Cold Redemption (36 page)

‘Who’s there?’

He ignored the challenge and kept on cutting. The light of a torch flickered nearby. He shifted. Stopped for a moment, crouching in the shadows, gasping at the pain in his side. ‘Oi! What
are you doing?’ The sentry had seen one of the Marroc. Tolvis darted from his hiding place, knife ready, but he was too late. ‘Marroc! Marroc under the ramp! To arms!’

Tolvis silenced him anyway, taking him from the side and opening his throat. The Lhosir sentries around the Reach were already coming, calling out, rousing others. Tolvis took the dead
man’s axe for himself. No need for subtlety now. He swung the axe into the wooden pillars of the ramp.

A Lhosir ran at him. He let the man come, dodged aside and swung his axe again, still hacking at the wood, then ducked around it. ‘I was Tolvis Loudmouth!’ he bellowed. Ducked and
swung again. The wood was starting to split. More Lhosir were coming. He saw one of the Marroc up and fighting, saw the other one fall. ‘The Screambreaker named me. I fought at his side for
five long years. I’ve done many things, some that were good and some that were bad, and all that time I’ve stood by—’

A spear plunged through him from behind, deep between his ribs, and ripped out again. He spun round. Blood flowed out of him like a river and the axe fell from his fingers. The Lhosir
who’d killed him was hidden behind an owl helm. Not a man Tolvis knew. For a moment they stared at one another, then the Lhosir drove the spear into Tolvis again, into his belly, twisting
hard. Tolvis staggered. His hands reached out and grabbed the man who’d killed him.

‘By what was right,’ he gasped. With his last strength he dragged the Lhosir over, throwing them both against the wooden beams beside the ram. As his eyes closed for the last time,
he heard the crack of splitting wood, and then a great and sudden weight pressed down and he heard nothing more.

A
corner of the platform in front of the tower doors sagged, then cracked and fell. The sounds woke Gallow, but when he climbed to the roof to look
he felt no joy, only a heaviness. The Lhosir were swarming like ants around their ramp and everyone knew that the Marroc who had gone down there wouldn’t be coming back. He heard the last one
scream, ‘For King Tane!’ He’d walked this valley years ago with Screambreaker, chasing that old Marroc king. In the years since then he’d come to think that it was the
Lhosir who’d changed, that they’d somehow lost what had once made them noble, and perhaps there
was
some truth to that, but mostly what he thought now was that they’d
never been all that noble in the first place. Savages who fought better than the rest, that’s all they were.

He never heard Tolvis fall. What did his life buy? Another day?

In the morning Beyard came to the tower doors, waving a flag of parley. ‘Gallow Truesword! I would speak with you.’ In the yard the Lhosir were cutting away the broken wood of the
ramp. New beams already lay in wait outside the gates. When the Lhosir tried to make their repairs, the Marroc would use the last of their arrows and stones. When those were spent, they’d
wait because there wasn’t anything else they could do. The Screambreaker had finally got into Varyxhun castle because the last of King Tane’s huscarls had killed themselves rather than
be taken. Would that be what happened here? ‘Gallow Truesword!’

Gallow looked down from the tower roof. ‘Up here, Beyard!’

‘Tolvis Loudmouth lies dead. At dusk I send him to the Maker-Devourer as befits the warrior that he was. He died well. Will you come to speak him out, Gallow Truesword?’

‘What of the Marroc?’

Beyard put his hands on his hips. ‘What of them, Truesword? I honour a Lhosir.’

Gallow paused. What did he know of Marroc burials? Almost nothing. Eight years living among them and he hadn’t much idea how the Marroc made peace with their dead. ‘Bury them!’
That was all he knew.

Beyard shook his head. ‘No one will bury anyone here, Truesword, not until spring, not unless you want to have at the ground with a pick.’ He turned away. The Lhosir started
rebuilding their ramp and raising their ram, and the Marroc went back to throwing stones and shooting arrows made from the crates and barrels in the cellars of the Reach. As the sun dipped towards
the horizon, the Lhosir withdrew and Beyard returned. The ram was ready and Beyard stood beside it. ‘Gallow! I mean to burn the dead tonight before I smash in your doors.’

Achista stopped him. ‘It’s a trap, forkbeard. The iron devil means to snare you.’

‘Whatever you think of him, Beyard will honour his word.’

‘I will not open the doors for you to do this.’

Gallow sighed. ‘Yes, you will, because he has Oribas and I will ask for the Aulian’s life.’ He saw her face as she crumbled inside. It was a terrible thing.

