by Nathan Hawke
‘But you’re more than a dozen. You have the trees, Loudmouth, and there are more trees than there are Vathen. And you’re Lhosir so it shouldn’t be too hard for you.’
He never stopped smiling and somehow he was right, and by the end of the day as the sun sank and the Vathen fled, Tolvis was still alive and he hadn’t had to kill quite as many as a thousand Vathan horsemen after all.
38
THE ARDSHAN
Gulsukh Ardshan watched the disaster unfold from the top of a hill of his own. Two defeats in a row now, and the best that could said of this one was that it wasn’t his defeat. He’d taken four thousand men to fight two thousand Lhosir and lost nearly half of them. Now the Weeping Giant had taken twenty thousand, but he’d also taken his time, and the Lhosir had kept on coming from across the sea while he’d sat in Fedderhun, waiting for the sword to tell him it was the right day to march.
‘It was the right day to march when I said it was,’ Gulsukh muttered to himself.
‘There are more of them now?’ Moonjal Bashar hadn’t seen the first battle. A part of Gulsukh was disappointed – it would have been a good lesson for a young bashar to see an ardshan beaten. A larger part was relieved that a son hadn’t seen his own father humiliated. ‘Twice as many. Perhaps more. If we’d all marched on Andhun a month ago, we’d have destroyed the Lhosir and taken it. We’d be in Sithhun by now.’
Still, twenty thousand men should have been enough. The bashars of the Weeping Giant had conducted themselves well, sending each of the clans into battle one after the other and withdrawing each one before they turned to rout. Wearing the supposedly invincible forkbeards down, because no one, in the end, was truly unbeatable. The horsemasters were wary this time too, racing their men in to hurl their javelots and racing out again before the Marroc archers could wreak the havoc they had before. The forkbeards had chosen their field well, pitched between a steep gully lined with stakes and a light wood. From his hill Gulsukh hadn’t been able to see what had happened to the horsemasters and their efforts to flank the Lhosir line and take it from behind, but they’d clearly failed.
The Weeping Giant had fallen, but even then the day hadn’t been lost. The enraged Vathen fell on the forkbeards, heedless of their bashars. They pushed and pushed them back, slowly breaking them down until finally, finally, they broke the Lhosir line. Gulsukh had to admire whoever had held the top of that hill for the forkbeards. However many men he had there, he’d waited and he’d waited. A lesser mind might have thrown them into the fight sooner, but no, this one waited until the very last possible moment, for when the battle hung in the balance and the Vathen had taken beating after beating and yet found themselves on the point of victory, and then he threw them in, snatching it away again. Five hundred men, give or take, while the Vathen were still thousands upon thousands, but in that one moment he broke their spirit. The Vathan soldiers crumbled, their bashars failed, they broke and they ran, and the Lhosir cut them down. The best that could be said for what happened next was that the forkbeards themselves were too bloodied and spent to turn the rout into a proper slaughter.
He raised an eyebrow to Moonjal Bashar. ‘My advice would be to have the horsemasters supply cover to our retreat.’ Not that anyone listened to him any more. An ardshan in disgrace. Disobedient to the Weeping Giant, and then he’d gone and lost as well.
‘I’ll send a messenger.’
‘Will you? I’m not sure who you’re going to send it to.’ He watched Moonjal send a runner anyway.
‘You don’t seem disturbed, Ardshan. Is there some finer point I’m missing?’
‘Not really. The setting sun means the forkbeards won’t be able to make the most of what they’ve done to us. Other than that, no.’ There was a little consolation to be taken there, but the smile on his face that he couldn’t quite hide was because the Weeping Giant was dead. The Sword Brothers would be in disarray and a good few of those dead too. They needed an ardshan again. There was still a horde here, if he could keep it together.
‘Should we join the retreat, Ardshan?’
Gulsukh shook his head. ‘Let the Sword Brothers deal with it. Let them be seen and let them take the blame. Let them cherish their defeat. An ardshan knows that defeat comes as well as victory. Time they learned it too. We’ll find them later. I want to see our prisoner.’ He turned his horse and rode down the back of the hill and left the fleeing Vathan army that was no longer his to whatever fate the Lhosir would find for it. He rode to his own camp in the woods, away from the main Vathan force and the onrushing forkbeards. He had a few score men now, no more. Kinsmen mostly, who still took his orders over anyone else’s. The last vestiges of his old clan, before the Sword Brothers had swept through the steppes. A meagre handful, but among the Vathen the right man with the right words could make a handful into a horde with a snap of his fingers.
