King of Thorns Ace Books by Mark Lawrence PRINCE OF THORNS KING OF THORNS King of Thorns BOOK TWO OF THE BROKEN EMPIRE MARK LAWRENCE ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England This is a work of fiction Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content Copyright © 2012 by Bobalinga, Ltd Map by Andrew Ashton Cover design by Annette Fiore DeFex Cover illustration by Jason Chan Cover hand lettering by Iskra Johnson Text design by Laura K Corless All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission Please not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights Purchase only authorized editions ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc FIRST EDITION: August 2012 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Lawrence, Mark, 1966– King of thorns / Mark Lawrence.—1st ed p cm.—(Broken empire; bk 2) ISBN: 978-1-101-58126-1 I Title PS3612.A9484K56 2012 813’.6—dc23 2012011252 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 10 ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON Dedicated to my son, Rhodri ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I need to thank my reader, Helen Mazarakis, for reading King of Thorns one chunk at a time as I wrote it, and telling me what she thought Many thanks go to Ginjer Buchanan at Ace for taking a chance on me, and to both her and Kat Sherbo for all their labour in making The Broken Empire series a success My editor at HarperCollins Voyager, Jane Johnson, deserves huge thanks for all her splendid efforts to date Thanks also to Amy McCulloch and Laura Mell, who have worked various wonders on my behalf And finally, my agent Ian Drury must be thanked for getting me the gig in the first place and for continuing to sell my books across the world Gaia Banks and Virginia Ascione, working with Ian at Sheil Land Associates Ltd., also need thanking for their efforts in getting Jorg’s story into so many translations Table of Contents Acknowledgments Prologue 1: Wedding day 2: Wedding day 3: Wedding day 4: Four years earlier 5: Four years earlier 6: Four years earlier 7: Four years earlier 8: Four years earlier 9: Four years earlier 10: Four years earlier 11: Wedding day 12: Wedding day 13: Wedding day returned to me, I felt that more had been restored, as if I had been a shadow of myself, almost me, but with something vital stolen away, something so bonded to my crimes that Luntar had been forced to set it also into his box of memories I might not live to see the sun set on this day of blood, but if I did, four years would not pass again and find me no closer to my goals We walked out through the ruins of the sprawl-town where burning chunks of the Haunt’s outer walls had left only wreckage in their path No trace of Jerring’s stables where Makin had once rolled in dung to be ready for the road Even now I could end this The Prince would accept a peace: his progress was too important to him not to And who would say that he would make a worse emperor than I? I could match the very worst of his crimes with my own then trump them with darker deeds There had been times aplenty, in the clarity of high places among the peaks, when I had thought to leave Orrin of Arrow a clear path But things change A different Jorg approached the duelling ground, a different Prince of Arrow This wedding day had seen Jorg Ancrath remade in an older mould I had that old thirst on me once again Blood would flow Music rose around me, faint at first A piece my mother used to play on the piano A rare instrument, a complex thing of wires and keys and hammers, ancient, but the notes she scattered from her right hand were clear and high, pure like stars against the black and rolling melody from her left Sometimes just a single ice-pure note can catch the breath in your lungs, and a second, off tempo, thrown into the void, can command chills across your skin A small run, a flutter of the hand over the blue notes, can take you any where, any time, make you feel new, or settle the press of years upon you, heavy enough to stop you drawing breath We walked through broken stone, charred timbers The melody pulsed under the crackle of flame, her left hand running through the deepest notes Rike towered above me on one side, my uncle walked on the other I felt the high refrain I saw my mother’s hand finding the high notes, the black keys, the ones that made me ache inside my chest, like the cries of gulls above wild seas After so many years of watching her hands play in silent memory, I heard her at last, I heard her music Down the mountainside, down