‘Good. Good.’ At least something has gone to plan. Glokta wanted nothing more than to slide to the floor and lie there, screaming. But there is work to do. He winced as he limped for the door. ‘We need to head for the Agriont immediately.’
The first traces of dawn were leaking into the cold, clear sky as Glokta hobbled out onto the Middleway, Ardee at his shoulder. There was still mist on the air, but it was fading, now. A fine day in prospect, it would appear. A fine day for bloodshed, treachery, and—
Shapes were moving in the mist, away south down the wide cobbled road, towards the sea. There were noises too. Rattling, jingling. It sounded very much like a body of armoured men on the move. Further off, someone was shouting. A bell began to clang, sullen and muffled. A warning bell.
Cosca frowned into the thinning mist. ‘What is that?’
The shapes grew more distinct. Armoured men, carrying spears, and in numbers. Their tall helmets were plainly not of Union design.
Ardee touched Glokta on the arm. ‘Are they—’
‘Gurkish.’ Their armour glinted in the thin, grey light as the fog drifted aside. A vast body of them, marching north up the Middleway. They must finally have landed men at the docks, broken through into the centre of the city. What astonishingly poor timing. ‘Back!’ Glokta turned towards the alley, slipped and nearly fell, grimacing as Ardee caught him by the elbow and dragged him up straight.
‘Back to the mansion!’ And hope we weren’t seen already. ‘And keep those lamps with you, we’ll need them.’ He hurried to the stinking alley as best he could, barged and jostled by Cosca’s mercenaries.
‘Damn these Gurkish,’ hissed the Styrian. ‘I don’t know for the life of me what I did to upset them so.’
‘You have my sympathy.’ The gate squealed shut and a couple of the mercenaries started dragging a broken fountain behind it. I’m not sure how long that will keep out one of the Emperor’s legions.
‘Might I ask what the plan is now, exactly, Superior? Charming though your palace is, sitting here and waiting for relief would hardly seem to be an option.’
‘No.’ Glokta struggled up the steps and through the open front door. ‘We need to get to the Agriont.’
‘Something tells me our Gurkish friends will have had the same idea. We will not be getting there overground, that is certain.’
‘Then we must go underground.’ Glokta limped into the guts of the building as smartly as he could, Ardee and the mercenaries following behind in a worried crowd. ‘There is an entrance to the sewers here. One can get all the way to the Agriont, if one knows the route.’
‘Sewers?’ Cosca grinned. ‘I like nothing more than wading through life’s filth, as you well know, but sewers can be quite . . . confusing. Do you know the route?’
‘Actually, no.’ But I know a man who says he can find a way through anything, even a river of shit. ‘Brother Longfoot!’ he called out as he hobbled towards the steps. ‘I have a proposition for you!’
The Day of Judgement
Lord Marshal West stood in the shadow of an abandoned barn, up on a rise above the fertile plains of Midderland, his eyeglass clutched tightly in one gloved hand. There was still a trace of morning mist clinging to the flat autumn fields – patchworks of brown, green, yellow, stabbed with trees, slashed with bare hedgerows. In the distance West could see the outermost walls of Adua, a stern grey line pimpled with towers. Behind, in a lighter grey, the vague shapes of buildings jutted skywards. Above them loomed the towering ghost of the House of the Maker, stark and unrepentant. All in all, it was a grim homecoming.
There was not so much as a breath of wind. The crisp air was strangely still. Just as if there was no war, no rival armies drawing up, no bloody battles scheduled to begin. West swept his eyeglass back and forth, but he could scarcely see any hint of the Gurkish. Perhaps he imagined a tiny fence, down there before the walls, perhaps the outlines of pinprick spears, but at this distance, in this light, he could be sure of nothing.
‘They must be expecting us. They must be.’
‘Maybe they’re sleeping late,’ said Jalenhorm, ever the optimist.
Pike was more direct. ‘What difference if they are?’
‘Not much,’ West admitted. King Jezal’s orders had been specific. The city was infested with Gurkish troops and the defences were close to complete collapse. There was no time for clever stratagems, for careful approaches, for probing the enemy for weak spots. Prince Ladisla, ironically, would probably have been as good a commander for this particular situation as anyone else. For once, circumstances called for a magnificent charge, followed closely by death or glory. The only thing under West’s control was the timing.
