The Blade Itself (56 page)

The horseman at the back split in half, all of a sudden, blood spraying everywhere. The Thunderhead had come up from the stream, got round behind them. There’s no armour that could stop a blow like that. The giant roared and swung the great length of bloody metal over his head again. The next in line got his shield up in time, but he might as well not have bothered. The blade hacked a big chunk out of it, tore his head open and hammered him out of the saddle. The blow was that strong it clubbed the horse down too.

One of them had got his mount turned now, bringing up his spear to stab at Tul from the side. Before he could he grunted and jerked, arching his back. Dogman could see the feathers sticking from his side. Grim must’ve shot him, and he tumbled down. His foot caught in the stirrup and he hung there, swinging. He was groaning and moaning and trying to right himself, but his horse was plunging now along with the others, making him dance, wrong way up, smacking his head against the side of the bridge. He dropped his spear in the stream, tried to pull himself up, then his horse half landed a kick on his shoulder and knocked him free. He went down under the milling hooves and the Dogman paid him no more mind.

The second archer was still sitting up on the cart. He was getting over his shock now, and lining up his funny bow on Threetrees, still squatting down behind his shield. Dogman shot at him but he was hurrying, and yelling, and his shaft missed and hit the driver beside him in his shoulder, just got up from the back of the cart, knocked him back down again.

The weird bow twanged and Threetrees jerked back from his shield. The Dogman was worried for a minute, then he saw that the arrow split the heavy wood and punched on through, but stopped just short of catching Threetrees in the face. It was lodged there through his shield, feathers sticking out one side, point out the other. That’s an evil little bow, Dogman thought.

He heard Tul roar and saw another rider fly off into the stream. Another dropped with one of Grim’s arrows in his back. Dow turned and chopped the back legs out from under Bad-Enough’s horse with his sword, and it stumbled and slid, pitching him off onto the ground. The last couple were trapped. Dow and Threetrees at one end of the bridge, Tul at the other, too tight with frightened, riderless horses for them to turn around or nothing, at the mercy of Grim out in the woods. He wasn’t in a merciful mood, it seemed, and it didn’t take him long to pick ’em off.

The one with the bow tried to make a break for it, chucking his bit of wood away and jumping down from the cart. Dogman thought nice and careful about his aiming this time, and his shaft got the archer right between the shoulders and knocked him on his face before he could get more than a few paces. He had a go at crawling, but he wasn’t crawling far. The driver of the cart showed his face again, groaning and grabbing at the arrow in his shoulder. The Dogman didn’t usually kill men that were down, but he reckoned today was an exception. His arrow got the driver through the mouth, and that was him dealt with.

Dogman could see one of the riders limping away, one of Grim’s arrows in his leg, and lined him up with his last shaft. Threetrees got there first though, and stuck him through the back with his sword. There was another one still moving, struggling up to his knees, and the Dogman took an aim on him. Before he could loose, Dow stepped up and hacked his head off. Blood everywhere. Horses still milling, screaming, slipping on the slick stones of the bridge.

Dogman could see Bad-Enough now, the last one going. He must’ve lost his helmet when he fell off his horse. He was struggling in the stream on his hands and knees, slowed up by all that weight of mail. He’d dropped his shield, and his spear, to make better time running for it, but he hadn’t realised he was coming right at the Dogman.

“Get him alive!” shouted Threetrees. Tul set off down one bank, but he was making slow progress, slipping and sliding in the mud the cart churned up. “Get him alive!” Dow was after him too, splashing and cursing in the water. Bad-Enough was close now. The Dogman could hear his scared gasping as he struggled down the stream.

“Aah!” he howled as Dogman’s arrow thudded into his leg, just below the bottom of his mail coat. He toppled sideways onto the bank, blood leaking into the muddy water. He started dragging himself up the wet turf beside the stream.

“That’s it, Dogman,” shouted Threetrees. “Alive!”

The Dogman slid out the trees and down the bank, through the water. He pulled his knife out. Tul and Dow were still a little ways off, hurrying towards him. Bad-Enough rolled over in the mud, his face screwed up with the pain of the arrow in his leg. He held his hands up. “Alright, alright, I’ll gurrr—”

“You’ll what?” asked the Dogman, looking down at him.