toward the serried expanse of the Prince’s army Still the music, the deep slow melody, the high and broken counterpoint, as if the mountains themselves had become the score, as if the glories of hidden caves and secret peaks had been wrapped around the ageless majesty of the ocean and turned into the music of all men’s lives, played out by a woman’s fingers, without pause or mercy, reaching in, twisting, laying us bare To the level ground before the grey bulk of Rigden Rock The music slowing now, the notes scattered, just the counterpoint played out in the highest octave, sad notes, faltering, faint I glanced at Makin, remembering that first day when he handed me a wooden sword All those earnest boys of his ready to learn his game I’d shown them that it wasn’t play, that it’s always about winning, but I don’t think they understood it even then, even with the best of them lying choking on the floor A great trebuchet lay burning by the rock It must have ignited closer to the walls and been dragged this far before they realized it was a lost cause I wondered if it were the one that threw the rock at my bedchamber The flames watched me They leaned toward me The Prince of Arrow stood waiting, the dragons still clutching his namesakes on the rainbow sheen of his Teuton armour His five knights stood at the agreed distance and I left my seconds at the same remove They made a funny line, Rike towering at the centre looking like six kinds of bad news Makin and Robert to either side Old Gomst on the right wearing every holy thing he owned in the hope that nobody would stick an arrow in him, and old Keppen on the left, a sour face on him as if he had no time for this foolishness I walked over to meet the Prince “Open your keep to me and we can end this.” The Prince’s voice muffled within his helm, dark eyes watching “You don’t really want me to,” I said “Better this way.” I turned my blade to catch the light “Stop trying to be your brother Him I would have opened the gates for Maybe.” The Prince lifted his visor He offered a fierce and joyless smile then pulled the helm clear, running a hand back across hair bristling, thick and short and black “Hello, Egan,” I said “I liked you better as road-filth,” he said “It suited you.” Smoke from the burning siege engine drifted across us I heard Rike cough “I like your armour I may take it for myself when they pry it from your corpse,” I said He frowned, black brows meeting “You’re right-handed What game is this?” I set my left hand to my sword hilt “I often fight right-handed I hope you haven’t based your assessment of my skills on spies who saw that…I’m much better with my left.” Egan shifted his weight onto his back heel “You fought Orrin with your right…” “True,” I said “I was sorry to hear that you killed Orrin He was a better man than both of us Perhaps the best man of our generation.” “He was a fool,” Egan said, fixing his helm in place again “Too easy with his trust maybe I heard that you stabbed him in the back and watched him bleed to death?” Egan shrugged “He would never have fought me He would have talked And talked And talked.” He spoke as if it were nothing, but it haunted him I could see it in his eyes “And how did Katherine take news of Orrin’s death?” I asked I saw him pale Just half a shade “Prepare to defend yourself,” Egan said He drew his sword I paid it no heed “I told Orrin that I would decide about him on the day he came to the Highlands again,” I said “I think that I would have followed him and called him emperor I hope that I would have You should have left it for two weeks —then you could have murdered him after moving through the Highlands It would have worked out better for you.” Egan spat “We are two fratricides met for battle Are you ready?” “You know why I’ve practised with the sword every day since we last met?” I asked “So it would take me a few moments longer to kill you?” Egan asked “Nope.” “Why then?” “So you would believe that I’d stand against you in a fair fight,” I said I raised my right hand, pointing the gun at him from beneath the platesized buckler “What’s that?” asked Egan He took a step back “It has the word COLT stamped into the metal if that helps Think of it as a crossbow, but all squeezed down into one small tube You can thank an echo called Fexler Brews for it,” I said I shot Egan in the stomach The bullet punched a small hole in his armour I knew from testing on a watermelon that the hole on the other side would be larger “Bastard!” Egan staggered back I made to shoot him in the leg but the gun jammed “Lucky that