Prince of Thorns (Broken Empire Series #1)by Mark Lawrence
When he was nine, he watched as his mother and brother were killed before him. At thirteen, he led a band of bloodthirsty thugs. By fifteen, he intends to be king…
It’s time for Prince Honorous Jorg Ancrath to return to the castle he turned his back on, to take what’s rightfully his. Since the day he hung pinned on the thorns of a briar patch
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When he was nine, he watched as his mother and brother were killed before him. At thirteen, he led a band of bloodthirsty thugs. By fifteen, he intends to be king…
It’s time for Prince Honorous Jorg Ancrath to return to the castle he turned his back on, to take what’s rightfully his. Since the day he hung pinned on the thorns of a briar patch and watched Count Renar’s men slaughter his mother and young brother, Jorg has been driven to vent his rage. Life and death are no more than a game to him—and he has nothing left to lose. But treachery awaits him in his father’s castle. Treachery and dark magic. No matter how fierce his will, can one young man conquer enemies with power beyond his imagining?
“[A] morbidly gripping, gritty fantasy tale.” Publishers Weekly
“The best book I’ve read all year…[Lawrence] pulls you in and doesn’t let go.” New York Times bestselling author Peter V. Brett
“Prince of Thorns deserves attention as the work of an iconoclast who seems determined to turn that familiar thing, Medievalesque Fantasy Trilogy, entirely on its head.” Locus
Read an Excerpt
Ravens! Always the ravens. They settled on the gables of the church even before the injured became the dead. Even before Rike had finished taking fingers from hands, and rings from fingers. I leaned back against the gallows-post and nodded to the birds, a dozen of them in a black line, wise-eyed and watching.
The town-square ran red. Blood in the gutters, blood on the flagstones, blood in the fountain. The corpses posed as corpses do. Some comical, reaching for the sky with missing fingers, some peaceful, coiled about their wounds. Flies rose above the wounded as they struggled. This way and that, some blind, some sly, all betrayed by their buzzing entourage.
'Water! Water!' It's always water with the dying. Strange—it's killing that gives me a thirst.
And that was Mabberton. Two hundred dead farmers lying with their scythes and axes. You know, I warned them that we do this for a living. I said it to their leader, Bovid Tor. I gave them that chance, I always do. But no. They wanted blood and slaughter. And they got it.
War, my friends, is a thing of beauty. Those as says otherwise are losing. If I'd bothered to go over to old Bovid, propped up against the fountain with his guts in his lap, he'd probably take a contrary view. But look where disagreeing got him.
'Shit-poor farm maggots,' Rike discarded a handful of fingers over Bovid's open belly. He came to me, holding out his takings, as if it was my fault. 'Look! One gold ring. One! A whole village and one fecking gold ring. I'd like to set the bastards up and knock 'em down again. Fecking bog-farmers.'
He would too: he was an evil bastard, and greedy with it. I held his eye. 'Settle down, Brother Rike. There's more than one kind of gold in Mabberton.'
I gave him my warning look. His cursing stole the magic from the scene; besides, I had to be stern with him. Rike was always on the edge after a battle, wanting more. I gave him a look that told him I had more. More than he could handle. He grumbled, stowed his bloody ring, and thrust his knife back in his belt.
Makin came up then and flung an arm about each of us, clapping gauntlet to shoulder-plate. If Makin had a skill, then smoothing things over was it.
'Brother Jorg is right, Little Rikey. There's treasure aplenty to be found.' He was wont to call Rike 'Little Rikey', on account of him being a head taller than any of us and twice as wide. Makin always told jokes. He'd tell them to those as he killed, if they gave him time. Liked to see them go out with a smile.
'What treasure?' Rike wanted to know, still surly.
'When you get farmers, what else do you always get, Little Rikey?' Makin raised his eyebrows all suggestive.
Rike lifted his visor, treating us to his ugly face. Well brutal more than ugly. I think the scars improved him. 'Cows?'
Makin pursed his lips. I never liked his lips, too thick and fleshy, but I forgave him that, for his joking and his deathly work with that flail of his. 'Well, you can have the cows, Little Rikey. Me, I'm going to find a farmer's daughter or three, before the others use them all up.'
