‘Who must?’ Jalenhorm stared wildly round the tent. ‘Me and you, alone?’
‘If that’s what it takes.’
‘But this is a man’s life!’
‘This is thousands of men’s lives,’ hissed West. ‘It cannot be allowed to fail, you heard him say it.’
Jalenhorm had turned almost as pale as Burr. ‘I hardly think he meant that—’
‘Don’t forget you owe me.’ West leaned still closer. ‘Without me you’d be one in a pile of corpses rotting nicely north of the Cumnur.’ He didn’t like doing it, but it had to be done, and there was no time for niceties. ‘Do we understand each other, Captain?’
Jalenhorm swallowed. ‘Yes, sir, I think so.’
‘Good. You watch Marshal Burr, I’ll take care of things outside.’ West got up and made for the tent flap.
‘What if he—’
‘Improvise!’ he snapped, over his shoulder. There were bigger things to worry about now than any one man. He ducked out into the cold air. At least a score of officers and guards were scattered around the command post before the tent, pointing down into the white valley, peering through eyeglasses and muttering to one another. ‘Sergeant Pike!’ West beckoned to the convict and he strode over through the falling snow. ‘I need you to stand guard here, do you understand?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘I need you to stand guard here, and admit no one but me or Captain Jalenhorm. No one.’ He dropped his voice lower. ‘Under any circumstances.’
Pike nodded, his eyes glittering in the pink mass of his face. ‘I understand.’ And he moved to the tent flap and stood beside it, almost carelessly, his thumbs tucked into his sword belt.
A moment later a horse plunged down the slope and into the headquarters, smoke snorting from its nostrils. Its rider slid down from his saddle, stumbled a couple of steps before West managed to get in his way.
‘An urgent message for Marshal Burr from General Poulder!’ blathered the man in a rush. He tried to take a stride towards the tent but West did not move.
‘Marshal Burr is busy. You can deliver your message to me.’
‘I was explicitly told to—’
‘To me, Captain!’
The man blinked. ‘General Poulder’s division is engaged, sir, in the woods.’
‘Engaged?’
‘Hotly engaged. There have been several savage attacks on the left wing and we’re hard pressed to hold our own. General Poulder requests permission to withdraw and regroup, sir, we’re all out of position!’
West swallowed. The plan was already coming unravelled, and in imminent danger of falling apart completely. ‘Withdraw? No! Impossible. If he pulls back, Kroy’s division will be left exposed. Tell General Poulder to hold his ground, and to go through with the attack if he possibly can. Tell him he must not withdraw under any circumstances! Every man must do his part!’
‘But, sir, I should—’
‘Go!’ shouted West. ‘At once!’
The man saluted and clambered back onto his horse. Even as he was spurring up the slope another visitor was pulling up his mount not far from the tent. West cursed under his breath. It was Colonel Felnigg, Kroy’s chief of staff. He would not be so easily put off.
‘Colonel West,’ he snapped as he swung down from the saddle. ‘Our division is fiercely engaged all across the line, and now cavalry has appeared on our right wing! A charge by cavalry against a regiment of levies!’ He was already making for the tent, pulling off his gloves. ‘Without support they won’t hold long, and if they break, our flank will be up in the air! It could be the end! Where the hell is Poulder?’
West attempted unsuccessfully to slow Felnigg down. ‘General Poulder has come under attack himself. However, I will order the reserves released immediately and—’
‘Not good enough,’ growled Felnigg, brushing past him and striding towards the tent flap. ‘I must speak to Marshal Burr at—’
Pike stepped out in front of him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. ‘The Marshal . . . is busy,’ he whispered. His eyes bulged from his burned face in a manner so horribly threatening that even West felt slightly unnerved. There was a tense silence for a moment as the staff officer and the faceless convict stared at one another.
Then Felnigg took a hesitant step back. He blinked, licked his lips nervously. ‘Busy. I see. Well.’ He took another step away. ‘The reserves will be committed, you say?’
‘Immediately.’
‘Well then, well then . . . I will tell General Kroy to expect reinforcements.’ Felnigg shoved one toe into his stirrup. ‘This is highly irregular, though.’ He frowned down at the tent, at Pike, at West. ‘Highly irregular.’ And he gave his horse the spurs and charged back down into the valley. West watched him go, thinking that Felnigg had no idea just how irregular. He turned to an adjutant.