didn’t happen first try, neh?” I drew my own blade, in my left hand He almost blocked the swing of my sword I had to admit he was pretty good The blade crunched into his knee and he went down The five knights Egan brought with him started to charge I fiddled with the gun, banging it against the hilt of my sword I raised it again and fired, once, twice, three, four, five times They all went down with red holes in their faces I would have missed with my left hand “Bastard!” Egan tried to crawl toward me “This is not your game!” I shouted Loud enough for Arrow’s thousands to hear if they hadn’t been screaming for my blood as they surged forward I shrugged “I don’t play by the rules you choose.” I knocked Egan’s sword from his hand and waved my seconds forward “Bring Gomst!” The gun had no bullets left so I threw it and the buckler aside and crouched behind Egan to pull his helm clear I had to use my knife on the straps I may have cut him a little “You don’t have to end like this, Egan.” I took hold of his neck “There’s death in my fingers, you know? It hurt me when you named me fratricide, but it’s true I killed poor Degran without even thinking about it Can you feel it yet? Can you imagine what I can when I am thinking about it? When I actually want to hurt you?” He screamed then, as loud as I’ve ever heard a man scream “See?” I said, when there was a gap “I’m not proud of how I learned to that—but there it is, the devil makes work for idle hands—I can kill parts of your spinal cord and leave you in that much pain for the years before you die I can paralyse you and take away your speech so no one will know how you suffer and you will not be able to seek or beg for an end.” The Prince’s soldiers came on at a run, but they had a lot of mountainside to cover “What you want?” he asked I had already killed the link between his mind and his muscles so he knew I wasn’t lying I was only lying when I implied I might be able to restore it “Let’s be friends,” I said “I know I might not be able to trust you even if you called me brother…but it anyway.” “What?” Egan said “Jorg! We need to run!” Uncle Robert put a hand on my shoulder I ignored him and let more pain flood through Egan “Call me brother.” “Brother! BROTHER! You’re my brother,” he cried, then screamed, then gasped “Father Gomst, did you hear that?” I asked The old man nodded “Let’s make it official,” I said “Adopt me into your family, Brother.” I hurt him again “Jorg!” Makin pointed at the thousands coming our way, as if I hadn’t noticed “I…You’re adopted You’re my brother,” Egan gasped “Excellent.” I let him fall I stood and wiped his blood from my hands onto Makin’s cloak “We need to run!” Makin took a few quick steps toward the Haunt to encourage me “Don’t be silly,” I said “We’d never make it.” “What’s your plan?” Makin asked “I’d hoped they would just give up I mean it’s not as if they like this pile of dung.” I kicked Egan in the head, but not too hard: I might yet need that foot for running “I’ve killed more than half of the bastards Both their princes are gone You’d think they’d just go home!” I shouted this last part at their ranks, close enough to see faces now “That’s it?” Uncle Robert asked “You just hoped?” I grinned and faced him “I’ve lived the last ten years on hunches, bets, hope, and luck.” The fire danced behind him as timbers fell from the trebuchet The flames held that same strangeness as those in the castle, a flat brittle look Crimson striations flushed through them, a stippled effect… “I am going to watch you die.” Sageous stood to my left, naked but for a loincloth despite the cold, every inch of him written upon He had surprised me but I tried not to let it show I stepped toward him “I’m not here Will you never learn, Jorg of Ancrath?” I could see he hated me That in itself made a small victory, putting some emotion in those mild cow-eyes of his “Are you not?” I asked He looked at Egan, limp and bleeding in his rainbow armour “I could have done great things with that one Do you know how long it took to find a man so powerful and yet so malleable? I couldn’t work with Orrin He had less give in him than your father, and that’s saying a lot.” “You set him to kill Orrin?” I asked “It wasn’t hard It needed the slightest push in the right direction Sweet Katherine proved too tempting and poor Orrin was just in the way Men like Egan have only one answer to things being in their way.” “So many little pushes, dream-witch,” I said “You probably don’t even remember the dream that made you beg to visit Norwood that day, you, Jorg?” “What?” Images