The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings

by Joe Abercrombie

  ‘Maybe he’s a scout.’

  ‘Big bastard for a scout, ain’t he?’

  Logen grinned to himself as he watched the trees roll past. He felt the cool breeze on his face, smelled the mist, the earth, the cold, wet, air. He never would have thought he’d be happy to be back in the North, but he was. It was good, after all that time a stranger, to be in a place where he knew the rules.

  They camped out on the road, the ten of them. One group out of many, strung out through the woods, each one clustered close to their cart. Nine lads on one side of a big fire, a pot of stew bubbling over the top of it and giving off a fine-smelling steam. Logen watched them stirring it, talking to each other about home, and what was coming, and how long they’d be out there.

  After a while one of them started spooning the food out into bowls and handing them round. He looked over at Logen, once he was done with the rest, then served up one more. He edged over like he was coming at a wolf’s cage.

  ‘Er . . .’ He held the bowl out at arm’s length. ‘Stew?’ He opened his mouth up wide and pointed into it with his free hand.

  ‘Thanks, friend,’ said Logen as he took the bowl, ‘but I know where to put it.’

  The lads all stared at him, a row of worried-looking faces, lit up flickering yellow on the far side of the fire, more suspicious than ever at him speaking their language. ‘You talk common? You kept that quiet, didn’t you?’

  ‘Best to seem less than you are, in my experience.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said the lad who’d given him the bowl. ‘What’s your name, then?’

  Logen wondered for a moment if he should make up a lie. Some nothing name that no one could have heard of. But he was who he was, and sooner or later someone would know him. That, and he’d never been much at lying. ‘Logen Ninefingers, they call me.’

  The lads looked blank. They’d never heard of him, and why would they have? A bunch of farmers’ sons from far away, in the sunny Union. They looked like they barely knew their own names.

  ‘What are you here for?’ one of them asked him.

  ‘Same as you. I’m here to kill.’ The boys looked a bit nervy at that. ‘Not you, don’t worry. I’ve got some scores to settle.’ He nodded off up the road. ‘With Bethod.’

  The lads exchanged some glances, then one of them shrugged. ‘Well. Long as you’re on our side, I guess.’ He got up and dragged a bottle out of his pack. ‘You want a drink?’

  ‘Well, now.’ Logen grinned and held out his cup. ‘I’ve never yet said no to that.’ He knocked it down in one, smacked his lips as he felt it warming his gullet. The lad poured him another. ‘Thanks. Best not give me too much, though.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Will you kill us then?’

  ‘Kill you? If you’re lucky.’

  ‘And if we’re not?’

  Logen grinned over his mug. ‘I’ll sing.’

  The lad cracked a smile at that, and one of his mates started laughing. Next moment an arrow hissed into his side and he coughed blood down his shirt, the bottle dropping on the grass, wine gurgling out in the dark. Another boy had a shaft sticking in his thigh. He sat there, frozen, staring down at it. ‘Where did that . . .’ Then everyone was shouting, fumbling for weapons or throwing themselves flat on their faces. A couple more arrows whizzed over, one clattering into the fire and sending up a shower of sparks.

  Logen threw his stew away, snatched up his sword and started running. He blundered into one of the boys on the way and knocked him on his face, slipped and slid, righted himself and ran full tilt for the trees where the arrow came from. It was run right at them, or run away, and he made the choice without thinking. Sometimes it doesn’t matter too much what choice you make, as long as you make it quick and stick to it. Logen saw one of the archers as he rushed up close, a flash of his pale skin in the darkness as he reached for another arrow. He pulled the Maker’s sword from its tattered sheath and let go a fighting roar.

  The bowman could’ve got his arrow away before Logen was on him, most likely, but it would’ve been a close thing, and in the end he didn’t have the bones to stand there waiting. Not many men can weigh their choices properly while death comes racing up at them. He dropped the bow too late and turned to run, and Logen hacked him in the back before he got more than a stride or two, knocked him screaming into the bushes. He dragged himself round face up, all tangled in the brush, screeching and fumbling for a knife. Logen lifted the sword to finish the job. Then blood sprayed out of the archer’s mouth and he trembled, fell back and was quiet.

