‘Wait! Wait.’
He stood frozen in the dark, bent over with his hands on his knees, ribcage going like a bellows. Voices were gabbling over each other. Northern voices, he was greatly relieved to hear.
‘They following?’
‘Where’s Hayl?’
‘Did we get the bloody flags?’
‘Those bastards wouldn’t even know which way to go.’
‘Dead. Caught an arrow.’
‘We got ’em!’
‘They were just dragging their bloody horses around!’
‘Thought we’d have nothing to say about it.’
‘But Prince Calder had something to say,’ Calder looked up at his name and found Pale-as-Snow smiling at him, one of the standards in his fist. Something like the smile a smith might have when his favourite apprentice finally hammers out something worth selling on the anvil.
Calder felt a poke in his side, started, then realised it was the other standard, the flag rolled up tight. One of the men was offering it out to him, grin shining in the moonlight in the midst of his muddy face. There was a whole set of grins pointed at him. As if he’d said something funny. As if he’d done something great. It didn’t feel that way to Calder. He’d just had the idea, which had been no effort at all, and set other men to work out how, and others still to take the risks. Hardly seemed possible that Calder’s father had earned his great reputation like this. But maybe that’s how the world works. Some men are made for doing violence. Some are meant for planning it. Then there are a special few whose talent is for taking the credit.
‘Prince Calder?’ And the grinning man offered him the flag again.
Well. If they wanted someone to admire, Calder wasn’t about to disappoint them. ‘I’m no prince.’ He snatched the standard, swung one leg over the flagstaff and held it there, sticking up at an angle. He drew his sword, for the first time that night, and thrust it straight up into the dark sky. ‘I’m the king of the fucking Union!’
It wasn’t much of a joke, but after the night they’d had, and the day they’d had yesterday, they were ready to celebrate. A gale of laughter went up, Calder’s men chuckling away, slapping each other on the backs.
‘All hail his fucking Majesty!’ shouted Pale-as-Snow, holding up the other flag, gold thread sparkling as it snapped in the wind. ‘King bloody Calder!’
Calder just kept on grinning. He liked the sound of that.
Shadows
Your August Fuck-Hole,
The truth? Under the wilful mismanagement of the old villains on your Closed Council, your army is rotting. Frittered away with cavalier carelessness, as a rake might fritter away his father’s fortune. If they were the enemy’s councillors they could scarcely do more to frustrate your Fuck-Hole’s interests in the North. You could do better yourself, which is truly the most damning indictment of which I am capable. It would have been more honourable to load the men aboard in Adua, wave them off with a tear in the eye, then simply set fire to the ships and send them all to the bottom of the bay.
The truth? Marshal Kroy is competent, and cares for his soldiers, and I ardently desire to fuck his daughter, but there is only so much one man can do. His underlings, Jalenhorm, Mitterick and Meed, have been struggling manfully with each other for the place of worst general in history. I hardly know which deserves the higher contempt – the pleasant but incompetent dullard, the treacherous, reckless careerist, or the indecisive, war-mongering pedant. At least the last has already paid for his folly with his life. With any luck the rest of us will follow.
The truth? Why would you care? Old friends like us need have no pretences. I know better than most you are a cringing cipher, a spineless figurehead, a self-pitying, self-loving, self-hating child-man, king of nothing but your own vanity. Bayaz rules here, and he is bereft of conscience, scruple or mercy. The man is a monster. The worst I have seen, in fact, since I last looked in the mirror.
The truth? I am rotting too. I am buried alive, and already rotting. If I was not such a coward I would kill myself, but I am, and so I must content myself with killing others in the hope that one day, if I can only wade deep enough in blood, I will come out clean. While I wait breathlessly for rehabilitation that will never come, I will of course be delighted to consume any shit you might deign to squeeze into my face from the royal buttocks.
