Ghost King

Book 1: The Stones of Power

by David Gemmell

Genres: Epic Fantasy; Action & Adventure; Sci-fi Action & Adventure

Synopsis

Beyond Wolf in Shadow to an earlier layer in David Gemmell's fantasy of the Sipstrassi Stones: rebellion and invasion plunge Britannia into the Dark Ages. Chaos and terror stalk the land, the King slain by traitors, the great Sword of Power vanished beyond the Circle of Mist.

Saxons, Angles, Jutes and Brigante tribesman mass together to destroy the realm, aided by the powers of the Witch Queen and the Lord of the Undead. Against them stands a weakling boy, and an old mountain warrior.

But the boy has the blood of kings, and the warrior is Culain, the legendary Lord of the Lance. And he alone knows the dread secret of the Witch Queen.

Release date: June 8, 2011

Publisher: Del Rey

Print pages: 304

Sample

1
 
THE BOY STARED idly at the cold gray walls and wondered if the castle dungeons could be any more inhospitable than this chilly turret room with its single window staring like an eye into the teeth of the north wind. True, there was a fire glowing in the hearth, but it might as well have been one of Maedhlyn’s illusions for all the warmth it supplied. The great gray slabs sucked the heat from the blaze, giving nothing in return but a ghostly reflection that mocked the flames.
 
Thuro sat on the bed and wrapped his father’s white bearskin cloak about his slender shoulders.
 
“What a foul place,” he said, closing his eyes and pushing the turret room from his mind. He thought of his father’s villa in Eboracum and of the horse meadows beyond the white walls where mighty Cephon wintered with his mares. But most of all he pictured his own room, cozy and snug away from the bitter winter winds and filled with the love of his young life: his books, his glorious books. His father had refused him permission to bring even one tome to this lonely castle in case the other war leaders should catch the prince reading and know the king’s dark secret. For while it might be well known in Caerlyn Keep that the boy Thuro was weak in body and spirit, the king’s retainers guarded the sad truth like a family shame.
 
Thuro shivered and left the bed to sit on the goatskin rug before the fire. He was as miserable as he had ever been. Far below in the great hall of Deicester Castle his father was attempting to bond an alliance against the barbarians from across the sea, grim-eyed reavers who had established settlements in the far south from which to raid the richer northlands. The embassy to Deicester had been made despite Maedhlyn’s warnings. Thuro had not wished to accompany his father, either, but not for fear of dangers he could scarcely comprehend. The prince disliked the cold, loathed long journeys on horseback, and, more important, hated to be deprived of his books even for a day—let alone the two months set aside for the embassy.
 
The door opened, and the prince glanced up to see the tall figure of Gwalchmai, his brawny arms bearing a heavy load of logs. He smiled at the lad, and Thuro noted with shame that the retainer wore only a single woolen tunic against the biting cold.
 
“Do you never feel the chill, Gwalchmai?”
 
“I feel it,” he answered, kneeling to add wood to the blaze.
 
“Is my father still speaking?”
 
“No. When I passed by, Eldared was on his feet.”
 
“You do not like Eldared?”
 
“You see too much, young Thuro; that is not what I said.”
 
But you did, thought Thuro. It was in your eyes and the slight inflection when you used his name. He stared into the retainer’s dark eyes, but Gwalchmai turned away.
 
“Do you trust him?” asked the boy.
 
“Your father obviously trusts him, so who am I to offer opinions? You think the king would have come here with only twenty retainers if he feared treachery?”
 
“You answer my question with questions. Is that not evasive?”
 
Gwalchmai grinned. “I must get back to my watch. But think on this, Thuro: It is not for the likes of me to criticize the great. I could lose the skin from my back—or, worse, my life.”
 
“You think there is danger here?” persisted the prince.
 
“I like you, boy, though only Mithras knows why. You’ve a sharp mind; it is a pity you are weakly. But I’ll answer your question after a fashion. For a king there is always danger; it is a riddle to me why a man wants such power. I’ve served your father for sixteen years, and in that time he has survived four wars, eleven battles, and five attempts on his life. He is a canny man. But I would be happier if the Lord Enchanter were here.”
 