‘Marshal Burr has ordered the reserve into action on the right wing. They must charge Bethod’s cavalry and drive them off. If that flank weakens, it will mean disaster. Do you understand?’
‘I should have written orders from the Marshal—’
‘There is no time for written orders!’ roared West. ‘Get down there and do your duty, man!’
The adjutant hurried obediently away down the slope towards the two regiments of reserves, waiting patiently in the snow. West watched him go, his fingers working nervously. The men began to mount up, began to trot into position for a charge. West was chewing at his lip as he turned around. The officers and guards of Burr’s staff were all looking at him with expressions ranging from mildly curious to downright suspicious.
He nodded to a couple of them as he walked back, trying to give the impression that everything was routine. He wondered how long it would be before someone refused to simply take his word, before someone forced their way into the tent, before someone discovered that Lord Marshal Burr was halfway to the land of the dead, and had been for some time. He wondered if it would happen before the lines broke in the valley, and the command post was overrun by Northmen. If it was after, he supposed it would hardly matter.
Pike was looking over at him with an expression that might have been something like a grin. West would have liked to grin back, but he didn’t have it in him.
The Dogman sat, and breathed. His back was to the fallen tree, his bow was hanging loose in his fist. A sword was stuck into the wet earth beside him. He’d taken it from a dead Carl, and put it to use, and he reckoned he’d have more use for it before the day was out. There was blood on him – on his hands, on his clothes, all over. Cathil’s, Flatheads’, his own. Wiping it off hardly seemed worth the effort – there’d be plenty more soon enough.
Three times the Shanka had come up the hill now, and three times they’d fought them off, each fight harder than the one before. Dogman wondered if they’d fight them off when they came again. He never doubted that they were coming. Not for a minute. When and how many were the questions that bothered him.
Through the trees he could hear the Union wounded screeching and squealing. Lots of wounded. One of the Carls had lost his hand the last time they came. Lost was the wrong word, maybe, since it got cut off with an axe. He’d been screaming loud just after, but now he was quiet, breathing soft and wheezy. They’d strapped the stump up with a rag and a belt, and now he was staring at it, with that look the wounded get sometimes. White and big-eyed, looking at his hacked-off wrist as if he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. As if it was a constant surprise to him.
Dogman eased himself up slow, peering over the top of the fallen tree trunk. He could see the Flatheads, down in the woods. Sat there in the shadows. Waiting. He didn’t like seeing ’em lurking down there. Shanka come at you until they’re finished, or they run.
‘What are they waiting for?’ he hissed. ‘When did bloody Flatheads learn to wait?’
‘When did they learn to fight for Bethod?’ growled Tul, wiping his sword clean. ‘There’s a lot that’s changing, and none of it for the better.’
/>
‘When did anything change for the better?’ snarled Dow from further down the line.
Dogman frowned. There was a new smell in his nose, like damp. There was something pale, down in the trees, getting paler while he watched. ‘What is that? That mist?’
‘Mist? Up here?’ Dow chuckled harsh as a crow calling. ‘This time of day? Hah! Hold on, though . . .’ They could all see it now – a trace of white, clinging to the wet slope. Dogman swallowed. His mouth was dry. He was feeling uneasy, all of a sudden, and not just from the Shanka waiting down there. Something else. The mist was creeping up through the trees, curling round the trunks, rising while they watched. The Flatheads were starting to move, dim shapes shifting in the grey murk.
‘Don’t like this,’ he heard Dow saying. ‘This ain’t natural.’
‘Steady, lads!’ Threetrees’ deep voice. ‘Steady, now!’ Dogman took heart from that, but his heart didn’t last long. He rocked back and forth, feeling sick.
‘No, no,’ whispered Shivers, his eyes sliding around like he was looking for a way out. Dogman could feel the hairs on his own arms rising, his skin prickling, his throat closing up tight. A nameless sort of a fear was taking him, flowing up the hillside along with the mist – creeping through the forest, swirling round the trees, sliding under the trunk they were using as cover.
