“You have to surrender to the domination of the author…” ~Tom Shippey, Wall Street Journal

“The Dragon’s Legacy will knock your socks off. Wolf is rewriting epic fantasy. The last time a book grabbed me this fast was when I read TWELVE KINGS for Bradley P. Beaulieu.”
~Sarah Chorn, Bookworm Blues

Debut epic fantasy in the dramatic tradition of Guy Gavriel Kay and Jacqueline Carey.


An exciting newcomer, Deborah A. Wolf hits the ground running. Her dramatic debut offers complex characters and fantasy underpinnings to rival The Sarantine Mosaic and Kushiel’s Dart, with politics and cultural complexities reminiscent of Frank Herbert’s Dune.

“Beautiful and haunting. Hafsa Azeina, a shaman, and her warrior daughter, Sulema, are women of true strength. I was pulled into a world of large-scale epic fantasy, in the tradition Guy Gavriel Kay, that caught me from page one. This a rare find and not to be missed.”
~Barb Hendee, national bestselling co-author of the Noble Dead Saga

A saga of epic fantasy in the tradition of the darker folkloric tales of ARABIAN NIGHTS, THE DRAGON’S LEGACY is a journey of life and loss, of hope and heartbreak, sorcerers and swords and sand:

Deep in the heart of the singing desert, Zeeranim are fading from the world. The Mothers bear few live babes, their warriors and wardens are never more than a step ahead of slavers eager to carry off children, and the vash’ai, the great cats who have called the people kithren for as long as there have been stories, choose to bond with fewer warriors each year.

Now the sorcerous Dragon King in Atualon has stretched forth his hand to take one of their own, claiming young Sulema as his daughter. For the king is dying without an heir, and as he fades so does his hold on atulfah, the magic that sings the dragon to sleep.

Far beneath the world’s heavy shell Sajani Earth Dragon slumbers on, as she has since the beginning of song. Her sleep is fitful, her dreams troubled. Akari Sun Dragon sings a song of life and love, but from deep in the darkness of her dream come whispers of war, and of death.

For the shadows conceal dark truths: there are those who wish to keep the dragon trapped in endless sleep, regardless of the cost; those who would tap her power over time and space for their own; and those who would have her wake, so they might laugh as the world burns.







A Lonely Road

The air between the Bones was not simply cool, it was aware. The rocks shimmered and danced like a mirage on the horizon, and the ground shuddered at their touch. Theotara urged her unhappy mare between the red-and-black banded pillars of stone that thrust up from the flesh of the world like the tormented legs of a monstrous spider. A chill caressed her spine as she passed through the scant shade; this earth, these rocks had drunk deep of rage and blood and they were thirsty for more. She could feel death, smell it in the air, hear it in the desert’s hot breath as it hissed through the Bones. Her heart skipped as she heard something besides the pock-pock-pock of Zakkia’s hooves on stone. A hopeless sound, weak and lost, faint as the last wisp of smoke from a dead man’s campfire. The cry of a human child.

Theotara resisted the urge to rush in; more than one of the greater predators could mimic that sound. She closed her eyes and allowed her ka, the breath of her spirit, to roll out from her body, prodding and poking at the land about her. She felt the chill regard of the Bones, and the small warm lives of carrion-birds. There, among the wagons, she could feel the heat of a human soul fluttering on the edge of death. She could sense no other humans, no greater predators, nothing that might be a threat to herself. Theotara opened her eyes again and frowned; something had happened here, perhaps moments before, but whatever danger there had been had passed them by. Zakkia seemed to agree: her ears swiveled this way, and that way, and then she reached back to nip at her rider’s foot.

She nudged her horse’s teeth away and scowled, shading her eyes against the sun as it rose above the Bones of Eth. There, in the far and darkest corner of the clearing, was a huddle of painted wagons of the type used by merchants along the Great Salt Road to the north. She brought Zakkia down to a slow walk and as they drew nearer she could see, scattered among the broken wagons, the still and bloated forms of pack animals. One of the carrion birds lit, wings outstretched and screaming with glee. Theotara sheathed her sword; she could hardly do battle with rocks and buzzards.

They had missed the battle, but she could still feel human life fluttering among the wagons; there was work to be done. “If you cannot slay the enemy,” she had often told the younger warriors, “save the living. If you cannot save the living, soothe the dying. Send their spirits off with a drink, a song, and fragrant smoke. And never forget to loot the bodies.”

Theotara sighed, lifted a stiff old leg over the back of her stiff old horse, and slid to the ground, grunting at the hot little needles in her knees. She could have done anything she wished with her last three days. She could have ridden down the road to Nar Kabdaan, and let the red petals of a dying sun blossom before them as they shared the last cup of tea. She had always wanted to stand before the sea, to smell the salt air and listen to the waves. She had heard that the sea sang a lovely song. That the water stretched farther than your eyes could see.

It would have been glorious.