The forkbeard was waiting for him inside his tent, still bloody from the beating he’d taken the night before. Gulsukh’s men had found this one on his own, creeping about down by the sea. He was bound so tightly that his hands had gone blue. Gulsukh cut him loose. He sat down beside the Lhosir and offered him a cup of Aulian wine. The Lhosir batted it away.
‘When my men found you, they swear to me that someone had done this to you already. They tell me they were gentle and that you didn’t put up much resistance for a forkbeard. So what were you doing down by the sea at the dead of night? Did you come on that ship out of Andhun? The one drawn up and abandoned on the shore?’
The Lhosir shrugged but the pinch of his lips gave him away.
‘After you beat me the first time, I haven’t had much else to do except stay out here watching who comes and who goes. Your prince has taken the Crimson Shield of the Marroc and that ship on the beach is his. So why weren’t you with him?’
The Lhosir spat at him. Gulsukh poured another cup of wine, for himself this time, and supped it. ‘In the old Aulian Empire it was understood that men might divulge their secrets and retain their honour after they were taken. Any prisoner was permitted to remain silent for one day and one night. When that time was done, it was assumed that a torturer of any skill would have reduced him to the point of revealing whatever he knew. So instead of the torturer, there was only ever the idea of a torturer, and of the pain and everything else that comes with such people. At the end of one day and one night, a man like me would come to a man like you. I would offer you a fine wine and a pleasant meal and we would discuss matters. It was understood to be honourable, then, for the captive to reveal everything he knew, and in return he was spared any unkindness. That’s not to say that he would keep his life, but often that was the case; and even when it wasn’t, death would be swift and clean and proud. I think you’d understand that, at least.’ He poured a second cup of wine for the Lhosir. ‘That was the Aulian way, but the Aulians are gone now. I simply stake my enemies to the ground, cut strips of skin from their flesh and sprinkle them with salt until they tell me what I want and then let the ants eat them. I don’t know how it is among you forkbeards, but I’ve seen the men your prince hung up from his poles after you beat us. They were my men. I knew them. Their families. Their wives, their sons, their brothers. I was the one who led them to defeat. It doesn’t make me think well of you, what your prince did to them.’ He offered the cup of wine. ‘I fought for your king once, so I know you well enough to suppose you’ll opt for pain and heroic resistance, but I’ll offer you the Aulian way anyway in case you’d prefer it.’ Gulsukh moved in closer to the Lhosir. ‘I won’t tell if you won’t. What do you say, forkbeard?’
‘I say you talk too much.’ The Lhosir slapped the cup across the tent.
Gulsukh nodded. ‘I do. Perhaps that’s why I prefer the Aulian way to this.’ He rose and whistled for his torturer, the best he had among the men left to him. When the torturer had dragged the Lhosir away, he called in Moonjal. There was no reason why a father and son shouldn’t share what was left of what was a rather fine old Aulian vintage.
Moonjal Bashar bowed low as he came in. Gulsukh picked up the cup that the forkbeard had refused and refilled it. ‘Did he say what he was doing?’ asked his son.
Gulsukh shook his head but smiled as he did. ‘He thought not. He was very brave. But let us suppose that Twelvefingers left his ship where he did because he was unable to enter Andhun. Why would that be?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘How far away are the nearest bashars of the Weeping Giant?’
‘A few miles, no more.’
‘What would you do, Moonjal?’
Moonjal Bashar stiffened. ‘The Lhosir have beaten us soundly but are unable to press their advantage. Many of our clans remain strong. I would rally the bashars and attack again at dawn, pressing them as hard as possible and keeping them away from the city if I could. They committed all of their men while half of ours barely fought at all. They will be tired. I would continue as we planned and wear them down.’
‘Exactly right. Exactly what I’d have done if we hadn’t found this Lhosir on the beach.’
‘But will the forkbeards not withdraw behind their walls?’
Gulsukh smiled. ‘What if they can’t, Moonjal?’ He laughed. ‘We shall see to it that the forkbeard scouts find camps abandoned in the night. That they see us scattering and fleeing along the coast road and into the hills. We watch them and we watch Andhun and we see what will happen; and we keep all our riders close, each with a fresh fast horse to hand.’ Gulsukh leaned forward. ‘I also mean to send a young bashar out into the night with a few good men at his side to go looking for the forkbeards. In case they need some encouragement to see us running away.’
