A LAND WITHOUT WOLVES
THE ROADS ARE FAR FROM SAFE IN 18th CENTURY IRELAND
In the midst of rebellion are legends wrought, and Mogue Trench knows of a tale never told. What better time to relay it than as the rope awaits.
The Highwayman Joseph Mac Tíre knows of hardship - at the hands of Redcoats and Republicans alike - so Ireland's political struggle has less appeal than mentoring an orphan in the ways of the underworld.
Yet the world has a way of catching up to men whose hearts know only darkness - men who hunt, and kill, and howl in rage.
But sooner or later, they howl no more.
Official Trailer
Lose yourself in the dark atmosphere of 18th Century Ireland...
See Dublin as you've never seen it before...
The flames burst up, engulfing the constable’s corpse as it swung to the wild cheers of the onlookers. The heat and reek of crackling flesh needled Mogue’s nose, but he tried not to look away as his prize smouldered and the flames burned higher. The man’s hair glowed, the crackles and sparks hissing viciously over the bridge, and streaks of ash trailing to the ground strengthened as his greatcoat and flesh mingled as one in the vengeful heat. Smoke swirled on the breeze, which had only just picked up as if to fan this tiniest of conflagrations, smudging away the sunlight, and the frantic cheers around him doubled in frenzy. The constable’s body, thudding slightly off the lamppost, was charred beyond recognition. The satanic, rejoicing chants of “No mercy, no quarter” were bellowed ever louder the more the flames swallowed, then finally began to subside, flickering as the crackles stopped with them, the incentive to resume fighting also seemed to die. Mogue noticed lads from both gangs starting to turn away, limping across the bridge and back to the city or else wearily seeing to the corpses of their fallen comrades that littered the cobbles. Plenty more floated in the river, like swollen wrecks. Mogue sheathed both his blades, resigned that he would now never know the satisfaction of hearing Ivory’s dying scream. His brain had dimmed. Not even the thought of stabbing Rob and suffering a similar fate as the constable crossed it. As he withdrew from the mob and bridge back toward the Liberties, he was glad for the blood drying on his face – it obscured the tears in his eyes, and the pale, ghost-like sheen that now tinged his cheeks.
Book Launch at Alan Hanna's Bookshop, Oct '21