  ‘Still alive,’ Logen mouthed to himself, squatting down low beside the corpse, straining into the darkness. It would probably have been better for all concerned if he’d run the other way, but it was a bit late for that. Probably have been better if he’d stayed in Adua, but it was a bit late for that too.

  ‘Bloody North,’ he cursed in a whisper. If he let these bastards go they’d be making mischief all the way to the front and Logen wouldn’t get a wink of sleep for worrying, aside from the good chance of an arrow in his face. Better odds coming for them, than waiting for them to come to him. A lesson he’d learned from hard experience.

  He could hear the rest of the ambush crashing away through the brush and he set out after them, fist clenched tight round the grip of his sword. He felt his way between the trunks, keeping his distance. The light of the fire and the noise of the Union boys shouting dwindled behind him until he was deep in the woods, smelling of pines and wet earth, only the sound of men’s hurrying feet to guide him. He made himself part of the forest, the way he had in the old days. It wasn’t so hard to do. The knack came right back as though he’d been creeping in the trees every night for years. Voices echoed through the night, and Logen pressed himself still and silent up behind a pine-trunk, listening.

  ‘Where’s Dirty-Nose?’

  There was a pause. ‘Dead, I reckon.’

  ‘Dead? How?’

  ‘They had someone with ’em, Crow. Some big fucker.’ Crow. Logen knew the name. Knew the voice too, now that he heard it. A Named Man who’d fought for Littlebone. You couldn’t have called them friends, him and Logen, but they’d known each other. They’d been close together in the line at Carleon, fighting side by side. And now here they were again with no more than a few strides between them, more than willing to kill each other. Strange, the turns fate can take. Fighting with a man and fighting against him are only a whisker apart. Far closer together than not fighting at all.

  ‘Northman, was he?’ came Crow’s voice.

  ‘Might’ve been. Whoever it was he knew his business. Came up real quick. I didn’t have time to get a shaft away.’

  ‘Bastard! We ain’t letting that pass. We’ll camp out here and follow ’em tomorrow. Might be we’ll get him then, this big one.’

  ‘Oh aye, we’ll fucking get him. Don’t you worry about that none. I’ll cut his neck for him, the bastard.’

  ‘Good for you. ’Til then you can keep an eye open for him while the rest of us catch some sleep. Might be the anger’ll keep you awake this time, eh?’

  ‘Aye, chief. Right y’are.’

  Logen sat and watched, catching glimpses through the trees as four of them spread out their blankets and rolled up to sleep. The fifth took his place, back to the others, and looked out the way they’d come, sitting guard. Logen waited, and he heard one begin to snore. Some rain started up, and it tapped and trickled on the branches of the pines. After a while it spattered into his hair, into his clothes, ran down his face and fell to the wet earth, drip, drip, drip. Logen sat, still and silent as a stone.

  It can be a fearsome weapon, patience. One that few men ever learn to use. A hard thing, to keep your mind on killing once you’re out of danger and your blood’s cooled off. But Logen had always had the trick of it. So he sat and let the slow time sneak by, and thought about long ago, until the moon was high, and there was pale light washing down between the trees with the tickling rain. Pale light enough for him to see h
is tasks by.

  He uncurled his legs and started moving, working his way between the tree trunks, planting his feet nice and gentle in the brush. The rain was his ally, patter and trickle masking the soft sounds his boots made as he circled round behind the guard.

  He slid out a knife, wet blade glinting once in the patchy moonlight, and he padded out from the trees and through their camp. Between the sleeping men, close enough to touch them. Close as a brother. The guard sniffed and shifted unhappily, dragging his wet blanket round his shoulders, all beaded up with twinkling rain drops. Logen stopped and waited, looked down at the pale face of one of the sleepers, turned sideways, eyes closed and mouth wide open, breath making faint smoke in the clammy night.

  The guard was still now, and Logen slipped up close behind him, holding his breath. He reached out with his left hand, fingers working in the misty air, feeling for the moment. He reached out with his right hand, fist clenched tight round the hard grip of his knife. He felt his lips curling back from his gritted teeth. Now was the time, and when the time comes, you strike with no backward glances.

