The Crimson Shield

by Nathan Hawke

  All the while his eyes were locked on the sword. Gallow held it up in the orange light of the dying sun. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’

  ‘We saw the Screambreaker take down the Vathan giant and take his sword, every one of us. His legend is complete. But . . . how is that you carry it now, Gallow?’

  ‘The Screambreaker fell while you stood at the top of the hill and did nothing.’

  ‘He’s gone?’ Medrin didn’t even bother trying to sound troubled or surprised.

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Give me the sword, Gallow.’ Medrin held out his hand. ‘Give me the sword. I will carry it in his name, for his memory, and you will march beside me. The sword and the shield together. No one will stand before the Lhosir.’

  ‘You?’ Gallow spat at his feet. ‘Carry it in his memory?’ He pointed the sword at Medrin. ‘And when your father dies, shall we build his pyre from a pile of turds too? Do you imagine I’ve forgotten the temple of the Fates, Medrin? You and Beyard and I? The Screambreaker told me you’d changed, you were now a man whose beard was fine and strong, but I’ve watched you and I do not believe that to be so. Where were you when Jyrdas and Tolvis and I opened the gates of the monastery for you? How was it that one of your men struck Jyrdas in the back? And when he still wouldn’t die, you finished the work yourself!’

  ‘Jyrdas spoke words that could not be left unanswered!’ Medrin’s face darkened.

  ‘You let the Screambreaker die. You waited for him to fall.’

  ‘No, Gallow. I waited for the moment when the Vathen would break. And they did.’

  ‘This victory is his. It could not have been without him.’

  Medrin nodded. ‘True enough.’ He held out his hand again. ‘Now give me the sword, Gallow.’ For a moment his face changed. He looked sad, almost pained. ‘I need it to put something right.’ He nodded at Gallow. ‘All those years ago.’

  ‘I will not give it to a nioingr!’

  A stillness swept over the Lhosir. They stopped whispering to each other and stared.

  ‘Nioingr!’ declared Gallow again. ‘You’re not fit to crawl across the mud he walked, Twelvefingers. You’re a coward and a liar. I call you again. Nioingr!’

  Called three times. There was no turning back from that, and now Medrin had to answer with steel, and then Gallow would kill him no matter what shield he carried.

  But Medrin only laughed. Not just laughed, but threw back his head and howled while his men looked uncertainly at one another. ‘And who are you, Gallow? Or what? Here are my words, then, to answer your slur, for I have not forgotten that day in the Temple of Fates either. Yes, I ran, that’s true and shameful. But what fate befell you, Gallow? Nothing, though it was your foolishness that betrayed us. Never caught? Never punished? I’ve long held that against you, Gallow, for it was you I thought of as I watched a man I called a friend cast away by my own father and taken across the cold seas to the icy castle of the Eyes of Time. How was it that you, Gallow, didn’t suffer the same fate? Yet you brought the Screambreaker to Andhun and he spoke for you. “Pay no heed to his clean chin,” he told me. “This is Gallow Truesword who fought with me against the Marroc. A fine man worthy of his beard and he has not changed, not in his heart. Grown strong now by the forge of war.” And so I offered you a place at my side again to see the shield we sought once before. An effort to look past the friend I lost, yet my reward for such trust? You turn my men against me. Tolvis, Jyrdas, how many minds did you poison with your lies? And when that wasn’t enough, when the shield was mine for the taking, finally we all saw the truth of Gallow Truesword, the bitterness and the envy. I take your name and give you another: Gallow Foxbeard. From this time hence that is how you shall be known and remembered by those who care to remember you at all. And how is it, Gallow Foxbeard, that I left you bound among the Marroc and yet here you are? How is it that you escaped Andhun when the streets ran with traitors baying for Lhosir blood? Did you not walk openly to the gates? Did they not throw them wide for you? Why weren’t you killed, clean-skin? Because you’re one of them and you’ve turned against your own kind, that’s why.’

