West stared wearily over at them. He had only just got nearly comfortable and it was difficult to take an interest in anything beyond his own pain. He slowly unfolded his aching legs, heard his cold knees click as he got up, shook himself, tried to slap the tiredness out of his body. He started shuffling towards the Northmen, bent over like an old man, arms wrapped round himself for warmth. Before he got there the meeting had already broken up. Another decision made without any need for his opinion.
Threetrees strode towards him, utterly unaffected by the falling snow. “The Dogman’s spotted some of Bethod’s scouts,” he grunted, pointing through the trees. “Just down the rise there, right in by the stream, near those falls. Lucky he caught them. They could just as easily have caught us, and we’d most likely all be dead by now.”
“How many?”
“A dozen, he thinks. Getting round ’em could be risky.”
West frowned, rocking his weight from one foot back to the other, trying to keep the blood moving. “Surely fighting them would be riskier still?”
“Maybe, maybe not. If we can get the jump on ’em, our chances ain’t bad. They’ve got food, weapons,” he looked West up and down, “and clothes. All kinds o’ gear that we could use. We’re just past the knuckle o’ winter now. We keep heading north, it ain’t going to get any warmer. It’s decided. We’re fighting. A dozen’s long odds, so we’ll need every man. Your mate Pike there looks like he can swing an axe without worrying too much on the results. You’d best get him ready an’ all.” He nodded at Ladisla, hunched up on the ground. “The girl should stay out but—”
“Not the Prince. It’s too dangerous.”
Threetrees narrowed his eyes. “You’re damn right it’s dangerous. That’s why every man should share the risk.”
West leaned in close, doing his best to sound persuasive with his cracked lips as tough and thick as a pair of overcooked sausages. “He’d only make the risk greater for everyone. We both know it.” The Prince peered back at them suspiciously, trying to guess what they were talking about. “He’d be about as much use in a fight as a sack over your head.”
The old Northman snorted. “Most likely you’re right there.” He took a deep breath and frowned, taking some time to think about it. “Alright. It ain’t usual, but alright. He stays, him and the girl. The rest of us fight, and that means you too.”
West nodded. Each man has to do his part, how ever little he might relish the prospect. “Fair enough. The rest of us fight.” And he stumbled back over to tell the others.
Back home in the bright gardens of the Agriont, Crown Prince Ladisla would never have been recognised. The dandies, the courtiers, the hangers-on who usually clung to his every word would most likely have stepped over him, holding their noses. The coat West had given him was coming apart at the seams, worn through at the elbows, crusted with mud. Beneath it, his spotless white uniform had gradually darkened to the colour of filth. A few tatters of gold braid still hung from it, like a glorious bouquet of flowers rotted down to the greasy stalks. His hair was a tangled thatch, he had developed a patchy growth of ginger beard, and a rash of hair between his brows implied that in happier days he had spent a great deal of time plucking them. The only man within a hundred miles in a sorrier condition was probably West himself.
“What’s to do?” mumbled the Prince as West dropped down beside him.
“There are some of Bethod’s scouts down near the river, your Highness. We have to fight.”
The Prince nodded. “I will need a weapon of some—”
“I must ask you to stay behind.”
“Colonel West, I feel that I should be—”
“You would be a great asset, your Highness, but I am afraid it is quite out of the question. You are the heir to the throne. We cannot afford to put you in harm’s way.”
Ladisla did his best to look disappointed, but West could almost taste his relief. “Very well, if you’re sure.”
“Absolutely.” West looked at Cathil. “The two of you should stay here. We’ll be back soon. With luck.” He almost winced at the last part. Luck had been decidedly thin on the ground lately. “Keep out of sight, and keep quiet.”
She grinned back at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”
Ladisla glowered sideways, fists clenched with impotent anger. It seemed he was getting no better at dealing with her constant jibes. No doubt being flattered and obeyed your entire life was poor preparation for being made a fool of in awful conditions. West wondered for a moment if he was making a mistake leaving them alone, but it was hardly as though he had any choice. They were well out of the way up here. They should be safe. A lot safer than him, anyway.
