The Sworn

Book 1: The Fallen Kings Cycle

by Gail Z. Martin

Genres: Action & Adventure; Fantasy; General Fiction

Synopsis

As plague and famine scourge the Winter Kingdoms, a vast invasion force is mustering from beyond the northern seas. And at its heart, a dark spirit mage wields the blood magic of ancient, vanquished gods.



Summoner-King Martris Drayke must attempt to meet this great threat, gathering an army from a country ravaged by civil war. Neighboring lands reel toward anarchy while plague decimates their leaders. Drayke must seek new allies from among the living-and the dead-as an untested generation of rulers face their first battle.



Then someone disturbs the legendary Dread as they rest in a millennia-long slumber beneath sacred barrows. Their warrior guardians, the Sworn, know the Dread could be pivotal as a force for great good or evil. But if it's the latter, could even the Summoner-King's sorcery prevail?

Release date: February 1, 2011

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 576

Sample

“Gail Z. Martin has a good grasp of pacing, and tells a fast-paced tale laced with plenty of action.”

—Sfsite.com

“I loved this story from beginning to end. Packed with suspense, excitement, and colorful characters, The Summoner is a true epic fantasy. Gail Martin has done a wonderful job of taking well-known story elements and infusing them into a
truly magical tale.”


—SciFiChick.com

“The Summoner is consistently composed, easy to get into, and reads very quickly… It offers plenty of sword and sorcery action…”


—Fantasybookcritic.blogspot.com

“Martin’s first novel, a series opener, presents a beleaguered hero with a unique gift of communicating with the dead… This
fantasy adventure belongs in most libraries.”


—Library Journal

“We can be thankful for this breath of new life Martin has summoned into the fantasy genre… Gail Z. Martin is certain to keep
her readers entranced from page one to the finale.”


—Kankakee Journal

“Attractive characters and an imaginative setting combine in an excellent, fast-moving quest novel.”

—DAVID DRAKE, author of Some Golden Harbor, Other Times Than Peace

“A rich, evocative story with vivid, believable characters moving through a beautifully realized world with all the quirks,
depths, and levels of a real place. A terrific read!”


—A. J. HARTLEY, author of The Mask of Atreus and On the Fifth Day

“The Summoner is a pleasant and enjoyable read that any lover of fantasy should enjoy. The characters are well developed and the story
line is solid.”


—Midwest Book Review

“The Blood King is the riveting sequel to The Summoner. It entertained and kept me spellbound to the end. When I turned the last page I couldn’t help but wish for more.”


—Midwest Book Review

“These novels were quite good, and very easy to read. Diverting and fun.”

—Cosmo Digital

“As epic dark fantasy goes, The Blood King was entertaining and satisfactory. Martin’s strengths lie in worldbuilding and the big picture. I’ll be interested in seeing
what Martin does next, as I believe she has a lot of potential.”


—Sfsite.com

“With creepy ghosts, nefarious undead, magic, plenty of intrigue, and even a little romance, high fantasy fans shouldn’t miss
this series.”


—SciFiChick.com

“My recommendation for this series gets stronger with each book, so just buy it now before I start going door-to-door!”


—Neolibrarium.com

“Rather than get bogged down in details or endless back-and-forth dialogues between characters for the sake of argument, Martin
keeps things zipping along. For the type of reader who views plot as a way to get the various characters on stage and interacting,
however, Dark Haven will be heavenly. The characters are undeniably strong and distinctive, and they get to show off in interesting ways on a
regular basis.”


—RICHARD DANSKY, Fantasy Magazine

“The air is thick with intrigue, threats, and deception that captures the reader and sweeps them into the story. It’s one
of those wonderful books you can’t bear to put down. Dark Lady’s Chosen is a satisfying and entertaining read that shouldn’t be missed.”


—VICTORIA KENNEDY, Midwest Book Review

“Dark Lady’s Chosen is well written and brings the reader fully into the universe… For fantasy lovers and those who just love a damn good story,
Dark Lady’s Chosen and the Chronicles of the Necromancer are the perfect read.”


—Epheros.com

Nearly a year and a half has passed since King Martris Drayke of Margolan won back the throne from Jared the Usurper, and
still Margolan is not at peace. Jared’s brief reign was long enough to drive the kingdom to famine and revolt, beggaring its
farmers and stirring tensions between its mortal and undead residents, the vayash moru.