They went off then, Rike doing that laugh of his—'hur, hur, hur'—as if he was trying to cough a fishbone out.
I watched them force the door to Bovid's place opposite the church, a fine house, high roofed with wooden slates and a little flower garden in front. Bovid followed them with his eyes, but he couldn't turn his head.
I looked at the ravens, I watched Gemt and his half-wit brother, Maical, taking heads, Maical with the cart and Gemt with the axe. A thing of beauty, I tell you. At least to look at. I'll agree war smells bad. But, we'd torch the place soon enough and the stink would all turn to wood-smoke. Gold rings? I needed no more payment.
'Boy!' Bovid called out, his voice all hollow like, and weak.
I went to stand before him, leaning on my sword, tired in my arms and legs all of a sudden. 'Best speak your piece quickly, farmer. Brother Gemt's a-coming with his axe. Chop-chop.'
He didn't seem too worried. It's hard to worry a man so close to the worm-feast. Still it irked me that he held me so lightly and called me 'boy'. 'Do you have daughters, farmer? Hiding in the cellar maybe? Old Rike will sniff them out.'
Bovid looked up sharp at that, pained and sharp. 'H-how old are you, boy?'
Again the 'boy'. 'Old enough to slit you open like a fat purse,' I said, getting angry now. I don't like to get angry. It makes me angry. I don't think he caught even that. I don't think he even knew it was me that opened him up not half an hour before.
'Fifteen summers, no more. Couldn't be more…' His words came slow, from blue lips in a white face.
Out by two, I would have told him, but he'd gone past hearing. The cart creaked up behind me, and Gemt came along with his axe dripping.
'Take his head,' I told them. 'Leave his fat belly for the ravens.'
Fifteen! I'd hardly be fifteen and rousting villages.
By the time fifteen came around, I'd be King!
Mabberton burned well. All the villages burned well that summer. Makin called it a hot bastard of a summer, too mean to give out rain, and he wasn't wrong. Dust rose behind us when we rode in; smoke when we rode out.
'Who'd be a farmer?' Makin liked to ask questions.
'Who'd be a farmer's daughter?' I nodded toward Rike, rolling in his saddle, almost tired enough to fall out, wearing a stupid grin and a bolt of samite cloth over his half-plate. Where he found samite in Mabberton I never did get to know.
'Brother Rike does enjoy his simple pleasures,' Makin said.
He did. Rike had a hunger for it. Hungry like the fire.
The flames fair ate up Mabberton. I put the torch to the thatched inn, and the fire chased us out. Just one more bloody day in the years' long death throes of our broken empire.
Makin wiped at his sweat, smearing himself all over with soot-stripes. He had a talent for getting dirty, did Makin. 'You weren't above those simple pleasures yourself, Brother Jorg.'
I couldn't argue there. 'How old are you?' that fat farmer had wanted to know. Old enough to pay a call on his daughters. The fat girl had a lot to say, just like her father. Screeched like a barn owl: hurt my ears with it. I liked the older one better. She was quiet enough. So quiet you'd give a twist here or there just to check she hadn't died of fright. Though I don't suppose either of them was quiet when the fire reached them…
Gemt rode up and spoiled my imaginings.
'The Baron's men will see that smoke from ten miles. You shouldn'ta burned it.' He shook his head, his stupid mane of ginger hair bobbing this way and that.
'Shouldn'ta,' his idiot brother joined in, calling from the old grey. We let him ride the old grey with the cart hitched up. The grey wouldn't leave the road. That horse was cleverer than Maical.
Gemt always wanted to point stuff out. 'You shouldn'ta put them bodies down the well, we'll go thirsty now.' 'You shouldn'ta killed that priest, we'll have bad luck now.' 'If we'd gone easy on her we'd have a ransom from Baron Kennick.' I just ached to put my knife through his throat. Right then. Just to lean out and plant it in his neck. 'What's that? What say you, Brother Gemt? Bubble, bubble? Shouldn'ta stabbed your bulgy old Adam's apple?'
'Oh no!' I cried, all shocked like. 'Quick, Little Rikey, go piss on Mabberton. Got to put that fire out.'
