Once Dow saw they were all against him he cracked a happy smile, just as if there never was a problem. ‘Fair enough,’ he said to Threetrees, the anger all seeming to drain away in an instant. ‘What’s it to be then, chief?’
Threetrees looked over at the woods. He sniffed and sucked at his teeth. He scratched at his beard, taking his moment to think on it. He looked each one of them over, considering. ‘We go south,’ he said.
He smelled ’em before he saw ’em, but that was always the way with him. He had a good nose, did the Dogman, that’s how he got the name after all. Being honest though, anyone could have smelled ’em. They fucking stank.
There were twelve down in the clearing. Sitting, eating, grunting to each other in their nasty, dirty tongue, big yellow teeth sticking out everywhere, dressed in lumps of smelly fur and reeking hide and odd bits of rusty armour. Shanka.
‘Fucking Flatheads,’ Dogman muttered to himself. He heard a soft hiss behind, turned round to see Grim peering up from behind a bush. He held out his open hand to say stop, tapped the top of his skull to say Flatheads, held up his fist, then two fingers to say twelve, and pointed back down the track towards the others. Grim nodded and faded away into the woods.
The Dogman took one last look at the Shanka, just to make sure they were all still unwary. They were, so he slipped back down the tree and off.
‘They’re camped round the road, twelve that I saw, maybe more.’
‘They looking for us?’ asked Threetrees.
‘Maybe, but they ain’t looking too hard.’
‘Could we get around them?’ asked Forley, always looking to miss out on a fight.
Dow spat onto the ground, always looking to get into one. ‘Twelve is nothing! We can do them alright!’
The Dogman looked over at Threetrees, thinking it out, taking his moment. Twelve wasn’t nothing, and they all knew it, but it might be better to deal with them than leave them free and easy behind.
‘What’s it to be, chief?’ asked Tul.
Threetrees set his jaw. ‘Weapons.’
A fighting man’s a fool that don’t keep his weapons clean and ready. Dogman had been over his no more ’n an hour before. Still, you won’t be killed for checking ’em, while you might be for not doing it.
There was the hissing of steel on leather, the clicking of wood and the clanking of metal. Dogman watched Grim twang at his bowstring, check over the feathers on his shafts. He watched Tul Duru run his thumb down the edge of his big heavy sword, almost as tall as Forley was, clucking like a chicken at a spot of rust. He watched Black Dow rubbing a rag on the head of his axe, looking at the blade with eyes soft as a lover’s. He watched Threetrees tugging at the buckles on his shield straps, swishing his blade through the air, bright metal glinting.
The Dogman gave a sigh, pulled the straps on his guard tighter round his left wrist, checked the wood of his bow for cracks. He made sure all his knives were where they should be. You can never have too many knives, Logen had told him once, and he’d taken it right to heart. He watched Forley checking his short-sword with clumsy hands, his mouth chewing away, eyes all wet with fear. That got his own nerves jumping, and he glanced round at the others. Dirty, scarred, frowns and lots of beard. There was no fear there, no fear at all, but that was nothing to be shamed at. Different men have different ways, Logen had told him once, and you have to have fear to have courage. He’d taken that right to heart as well.
He walked over to Forley and gave him a clap on the shoulder. ‘You have to have fear to have courage,’ he said.
‘That so?’
‘So they say, and it’s a good thing too.’ The Dogman leaned close so no one else could hear. ‘Cause I’m about ready to shit.’ He reckoned that’s what Logen would have done, and now that Logen had gone back to the mud it fell to him. Forley gave half a smile, but it slumped pretty fast, and he looked more scared then ever. There’s only so much you can do.
‘Right, boys,’ said Threetrees, once the gear was all checked and stowed in its proper places, ‘here’s how we’ll get it done. Grim, Dogman, opposite sides of their camp, out in the trees. Wait for the signal, then shoot any Flathead with a bow. Failing that, whatever’s closest.’
‘Right you are, chief,’ said the Dogman. Grim gave a nod.
‘Tul, you and me’ll take the front, but wait for the signal, eh?’
‘Aye,’ rumbled the giant.