They squatted down on their haunches. A ring of scarred and dirty faces, hard expressions, ragged hair. Threetrees, his craggy features creased with deep lines. Black Dow with his missing ear and his savage grin. Tul Duru, his heavy brows drawn in. Grim, looking as careless as a stone. The Dogman, bright eyes narrowed, breath steaming from his sharp nose. Pike, with a deep frown across those few parts of his burned face that were capable of movement. Six of the hardest-looking men in the world, and West.
He swallowed. Every man has to do his part.
Threetrees was scratching a crude map in the hard soil with a stick. “Alright, lads, they’re tucked in down here near the river, a dozen, maybe more. Here’s how we’ll get it done. Grim, up on the left, Dogman on the right, usual drill.”
“Done, chief,” said the Dogman. Grim nodded.
“Me, Tul, and Pike’ll come at ’em from this side, hand to hand. Hope to surprise ’em. Don’t shoot any of us, eh, lads?”
The Dogman grinned. “If you keep well clear of the arrows, you’ll be fine.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Dow and West, you’ll get across the river and wait by the falls there. Come up behind them.” The stick scratched a hard groove into the earth, and West felt the lump of worry swelling in his throat. “Noise of the water should keep you out of notice. Go when you see me chuck a stone over into the pool, you hear me? The stone coming over. That’s the signal.”
“Course it is, chief,” grunted Dow.
West suddenly realised that Threetrees was glaring right at him. “You hearing this, boy?”
“Er, yes, of course,” he muttered, tongue clumsy with cold and growing fear. “When the stone comes over, we go… chief.”
“Alright. And the lot of you keep your eyes open. There could be others near. Bethod’s got scouts all over the country. Anyone still guessing at what to do?” They all shook their heads. “Good. Then don’t go blaming me if you get yourself killed.”
Threetrees stood up and the others followed him. They made their last few preparations, loosening blades in sheaths, pulling at bowstrings, tightening buckles. There wasn’t much for West to prepare. A heavy, stolen sword pushed through a weathered belt, and that was it. He felt an utter fool in amongst this company. He wondered how many people they had killed between them. He would not have been surprised if it had been a whole town full, with enough left over for an outlying village or two. Even Pike looked more than ready to commit careless murder. West had to remind himself that he had not the slightest idea why the man had been convicted to a penal colony in the first place. Looking at him now, running a thoughtful thumb down the edge of his heavy axe, eyes hard in that dead, burned face, it was not difficult to imagine.
West stared at his hands. They were trembling, and not just from the cold. He grabbed one with the other and squeezed them tight. He looked up to see the Dogman grinning at him. “Got to have fear to have courage,” he said, then turned and followed Threetrees and the others into the trees.
Black Dow’s harsh voice hacked at West from behind. “You’re with me, killer. Try and keep up.” He spat on the frozen ground then turned and set off towards the river. West took one last look back towards the others. Cathil nodded to him, once, and he nodded back, then he turned and followed Dow, ducking thro
ugh the trees in silence, all coated with glittering, dripping ice, while the hissing of the waterfall grew louder and louder in his ears.
Threetrees’ plan was starting to seem rather short on details. “Once we get across the stream, and we get the signal, what do we do?”
“Kill,” grunted Dow over his shoulder.
That answer, useless though it was, sent a sudden stab of panic through West’s guts. “Should I go left or right?”
“Whichever you like, long as you stay out of my way.”
“Where will you be going?”
“Wherever the killing is.”
West wished he had never spoken as he stepped gingerly out onto the bank. He could see the falls just upstream, a wall of dark rock and rushing white water between the black tree trunks, throwing freezing mist and noise into the air.
The river here was no more than four strides across but the water flooded past, quick and dark, frothing round the wet stones at its edges. Dow held his sword and axe up high, waded out steadily, up to his waist in the middle, then crept up onto the far bank, pressing himself dripping against the rocks. He looked round, frowned to see West so far behind, jerked his hand angrily for him to follow.