'Baron's men will see it,' said Gemt, stubborn and red-faced. He went red as a beet if you crossed him. That red face just made me want to kill him even more. I didn't, though. You got responsibilities when you're a leader. You got a responsibility not to kill too many of your men. Or who're you going to lead?
The column bunched up around us, the way it always did when something was up. I pulled on Gerrod's reins and he stopped with a snicker and a stamp. I watched Gemt and waited. Waited until all thirty-eight of my brothers gathered around, and Gemt got so red you'd think his ears would bleed.
'Where we all going, my brothers?' I asked, and I stood in my stirrups so I could look out over their ugly faces. I asked it in my quiet voice and they all hushed to hear.
'Where?' I asked again. 'Surely it isn't just me that knows? Do I keep secrets from you, my brothers?'
Rike looked a bit confused at this, furrowing his brow. Fat Burlow came up on my right, on my left the Nuban with his teeth so white in that soot-black face. Silence.
'Brother Gemt can tell us. He knows what should be and what is.' I smiled, though my hand still ached with wanting my dagger in his neck. 'Where we going, Brother Gemt?'
'Wennith, on the Horse Coast,' he said, all reluctant, not wanting to agree to anything.
'Well and good. How we going to get there? Near forty of us on our fine oh-so-stolen horses?'
Gemt set his jaw. He could see where I was going.
'How we going to get there, if we want us a slice of the pie while it's still nice and hot?' I asked.
'Lich Road!' Rike called out, all pleased that he knew the answer.
'Lich Road,' I repeated, still quiet and smiling. 'What other way could we go?' I looked at the Nuban, holding his dark eyes. I couldn't read him, but I let him read me.
'Ain't no other way.'
Rike's on a roll, I thought, he don't know what game's being played, but he likes his part.
'Do the Baron's men know where we're going?' I asked Fat Burlow.
'War dogs follow the front,' he said. Fat Burlow ain't stupid. His jowls quiver when he speaks, but he ain't stupid.
'So…' I looked around them, real slow-like. 'So, the Baron knows where bandits such as ourselves will be going, and he knows the way we've got to go.' I let that sink in. 'And I just lit a bloody big fire that tells him and his what a bad idea it'd be to follow.'
I stuck Gemt with my knife then. I didn't need to, but I wanted it. He danced pretty enough too, bubble bubble on his blood, and fell off his horse. His red face went pale quick enough.
'Maical,' I said. 'Take his head.'
And he did.
Gemt just chose a bad moment.
'Two dead, two wrigglers.' Makin wore that big grin of his.
We'd have camped by the gibbet in any case, but Makin had ridden on ahead to check the ground. I thought the news that two of the four gibbet cages held live prisoners would cheer the brothers.
'Two,' Rike grumbled. He'd tired himself out, and a tired Little Rikey always sees a gibbet as half empty.
'Two!' the Nuban hollered down the line.
I could see some of the lads exchanging coin on their bets. The Lich Road is as boring as a Sunday sermon. It runs straight and level. So straight it gets so as you'd kill for a left turn or a right turn. So level you'd cheer a slope. And on every side, marsh, midges, midges and more marsh. On the Lich Road it didn't get any better than two caged wrigglers on a gibbet.
Strange that I didn't think to question what business a gibbet had standing out there in the middle of nowhere. I took it as a bounty. Somebody had left their prisoners to die, dangling in cages at the roadside. A strange spot to choose, but free entertainment for my little band nonetheless The brothers were eager, so I nudged Gerrod into a trot. A good horse, Gerrod. He shook off his weariness and clattered along. There's no road like the Lich Road for clattering along.
'Wrigglers!' Rike gave a shout and they were all racing to catch up.
I let Gerrod have his head. He wouldn't let any horse get past him. Not on this road. Not with every yard of it paved, every flagstone fitting with the next so close a blade of grass couldn't hope for the light. Not a stone turned, not a stone worn. Built on a bog, mind you!
I beat them to the wrigglers, of course. None of them could touch Gerrod. Certainly not with me on his back and them all half as heavy again. At the gibbet I turned to look back at them, strung out along the road. I yelled out, wild with the joy of it, loud enough to wake the head-cart. Gemt would be in there, bouncing around at the back.