I remain your Fuck-Hole’s most betrayed and vilified scapegoat,
Bremer dan Gorst, Royal Observer of the Northern Fiasco
Gorst put down his pen, frowning at a tiny cut he had somehow acquired on the very tip of his forefinger where it rendered every slightest task painful. He blew gently over the letter until every gleam of wet ink had turned dry black, then folded it, running his one unbroken nail slowly along it to make the sharpest of creases. He took up the stick of wax, tongue pressed into the roof of his mouth. His eyes found the candle flame, twinkling invitingly in the shadows. He looked at that spark of brightness as a man scared of heights looks at the parapet of a great tower. It called to him. Drew him. Made him dizzy with the delightful prospect of self-annihilation. Like that, and this shameful unpleasantness that I laughingly call a life could all be over. Only seal it, and send it, and wait for the storm to break.
Then he sighed, and slid the letter into the flame, watched it slowly blacken, crinkle, dropped the last smouldering corner on the floor of his tent and ground it under his boot. He wrote at least one of these a night, savage punctuation points between rambling sentences of trying to force himself to sleep. Sometimes he even felt better afterwards. For a very short while.
He frowned up at a clatter outside, then started at a louder crash, the gabble of raised voices, something in their tone making him reach for his boots. Many voices, then the sounds of horses too. He snatched up his sword and ripped aside his tent flap.
Younger had been sitting outside, tapping the day’s dents out of Gorst’s armour by lamplight. He was standing up now, craning to see, a greave in one hand and the little hammer in the other.
‘What is it?’ Gorst squeaked at him.
‘I’ve no— Woah!’ He shrank back as a horse thundered past, flicking mud all over both of them.
‘Stay here.’ Gorst put a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‘Stay out of danger.’ He strode from his tent and towards the Old Bridge, tucking his shirt in with one hand, sheathed long steel gripped firmly in the other. Shouts echoed from the darkness ahead, lantern beams twinkling, glimpses of figures and faces mixed up with the after-image of the candle flame still fizzing across Gorst’s vision.
A messenger jogged from the night, breathing hard, one cheek and the side of his uniform caked with mud. ‘What’s happening?’ Gorst snapped at him.
‘The Northmen have attacked in numbers!’ he wheezed as he laboured past. ‘We’re overrun! They’re coming!’ His terror was Gorst’s joy, excitement flaring up his throat so hot it was almost painful, the petty inconveniences of his bruises and aching muscles all burned away as he strode on towards the river. Will I have to fight my way across that bridge for the second time in twelve hours? He was almost giggling at the stupidity of it. I cannot wait.
Some officers pleaded for calm while others ran for their lives. Some men searched feverishly for weapons while others threw them away. Every shadow was the first of a horde of marauding Northmen, Gorst’s palm itching with the need to draw his sword, until the tricking shapes resolved themselves into baffled soldiers, half-dressed servants, squinting grooms.
‘Colonel Gorst? Is that you, sir?’
He stalked on, thoughts elsewhere. Back in Sipani. Back in the smoke and the madness at Cardotti’s House of Leisure. Searching for the king in the choking gloom. But this time I will not fail.
A servant with a bloody knife was staring at a crumpled shape on the ground. Mistaken identity. A man came blundering from a tent, hair sticking wildly from his head, struggling to undo the clasp on a dress sword. Pray excuse me. Gorst swept him out of his way with the back of one arm and squawking
over into the mud. A plump captain sat, surprised face streaked with blood, clasping a bandage to his head. ‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ Panic. Panic is happening. Amazing how quickly a steadfast army can dissolve. How quickly daylight heroes become night-time cowards. Become a herd, acting with the instincts of the animal.
‘This way!’ someone shouted behind him. ‘He knows!’ Footsteps slapped after him in the mud. A little herd of my own. He did not even look around. But you should know I’m going wherever the killing is.
A horse plunged out of nowhere, eyes rolling. Someone had been trampled, was howling, pawing at the muck. Gorst stepped over them, following an inexplicable trail of fashionable lady’s dresses, lace and colourful silk crushed into the filth. The press grew tighter, pale faces smeared across the dark, mad eyes shining with reflected fire, water glimmering with reflected torches. The Old Bridge was as packed and wild as it had been the previous day when they drove the Northmen across it. More so. Voices shouted over each other.