West fumbled out his own sword and lifted it up, held a deep breath and stepped into the stream. The water flooded into his boot and round his calf. It felt as if his leg had been suddenly clamped in ice. He took a step forward and his other leg vanished up to the thigh. His eyes bulged, his breath came in snorts, but there could be no turning back. He took one more step. His boot slipped on the mossy stones on the bed of the stream and he slid helplessly in up to his armpits. He would have screamed if the freezing water had not hammered the air out of his lungs. He floundered forward, half-stumbling, half-swimming, teeth gritted with panic, sloshed up onto the far bank, breath hissing in shallow, desperate gasps. He staggered up and leaned against the stones behind Dow, his skin numb and prickling.
The Northman smirked at him. “You look cold, boy.”
“I’m fine,” spluttered West through chattering teeth. He had never been so cold in his life. “I’ll do my puh… puh… part.”
“You’ll do your what? I’ll not have you fighting cold boy, you’ll get us both killed.”
“Don’t worry about—” Dow’s open hand slapped him hard across the face. The shock of it was almost worse than the pain. West gawped, dropping his blade in the mud, one hand jerking up instinctively to his stinging cheek. “What the—”
“Use it!” hissed the Northman at him. “It belongs to you!”
West was just opening his mouth when Dow’s other hand smacked into it and sent him staggering against the rocks, blood dribbling from his lip and onto the wet earth, his head singing.
“It’s yours. Own it!”
“You fucking…” The rest was nothing more than a mindless growl as West’s hands closed round Dow’s neck, squeezing, clawing, snarling like an animal, teeth bared and mindless. The blood surged round his body, the hunger, and the pain, and the frustration of the endless freezing march spilling out of him all at once.
But Black Dow was twice as strong as West, however angry he was. “Use it!” he growled as he peeled West’s hands away and crushed him back against the rocks. “You hot yet?”
Something flashed overhead and splashed into the water beside them. Dow gave him a parting shove then sprang away, charging up the bank with a roar. West struggled after him, clawing the heavy sword up out of the mud and lifting it high, the blood pulsing in his head, howling meaningless sounds at the top of his lungs.
The muddy ground sped by underneath him. He crashed through bushes and rotten wood into the open. He saw Dow hack a gawping Northman down with his axe. Dark blood leapt into the air, black spots against the tangle of branches and white sky. Trees and rocks and shaggy men jolted and wobbled, his own breath roaring in his ears like a storm. Someone loomed up and he swung the sword at them, felt it bite. Blood spattered into West’s face and he reeled, and spat, and blinked, slid onto his side and scrambled up. His head was full of wailing and crying, clashing metal and cracking bone.
Chop. Hack. Snarl.
Someone staggered near him, clutching at an arrow in his chest. West’s sword split his skull open down to his mouth. The corpse jerked, twisting the blade from his hand. He stumbled in the dirt, half fell, lashed out at a passing body with his fist. Something crashed into him and flung him back against a tree, knocking the air from his lungs in a breathy wheeze. Someone had him fast around the chest, pinning his arms, trying to crush the life out of him.
West craned forward, and sank his teeth into the man’s lip, felt them meet in the middle. He screamed and punched but West hardly felt the blows. He spat out the flap of flesh and butted him in the face. The man squirmed and yelped, blood leaking out of his torn mouth. West clamped his teeth round his nose, growling like a mad dog.
Bite. Bite. Bite.
His mouth filled with blood. He could hear screaming in his ears, but all that mattered was to squeeze his jaws together, tighter and tighter. He twisted his head away and the man reeled back, clutching at his face. An arrow came out of nowhere and thudded into his ribs, he fell to his knees. West dived on him, grabbed hold of his tangled hair with clutching hands and smashed his face into the ground, again and again.
“It’s done.”
West’s hands jerked back, grasping claws full of blood and ripped-out hair. He struggled up, gasping, eyes bulging.
