Pillar of Ash, page 1
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for Hall of Smoke
Praise for Temple of No God
Praise for Barrow of Winter
Also by H.M. Long and available from Titan Books
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
Dedication
Algatt, Eangen, and the Northern Territories of the Arpa Empire
The Far North, Duamel
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Epilogue
Glossary
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise for
HALL OF SMOKE
“Long’s writing is elegantly understated, filling out Hessa’s complex world without ever stranding us – we are with her through every stumble and triumph. Hall of Smoke is ultimately a book about what it means to have your deepest illusions shattered and still scrape together the courage to begin again. A vivid and compelling debut.”
Lucy Holland, author of Sistersong
“Hall of Smoke is a breath of fresh air. The world is unique, the fights are top-notch, and the cast is unforgettable. A dazzling, fast-paced story with clashing civilizations, squabbling gods, and an indomitable heroine caught in the center of it all, Hessa’s is a tale that will grab you from the very first line and won’t let you go. I can’t wait to see what Long comes up with next.”
Genevieve Cornichec, author of The Witch’s Heart
“Hessa is a brilliantly written heroine, and I could easily have spent another 400 pages with her. The book’s world-building is intricate and refreshingly original, and it all ramps up to a finale that is the dictionary definition of epic.”
Allison Epstein, author of A Tip for the Hangman
“I have rarely read a fantasy novel that transported me like Hall of Smoke did. If you are a fan of myths and legends where gods and goddesses roam the earth and meddle with the poor mortals that serve them, you are in for an absolute treat with this book.”
M. J. Kuhn, author of Among Thieves
Praise for
TEMPLE OF NO GOD
“I am obsessed with what H.M. Long has created—the clear, vivid prose, the captivating mythology, and the absolute force of nature that is Hessa. Utterly enthralling, and a world I loved getting lost in. I can’t wait for the next book.”
Claire Legrand, New York Times-bestselling author of Furyborn
“This standalone in the same world starts with a bang and doesn’t let up, full of intrigue, betrayal, and action sequences that don’t disappoint. Hessa is a heroine to be reckoned with.”
Genevieve Gornichec, author of The Witch’s Heart
“Once again, H.M. Long pulls us effortlessly into a landscape of warring gods, tribes and impulses… I can’t wait to see what she does next.”
Lucy Holland, author of Sistersong
“A poetic yet action-packed exploration of grief, longing, and obligation. Bold characters, shocking twists, and heart-pounding action will keep you turning pages long after lights out.”
M. J. Kuhn, author of Among Thieves
“This book is a bonfire on a bleak winter night. Exciting and dangerous, brilliantly plotted and paced, this is the perfect followup to Hall of Smoke.”
Joshua Johnson, author of The Forever Sea
“Fantasy readers who like their heroes battle-hardened yet thoughtful and tender – not in spite of war but because of it – will enjoy Temple of No God.”
Suyi Davies Okungbowa, author of Son of the Storm
“A darkly realised world full of rich lore and characters that leap off the page.”
Rob Hayes, author of The War Eternal trilogy, the Mortal Techniques series and more
Praise for
BARROW OF WINTER
“A rich and wintry world of warriors, gods and monsters, with epic battles, dangerous magic, and complex family bonds. Thray is a heroine both powerful and vulnerable, and I loved her journey.”
Sue Lynn Tan, bestselling author of Daughter of the Moon Goddess
“Brimming with magic and intrigue, Barrow of Winter is a spellbinding read. Thray’s northern quest had me turning pages late into the night, as did Long’s beautiful winter-sharp prose. A vivid story that lingers long after the last word.”
Rebecca Ross, internationally bestselling author of A River Enchanted
“A world so vividly rendered you’ll feel the ice on the pages.”
Richard Swan, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Justice of Kings
“Evocative, lyrical, and brimming with fierce magic. Another brilliant addition to this clever, Norse-inspired series.”
Sunyi Dean, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Book Eaters
“H.M. Long is a master of her craft… Barrow of Winter delivered exactly what I look for in epic fantasy: an immersive world of gods and warriors, with badass characters who will stick with me long after I reach the end.”
Gabriela Romero Lacruz, author of The Sun and the Void
“Barrow of Winter reminds me why I love the genre. It pulls you in and doesn’t let go. It’s a masterclass in world-building, with descriptions so visceral you can almost feel the icy winds. Thray is a complex, powerful character I would follow into the cold again and again.”