Makin reached me first, even though he'd rode the distance twice before.
'Let the Baron's men come,' I told him. 'The Lich Road is as good as any bridge. Ten men could hold an army here. Them that wants to flank us can drown in the bog.'
Makin nodded, still hunting his breath.
'The ones who built this road… if they'd make me a castle—' Thunder in the east cut across my words.
'If the Road-men built castles we'd never get in anywhere,' Makin said. 'Be happy they're gone.'
We watched the brothers come in. The sunset turned the marsh pools to orange fire, and I thought of Mabberton.
'A good day, Brother Makin,' I said.
'Indeed, Brother Jorg,' he said.
So, the brothers came and set to arguing over the wrigglers. I went and sat against the loot-cart to read while the light stayed with us and the rain held off. The day left me in mind to read Plutarch. I had him all to myself, sandwiched between leather covers. Some worthy monk spent a lifetime on that book. A lifetime hunched over it, brush in hand. Here the gold, for halo, sun, and scrollwork. Here a blue like poison, bluer than a noon sky. Tiny vermilion dots to make a bed of flowers. Probably went blind over it, that monk. Probably poured his life in here, from young lad to grey-head, prettying up old Plutarch's words.
The thunder rolled, the wrigglers wriggled and howled, and I sat reading words that were older than old before the Road-men built their roads.
'You're cowards! Women with your swords and axes!' One of the crow-feasts on the gibbet had a mouth on him.
'Not a man amongst you. All pederasts, trailing up here after that little boy.' He curled his words up at the end like a Merssy-man.
'There's a fella over here got an opinion about you, Brother Jorg!' Makin called out.
A drop of rain hit my nose. I closed the cover on Plutarch. He'd waited a while to tell me about Sparta and Lycurgus, he could wait some more and not get wet doing it. The wriggler had more to say and I let him tell it to my back. On the road you've got to wrap a book well to keep the rain out. Ten turns of oilcloth, ten more turns the other way, then stash it under a cloak in a saddlebag. A good saddlebag mind, none of that junk from the Thurtans, good double-stitched leather from the Horse Coast.
The lads parted to let me up close. The gibbet stank worse than the head-cart, a crude thing of fresh-cut timber. Four cages hung there. Two held dead men. Verydead men. Legs dangling through the bars, raven-pecked to the bone. Flies thick about them, like a second skin, black and buzzing. The lads had taken a few pokes at one of the wrigglers, and he didn't look too cheerful for it. In fact he looked as if he'd pegged it. Which was a waste, as we had a whole night ahead of us, and I'd have said as much, but for the wriggler with the mouth.
'So now the boy comes over! He's finished looking for lewd pictures in his stolen book.' He sat crouched up in his cage, his feet all bleeding and raw. An old man, maybe forty, all black hair and beard and dark eyes glittering. 'Take the pages to wipe your dung, boy,' he said fierce-like, grabbing the bars all of a sudden, making the cage swing. 'It's the only use you'll get from it.'
'We could set a slow fire?' Rike said. Even Rike knew the old man just wanted us angry, so we'd finish him quick. 'Like we did at the Ronwood gibbets.'
A few chuckles went up at that. Not from Makin though. He had a frown on under his dirt and soot, staring at the wriggler. I held up a hand to quiet them down.
'It'd be a shameful waste of such a fine book, Father Gomst,' I said.
Like Makin, I'd recognized Gomst through all that beard and hair. Without that accent though he'd have got roasted.
'Especially an "On Lycurgus" written in high Latin, not that pidgin-Romano they teach in church.'
'You know me?' He asked it in a cracked voice, weepy all of a sudden.
'Of course I do.' I pushed both hands through my lovely locks, and set my hair back so he could see me proper in the gloom. I have the sharp dark looks of the Ancraths. 'You're Father Gomst, come to take me back to school.'
'Pr-prin…' He was blubbing now, unable to get his words out. Disgusting really. Made me feel as if I'd bitten something rotten.
'Prince Honorous Jorg Ancrath, at your service.' I did my court bow.
'Wh-what became of Captain Bortha?' Father Gomst swung gently in his cage, all confused.
