Emperor of Thorns (The Broken Empire, Book 3)

‘I never knew death could be so pretty,’ he said, indefatigable.

We rode in silence for a while and I wondered if men were the world’s leaves. If as we aged the world filled us with its poisons so as old men, filled to the brim with the bitterest gall, we could fall into hell and take it all with us. Perhaps without death the world would choke on its own evils. The northmen, Sindri’s people, have it that a tree, Yggdrasil, stands at the centre, with everything – even worlds – hanging from it. And with Sindri came images of his milk-haired sister, Elin, tall and pale-eyed. Come to me in winter, she had said. I remarked to myself on her eyes in the moment I met her. Miana’s after three years. A tree might stand at the centre of an old man’s world. Whenever I turned my own face to the centre though, I saw a woman. Most young men do.

Three days later Lord Redmal’s soldiers opened the road-gates to let us cross the border into Attar. Redmal’s grandfather had built a fort across the road fifty years ago to let the folk of Gelleth know they weren’t welcome. Merl Gellethar had flattened it in a dispute a decade before I reduced him to poisoned dust. Attar soldiers now infested the fort’s ruins and watched the Gilden Guard with undisguised awe as they streamed past.

On the map Attar is a sizeable land, but the Engine of Wrong still turns and turns at Nathal as it has for ten centuries, and the north of Attar is a wasteland. I’m told it’s not a poison or disease that keeps men away from Nathal and the lands around it, just a feeling, just the certainty that nothing there is right.

It took a day to cross the Attar hill country, where they keep the vineyards on the southern slopes and grow the grapes from which the Blood of Attar is fermented, a wine found at many royal tables. On the margins of the wine lands, as the hills smoothed themselves out for tobacco fields and small farmsteads, Red Kent came riding back from the column’s vanguard with news.

‘Another guard column ahead, sire,’ he said, as humble and loyal as you please. I think Kent loved being a knight more than anything and, burned as he was, with that scary rasping voice, he made a good king’s fist to send into trouble and to end it.

‘Not the last we’ll see, I suspect. Who is it?’

He paused and then I knew. Who else would it be. I owned every other land east of us until the sea.

‘It’s from Ancrath, a hundred guard.’

The votes of Ancrath and Gelleth, both resting in my father’s hand.

I thought again of falling leaves and wondered if it wasn’t time for another old man, full to the brim with poison, to make that final drop.





11


Chella’s Story


Five years of marching back and forth. Five years scurrying to do the Dead King’s bidding. Always on the edge of things, as far from his court as one could be and still remain in the empire. Chella spent five years wading through mud and shit simply to rise enough in the Dead King’s esteem for him to call her to court and seek an accounting for her failure. And she had come eagerly, racing across the broken empire just to face his judgment, just to stand before the inhumanity of the lichkin and have the Dead King watch her from the flesh into which he had settled deepest. Five wasted years – each one Jorg Ancrath’s fault.

‘There’s a reason I’m having to hurt you.’

Chella walked around the stone pillar, a slow circle, hiding her irritation. The young man followed her with his eyes until the pillar took her from sight. She heard the clank of chains as he craned his head to look for her return. He had blue eyes, like many of these Brettan men, and he watched her as much as he watched the iron needle between her finger and thumb.

‘Where’s Sula?’ He asked his question again. In the few patches without mud his hair showed blond, a golden hue. He met her gaze through locks matted with dirt and blood. Mire-ghouls had taken him and a woman near the Reed Sea during the Dead King’s advance. Sigils on his uniform had marked him as wind-sworn and led him to this inspection.

‘Kai.’ Chella kept her voice tender, moving in quick and close, driving the needle two inches into the muscle of his inner thigh. ‘Kai Summerson.’ Her lips close enough to his ear for the blond hair to tickle. ‘You have to let go of these attachments.’

He ground his teeth together, tension bunching around his jaw. After a moment he looked up again. ‘Where—’

Chella pulled the needle free. ‘Pain helps remind you of what is important. The first important fact is that I don’t have much time to waste on you and if you don’t cooperate quickly I will just give you back to the ghouls and let them eat you piece by piece. The second important fact is that you’re alive and that pain is not the only thing you can feel. I’m offering you a rare chance. Power, pleasure, a future.’