Lawrence - The Complete Broken Empire Trilogy Omnibus

HarperVoyager

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Prince of Thorns

First Published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2011

Copyright Mark Lawrence 2011

Cover Layout Design HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2011

Cover illustration Jason Chan

King of Thorns

First Published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2012

Copyright Mark Lawrence 2012.

Map Andrew Ashton

Cover Layout Design HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2012

Cover illustration Jason Chan

Emperor of Thorns

First Published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2013

Copyright Mark Lawrence 2013

Map Andrew Ashton

Cover Layout Design HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

Cover illustration Jason Chan

Mark Lawrence asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBNs:

Prince of Thorns: 9780007423293

King of Thorns: 9780007439034

Emperor of Thorns: 9780007439065

Bundle Edition (Containing Prince of Thorns, King of Thorns and Emperor of Thorns) November 2014 ISBN: 9780008113704

Version: 2014-09-23

Contents

To Celyn, the best parts were never broken.

Contents

Ravens! Always the ravens. They settled on the gables of the church even before the injured became the dead. Even before Rike had finished taking fingers from hands, and rings from fingers. I leaned back against the gallows-post and nodded to the birds, a dozen of them in a black line, wise-eyed and watching.

The town-square ran red. Blood in the gutters, blood on the flagstones, blood in the fountain. The corpses posed as corpses do. Some comical, reaching for the sky with missing fingers, some peaceful, coiled about their wounds. Flies rose above the wounded as they struggled. This way and that, some blind, some sly, all betrayed by their buzzing entourage.

Water! Water! Its always water with the dying. Strange, its killing that gives me a thirst.

And that was Mabberton. Two hundred dead farmers lying with their scythes and axes. You know, I warned them that we do this for a living. I said it to their leader, Bovid Tor. I gave them that chance, I always do. But no. They wanted blood and slaughter. And they got it.

War, my friends, is a thing of beauty. Those as says otherwise are losing. If Id bothered to go over to old Bovid, propped up against the fountain with his guts in his lap, hed probably take a contrary view. But look where disagreeing got him.

Shit-poor farm maggots. Rike discarded a handful of fingers over Bovids open belly. He came to me, holding out his takings, as if it was my fault. Look! One gold ring. One! A whole village and one fecking gold ring. Id like to set the bastards up and knock em down again. Fecking bog-farmers.

He would too: he was an evil bastard, and greedy with it. I held his eye. Settle down, Brother Rike. Theres more than one kind of gold in Mabberton.

I gave him my warning look. His cursing stole the magic from the scene; besides, I had to be stern with him. Rike was always on the edge after a battle, wanting more. I gave him a look that told him I had more. More than he could handle. He grumbled, stowed his bloody ring, and thrust his knife back in his belt.

Makin came up then and flung an arm about each of us, clapping gauntlet to shoulder-plate. If Makin had a skill, then smoothing things over was it.

Brother Jorg is right, Little Rikey. Theres treasure aplenty to be found. He was wont to call Rike Little Rikey, on account of him being a head taller than any of us and twice as wide. Makin always told jokes. Hed tell them to those as he killed, if they gave him time. Liked to see them go out with a smile.

What treasure? Rike wanted to know, still surly.

When you get farmers, what else do you always get, Little Rikey? Makin raised his eyebrows all suggestive.

Rike lifted his visor, treating us to his ugly face. Well brutal more than ugly. I think the scars improved him. Cows?

Makin pursed his lips. I never liked his lips, too thick and fleshy, but I forgave him that, for his joking and his deathly work with that flail of his. Well, you can have the cows, Little Rikey. Me, Im going to find a farmers daughter or three, before the others use them all up.

They went off then, Rike doing that laugh of his hur, hur, hur as if he was trying to cough a fishbone out.

I watched them force the door to Bovids place opposite the church, a fine house, high roofed with wooden slates and a little flower garden in front. Bovid followed them with his eyes, but he couldnt turn his head.

I looked at the ravens, I watched Gemt and his halfwit brother, Maical, taking heads, Maical with the cart and Gemt with the axe. A thing of beauty, I tell you. At least to look at. Ill agree war smells bad. But, wed torch the place soon enough and the stink would all turn to wood-smoke. Gold rings? I needed no more payment.

Boy! Bovid called out, his voice all hollow like, and weak.

I went to stand before him, leaning on my sword, tired in my arms and legs all of a sudden. Best speak your piece quickly, farmer. Brother Gemts a-coming with his axe. Chop-chop.

He didnt seem too worried. Its hard to worry a man so close to the worm-feast. Still it irked me that he held me so lightly and called me boy. Do you have daughters, farmer? Hiding in the cellar maybe? Old Rike will sniff them out.

Bovid looked up sharp at that, pained and sharp. H-how old are you, boy?

Again the boy. Old enough to slit you open like a fat purse, I said, getting angry now. I dont like to get angry. It makes me angry. I dont think he caught even that. I dont think he even knew it was me that opened him up not half an hour before.

Fifteen summers, no more. Couldnt be more His words came slow, from blue lips in a white face.