The Tower of Living and Dying

by Anna Smith Spark

  Golden light. Golden shadows.

  “Go,” Thalia says. She is shining with light.

  So weak, the gabeleth. Weak, hate thing. Nothing thing. Death thing.

  “Go.”

  It howls at her. Claws at her.

  She stands very still.

  It cannot touch her.

  Weak thing.

  Nothing thing.

  Gone.

  Thalia shines triumphant. The mist clearing. The sky calming. The stars shine down on her. The Dragon’s Mouth. The White Lady. The Dog.

  The King’s Star.

  Shining.

  Marith sits up. Bruised and battered. Coughing. Blood on his face. The starlight shines on Marith’s silver crown.

  Thalia helps him to his feet.

  Thalia looks at Landra. Looks at Tobias.

  Smiles.

  Sighs.

  Leads Marith away.

  Tobias and Landra sit still and frozen.

  Raeta lies there beside them dead.

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  The Army of Amrath lay down their swords and spears. Set to work to raise up the fortress of Ethalden greater and more beautiful than before. Its walls are gold and mage glass. Its towers rise gleaming in the sun. Its gates are carved of white marble. Its chambers are adorned with silk and fur and gems. Throne rooms, banqueting halls, pleasure gardens, crystal fountains, orchards that will soon be sweet with ripe fruit. A temple of gold. A temple of iron. A tomb of onyx. A spire of pearl and silver. Red banners caught high in the morning breeze.

  On the feast day of Year’s Renewal, with thick snow falling, the king returns to His home. He rides in through the main gateway and His people cheer Him. He smiles at them and His eyes shine with love. He stands in the throne room of His ancestor Amrath to be crowned. The clear ringing of silver trumpets. The peal of bells. The clash of bronze swords. The very stones themselves seem to sing. He raises His sword and it runs with white fire. The ruby in its hilt flashes brighter than the sun. His face is radiant. His voice trembles with happiness as He speaks.

  “The king is returned to Ethalden! The glory of Ethalden is restored! The treachery of Illyr is avenged!”

  A thousand thousand voices roar out in triumph, “All hail Marith Altrersyr! King Ruin! King of Shadows! King of Dust! Amrath returned to us! Death! Death! Death!”

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Thalia Altrersyr Queen of Illyr. Queen of the White Isles and Ith and Illyr and Immier and the Wastes and the Bitter Sea. Queen of All Irlast. Eltheia come again.

  I have seen so many wonders. I will see so many wonders still to come. I have a husband who loves me. A child is growing in my womb. I have made myself a life.

  All human lives are built on others’ suffering. Some die and some live.

  I do not have to justify myself. To you or to anyone.

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, this book was only possible because of my agent, Ian Drury, and my editors Lily Cooper, Jack Renninson and Natasha Bardon at HarperVoyager and Brit Hvide at Orbit. Between them, they have changed my life. I cannot express my gratitude to them.

  Similarly, all the writers, readers, bloggers and reviewers who have helped and supported me:

  Christian Cameron, Michael R. Fletcher, Mark Lawrence, Steve Poore, Joanna Hall, Adrian Tchaikovsky, Ben Galley, John Gwynne, Graham Austin King, Lucy Hounsom, Deborah A. Wolf, Ed McDonald, RJ Barker … the list of authors whom I admire and am privileged to know is wonderfully long.

  Adrian Collins and everyone at Grimdark Magazine.

  Rob Matheny and Phil Overby at the Grim Tidings podcast.

  Petros and everyone at BookNest.eu. Thanks to Petros, I’ve used my writing to raise funds for Medicines Sans Frontiers, which is a truly wonderful thing.

  Leona Henry. Jinx Strange. Jo Fletcher. Michael Evans, Laura M. Hughes, and Kareem Mahfouz at The Fantasy Hive. Robin Carter at Parmenion Books. Dean Clark at The Quill and Claw. Thomas James Clews. James Allen. The Second Apocalypse gang and everyone at GDWR. The Idle Woman.

  John Scritchfield and Ashley Melanson. They won a competition, you know.

  Allen Stroud and Karen Fishwick.

  Russel Smith.

  Helen Smith.

  Everyone at my local Waterstones. The three sisters at Coffee Corner, and Janish who makes the best coffee I’ve ever tasted.

  Sophie E. Tallis, for the map.

  Quint Von Cannon, for the pictures.

  Julian, Gareth, Ronan and everyone else at PP, for being understanding.

  Kate Buyers, Kate Dalton, Melanie Wright.

  Judith Katz.

  My family.

  Everyone who read the first book. Gods and demons, I can’t thank you all enough for buying the damn thing.

  The story continues in …

  HOUSE OF SACRIFICE

  Book THREE of Empires of Dust

  Coming in August 2019

  extras

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Peter Philpott

  ANNA SMITH Spark lives in London, UK. She loves grimdark and epic fantasy and historical military fiction. Anna has a BA in classics, an MA in history and a PhD in English literature. She has previously been published in the Fortean Times and the poetry website greatworks.org.

  if you enjoyed

  THE TOWER OF LIVING AND DYING

  look out for

  HOUSE OF SACRIFICE

  Empires of Dust: Book Three

  by

  Anna Smith Spark

  Marith’s power is growing—his empire stretches across half the world, and allies are flocking to his banner to share the spoils of war. With Thalia ruling at his side they are unstoppable.

