Action & Adventure
![Terry Brooks - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B000APZAHI.jpg)
Small Magic: Short Fiction, 1977-2020
Escape to worlds full of adventure and magic in the first-ever Terry Brooks short-story collection, featuring both new and fan-favorite stories from all three of his major literary worlds: Shannara, Magic Kingdom, and The Word and the Void.
Here are heroes fighting new battles and struggling to conquer the ghosts of the past. Here are quests both small and far reaching; heroism both intimate and vast. Here we learn of Garet Jax's childhood, see how Allanon first located Shea Ohmsford, and follow an old wing-rider at the end of his life. Here we see Knights of the Word fighting demons within and without, and witness Ben Holiday and his daughter each trying to overcome the unique challenges that Landover offers.
This collection of eleven tales is a must-have addition to the Terry Brooks canon-a delightful way to spend time with favorite characters, and a wonderful reminder of what makes a Brooks story such a timeless classic.
Here are heroes fighting new battles and struggling to conquer the ghosts of the past. Here are quests both small and far reaching; heroism both intimate and vast. Here we learn of Garet Jax's childhood, see how Allanon first located Shea Ohmsford, and follow an old wing-rider at the end of his life. Here we see Knights of the Word fighting demons within and without, and witness Ben Holiday and his daughter each trying to overcome the unique challenges that Landover offers.
This collection of eleven tales is a must-have addition to the Terry Brooks canon-a delightful way to spend time with favorite characters, and a wonderful reminder of what makes a Brooks story such a timeless classic.
Editorial Reviews
Praise for Terry Brooks
"The Sword of Shannara is an unforgettable and wildly entertaining epic, animated by Terry Brooks's cosmically generative imagination and storytelling joy."-Karen Russell, New York Times bestselling author of Swamplandia!
"If Tolkien is the grandfather of modern fantasy, Terry Brooks is its favorite uncle."-Peter V. Brett, New York Times bestselling author of The Core
"I can't even begin to count how many of Terry Brooks's books I've read (and re-read) over the years. From Shannara to Landover, his work was a huge part of my childhood."-Patrick Rothfuss, New York Times bestselling author of The Name of the Wind
"Terry Brooks is a master of the craft and a trailblazer who established fantasy as a viable genre. He is required reading."-Brent Weeks, New York Times bestselling author of The Night Angel Trilogy
"The Shannara books were among the first to really capture my imagination. My daydreams and therefore my stories will always owe a debt to Terry Brooks."-Brandon Mull, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Beyonders series and the Fablehaven series
"The Sword of Shannara is an unforgettable and wildly entertaining epic, animated by Terry Brooks's cosmically generative imagination and storytelling joy."-Karen Russell, New York Times bestselling author of Swamplandia!
"If Tolkien is the grandfather of modern fantasy, Terry Brooks is its favorite uncle."-Peter V. Brett, New York Times bestselling author of The Core
"I can't even begin to count how many of Terry Brooks's books I've read (and re-read) over the years. From Shannara to Landover, his work was a huge part of my childhood."-Patrick Rothfuss, New York Times bestselling author of The Name of the Wind
"Terry Brooks is a master of the craft and a trailblazer who established fantasy as a viable genre. He is required reading."-Brent Weeks, New York Times bestselling author of The Night Angel Trilogy
"The Shannara books were among the first to really capture my imagination. My daydreams and therefore my stories will always owe a debt to Terry Brooks."-Brandon Mull, #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Beyonders series and the Fablehaven series
Readers Top Reviews
bobbie kaaldFrank Be
I am a long time reader of Terry Brooks. I just finished this fine collection of short stories. I loved them all. If anything this isolation because of Covid-19 has made his stories pop and I finished the last one on edge. Bobbie Kaald
Yamile Marrero
I never even knew I would so enjoy short stories set in many of the worlds this great author has given us along with character old and new. Great adventures abound.
Kindle
Terry Brooks is by far my favorite author. Following his Shanara series from beginning to.the. very end was a true adventure. This book is no different. I loved all of the stories in this book and read many before as ebooks but having them all together in one book just made it that more amazing. I look forward to the next chapter in his life of writing.