Brint pulled up his horse nearby, sending a shower of grit into the cold air. He swung down from the saddle and gave a smart salute. ‘General Kroy’s cavalry is in position on the right wing, Lord Marshal, and ready to charge at your order.’
‘Thank you, Captain. His foot?’
‘Perhaps halfway to deploying. Some companies are still spread out down the roads.’
‘Still?’
‘Muddy-going, sir.’
‘Huh.’ Armies left mud behind them like a slug left a trail. ‘What about Poulder?’
‘A similar position, as far as I can tell,’ said Brint. ‘No messages?’
Jalenhorm shook his head. ‘General Poulder has not been forthcoming this morning.’
West stared towards the city, that distant grey line beyond the fields. ‘Soon.’ He chewed at his lip, already raw from his constant worrying. ‘Very soon. Mustn’t let fly half-drawn. When a little more of the foot comes up . . .’
Brint was frowning off to the south. ‘Sir, is that . . .’ West followed his pointing finger. Over on the left wing, where Poulder had been gathering his division, the cavalry were already moving smartly forward.
West stared as the riders gathered pace. ‘What the . . .’
Two full regiments of heavy horse broke into a majestic gallop. Thousands of them, streaming forwards across the open farmland, surging round the trees and the scattered farmhouses, throwing up a wake of dusty earth. West could hear the hammering of their hooves now, like distant thunder, could almost feel the vibration of it through his boots. The sun glinted on raised sword and lance, on shield and full armour. Banners streamed and snapped in the wind. It was quite the display of martial grandeur. A scene from a lurid storybook with a muscular hero in which meaningless words like honour and righteousness were often repeated.
‘Shit,’ growled West through gritted teeth, feeling the familiar pulsing coming up behind his eyes. General Poulder had been itching to mount one of his fabled cavalry charges all across the North and back. There the harsh terrain, or the harsh weather, or the harsh circumstances had all prevented it. Now, with the perfect conditions, it seemed he had been unable to resist the opportunity.
Jalenhorm slowly shook his head. ‘Bloody Poulder.’
West gave a snarl of frustration, raised up his eyeglass to dash it on the ground. He managed to stop himself at the last moment, forced in a heavy breath, and slapped the thing angrily closed. He could not afford to indulge himself today. ‘Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? Order the charge, all across the line!’
‘Sound the charge!’ roared Pike. ‘The charge!’
The sharp bugle call rang out, blaringly loud on the chill morning air, doing nothing to ease West’s throbbing headache. He stuck one muddy boot in his stirrup and dragged himself reluctantly up into his saddle, already sore from riding all night. ‘I suppose we must follow General Poulder to glory. At a less honourable distance, though, perhaps. Someone still needs to coordinate this shambles.’ The sounds of answering bugles further down the line floated up to them, and on the right Kroy’s horsemen began to trot forwards.
‘Major Jalenhorm, order the foot forward in support as soon as they come up.’ West worked his mouth. ‘Piecemeal if need be.’
‘Of course, Lord Marshal.’ The big man was a
lready turning his horse to give the orders.
‘War,’ muttered West. ‘A noble business.’
‘Sir?’ asked Pike.
‘Nothing.’
Jezal took the last few steps two at a time, Gorst and a dozen of his Knights clattering after him, sticking to his heels as tightly as his shadow. He swept imperiously past the guard and into the bright morning light at the top of the Tower of Chains, high above the stricken city. Lord Marshal Varuz was already at the parapet, surrounded by a gaggle of his staff, all glaring out across Adua. The old soldier stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind him, just the way he had always done at fencing practice, long ago. Jezal had never noticed his hands shake in the old days, however. They shook now, and badly. High Justice Marovia stood beside him, black robes stirred by the gentle breeze.
‘The news?’ demanded Jezal.
The Lord Marshal’s tongue darted nervously over his lips. ‘The Gurkish mounted an assault before dawn. The defenders of Arnault’s wall were overwhelmed. Not long afterwards they managed to land men at the docks. A great number of men. We have been fighting a rearguard action with the greatest courage, but . . . well . . .’
