Wrath of Kings
PRAISE FOR GLEN COOK
“Glen Cook single-handedly changed the face of fantasy—something a lot of people didn’t notice, and maybe still don’t. Reading his stuff is like reading Vietnam War fiction on Peyote.”
—Steven Erikson, author of the Malazan Book of the Fallen series
“Over the past 25 years, Cook has carved out a place for himself among the preeminent fantasy writers of his generation. . . . His work is unrelentingly real, complex, and honest. The sense of place that permeates his narrative and characters gives his ‘fantasies’ more gravitas and grit than most fictions set in the here-and-now.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jeff VanderMeer
“A master realist of the imagination.”
—Locus
“Glen writes a mean book.”
—Jim Butcher, author of The Dresden Files
“These books, like so many of Cook’s series, are epic in scale but intimate in focus . . . Cook is a brilliant writer.”
—The Green Man Review, on A Fortress in Shadow
“One of the defining fantasy series ever written. Glen Cook’s writing is a great flood that washes fantasy tropes and cliché’s away and in their place we are given three novels that make us reflect on what it means to be human. . . . On more than one occasion I found chills running down my spine. Words don’t do these novels justice.”
—The Ostentatious Ogre on A Cruel Wind
“Glen Cook is the author of some of my hands-down favorite books. I hold out his Black Company series as arguably the best military fantasy ever written. The early Garrett books set a standard for the blending of fantasy and hardboiled fiction. But what introduced me to Cook and made me a fan for life was his earlier work, the Dread Empire series . . . If you like his other books, I highly recommend them.”
—Black Gate
“One of Cook’s strongest storytelling traits shines through, his ability to cast no judgment and show the opposing sides of a conflict with honesty, empathy, and resonance. . . . another excellent book from Night Shade and a must have for fans of Glen Cook. It also serves as a great primer on his fiction for curious readers who know him through Erikson’s repeated praise.”
—SFFWorld, on A Fortress in Shadow
“Don’t hesitate to give the Dread Empire books a try . . . they give the reader hundreds of pages of time in that unique atmosphere that Cook always creates through his writing.”
—Rikmenspoel’s Ramblings
“Glen Cook is a rare beast of a writer—he can vacillate between military fantasy, space opera, epic fantasy, mystery, and science fantasy with great ease. His writing is often marked by a purity; that he is depicting life in its most real sense, from the thoughts in a character’s mind to the wind rushing across his or her face.”
—Rob H. Bedford, sffworld.com, on Darkwar
“Cook’s talent for combining gritty realism and high fantasy provides a singular edge.”
—Library Journal, on Water Sleeps
“Cook provides a rich world of assorted races, cultures, and religions; his characters combine the mythic or exotic with the realistic, engaging in absorbing alliances, enmities, and double-crosses.”
—Publishers Weekly, on Bleak Seasons
“New and innovative. [Cook] blends the urban, intimate, slightly seedy tradition of sword & sorcery with the pastoral, epic, expansive tradition of heroic fantasy . . . this is the book that injected a shot of realism into the genre, and helped steer it on the course towards modern so-called “gritty” fantasy.”
—Strange Horizons, on Chronicles of the Black Company
“Glen Cook changed the face of the fantasy genre forever... and for the better.”
—Fantasy Book Review, on The Black Company
“Began a saga unlike any other I’ve encountered in fantasy literature. . . . It was great. It raised my expectations of a good fantasy novel several notches.”
—SF Site, on The Black Company
“This book’s got some great cussing, it moves along nicely, it’s choppy and delightfully free of lengthy descriptions, it’s got a great set of characters, and some deep thoughts. I’d recommend it to any fantasy lover.”
—Books by L.K. Evans, on The Black Company
“I loved Glen Cook’s writing style, including the first person narration by Croaker, and the dry humor. Also very high on the list are the characters. . . . I enjoyed the book and will continue the series.”
—Bitter Tea and Mystery, on The Black Company
“Cook’s fantasy is always worth my time to read. . . . Cook deals masterfully with themes of morality, necessity, redemption, personal character, integrity, etc.”