‘Have you seen my—’
‘Is that Gorst?’
‘They’re coming!’
‘Out of my way! Out of my—’
‘They’re gone already!’
‘It’s him! He’ll know what to do!’
‘Everyone back! Back!’
‘Colonel Gorst, could I—’
‘Have to find some order! Order! I beseech you!’
Beseeching will not work here. The crowd swelled, surged, opening out then crushing tight, fear flashing up like lightning as a drawn sword or a lit torch wafted in someone’s face. An elbow caught Gorst in the darkness and he lashed out with his fist, scuffed his knuckles on armour. Something grabbed at his leg and he kicked at it, tore himself free and shoved on. There was a shriek as someone was pushed over the parapet, Gorst caught a glimpse of his boots kicking as he vanished, heard the splash as he hit the fast-flowing water below.
He ripped his way clear on the far side of the bridge. His shirt was torn, the wind blowing chill through the rip. A ruddy-faced sergeant held a torch high and bellowed in a broken voice for calm. There was more shouting up ahead, horses plunging, weapons waving. But Gorst could not hear the sweet note of steel. He gripped his sword tight and stomped grimly on.
‘No!’ General Mitterick stood in the midst of a group of staff officers, perhaps the best example Gorst had ever seen of a man incandescent with rage. ‘I want the Second and Third ready to charge at once!’
‘But, sir,’ wheedled one of his aides, ‘it is still some time until dawn, the men are in disarray, we can’t—’
Mitterick shook his sword in the young man’s face. ‘I’ll give the orders here!’ Though it is obviously too dark to mount a horse safely, let alone ride several hundred at a gallop towards an invisible enemy. ‘Put guards on the bridge! I want any man who tries to cross hanged for desertion! Hanged!’
Colonel Opker, Mitterick’s second-in-command, stood just outside the radius of blame, watching the pantomime with grim resignation.
Gorst clapped a hand down on his shoulder. ‘Where are the Northmen?’
‘Gone!’ snapped Opker, shaking free. ‘There were no more than a few score of them! They stole the standards of the Second and Third and were off into the night.’
‘His Majesty will not countenance the loss of his standards, General!’ someone was yelling. Felnigg. Swooped down on Mitterick’s embarrassment like a hawk on a rabbit.
‘I am well aware of what his Majesty will not countenance!’ roared Mitterick back at him. ‘I’ll damn well get those standards back and kill every one of those thieving bastards, you can tell the lord marshal that! I demand you tell him that!’
‘Oh, I’ll be telling him all about it, never fear!’
But Mitterick had turned his back and was bellowing into the night.
‘Where are the scouts? I told you to send scouts, didn’t I? Dimbik? Where’s Dimbik? The ground, man, the ground!’
‘Me?’ a white-faced young officer stammered out. ‘Well, er, yes, but—’
‘Are they back yet? I want to be sure the ground’s good! Tell me it’s good, damn it!’
The man’s eyes darted desperately about, then it seemed he steeled himself, and snapped to attention. ‘Yes, General, the scouts were sent, and have returned, in fact, very much returned, and the ground is … perfect. Like a card table, sir. A card table … with barley on it—’
‘Excellent! I want no more bloody surprises!’ Mitterick stomped off, loose shirt tails flapping. ‘Where the bloody hell is Major Hockelman? I want these horsemen ready to charge as soon as we have light to piss by! Do you understand me? To piss by!’
His voice faded into the wind along with Felnigg’s grating complaints, and the lamps of his staff went with them, leaving Gorst frowning in the darkness, as choked with disappointment as a jilted groom.
A raid, then. An opportunistic little sally had caused all this, triggered by Mitterick’s petty little display with his flags. And there will be no glory and no redemption here. Only stupidity, cowardice and waste. Gorst wondered idly how many had died in the chaos. Ten times as many as the Northmen killed? Truly, the enemy are the least dangerous element of a war.
