Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Anna Smith-Spark
Excerpt from Queen of the Conquered copyright © 2019 by Kheryn Callender
Excerpt from The Winter Road copyright © 2018 by Adrian Selby
Author photograph by Peter Philpott
Cover design by Lauren Panepinto
Cover art by Gene Mollica
Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Map copyright © Sophie E. Tallis
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First Edition: August 2019
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2019933446
ISBNs: 978-0-316-51152-0 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-51151-3 (ebook)
E3-20190709-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Part One: The Joy of the World
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Two: The Golden City
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Part Three: The Forge
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Part Four: The Knife
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Part Five: The Ruins
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Part Six: The Glory
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Part Seven: The Warmth of Her Light
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Acknowledgments
Discover More
Extras
Meet the Author
A Preview of Queen of the Conquered
A Preview of The Winter Road
By Anna Smith Spark
Praise for Empires of Dust
This book is dedicated to my mother.
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PART ONE
THE JOY OF THE WORLD
Chapter One
Hail Him. Behold Him.
Wolf lord, lord of carrion,
Joy to the sword that is girt with blood.
Man-killer, life-stealer, death-bringer, life’s thief.
King-throned, glorious His rule:
The sea-eaten shore, the stones of the mountains,
The eagles, the fleet deer, the wild beasts,
Men in their cities, rich in wisdom,
All are bound to Him,
His word is law.
With bloody hands He governs,
Sets His rule and His measure,
A strong tree, a storm at evening,
The sea rising up to swallow a ship.
The night coming, the sudden light that makes the eyes blind,
The floodtide, the famine, the harrowing, the pestilence.
King and Warrior.
Golden one, shining, glorious.
Life’s judgement, life’s pleasure, grave of hope.
The city of Ethalden, that is the most beautiful place on all the black earth of Irlast. Its towers are made of pearl and silver. Its walls are solid gold. It stands on a great plain of rich grassland, on the banks of the river Jaxertane that flows wild down to the cold dark endless sea. It is a jewel beyond comparing. The glory of all the world. Wondrous thing! Look upon it and be blinded, dazed by its magnificence, fall upon your knees, worship, marvel, worship. Oh you who are nothing, you who are but maggots, crawling pitifully in the bitter dust. Kneel and give thanks, rejoice that you have lived to see it, that such brilliance was raised in this blessed era of the world’s end.
Perfection is built here! Kneel, kneel, cry out in terror, turn away your eyes from its radiance! Its streets are paved with marble. Its palaces are ivory and white glass. Its bells ring out in music, the air is filled with perfumes, the river runs clear, the corn grows golden, the trees are heavy with sweet fruit. Treasure houses stacked with riches. Wealth beyond mortal ken. Numberless are its herds, its flocks, its swift horses; its people dress in silks and satins, its women beautiful as goddesses, its men strong as giants, in their eyes is the light of knowledge and power over all things.
Its foundations are living bodies, flesh putrefying, bones cracking beneath its weight. Its mortar is tears and blood. At its heart there stands a palace of desolation, built in honour of a mighty king.
Such a king…
You think, do you, that he would have died somewhere, in the desert, on the shores of the White Isles, in the ruins of Etha
lden, if I had not saved him? That none of this would have been? You think, do you, that without him the world would be at peace? If he died, do you think that there would be no war, no cruelty no murder, no pain, the world would be a good and loving place? “Why do we do this?” I asked him once. And he looked out across the world that we have made, and did not speak. “If not me,” he said at last, “then perhaps someone else.”
My own city of Sorlost they say has been brought low by killing violence. We did not do that. “The people of Sorlost deserved it,” you will say. “Child killers. Blood-sodden. Their city is based on murder, go there, Thalia, send Marith your husband there to punish them.”
The people of Sorlost are wise. They merely make visible what all the world is based on.
Take the bread your children are eating, send them to bed hungry, give the bread instead to the starving poor.
No?
In Sorlost, at least, they do not lie. In Ethalden, our tower built on human suffering, we do not lie.