‘It’s him,’ whispered Shivers, his eyes open wide as a pair of boot-tops, squashing himself down like he was scared of being heard. ‘It’s him!’
‘Who?’ croaked Dogman.
Shivers just shook his head and pressed himself to the cold earth. The Dogman felt a powerful need to do the same, but he forced himself to rise up, forced himself to take a look over the tree. A Named Man, scared as a child in the dark, and not knowing why? Better to face it, he thought. Big mistake.
There was a shadow in the mist, too tall and too straight for a Shanka. A great, huge man, big as Tul. Bigger even. A giant. Dogman rubbed his sore eyes, thinking it must be some trick of the light in all that gloom, but it wasn’t. He came on closer, this shadow, and he took on more shape, and more, and the clearer he got, the worse grew the fear.
He’d been long and far, the Dogman, all over the North, but he’d never seen so strange and unnatural a thing as this giant. One half of him was covered in great plates of black armour – studded and bolted, beaten and pointed, spiked and hammered and twisted metal. The other half was mostly bare, apart from the straps and belts and buckles that held the armour on. Bare foot, bare arm, bare chest, all bulging out with ugly slabs and cords of muscle. A mask was on his face, a mask of scarred black iron.
He came on closer, and he rose from the mist, and the Dogman saw the giant’s skin was painted. Marked blue with tiny letters. Scrawled across with writing, every inch of him. No weapon, but he was no less terrible for that. He was more, if anything. He scorned to carry one, even on a battlefield.
‘By the fucking dead,’ breathed the Dogman, and his mouth hung wide with horror.
‘Steady, lads,’ growled Threetrees. ‘Steady.’ The old boy’s voice was the only thing stopping the Dogman from running for it, and never coming back.
‘It’s him!’ squealed one of the Carls, voice shrill as a girl’s. ‘It’s the Feared!’
‘Shut your fucking hole!’ came Shivers’ voice, ‘We know what it is!’
‘Arrows!’ shouted Threetrees.
Dogman’s hands were trembling as he took an aim on the giant. It was hard somehow, to do it, even from this distance. He had to make his hand let go the string, and then the arrow pinged off the armour and away into the trees, harmless. Grim’s shot was better. His shaft sank clean into the giant’s side, buried deep in his painted flesh. He seemed not even to notice. More arrows shot over from the Carls’ bows. One hit him in the shoulder, another stuck right through his huge calf. The giant made not a sound. He came on, steady as the grass growing, and the mist, and the Flatheads, and the fear came with him.
‘Fuck,’ muttered Grim.
‘It’s a devil!’ one of the Carls screeched. ‘A devil from hell!’ Dogman was starting to think the same thing. He felt the fear growing up all round him, felt the men starting to waver. He felt himself edging backwards, almost without thinking about it.
‘Alright, now!’ bellowed Threetrees, voice deep and steady as if he felt no fear at all. ‘On the count of three! On the count of three, we charge!’
Dogman stared over as if the old boy had lost his reason. At least they had a tree to hide behind up here. He heard a couple of the Carls muttering, no doubt thinking much the same. They didn’t much like the sound of this for a plan, charging down a hill into a great crowd of Shanka, some unnatural giant at the heart of ’em.
‘You sure about this?’ Dogman hissed.
Threetrees didn’t even look at him. ‘Best thing for a man to do when he’s afeared is charge! Get the blood up, and turn the fear to fury. The ground’s on our side, and we ain’t waiting here for ’em!’
‘You sure?’
‘We’re going,’ said Threetrees, turning away.
‘We’re going,’ growled Dow, glaring round at the Carls, daring ’em to back down.
‘On three!’ rumbled the Thunderhead.
‘Uh,’ said Grim. Dogman swallowed, still not sure whether he’d be going or not. Threetrees peered over the trunk, his mouth a hard, flat line, watching the figures in the mist, and the great big one in the midst of ’em, his hand down flat behind him to say wait. Waiting for the right distance. Waiting for the right time.
‘Do I go on three?’ whispered Shivers, ‘or after three?’
Dogman shook his head. ‘Don’t hardly matter, as long as you go.’ But his feet felt like they were two great stones.
‘One!’