M.K. Lobb, author of Seven Faceless Saints
“Steeped in natural beauty cold to the touch and yet crackling with warmth, Barrow of Winter is about a young woman on an age-old quest of self-discovery that nevertheless feels as fresh and crisp as new snow. For fans of fantasy and adventure, this is a must read.”
Olesya Salnikova Gilmore, author of The Witch and the Tsar
“An epic journey into a strange and wintery world filled with intrigue, adventure, secrets, loss, battles and monsters.”
Kell Woods, author of After the Forest
“With layers of lore and a sense of a vast, intricate history, Long expands on a world so vibrantly wrought I could taste the winter winds.”
Hannah Mathewson, author of Witherward
“Sharp as the winter wind, Barrow of Winter grabbed my attention and wouldn’t let go. Long’s latest is a compelling portrait of a woman coming to know herself—woven through with betrayal, darkness, thunderingly epic stakes, and a cast of prickly immortals I couldn’t get enough of. It’s fantasy at its very best.”
Allison Epstein, author of A Tip for the Hangman
“Epic fantasy teeming with adventure and wonder.”
Christopher Irvin, author of Ragged
“The perfect read for any reader looking for fascinating magic, adventurous heroines, and a fantasy world that feels real enough to book a plane ticket to visit.”
M.J. Kuhn, author of Among Thieves
Also by H.M. Long and available from Titan Books
THE FOUR PILLARS SERIES
Hall of Smoke
Temple of No God
Barrow of Winter
THE WINTER SEA SERIES
Dark Water Daughter
Black Tide Son
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Pillar of Ash
Print edition ISBN: 9781803360041
E-book edition ISBN: 9781803360058
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: January 2024
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© H.M. Long 2024
H.M. Long asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subseque
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
For Cheryl, my dear and infinitely creative friend, map-maker, and co-conspirator
ALGATT, EANGEN, AND THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES OF THE ARPA EMPIRE
THE FAR NORTH, DUAMEL
One
The knife was smooth and cool to the touch: simple, plain, but terribly sharp. Light glinted off the blade as my mother settled my small fingers around the hilt. When I tried to let go, her callused hand held mine in place.
“Do not come out until I call for you,” she told me.
The wind picked up around us, heady with pending rain and violence. My gaze flicked past the arc of the shield on my mother’s back, through the swaying trees and rustling undergrowth to the empty trail.
“Hessa!” a voice roared through the trees.
My mother clamped a hand over my mouth before I could whimper in fear. She hovered, perfectly still between the boughs of pale green needles.
They were looking for my mother. Whoever was out there in the forest was looking for her, and there was no gentleness, no forgiveness in their voice.
“Those are the Iskiri,” my mother murmured, low and warning. “If they catch you, if they realize you’re my daughter, they will kill you. Tell them you’re Algatt, and pretend not to know me, even if I’m hurt. No matter what they do. Do you understand? Yske?”
I couldn’t nod with her hand so firmly over my mouth, but I blinked a frantic, fluttering acknowledgment. Slowly, she let me go. I lifted the knife, clutching it with all the strength of my terror, and nodded.
Noting my clumsy grip, she grimaced and touched my cheek with a gentle hand. “I will teach you how to use that when we get home. Stay here. Stay silent.”
I nodded again and she vanished into the forest.
Quiet settled around me. Nothing moved in the fir grove save the wind tugging the boughs and a few stray needles falling into my hair. Tentatively, I shifted to all fours and stared in the direction my mother had gone, but otherwise I did not move. I would be like a rabbit in the garden, I told myself, holding so still the dogs couldn’t see me.
I heard a scream. It was a shocked sound, full of pain, but it belonged to a man. I bit my bottom lip and screwed my eyes shut.
Running. An outbreak of shouts and a husky, growling war-cry, fringed with bloodlust and ending in a cracking canine yip. My eyes flashed open as footsteps flitted past my fir grove, light and leaping. Their owner howled, then loosed a manic laugh.
I realized I was shaking, and that made the tremors worse. I sat down hard, dropped the knife, and covered my face. I prayed silently, a clumsy imitation of my mother’s prayers—one prayer to Thvynder, god of my people, and another to Aita, the Great Healer, who made all things whole and well. When my prayers ran out I held myself tightly, wishing I was anywhere but here, and at the same time longing to be at my mother’s side. At least if I could see her, I’d know she was alive.
It began to rain, hard and swift and cold. The trees swayed and the sky darkened, leaving me in a bewitching twilight. I squinted against the droplets and bowed my head, my misery and fear reaching a breaking point.