How could we have been so ludicrously unready? Because we could not imagine they would have the gall to attack. If the Northmen had pushed harder they might have driven us back across the bridge, and captured two whole regiments of cavalry rather than just their standards. Five men and a dog could have done it. But they could not imagine we might be so ludicrously unready. A failure for everyone. Especially me.
He turned to find a small crowd of soldiers and servants with a mismatched assortment of equipment at his back. Those who had followed him down to the bridge, and beyond. A surprising number. Sheep. Which makes me what? The sheep-dog? Woof, woof, you fools.
‘What should we do, sir?’ asked the nearest of them.
Gorst could only shrug. Then he trudged slowly back towards the bridge, just as he had trudged back that afternoon, brushing through the deflated mob on the way. There was no sign of dawn yet, but it could not be far off.
Time to put on my armour.
Under the Wing
Craw picked his way down the hill, peering into the blackness for his footing, wincing at his sore knee with every other step. Wincing at his sore arm and his sore cheek and his sore jaw besides. Wincing most of all at the question he’d been asking himself most of a stiff, cold, wakeful night. A night full of worries and regrets, of the faint whimpering of the dying and the not-so-faint snoring of Whirrun of bloody Bligh.
Tell Black Dow what Calder had said, or not? Craw wondered whether Calder had already run. He’d known the lad since he was a child, and couldn’t ever have accused him of courage, but there’d been something different about him when they talked last night. Something Craw hadn’t recognised. Or rather something he had, but not from Calder, from his father. And Bethod hadn’t been much of a runner. That was what had killed him. Well, that and the Bloody-Nine smashing his head apart. Which was probably better’n Calder could expect if Dow found out what had been said. Better’n Craw could expect himself, if Dow found out from someone else. He glanced over at Dow’s frowning face, criss-cross scars picked out in black and orange by Shivers’ torch.
Tell him or not?
‘Fuck,’ he whispered.
‘Aye,’ said Shivers. Craw almost took a tumble on the wet grass. ’Til he remembered there was an awful lot a man could be saying fuck about. That’s the beauty of the word. It can mean just about anything, depending on how things stand. Horror, shock, pain, fear, worry. None were out of place. There was a battle on.
The little tumbledown house crept out of the dark, nettles sprouting from its crumbling walls, a piece of the roof fallen in and the rotten timbers sticking up like dead rib bones. Dow took Shivers’ torch. ‘You wait here.’
Shivers paused just a moment, then bowed his head and leaned back by the door, faintest gleam of moonlight settled on
his metal eye.
Craw ducked through the low doorway, trying not to look worried. When he was alone with Black Dow, some part of him – and not a small one – always expected a knife in the back. Or maybe a sword in the front. But a blade, anyway. Then he was always the tiniest bit surprised when he lived out the meeting. He’d never felt that way with Threetrees, or even Bethod. Hardly seemed the mark of the right man to follow … He caught himself chewing at a fingernail, if you could even call it a fingernail there was that little left of the bastard thing, and made himself stop.
Dow took his torch over to the far side of the room, shadows creeping about the rough-sawn rafters as he moved. ‘Ain’t heard back from the girl, then, or her father neither.’ Craw thought it best to stick to silence. Whenever he said a word these days it seemed to end up in some style of disaster. ‘Looks like I put myself in debt to the bloody giant for naught.’ Silence again. ‘Women, eh?’
Craw shrugged. ‘Don’t reckon I’ll be lending you any insights on that score.’
‘You had one for a Second, didn’t you? How did you make that work?’
‘She made it work. Couldn’t ask for a better Second than Wonderful. The dead know I made some shitty choices but that’s one I’ve never regretted. Not ever. She’s tough as a thistle, tough as any man I know. Got more bones than me and sharper wits too. Always the first to see to the bottom o’ things. And she’s a straight edge. I’d trust her with anything. No one I’d trust more.’
Dow raised his brows. ‘Toll the fucking bells. Maybe I should’ve picked her for your job.’
‘Probably,’ muttered Craw.
‘Got to have someone you can trust for a Second.’ Dow crossed to the window, peering out into the windy night. ‘Got to have trust.’
The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country Page 113