Jared seized the throne by killing his father, King Bricen, and the rest of the royal family, save for his half-brother, Martris,
the only legitimate challenger. Martris (known as Tris) escaped with the help of three loyal friends: Ban Soterius, the captain
of the guards; Harrtuck, one of the king’s guardsmen; and Master Bard Riordan Carroway. Tris and his friends fled to Principality
to plan their counterstrike. Along the way, they gained a number of unlikely allies: Jonmarc Vahanian, an outlaw turned smuggler;
Carina, a gifted healer; Carina’s brother Cam, a former mercenary; Gabriel, one of the lords of the vayash moru; and Kiara of Isencroft, who was fleeing an arranged marriage with Jared. When the group rescued a young girl, Berry, from the slavers who had captured her, they unexpectedly found King Staden of Principality in their debt.

During the journey, Tris discovered his ability as a powerful summoner, a mage able to intercede among the living, dead, and
undead. Summoning magic is rare and dangerous, as its great power easily corrupts many who wield it, including Tris’s grandfather,
a mage named Lemuel. Lemuel became possessed by the spirit of the Obsidian King, and Lemuel’s misuse of his summoning magic
plunged the Winter Kingdoms into a cataclysmic war in a generation past.

That long-ago war splintered the Flow, one of the great currents of magical energy. Learning to control the Flow and his own
wild magic before they could destroy him pushed Tris to the brink of sanity and survival.

The battle for the throne took a harsh toll on all of Margolan, and Tris Drayke paid the price in blood as he honed his skills
as fighter and mage in order to go up against Jared and Jared’s dark mage, Foor Arontala. Ban Soterius played a vital role
in the rebellion, assembling deserters and refugees into a strike-and-hide force to harry Jared’s troops and stop the massacre
of civilians. Tris’s victory nearly cost him his life, and it won him a tattered kingdom with a bankrupt treasury. Although
he gained the crown, it became painfully clear that the peace and prosperity of Bricen’s reign would be dangerously elusive.

Tris’s marriage to Princess Kiara of Isencroft is a love match, and Kiara is pregnant with their first child, a son they hope
will inherit his father’s magic. Isencroft is a neighboring kingdom to Margolan, and the two kingdoms share a stormy history.
The attempt to forestall war a generation ago unwittingly sowed the seeds for strife in a new generation. When Donelan of Isencroft eloped with Princess Viata
of Eastmark more than twenty years earlier, Eastmark threatened war. Bricen of Margolan forced peace by creating a betrothal
contract between his heir and Donelan’s heir. When Jared murdered Bricen, Kiara scandalized both courts by throwing her allegiance
to Tris and helping him unseat Jared the Usurper.

Isencroft’s fortunes have suffered in recent years due to poor harvests and drought, and Kiara’s marriage means that Isencroft
and Margolan share a joint crown until a suitable heir for each throne is born. The idea of a shared crown with a kingdom
that in times past was an invader has fueled dissension in Isencroft, leading to riots and the rise of the Divisionists, a
group that seeks to keep Isencroft free of foreign entanglements.

A Divisionist sympathizer infiltrated the Margolan palace staff and nearly succeeded in killing Kiara and her unborn child.
The attack was stopped by Bard Riordan Carroway, a trusted friend and Margolan’s master musician. The wounds Carroway sustained
protecting Kiara could cost him his livelihood. Kiara recovered from the attack, but the poisoned blade may have damaged the
child she carries.

Jonmarc Vahanian, who was rewarded for his courage with the title of Lord of Dark Haven, returned from war to claim lands
that were the traditional sanctuary of the undead vayash moru and shapeshifting vyrkin, immortals who were not pleased to see a mortal lord claim his due.

When rogue vayash moru led by Malesh of Tremont broke the Truce and slaughtered mortals, Jonmarc retaliated, and he bargained his soul for vengeance.
Carina, newly betrothed to Jonmarc, became a pawn in the war. The magical energy of the Flow, damaged in the Mage War of a generation
past, became too dangerously unstable for mages to use, and Carina risked her life to “heal” the energy. Jonmarc and Gabriel
defeated Malesh’s forces, but the Truce remained damaged, and retaliatory killings between mortals and the vayash moru still threaten the fragile peace.

