The Immortal Crown: Saga of Kings, Book One

by Kieth Merrill Narrated by Tim Gerard Reynolds

Overview

From the acclaimed director and producer Kieth Merrill comes an epic, high fantasy saga and the quest to fulfill the prophecy.

A thousand years ago, the Navigator crossed the great deep in ships lit with sixteen stones touched by Oum'ilah, the God of Gods. Over time the stones were scattered and a prophecy arose declaring that a “child of no man” would gather them again, obtain immortality, and reign forever as god and king of Kandelarr.

Two religious groups have sprung up around the prophecy, each with their own champion: the sorceress of the cult of she-dragon has chosen Drakkor, a warrior and mercenary. After surviving a series of rigorous tests to prove his worth, he is given one of the stones and begins his quest to fulfill the prophecy. He swears to return all sixteen stones to the sorceress, but the truth is he will let nothing stop him from claiming immortality for himself.

The Oracle of Oum'ilah has placed his faith in Ashar, a young postulant studying the Way of the Navigator on the Mountain of God. But when Ashar discovers he is a direct descendant of the Navigator himself, the Oracle reveals that it is his destiny to fulfill the prophecy and reunite the sixteen stones for good. But he must hurry before Drakkor claims the stones and corrupts them.

Meanwhile, miles away, a slave named Ereon Qhuin dreams of freedom. Abandoned at birth, his only possession is a strange stone that his mentor, the blacksmith Rusthammer, promises is the key to Qhuin's destiny and freedom.

A mercenary, a postulant, and a slave-which one is truly the child of prophecy?

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

01/04/2016
Merrill's disappointing epic fantasy series launch leads readers down familiar paths. It's been almost 60 years since Orsis-Kublan claimed the Peacock Throne after slaying his predecessor, King Omnnús-Kahn the Unconquered of House Cargenian. Orsis-Kublan's body and mind are both failing, and his kingdom is under assault from vicious bandits. The outlaws' leader, Drakkor, had been told when he was just a boy that he was actually "the child of no man," prophesied to "gather the eggs of stone forged in the breath of fire." The account of Drakkor's rise to power is intertwined with the story of Ashar, a postulant to the Holy Order of Oum'ilah, God of Gods and Creator of All Things. Ashar is faced with predictable tests of faith, and there's the requisite revelation that he has a noteworthy ancestor. The paint-by-numbers plot isn't helped by thinly drawn characters and unmemorable prose ("In the black of night and pelting rain, the Raven stood at a fork in the rocky road of destiny"). (May)

Foreword Reviews

Myths in the Making: Best Indie Fantasy Books of Spring 2016

Booklist

"Legend has it that there exist 13 stones, each touched by Oum’ilah, the God of Gods, and scattered throughout the land. Each stone is imbued with certain powers, and whoever unites all 13 will be granted immortality. Merrill establishes his large cast of characters and their motivations...An enjoyable read suitable for larger fantasy collections."—Booklist

Midwest Book Review

"A high fantasy epic about the individuals swept up in the tidal wave to determine the destiny of a nation. A grand struggle ensues between three-dimensional characters with sharply conflicting motives. The Immortal Crown is a riveting read from cover to cover, and highly recommended for connoisseurs of the genre."

Product Details

BN ID:	2940169577518
Publisher:	Blackstone Audio, Inc.
Publication date:	05/12/2016
Series:	Saga of Kings , #1
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

"Is it some distance?" Borklore asked as he scanned the tumult of stone walls rising on both sides of the narrow gorge where the woman had taken them. It had been more than an hour since they found the beaten woman in the road.

She rode beside him on a gray courser flecked with brown.

"I ran in the dark until I had no breath and could take the pain of my feet no more. I hid in the wood and waited for the dawn." She looked at him and held his eyes. "I hope I shall find a way to show my gratitude to you and your men."

