By Harry Turtledove
From Harry Turtledove, the grasp of exchange background, comes After the Downfall, a singular of magic, epic battle, and determined offerings. 1945: Russian troops have entered Berlin, and are engaged in a violent orgy of theft, rape, and revenge. Wehrmacht officer Hasso Pemsel, a occupation soldier at the wasting finish of the best conflict in historical past, flees from a sniper's bullet, discovering himself hurled right into a mysterious, very good global of wizards, dragons, and unicorns. There he allies himself with the blond-haired, blue-eyed Lenelli, and Velona, their goddess in human shape, delivering them his wisdom of struggle and weaponry of their genocidal fight opposed to a race of diminutive, swarthy barbarians referred to as Grenye. yet quickly, the savagery of the Lenelli starts off to devour at Hasso Pemsel's soul, inflicting him to query every thing he has lengthy believed approximately race and Reich, correct and improper, Ubermenschen and Untermenschen. Hasso Pemsel will research the adaptation among following orders... and following his moral sense.
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Extra info for After the Downfall
Holmes, as usual, kept to the essentials. “I fail to see what I might be expected to do in this situation. If Mahmoud—if your cousin—Maurice—confound it! If Maurice Hughenfort feels it necessary to assume the duties that accompany his title, there is little I, or Russell, can do to dissuade him. If he does not so choose, he could always let the dukedom be in abeyance for his lifetime. Surely there must be another heir in the woodwork. ” “There are… complications. You will understand when you see him.
Having them back… makes matters more difficult. No matter,” he added, and gave a dismissive wave of the hand. With that small gesture, Ali and Alistair came together before me for the first time. Had he been speaking Arabic, that final phrase would have been ma’alesh, the all-purpose verbal shrug that acknowledges how little control any of us have over our fates. Ma’alesh; no matter; never mind; what can one do but accept things as they are? Ma’alesh, your pot overturned in the fire; ma’alesh, your prize mare died; ma’alesh, you lost all your possessions and half your family.
The room was perhaps fifty feet long, half that in width and height. The walls were of beautifully fitted limestone blocks, aged to dark honey near the roof beams and above the fireplace, paler near the floor and in the corners. The beams arched black high overhead, all but invisible in the dim light, and the high, many-paned windows above our heads were black and uncurtained. Electric lamps shed an oasis of light before the crackling fire, illuminating the lower edges of the tapestries that covered the stonework, hangings so dim with the patina of generations, they might well have disintegrated with cleaning.