bubbled at the back of my mind The fair at Norwood The bunting I had wanted to go I’d pestered my mother I’d almost dragged them into that carriage “It was you?” “Yes.” He showed me a tight vicious smile “Your sins cried out for it.” He mimicked me “I was a child…” Sageous looked down at Egan “They cry out for it now.” A cold fire rose through me “I’ll tell you what my sins cry out for, heathen They cry out for more They call for company.” And I stepped toward him “I am not here, Jorg,” he said “But I think you are.” I felt him try to weave my vision, try to walk away in dream And then I saw her A ghost of her Katherine white with anger and the more beautiful with it A ghost of her at his shoulder, waiting in the place he sought to run to, like a mirage on hot sand, her lips moving without sound, chanting something I could see her sitting on horseback, with the same knights around her that she brought with her from Arrow’s palace Somewhere back in the mass of that army Katherine rode her horse blind, her eyes bound by visions as she cast spells of her own And with each silent word from the tight line of her mouth Sageous grew more solid, more there I reached for him “I met a man who wasn’t there…” My hands almost found the heathen, the stuff of him slipping away as my fingers closed What had Fexler said? It’s all about will Put aside the skulls, the smokes, the wording of spells, and at the bottom of it all is desire “He wasn’t there again today.” Wanting makes it so “Oh, how I wish he’d always stay.” And my grasping hands found him Whatever may be said about the aftertaste, in the moment revenge tastes sweeter than blood, my brothers I seized his head and tore it from his shoulders as though I were a troll and he only human, for he had walked too long in dream and his flesh was rotten with it, tearing like the scribbled parchment it resembled He made his own silent screams then and tried to die But I held him there I let the necromancy bind him into his skull “There is not sufficient hurt in this world for you.” And the fire that burned in my bones, that echoed in my blood, lit about my hands and he burned with it also, trapped, living, and consumed I threw his head toward the oncoming troops It bounced flaming on the rocks, flesh bubbling, lips writhing Burning was too good for him I walked toward the flaming wreck of the trebuchet, the fire running up my arms now “Jorg?” Makin asked, his voice quiet as if at least half of him was hoping not to be noticed “Better run,” I said “We can’t outrun them,” Rike growled “From me,” I said The fire leapt as I approached it It looked like glass, like a window Behind me Makin and the others ran I laughed The joy of it, the roaring joy of destruction That’s why the flames dance For joy “There’s only one fire,” I said, and I knew Gog watched me from it I reached into the blaze and found him, flame-made, his white-hot hand in mine, the fragments of his lost body still in my flesh, preserving me In the core of me this new fire magic—call it magic, or understanding, or empathy —made war on the necromancy that still infected my blood The Prince’s troops passed Rigden Rock, a spear flew by my head “Come to me,” I said, “Brother Gog.” “Truly?” he asked “There will be no end to this—like the sun beneath the mountain.” A million images tumbled through me Faces, moments, places, brothers of every kind The weariness of the world And the fire consumed it I knew then how Ferrakind felt “Let it all burn.” And Gog flowed into me A river of fire, eating the death-magic and making something new, a darker fire that ran like poison, coiling about my limbs The first of Egan’s army reached me and the fire lifted from my hands The men shredded, their flesh lifting from them as sea foam before a wind, their bones igniting as they fell The dark-fire ran, jumping from man to man as the soldiers tried to flee, tried to turn and run, only to find their comrades not yet understanding, surging forward I walked amongst them and death walked with me Death and fire Ferrakind howled at me from the place where fire lives, a song of destruction, stripping away what makes me Ferrakind and every other lost to flame, all one now, fused, screaming for me to join them And in the dry place into which the dead fall, other voices, just as compelling, implacable The Dead King reached for me, along the paths through which necromancy flowed into my core, flooding me These two among the many, both of them fought to claim me, dogs over a bone And while they fought death and flame blossomed about me in