The Complete Broken Empire Trilogy: Prince of Thorns, King of Thorns, Emperor of Thorns. Mark Lawrence
The word came out blunt, through numb lips.
I’m not going to die here. I kept running the thought through my head. It held less conviction each time. I’m not going to die here. I felt too cold to think. Not going to die here. Swing low to cut off those reaching hands. These bastards don’t even feel it. The bitch felt it though, when I broke her face.
The bitch.
When in doubt, let your hate lead you. Normally I’d reject that advice. It makes a man predictable. But there, in that miserable hall of bones, I was past caring. Hate was all I had to keep me warm. I cut a skeleton down and lunged past.
‘Jorg!’ I heard Makin’s startled shout behind me, then the darkness took my sight and the mist threw a thick blanket over the crash of battle.
Oh it was black out there. So dark as to reach inside you and rip out all memory of colour. I swung my sword a few times, broke some bones, carved air for a while, then hit a pillar which shook the damn thing out of my frozen grip. I hunted my sword frantically, with hands too numb to find my face. Gradually it came to me that I was free of the skeletons. No bone fingers sought me in the night. Without sword or direction I stumbled on.
The bitch. She’d be somewhere near. Surely. Waiting to trap our souls as we died. Waiting to feed.
I stopped and stood as still as my shivering would let me. The necromancer had lifted the veil. Just like the Nuban said, she had lifted the veil between the worlds and the dead were coming through. If I stopped her, they’d stop coming. I listened, listened deep, to a silence as velvet as the dark. I held more still, straining for her, tight and focused.
‘Cloves.’ My lips formed the word. I wrinkled my nose. Oil of cloves? The scent drew me on. It hung fainter than faint but, with nothing to fight against, it held me. I let it carry me forward, swaying, turning, seeking the source.
My hands found a narrow doorway and I stepped through into a chamber lit by the flickers of a dropped torch.
I understood the scent. The Nuban’s crossbow lay a foot from the torch, dropped carelessly, the cable drawn but the bolt spilled to the stones. He’d broken from the brothers to hunt her. Beaten me to the chase.
‘Necromancer,’ I said.
She stood at the mouth of one of the Builders’ shafts. The square maw filled the rear of the chamber behind her and the feeble light could not plumb its depths. She held the Nuban before her, holding his head to one side and her mouth to the straining cables of his neck. I could see the tension in his thick arms, but his fingers curled useless by his sides and his broadsword lay at his feet, hilt jutting into space over the edge of the shaft.
The necromancer lifted her face from the Nuban’s neck. Blood dripped from her teeth. Whatever strength she gleaned from it had restored her looks. The blood ran over full lips and down a perfect throat.
‘You sent such a fresh one to hunt me down, Prince Jorg,’ she said. ‘Mmmm, flavoured with heathen spices. I thank you.’
I knelt and picked up the Nuban’s bow. The weight of it always surprised me. I set the bolt in place. She moved to use him as a shield, her heels to the pit.
‘You’re cold, my prince,’ she said. The sudden music of her voice caught me off guard. It ran deep, rich with complexity. ‘I could warm you.’
My tired body thrilled with the dark melody of her. It took the memory of Gains’s face crawling across her worm-flesh to stop me rising to her call. I lifted the bow. I knew I couldn’t hold it for long.
‘It’s grave-cold that’s in you.’ Her voice became an angry hiss. ‘It will kill you.’
She smiled at me over the Nuban’s shoulder, enjoying his helplessness. ‘You’re trembling, Jorg. Put the bow down. You probably couldn’t even hit your friend here, let alone me.’
It felt so tempting. Put the bow down.
‘He’s not my friend,’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘He’d die for you. I can taste it in his blood.’
‘You’re playing the wrong game with me, dead-thing.’ I raised the bow and sighted it. The tremor in my arms kept the aim-point jumping. Any worse and the bolt would have shaken from its groove.
She laughed at me. ‘I can see the ties that bind the living. You only have two friends, Prince Jorg. You’re as bound to this sweet-blooded man as any son to his father.’
Sacrifice.
She set her fingers to the red holes in the Nuban’s neck. ‘Let me have the others. Let me take their life-juice, and you and him, you can stay with me. You can help me harvest the leucrota. There are several tribes, some of them quite fractious. There are other necromancers against whom a living ally, one as sharp as you, would be most useful.’
Play the game.
She smiled, and that dark fire lit in me again. ‘I like you, Prince. We can rule under the mountain, together.’ Sex dripped off her words. Not that pallid roll in the sheets that Sally surrendered, but something potent, unseen, and consuming. She offered me a draw. Life, power, and command. But in her service.
Play to win.
The Nuban’s eyes were on mine. For the first time ever, I could read what he held there. I could have taken anything else. I could have taken hatred, or fear, or pleading. But he forgave me.
ChooOom!
The bolt hit the Nuban square in the chest. It put a hole through both of them and took them off the edge. Neither of them screamed, and it took forever before they hit the bottom.
Most men have at least one redeeming feature. Finding one for Brother Rike requires a stretch. Is ‘big’ a redeeming feature?
31
I came back to find the brothers nursing their wounds among drifts of broken bone. Roddat, Jobe, Els, and Frenk lay stretched out, apart from the group. Death makes lepers of even the most popular men. I didn’t bother with them: any loot would be long gone.
‘Thought you’d left us, Brother Jorg.’ Red Kent spared me a glance from beneath lowered brows and returned to the business of whetstone and sword.
That ‘brother’ held a note of reproach. A note at the least, perhaps a whole symphony. No ‘prince’ for the runaway.
Makin watched me with dark speculation, sprawled on the floor, too spent to prop himself against a pillar.
Rike hefted himself to his feet. He came toward me slowly, polishing a ring against the leather padding of his breastplate. I recognized it as Roddat’s luck-ring, a nice piece of yellow gold.
‘Thought you’d left us, Brother Jorgy,’ he said. He loomed over me, a broad and brooding form.
There’s some, like Liar, that aren’t much to look at, and it’s a surprise for folks when they find out what a truly nasty bastard they’re dealing with. Rike never surprised anyone that way. The menace of him, the sheer brutality, his love of other people’s pain, well Mother Nature wrote it in every line of him just to warn us.
‘The Nuban is dead.’ I ignored Rike and looked to Makin. I pulled the Nuban’s crossbow off my back and showed it. No doubt after that. The man was dead.
‘Good,’ said Rike. ‘Serves him right for running. Never did like that weasel coward.’
I hit Rike as hard as I could. In the throat. I made no conscious decision. If I’d given it the smallest moment’s consideration I’d have held my blow. I might have stood a chance against him with a sword, but never with bare hands.
Actually ‘bare hands’ is going too far. I had my gauntlets on, riveted iron. I stood six foot