There was really no need to say more. As Jezal moved closer to the parapet, and wounded Adua came into view, he could plainly see the Gurkish flooding down the Middleway, the tiny golden standards of the Emperor’s legions bobbing above the mass of humanity like flotsam on a glittering tide. Like seeing one ant on the carpet, then gradually becoming aware of hundreds all across his living room, Jezal began to notice movement elsewhere, then everywhere. The very centre of the city was infested with Gurkish soldiers.
‘Fighting a rearguard action with . . . mixed success,’ finished Varuz lamely.
Down below, a few men burst out from the buildings near the western gate of the Agriont, ran across the cobbled square before the moat, heading for the bridge.
‘Gurkish?’ someone squealed.
‘No,’ muttered the Lord Marshal. ‘Those are ours.’ Men doing their very best to escape the slaughter that was no doubt taking place down in the ruined city. Jezal had faced death often enough to guess at how they felt.
‘Have those men brought to safety,’ he said, voice cracking slightly.
‘I am afraid . . . the gates have been sealed, your Majesty.’
‘Then unseal them!’
Varuz’ dewy eyes wandered nervously to Marovia. ‘That would . . . not be wise.’
A dozen or more had made it to the bridge now, were shouting and waving their arms. Their words were lost over the distance, but the tone of helpless, abject terror was impossible to miss.
‘We should do something.’ Jezal’s hands gripped tight to the parapet. ‘We must do something! There will be others out there, many more!’
Varuz cleared his throat. ‘Your Majesty—’
‘No! Have my horse saddled. Gather the Knights of the Body. I refuse to—’
High Justice Marovia had moved to block the door to the stairs, and now looked calmly, sadly into Jezal’s face. ‘If you were to open the gates now, you would be putting everyone in the Agriont at risk. Many thousands of citizens, all looking to you for protection. Here we can keep them safe, at least for now. We must keep them safe.’ His eyes slid sideways to the streets. Different-coloured eyes, Jezal noticed, one blue, one green. ‘We must weigh the greater good.’
‘The greater good.’ Jezal looked the other way, into the Agriont. Brave defenders were ranged around the walls, he knew, ready to fight to the death for king and country, however undeserving. He pictured civilians too, scurrying for safety through the narrow lanes. Men, women, children, the old and the young, driven from their ruined homes. People to whom he had promised safety. His eyes flickered across the high white buildings around the green park, the wide Square of Marshals, the long Kingsway with its tall statues. They were filled, he knew, with the helpless and the needy. Those unlucky enough to have no one better to rely on than the gutless fraud, Jezal dan Luthar.
It stuck in his throat, but he knew the old bureaucrat was right. There was nothing he could do. He had been shockingly lucky to survive his last magnificent charge, and it was far too late for another. Outside the Agriont, Gurkish soldiers were beginning to boil into the square before the gate. A few of them knelt, bows in hand, and sent a flight of arrows arcing across onto the bridge. Tiny figures tumbled and fell, splashed into the moat. Tiny screams wafted gently up to the top of the Tower of Chains.
An answering volley rattled from the walls, peppered the Gurkish with flatbow bolts. Men dropped, others faltered and fell back, leaving a few bodies scattered across the cobbles. They scurried for cover in the buildings around the edge of the square, men darting through the shadows from house to house. A Union soldier jumped from the bridge and splashed along in the moat for a few strokes before disappearing. He did not resurface. Behind him a last handful of the stranded defenders were still crawling, desperately holding up their arms. The notion of the greater good was likely to be scant consolation for them as they choked their last breaths. Jezal squeezed his eyes shut and looked away.
‘There! To the east!’
Varuz and a few members of his staff had clustered around the far parapet, gazing out past the House of the Maker and towards the distant fields outside the city. Jezal strode over to them, shielded his eyes against the rising sun. Beyond the great wall of the Agriont, beyond the shining river and the wide curve of the city, he thought he caught some trace of movement. A wide crescent of movement, crawling slowly towards Adua.
One of the officers lowered an eyeglass. ‘Cavalry! Union Cavalry!’ ‘Are you sure?’