I didn’t make a conscious decision to leave the grove, but my next clear memory was of hovering at its edge, watching a warrior with a blood-streaked face throw my mother against a tree. Her head cracked off a root. She rolled and tried to push up onto her hands and knees, but her whole body shuddered. Her head lolled, eyes blinking, squinting. Fluttering shut. Her axe lay on the forest floor, glistening in the rain, and a long knife toppled from her fumbling hand.
The rain did nothing to wash the blood from her attacker’s face— multiple gashes bled freely, and as he snarled at my mother, I saw his teeth were filed to vicious points.
An Iskiri Devoted. I’d heard the stories many times in my eight years. Though the adults tried to protect us from the worst of those tales, other children gleefully whispered the details between themselves. Iskiri Devoted still served Eang, the Goddess of War, even though she was dead and hadn’t really been a goddess at all but a Miri—a powerful being, almost immortal.
The Iskiri Devoted reveled in killing the priests and priestesses of new gods in the most brutal, bloody, and painful ways. But my mother wasn’t just a priestess. She was the High Priestess.
She had killed Eang.
The Iskiri tore a hatchet embedded in a nearby tree and threw himself at my mother. My mother, already on the ground. My mother, who protected others, protected me. Loved me.
My fear flickered like a candle in the wind. That wind was a battering, righteous indignation, a refusal to accept the reality of the moment and the truth of what was to come. Then there was no thought in me, only rage that burst through my veins—hot, blinding and feral.
I shrieked. I threw myself from the trees and onto the Iskiri’s back. My fingers clawed his face, his throat. They pried into his eyes.
He threw me to the earth and spun on me, spitting blood and roaring like a wounded bear. I rolled right back onto my hands and knees and weathered the force of his fury.
My mother’s knife was in my hands. I darted forward and stabbed at his calf, down to the bone. The man stumbled and I went after him, still unthinking, carried on a wave of hate and the need to destroy the cause of my fear and my mother’s pain. Another stab, this one to the thigh. He tried to grab me by the hair; I dodged and hacked at his ankle.
But rage couldn’t change the fact that I was a child, and particularly small for my age. Another lunge—the Iskiri plucked me from the ground and threw me like a doll. I smashed back into the stand of firs, branches cracking and bending, tufts of needles painting blood across my skin.
I hit the ground and did not move again. I couldn’t. The anger that had fueled me sputtered with the erratic beat of my heart. All I could do was stare through tear-filled eyes as the Iskiri picked up my mother’s axe and advanced on her again.
I opened my mouth to scream, to try and save her with my tiny, torn voice. But Hessa moved. Wielding a fallen branch like a spear she staggered to her feet, smashed the axe aside and snapped the other end into the man’s face. His head cracked back and she pressed—beating him again and again in the head, face and shoulders until he collapsed, choking on blood and shattered teeth.
My mother did not stop. She kicked him onto his back and straddled him, branch braced across his throat. He clawed and beat at her, but she was impervious—she didn’t break his gaze until his hands fell limp and his fingers, creased with mud and blood, twitched on the sodden bed of needles.
Hessa unfolded slowly and stepped away from the corpse. Chest heaving, she spat blood and retrieved her axe, holding it loosely in both hands.
A new kind of dread gripped me then, twining through remnants of my ferocity and an incomprehension of what I’d done. That dread wasn’t directed toward the blood on my lips, or worry that my mother was badly injured. It wasn’t even because of the body, lying face-up in the rain. No, this new alarm came from the expression on my mother’s face—cold, remorseless, and weary.
If my rage had been a fire, hers was a deep, drowning sea.
She saw me and her expression faltered. I didn’t know if she’d seen everything I’d done, but I saw regret flicker through her eyes, the promise of a difficult truth. Then she brushed a tired hand over her face, slicking away blood and rain and black hair caked with dirt.
“Are you hurt?” she asked, composed now, her expression guarded.
I looked down at myself. I ached and was covered with cuts, but those pains were distant. “No,” I said simply.
“Then stay there. Wait for me.” She vanished into the trees again.
I stayed this time. I couldn’t have moved if I’d wanted to, for as I sat beneath the fir boughs and watched rain drip on the face of the dead Iskiri, something within me fractured.
* * *
The days passed and we completed our journey to the northern settlement of Orthskar, but nothing my mother said or did could mend me. When I looked at her, I saw the cold weariness in her eyes, bloody rain on her cheeks, and how she’d held the Iskiri’s gaze as she killed him. I remembered the heat in my blood, how I’d thrown myself on her attacker, and how I’d wanted to cause him pain.