  Logen reached round and clamped his hand tight over the guard’s mouth, cut his throat quick and hard, deep enough that he felt the blade scraping on his neck bones. He jerked and struggled for a moment, but Logen held him tight, tight as a lover, and he made no more than a quiet gurgle. Logen felt blood over his hands, hot and sticky. He didn’t worry yet about the others. If one of them woke all they’d see would be the outline of one man in the darkness, and that was all they were expecting.

  It wasn’t long before the guard went limp, and Logen laid him down gently on his side, head flopping. Four shapes lay there under their wet blankets, helpless. Maybe there’d been a time when Logen would’ve had to work himself up to a job like this. When he’d have had to think about why it was the right thing to do. But if there had been, it was long gone. Up in the North, the time you spend thinking will be the time you get killed in. All they were now were four tasks to get done.

  He crept up to the first, lifted his bloody knife, overhand, and stabbed him clean in the heart right through his coat, hand pressed over his mouth. He died quieter than he slept. Logen came up on the second one, ready to do the same. His boot clattered into something metal. Water flask, maybe. Whatever it was, it made quite the racket. The sleeping man’s eyes worked open, he started to lift himself up. Logen rammed the knife in his gut and dragged at it, slitting his belly open. He made a kind of a wheeze, mouth and eyes wide, clutching at Logen’s arm.

  ‘Eh?’ The third one sat straight up and staring. Logen tore his hand free and heaved his sword out. ‘Wha’ the—’ The man lifted his arm up, on an instinct, and the dull blade took his hand off at the wrist and chopped deep into his skull, sending black spots of blood showering into the wet air and knocking him down on his back.

  But that gave the last of them time enough to roll out of his blanket and grab up an axe. Now he stood hunched over, hands spread out, fighting ready like a man who’d had plenty of practice at it. Crow. Logen could hear his breath hissing, see it smoking in the rain.

  ‘You should’ve started wi’ me!’ he hissed.

  Logen couldn’t deny it. He’d been concentrating on getting them all killed, and hadn’t paid much mind to the order. Still, it was a bit late to worry now. He shrugged. ‘Start or finish, ain’t too much difference.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Crow weighed his axe in the misty air, shifting around, looking for an opening. Logen stood still and caught his breath, the sword hanging down by his side, the grip cold and wet in his clenched fist. He’d never been much of a one for moving until it was time. ‘Best tell me your name, while you still got breath in you. I like to know who I’ve killed.’

  ‘You already know me, Crow.’ Logen held his other hand up, and he let the fingers spread out, and the moonlight glinted black on his bloody hand, and on the bloody stump of his missing finger. ‘We were side by side in the line at Carleon. Never thought you’d all forget me so soon. But things don’t often turn out the way we expect, eh?’

  He’d stopped moving now, had Crow. Logen couldn’t see more than a gleam of his eyes in the dark, but he could tell the doubt and the fear in the way he stood. ‘No,’ he whispered, shaking his head in the darkness. ‘Can’t be! Ninefingers is dead!’

  ‘That so?’ Logen took a deep breath and pushed it out, slow, into the wet night. ‘Reckon I must be his ghost.’

  They’d dug some sort of a hole to squat in, the Union lads, sacks and boxes up on the sides as a rampart. Logen could see the odd face moving over the top, staring off into the trees, the dull light from the guttering fire glinting on an arrow head or a spear tip. Dug in, watching for another ambush. If they’d been nervy before, they were most likely shitting themselves now. Probably one of them would get scared and shoot him as soon as he made himself known. Damn Union bows had a trigger that went off at a touch, once they were drawn. Would have been just about his luck, to get killed over nothing in the middle of nowhere, and by his own side too, but he didn’t have much of a choice. Not unless he wanted to walk up to the front.

  So he cleared his throat and called out. ‘Now no one shoot or anything!’ A string went and a bolt thudded into a tree a couple of strides to his left. Logen hunched down against the wet earth. ‘No one shoot, I said!’

  ‘Who’s out there?’

  ‘It’s me, Ninefingers!’ Silence. ‘The Northman who was on the cart!’