ZenJ. Samuels
Well, well, how i can't enjoy some classic fantasy ? Dragons, Trolls, magic, magic stones. I always loved these type of stories, but i never considered them masterpieces. Brooks writing style is also very good. There are about 2 or 3 very simple stories ( which i did not enjoy them much), but as a whole the book is quite fun. There are stories with characters from other Brools novels here, but don't worry. The stories can be easily read.
Julie B.
I'm a big Fan of Terry Brooks. He lives in my State and I was heard he names some of his characters from names on exit ramps. He writes in a way you Dont want to put the book down. I suggest you get one of his Collection Saga the. Read from start to finish After you read one you have to jump into the next. if you like Fairy Tales and that genre you will like the rest of his collection. I can't wait till his new saga "Child of light" comes out in Sept. What I like about my current read is "Small Magic" is the short stories and something of him to make him more down to earth. You won't regret any of his Books. Light a candle curl up in a chair cover with a throw and start reading. Before you know it the sun is coming up. I like to say we deserve a little me time a quiet place maybe even a glass of wine. Treat yourself you deserve it. Pleasant reading
Short Excerpt Teaser
Introduction to "The Fey of Cloudmoor"
I began reading science fiction and fantasy in middle school-right about 1956-although there was little enough of the latter being written at that time and most of the kids I knew were reading the former. It was the beginning of the age of space travel and Sputnik and travels to the moon, and that was what every kid I knew was reading about. I shouldn't say kids but rather boys, because very few girls I knew had found their way to that sort of fiction yet.
Anyway, among those writers whose works I read and admired-while still in my burgeoning wannabe professional writer mode-was Poul Anderson. In those days, I wasn't reading or particularly interested in fantasy. I was strictly a science-fiction kid, with peripheral leanings toward adventure stories (Boys' Life and the like), so my favorite stories by Poul tended to fall along those lines.
But I remember one that didn't. I read "The Queen of Air and Darkness" right after it came out in one of the science-fiction magazines, and I was captivated by it. When I was asked to contribute to the Poul Anderson anthology Multiverse in 2014, it was the first story I thought of. It always felt to me as if there were more to the story, as if the telling of it wasn't finished. What happened afterward to the Queen and the Old Folk of Cloudmoor and Carheddin? Was that really the end of them when Sherrinford took back Jimmy Cullen? Could they really have been so easily dispatched?
I felt a certain trepidation in trying to make those determinations for Poul. "The Queen of Air and Darkness" had won both the Hugo and Nebula, and has enthralled Poul Anderson readers for decades. Who was I to mess with an icon and his art? But my marching orders were clear: I was to take something from Poul's astounding body of work and build on it. So that was what I tried to do.
I met Poul Anderson once, years ago now, at a family gathering at his daughter's home. I can no longer remember the occasion. He was quiet and unassuming and had about him the grandfatherly look I see in myself these days when I look in the mirror. I said hello and told him how much I admired his work. I have no idea if he knew who I was or what I did. He didn't say, and I didn't ask. It didn't matter. What mattered was how it made me feel. Writers form links in an endless chain, one influencing another in a crucial, necessary rite of interaction and succession, ultimately so we may be inspired and our craft may evolve.
Poul Anderson was one who did that for me.
The Fey of Cloudmoor
He came out of the world of Men and their cities of steel and concrete in tatters, all scratched up and dirtied on the surface and broken and ripped apart inside. He carried what was left of his life in a blanket clutched to his breast, carefully shielding its contents from the sights and sounds and smells of the civilization that had ruined him and destroyed her. He thought of her all the time, but he couldn't make himself remember what she looked like anymore. He only knew how hard they had tried to find a way through the morass of their lives, choosing to share their misery but always searching to break free of their bonds.
Hard to do when nothing in your life is real and every day is a slog through dark and painful places that strip the skin from your soul.
When she died, they had been huddled in an alleyway in the darkest part of Christmas Landing, sheltered poorly in cardboard from a steady downpour that formed a small river only four feet away. They had scored early and resold what they had to get money for food and milk for Barraboo. They had made a good choice for once, but had come to regret it with night's hard descent and no means to soften the blow. She had been coughing badly for days and her breathing had worsened, and all he knew how to do was to stay with her. There were medical centers they could go to, but once they entered one of those places they might as well say goodbye to their baby. She might have gone alone, of course, but she was afraid to do that, as if making that choice would cost her the baby anyway.
