By Scott Westerfeld
It's the cusp of global conflict I, and the entire eu powers are arming up. The Austro-Hungarians and Germans have their Clankers, steam-driven iron machines loaded with weapons and ammunition. The British Darwinists hire fabricated animals as their weaponry. The Leviathan is a residing airship, the main bold airbeast within the skies of Europe.
Aleksandar Ferdinand, prince of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, is at the run. His personal humans have grew to become on him. His identify is valueless. All he has is a battle-torn Stormwalker and a devoted workforce of men.
Deryn Sharp is a commoner, a woman disguised as a boy within the British Air provider. She's an excellent airman. yet her key is in consistent threat of being discovered.
With the nice conflict brewing, Alek's and Deryn's paths pass within the so much unforeseen method - taking them either aboard the Leviathan on a fantastical, around-the-world experience. one who will swap either their lives eternally.
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Extra info for Leviathan (Leviathan, Book 1)
It was always like this. To the servants he might be “the young archduke,” but nobles like Volger never let Alek forget his position. Thanks to his mother’s common blood, he wasn’t fit to inherit royal lands and titles. His father might be heir to an empire of fifty million souls, but Alek was heir to nothing. Volger himself was only a wildcount—no farmlands to his name, just a bit of forest—but even he could feel superior to the son of a lady-in-waiting. Alek managed to stay quiet, though, letting his anger cool as they stole through the vast and darkened banquet kitchens.
The Stormwalker wavered drunkenly for a moment, threatening to fall. But long seconds later Alek felt the machine’s weight settle into the moss and dirt. It was balanced with one foot stretching back, like a fencer posing after a lunge. He pushed on both saunters, the left leg pulling at whatever had entangled it, the right straining forward. The Daimler engines groaned, and metal joints hissed. Finally a shudder passed through the cabin, along with the satisfying sound of roots tearing from the ground— the Stormwalker rising up.
Then, just as the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral rose into view, a shiver passed through the rig. Deryn scowled. Were her ten minutes up already? She looked down, but the line leading to the ground hung slack. They weren’t reeling her in just yet. The jolt came again, and Deryn saw a few of the tentacles around her clench, coiling like ribbons scraped between a pair of scissors. They were slowly gathering back into a single strand. The Huxley was nervous. Deryn swung herself from side to side, ignoring the majesty of London to search the horizon for whatever was spooking the airbeast.