“Gurrr—” he said again, looking mightily surprised, hand gripped to his neck. There was blood pouring out between his fingers, down the front of his wet mail.

Dow splashed up beside them and stood there, looking down. “Well that’s the end of that,” he said.

“What you do that for?” shouted Threetrees, hurrying over.

“Eh?” asked the Dogman. Then he looked down at his knife. It was all bloody. “Ah.” That’s when he saw it was him as had cut Bad-Enough’s throat.

“We could have asked him questions!” said Threetrees. “He could have took a message back to Calder, told him who did this, and why!”

“Wake up, chief,” muttered Tul Duru, already wiping his sword down. “No one cares a shit for the old ways no more. Besides, they’ll be after us soon enough. No point letting ’em know more than we have to.”

Dow clapped the Dogman on the shoulder. “You were right to do it. This bastard’s head’ll do for a message.” Dogman wasn’t sure Dow’s approval was something he was after, but it was a bit late now. It took Dow a couple of chops to get Bad-Enough’s head off. He carried it, swinging by its hair, with as little care or worry as he’d carry a bag of turnips. He grabbed a spear out of the stream on his way, found a spot he liked.

“Things ain’t the way they used to be,” Threetrees was muttering as he strode off down the bank towards the bridge, where Grim was already picking over the bodies.

The Dogman followed him, watching Dow stick Bad-Enough’s head on the spear, shoving the blunt end into the ground, stepping back, hands on hips, to admire his work. He shifted it a bit to the right, then back to the left, until he’d got it nice and straight. He grinned over at the Dogman.

“Perfect,” he said.

“What now, chief?” Tul was asking. “What now?”

Threetrees was stooping down on the bank, washing his bloody hands in the river.

“What do we do?” asked Dow.

The old boy stood up slowly, wiped his hands on his coat, taking his time thinking on it. “South. We bury Forley on the way. We take these horses here, since they’ll be coming after us now, and we head south. Tul, you better unhitch that carthorse, he’s the only one as’ll carry you.”

“South?” asked the Thunderhead, looking confused, “south to where?”

“Angland.”

“Angland?” asked the Dogman, and he could tell they were all thinking it. “For what? Ain’t they fighting down there?”

“Course they are, that’s why I’ve a mind to go.”

Dow frowned. “Us? What have we got against the Union?”

“No, fool,” said Threetrees, “I’ve a mind to fight along with ’em.”

“With the Union?” asked Tul, his lip curling up, “with those bloody women? That ain’t our fight, chief.”

“Any fight against Bethod is my fight now. I mean to see the end of him.” Once he’d thought on it, the Dogman had never yet seen Threetrees change his mind. Never once. “Who’s with me?” he asked.

They all were. Course.

It was raining. Thin rain, making the whole world damp. Soft as a maiden’s kiss, as they say, though the Dogman could hardly remember what one of those felt like. Rain. Seemed right somehow, for the occasion. Dow was done with piling the dirt, and he sniffed and dug the spade down into the earth beside the grave.

It was a long way from the road. A good long way. They didn’t want no one finding it and digging Forley up. They all gathered round, just five now, looking down. It was a long time since they’d had anyone to bury among them. The Shanka got Logen o’ course, not too long ago, but they never had found the body. There might have been just one less in the band, but it seemed to the Dogman like there was a lot missing.

Threetrees frowned, taking a moment, thinking out what to say. It was just as well he was the chief, and had to find the words, ’cause Dogman didn’t reckon he could have found a thing. After a minute Threetrees started speaking, slow as the light fading at sunset.

“This was a weak man, here. The Weakest, that’s a fact. That was his name, and ain’t that a joke? To call a man the Weakest. The worst fighter they could find, to surrender to Ninefingers. Weak fighter, no doubt, but strong heart, say I.”

“Aye,” said Grim.

“Strong heart,” said Tul Duru.

“The strongest,” mumbled the Dogman. He had a bit of a lump in the throat, being honest.