“Maedhlyn does not trust Eldared; he told my father so.”
 
Gwalchmai pushed himself to his feet. “You trust too easily, Thuro. You should not be sharing this knowledge with me or with any retainer.”
 
“But I can trust you, can I not?”
 
“How do you know that?” Gwalchmai hissed.
 
“I read it in your eyes,” said Thuro softly.
 
Gwalchmai relaxed, and a broad grin followed as he shook his head and tugged on his braided beard. “You should get some rest. It’s said there’s to be a stag hunt tomorrow.”
 
“I’ll not be going,” said Thuro. “I do not much like riding.”
 
“You baffle me, boy. Sometimes I see so much of your father in you that I want to cheer. And then … well, it does not matter. I will see you in the morning. Sleep well.”
 
“Thank you for the wood.”
 
“It is my duty to see you safe.”
 
Gwalchmai left the room, and Thuro rose and wandered to the window, moving aside the heavy velvet curtain and staring out over the winter landscape: rolling hills covered in snow, skeletal trees black as charcoal. He shivered and wished for home.
 
He, too, would have been happier if Maedhlyn had journeyed with them, for he enjoyed the old man’s company and the quickness of his mind—and the games and riddles the Enchanter set him. One had occupied his mind for almost a full day the previous summer, while his father had been in the south routing the Jutes. Thuro had been sitting with Maedhlyn in the terraced garden, in the shade cast by the statue of the great Julius.
 
“There was a prince,” said Maedhlyn, his green eyes sparkling, “who was hated by his king but loved by the people. The king decided the prince must die, but fearing the wrath of the populace, he devised an elaborate plan to end both the prince’s popularity and his life. He accused him of treason and offered him trial by Mithras. In this way the Roman god would judge the innocence or guilt of the accused.
 
“The prince was brought before the king, and a large crowd was there to see the judgment. Before the prince stood a priest holding a closed leather pouch, and within the pouch were two grapes. The law said that one grape should be white, the other black. If the accused drew a white grape, he was innocent. A black grape meant death. You follow this, Thuro?”
 
“It is simple so far, teacher.”
 
“Now, the prince knew of the king’s hatred and guessed rightly that there were two black grapes in the pouch. Answer me this, young quicksilver: How did the prince produce a white grape and prove his innocence?”
 
“It is not possible, save by magic.”
 
“There was no magic, only thought,” said Maedhlyn, tapping his white-haired temple for emphasis. “Come to me tomorrow with the answer.”
 
Throughout the day Thuro thought hard, but his mind was devoid of inspiration. He borrowed a pouch and two grapes from Listra the cook, and sat in the garden staring at the items as if in themselves they harbored the answer. As dusk painted the sky Trojan red, he gave up. Sitting alone in the gathering gloom, he took one of the grapes and ate it. He reached for the other—and stopped.
 
The following morning he went to Maedhlyn’s study. The old man greeted him sourly, having had a troubled night, he said, with dark dreams.
 
“I have answered your riddle, master,” the boy told him. At that the Enchanter’s eyes came alive.
 
“So soon, young prince? It took the noble Alexander ten days, but then, perhaps Aristotle was less gifted than myself as a tutor!” He chuckled. “So tell me, Thuro, how did the prince prove his innocence?”
 
“He put his hand into the pouch and covered one grape. This he removed and ate swiftly. He then said to the priest, ‘I do not know what color it was, but look at the one that is left.’ ”
Maedhlyn clapped his hands and smiled. “You please me greatly, Thuro. But tell me, how did you come upon the answer?”
 
“I ate the grape.”
 
“That is good. There is a lesson in that also. You broke the problem down and examined the component parts. Most men attempt to solve riddles by allowing their minds to leap like monkeys from branch to branch, without ever realizing that it is the root that needs examining. Always remember that, young prince. The method works with men as well as it works with riddles.”
 
Now Thuro dragged his thoughts from the golden days of summer back to the bleak winter night. He removed his leggings and slid under the blankets, turning on his side to watch the flickering flames in the hearth.
 
He thought of his father: tall and broad-shouldered with eyes of ice and fire, revered as a warrior leader and held in awe even by his enemies.
 
“I don’t want to be a king,” Thuro whispered.