The Brass God tilted his head equivocally. “You could try. Are you going to? Either of our deaths would be a terrible waste.”
Rel shook his head angrily. “No, but your need for my acceptance and forgiveness is the only reason I do not ram this sword you have given me right through your mechanical guts.”
“Why?” said the Brass God.
“Because it means you are flawed, and that means you are human,” said Rel. “So most of what you are saying is probably true.”
“I am not human.”
“So you would like to think. Don’t worry, it is not a compliment.”
The Brass God laughed. “You have a fine spirit.”
“It’s all I have left.” Rel looked down at the alien armour. He felt powerful; simultaneously, he felt weak. The unseen threads that made him were unravelling. “Tell me. Will I succeed? Can the Draathis be stopped?”
“I do not know.”
Rel smiled bitterly. “So much for the powers of foresight.”
REL WALKED OUT into the glaring desert day where the modalmen mustered. He wondered who was luckier, the newly made modalmen, who might live ten thousand years but would never recall themselves, or himself, who wielded the power of a minor god at the cost of his life.
The camp was mostly disassembled. The modalmen were as thorough in the valley as they had been in the desert and left little evidence of their presence. Refuse was burned to fine ash, from excrement to bones, and raked into the sand. Campfires were turned over so the char was hidden. Their innumerable footprints would be wiped away by the next sandstorm. Only the palisade remained as evidence, but the fence of ancient stone would appear like everything else in the Black Sands; a relic of a past most men could not begin to conceive of.
Outside the Brass God’s tent, Drauthek waited, holding the bridle of Rel’s new mount.
The dragon snorted and looked down at him disdainfully, but though its claws were bare and its mouth unmuzzled, it made no move against the lesser creatures around it. Rel could feel its mighty spirit, he experienced the furnace of its beating heart. To say he controlled it would not be correct, but he influenced it. In him, it recognised something more dangerous than itself, and so gave its fealty.
Drauthek knelt as Rel approached.
“Do you really need to do that?”
“You are our king,” said Drauthek. “I must kneel. The ways of the True Men must be observed.”
Rel wished he could get them to give up some of their traditions. Not one was alterable, whether it be the greeting of the sun, or the disgusting trophies the man eater clans bore.
Using the dragon’s forearm as a step, Rel climbed to the base of the saddle on its back. The saddle had been made for him, but it was still so big it was more throne than riding seat, and could only be accessed by short ladders hanging either side.
Once he was seated, the dragon got up and let out a roaring croak, similar to Aramaz’s, thought Rel. Once, he would have been terrified to be near the thing, but he felt nothing. He had yet to discover how deeply the changes went into him. Drauthek leapt onto his garau. Mounted, his head was roughly level with Rel’s knees.
“It’s good to be bigger than you for once,” said Rel.
“Don’t get used to it,” said Drauthek. The modalman had an easy humour and confidence Rel had not appreciated before he could speak the modalman language. “Great one, if I may advise you, the Gates of the World, as you call the border fort, is that way.” He pointed. “Five weeks march, and we shall be there.”
“How quickly if we took the Road of Fire?”
“Seven minutes, but we cannot take that route, great one. There are too many of us, and the way is closed, and so we must march across the desert.”
“Fine,” said Rel. He looked out at the horde. Before he had to estimate; now, when he looked at them, he knew their number exactly. Twelve thousand, three hundred and twenty one, including the seven hundred and fifty six newly made modalmen. They were ready, mounted on their garau, all looking to him for guidance. A coterie of young modalmen rode at his side. One bore his banner, a new creation featuring the Kressind dragonling rampant, but its serpentine body wove its way through a brass cog that was certainly not present on the family arms, nor were the three sigils of the greatest modal tribes that formed a triangle around it.
Staring at the banner, he noticed that the modalman bearing the flag looked familiar. Rel leaned down from in his monstrous mount, and looked at him carefully. “You, what is your name?” he said.
Though Rel had asked the question in the modalman’s language, the modalman replied in fluent Karsarin, gently softened by the accent of the eastern kingdoms. As soon as he spoke, Rel knew who he had been.