The Lhosir left the yard until Beyard remained alone. ‘Let us understand one another, Marroc,’ he called. ‘I withdraw my men so you may open your doors. This is no truce. When
Gallow crosses the Witches’ Reach, we will be as we were. Die well, Marroc. You’ve earned your places in the Maker-Devourer’s cauldron.’ Beyard turned and walked away.

Achista’s eyes were red. Tears and not enough sleep. Gallow looked for Arda. She was staring at him from across the hall, but when he caught her eye she folded her arms and turned away.
The same look he’d seen when he’d left her to fight the Vathen, years ago.
Give me a man who has enough of the coward in him to stay at home and keep his family safe.
Gallow
took Achista’s hands. ‘If I don’t come back, find a place for her to hide and make her stay there. I’ll trade my life for hers and for Oribas if I can.’ He bowed his
head. Beyard might give him Arda, but not Oribas, not after what the Aulian had done.

Two Marroc pulled back the bars, Achista opened the tower doors and Gallow stepped outside. He’d barely taken a step when he heard it slam behind him and the bars grind back into place. It
felt strange to be on the outside – as though he’d been set free of something.

Across the yard at the outer gates Beyard was waiting. The pyre was a little way beyond him, and there they stopped. Tolvis lay atop the wood, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed. His furs
were dark and matted with blood. ‘He bought you this day,’ Beyard said. ‘If it wasn’t for him I’d have smashed my way in this morning. So honour him. Tolvis Loudmouth.
I never knew him, though I heard his name after what he did in Andhun. Reviled below only yours. Why was he even here, Truesword? Why did you come back, either of you?’

‘For Arda.’

‘Both of you?’

‘Both of us.’

Beyard shook his head. ‘I’m told my heart stopped beating seventeen winters back. Sometimes in the dead of night when the silence is so thick it’s suffocating, I close my eyes
and listen for it. I hear nothing, so forgive me if I don’t understand how a heart works any more. Your Aulian friend showed me a mirror that I should have seen a very long time ago.’
He took off his mask and crown and Gallow saw that his face was burned and scarred as if by fire. ‘You and Tolvis Loudmouth. Two fine brothers of the sea. Speak him out then, old friend, and
let us all be back to killing each other.’ He sounded sad, like the Beyard that Gallow remembered.

Gallow spoke of Tolvis then, of the life he’d led, of the battles he’d seen and the deeds he’d done. Of his years when he’d fought in the Screambreaker’s war.
He’d been there at every turn as the Marroc were crushed, and now he was dead so that a handful could live another day. As Gallow spoke, Beyard took a torch to the pyre and lit it. A few
other Lhosir paused and stood, listening sombrely. Maybe they were old warriors who’d known Tolvis once, or maybe they simply respected the old way of speaking out an enemy who’d died
well in battle. ‘We’re lessened by his passing,’ breathed Beyard when Gallow was done. They were the old words for bidding farewell to a fallen friend but Beyard gave them a
weight as though he truly meant them. ‘Tonight we will be lessened by yours. I will speak you out myself.’

‘I have a favour to ask, old friend,’ said Gallow. ‘Oribas.’

‘The Aulian.’ Beyard shook his head. ‘He killed, Gallow. Many men and in bad ways. I’ve sent him back to Varyxhun to be hanged.’

But by now Gallow was looking at the mountainside beyond the pyre. In the twilight it seemed that it was moving.

A dozen Crackmarsh men hung back, armed with bows to take down any forkbeards travelling the Varyxhun Road from higher in the valley – messengers, perhaps, from the
castle. The Marroc would shoot the horses out from under the forkbeards to stop them, whether one came or a hundred. Valaric took a handful of men ahead in case any came the other way. The bulk of
the Marroc travelled in between, moving down the valley in secret. Surprise was a weapon Valaric couldn’t afford to lose. An hour up the Varyxhun Road from Witches’ Reach he stopped and
left the vanguard with Sarvic and led his main force up the mountainside instead. It was slow going through the snow. The air was bitter, a harsh biting cold far worse than wintering in the
Crackmarsh. He hadn’t meant to, but Valaric saw now that he’d brought his men to a choice between victory or death. They’d either overrun the forkbeards and their camp and relieve
the Reach or they’d die in the night, frozen in their boots. He called a halt on the side of the mountain as the sun began to set and they caught their first sight of the Lhosir camp. The
Marroc couldn’t light any fires of their own but the sight of so many enemies was enough to keep them warm. They strung their bows and sharpened their swords and their spears and their axes;
they tightened the straps on their shields and their helms and rubbed their hands and paced back and forth. There were no fine words, not from Valaric. They all knew what they’d come for, why
they’d gone to the Crackmarsh in the first place, and here it was.