'Captain Bortha, sir!' Makin snapped a salute and stepped up. He had blood on him from the first wriggler.
We had us a deathly silence then. Even the chirp and whir of the marsh hushed down to a whisper. The brothers looked from me, back to the old priest, and back to me, mouths hanging open. Little Rikey couldn't have looked more surprised if you'd asked him nine times six.
The rain chose that moment to fall, all at once as if the Lord Almighty had emptied his chamber pot over us. The gloom that had been gathering set thick as treacle.
'Prince Jorg!' Father Gomst had to shout over the rain. 'The night! You've got to run!' He held the bars of his cage, white-knuckled, wide eyes unblinking in the downpour, staring into the darkness.
And through the night, through the rain, over the marsh where no man could walk, we saw them coming. We saw their lights. Pale lights such as the dead burn in deep pools where men aren't meant to look. Lights that'd promise whatever a man could want, and would set you chasing them, hunting answers and finding only cold mud, deep and hungry.
I never liked Father Gomst. He'd been telling me what to do since I was six, most often with the back of his hand as the reason.
'Run Prince Jorg! Run!' old Gomsty howled, sickeningly self-sacrificing.
So I stood my ground.
The dead came on through the rain, the ghosts of the bog-dead, of the drowned, and of men whose corpses were given to the mire. I saw Red Kent run blind and flounder in the marsh. A few of the brothers had the sense to take the road when they ran, most ended in the mire.
Father Gomst started praying in his cage, shouting out the words like a shield: 'Father who art in heaven protect thy son. Father who art in heaven.' Faster and faster, as the fear got into him.
The first of them came up over the sucking pool, and onto the Lichway. He had a glow about him like moonlight, something that you knew would never warm you. You could see his body limned in the light, with the rain racing through him and bouncing on the road.
Nobody stood with me. The Nuban ran, eyes wide in a dark face. Fat Burlow looking as if the blood was let from him. Rike screaming like a child. Even Makin, with a horror on him.
I held my arms wide to the rain. I could feel it beat on me. I didn't have so many years under my belt, but even to me the rain fell like memory. It woke wild nights in me when I stood on the Keep Tower, on the edge above a high fall, near drowned in the deluge and daring the lightning to touch me.
'Our Father who art in heaven. Father who art…' Gomst started to gabble when the lich came close. It burned with a cold fire and you could feel it licking at your bones.
I kept my arms wide and my face to the rain.
'My father isn't in heaven Gomsty,' I said. 'He's in his castle, counting out his men.'
The dead thing closed on me, and I looked in its eyes. Hollow they were.
'What have you got?' I said.
And it showed me.
And I showed it.
There's a reason I'm going to win this war. Everyone alive has been fighting a battle that grew old before they were born. I cut my teeth on the wooden soldiers in my father's war-room. There's a reason I'm going to win where they failed. It's because I understand the game.
'Hell,' the dead man said. 'I've got hell.'
And he flowed into me, cold as dying, edged like a razor.
I felt my mouth curl in a smile. I heard my laughing over the rain.
A knife is a scary thing right enough, held to your throat, sharp and cool. The fire too, and the rack. And an old ghost on the Lichway. All of them might give you pause. Until you realize what they are. They're just ways to lose the game. You lose the game, and what have you lost? You've lost the game.
That's the secret, and it amazes me that it's mine and mine alone. I saw the game for what it was the night when Count Renar's men caught our carriage. There was a storm that night too, I remember the din of rain on the carriage roof and the thunder beneath it.
Big Jan had fair hauled the door off its hinges to get us out. He only had time for me though. He threw me clear; into a briar patch so thick that the Count's men persuaded themselves I'd run into the night. They didn't want to search it. But I hadn't run. I'd hung there in the thorns, and I saw them kill Big Jan. I saw it in the frozen moments the lightning gave me.
I saw what they did to Mother, and how long it took. They broke little William's head against a milestone. Golden curls and blood. And I'll admit that William was the first of my brothers, and he did have his hooks in me, with his chubby hands and laughing. Since then I've taken on many a brother, and evil ones at that, so I'd not miss one or three. But at the time, it did hurt to see little William broken like that, like a toy. Like something worthless.
