Read Mark Lawrence_The Broken Empire 01 for Free Online

the Tall Castle and your father—”
    â€œMy father can damn well wait!” I shouted. I bit back the rest, angry at being angry.
    Rike forgot about the sword for a moment. “What the feck is all this ‘prince’ shit? What the feck is all this ‘Captain Bortha’ shit? And when do I get to drink the fecking beer?”
    We had ourselves as full an audience then as we’d get, all the brothers about us in a circle.
    â€œWell,” I said. “Since you ask so nice, Brother Rike, I’ll tell you.”
    Makin raised his brows at me and he took a grip on his sword. I waved him down.
    â€œThe Captain Bortha shit is Makin being Captain Makin Bortha of the Ancrath Imperial Guard. The prince shit is me being the beloved son and heir of King Olidan of the House of Ancrath. And we can drink the beer now, because today is my fourteenth birthday, and how else would you toast my health?”

    Every brotherhood has a pecking order. With brothers like mine you don’t want to be at the bottom of that order. You’re liable to get pecked to death. Brother Jobe had just the right mix of whipped cur and rabies to stay alive there.

8
    So we sat on the tumbled stones of the burgermeister’s house and drank beer. The brothers drank deep and called out my name. Some had it “Brother Jorg,” some had it “Prince Jorg,” but all of them saw me with new eyes. Rike watched me, beer-foam in his stubbled beard, the line of my sword across his neck. I could see him weighing the odds, a slow ballet of possibilities working their way across his low forehead. I didn’t wait for the word “ransom” to bubble to the surface.
    â€œHe wants me dead, Little Rikey,” I said. “He sent Gomsty out to find proof I was dead, not to find me. He’s got a new queen now.”
    Rike gave a grin that had more scowl than grin in it, then belched mightily. “You ran from a castle with gold and women, to ride with us? What idiot would do that?”
    I sipped my beer. It tasted sour, but that seemed right somehow. “An idiot who knows he won’t win the war with the King’s guard at his side,” I said.
    â€œWhat war, Jorg?” The Nuban sat close by, not drinking. He always spoke slow and serious. “You want to beat the Count? Baron Kennick?”
    â€œThe War,” I said. “All of it.”
    Red Kent came over from the barrels, his helm brimming with ale. “Never happen,” he said. He lifted the helm and half-drained it in four swallows. “So you’re Prince of Ancrath? A copper-crown kingdom. Must be dozens with as good a claim on the high throne. Each of them with their own army.”
    â€œMore like fifty,” Rike growled.
    â€œCloser to a hundred,” I said. “I’ve counted.”
    A hundred fragments of empire grinding away at each other in a never-ending cycle of little wars, feuds, skirmishes, kingdoms waxing, waning, waxing again, lifetimes spent in conflict and nothing changing. Mine to change, to end, to win.
    I finished my beer and got up to find Makin.
    I didn’t have to look far. I found him with the horses, checking his stallion, Firejump.
    â€œWhat did you find?” I asked him.
    Makin pursed his lips. “I found the pyre. About two hundred, all dead. They didn’t light it though—probably scared off.” He waved toward the west. “They came in on foot, up the marsh road, and over the ridge yonder. Had about twenty archers in the thicket by the stream, to pick off folks that tried to run.”
    â€œHow many men altogether?” I asked.
    â€œProbably a hundred. Foot soldiers most of them.” He yawned and ran a hand from forehead to chin. “Two days gone now. We’re safe enough.”
    I felt invisible thorns scratching at me, sharp hooks in my skin. “Come with me,” I told him.
    Makin followed me back to the steps and fallen pillars at the