‘Dow, you and Forley at the back. You come on when you see us go. But this time you wait for us to go!’ hissed Threetrees, stabbing with his thick finger.
‘Course, chief.’ Dow shrugged his shoulders, just as though he always did as he was told.
‘Right then, there it is,’ said Threetrees, ‘anyone still confused? Any empty heads round the fire?’ The Dogman mumbled and shook his head. They all did. ‘Fair enough. Just one more thing.’ The old boy leaned forward, looking at each of them one by one. ‘Wait . . . for . . . the . . . fucking . . . signal!’
It wasn’t ’til the Dogman was hid behind a bush with his bow in his hand and a shaft at the ready that he realised. He’d no idea what the signal was. He looked down at the Shanka, still sat there all unwary, grunting and shouting and banging about. By the dead he needed to piss. Always needed to piss before a fight. Had anyone said the signal? He couldn’t remember.
‘Shit,’ he whispered, and just then Dow came hurtling out from the trees, axe in one hand, sword in the other.
‘Fucking Flatheads!’ he screamed, giving the nearest a fearsome big blow in the head and splattering blood across the clearing. In so far as you could tell what a Shanka was thinking, these ones looked greatly surprised. Dogman reckoned that would have to do for a signal.
He let loose his shaft at the nearest Flathead, just reaching for a big club and watched it catch it through the armpit with a satisfying thunk. ‘Hah!’ he shouted. He saw Dow spit another through the back with his sword, but there was a big Shanka now with a spear ready to throw. An arrow came looping out of the trees and stuck it through the neck, and it let go a squeal and sprawled out backwards. That Grim was a damn good shot.
Now Threetrees came roaring from the scrub on the other side of the clearing, catching them off guard. He barged one Flathead in the back with his shield and it sprawled face-first into the fire, he hacked at another with his sword. The Dogman let go a shaft and it stuck a Shanka in its gut. It dropped down on its knees and a moment later Tul took its head off with a great swing of his sword.
The fight was joined and moving quick—chop, grunt, scrape, rattle. There was blood flying and weapons swinging and bodies dropping too fast for the Dogman to try an arrow at. The three of them had the last few hemmed in, squawking and gibbering. Tul Duru was swinging his big sword around, keeping them at bay. Threetrees darted in and chopped the legs out from under one, and Dow cut another down as it looked round.
The last one squawked and made a run for the trees. Dogman shot at it, but he was hurrying and he missed. The arrow almost hit Dow in the leg, but luckily he didn’t notice. It had almost got away into the bushes, then it squealed and fell back, thrashing. Forley had stabbed it, hiding in the scrub. ‘I got one!’ he yelled.
It was quiet for a moment, while the Dogman scrambled down toward the clearing and they all looked round to see if there was anything left to fight, then Black Dow gave a great bellow, shaking his bloody weapons over his head. ‘We fucking killed ’em!’
‘You nearly killed us all, you damn fool!’ shouted Threetrees.
‘Eh?’
‘What about the fucking signal?’
‘I thought I heard you shout!’
‘I never!’
‘Did you not?’ asked Dow, looking greatly puzzled. ‘What was the signal anyhow?’
Threetrees gave a sigh and put his head in his hands.
Forley was still staring down at his sword. ‘I got one!’ he said again. Now that the fight was over, the Dogman was about ready to burst, so he turned round and pissed against
a tree.
‘We killed ’em!’ shouted Tul, clapping him on the back.
‘Watch out!’ yelled Dogman as piss went all down his leg. They all had a laugh at him over that. Even Grim had himself a little chuckle.
Tul shook Threetrees by the shoulder. ‘We killed ’em, chief!’
‘We killed these, aye,’ he said, looking sour, ‘but there’ll be plenty more. Thousands of ’em. They won’t be happy staying up here neither, up here beyond the mountains. Sooner or later they’ll be going south. Maybe in the summer, when the passes clear, maybe later. But it’s not long off.’
The Dogman glanced at the others, all shifty and worried after that little speech. The glow of victory hadn’t lasted too long. It never did. He looked round at the dead Flatheads on the ground, broken and bloody, sprawled and crumpled. It seemed a hollow little victory they’d had now. ‘Shouldn’t we try and tell ’em, Threetrees?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t we try and warn someone?’