When they killed him, Mother wouldn't hold her peace, so they slit her throat. I was stupid then, being only nine, and I fought to save them both. But the thorns held me tight. I've learned to appreciate thorns since.
The thorns taught me the game. They let me understand what all those grim and serious men who've fought the Hundred War, have yet to learn. You can only win the game when you understand that it is a game. Let a man play chess, and tell him that every pawn is his friend. Let him think both bishops holy. Let him remember happy days in the shadows of his castles. Let him love his queen. Watch him lose them all.
'What have you got for me, dead thing?' I asked.
It's a game. I will play my pieces.
I felt him cold inside me. I saw his death. I saw his despair. And his hunger. And I gave it back. I'd expected more, but he was only dead.
I showed him the empty time where my memory won't go. I let him look there.
He ran from me then. He ran, and I chased him. But only to the edge of the marsh. Because it's a game. And I'm going to win.
What People are saying about this
“This book is brilliant.” --Galaxy Book Reviews
“[A] morbidly gripping, gritty fantasy tale.” --Publishers Weekly
“The best book I’ve read all year…[Lawrence] pulls you in and doesn’t let go.” --New York Times bestselling author Peter V. Brett
“Prince of Thorns deserves attention as the work of an iconoclast who seems determined to turn that familiar thing, Medievalesque Fantasy Trilogy, entirely on its head.” --Locus
Meet the Author
Mark Lawrence is a research scientist working on artificial intelligence. He is a dual national with both British and American citizenship, and has held secret-level clearance with both governments. At one point, he was qualified to say, “This isn’t rocket science—oh wait, it actually is.” Married with four children, he lives in Bristol.
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Prince of Thorns starts off right in the middle of the action. The first few pages make it clear that you are not going to feel much love for Jorg, the hero of the story. He is amoral and ruthless, but you come to admire and root for him. Anytime you start to feel more than that, he reminds you how truly twisted he is. Prince of Thorns is the story of Jorg. Jorg, as a young boy, was forced to watch his mother the Queen and his younger brother brutally murdered. He was spared by being tossed into a thicket of thorns that trapped and nearly killed him, but concealed him. This is Jorg's story of revenge. Revenge on those who murdered his brother and mother, revenge on a father who traded political expediency for justice, and revenge on anyone who stands between Jorg and his desire. The book starts off with Jorg on the cusp of his 14th birthday, but fills you in on his past by alternating between events of four years ago and the present. Alternating between two timelines works because both timelines are equally fascinating. The setting is fascinating as well. Early clues are dropped as to where this story is set. I found it a bit confusing at first, but as hints and references were dropped, it became more and more clear where and when this story was taking place. The action moves along very briskly. Concentrating on a few main characters keeps the story tight, focused and exciting. The world feels both fully fleshed out and with a lot left to explore. Jorg leads a bit of a charmed life, but other characters who feel like they might be main cogs in the larger story are dispatched with impunity. This creates real suspense in battle scenes or dangerous situations because you can't be sure that any of the characters you are rooting for will survive. This is the first book in a planned trilogy, but it has the feel of a world with a lot more stories in it. It reads as a complete story and leaves you anticipating the next leg in the journey. Jorg is a unique protagonist and he'll leave you anxiously awaiting what he has planned next. Highly recommended.