Carina’s brother Cam returned to the service as Champion of King Donelan of Isencroft. Cam was captured by the Divisionists,
and while a prisoner, he uncovered a plot to kill the king and put the Divisionists’ man on the throne. Alvior of Brunnfen,
the traitors’ challenger, is Cam’s elder brother. When Cam managed to blow up the Divisionists’ stronghold to warn the king,
he nearly lost a leg in the explosion, but he gained the unlikely assistance of Rhistiart, a silversmith-turned-squire. After
the king’s personal healer did all he could for Cam, Donelan sent Cam to Carina in Dark Haven, hoping that she could complete
the healing.

In the first year of his reign, Tris went to war to put down a rebellion by the traitorous Lord Curane and his blood mages.
Tris waged a bitterly fought siege that unleashed a virulent plague. His triumph over the traitor lord took a great toll on
Margolan’s army and came at a high personal cost. When Tris returned to his palace, he found his queen badly injured by an
assassin’s blade and his best friend wrongfully accused of high treason. Summoning the spirits of the dead to find the traitor
and clear his friend’s name, Tris was sorely tempted to use his powerful magic for vengeance, but the memory of the penalty
Lemuel paid for his twisted magic stayed Tris’s hand.

Six months have passed since the Margolan army returned from battle and since Jonmarc Vahanian put down the vayash moru uprising. Jonmarc and Carina wed, and Carina is pregnant with twins. Tris and Kiara nervously await the birth of their son,
uncertain how the poison has affected this child on whom the future of two kingdoms depends. In Isencroft, the Divisionists
have scattered, but Cam fears that the threat has merely gone into hiding and that Alvior may have found foreign allies to
challenge Donelan for the throne.

Peace in the Winter Kingdoms has always been elusive. With the kingdoms weakened by war, insurrection, and poor harvest, the
threat of invasion and revolution looms large and all the magic in the world may not be enough to hold back the bloodshed.

Every time you go, I can’t believe six months have passed already.”


Prince Jair Rothlandorn of Dhasson looked up as his father, King Harrol, stood in the doorway. Jair smiled and sighed as he
closed his saddlebag and secured the cinch. “And every time I get ready to leave, I can’t believe I’ve survived six months
away from the Ride.” Carefully, Jair folded his palace clothing into neat piles and placed them in a drawer to await his return.
For the Ride, the only clue that would mark him as the heir to the throne of Dhasson was the gold signet ring on his right
hand.


Jair walked to his window and looked out over the city. Valiquet was the name of both the Dhassonian palace and its capital
city. The sun gleamed from the white marble and crystalline sculptures that had earned Valiquet its reputation as “The Glittering
Place.” Long a crossroads for commerce and ideas, Dhasson was perhaps the most cosmopolitan of the Winter Kingdoms. Its long
tradition of tolerance for all but the Cult of the Crone had spared it the conflicts that often tore at the other kingdoms
and had made it a magnet for scholars and artists. Beautiful as it was, for the six months Jair was home, the city felt like a glittering
prison. Jair sighed and returned to packing.


Harrol watched as Jair gathered the last of his things. For the last eleven years, ever since Jair’s fourteenth birthday,
he had made the Ride. Although this trip would take Jair away from the palace, Valiquet, and Dhasson for six months, Jair’s
belongings fit neatly into two large saddlebags. “You miss her still.”


Jair turned back to look at his father. “I miss her always.” He was dressed for the road, in the dark tunic and trews that
were the custom in the group with which he would ride sentry for the rest of the year. Jair slid up the long sleeve of his
shirt, revealing a black tattoo around his left wrist, an intricate and complicated design that had only one match: around
the wrist of his life-partner, Talwyn. On his left palm was an intricate tattoo that marked him as one of the trinnen, a warrior proven in battle. He stared at the design on his wrist for a moment in silence. “I wish—”


“—that the Court would accept her,” Harrol finished gently. “And you know it’s not to be. Even if it did, Talwyn is the daughter
of the Sworn’s chieftain and she’s their shaman. She can no more leave her people than you can renounce your claim to the
throne.”


