| The Assassin King | |||||||
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by Elizabeth Haydon | |||||||
| Available now from Tor | |||||||
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Read an Excerpt | |||||
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About the Author | |||||
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Visit Elizabeth Haydon's Official Web site | |||||
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The Assassin King opens at winter's end, with the arrival by sea of a mysterious hunter: a man of ancient race and purpose who endlessly chants the names of the pantheon of demons that are his intended victims, as well as one other: Ysk, the original name of the Brother — now known as Achmed, the Assassin King of Ylorc. At the same moment of this portentous arrival, two gatherings of great import are taking place. The first is a convocation of dragons, who assemble in a primeval forest glade — the site of the horrific ending of Llauron, one of the last of their kind They mourn not only his irrevocable death, but the loss of the lore and control over the earth itself that it represents. The ancient wyrms are terrified for what will come as a result of this loss. The second gathering is a council of war held in the depths of the keep of Haguefort: Ashe and Rhapsody, rulers of the alliance that protects the Middle Continent; Gwydion, the new Duke of Navarne; Anborn, the Lord Marshall; Achmed, the King of Ylorc; and Grunthor, Achmed's sergeant-major. Each brings news that form the pieces of a great puzzle. And as each piece is added it becomes quite clear that war is coming, a conflict the likes of which the world has never known. Cataclysms large and small abound in this sixth volume of the USA Today best-selling fantasy series, The Symphony of Ages. A twisting, fast-moving tale, The Assassin King promises endless surprises — many of which lead to pain. | |||||||
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EXCERPT By inexplicable happenchance, at the moment Rath came ashore, the man who had once carried the reviled name that the hunter was seeking was within a few score miles. That man was staring in silent contempt at the rosy-brown stone edifice of a small keep known as Haguefort, observing a reunion which made him unconsciously desire to expectorate in the same disgust as was conveyed by what used to be his name. Ysk. Since the time when that name had been contemptuously conferred upon him, the man had borne several other titles as well. In long-ago days he had been cleansed of Ysk by a wise and highly skilled Namer, a man trained in the science of vibration and its manipulation. The Namer had called him simply the Brother, for Ysk was, he said, brother to all, but akin to none. It was a name which gave him power by which he could have come to be a great healer, but instead he chose the opposite side of the coin, passing his time in the trade of a solitary assassin. A less-skilled practitioner of that same science had renamed him decades later, and now that he ruled over a mountainous kingdom of Firbolg, the same race of monstrous beings that had long ago given him the title Ysk, he was known by many dreaded and silly appellations: The Glowering Eye, The Earth Swallower, The Merciless, The Night Man. He had narrowly escaped becoming the owner of the most respected traditional title given to chieftains and warlords among the Bolg tribes, which translated roughly as The Supremely Flatulent, by virtue of the fact that he could not be described as such, or by any other title tied to the senses. In the dark caverns and tunnels of Ylorc, he was never seen or heard, and certainly never smelt, unless he wished to be. Now, at this point in his history, he was known as Achmed the Snake, king of the Firbolg. The name given to him at birth had vanished from history, and from all but the deepest vaults of his memory. He had only given voice to it once in almost two thousand years, and had spoken it softly, in the depths of the Earth, to the Namer who had given him his current appellation. He watched that woman now being led up the steps of the rosy brown keep, shaky from recent childbirth and the sting of the late-winter wind, and exhaled deeply. He turned to his Sergeant-Major, an enormous half-breed who had been his constant companion for most of his life. "No one is watching. If we leave now, they won't know we're missing until we're already home." The Sergeant-Major shook his head, hiding a smile. "Nope, sir, 'twouldn't be right," he said, trying to sound serious. "Ol' Ashe asked us to wait 'ere so we could brief 'im on what happened in the forest. We ain't supposed ta talk about it 'til we meet in council to keep the mem'ries fresh." He pointed in the direction of two young people, the duke and duchess of Navarne, who were holding a squalling bundle. "But if we're talkin' fresh, Oi say we 'ave a bite ta eat while we're waitin'. Sound good ta you?" Achmed smiled slightly. "You're suggesting we eat Rhapsody's baby?" "Yeah. Why not?" The Firbolg king's smile faded as the guards from the keep arrived to take him to his solitary chamber. "Because there's not enough to share," he said within plain earshot of the soldiers. "You're right, as always, sir," Grunthor called out amiably as Achmed was led away. "'Ow about you just let me bite off the 'ead, an' you can 'ave the rest?" The Firbolg king shook his head. "No," he said without turning around. "It's related to Ashe, so it probably tastes like mutton. You know how much I hate mutton." The chambermaid who had taken the baby from the children let out a little gasp of horror and scurried away from the two monstrous men. The young duke, his nine-year-old sister, and the keep's guards, long accustomed to the two of them, however, didn't raise an eyebrow. |