When Prince Honorous Jorg Ancrath was ten years old, Count Renar's soldiers murdered his mother and younger brother, and hung him from briar patch thorns to watch them die. Raging with vengeance, he joins an outlaw gang. Less than four years later, he becomes the chief of the gang. However, Jorg has goals beyond the gang. He plans within a year to sit rightfully on the throne. To do this he must end the civil war by reuniting the empire under his rule. The time to kill Count Renar and those who executed his loved ones is at hand. However, betrayal and dark magic awaits the former prince who would be emperor. The first Broken Empire thriller is a dark gritty fantasy starring a pragmatic protagonist who kills without remorse; a lesson his uncle taught him. With the help of a kindred blood thirsty spirit, Jorg's quest for the throne is not for anyone with a weak stomach. Mark Lawrence portrays a realistic landscape as in many ways the "hero" is as brutal as the villain yet whether one describes Jorg as the lesser of two evils or not he is the glimmer of hope. Harriet Klausner
Nothing, NOTHING piques my interest more than a novel that causes other reviewers to either love or condemn a story. When I see such vacillation, I know I have to read it so that I can decide for myself. And so I did. Mark Lawrence tells the story of Prince Honorous Jorg Ancrath, a young man who was once a privileged royal child. At the age of nine, Jorg witnesses the brutal murder of his mother and younger brother. By the time Jorg turns thirteen, he leads a gang of outlaws with the sole objective to extract revenge against the Count of Renar, the man who ordered his mother's death. Jorg has nurtured his rage and tends it like a dark garden in his heart. He seeks vengence and his days with his outlaw brothers have taught him the brutality he needs to achieve his goal. There is only one thing that frightens Jorg and that is returning to his father's castle where he must confront the horrors from his childhood and win his place as the true prince of Ancrath. Lawrence gives us a broken empire in chaos where violence is rampant, but it is our world, easily recognizable. The novel is told entirely from Jorg's point of view, and Lawrence handles Jorg's character with the right amount of verve and pathos thrust in equal measure to keep the reader engaged. Just when Jorg's violence becomes extreme, Lawrence slows the pace and gives the reader a clear-eyed view into the heart of a child who has known nothing but grief. Only the coldest soul could not see the armor Jorg has placed around himself, caustic wit shields his fear and he buries his sorrow beneath rage. He is a young man who tries to scald love from his heart and he often succeeds. Yet no man is ever completely untouched by those around him, and Jorg is no different. Jorg is a complex character in a world both familiar and strange, and though the Broken Empire is seen entirely through Jorg's eyes, the other characters are just as intricate as Jorg himself. Lawrence's pacing is exquisite and he exhibits a penchant for horror with several well crafted scenes. It is a dark tale well told, you'll be up into the wee hours as you follow Jorg and his brothers down their bloodied path.
If you like the show Dexter, Young Adult Fantasy, and some of the better Stephen King ideas, you'll love this book. Actually, you may love it if you just like really well-written fiction. New writer Lawrence already wields first-person narrative like a master, making the story alternatively wince-worthy, beautiful, and enigmatical. Read it and wait for more from this prodigy.
This dark and heavy story is set in the far distant future when scientific knowledge has been lost, and medieval conditions prevail in the world. It is very well written, however, and editing errors are not to be found. The primary character is a violent, ruthless individual, as are most of the characters that surround him. The action is constant, making it difficult to stop reading at any point in the book. The author ties up all loose ends at the end of the story, but paves the way for a sequel.
Not a bad read. Can be graphic at times so if thats not your cup o tea than I suggest moving on to something else. I agree with another reviewer who said it had a lot of potential but missed the mark by not delving into the world and characters more. I enjoyed it enough to want to read the second book. Its perfect as an "in between" book while you're waiting for the next book in your favorite series. I was struggling to decide between 3 and 4 stars and eventually went with three.
I liked the premise of this book, but really couldn't get into it. I thought it would be a quick read because it isn't very long, but it just drug on and on. It is mostly a fantasy book set in times where kings rule, and then out of the blue, throws in a space ship with nuclear weapons. Save your money.
This book will appeal to those that enjoy a fast paced, medieval flavored treat with a side dish of dark sorcery and an apocalyptic undertone. The attraction is also based upon the excellent character development of the youthful protagonist, Prince Jorg Ancrath. This book is his story told first person and is strongly flavored with his humor, cynicism, recollections and thoughts. He is haunted by the murder of his mother and brother, his bitterness toward his father, his desire for revenge, and a deep inner voice that he cannot fully understand. However, his brutal, ruthless practicality, cunning, audacity, and confidence are the qualities that were required of a conqueror in ages past and perhaps are not all that different from the qualities of some successful politicians today. Nevertheless, part of Jorg’s appeal is that he does understand the moral actions and choices that others would have him take even when he chooses to ignore them. I read the comments from other reviews that compared Mark Lawrence with George Martin, Glen Cook and Joe Abercrombie. His style is different from that of George Martin as again this tale is told first person through a single character and the setting is very different. Jorg’s supporting cast of violent road brothers whom we sometimes are drawn toward despite their total absence of accepted morality is reminiscent of Glen Cook’s Black Company of mercenaries. The plot and setting of this book are more similar to Joe Abercrombie’s “Best Served Cold” than to George Martin’s “A Song of Ice and Fire” series. Mark Lawrence’s Jorg is also reminiscent of Joe Abercrombie’s Monza Murcatto At any rate, if you enjoy the books of George Martin, Glen Cook and Joe Abercrombie, you will love this one. If not, then this is not your treat.