The mountain darkness came quickly. A pyre burst into flame up by the gates of Witches’ Reach. It was a sign, Valaric decided: Modris telling him that now was the time. There was no great
shout, no wild charge, but as one the grim-faced Marroc of the Crackmarsh poured down the mountain towards the Lhosir below.

Beyard faced Witches’ Reach. He had his back to the mountain where the shadows had come alive. Gallow slowly drew his sword. ‘Can we not settle this between us, old
friend? One against another?’

Beyard looked sad. ‘But I will win.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘What do you ask, Gallow? Beat me and I will let these Marroc go? I cannot. And what do you offer? If I bring you to your knees, will they meekly open their gates? No. Those days are
gone.’

Gallow shook his head. ‘They’re not gone for as long as we remember them, old friend. For as long as we live.’

Beyard laughed, bitter as poison. ‘Did your Aulian not tell you what I am?’ He looked at Gallow’s confusion and shook his head. ‘I am dead, Gallow. The Eyes of Time took
me in the Temple of Fate. The Fateguard sent me to the Ice Wraiths and the Eyes of Time gave me this.’ He beat his fist against the iron he wore and looked up at the mountains around the
Reach. ‘I have liked these mountains ever since I saw them. Their cold unforgiving majesty reminds me of the last journey I took as a man, with blood that ran warm and a heart to beat and a
soul that burned.’ Venom filled his words. He took off one iron gauntlet and drew out the red sword, but instead of coming at Gallow with it he slid the edge across his palm. The flesh
beneath his pale skin was dark but no blood dripped into the snow melting around Tolvis’s pyre. He sheathed Solace and stared at his hand. ‘I feel no heat from these flames, nor do I
have warmth inside me.’

Abruptly he picked up his mask and crown and put them on his head. He paced back and forth and then drew Solace again. ‘There’s no happy outcome here, but an outcome there must be.
Let’s be at it, old friend.’

From the roof of the tower Achista peered towards the pyre. She watched Gallow and the iron devil stand beside it. She saw Gallow, lit up by the flames, draw his sword, and the
iron devil too, and watched them begin to circle. The forkbeard wouldn’t be coming back. Nor would Oribas. Most of the Lhosir were further down the ridge, sitting around their fires, warming
themselves for the fight to come. She ran down the stairs that circled the inside of the tower, shouting to the Marroc to rise. Thirty men perhaps, no more, against five hundred forkbeards, but
when she called them to arms they followed her gladly, the weight of waiting lifted from their shoulders, a burden pulled away. They threw down the bars and hurled open the doors and spilled into
the night onto the Lhosir ramp, voices strong and clear, swords and helms gleaming in the light of the torches that lit up the walls of Witches’ Reach. They would die but they would not be
meek.

G
allow and Beyard circled each other. Neither carried a shield and so there were no rushing charges to knock the other man down. For once they were
wary. Gallow’s eyes stayed on the edge of the red sword. So many names among the different people of the world – Solace, the Comforter, the Peacebringer – but the Aulians had the
right of it: the Edge of Sorrows. For all the sharpness of its terrible blade, it carried a curse.

He put his back to the pyre and sprang, arms wide, sword out to swing at Beyard’s head, and then changed into a chop to the hip where Beyard’s armour seemed weakest, but the iron man
held out the red sword like a spear, pointed at Gallow’s chest. He stepped aside and Gallow had no choice but to cut at the sword or else impale himself on its tip. He’d seen it shear
through mail in a way no sword should ever do.

Beyard whipped Solace at Gallow’s legs. Gallow jumped away and turned, and now it was Beyard who was looking down the slope of the mountain saddle towards his camp. Shouts echoed up the
ridge. Beyard took a step back. For a moment his head craned forward as if he was trying to see what was happening. Gallow flung himself at the iron man and brought his sword down as hard as he
could. Beyard, half off guard, brought up Solace, but too slowly, and Gallow’s blade cracked into the iron armour around his collar, into the space between shoulder and neck. Gallow felt it
strike, felt the edge of his steel bite into metal, felt it stick and wrenched it free before the sword was torn out of his hand. He jumped away. Beyard swayed. Where Gallow had struck, his armour
was cracked and misshapen, a large dark scar cut into it that ought to have cracked bones and drip with seeping blood. For a moment the two of them stared at one another. Then Beyard bowed his
head.