“My name?” The young modalman frowned. “I have yet to be given my name, great one.”
Rel looked at him sadly. There were traces of the man he had spoken to in the cage, and who he had seen around the towns at the Gates, but they were only echoes, no more than that.
“Then I shall give you one,” he said. “I will call you Tuvacs.”
“Tuvacs,” repeated the modalman. A look of recognition briefly crossed his face. “Tuvacs.” Then it was gone.
Rel sat back in his saddle. “Forward,” he ordered. “To the Appin Mountains, the Gates of the World, and the Hundred Kingdoms of Ruthnia.”
A dozen clan leaders riding at his side repeated the orders as booming calls.
Horns blowing, the horde moved out. Rel let the dragon plod along on foot, though he sensed its urge to fly.
“I want to too,” he whispered, more with his mind than his voice. “We cannot, because I fear I shall never come back, but fly the skies forevermore.”
He liked the idea.
The dragon looked back at him, its yellow eyes alive with fearsome intelligence.
“You understand,” said Rel.
As the army departed, the Brass God remained in his tent. Rel thought it likely the wily Morfaan was watching them leave by some means.
In long train, the modalman horde wound its way out through the narrow gate. Rel kept his eyes forward, not for any reasons of resolution, or the appearance of command, but because a little way behind him rolled great wagons which he did not wish to see. Their cages had been removed, the iron of their bars used to reinforce the flatbeds for the great weight they now supported.
Upon the wagons were the Machineries of Change.
Corran, Rigan and Kell Valmonde have been orphaned—their father murdered by the city guard, their mother slain by monsters—and left to run the family business alone. Undertakers, gifted with ancient grave magic, they help souls pass into the After.
Their home city of Ravenwood is a battleground for decadent princes and powerful guilds, and for Lord Mayor Ellor Machison, who crouches at the heart of it all like a bloated spider. The city has long been beset by monsters—flesh-eating ghouls, hideous snake-fiends, monstrous maggots—yet the city guards do nothing.
When the toll climbs too high, it’s up to the people to take arms and defend themselves. But in fighting for their lives, the Valmonde brothers become targets in a deadly game, and must risk everything to survive.
‘Vivid battle scenes, with terrifying fantastic creatures.’
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‘Fantasy adventure with whole-hearted passion.’
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‘Begins with a dramatic chase and doesn’t slow down from there.’
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This omnibus eBook contains the first two novels in the Monarchies of God series - Hawkwood's Voyage and The Heretic Kings.
THE WESTERN WORLD IS BURNING...
For Richard Hawkwood and his crew, a desperate venture to carry refugees to the uncharted land across the Great Western Ocean offers the only chance of escape from the Inceptines' pyres.
In the East, Lofantyr, Abeleyn and Mark - three of the five Ramusian
Kings - have defied the cruel pontiff's purge and must fight to hold their thrones through excommunication, intrigue and civil war.
In the quiet monastery city of Charibon, two humble monks make a discovery that will change the whole world.
Aekir, the Holy City, has fallen and all now seems lost, but even on the eve of destruction the Faithful still war amongst themselves...
Hawkwood and the Kings collects Hawkwood's Voyage and The Heretic Kings, the first two books in Paul Kearney's spectacular The Monarchies of God cycle.
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Byren never wanted the throne. It was destined for Lence, his twin brother, older by seven minutes and the rightful heir to Rolencia. But the royal heir resents Byren’s growing popularity, and in the court of King Rolen, the shadows are thick with enemies plotting revolution.
Darkness stirs across Rolencia and untamed magic of the gods wells up from the earth’s heart, twisting the minds of men with terrible visions. The touched must learn to control their gift – or die. Disharmony stirs within Rolen’s household, and as magic, madness and political machinations threaten to tear Rolencia apart, King Rolen’s children must do all they can to restore their father’s kingdom...
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“The King’s Bastard is a fabulous, rollicking, High Fantasy adventure that will keep you up at night, desperate to find out what happens next.”
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