as clean-cut as a classic western. The magic is very down to earth and believable, as is the life of the widowed typesetter/reporter. Bull does a great job of depicting the life and constraints of the Chinese of the period without being pitying or condescending: it is at it is. This is the best adult fantasy I've read in a long time!
The_Old_Spoke More than 1 year ago
“The land around them was flattened by the shadowless light, and seemed almost as impossible to walk into as a painting. Wyatt appeared to have no trouble, though.” “He’d thought he was the wildfire. Now he knew he was only the tree.” [Doc Holiday] … from Territory by Emma Bull Just finished Emma Bull’s novel, Territory. So good. It was like stepping back in time and seeing the private lives of historical figures revealed — from an angle you might never have expected. I want a sequel.
Otterina More than 1 year ago
After War of the Oaks I was hooked, if I see the name Emma Bull I MUST buy the book. This book surprised me in all the right ways. A well researched historical with the addition of Elemental Magic dragged me away. I could not put it down. It reminded me of Mercedes Lackey's Fire Rose which delighted my heart. Any time East meets West magic in the old west I am intrigued. If this book were made into a movie it would be on par with The 7 Faces of Dr Lao, a favorite of mine.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The vividness of a good movie, savoured at the pace of words on the page.
harstan More than 1 year ago
In Tombstone in the Arizona Territory, Wyatt Earp seems to run things though he was defeated in the race for sheriff. Doc Holiday, who is dying of consumption, is in remission, and he believes it has something to do with Wyatt who needs him and regards him as part of his family. As long as Wyatt can draw on the support of his family including Doc, he is a power to be reckoned with, a man who always gets what he wants. --- Jesse Fox was summoned to Tombstone by his friend and mentor, the powerful sorcerer Lung Chow. He stays because his friend needs him and because of his interest in typesetter, journalist and writer Mildred Benjamin. He becomes Wyatt¿s enemy when he helps a prisoner escape, someone Earp wants hung to protect his brother who was one of the gang that tried to rob a stagecoach and ended up killing a man. When Lung is murdered, Jesse vows to avenge his death even if it means becoming a sorcerer like his friend was. --- This is a fascinating and exciting historical fantasy in the tradition of Judith Tarr. Emma Bull¿s take of the legend of Wyatt Earp, Doc Holliday and other famous men of the Wild West is fascinating. Jesse grows and changes as he learns to accept the fact that he is a conjurer and he ends up using his rookie powers in a High Noon fight at the OK Corral to neutralize an experienced sorcerer who has too long not been held accountable for the murders he committed. TERRITORY is a spellbinding tale of the good and dark side of magic. --- Harriet Klausner
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"Okay!" Follows her. ~Banditstar
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
After finishing the last few bundles, he nodded ay Cedarpaw "Lets head back" Blue meowed and grasped the moss in his jaws.