Every fantasy reader knows the feeling of finishing a book that completely draws you in, only to wish there was more of that world waiting for you. For almost seven years, South African filmmaker and writer Tapelo Zama has been building one that he is now inviting fantasy readers to enter. The Outlands is a continent shaped by the rise and fall of kingdoms, political intrigue, forgotten bloodlines and ancient powers beginning to stir once more. Inspired by the histories, civilisations and landscapes of Africa, it is the setting for Blood Of Kings, Zama’s debut epic fantasy novel.
Ahead of its official release, Zama is opening applications for free Advance Reader Copies (ARCs), giving fantasy readers the opportunity to experience Blood Of Kings before publication and become part of its launch. “I wanted the ARC campaign itself to feel like an event,” he says. “The practical side is that early reviews help people discover the book. But I also wanted people to feel like they were there at the beginning, discovering this world together.”
Readers interested in joining the Advance Reader programme
can register online to receive a complimentary copy ahead of publication.
Request an Advance Reader Copy by clicking on this link.
Drawn from almost a decade of research into African history, the novel reimagines epic fantasy through a continent inspired by the breadth of Africa’s civilisations, cultures and landscapes. For a time, Zama considered writing historical fiction instead. “I’ve always loved history, but it gives you very little room to move. Fantasy gave me the freedom to take the stories that fascinated me most and imagine what else they could become. When I started reading African fantasy, I noticed that much of it drew from a West African aesthetic. Those are incredible stories, but I wanted to explore another side of the continent. Blood of Kings draws inspiration from North Africa, East Africa, Southern Africa and beyond because I wanted to create a world that reflects just how vast and diverse Africa really is. I want people to finish the book with a greater appreciation for the majesty and nuance of precolonial Africa. If it encourages readers to see the continent through a different lens, then I’ll feel I’ve accomplished something worthwhile.”
Extract from Blood of Kings
Prince Nasif Al-Rashar did not kneel easily. His joints ached, his knees protesting as he squatted down on the weathered rug draped across the stone floor. Six months of siege had stripped Kadesh of its perfumes, its bustling markets, and most of its bread, but not its sanctuaries. Here, in the cool hush of the oratory in the governor’s quarters, Nasif found a fleeting reprieve from the ceaseless belligerence of the enemy.
It was a small room of modest stone, cloistered in the upper quarters of the fortress, where the winds could not reach and the echoes of war came softened, like memories. Here he made his daily appeal to the gods. A routine that he had not once broken since the siege began. Nasif had always fancied himself more a scholar than a man of faith, but there was a familiar comfort in surrendering before the ineffable. It reminded him of simpler times, kneeling at his father’s side as a boy, long before blades and banners and betrayal. He did not pray for victory. No. That dream had died with the last pigeon sent out in call for aid. He prayed instead for honour in the hour of ending. He prayed for courage. And, as every other day, the room responded to his pleas with quiet indifference. That morning however, Nasif had barely begun his supplication when the scent came; a fragile thread of lavender and jasmine oil weaving through the dust and the distant smoke. Nasif did not need to turn. There was only one man in all of Kadesh who carried that unmistakable fragrance.
“What is it, Borus?” he said, opening his eyes but keeping his gaze fixed on the pile rug beneath him. “Your pardon, my lord.” The eunuch’s voice was a breathless, fluted note in the morning air. “I know you’d asked not to be disturbed…” Nasif turned then, the slow, weary pivot of a man carrying a city’s fate upon his shoulders. “Do not apologize, old friend, you only interrupted a monologue. The gods have an eternity to listen.” He offered the ghost of a smile, a courtesy to an old retainer. It was not returned. Borus stood, his round, soft form trembling, his complexion, always pale, now the colour of whey. As ever, he was swathed in the silks of distant courts, fine fabrics now shamefully darkened at the throat and armpit with the stain of his fear. At his hip hung the familiar satchel, its contents not steel, but the tools of memory: parchment, quills, and the carved seal of Nasif’s house, a lineage now bleeding itself dry upon the stones of this city.
“There is movement at the eastern gates,” he said at last, the words breaking high in his throat. “The garrison reported a new arrival at the enemy gates. A device of…of some size.” The words hung there, uneasy. A shiver of foreboding moved through Nasif. He rose, slower than he liked, feeling the weight of it before he even spoke.
“What manner of—?” A thunderclap, sharp and violent, reverberated through the oratory, so loud Nasif startled backward onto his heels. This was not the thunder of storm clouds. Nor was it the crash of trebuchets, to which he had grown grimly accustomed. This was worse. It was fury of a kind Nasif had never heard and could barely comprehend. Before he could rise fully, another sound followed, deeper and more terrible, as if the bones of the city shattered beneath them. The walls around him trembled. The light filtering through the latticed windows began to shift. Somewhere beyond the oratory, a bell began to toll, high and urgent, joined quickly by another, and then another, a frantic chorus from the temple quarter. He heard screams—distant but unmistakably human. Dust slithered in through a crack in the stone, and the air grew thick with the scent of lime and powder.
Then, amidst the chaos, came the clatter of boots; fast, sure, heavy against the stone floor. A soldier’s pace. A moment later, a man appeared. Awar, the One-Eyed, general of the Nameless Ones, stood there, framed in morning light. He looked, Nasif thought, like a statue worn down by salt, wind and time: the same broad shoulders, the same sturdy limbs, but softened now, or rather scoured, by the slow, merciless work of siege. His cloak was tattered, his beard matted with dust. A glass eye twinkled above his ruined cheek. Deep lines etched his face where none had been months ago. He had aged, visibly, as if each day of the siege had carved a year into his flesh.
“The south east wall has fallen,” Awar said without ceremony. Nasif’s heart sank into his belly. “Cannons?” he asked. “Foreign devilry. They fired once.” He held up a hand. A finger trembled, not with fear, but disbelief. “Once. And all was lost.” The moment held. Behind them, another bell rang. The city had felt the change. Kadesh had known many sieges in its long, storied life. None had ever broken its walls. None until now.
For a moment, Nasif felt nothing. Only an emptiness where hope once might have been. The words hung between them. Then he exhaled and said, simply, “Show me.”