As if, in his desperation, he might choose to sell it.
As if, in hers, she might approve.
He stole some medicine off the shelves of a pharmacy, but it didn't seem to help her. Nothing did. She just kept coughing and wheezing, getting worse by the day. He found her an old blanket in a garbage bin and wrapped her in that, then held her close against him to share his body heat. She was so cold, and she didn't look right. But she still held Barraboo and wouldn't let her go, and so he ended up holding them both.
But finally he fell asleep, even though he had told himself he wouldn't do so, and when he woke she w...
I began reading science fiction and fantasy in middle school-right about 1956-although there was little enough of the latter being written at that time and most of the kids I knew were reading the former. It was the beginning of the age of space travel and Sputnik and travels to the moon, and that was what every kid I knew was reading about. I shouldn't say kids but rather boys, because very few girls I knew had found their way to that sort of fiction yet.
Anyway, among those writers whose works I read and admired-while still in my burgeoning wannabe professional writer mode-was Poul Anderson. In those days, I wasn't reading or particularly interested in fantasy. I was strictly a science-fiction kid, with peripheral leanings toward adventure stories (Boys' Life and the like), so my favorite stories by Poul tended to fall along those lines.
But I remember one that didn't. I read "The Queen of Air and Darkness" right after it came out in one of the science-fiction magazines, and I was captivated by it. When I was asked to contribute to the Poul Anderson anthology Multiverse in 2014, it was the first story I thought of. It always felt to me as if there were more to the story, as if the telling of it wasn't finished. What happened afterward to the Queen and the Old Folk of Cloudmoor and Carheddin? Was that really the end of them when Sherrinford took back Jimmy Cullen? Could they really have been so easily dispatched?
I felt a certain trepidation in trying to make those determinations for Poul. "The Queen of Air and Darkness" had won both the Hugo and Nebula, and has enthralled Poul Anderson readers for decades. Who was I to mess with an icon and his art? But my marching orders were clear: I was to take something from Poul's astounding body of work and build on it. So that was what I tried to do.
I met Poul Anderson once, years ago now, at a family gathering at his daughter's home. I can no longer remember the occasion. He was quiet and unassuming and had about him the grandfatherly look I see in myself these days when I look in the mirror. I said hello and told him how much I admired his work. I have no idea if he knew who I was or what I did. He didn't say, and I didn't ask. It didn't matter. What mattered was how it made me feel. Writers form links in an endless chain, one influencing another in a crucial, necessary rite of interaction and succession, ultimately so we may be inspired and our craft may evolve.
Poul Anderson was one who did that for me.
The Fey of Cloudmoor
He came out of the world of Men and their cities of steel and concrete in tatters, all scratched up and dirtied on the surface and broken and ripped apart inside. He carried what was left of his life in a blanket clutched to his breast, carefully shielding its contents from the sights and sounds and smells of the civilization that had ruined him and destroyed her. He thought of her all the time, but he couldn't make himself remember what she looked like anymore. He only knew how hard they had tried to find a way through the morass of their lives, choosing to share their misery but always searching to break free of their bonds.
Hard to do when nothing in your life is real and every day is a slog through dark and painful places that strip the skin from your soul.
When she died, they had been huddled in an alleyway in the darkest part of Christmas Landing, sheltered poorly in cardboard from a steady downpour that formed a small river only four feet away. They had scored early and resold what they had to get money for food and milk for Barraboo. They had made a good choice for once, but had come to regret it with night's hard descent and no means to soften the blow. She had been coughing badly for days and her breathing had worsened, and all he knew how to do was to stay with her. There were medical centers they could go to, but once they entered one of those places they might as well say goodbye to their baby. She might have gone alone, of course, but she was afraid to do that, as if making that choice would cost her the baby anyway.
As if, in his desperation, he might choose to sell it.
As if, in hers, she might approve.
He stole some medicine off the shelves of a pharmacy, but it didn't seem to help her. Nothing did. She just kept coughing and wheezing, getting worse by the day. He found her an old blanket in a garbage bin and wrapped her in that, then held her close against him to share his body heat. She was so cold, and she didn't look right. But she still held Barraboo and wouldn't let her go, and so he ended up holding them both.
But finally he fell asleep, even though he had told himself he wouldn't do so, and when he woke she w...