conflagration, and men died, in tens, in scores, in hundreds, in stinking, steaming, screaming heaps 49 Wedding day The warrior rides a black stallion Smoke shrouds the castle ruins behind him and the wind gives only glimpses of the corpse-choked gap between high and broken walls That same wind streams long dark hair across his shoulders, like a pennant, and flutters the remnants of his cloak To his left and right more riders emerge from the fog of war, warriors all, their armour dented, torn, smeared with soot and blood A huge soldier in battered plate-mail carries the standard, Ancrath’s boar in black upon the red field of Renar They come by ones and twos, slow in their motion as if the great distance from which they are seen has somehow robbed the urgency from their movement Each hoof lands with the finality of tomb doors closing, no sound to accompany the action Each bounce and jolt in the saddle takes an age Where the baked dirt flakes from the warrior’s plate armour the metal shows the rainbowed hues of oiled steel Beside him an older, dark-haired knight, half a smile on thick-lips, black curls plastered to his forehead, an eagle’s head on his round shield, worked in red copper, fire-bronze, and silver, broadsword at his hip, black iron flail secured to his saddle A second man in plate-mail on a white charger rides to their left, at home in his saddle as any sea-dog on a rolling deck His armour is worked with the gothic engravings of the Horse Coast, his cloak blue in memory of the sea, on his jousting shield the white ship and black sun of the House Morrow A priest follows them, perched uneasy on a fractious mule The wind throws wisps of grey hair across his scowl The man at the centre, at the arrowpoint of this emerging army, stares straight ahead A wolf skull hangs from the pommel of his saddle A wolf or a large hound The man’s face is scarred, the left side rough and twisted, as if the sculptor had heard the work bell and left in mid-action, leaving his creation unfinished Over one eye, fixed to the bossed rim and side of his helm by iron rivets, is a silver ring, big enough to rest against his eyebrow and cheekbone If you knew the edge were ridged you might imagine you could see those ridges, but they are a prisoner of the distance between us, as is any message in that thousand-yard stare I got bored with watching myself and flipped the ring up so my view lay unobstructed They had found me naked, every item on me seemingly burned away, except for my sword on which flames still danced That fire held to the blade for hours and even now from time to time I see reflections of flames in the steel I’ve named my first sword I call it Gog, though I think it holds only an echo of him, like that echo of Fexler Brews, a man who shot himself in a stasis chamber long ago with a Colt 45 The world turned, he said And it left him behind I had opened my eyes as Makin wrapped me in his cloak The wound on my chest was just pink edges and white seams—the fire burned every trace of the necromancer from me, and in the end, as it failed, that death quenched Gog I felt the absence of both, like holes in the world Gog is ended I won’t see him again The fire has left me for it was always his, never mine, and the necromancy too I may have clothes and armour now, but I am naked against the world once more, with nothing but the sharp wit, tongue, and blade of the Ancraths to see me through I think if they had not fought each other over me, Ferrakind and the Dead King, if either had his sole attention on me as I opened myself to their realms and let those places burst through me in such reckless abandon, I would have been claimed Such powers can’t be mastered, not without cost, and that cost would seem to include losing all those reasons you wanted that strength for And it is a sacrifice I would have paid in the moment, with the arms of thousands raised against me In the end, my brothers, there is no price I will not pay to win this game of ours No sacrifice too great that it will not be paid to stop another placing their will over mine We ride for Arrow I feel they owe me a castle at the very least A palace might be nice too And all those dead soothsayers and seers of the future— we’re friends now I am the Prince of Arrow Ask Father Gomst He was there, looking whilst God turned away Egan adopted me into his family And he’s dead now Not at my hand, but trampled by his own men So, I’m the Prince of Arrow, homeward bound, destined by right and vision to be the emperor and to sit upon that golden throne beyond the Gilden