‘Aye.’ Threetrees gave a sad little smile. ‘But who?’
The Course of True Love
Jezal trudged miserably across the grey Agriont with his fencing steels in his hand: yawning, stumbling, grumbling, still horribly sore from his endless run the day before. He hardly saw anyone as he dragged himself to his daily bullying from Lord Marshal Varuz. Apart from the odd premature tweeting of some bird in amongst the gables and the tired scraping of his own reluctant boots, all was quiet. No one was up at this time. No one should be up at this time. Him least of all.
He hauled his aching legs through the archway and up the tunnel. The sun was barely above the horizon and the courtyard beyond was full of deep shadows. Squinting into the darkness he could see Varuz sat at the table, waiting for him. Damn it. He had hoped to be early for once. Did the old bastard sleep at all?
‘Lord Marshal!’ shouted Jezal, breaking into a half-hearted jog.
‘No. Not today.’ A shiver crept up Jezal’s neck. It was not the voice of his fencing master, but there was something unpleasantly familiar about it. ‘Marshal Varuz is busy with more important matters this morning.’ Inquisitor Glokta was sitting in the shadows by the table and smiling up with his revolting gap-toothed grin. Jezal’s skin prickled with disgust. It was hardly what one needed first thing in the morning.
He slowed to a reluctant walk and stopped next to the table. ‘You will doubtless be pleased to learn that there will be no running, or swimming, or beam, or heavy bar today,’ said the cripple. ‘You won’t even be needing those.’ He waved his cane at Jezal’s fencing steels. ‘We will just be having a little chat. That is all.’
The idea of five punishing hours with Varuz seemed suddenly very appealing, but Jezal was not about to show his discomfort. He tossed his steels onto the table with a loud rattle and sat down carelessly in the other chair, Glokta regarding him from the shadows all the while. Jezal had it in mind to stare him into some kind of submission, but it proved a vain attempt. After a couple of seconds looking at that wasted face, that empty grin, those fever-bright sunken eyes, he began to find the table top most interesting.
‘So tell me, Captain, why did you take up fencing?’
A game then. A private hand of cards with only two players. And everything that was said would get back to Varuz, that was sure. Jezal would have to play his hand carefully, keep his cards close and his wits about him. ‘For my own honour, for that of my family, for that of my King,’ he said coldly. The cripple could try and find fault with that answer.
‘Ah, so it’s for the benefit of your nation that you put yourself through this. What a fine citizen you must be. What selflessness. What an example to us all.’ Glokta snorted. ‘Please! If you must lie, at least pick a lie that you yourself find convincing. That answer is an insult to us both.’
How dare this toothless has-been take that tone with him? Jezal’s legs gave a twitch: he was right on the point of getting up and walking away, Varuz and his hideous stooge be damned. But he caught the cripple’s eye as he put his hands on the arms of the chair to push himself up. Glokta was smiling at him, a mocking sort of smile. To leave would be to admit defeat somehow. Why did he take up fencing anyway? ‘My father wanted me to do it.’
‘So, so. My heart brims with sympathy. The loyal son, bound by his strong sense of duty, is forced to fulfil his father’s ambitions. A familiar tale, like a comfortable old chair we all love to sit in. Tell ’em what they want to hear, eh? A better answer, but just as far from the truth.’
‘Why don’t you tell me then?’ snapped Jezal sulkily, ‘since you seem to know so much about it!’
‘Alright, I will. Men don’t fence for their King, or for their families, or for the exercise either, before you try that one on me. They fence for the recognition, for the glory. They fence for their own advancement. They fence for themselves. I should know.’
‘You should know?’ Jezal snorted. ‘It hardly seems to have worked in your case.’ He regretted it immediately. Damn his mouth, it got him in all kinds of trouble.
But Glokta only flashed his disgusting smile again. ‘It was working well enough, until I found my way into the Emperor’s prisons. What’s your excuse, liar?’
