Tag: Adrian Tchaikovsky

We are thrilled to reveal the incredible cover for Ogres by Adrian Tchaikovsky!

It’s always idyllic in the village until the landlord comes to call. Because the landlord is an Ogre. And Ogres rule the world, with their size and strength and appetites. It’s always been that way. It’s the natural order of the world. And they only eat people sometimes…

Ogres will be out March 2022 in eBook, audiobook, and limited edition signed hardcover.

Not only do we have the cover for you, but as an extra special treat you can read an exclusive excerpt below!

Servants bustle to open the door, two of them to haul it all the way, and a gust of cool air wafts from inside the vehicle. That ogre magic, like the motive force that makes the car engine growl into life. Because they can do anything, the ogres. Sorcerers, so say the people. God’s chosen, so says the pastor. The might of the ogres isn’t solely contained in their great limbs and strength.

                But that is what strikes the eye, when you see them. You, big and strong for a man, are used to weighing others by the amount of world they displace and the force they can exert. And when the Landlord, Sir Peter Grimes, gets out of the car, you cannot but judge him a great power in the world. If you are over six feet tall and your father five and a half, then Sir Peter is ten, easily. Ten of yours, though six of his own, ogre feet being proportionally bigger. And vast, a great tun of a body, thick-waisted and heavy. A flat face that would look human if it weren’t so big, so that it becomes just a great jowly topography. The eyes seemingly squeezed half shut by the opposing pressure of cheeks and brow, though perhaps that’s just against the brightness of the light outside of the car. And such clothes! Casual travel-wear to an ogre puts all your village finery to shame. Such fabrics and shines, so silky and flowing no loom could possibly have woven them! Such colours: slate grey and red-burgundy and gold. And when everyone bows before him perhaps it’s a relief. To have an excuse to take your eyes away from such opulence and such a vast mass of flesh standing there on two pillar legs.

                “Tomas, as I live and breathe!” booms Sir Peter. “Come forward, Tomas. I trust the accounts are all prepared? You’ve taken census already?” Because when the Landlord calls he expects to find everything in order. And it isn’t just a matter of the village lined up and the children running forward with their garlands – all fielded by the servants who’ll dispose of them later because the ogres can’t be expected to deal with such things. It’s a matter of having it all writ down, each bushel and basket, every laying hen, each of the hulking sheep counted on the hillside, every cow in the pasture. And woe betide the headman who cheats his Landlord, or even miscounts. There’s always someone who will slip the word in some servant’s ear, for preferment, for their children’s advancement. A headman takes responsibility, your father tells you often, and there will somehow always be someone who feels that responsibility should be theirs.