Threetrees nodded to himself. “It takes some bones to meet your death as well as he did. To walk to it, with no complaint. To ask for it. And not for his own sake, but for others, that he didn’t even know.” Threetrees clenched his teeth and took his moment, looking down at the earth. They all did. “That’s all I’ve got to say. Back to the mud with you, Forley. We’re the poorer, and the ground’s the richer for it.”

Dow knelt down, and set his hand on the fresh-turned soil. “Back to the mud,” he said. The Dogman thought for a minute there might be a tear dripping off his nose, but it had to be only the rain. This was Black Dow, after all. He got up and walked away with his head down and the others followed him, one by one, off toward the horses.

“Fare you well, Forley,” said the Dogman. “No more fear.”

He reckoned now that he was the coward of the band.

Misery

Jezal frowned. Ardee was taking her time. She never took her time. She was always there when he arrived, at whatever spot had been arranged. He didn’t like having to wait for her one bit. He always had to wait for her letters, and that rankled as it was. Standing here like an idiot, it made him feel even more of a slave than he did already.

He frowned up at the grey skies. There were a few spots of rain falling, just to match his mood. He felt one from time to time, a tiny pinprick on his face. He could see the drops making circles in the grey surface of the lake, making pale streaks against the green of the trees, the grey of the buildings. The dark shape of the House of the Maker was rendered hazy by them. He frowned at that building with particular displeasure.

He hardly knew what to make of it now. The whole thing had been like some feverish nightmare and, like a nightmare, he had decided simply to ignore it, and pretend it never happened. He might have succeeded too, except that the bloody thing was always looming on the edge of his vision, whenever he stepped out of the door, reminding him the world was full of mysteries he did not understand, seething just below the surface.

“Damn it,” he muttered, “and damn that lunatic, Bayaz, as well.”

He frowned across the damp lawns. The rain was keeping people away from the park, and it was emptier than he had seen it in a long time. A couple of sad-looking men sat listlessly on benches, nursing their own personal tragedies, and there were passers-by on the paths, hurrying from somewhere to wherever. One was coming towards him now, wrapped up in a long cloak.

Jezal’s frown vanished. It was her, he could tell. She had her hood pulled right down over her face. He knew it was a cold day, but this seemed a touch dramatic. He had never thought she was the type to be put off by a few spots of rain. Still, he was glad to see her. Ridiculously glad. He smiled and hastened forward. Then, when they were a couple of paces apart, she pushed the hood back.

Jezal gasped with horror. There was a great purple bruise across her cheek, around her eye, the corner of her mouth! He stood there frozen for a moment, wishing, stupidly, that he was hurt instead of her. The pain would have been less. He realised he’d clamped one hand over his mouth, eyes bulging like a nervous little girl at a spider in the bath, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Ardee only scowled. “What? Did you never see a bruise before?”

“Well, yes, but… are you alright?”

“Of course I am.” She stepped around him and started walking off down the path. He had to hurry to catch her up. “It’s nothing. I fell is all. I’m a clumsy fool. Always have been. All my life.” She said it with some bitterness, it seemed to him.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“What could you do? Kiss it better?” If they’d been alone he wouldn’t have minded trying, but her frown showed him what she thought of that idea. It was strange: the bruises should have repelled him, but they didn’t. Not at all. Rather, he had an almost overpowering urge to take her in his arms, to stroke her hair, to murmur soothing words. Pathetic. Probably she would slap him if he tried. Probably he would deserve it. She didn’t need his help. Besides, he couldn’t touch her. There were people around, damn them, eyes everywhere. You never knew who might be watching. The thought made him more than a little nervous.

“Ardee… aren’t we taking a risk? I mean, what if your brother were to—”

She snorted. “Forget about him. He won’t do anything. I’ve told him to keep his nose out of my business.” Jezal had to smile. He imagined that must have been quite an amusing scene. “Besides, I hear that you’re all leaving for Angland on the next tide, and I could hardly let you go without saying goodbye, now could I?”

“I wouldn’t have done that!” he said, horrified again. It hurt just hearing her say the word goodbye. “I mean, well, I’d have let them sail without me before I would’ve done that!”

“Huh.”