  But Marith is becoming increasingly mentally unstable, and their victories cannot continue forever.

  1

  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,

  All kneel.

  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.

  His armies: 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.

  Judgment, 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 plane of rich grassland, on the banks of the river Jaxartes 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 and be blinded, dazed by its magnificence, fall upon your knees, worship, marvel. Worship, oh you who are nothing, you who are but maggot-kin 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.

  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 putrefyin
g, bones cracking beneath its weight. Its mortar is tears and blood. At its heart there stands a palace of desolation, built in honor of a mighty king.

  Such a king …

  2

  A thousand miles and more from his city of Ethalden, Marith Altrersyr, King of the White Isles and Ith and Illyr and Immier and the Wastes and the Bitter Sea, King of All Irlast, Amrath Returned, King Ruin, King of Shadows, King of Dust, King of Death, King of All, stood on the brow of a hill looking across toward the city of Arunmen.

  It was still early morning. Frost silver on the grass. Soft pale light pink and golden. In the valley the scent of woodsmoke, 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 a moment by the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer. Wheeled and called, flew off to the east.

  The sun caught their wingbeats. 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. His best friend. Osen rode up toward 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 toward 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 Marith. “Beautiful morning for it.”

  “I think it might snow.”

  “Do you?”

  “Thalia would like that.”

  “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 winter landscape. The hammer rang again. Smell of woodsmoke. 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 armor. Bronze swords. Long iron-tipped ash wood sarris spears. Their helmets plumed in red horsehair. Dark-tempered bronze over staring eyes. Horses armored 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-colored, tattered into a thousand shreds like fine 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 gray eyes, soft like a child’s eyes, soft pale gray 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 forwards. Siege engines hurled rocks running with banefire. Mage fire, white and silent. Dragon fire, glowing red. The beat of war drums. Clamor of trumpets. Voices chanting out the death song. Slowly slowly moving forwards. 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 toward 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. Warships in the harbor, grappling. A storm rising. Towering huge dark waves.

  “Amrath! Amrath! Death! Death! 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 arm span, 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 armor, 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 wingbeats, jaws opening faceless, clawed limbs tearing down the stones of the wall.

  “Now! Now! Break it down!” Marith’s horse reared, trampling snow. Red-hot sand showered down around him. His horse screamed in pain. Fire arrows thudding into the battering ram. His soldiers’ bodies piling on the ground.

  The sky roared at him. A thousand screaming raging mouths. Another flash. The dragon howled. The men fell back shrieking in fear. White light rising up before him. Spear-shape. Cloud-shape. Shining. Grass-green eyes opening, staring; hands reaching for him, numberless beyond counting, and in every hand a sword with a blade of silver light.

  God thing. Life thing. A demon conjured up to protect the city. The great high holy god of Arunmen whose temple was gold and green bronze.

  Bastard thing. Twice now, it had beaten him off.

  “Get the gate open! Now! Now! The ram!”

  Marith charged his enemy. So tiny, a man shape on horseback, throwing himself headlong toward this towering raging maelstrom of light. Behind him the ram started. Drumming on the gateway. Break it down! Break it down! His siege engines loosed all togeth
er. The machines on the walls showering sand and rocks and banefire back at his men. Mage fire. Dragon fire. Dying.

  Marith King Ruin met the light god with a crash.

  if you enjoyed

  THE TOWER OF LIVING AND DYING

  look out for

  YOU DIE WHEN YOU DIE

  West of West: Book One

  by

  Angus Watson

  YOU DIE WHEN YOU DIE …

  You can’t change your fate—so throw yourself into battle, because you’ll either win or wake up drinking mead in the halls of your ancestors.

  When his settlement is massacred by a hostile empire, Finn and his clan make their escape across an unforgiving land, battling animals and monsters, determined assassins, powerful tribes, and each other to fulfill a prophecy that is their only hope.

  CHAPTER 1

  Finnbogi Is in Love

  Two weeks before everyone died and the world changed for ever, Finnbogi the Boggy was fantasising about Thyri Treelegs.

  He was picking his way between water-stripped logs with a tree stump on one shoulder, heading home along the shore of Olaf’s Fresh Sea. No doubt, he reasoned, Thyri would fall in love with him the moment he presented her with the wonderful artwork he was going to carve from the tree stump. But what would he make? Maybe a racoon. But how would you go about …

  His planning was interrupted by a wasp the size of a chipmunk launching from the shingle and making a beeline for his face.

  The young Hardworker yelped, ducked, dropped the stump and spun to face his foe. Man and insect circled each other crabwise. The hefty wasp bobbed impossibly in the air. Finnbogi fumbled his sax from its sheath. He flailed with the short sword, but the wasp danced clear of every inept swipe, floating closer and louder. Finnbogi threw his blade aside and squatted, flapping his hands above his head. Through his terror he realised that this manoeuvre was exactly the same as his rabbit-in-a-tornado impression that could make his young adoptive siblings giggle so much they fell over. Then he noticed he could no longer hear the wasp.