Everything was still. The world had stopped reeling. Spots of snow filtered gently down into the clearing, settling across the wet earth, the scattered gear, the stretched-out bodies, and the men still standing. Tul was not far away, staring at him. Threetrees was behind, sword in hand. Pike’s pink slab of a face had something close to a wince on it, one bloody fist squeezed round his arm. They were all looking. All looking at him. Dow raised his hand, pointing at West. He tipped his head back and started to laugh. “You bit him! You bit his fucking nose off! I knew you were a mad bastard!”
West stared at them. The thumping in his head was starting to subside. “What?” he muttered. There was blood all over him. He wiped his mouth. Salty. He looked at the nearest corpse, face down on the earth. Blood was trickling from underneath its head, running down the slope and pooling around West’s boot. He remembered… something. A sudden cramp in his guts bent him over, spitting pink onto the ground, empty stomach heaving.
“Furious!” shouted Dow. “That’s what y’are!”
Grim had already stepped out of the bushes, bow over his shoulder, and was squatting down, dragging a bloody fur from one of the corpses. “Good coat,” he muttered to himself.
West watched them all pick over the campsite, bent over and sick and utterly spent. He listened to Dow laughing. “Furious!” cackled his harsh voice. “That’s what I’ll call you!”
“They got arrows over here.” The Dogman pulled something out of one of the packs on the ground, and grinned. “And cheese. Bit dusty.” He picked some mould off the wedge of yellow with his dirty fingers, bit into it, and grinned. “Still good though.”
“Lots o’ good stuff,” nodded Threetrees, starting to smile himself. “And we’re all still going, more or less. Good day’s work, lads.” He slapped Tul on the back. “We’d best head on north quick before these lot are missed. Let’s get what there is fast and pick up those other two.”
West’s mind was only just starting to move again. “The others!”
“Alright,” said Threetrees, “you and Dow check on them… Furious.” He turned away with half a smile.
West lurched off through the trees the way he’d come, slipping and sliding in his haste, blood pulsing again. “Protect the Prince,” he muttered to himself. He waded across the stream almost without noticing the cold, struggled onto the far bank and back uphill, hurrying towards the cliff where they had left the others.
He heard a woman’s scream, quickly cut off, a man’s voice growling. Horror crept through every pa
rt of his body. Bethod’s men had found them. It might already be too late. He urged his burning legs on up the slope, stumbling and sliding in the mud. Had to protect the Prince. The air burned in his throat but he forced himself on, fingers clutching at the tree trunks, scrabbling at the loose twigs and needles on the frosty ground.
He burst out into the open space beside the cliff, breathing hard, the bloody sword gripped tight in his fist.
Two figures struggled on the ground. Cathil was underneath, wriggling on her back, kicking and clawing at someone on top of her. The man had managed to drag her trousers down below her knees and now he was fiddling with his own belt while he struggled to hold his other hand across her mouth. West took a step forward, raising the sword high, and the man’s head snapped round. West blinked. The would-be rapist was none other than Crown Prince Ladisla himself.
When he saw West he stumbled up and took a step back. He had a slightly sheepish expression, almost a grin, like a schoolboy caught stealing a pie from the kitchen. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought you’d be longer.”
West stared at him, hardly able to understand what was happening. “Longer?”
“You fucking bastard!” screamed Cathil, scrambling back and dragging her trousers up. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
Ladisla touched his lip. “She bit me! Look!” He held his bloody finger tips out as though they were proof of an outrage perpetrated against him. West found himself moving forwards. The Prince must have seen something in his face, because he took a step away, holding up one hand while he held up his trousers with the other. “Now hold on, West, just—”
There was no towering rage. No temporary blindness, no limbs moving by themselves, not the slightest trace of a headache. There was no anger at all. West had never in his life felt so calm, so sober, so sure of himself. He chose to do it.
His right arm jerked out and his open palm thumped against Ladisla’s chest. The Crown Prince gave a gentle gasp as he stumbled sharply backwards. His left foot twisted in the mud. He put down his right foot, but there was no ground behind him. His brows went up, his mouth and eyes opened with silent shock. The heir to the throne of the Union fell away from West, his hands clutching vainly, turning slowly to his side in the air… and he was gone.
Before They Are Hanged tfl-2 Page 38