To your local bookstore, and grab a copy of His Majesty’s Dragon. Lately I’ve been pretty jaded with fantasy — I just avoid that section of my local megabookstore. But I read a glowing review at SF Site, and decided to try it out.
It’s jaw-dropping amazing. Such glorious, glorious fun. It’s set England during the Napoleonic Wars. To say it’s reminiscent of Patrick O’Brian or Jane Austen seems at first almost faint praise, because it really stands on its own, but what else could you compare it to but to the masterpieces of the genre?
So go out and snatch a copy from the fast-diminishing stock, and prepare yourself for tall ships, iron men, high seas and billowing clouds, green fields dotted with sheep around stately manor houses, crinoline and lace and leather and gunpower, slow bows and sharp blows, the steady watch of weather-beaten souls in the narrow channel that holds back the dreams of an Emperor, fireworks and music on the water.
And . . . here there be dragons.