By Joe Abercombie
Logen Ninefingers, notorious barbarian, has eventually run out of good fortune. stuck in a single feud too many, he is at the verge of changing into a lifeless barbarian - leaving not anything in the back of him yet undesirable songs, lifeless pals, and many satisfied enemies.Nobleman, rushing officer, and paragon of selfishness, Captain Jezal dan Luthar has not anything extra risky in brain than fleecing his buddies at playing cards and dreaming of glory within the fencing circle. yet conflict is brewing, and at the battlefields of the frozen North they struggle through altogether bloodier rules.Inquisitor Glokta, cripple grew to become torturer, would prefer not anything higher than to work out Jezal come domestic in a field. yet then Glokta hates every person: slicing treason out of the Union one confession at a time leaves little room for friendship. His newest path of corpses could lead on him correct to the rotten center of presidency, if he can remain alive lengthy sufficient to stick to it.Enter the wizard, Bayaz. A bald outdated guy with a poor mood and a pathetic assistant, he may be the First of the Magi, he can be a staggering fraud, yet no matter what he's, he is approximately to make the lives of Logen, Jezal, and Glotka a lot extra difficult.Murderous conspiracies upward thrust to the outside, previous rankings are able to be settled, and the road among hero and villain is sharp adequate to attract blood. Unpredictable, compelling, wickedly humorous, and jam-packed with unforgettable characters, The Blade Itself is noir myth with a true leading edge.
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Extra info for The Blade Itself (book 1 in THE FIRST LAW series)
He tried to take a proper breath, choked, coughed up water, spat out mud. He groaned, flopped over onto his hands and knees, dragged himself up out of the river, gasping through clenched teeth, rolled onto his back in the moss and slime and rotten sticks at the water's edge. He lay there for a moment, staring up at the grey sky beyond the black branches, breath wheezing in his raw throat. 'I am still alive,' he croaked to himself. Still alive, in spite of the best efforts of nature, Shanka, men and beasts.
Shit,' said Logen. He threw himself to one side, slipped and fell on his face, rolled away thrashing through the brush, expecting the spear through his back at any moment. He scrambled up, breathing hard. He saw the bright point poking at him again, dodged out of the way, slithered behind a big tree trunk. He peered out and the Flathead hissed and stabbed at him. He showed himself on the other side, just for a moment, then ducked away, jumped round the tree and swung the axe down, roaring loud as he could.
All good. All useful. There was a tattered blanket snagged on a branch, wet and half caked in grime. Logen pulled it up, and grinned. His old, battered cook pot was underneath. Lying on its side, kicked off the fire in the fight maybe. He grabbed hold of it with both hands. It felt safe, familiar, dented and blackened from years of hard use. He'd had that pot a long time. It had followed him all through the wars, across the North and back again. They had all cooked in it together, out on the trail, all eaten out of it.