"A marvelous coincidence," Borklore flushed and tried to hear her thoughts. "Clearly, the gods intended for us to gather these brigand bastards." He touched his forehead. "Pray forgive me, m'lady, for assaulting your gracious ears."

"Wait!" she said and reined in her horse. Borklore stopped the column. "There!" She pointed to a large boulder that had fallen from the walls of the canyon. It had split open, and the crack looked like the profile of a human face. "I think . . ." she began, then listening to something no one else could hear, she raised a finger to her lips. It was impossible for a hundred men and horses to be silent, but the hum of chatter and rattling of equipment quieted until the hooves of restless horses on rock was all that was left.

The woman slipped from the saddle and walked forward. The spare boots were big for her feet and made a slapping sound when she walked. She motioned for the captain to follow. An officer started to dismount, but Borklore stopped him and followed the woman himself.

The canyon narrowed and turned sharply right. A small stream ran against the wall. They waded in knee-deep water for a hundred steps before she stopped and pointed to a wider spot half a stone's throw ahead.

"Where did they leave the wagons?" Borklore whispered.

"We had no wagons," the woman said.

Borklore furrowed his brow. "You said they put the woman and children in wagons and . . ."

"Did I?" she said and jutted her chin. She took a few steps forward. A shiver of inexplicable dread sliced through the captain like a blade of ice. He turned at the muffled rattling behind him.

Four men blocked the passage. They wore iron and leather, rusted and scuffed. Their helms were mismatched and plumeless. Each stood with an arrow nocked and a bow fully drawn. At such close range the sharpened spikes of steel would penetrate Borklore's chest plate, but the arrows were pointed at his face. One of the bowmen sniggered.

When he whirled around in surprise and confusion, the woman was facing him. She reached a hand beneath black wool and as she pulled it back out an eruption of air wracked his body and clouded his mind as if it were siphoning away his very essence. He fell on the rocks and splashed backward through the water on his hands and feet like a crab trying to escape a giant gull. He stared in terror as a strange gray light retreated into the small black stone the woman held in her hand. The dirty light was sucked into the stone like a rush of foam into a whirlpool. What was happening?

Borklore rolled over and scrambled to his feet, looking for the archers. They stood motionless as if nothing had happened. He kept his hand a deliberate distance from the hilt of his sword. He had no defense. He whirled again toward the woman. She was gone! No. She had changed. Transformed in the mist of the strange gray light to a man with the skin the color of rusted iron. His face was shaven and scarred.

Drakkor closed his fist around the stone of translucent black crystal and slipped it back into its place of hiding. The stone possessed an even greater magic that he'd been told. Magic? Was the power of the pyrophilus a force from the soul of the universe itself, or from the powers of darkness from the underworld? It mattered not to him.

In the years he wandered the North, he had gradually learned its secrets. Quite by chance, he discovered the stone had the power to fool men's eyes and twist their minds. It demanded an intense focusing of consciousness, but over time he had mastered the skill. He could change the perception of anyone who looked upon him. By possessing the stone, he could compel those who looked at him to see him only as he wished to be seen.

Drakkor's breastplate protected his muscular chest and flat stomach. The pauldrons on his shoulders and buckles were tarnished brass. His cloak was the color of blood and flowed in the slightest breeze as though he could fly.

As the light gathered, he was joined on either side by fierce men with iron breastplates, iron helms, and two-handed great swords.

"By the gods, what manner of evil is before me?" The captain heaved out breath from exertion and shock.

Drakkor held the man's eyes, his smile cold. His spiders had told him about Borklore. A man of such nobility would do anything to avenge a woman violated by villainous rogues. "What is evil to one is a blessing to another."

The captain stiffened. "I command you, in the name of the king, to surrender your weapons and stand aside."

A whisper of amusement rippled among Drakkor's men.

"Ah, the tavern gossip is true." Drakkor raised an eyebrow and recited the disparaging adage. "The courage of a kingsrider is only surpassed by his arrogance, and his arrogance only by his ignorance." 

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