They walked along in silence for a moment, skirting the lake, both with their eyes on the gravel. It was hardly the bitter-sweet farewell that he had pictured so far. Just bitter. They passed among the trunks of some willow trees, their branches trailing in the water below. It was a secluded spot, screened from prying eyes. Jezal reckoned he was unlikely to find one better for what he had to say. He glanced sideways at her, and took a deep breath.

“Ardee, er, I don’t know how long we’ll be away. I mean, I suppose it could be months…” He chewed at his top lip. It was not coming out at all as he had hoped. He had practised this speech twenty times at least, staring in his mirror until he got just the right expression: serious, confident, slightly wheedling. Now, though, the words came out in a foolish rush. “I hope that, I mean, perhaps, I hope that you’ll wait for me?”

“I daresay I’ll still be here. I’ve nothing else to do. But don’t worry, you’ll have a lot to think about in Angland—war, honour, glory and all that. You’ll soon forget about me.”

“No!” he shouted, catching hold of her arm. “No I won’t!” He pulled his hand away quickly, worried someone might see. At least she was looking at him now, somewhat surprised, maybe, at how fierce his denial had been—though not half as surprised as he was.

Jezal blinked down at her. A pretty girl certainly, but too dark, too tanned, too clever by half, simply dressed with no jewels, and with a great ugly bruise across her face. She would hardly have excited much comment in the officer’s mess. How was it that she seemed to him the most beautiful woman in the world? The Princess Terez was an unwashed dog beside her. The clever words leaked out of his mind and he spoke without thinking, looking her straight in the eye. Maybe this was what honesty felt like.

“Look, Ardee, I know you think I’m an ass and, well, I daresay I am, but I don’t plan always to be one. I don’t know why you even look at me, and I don’t know much about this sort of thing but, well… I think about you all the time. I hardly think about anything else any more.” He took another deep breath. “I think…” He glanced around again, just to check that no one was watching. “I think I love you!”

She spluttered with laughter. “You really are an ass,” she said. Despair. He was utterly crushed. He couldn’t breathe for disappointment. His face screwed up, his head drooped and he stared down at the ground. There were tears in his eyes. Actual tears. Pitiful. “But I’ll wait.” Joy. It swelled in his chest and burst out in a little girlish sob. He was helpless. It was ridiculous the power she had over him. The difference between misery and happiness was the right word from her. She laughed again. “Look at you, you fool.”

She reached up and touched his face, rubbed a tear from his cheek with her thumb. “I’ll wait,” she said, and she smiled at him. That crooked smile.

The people had faded, the park, the city, the world. Jezal stared down at Ardee, for how long he could not have said, trying to stamp every detail of her face into his mind. He had a feeling, for some reason, that the memory of that smile might have to get him through a lot.

The docks were heaving with activity, even for the docks. The wharves boiled with people, the air shook and rattled with their din. Soldiers and supplies poured endlessly up the slippery gangways and onto the ships. Crates were hauled, barrels were rolled, hundreds of horses were dragged and pushed and kicked aboard, eyes bulging, mouths frothing. Men grunted and groaned, heaved at wet ropes, strained at wet beams, sweating and shouting in the spitting rain, slipping around on the slick decks, running here and there in epic confusion.

Everywhere people embraced, kissed, waved to each other. Wives saying goodbye to husbands, mothers to sons, children to fathers, all equally bedraggled. Some put a brave face on it, some wept and wailed. Others did not care: spectators come simply to witness the madness.

It all meant nothing to Jezal, leaning on the weathered rail of the ship that would carry him to Angland. He was sunk in a terrible gloom, nose running, hair plastered to his scalp with wet. Ardee was not there, and yet she was everywhere. He would hear her voice above the din, calling his name. He would glimpse her out of the corner of his eye, looking at him, and his breath would catch in his throat. He would smile, half-raise his hand to wave, then he would see it was not her. Some other dark-haired woman, smiling at some other soldier. His shoulders would slump again. Each time the disappointment was sharper.

He realised now that he had made a terrible mistake. Why the hell had he asked her to wait for him? Wait for what? He could not marry her, that was a fact. Impossible. But the thought of her even looking at another man made him feel sick. He was wretched.