Osen Fiolt is a bad man, for following him, for doing as he orders, for being his friend. Osen wants power and wealth, does not care where it comes from. Oh, yes. I wish Osen was not his friend. But I am worse, because I married him? Because I live my life? Because I do not stick a knife into his throat? To me, he has always been kind and loving. To me, he is a good man. As for the rest—I turn my eyes away from it, as we all do. Refugees and beggars stagger across the world, men, women, children, their tears are a drowning flood: what do you do? What more can be expected of me? Should I be better than anyone else is?
It grieves me, yes, I weep over it, what we have come to, what the world is.
In a different life…
In a different place…
There is no different life. There is no different place. There is here and now, there is what I have, what I can be, what I can do.
Kill him? Oh, it is rather too late for that, is it not? Leave him? Why should I do that? Because it would be a better thing than staying with him? Because I should suffer, for marrying him? Because he has done harm to others, and thus I should not find pleasure in his love? Because he is a bad man and so I should not love him, because you do not want me to love a bad man because I am—what? Because I should be better than that? If I ran away to the other side of Irlast, dressed myself in sackcloth and ashes, did penance with aching hands, tended the starving, kissed the wounds of the sick—so what? So what?
You do not expect Osen to leave him, renounce all of this. You do not expect this of any of his friends.
You will still say, perhaps, that I am a fool, lovestruck, blinded, his victim, that I would flee from him if I could, because…
We sit together, talk, laugh, argue, hold great feasts and parties, walk in the gardens, ride in the fields, sit quietly to read. I am trying to improve his taste in poetry. He is introducing me to the Pernish stories of his childhood. But I should not love him, because…?
We march onwards, an army like a storm, like the clouds rushing over the sun. The world trembles. The men in their bronze armour sing the paean, hold their heads high, smile as they march. The world bows before us. Every soldier here in our army, they are as mighty as kings. Life is good, life is joyous for them.
That is not a good thing, no. It would be better indeed if we were all to be men of peace.
But we are not men of peace.
I will not be blamed for living my life.
Chapter Two
Marith Altrersyr, King of the White Isles and Ith and Illyr and Immier and the Wastes and the Bitter Sea, King of All Irlast, Ansikanderakesis Amrakane, Amrath Returned to Us, King Ruin, King of Shadows, King of Dust, King of Death
His Empire
Marith Altrersyr the King of All Irlast stood on the brow of a hill looking across towards the city of Arunmen.
It was still early morning. Soft pale light, pink and golden. In the valley the scent of wood smoke, the smoke rising to blur the light. Birds wheeled in the sky, turning, twisting like outstretched fingers. Reminded him of Thalia’s hair. They called harsh and lonely. Hungry, cold, fragile things. Moved in the sky turning and turning. Their cries muffled by the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer. Wheeled and called, flew off to the east.
The sun caught their wing beats. Black and white in the sky. The hammer rang out loudly. Then silence. Waiting.
Waiting.
“Marith!”
Marith turned. Looked down the hillside. Osen Fiolt, the Lord of Third Isle, the Lord of the Calien Mal, Death’s Lieutenant, Captain of the Army of Amrath. His best friend. Osen rode up towards him. A young man, dark and handsome but for the scar on his face.
“Marith! They’re waiting for you!”
Marith rubbed his eyes. From across towards the city came a distant rumble. A flash of white fire against the city walls. The birds rushed back overhead, black and silver. Singing. He took a long drink from the bottle at his belt. Watched the course of the birds across the sky.
Ah, gods.
Osen pulled up his horse beside him. “Beautiful morning for it.”
“I think it might snow.”
“Do you? A bit early in the year for snow?”
“Thalia would like it.”
“The men wouldn’t.”
“No. No, I suppose not. But it would be beautiful. Snowfall. Don’t you think?”
Osen said, “Are you ready, then?”
Looked back over the morning landscape. The hammer rang again. Smell of wood smoke. Another distant flash of light against the city’s walls. Dark cloud twist of birds, rising afraid.
He drank from the bottle. “I suppose I’ll have to be.”
Swung himself up onto his horse. A white stallion, saddled in red and silver, red ribbons plaited in its tail, gold on its hooves, sharp bronze horns decorating its head. Osen brought his own horse to fall in beside him. Reached out and their hands touched.
“Third time lucky?”
“Third time lucky.”
They kicked their horses into a gallop.
