An award-winning Afrofuturist and librarian, Maurice Broaddus has had over a hundred short stories published in such places as Lightspeed Magazine, Black Panther: Tales from Wakanda, Out There Screaming, Asimov's, Weird Tales, Magazine of F&SF and Uncanny Magazine. With over a dozen novels in print, his latest include Sweep of Stars, Breath of Oblivion, Unfadeable, Pimp My Airship and The Usual Suspects.

The Knights of Breton Court Omnibus by Maurice Broaddus

From acclaimed novelist Maurice Broaddus, an omnibus edition of the cycle described as "The Wire meets Excalibur": The Knights of Breton Court retells the saga of Arthur and Camelot on the pitiless streets of modern Indianapolis, where greed, desperation, and honor fuel bloodshed in a cycle that seems unstoppable. Until one man gathers his brethren around him and changes their world forever…

The wars have been raging since before King James White was born. The gangs battle for territory, for market share, for the respect that's the only armor against attack. The unaffiliated keep their heads down and their mouths shut, hoping to survive.

But King has a hard time seeing nothing. He sees the hunger for power that preys on the weak and cannibalizes the strong. He sees Lady G., struggling to protect a soft heart on hard streets. Wayne, on a mission to reach runaways who'll end up dead often as not. Percy, the innocent son of a fearsome father, with potential greater than any suspect. Lott, handsome and cocksure, with a secret fire burning inside. Babbling old Merle with his tinfoil wizard's cap and tales of an unseen world.

And when elf assassins, undead addicts, and rampaging elementals emerge to threaten the neighborhood King calls home, he has to consider whether Merle is right about other things too. Like that the better future King yearns to fight for is possible. That the hearts that come together around their scarred cable spool of a round table can overcome dragonsmoke and kidnapping, deadly standoffs, teenage nihilism, and the wounds of grief that never heal. That courage, wisdom, and mercy can still win the day.

All it will take to make it true is everything.

Brutal, comic, grand, and unflinching, The Knights of Breton Court channels the power of ancient myth into an action-packed epic for our time.

Includes King Maker, King's Justice, and King's War.

CURATOR'S NOTE

It's The Wire meets Arthurian legend – and who can resist that! Dive in to Maurice's immersive world and be transformed. – Lavie Tidhar

 

REVIEWS

  • "Maurice Broaddus has created a masterpiece of original, compelling, and thought-provoking drama, irresistible and unforgettable."

    – SF Book Reviews

  • "[An] engaging tale of urban renewal and vigilante justice."

    – Publishers Weekly

  • "[A] true urban fantasy in the literal definition of the term, and with assured prose and strong characters, should be on every SF fan's shelf."

    – New York Times bestselling author Adam Christopher
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

Indianapolis, Indiana. Back in the Day.

The streets have their own legends, their own magic, and for a brief moment, Luther White was the heir apparent to both.

"Listen here, keep that motor running." Staid snorts of smoke poured from Luther's nose and mouth like a dragon's exhalations as he puffed on a cigarette. Cutting his eyes at CashMoney's rayon shirt as if he were ashamed to know him, Luther slid along the gray vinyl car seat with the coolness of shadow. His twin Caliburns glinted in the moonlight as he tucked them into his waistband.

Everyone knew there was a street tax to be paid if they wished to operate in Luther's neighborhood. If rent wasn't paid, he came a-calling with his Caliburns. Costing a fortune, the 9mm Springfield Armory custom-ported stack autos—with the frames, slides, and some other parts plated in 24K gold, with gold dragons rearing up along the contrasting black grips—were his trademark. He rarely had to do more than brandish them for his point to be made. Tonight a stronger counter argument was called for.

CashMoney drummed his fingers along the steering wheel of his Chevy Nova. He wore what barbershops called the Perfecto cut, his hair like sculpted topiary with its precise parts and molded crown. His drawn face held an air of sadness, his brim pulled low on his head to shade his dull brown eyes. The car's cassette player was broken so he rolled the dial on the dash, getting mostly static. As if there were any other choice for music other than WTLC, unless you wanted some of that easy listening rock garbage.

Luther ground the cigarette out with his heel, the sparks skittering into the slight breeze. Little set the rundown four bedroom house apart from the other rundown homes in the neighborhood, yet Luther strode toward it with determination and purpose. His brown leather jacket remained opened enough to reveal the gold chain along his black turtleneck. Life was all about façades and impressions and Luther took extra care to make sure his appearance remained slick. His brown eyes brimmed with ambition. Sideburns, thick but tight, framed his wistful sneer. He could almost see his reflection in his polished knobs.

Fall Creek was a natural ley line that helped carve up Indianapolis, one of those tracks your mother warned you about that people crossed at their own peril. On one side were large historic homes, one-time summer houses for those who lived in downtown Indianapolis; the playground for old money. On the other, around 30th and Fall Creek Parkway, a neighborhood spiraled downward with streets which ought to be named after local reverends and civil rights activists. Luther knew nothing about ancestral memory, his imagination not given to neither fancy nor spiritual stirrings. The idea of ley lines or connecting high places of power or sacredness was the stuff of superstition. It definitely wasn't part of his world at all. His world was gray and concrete and real as the dollars that fueled it. Light from the open door of the old house swathed him and he disappeared inside.

Barely old enough to drive, though rumor had it that he was one of the best getaway drivers for rent, CashMoney viewed himself as half an apprentice to Luther. Truth be told, his admiring eye transparently masked a covetous gleam. Barely in his twenties, Luther had already earned the rep and done crowned himself king of the streets. He lacked the ruthlessness and deep hatred for women that made career pimps, but he loved the street hustle. His resume stretched back to his early teens when he ran numbers, setting up a string of pea shake gambling houses using his uncle's reputation for muscle.

CashMoney's less-than-ambitious thoughts idled around trying to figure out how to get Yolanda Jenkins to give it up. He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, regretting his last three beers. Fishing a joint from his pocket, CashMoney kissed it and hoped they could stop off at Burger Chef later. A hot minute later, he butted the remainder as shots touted a break in the evening's festivities.

Luther backed out the doorway with as casual a stride as possible for a man as cautious as he. A high yella, stone-cold fox flickered into his peripheral vision. Her large breasts pushed her shirt straight out, exposing her flat belly over her tight jeans. With Asian eyes and long black hair, she would have stood out anywhere; however, here, she almost made Luther trip over himself. Their eyes locked on one another, her haunting beauty captured him in its spell. He shook himself to stay focused on business. Luther clutched the bag full of money and tumbled into the passenger's seat. Maybe he didn't have to push up on Green's people, but a message had to be sent.

"Floor this motherfucker."