Love. He hated to admit it, but it had to be. He had always regarded the whole notion with contempt. A stupid word. A word for bad poets to harp on, and foolish women to chatter about. A thing found in childish stories and with no relevance to the real world, where relationships between men and women were simple matters of fucking and money. Yet here he was, mired in a horrible bog of fear and guilt, lust and confusion, loss and pain. Love. What a curse.

“I’d like to see Ardee,” murmured Kaspa, wistfully.

Jezal turned to stare at him. “What? What did you say?”

“It’s quite a sight to see,” said the Lieutenant, holding his hands up, “that’s all.” Everyone was a little careful around him since that card game, as if he might blow up at any moment.

Jezal turned sullenly back to the crowds. There was some kind of a commotion down below them. A single horseman was forcing his way through the chaos, spurring a well-lathered horse with frequent shouts of “Move!” Even in the rain, the wings on the rider’s helmet glittered. A Knight Herald.

“Bad news for someone,” murmured Kaspa.

Jezal nodded. “Looks like us.” He was indeed making directly for their ship, leaving a trail of bemused and angry soldiers and workmen behind him. He swung out of the saddle and strode purposefully up the gangplank towards them, face grim, bright-polished armour covered with moisture and jingling with every step.

“Captain Luthar?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jezal, “I’ll fetch the Colonel.”

“No need. My message is for you.”

“It is?”

“High Justice Marovia requires your presence at his offices. Immediately. It would be best if you took my mount.”

Jezal frowned. He did not like the taste of this at all. There was no reason that he could see for a Knight Herald to be bringing messages to him, except that he had been inside the House of the Maker. He wanted nothing more to do with that. He wanted it in the past, forgotten, along with Bayaz, and his Northman, and that disgusting cripple.

“The High Justice is waiting, Captain.”

“Yes, of course.” It seemed there was nothing to be done.

“Ah, Captain Luthar! An honour to see you again!” Jezal was hardly surprised to run into the madman Sulfur, even here outside the offices of the High Justice. He no longer even seemed a madman, just another part of a world gone entirely mad. “An absolute honour!” he frothed.

“Likewise,” said Jezal numbly.

“I’m so lucky I caught you, what with both of us leaving so soon! My master has all manner of errands for me.” He gave a deep sigh. “Never the slightest peace, eh?”

“No, I know what you mean.”

“Still, an honour indeed to see you, and victorious at the Contest! I saw the whole thing, you know, it was a privilege to bear witness.” He smiled broadly, different coloured eyes glittering. “And to think, you were set on giving it up. Hah! But you stuck at it, just as I said you would! Yes you did, and now you reap the rewards! The edge of the World,” he whispered softly, as though to say the words out loud was to invite disaster. “The edge of the World. Can you imagine? I envy you, indeed I do!”

Jezal blinked. “What?”

“What! Hah! ‘What’, he says! You are dauntless, sir! Dauntless!” And Sulfur strode off across the wet Square of Marshals, chuckling to himself. Jezal was so bemused that he had not even the presence of mind to call him a damn idiot once he was out of earshot.

One of Marovia’s many clerks ushered him through an empty, echoing hallway towards a pair of enormous doors. He stopped before them, knocked. At an answering cry he turned the handle and pulled one of the doors back, standing aside politely for Jezal to pass through.

“You may go in,” he said quietly, after they had been stood there for a while.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

The cavernous chamber beyond was eerily silent. Furniture was strangely sparse in that huge, panelled space, and what there was seemed oversized, as though for the use of people much bigger than Jezal. It gave him the distinct feeling that he was arriving at his own trial.

High Justice Marovia sat behind an enormous table, its surface polished to mirror brightness, smiling at Jezal with a kindly, if slightly pitying expression. Marshal Varuz was seated to his left, staring down guiltily at his own blurry reflection. Jezal had not thought he could feel more depressed, but on seeing the third member of the group he realised he had been wrong. Bayaz, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. He felt a mild surge of panic as the door shut behind him: the clicking of the latch felt like the clank of the heavy bolt on a prison cell.

Bayaz started up from his chair and came round the table. “Captain Luthar, I am so glad you could join us.” The old man took Jezal’s damp hand in both of his and squeezed it firmly, leading him forward into the room. “Thank you for coming. Thank you indeed.”