Free Emperor of Thorns (The Broken Empire, Book 3) by Mark Lawrence

impressed if Taproot’s circus ever made it to Albaseat. ‘Strength! That’s the rule.’
    ‘Show me how it’s done, then.’ I walked into the smithy. The glow of the forge fire and of two smoking lamps gave enough light to avoid the workbenches and various buckets. The place had a pleasing smell of char and iron and sweat. It reminded me of Norwood, of Mabberton, of a dozen other battles.
    The smith followed. I set a hand to his chest as he passed me. ‘Your name?’
    ‘Jonas.’
    He walked around the anvil. I glanced at the ceiling where tools hung from the beams. He would have just enough room. I would have plenty as he stood a hand taller than me.
    Sunny stepped up behind me.
    ‘The boy’s still alive, I take it? I’m not doing this for a corpse.’
    ‘He’s alive. Might be hurt bad.’
    Jonas crouched beside the anvil. He closed one big hand around the horn and set the heel of his other hand beneath the lip of the anvil’s face.
    ‘You’ve done this before.’ I gave him my grin.
    ‘Yes.’ He showed his teeth. ‘I can taste your gold already, boy.’
    He tensed, building for the explosion that would drive the ironwork upward. That’s when I hit him, with a hammer from the nearest bench. I struck the side of his head just by the eye. The noise wasn’t dissimilar from his boot hitting the child. The hammer came away bloody and Jonas pitched forward over his anvil.
    ‘What?’ Sunny asked, as if somehow he hadn’t seen it in the half-light.
    I shrugged. ‘No rules. You heard him.’
    We left them both lying in their blood. Whatever fire ate at my face I didn’t need another stray, and even if the boy could walk, taking him to the Iberico would be more cruel than another month in Jonas’s care. At least the boy was sitting up and looking about, which was more than could be said for his master.
    A corner and another street brought us to the plaza. We pushed a path through bakers’ boys with trays of loaves overhead, between laden farm carts ready to be offloaded onto the stalls already set to either side of the gate towers. The place heaved, late arriving traders made haste to erect their tables and awnings, and the townsfolk came mob-handed to buy, coins clicking in their hip pouches, eyes darting, hunting bargains in the predawn grey.
    ‘We’ll be lucky to find the provost’s man in all this.’ Sunny snatched at a passing bread roll and missed.
    ‘Have some faith, man,’ I said. ‘How hard is it to spot a king?’ I looped Balky’s reins over his pack-saddle and ran both hands through my hair, throwing the length of it wide across my shoulders and back.
    We reached the gates, the smoothness of the wall stretching above us to the paling sky. Hooves clattered across the flagstones as we led our animals beneath and traversed a dark tunnel through ten yards of wall.
    ‘I’m to ride with you.’ A voice from the black shadows to the side of the exit.
    ‘There you go, Sunny, we are known.’ I turned and gave him my grin. The glow from the east caught the lines of his face.
    The stranger broke from the shadows, a black clot moving to join us. A woman.
    She drew close, her horse a tall black stallion, a dark cloak wrapping her as if she expected to be cold.
    ‘Did you bring a map for us?’ I held out my hand.
    ‘I am the map,’ she said. I could make out only the curve of her smile.
    ‘And how did you know us?’ I asked, returning my hand to the reins.
    She said nothing, only touched her fingers to her cheek. My scars burned for a moment, another echo of Gog’s fire no doubt for I had surely forgotten how to blush long before.
    Sunny held his tongue, but I could feel the smugness radiating off him behind me.
    ‘I’m Honorous Jorg Ancrath, king of somewhere you’ve never heard of. The grinning idiot behind me is Greyson Landless, bastard son of some venerable line that holds a few dusty acres along the Horse Coast best used for growing rocks. You can call me Jorg and him Sunny. And