Sword of Wrath (Kormak Book Eight)
Sword of Wrath
Book Eight of the Kormak Saga
William King
Typhon Press
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter One
“Twenty-three good men dead. The Imperial Museum burned to the ground. Countless priceless treasures destroyed. Am I missing anything?”
Prince Taran paced the length of the chamber. Rage twisted his sleek, handsome features. Ash smudged his glossy black hair, clipped beard and elaborate court clothes. He clutched the hilt of his sword as if he wanted to use it on someone.
Kormak slumped in the hard wooden chair. His whole body ached. His eyes felt full of grit. A faint residue of alchemical energy from Valen’s Elixir filled his veins and kept him wakeful. He shifted his position trying to ease his aching back. For all the imperial luxury of their surroundings deep within Trefal Cathedral, there were no comfortable chairs.
“Am I missing anything?” Prince Taran demanded.
Kormak suspected that fear had a lot to do with his anger. The prince was a man more used to causing terror than experiencing it. He kept the palace torture chambers full of his brother’s enemies.
Kormak rose from the chair to loom over the prince. “The Old One haunting your palace is dead. I killed it.”
“And we are grateful for that,” said King-Emperor Aemon, his voice mild. He placed his hands together as if in prayer. His bony face radiated piety. The king glanced at his brother to make sure he got the point. “Who knows what might have happened if you had not been here, Sir Kormak?”
Taran’s face darkened with rage. “Abbot Gerd might still be alive. Our priceless collection of mystical artefacts might not be a pool of melted slag. Tens of thousands of...”
“I think you have said enough, brother.” The king sounded like a monk saying grace over a bad refectory dinner, but Taran grimaced, then swallowed. A vein pulsed high in his forehead. His knuckles were white on his sword hilt. He looked at the painting on the wall; it portrayed his gross, overbearing father raising a goblet in a mocking toast.
Taran muttered “We still do not know who was responsible for the attack.”
Aemon reached over and patted the prince on the shoulder, a man petting a favoured hound once it had been brought to heel. “We will, brother. We will. You need not worry yourself on that score.”
The king glanced at Kormak. His stare was measuring, his expression bland.
1 comment