One already? Dogman looked over his shoulder, saw Cathil’s body lying stretched out under his blanket near the dead fire. Should have made him feel angry maybe, but it only made him feel more scared. Fact was, he’d no wish to end up like her. He swallowed and turned away, clutched tight to the handle of his knife, to the grip of the sword he’d borrowed off the dead. Iron felt no fear. Good weapons, ready to do bloody work. He wished he was halfway as ready himself, but he’d done this before, and he knew no one was ever really ready. You don’t have to be ready. You just have to go.
‘Two!’
Almost time. He felt his eyes opening wide, his nose sucking in cold air, his skin tingling cold. He smelled men and sharp pine trees, Shanka and damp mist. He heard quick breath behind, slow footsteps down below, shouts from along the line, his own blood thumping in his veins. He saw every bit of everything, all going slow as dripping honey. Men moved around him, hard men with hard faces, shifting their weight, pushing forward against the fear and the mist, making ready. They were going to go, he’d no doubt left of it. They were all going to go. He felt the muscles in his legs begin to squeeze, pushing him up.
‘Three!’
Threetrees was first over the trunk and the Dogman was just behind, men all round him charging, and the air full of their shouts and their fury and their fear, and he was running, and screaming, feet pounding and shaking his bones, breath and wind rushing, black trees and white sky crashing and wobbling, mist flying up at him and dark shapes inside the mist, waiting.
He swung his sword at one as he roared past and the blade chopped deep into it and threw it back, turned the Dogman half round and he went along, spinning, falling, shouting. The blade hacked deep into a Shanka’s leg and snatched it off its feet, and Dogman spilled down the slope, slithering around in the slush, trying to right himself. The sounds of fighting were all round, muffled and strange. Men bellowing curses, and Shanka snarling, and the rattles and thuds of iron on iron and iron in flesh.
He spun about, sliding between the trees, not knowing where the next Flathead might come from, not knowing whether he might get a spear in his back any minute. He saw a shape in the murk and sprang forward at it, shouting as hard as he could. The mist seemed to lift awa
y in front of him, and he slithered to a horrified stop, the sound rattling out in his throat, nearly falling over backwards in his hurry to get away.
The Feared was no more than five strides from him, bigger and more terrible than ever, broken arrows sticking from his tattooed flesh all over. Didn’t help that he had a Carl round the neck, out at arm’s length, kicking and struggling. The painted sinews in his forearm twisted and squirmed and the huge fingers tightened, and the Carl’s eyes bulged, and his mouth opened and no sound came out. There was a crunch, and the giant tossed the corpse away like a rag and it turned over and over in the snow and the mud, head flopping about, and lay still.
The Feared stood, mist flowing round him, looking down at the Dogman from behind his black mask, and the Dogman looked back, halfway to pissing himself.
But some things have to be done. Better to do ’em, than to live with the fear of ’em. That’s what Logen would have said. So the Dogman opened his mouth, and screamed as loud as he could, and he charged, swinging the borrowed sword over his head.
The giant lifted his great iron-plated arm and caught the blade. Metal clanged on metal and rattled the Dogman’s teeth, tore the sword away and sent it spinning, but he stabbed with his knife at the same moment and slipped it under the giant’s arm, ramming it right to the hilt in his tattooed side.
‘Hah!’ shouted the Dogman, but he didn’t get long to celebrate. The Feared’s huge arm flashed through the mist, caught him a backhand across the chest and flung him gurgling through the air. The woods reeled and a tree came out of nowhere, crashed into his back and sent him sprawling in the mud. He tried to get a breath and couldn’t. Tried to roll over and couldn’t. Pain crushed his ribs, like a great rock pressing on his chest.
He looked up, hands clutching at the mud, hardly enough breath in him even to groan. The Feared was walking to him, no rush. He reached down and pulled the knife out of his side. It looked like a toy between his huge finger and thumb. Like a tooth-pick. He flicked it away into the trees, a long drip of blood going with it. He lifted his great armoured foot, ready to stomp down on the Dogman’s head and crush his skull like a nut on an anvil, and Dogman could only lie there, helpless with pain and fear as the great shadow fell across his face.
The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings Page 115