  A long pause, and some whispering. ‘Alright! But come out slow, and keep your hands where we can see them!’

  ‘Fair enough!’ He straightened up and crept out from the trees, hands held high. ‘Just don’t shoot me, eh? That’s your end of the deal!’

  He walked across the ground towards the fire, arms spread out, wincing at the thought of getting a bolt in his chest any minute. He recognised the faces of the lads from before, them and the officer who had charge of the supply column. A couple of them followed him with their bows as he stepped slowly over the makeshift parapet and down into the trench. It had been dug along in front of the fire, but not that well, and there was a big puddle in the bottom.

  ‘Where the hell did you get to?’ demanded the officer angrily.

  ‘Tracking them that ambushed us tonight.’

  ‘Did you catch ’em?’ one of the boys asked.

  ‘That I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Dead.’ Logen nodded at the puddle in the bottom of the hole. ‘So you needn’t sleep in the water tonight. Any of that stew left?’

  ‘How many were there?’ snapped the officer.

  Logen poked around the embers of the fire, but the pot was empty. Just his luck, again. ‘Five.’

  ‘You, on your own, against five?’

  ‘There were six to begin with, but I killed one at the start. He’s in the trees over there somewhere.’ Logen dug a heel of bread out of his pack and rubbed it round the inside of the pot, trying to get a bit of meat grease on there, at least. ‘I waited until they were sleeping, so I only had to fight one of ’em, face to face. Always been lucky that way, I guess.’ He didn’t feel that lucky. Looking at his hand in the firelight, it was still stained with blood. Dark blood under his fingernails, dried into the lines in his palm. ‘Always been lucky.’

  The officer hardly looked convinced. ‘How do we know that you aren’t one of them? That you weren’t spying on us? That they aren’t waiting out there now, for you to give them a signal when we’re vulnerable?’

  ‘You’ve been vulnerable the whole way,’ snorted Logen. ‘But it’s a fair question. I thought you might ask it.’ He pulled the canvas bag out from his belt. ‘That’s why I brought you this.’ The officer frowned as he reached out for it, shook it open, peered suspiciously inside. He swallowed. ‘Like I said, there were five. So you got ten thumbs in there. That satisfy you?’

  The officer looked more sick than satisfied, but he nodded, lips squeezed together, and held the bag back out to him at arm’s
length.

  Logen shook his head. ‘Keep it. It’s a finger I’m missing. I got all the thumbs I need.’

  The cart lurched to a stop. For the last mile or two they’d moved at a crawl. Now the road, if you could use the word about a sea of mud, was choked up with floundering men. They squelched their way from one near solid spot to another, flowing through the thin rain between the press of mired carts and unhappy horses, the stacks of crates and barrels, the ill-pitched tents. Logen watched a group of filth-caked lads straining at a wagon stuck up to its axles in the muck, without much success. It was like seeing an army sink slowly into a bog. A vast shipwreck, on land.

  Logen’s travelling companions were down to seven now, hunched and gaunt, looking mighty tired from sleepless nights and bad weather on the trail. One dead, one sent back to Uffrith already with an arrow in his leg. Not the best start to their time in the North, but Logen doubted it would get any better from here on. He clambered down off the back of the cart, boots sinking into the well-rutted mud, arched his back and stretched his aching legs out, dragged his pack down.

  ‘Luck, then,’ he said to the lads. None of them spoke. They’d hardly said a word to him since the night of the ambush. Most likely that whole business with the thumbs had got them worried. But if that was the worst they saw while they were up here they’d have done alright, Logen reckoned. He shrugged and turned away, started floundering through the muck.

  Just up ahead the officer from the supply column was being dealt a talking-to by a tall, grim-looking man in a red uniform, seemed like the closest thing they had in all this mess to someone in charge. It took Logen a minute to recognise him. They’d sat together at a feast, in very different surroundings, and they’d talked of war. He looked older, leaner, tougher, now. He had a hard frown on his face and a lot of hard grey in his wet hair, but he grinned when he saw Logen standing there, and walked up to him with his hand out.

  ‘By the dead,’ he said in good Northern, ‘but fate can play some tricks. I know you.’