Besides being a great read, this book was one of the most original books I've read in a long time. It does have a lot of graphic violence, which I usually don't care for, but once you get used to the author's style you come to realize that it is not gratuitous violence. There is a reason for it, as it helps you understand the main character's background and his motivation. This was the best book I've read in a long time, and I highly recommend it.
Important: I stopped after chapter four. I opened this book with excitement. I really did. I had heard that it was a great book from multiple sources. I can now firmly say that these people don't know what a good book is. The writing isn't exactly bad, but it wasn't really painting any pictures for me. The setting seemed interesting, from where i stopped anyway. The characters on the other hand were.... sub-par. Now i can't say much for the side-characters, as i did stop very early. The main character however is down right awful. Both in personality (This didn't impact anything really, cause i knew this was an anti-hero, and a dark fantasy story) and his writing. I came in knowing he was an anti-hero type of character, which is great. I normally love those type of characters, but he's just an "edgy teenager". Honestly, i can't go too much into why i don't like him. The review guidelines basically states that you shouldn't spoil anything, so i won't. I'll just leave it at that.
Post apocalyptic Europe reverts (mostly) to medieval technology. Mature audiences, not for timid or younger readers (this is a good thing). Violent, brutal, feces, mud, some sex, rotting flesh, and lots of blood (i.e. probably fairly realistic vs idealistic SF - at least regarding human behavior and what we are capable of doing to each other). Just finished the whole series. Well written. Enough depth, back story, and mystery to hold my sustained interest but lots of action to keep it moving. The main character is terminally flawed but I was still able to connect. A violent boy/man for a violent time.
A must read. Lawrence knows how to twist your emotions about a protagonist.
Pretty good story. A bit too "deus ex machina" in places, and the protagonist is almost impossible to like (unless you're a sociopath), but the writing is crisp, and moves the story along rapidly. Will most likely check out the second book in the series, to see what happens next.
I highly reccommend the book. It is very difficult to like the "hero" at first, but you end up cheering for him anyway. I can't wait for the sequel.
I can only assume Mr. Lawrence was writing with the intent of meeting a word count through this book. He blinks past scenes that should have spent pages to describe. He offhandedly acknowledges the rich past of characters, possibly in the vague hope of building an air of mystery. In all, what could have been an excellent story was rushed and flat. The setting is also vague, having a pseudo-historical feel, but never grounding the reader in the world. I had high expectations for this novel, but can honestly say I am disappointed.
Great read, it was a quick read. I finished it in one sitting. I loved the story line and the utter hatred of the main character. The ending shocked me, definitely did not see that one coming. It really his a morbid tail. Can't wait to devour the next one!
Fast paced, brutally violent, Jorg lives in defiance of everyone who stands in his way. He kills indiscriminately and reaches for goals that might be beyond even his ambition.
What was a randomly pick book, is now a must read series. I love it when I find an author who knows exactly what kind of story I want to read.
A Dark, Page-Turning Fantasy Ride My first impression of Jorg, the narrator and hero of Prince of Thorns, was that I might not like him, even though he did remind me of Alex from A Clockwork Orange. (Turned out I hit that right on the nose, as the author himself directed me to an article where he said that Burgess’s classic was the inspiration for this book!) Jorg is driven by rage and revenge and, being a teenager, that fit him well. What else motivates young men other than passion? Even though he wasn’t always a “good guy,” Jorg did mature a bit over the course of the book and I got to like him. The book also enjoyed (as I did) a very quick pace, cool quests, an unruly band of thugs as heroes, some cool monsters and magic, and some surprising world-building. I’m definitely interested in Book Two and will add it to the list. 4.5 stars from me (rounded up to 5).