Gate We ride for Arrow, an avalanche that thunders from the Highlands This world will bend to my dominion The box is open, its memories free, old wickedness and sins loosed once more I am not that boy, the wild boy on the edge of manhood who filled it He stands in my past and soon the curvature of the earth will hide him as the years carry us apart I am not that boy and his crimes don’t stain my hands I’m riding for Arrow I will delve shoulder-deep in gore if the need arises, so deep no river could scour me clean though they cut through mountains My dreams are my own now, dark and pure If you would know them, Brother, stand in my way I told Sageous my sins cried out for more, and I intend to give them company I will burn and I will harrow and Orrin’s lands, Egan’s bloodstained inheritance, will be delivered into my hands I will stand King of Arrow, of Normardy, of Conaught, of Belpan, of the Ken Marshes, of Orlanth, and of the Renar Highlands I will take these lands and make a weapon of their peoples In fire and in blood I will bend them to my will, because this is a game with no rules, and I will be victorious if it beggars hell I write this as we camp after a hard day’s riding I make a crabbed hand across pages as white as gold can buy Perhaps they were destined for more worthy thoughts, but I set mine here Sageous wrote his words across his skin and it left him weak My father keeps them to himself and it leaves him less than human I write mine here, as if ink and paper can take the blame from me The surgeons like to bleed a man, to let ill humours out, so that he may face the world anew Perhaps they should just hand him a quill and let the poisons spill from him whilst he keeps his blood for its intended purpose Beside my pages are Katherine’s, scavenged from the ruination below Rigden Rock I saw her burn I saw her among the flames, her horse screaming Or was that a dream in the darkness that followed? In any event the wind scattered her words across the dead and I followed them to the corpse of a baggage mule I said once, these feelings are too fierce to last They can only burn Make us ash and char And we burned, both of us—but still I want her Though if she stood here now, she would only hate me and pride would edge my tongue to cut her in return Pride has ever been my weakness and my strength, but there are three things only of which I’m proud The first—I climbed God’s finger to stand alone in that high place and find a new perspective Second—I went to the mountain for Gog, even though I couldn’t save him from his fire, just as no one can save me from mine Third—I fought the all-sword, Master Shimon with the sword-song all around, and we made a thing of beauty There will be pride to come, enough to drown in, but perhaps there will be no more things of which to be proud A time of terror comes A dark time The graves continue to open and the Dead King prepares to sail But the world holds worse things than dead men A dark time comes My time If it offends you Stop me Table of Contents Acknowledgments Prologue 1: Wedding day 2: Wedding day 3: Wedding day 4: Four years earlier 5: Four years earlier 6: Four years earlier 7: Four years earlier 8: Four years earlier 9: Four years earlier 10: Four years earlier 11: Wedding day 12: Wedding day 13: Wedding day 14: Four years earlier 15: Four years earlier 16: Four years earlier 17: Four years earlier 18: Four years earlier 19: Four years earlier 20: Four years earlier 21: Four years earlier 22: Wedding day 23: Wedding day 24: Wedding day 25: Wedding day 26: Wedding day 27: Wedding day 28: Four years earlier 29: Four years earlier 30: Four years earlier 31: Four years earlier 32: Four years earlier 33: Four years earlier 34: Four years earlier 35: Wedding day 36: Wedding day 37: Wedding day 38: Wedding day 39: Four years earlier 40: Four years earlier 41: Four years earlier 42: Four years earlier 43: Four years earlier 44: Four years earlier 45: Wedding day 46: Wedding day 47: Wedding day 48: Wedding day 49: Wedding day .. .King of Thorns Ace Books by Mark Lawrence PRINCE OF THORNS KING OF THORNS King of Thorns BOOK TWO OF THE BROKEN EMPIRE MARK LAWRENCE ACE BOOKS, NEW... none of that fazes him Every moment of a crisis he’ll be considering the angles, tracking weapons, looking for the opening, taking it “Well now.” I pulled him close, hand clapped to the back of. .. Miana, I have the pleasure of introducing His Highness Honorous Jorg Ancrath, King of the Renar Highlands, heir to the lands of Ancrath and the protectorates thereof.” “Charmed,” I said, inclining