‘The Army!’
‘Late to the party,’ muttered Varuz, ‘but no less welcome for that.’
‘Hurrah for Marshal West!’
‘We are delivered!’
Jezal was in no mood to whoop for joy. Hope was a fine thing, of course, and had long been in short supply, but celebrations were decidedly premature. He crossed back to the other side of the tower and frowned down.
More Gurkish were surging into the square outside the citadel, and more still, and they were coming well prepared. They wheeled great sloping wooden screens forward, each one big enough for a score of men or more to hide behind. The foremost of them already bristled with flatbow bolts, but they continued to creep towards the bridge. Arrows flitted up and down. The wounded fell, did their best to crawl for the rear. One of the buildings at the side of the square had already caught fire, flames licking hungrily round the eaves of its roof.
‘The army!’ someone whooped from the opposite battlement. ‘Marshal West!’
‘Indeed.’ Marovia frowned down at the carnage below, the sounds of battle growing steadily more frantic. ‘Let us hope he has not come too late.’
The noise of fighting crept up through the cool air. Clashing and clicking, echoing calls. Logen glanced left and right at the men around him, jogging forward over the open fields, quick breath hissing, gear rattling, all blunt frowns and sharp weapons.
Hardly a heartening thing, to be part of all this again.
The sad fact was that Logen had felt more warmth and more trust with Ferro and Jezal, Bayaz and Quai than he did with his own kind now. They’d been a difficult set of bastards, each in their own way. It wasn’t that he’d really understood them, or even liked them much. But Logen had liked himself when he was with them. Out there in the deserted west of the World, he’d been a man you could rely on, like his father had been. A man with no bloody history breathing on his shoulder, no name blacker than hell, no need to watch his back every moment. A man with hopes for something better.
The thought of seeing those folk again, the chance at being that man again, put the spur to him, made Logen want to run at the grey wall of Adua all the faster. It seemed, in that moment anyway, as if he might be able to leave the Bloody-Nine outside it.
But the rest of the Northmen didn’t share his eagerness. It was closer to a stroll than a charge
. They ambled up to a stand of trees, a couple of birds went flapping into the white sky, and they stopped altogether. No one said anything. One lad even sat down, with his back to a tree, and started supping water from a flask.
Logen stared at him. ‘By the dead, I don’t reckon I ever saw such a piss-weak charge as this. Did you leave your bones back in the North?’
There was a bit of mumbling, a few shifty looks. Red Hat glanced sideways, his tongue wedged into his bottom lip. ‘Maybe we did. Don’t get me wrong, chief, or your Royal Highness, or whatever it is now.’ He bowed his head to show he meant no disrespect by it. ‘I’ve fought before and hard enough, had my life balanced on a sword’s edge, and all o’ that. Just, well . . . why fight now, is what I’m saying. What we’re all thinking, I reckon. Ain’t none of our business, is it? Ain’t our fight, this.’
Dogman shook his head. ‘The Union are going to take us for a right crowd o’ cowards.’
‘Who cares what they think?’ someone said.
Red Hat stepped up close. ‘Look, chief, I don’t care much of a shit whether some fool I don’t know thinks I’m a coward. I’ve spilled enough blood for that. We all have.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Logen. ‘So your vote’s to stay here, then, is it?’
Red Hat shrugged. ‘Well, I guess—’ He squawked as Logen’s forehead crunched into his face, smashing his nose like a nut on an anvil. He dropped hard on his back in the mud, spluttering blood down his chin.
Logen turned round, and he let his face hang on one side, the way he used to. The Bloody-Nine’s face – cold and dead, caring for nothing. It was easy to do it. Felt as natural on him as a favourite pair of boots. His hand found the cold grip of the Maker’s sword, and all around him men eased back, shuffled away, muttered and whispered.
‘Any other one o’ you cunts want a vote?’
The lad dropped his flask in the grass and jumped up from where he’d been sitting. Logen gave a few of them his eye, one by one, whoever looked hardest, and one by one they looked at the ground, at the trees, at anything but him. Until he looked at Shivers. That long-haired bastard stared straight back at him. Logen narrowed his eyes. ‘How about you?’
The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings Page 171