“I know.” They’d had this conversation before. Although every heir to the Dhasson throne made the six-month Ride, only two
before Jair had married into the secretive group of warrior-shamans. Eljen, Jair’s great-great-granduncle, had renounced the
throne, throwing Dhasson into chaos. Anginon, two generations removed, had worked out an “accommodation,” accepting an arranged
political marriage in Dhasson to sire an heir while honoring his bond to his partner among the Sworn by making it clear the Dhasson marriage was in name only. Neither option was to Jair’s liking,
and it was at times like these that the crown seemed to fit most tightly.


“You may find that this year’s Ride leaves little time for home and hearth,” Harrol said. “Bad enough that plague’s begun
to spread into Dhasson. What I’ve heard from Margolan sounds bad. I know the Sworn stay to the barren places, where the barrows
lie. Please, avoid the cities and villages. And be careful. Nothing is as it should be this year. I fear the Ride will be
more dangerous than it’s been in quite some time. I have no desire to lose my son, to plague or to battle.” Harrol embraced
Jair, slapping him hard on the back. But there was a moment’s hesitation and the embrace was just a bit tighter than usual,
letting Jair know that his father was sincerely worried.


“Don’t worry. I’ll be home before Candles Night. And perhaps this time, I’ll bring Kenver with me. The Court can’t argue that
he’s my son, whether or not they recognize my marriage. Whether he can take the crown one day or not, they can get used to
the fact that I won’t deny him.”


Harrol chuckled. “If the boy can be spared from his training, by all means, bring him. If he’s half the handful you were as
a lad, it should keep you busy fetching him out of the shrubbery!”


Neither Jair nor his father said more as they descended the stairs to Valiquet’s large marble entranceway. There was no mistaking
the two Sworn guardsmen who awaited Jair. They were dressed as he was, in the dark clothing and studded leather armor of the
Sworn, wearing the lightweight, summer great cloaks that would help to keep down the dust and discourage the flies. Jair shouldered
into his own cloak.


“Good to see you once more, Commander.”


Jair recognized the speaker as Emil, one of the guardsmen he had known since he’d first begun making the Ride. Emil’s greeting
was in Dhassonian, but his heavy accent made it clear that that language was not his native tongue. His companion, Mihei,
a warrior land mage, echoed the greeting. No one would mistake either of the men as residents of Dhasson. Both wore their
dark, black hair straight and long, accentuating the tawny golden cast of their skin. Their eyes, amber like the Sacred Lady’s,
marked their bloodline as servants of the goddess. A variety of amulets in silver and carved stone hung from leather straps
around their necks. The leather baldrics that each wore held a variety of lethal and beautiful damashqi daggers, and the weapon that hung by each man’s side was neither broadsword nor scimitar but a stelian, a deadly, jagged, flat blade that was as dangerous as it looked, the traditional weapon of the Sworn.


Jair was dressed in the same manner, but it was obvious to any who looked that he did not share the same blood. Tan from a
season outdoors, he was still much lighter than his Sworn companions, and his dark, wavy, brown hair and blue eyes made his
resemblance to Harrol obvious.


“It’s been too long,” Jair responded in the clipped, consonant-heavy language of the nomads. “I’ve been ready to leave again
since I returned.”


Jair knew his father watched them descend the sweeping front steps to the horses that waited for them. Even the horses looked
out of place. They bore little resemblance to the high-strung, overbred carriage horses of the nobility. These were horses
from the Margolan steppe, bred for thousands of years by the Sworn for their steadiness in battle, their intelligence, and their stamina. Jair fastened his saddlebags, shaking his head to dissuade the groomsman who
ran to help him. Then the three men swung up to their saddles and rode out of the palace gates.


They did not speak until the walled city was behind them and they were on the open road. Mihei was the first to break the
silence. “When we stop for the night, I have gifts for you in my bag.”


“Oh?” Jair asked, curious. “From whom?”

Mihei smiled. “Kenver—and his mother. Kenver chased me down the road to make sure I’d packed the gifts he made for you. Cheira Talwyn didn’t chase us, but I wouldn’t care to face her displeasure if I were remiss in making sure you received your welcoming
gift.”


Jair smiled broadly, knowing that he had packed several such gifts for his wife and son in his bags as well. “Are they well?”

Emil laughed. “Kenver is a hand’s breadth taller than when you left, and begging for a pony to ride with the guards. Talwyn’s
driven us all mad these past few weeks with her wishing for time to pass more quickly.”