—Broken Mirrors, on The Black Company
Wrath of Kings
Books by Glen Cook:
The Heirs of Babylon
The Swordbearer
A Matter of Time
The Dragon Never Sleeps
The Tower of Fear
Sung in Blood
Dread Empire
A Fortress in Shadow:
The Fire in His Hands
With Mercy Toward None
A Cruel Wind:
A Shadow of All Night Falling
October’s Baby
All Darkness Met
Wrath of Kings:
Reap the East Wind
An Ill Fate Marshalling
A Path to Coldness of Heart
An Empire Unacquainted with Defeat
Starfishers
The Starfishers Trilogy
Shadowline
Starfishers
Stars’ End
Passage at Arms
Darkwar
Doomstalker
Warlock
Ceremony
The Black Company
The Black Company
Shadows Linger
The White Rose
The Silver Spike
Shadow Games
Dreams of Steel
Bleak Seasons
She Is the Darkness
Water Sleeps
Soldiers Live
Port of Shadows
The Garrett Files
Sweet Silver Blues
Bitter Gold Hearts
Cold Copper Tears
Old Tin Sorrows
Dread Brass Shadows
Red Iron Nights
Deadly Quicksilver Lies
Petty Pewter Gods
Faded Steel Heat
Angry Lead Skies
Whispering Nickel Idols
Cruel Zinc Melodies
Gilded Latten Bones
Wicked Bronze Ambition
Instrumentalities of the Night
The Tyranny of the Night
Lord of the Silent Kingdom
Surrender to the Will of the Night
Working Gods’ Mischief
Wrath of Kings
A CHRONICLE OF THE DREAD EMPIRE
GLEN COOK
NIGHT SHADE BOOKS
NEW YORK
Wrath of Kings © 2018 by Night Shade Books
Reap the East Wind © 1987 by Glen Cook
An Ill Fate Marshalling © 1988 by Glen Cook
A Path to Coldness of Heart © 2012 by Glen Cook
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Night Shade Books, 101 Hudson Street, 37th Floor, Suite 3705, Jersey City, NJ 07302.
Night Shade Books® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc. ®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.nightshadebooks.com.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Cook, Glen, author. | Cook, Glen. Reap the east wind. | Cook, Glen. An ill fate marshalling. | Cook, Glen. A path to coldness of heart.
Title: Wrath of kings : a chronicle of the Dread Empire / by Glen Cook.
Other titles: Reap the east wind. | An ill fate marshalling. | A path to coldness of heart.
Description: New York : Night Shade Books, [2018] | Series: Dread Empire trilogy
Identifiers: LCCN 2017046343 | ISBN 9781597809382 (hardcover : acid-free paper)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Science fiction. | Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3553.O5536 A6 2018 | DDC 813/.54--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017046343
eIBSN: 978-1-59780-652-7
Cover design by Claudia Noble
Cover art by Raymond Swanland
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Reap the East Wind
An Ill Fate Marshalling
A Path to Coldness of Heart
Reap the East Wind
Contents
One: Year 1012 After the Founding of the Empire of Ilkazar; Armies in Shadow, Waiting
Two: Year 1016 AFE; A Time of Changes
Three: Year 1016 AFE; Gathering of the Mighty
Four: Year 1011 AFE; A Flashback to the War
Five: Years 1014-1016 AFE; The Gathering Storm
Six: Year 1016 AFE; The Desert
Seven: Year 1016 AFE; Conspiracies
Eight: Year 1016 AFE; Warlord of the Dead
Nine: Year 1016 AFE; The Fortress in the Borderland
Ten: Year 1016 AFE; Fire in the East
Eleven: Year 1016 AFE; The Stone Beast Speaks
Twelve: Year 1016 AFE; The Day
Thirteen: Year 1016 AFE; The Fates of Gods and Emperors
Fourteen: Year 1016 AFE; The Seed of Doom
Fifteen: Year 1016 AFE; Lioantung
ONE: YEAR 1012
AFTER THE FOUNDING OF THE EMPIRE OF ILKAZAR ARMIES IN SHADOW, WAITING
The beast howled and hurled itself against the wall of the cell next door. It raged because it could not sate its thirst for Ethrian’s blood.
The boy had no idea how long he had been incarcerated. Night and day had no meaning in the dungeons of Ehelebe. The only light he saw was that of the turnkey’s lamp when the man brought pumpkin soup or made his infrequent rounds.
Before the dungeon there had been an unremarkable childhood in the slums of Vorgreberg, capital city of a tiny kingdom far to the west. There had been a strange mother with witch blood, and a father stranger still….
Something had happened. He did not understand it. He thought it was because his father had become politically involved. He and his mother had gotten caught in the backlash. Men had come and taken them away. Now he was here, in irons, in darkness, with only the fleas for companions. He did not know where here was, nor what had become of his mother.
He prayed for silence.
The damp stone walls never ceased shuddering to the moans and roars of the Hell things chained in neighboring cells. The laboratories of Ehelebe had yielded a hundred strains of monster terrible and strange.
The scratching and roaring ceased. Ethrian stared at the heavy iron door. A light flickered in the passageway beyond. The beasts remained poised in an expectant hush. Slow, shuffling footsteps broke the abnormal stillness.
The door contained one small, barred opening. Ethrian watched it fearfully. His hands shook. Those were not the steps of his keeper.