  Gallow hurled himself forward, howling. ‘Nioingr! Kin-traitor!’ He swung the sword as he ran and the air seemed to moan like ghosts around him, but Medrin didn’t step forward and the Lhosir around him moved to block Gallow’s path. ‘You let the Screambreaker die! Him and all those like him. The ones who would have stood up to you for the old ways. You let them all die.’ He hacked at the first man to stand in his way; Solace struck the other man’s blade and shattered it, sending shards of steel flying. The Lhosir lurched back as the red sword clove the air an inch from his face, but another one stepped in and lunged at Gallow.

  ‘Let him die? And what could you see from where you stood, pressed hard up against the Vathen? What did you see of my men on the hill? Nothing! And yes, I dare say you fought with courage and strength, all the easier when you’re watching your enemies butcher one another. Do you want to know what I did while you fought so hard? I sat on my horse and did nothing but watch! No, no honour or glory for Medrin Twelvefingers.’ He was snarling now, his fist clenched on the hilt of the ornate Marroc sword he carried. Gallow lunged at another of the Lhosir standing in his way and drove them back, but only for a moment before they pressed around him again. ‘And when my warriors wavered, I rode my men to rally the left and then to the right, because the centre held firm, always, even though that was where the Vathen pressed the hardest. And why? Because the Screambreaker was there and he had no need of this Crimson Shield or that sword you carry.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I saw who was beside him at the end, Foxbeard. Whose sword was it that dealt him that fatal blow? Was it Vathan or was it yours?’

  Gallow howled with rage and swung at the Lhosir around him. They kept their distance, still uncertain and wary of the red sword but not afraid of him either. Waiting for Medrin’s order.

  ‘You would have me spare Andhun for their treachery,’ said Medrin mildly. ‘I know the bargain you struck with the Screambreaker.’ Six of Medrin’s men were around him, and now Horsan stepped in front of him while the others moved to encircle him. Gallow backed away. He slashed at the haft of one man’s spear, cutting it in two; the man threw it at him, catching him in the chest and winding him, then drew an axe. Gallow staggered back. They were all advancing on him now. ‘But Andhun was not his to give you, Foxbeard; Andhun is mine. The Marroc who came out to fight the Vathen, they’ll be honoured as they deserve. The rest? The rest burn!’ He slammed the Crimson Shield into the ground and the earth shook. Gallow almost fell, while the soldiers around him paused, awed and stunned by the power of the shield. ‘Kill this sheep, Horsan. I’ll not dirty myself with him.’

  He couldn’t face this many. Couldn’t and he knew it. And Medrin knew it and the other Lhosir knew it too. If he stood his ground there was only one way for this to end and, sword or no sword, he’d fought for hours against the Vathen while these men were still fresh. He turned while Horsan and the Lhosir stood there with their eyes wide, threw down his shield and ran into the twilight.

  ‘Stop him!’ roared Medrin. ‘Bring me back the sword!’ He heard them running after him, felt their feet shake the ground but he didn’t look back, didn’t dare.

  ‘Everyone knows Lhosir don’t run, Gallow Foxbeard!’ Medrin again, and there was nothing else that Gallow could do.

  ANDHUN

  37

  TOLVIS

  On the day that Jyrdas died, the day before the battle with the Vathen, Tolvis stood on the beach in Andhun with a handful of dead Marroc and a few dead Lhosir in front of him, breathing hard in the moment of calm after the Marroc had run. He’d killed one of the Marroc himself. It hadn’t much bothered him. Which, he mused, meant that whatever it was that was troubling him, it must be something else.

  Not that he had much time to think about it as they pushed Medrin’s ship back into the sea before the Marroc found some more courage from somewhere, but it niggled at him any
way, itching like an old scab. He watched Medrin stab Jyrdas in the eye and come and climb into his ship and push away from the shores of Andhun. As he pulled at his oar he watched Gallow too, standing on the beach over Jyrdas and a pile of Marroc bodies. He watched the crowd waving angry fists and knives, and then he looked around him at the men in the ship and realised they were all Medrin’s men, every one of them, and that was the moment he understood what troubled him. The young ones Medrin had brought with him from across the sea, they knew the Screambreaker by his name but they’d never fought with him, never fought a real battle at all. Medrin had sailed for the monastery of Luonatta with sixty men. Maybe they’d only had a handful of old soldiers to start with, but now not one of that handful was left except him. Not that Medrin had done away with them, except for Jyrdas in the end, and that had just been old One-Eye looking for a clean way to die, but still, it was the sort of thing that set a man to thinking. And after that, now and then as they sailed along the coast, he caught Medrin looking at him. Looks that made him uneasy.