“Tell me, where do we join the tribe?”

Mihei’s smile faded. “The Ride’s taken longer this year than in any season for many years.”

“Why?”

“Many times, we’ve found the barrows desecrated. Cheira Talwyn says the spirits are unhappy. We’ll join the others just across the river, below the Ruune Vidaya forest,” Mihei replied.


Jair didn’t say anything as he thought about Mihei’s news. The Sworn were a nomadic people, consecrated thousands of years
ago to the service of the Lady. They were the guardians of the barrows, the large mounds that dotted the landscape from the Northern Sea down through Margolan
into Dhasson and to the border of Nargi. Legend said that long ago, the barrows had continued, down into Nargi and beyond,
to the Southern Plains. But when the Nargi took up the worship of the Crone Aspect of the Lady, they destroyed the barrows
and fought any of the Sworn who dared cross into their lands. The Sworn had left them to their folly, and the legends said
that the Nargi had paid dearly for destroying the barrows.


Within the barrows were the Dread. What, exactly, the Dread were, Jair did not know. No one had seen the Dread in over a thousand
years. Only the shamans of the Sworn, the cheira, ever communicated with their spirits, and then only through ritual and visions. But it was said that as the Sworn were the
guardians of the barrows of the Dread, so the Dread were guardians of the deep places, and it was their burden to make sure
that a powerful evil remained buried.


The three men rode single file, and Jair noted that both Emil and Mihei seemed unusually alert for danger on this leg of the
trip. Normally, the two-day journey from Valiquet to meet up with the Sworn was uneventful. Now, Jair realized that the others’
heightened vigilance had affected him, and he found himself scanning the horizon.


“Look there,” Jair said as a small hamlet came into view late in the afternoon. Any other year, the fields would have been
full of men, women, and children working. Instead, even from a distance, Jair could see that the fields lay untended, although
it was only weeks until harvest. As they drew nearer, an overpowering stench filled the air, and Jair saw shifting gray clouds
hovering over the village and the pastures.


“Dark Lady take my soul, what’s happened?” Jair breathed as they drew nearer. The air stank of decay, and it was clear that
the gray clouds were swarms of flies. The sunken, half-rotted corpses of cows, sheep, and horses lay in the pasture. There
was no noise, except for the buzzing of flies, so many that it sounded like the hum of a distant waterfall.


“It’s the plague,” Mihei said, as they passed the turn to the lane that led into the village. The smell was overpowering in
the late-summer heat. He began to chant quietly to himself, and Jair recognized it as the passing-over ritual the Sworn said
for the bodies of the dead. Jair made the sign of the Lady, adding his own fervent prayer for safe travel.


“What have you seen of plague?”

Emil shook his head. “Rarely have I been so glad to avoid cities as this season. Most of what we hear comes from the news
of the travelers and tinkers we pass on the road. But it’s bad enough in some of the larger towns that the dead lie stacked
like cordwood because there isn’t time to bury them, and the living have abandoned their sick and fled.”


“Sweet Chenne,” Jair murmured. “What of the other kingdoms? Have you heard?”

“There’s a rumor that Principality has closed its border to Margolan refugees. It’s said that Nargi is patrolling the river
more frequently, as if anyone would think about sneaking into that rats’ nest. Has your father closed Dhasson’s borders?”


“Not yet. But it may come to that.”

“Watch out!” Mihei’s shouted warning came as figures crashed through the underbrush toward the road. Jair’s eyes widened as
he drew his stelian. Four creatures burst from the forest, dressed in rags, moving in a frenzy of rage. They had been men once, but there was
no reasoning in their eyes, nor sanity. They stank of waste and sweat and were covered in filth and dried blood. Three of the madmen swung
tree limbs that looked to have been ripped from their trunks. One of the men wielded a large branch with finger-length thorns,
heedless of the blood that flowed from his hands as the thorns tore at his discolored flesh. Their faces and arms were covered
with large, red pustules and bleeding open sores. The sight of three well-armed men on horseback should have deterred even
the most determined thieves. Instead, the four howled with rage and ran at them, swinging their makeshift weapons.


“What are they?” Jair shouted as his horse reared.

“Ashtenerath,” Mihei replied, slashing down with his stelian as one of the madmen tried to lame his mount with the branch it swung. Mihei’s weapon cleaved the man from shoulder to hip,
but the remaining attackers pressed forward, paying no attention to their companion’s fate.