His captors had raped away everything but fear. Hope was as dead as the darkness in which he lived.
Keys jingled. There was a metallic scratching at his door. The rusty lock squeaked in protest. The door swung slowly inward.
The boy gathered his legs beneath him. He curled into a balled crouch. Even had he been unchained he could not have resisted. He had been inactive too long.
An old, old man entered the cell.
Ethrian tried to shrink away.
And yet… there was something different about this one. He lacked that air of indifferent cruelty possessed by everyone else the boy had encountered here.
The old man moved as if in a dream. Or as if he were badly retarded.
Slowly, clumsily, the ancient tried his keys on Ethrian’s fetters. At first the boy cowered. Then, moved by cunning, he waited for the last lock to fall away.
The old man seemed to forget what he was doing. He considered the keys with a bewildered expression, surveyed his surroundings. He made a circuit of the dark-walled cell.
Ethrian watched warily.
He tried to stand.
The old man turned. His forehead creased in concentration. His face came alive. He moved closer, fumbled with the last lock. It fell away.
“Ca-ca-come,” he said. His voice was a crackling whisper. It was hard to follow even in the unnatural stillness haunting the dungeon.
“Where?” Ethrian whispered too, afraid he would rouse the beasts.
“Ah-ah-away. Th-they sent me to ka-ka… to ga-give you to the savan dalage.”
Ethrian cringed away. The turnkey had told him of the savan dalage—the worst of Ehelebe’s creations.
The old man produced a tiny vial. “Dra-drink this.”
Ethrian refused.
The old man seized his wrist, pulled him close, twisted him round, forced his head back and his mouth open. His strength was both startling and irresistible. Something vile flooded the boy’s mouth. The old man made him swallow.
Warmth and strength spread through him immediately.
The old man pulled him toward the cell door. His grip was steel. Whimpering, Ethrian tripped along after him.
What was happening? Why were they doing this?
The old man led him toward the stair leading up out of that subterranean realm of horror. The unseen beasts roared and howled. Their tone suggested they felt cheated. Ethrian glimpsed red eyes behind the barred window in the nearest door.
He gave up trying to hang back.
The old man stammered, “Ha-hurry. Th-th-they will ka-kill you.”
Ethrian stumbled after him, to the head of the steps, then down a seemingly endless stair outside. There was a salt tang to the hot, still air. He began to sweat. The sunlight threatened to blind his unaccustomed eyes. He tried to question his benefactor, but could make only limited sense of the garbled answers he received.
This was K’Mar Khevi-tan, island headquarters of the worldwide Pracchia conspiracy. He had been held as leverage upon his father. His father had not performed as desired. His usefulness was at an end. He had been ordered destroyed. The old man was defying those orders.
It made no sense to Ethrian.
They descended to a shingly beach. The old man pointed toward a distant shore. It was the color of rust in the foreground, a leaden hue beyond. The strait was narrow, but the boy’s vision did not permit him a sound estimate. One mile or two?
“Sa-sa-swim,” the old man said. “Sa-safety there. Na-wami.”
Ethrian’s eyes grew round. “I can’t.” The thought terrified him. He was an indifferent swimmer at best. He’d never swum in the sea. “I’d never make it.”
The old man settled himself cross-legged, lowering himself with exaggerated care. Intense concentration captured his face. He grunted as he strained to bring his slow thoughts into speech. When he did speak, it was with a ponderous precision. “You must. It is your only hope. Here the Director will throw you to the children of Magden Norath. They are your enemies, those who abide here. The sea and Nawami are indifferent. They allow you the chance to live. You must go now. Before He discovers that I have denied His wickedness at last.”
Ethrian believed he was hearing the truth. The old-timer was so intense….
He looked at the sea. He was afraid.
The strength of the drug flowed through him. He felt he could run a thousand miles. But swim?
The old man began shaking. Ethrian thought he was dying. But no. It was the strain of making himself understood.
The beasts beneath the island broke into a suddenly redoubled roaring.
“Ga-ga-go!” the old man ordered.
Ethrian took two steps and flung himself into the chilly brine. He got a mouthful immediately. He stood chest deep while he coughed it up.
He had been chained naked. He had been in the sun only a short time now, but already he felt the fire of its kiss. He knew he would burn miserably before he reached the nether shore.
He pushed off, and paced himself.
After what seemed a long, long time he rolled onto his back to feather and rest.
He was scarcely three hundred yards off shore. He watched the old man climb the steps they had descended, take a few and rest, take a few and rest. The island was long and lean and jagged. The fortress was an ugly old thing strung out along its spine like the crumbling bones of an ancient, gigantic dragon. He turned and glared at a barren mainland that looked no nearer.