  Damn the man! If he’d seen the prince do anything wrong then he could have called him out on it, but Medrin hadn’t, not really. Really all he’d done was honour the old ones. He’d let the Screambreaker’s men stand at the front of his lines where they were proud to fight. He’d let them have the glorious deaths they wanted.

  But not me. Not that he was shy of a fight if a fight had to be had, but mostly what he liked was the swapping of stories afterwards over a good bottle of mead or a cask of Marroc beer.

  No, he didn’t like the way Medrin was looking at him at all. Couldn’t have said why but it set the hairs on his back all on edge; so when they beached the boat a few miles out of Andhun, where the cliffs parted to make a little cove, Tolvis made sure he was first over the side and into the waves. He made sure he had his shield and his sword and his axe and he didn’t look back, just set off along the beach away from Andhun. He didn’t turn to see if anyone followed. There were a few shouts, but over the breaking waves he couldn’t hear what they said, and it might just have been the others shouting at each other about making the ship safe on the beach.

  He reached a headland where he had to climb over broken rocks that had fallen from the cliffs to get past. When he’d done that and the ship was out of sight, he collected a few good-sized stones from the litter on the beach, throwing stones that fitted nicely in the palm of his hand, and then he sat down to wait and to see what would happen.

  He didn’t have to wait long before two more Lhosir came picking their way carefully through the rocks. Treacherous out on those rocks. The broken remains of waves still reached far enough to lap at a man’s feet here and there, and the lower parts were slimy with seaweed. He let them come closer, close enough that he could see who they were. Latti with his jaw all wrapped up tight and Dvag with his broken fingers. Two of Medrin’s closest, shields over their shoulders, helms and hauberks and all dressed up for a fight. Tolvis sighed and wearily got to his feet, a stone in his hand. He waited on the edge of the shambles of rocks until they were a few dozen paces away.

  ‘So this is what it comes to, is it? Twelvefingers couldn’t think of a way to do it properly, so he sends you two?’

  The two Lhosir on the rocks stopped. Dvag opened his arms. ‘Loudmouth! Friend! We wanted to know where you were going, that’s all. In case you were lost. That’s the way to the Vathen.’

  ‘You might at least try and pretend there’s a good reason. I don’t know, maybe say I’m in league with them or something equally stupid.’

  Dvag tried to smile. ‘Reason for what, Loudmouth?’

  Tolvis threw his stone. It probably surprised them both when it flew straight and true and smacked Dvag in the face. He staggered on the top of his rock, lost his footing and fell out of sight between the boulders. After a moment, when he didn’t get back up again, Latti cocked his head. ‘Reckon that’s a reason enough right there.’

  The words were mashed by his broken mouth, but the meaning was clear enough. Tolvis backed away into the shingle of the beach. ‘Reckon it is.’

  ‘You going to throw rocks at me too?’ Latti screwed up his face in pain.

  ‘Only if you pretend you didn’t come because Twelvefingers sent you to kill me. And if it hurts to talk, do feel free to spare us both.’

  Latti shook his head. ‘Not Medrin. Came ourselves.’

  ‘Then you should have brought some men with you who can actually fight.’ Tolvis backed away some more and yawned, waiting for Latti to make his way through the boulders. ‘Take your time. Don’t want you to slip and hurt yourself and spoil the fun of killing you.’

  ‘Nioingr!’

  Tolvis shrugged. ‘I hear that word so much that I’m beginning to think it doesn’t mean what I thought it meant. Seems to me it just means someone who doesn’t do what Twelvefingers says.’

  ‘Medrin . . . our prince.’ Latti jumped onto the shingle. He took the shield off his back and drew his sword, swinging it from side to side, warming up his arms.