Two of the madmen circled Jair, yammering and howling in their rage. The third launched himself toward Emil, and his thorny
club scored a gash across the flank of Emil’s horse before Emil sank his blade deep into the man’s chest. The ashtenerath collapsed to his knees with a gurgle as blood began to pour from his mouth. Still, he swung at Emil’s horse with his club
until Emil’s stelian connected once more, severing his head from his shoulders.


Jair struck at the ashtenerath that ventured the closest, slicing through the madman’s shoulder and severing the arm that swung the club. The thing pressed
on, paying no attention to the pain or to the rush of blood that soaked his tattered rags. Aghast, Jair brought his stelian down, slicing from the bloody stump of his attacker’s shoulder through his ribs until the body lay severed in two.


With a cry, Mihei engaged the fourth man, who had advanced on Jair’s horse from the left. Mihei’s horse reared, and a well-placed
kick tore the ashtenerath’s club from its hands. Blind with rage, the berserker hurled himself toward Mihei. The horse reared again, knocking the attacker
to the ground and crushing him beneath its hooves as its full weight landed on the berserker’s chest, spattering gore and
soaking the horse’s front legs to the knees in blood.


Silence filled the clearing as Jair and the others watched the tree line for another attack.

“By the Crone! What spawns those things?” Jair asked as he wiped his stelian clean and resheathed his weapons.


Emil and Mihei looked around the bloodied roadway. “Usually, ashtenerath are created by potions and blood magic, men pushed past sanity by torture and drugged into a bloodlust,” Mihei replied. “They’re
expendable fighters, just a breath removed from walking corpses, and it’s a kindness to put them out of their misery.”


“A blood mage did this?” Jair asked.

Emil shook his head. “In a way. The plague began in Margolan, and it was the traitor Curane’s blood mages who created it,
as a way to stop King Martris’s army. Only it got away from them, and it spread beyond the battlefield. Maybe it’s the nature
of the sickness, or maybe it’s because it was magicked up, but a handful of the ones who catch the plague don’t die right
away. The madness takes them and they become ashtenerath. We’ve heard of attacks before, but this is the first time we’ve been set upon ourselves.”


Jair looked down at the mangled bodies on the roadway and repressed a shiver. He’d fought skirmishes against raiders and seen
men die in battle. In the eyes of his opponents, he’d seen determination and unwillingness to yield, but never complete madness.


“Come now. We’ve got to purify ourselves and the horses to make sure we don’t spread the sickness,” Emil urged.

They rode another candlemark before they found a clearing near the road with a well. Emil signaled for them to stop. They
dismounted, warily watching the underbrush for signs of danger. Mihei stood silently, staring into the forest, but his hands
were moving in a complicated series of gestures that Jair knew worked the warding magic of the Sworn. As Mihei set the wardings,
Emil built a fire and began to take a variety of items from his saddlebags. Jair drew a bucket of cold water from the depths
of the well, and Mihei gestured for him to set the bucket near the fire.


Mihei took pinches of dried plants from pouches on his belt and ground them together in his fist, then released them into
the fire. Smoke rose from the fire, heavily scented with camphor, thyme, and sage. Mihei bade them enter into the thick smoke
that billowed from the fire and to draw the horses near as well. “Breathe deeply,” he instructed, and Jair closed his eyes,
taking in a deep breath of the fragrant smoke. “The smoke wards off fever and strengthens the body’s humours.”


Next, Mihei took a flask from his bags and uncorked it. Jair immediately recognized the smell of vass, the strong drink favored by the Sworn, made from fermented honey, hawthorn, and juniper. Mihei poured a liberal draught
into the bucket of water, then added crushed handfuls of fetherfew and elder leaves, finally dropping in two gemstone disks,
one of emerald and one of bright blue lapis. Mihei began to chant, his fingers tracing complex runes in the air over the mixture.
He gestured for each man to unfasten the cups that hung at their belts and fill their tankards with the brew. Jair tossed the noxious-tasting concoction
back, stifling the urge to choke on the strong bite of the vass. He was gratified to note that Emil also seemed to be catching his breath.


Mihei finished his drink in a coughing fit, but held up a hand to wave off help. When he had recovered, he took three dried
apple