Jezal didn’t like the way this conversation was going. He was too used to easy victories at the card table, and poor players. His skills had dulled. Better to sit this one out until he got the measure of his new opponent. He clamped his jaw shut and said nothing.
‘It takes hard work, of course, winning a Contest. You should have seen our mutual friend Collem West working. He sweated at it for months, running around while the rest of us laughed at him. A jumped-up, idiot commoner competing with his betters, that’s what we all thought. Blundering through his forms, stumbling about on the beam, being made a fool of, again and again, day after day. But look at him now.’ Glokta tapped his cane with a finger. ‘And look at me. Seems he had the last laugh, eh, Captain? Just shows what you can achieve with a little hard work. You’ve twice the talent he had, and the right blood. You don’t have to work one tenth so hard, but you refuse to work at all.’
Jezal wasn’t about to let that one past. ‘Not work at all? Don’t I put myself through this torture every day—’
‘Torture?’ asked Glokta sharply.
Jezal realised too late his unfortunate choice of words. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, ‘I meant . . .’
‘I know more than a little about both fencing and torture. Believe me when I say,’ and the Inquisitor’s grotesque grin grew wider still, ‘that they’re two quite different things.’
‘Er . . .’ said Jezal, still off balance.
‘You have the ambitions, and the means to realise them. A little effort would do it. A few months’ hard work, then you would probably never need to try at anything again in your life, if that’s what you want. A few short months, and you’re set.’ Glokta licked at his empty gums. ‘Barring accidents of course. It’s a great chance you’ve been offered. I’d take it, if I was you, but I don’t know. Maybe you’re a fool as well as a liar.’
‘I’m no fool,’ said Jezal coldly. It was the best he could do.
Glokta raised an eyebrow, then winced, leaning heavily on his cane as he slowly pushed himself to his feet. ‘Give it up if you like, by all means. Sit around for the rest of your days and drink and talk shit with the rest of the junior officers. There are a lot of people who’d be more than happy to live that life. A lot of people who haven’t had the chances you’ve had. Give it up. Lord Marshal Varuz will be disappointed, and Major West, and your father, and so on, but please believe me when I say,’ and he leaned down, still smiling his horrible smile, ‘that I couldn’t care less. Good day, Captain Luthar.’ And Glokta limped off toward the archway.
After that less than delightful interview, Jezal found himself with a few hours of unexpected free time on his hands—but he was scarcely in the frame of mind to enjoy it. He wandered the empty streets, squares and gardens of the Agriont, thinking grimly on what the cripple had said to him, cursing
the name of Glokta, but unable to quite push the conversation from his mind. He turned it over and over, every phrase, constantly coming up with new things that he should have said. If only he had thought of them at the time.
‘Ah, Captain Luthar!’ Jezal started and looked up. A man he did not recognise was sitting on the dewy grass beneath a tree, smiling up at him, a half-eaten apple in his hand. ‘The early morning is the perfect time for a stroll, I find. Calm and grey and clean and empty. It’s nothing like the gaudy pinkness of evening time. All that clutter, all those people coming and going. How can one think in amongst all that nonsense? And now I see you are of the same mind. How delightful.’ He took a big, crunching bite out of the apple.
‘Do I know you?’
‘Oh no, no,’ said the stranger, getting to his feet and brushing some dirt from the seat of his trousers, ‘not yet. My name is Sulfur, Yoru Sulfur.’
‘Really? And what brings you to the Agriont?’
‘You might say I have come on a diplomatic mission.’
Jezal looked him over, trying to place his origin. ‘A mission from?’
‘From my master, of course,’ said Sulfur unhelpfully. His eyes were different colours, Jezal noticed. An ugly and off-putting characteristic, he rather thought.
‘And your master is?’
‘A very wise and powerful man.’ He stripped the core with his teeth and tossed it away into the bushes, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. ‘I see you’ve been fencing.’
Jezal glanced down at his steels. ‘Yes,’ he said, realising that he had finally come to a decision, ‘but for the last time. I’m giving it up.’
‘Oh dear me, no!’ The strange man seized Jezal by the shoulder. ‘Oh dear me, no you mustn’t!’