  Tolvis began to pace back and forth. ‘For a man with a broken jaw you talk far too much. That bandage round your face isn’t tight enough. Now learn something before you die, boy: a nioingr is someone who is a traitor to himself, not to anyone else. I see I’ll have to teach you that.’ He ran at Latti and clattered into him, shield against shield, knocking him back, then brought his axe down at his head. Latti lurched sideways. Tolvis came at him again, before Latti could find his balance, battering him a second time. This time his axe slipped around Latti’s shield and Latti didn’t have a hand any more. He shrieked and stumbled back, falling on the stones. Tolvis jumped on him, crushing a foot hard into his throat.

  ‘Anything to say? No? At least you died well. No begging and pleading for mercy. Good for you.’ Tolvis leaned down, pushing all his weight into Latti’s throat, crushing until the light went out of his eyes. Then he went back to look at Dvag. Not much hope that a simple rock on the head had killed him, and when he found the bastard he was stuck between two boulders, eyes rolled back, muttering nonsense to himself. One of his ankles was twisted all wrong. He could add that to his mangled fingers. ‘I’d wake up before the tide comes in if I were you,’ Tolvis said, and left him there.

  He walked a little way further along the beach until he found a way up the cliff and headed inland, looking for the Lhosir camp. Tricky, figuring out a way to get close that wouldn’t lead him into more of Medrin’s men or a band of Vathan scouts, and so he crept to the tops of ridges to survey the land ahead before retreating to make his way on beside hedges, along streams and ditches and, where he could, through woods. Twelvefingers would get to the Screambreaker first but that was by the way. Didn’t matter much either way as long as the Screambreaker got to hear what needed to be said.

  The campfires in the evening darkness were what finally led him to the Lhosir camp – not that he knew which army it was until he got close and heard the swearing and the songs. Even then he walked among the soldiers with his head down, hiding his face as best he could, keeping his shield by his side. Medrin didn’t send anyone. We sent ourselves. Maybe that was even true. Twelvefingers had the knack of letting people know what he wanted done without ever saying, and once it was all too late he could put on that well practised look of horror he had and throw up his hands in despair and shake his head.

  He reached the Screambreaker’s tent only to find Twelvefingers already in it and it was only sheer luck that no one happened to look up and see his face before he turned away and moved on. When he eventually found the Screambreaker’s standard, the old man was sitting on a stool, dressed in his mail, staring out across the fields.

  ‘Screambreaker!’

  The old man didn’t move. Just sat and stared. ‘Maker-Devourer watch over you, Loudmouth. Medrin said you’d wandered off.’

  ‘That’s about right. Say anything else much?’

  ‘Lots of things, but none that particularly matter save that he has the Crimson Shield. There
’s at least some Marroc that will fight with us now.’

  ‘The Marroc aren’t our enemy, Screambreaker.’

  The Screambreaker turned and looked up at him. ‘It’s a wonder you need to say such a thing.’ He stared at Tolvis long and hard, and it seemed the old man was looking right through him at something far away. The Screambreaker looked . . . lost. Then the moment broke and the Screambreaker cocked his head. ‘Whatever you have on your mind, Loudmouth, you’d best shed it. It’s a stone around your shoulders as clear as the sun. Draw up a stool.’

  So he did, and he told the Screambreaker about everything that had happened since Medrin had left Andhun, about Gallow and Jyrdas and Latti and Dvag, and how it was that Twelvefingers wasn’t to be trusted any more. The Screambreaker listened patiently, and when Tolvis was done, he offered him a horn of mead. ‘We’ll fight the Vathen tomorrow, Loudmouth,’ he said. ‘For now that’s all that matters.’

  And that was all he would say while they drank together, and Tolvis talked and talked and finally walked away filled with anger and frustration, but in the middle of the next day, as the Lhosir army formed its lines, the Screambreaker called him one last time and told him how Gallow Truesword had come out of Andhun and how things were between the two of them, and how, if he wasn’t alive by the end of the day, it would fall to Tolvis and to the dozen Lhosir beside him who’d fought in the last war from the beginning. He told Tolvis one other thing and then he laughed and told Tolvis what he had to do before any of that could happen. ‘The woods on our seaward flank. Take ropes and shovels and fill it with traps for their horsemen. Let none of the Vathen pass.’

  Tolvis looked at the men he’d been given. ‘A dozen of us and you want us to hold off a thousand Vathan horsemen?’