“Amrath!” Marith shouted. “Amrath and the Altrersyr! Death! Death!”
Before him, on the plain, the Army of Amrath stood to attention. Bronze armour. Bronze swords. Long iron-tipped ash-wood sarris spears. Their helmets plumed in red horse-hair. Dark-tempered bronze over staring eyes. Horses armoured and masked, heads like skulls, blinkered, blind to everything. Red standards fluttering. Raw and bloodied. Dripping screaming weeping over the army’s lines. In the sky above, two dragons circled. Red and black. Green and silver. Huge. Shadowbeasts danced around the dragons, formless faceless long-clawed.
The Army of Amrath.
Waiting.
All of them.
Waiting for him.
Marith rode along the front of his army, Osen at his side. He drew his sword. Raised it, shining, the morning sun flashing on the blade. White metal, engraved with rune signs. The rune letters burned in the sunlight. The ruby in the sword’s hilt glowed scarlet. Blue fire flickered down the length of the blade.
Henket. Mai. Eth. Ri.
Death. Grief. Ruin. Hate.
He shouted to the men, his voice loud as the sword’s light. “Soldiers of Amrath! My soldiers! Twice now, this city has resisted us! Resisted us and betrayed us! Now, today, it will fall!”
An explosion shattering against the black walls of the city. White fire, silent as maggots. White fire, silent, and then screams. The wind caught his cloak and sent it billowing out behind him. Dark red, scab-coloured, tattered into a thousand shreds of lace. Dried blood flaked off it. Fresh blood oozed off it. It stank of blood and shit and rot and smoke. He wore his silver crown but was otherwise bareheaded, the morning sun bright on his black-red hair. His skin like new-spun silk, smooth and perfect, gleaming. His grey eyes soft like a child’s eyes. Soft pale grey like moths.
“Destroy it!” Marith shouted to his army. “Destroy it! Tear it down! Let nothing be left alive!”
“Amrath!” the army screamed back at him.
“Amrath and the Altrersyr! Death and all demons! Death! Death! Death!”
Columns of soldiers began to move forward. Siege engines hurled rocks running with banefire. Mage fire, white and silent. Dragon fire, glowing red. The beat of war drums. Clamour of trumpets. Voices chanting out the death song. Slowly slowly moving forward. Slow and steady, the drums beating, fire washing over them, rocks and banefire loosed from war engines on the city’s walls. Falling dying, trampled by those behind them. Slowly steadily marching on. Slow long ranks marching towards the city. Destroy it! Destroy it! The only thought in all the world in all their minds. The dead zone between the city and the encircling army. Broken bones and ruin and dead men. Banefire. Mage fire. Dragon fire. War drums and war trumpets. And now, loud and urgent, the thump of battering rams against the city’s gates. War ships in the harbour, grappling. A storm rising. Towering huge dark waves.
“Amrath! Amrath! Death!”
Waves of men breaking against the city. Waves of water. Waves of fire. Waves of death and pain.
Snow began to fall.
White flakes caught in Marith’s shining hair.
“Break it! Break it! Down! Down!”
The ram smashed into the Tereen Gateway. Again. Again. Again. A tree trunk thicker than a man’s armspan, carved at its end into a dragon-head snarl. Covered with bloody ox-hides, to keep it from catching fire. Obscene. Comic. Pumping away in out, in out, in out, steaming dripping bloody battering pounding raping iron wood meat. Three huge siege engines hurling rocks and banefire. Machines on the walls hurling rocks and banefire back at them.
Marith circled his horse, making it rear up. Gilded hooves sharp like knives.
“Break it down! Now!”
A shower of boiling sand poured down from the battlements. Soldiers collapsed screaming, clawing at their skin. Inside their armour, burning. In their hair. In their mouths and eyes. The bloody hides on the ram hissed. Cheers from the Arunmenese defenders above.
The ram swung again. Off to the left, a blinding white flash and a dragon’s roar. The gate groaned. Splintering. Shadowbeasts gathered, a clot in the air. Shapes twisting, forming, dissolving, huge shapeless dark beating shrieking wings. They dived together, claws and wing beats, jaws opening faceless, clawed limbs tearing down the stones of the wall.
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