39
THE WOODS AT NIGHT
Horsan and his men chased the bastard nioingr Gallow Foxbeard right across the battlefield, hurdling the bodies of a thousand broken men, into the trees where the shadows were black and welcoming, and in the dark they lost him. Horsan supposed he must have slipped away out the other side. The Marroc were good at running. It only went to show that Medrin was right: a Lhosir didn’t run and a Lhosir didn’t hide. A Lhosir stood, one against one or one against a hundred. Maybe a Lhosir died, but so what?
Now they’d lost him they’d have to go back to Medrin and tell them that both the nioingr and the Vathan sword had slipped away in the twilight, and Medrin would have a belly full of rage when he heard and Horsan didn’t want to be the one who had to tell him.
Halfway back through the trees, Durlak pointed and yelled and started to run. ‘He’s there! I see him!’ A shape broke cover right where Horsan was looking and bolted through the bracken. The woods were full of shadows and not much else, but it wasn’t the Foxbeard. Horsan wasn’t sure he remembered Gallow having a helm, but it certainly hadn’t had a Vathan plume on the top.
‘Wait!’ But Durlak was jumping and shouting and whoever had been hiding in the woods was running and plain for all to see. They chased the darting shape right through the wood and out the other end. The sky was a dim grey now, streaked with a long bruise of purple over the horizon, the last dying light of day. Enough to show Horsan that he was right.
‘It’s a Vathan!’ And now they really had missed the Foxbeard and he’d be halfway to Andhun. Horsan pulled up. ‘Leave him! It’s the nioingr we’re after.’
The others ignored him and ran on and after a moment Horsan followed too, because what else was there to do except go back to Medrin with their heads hanging to tell him they’d failed? And maybe Gallow hadn’t gone to Andhun and his precious Marroc but had taken the sword back to the Vathen instead. It was a nioingr sort of thing to do. Maybe these Vathen would lead him right where he wanted to go.
For all his running and darting through shadows, the Vathan never quite managed to get away. It seemed . . . odd . . . and for a moment Horsan was almost inclined to stop and let him go.
‘Forkbeards! Forkbeards!’ the Vathan cried out to the night, sharp with fear. ‘Hundreds of them! Run!’
Hundreds? Horsan laughed and forgot about stopping and ambushes and caution. Hundreds? There’s a dozen of us, you fool!
But the Vathan kept shouting and running, and now Horsan could see fires in the woods ahead, quickly being stamped out, sparks shooting into the air like Aulian rockets. Shapes and shadows of more men moved ahead of them, and once more the cries went up: Forkbeards! Flee!
Gallow crouched in the dark beside the road. The moon was up and the gates of Andhun lay in sight. A handful of Lhosir stood clustered around a small fire, far enough away to be out of range of any arrows. Medrin’s men. Watchers. Watching for him perhaps, and Andhun’s gates were firmly closed. No fires burned up on the walls, no stars of torches moved back and forth. And even if he found a Marroc and called out, why would they let him in?
I have Solace. I have the holy sword of the Vathen, the Sword of the Weeping God. But the Marroc god was Modris, and Modris and the Weeping God fought their eternal battle, the Protector and the Peacebringer, the Crimson Shield and Solace. They’d never allow the red sword through their gates. More likely they’d kill the man who carried it and hurl it from their cliffs far out to sea. It was cursed. He could feel it. There was a burden that came with bearing such a sword.
Arda! He touched the locket, but he knew what Arda’s words would be. He could hear them, clear as a bell. Sell it, you oaf! Sell it and come home. Must be worth a fortune and more than we’ve any need for. So get what you can and think of your sons. Or throw it into the sea if you must, but whatever you do, don’t you be sneaking around the bottom of the cliffs, finding your way past those walls! Just don’t!
Just don’t! In the darkness Gallow laughed. That was how she did it. She went by what she knew of him, guessed what he was most likely to do and then told him to do something else. The opposite if she could find one, just so she could shake her head and wag her finger and tell him how wrong he was. It was never about what she wanted, it was about being able to scold him afterwards. Eight years of being married to the woman and he’d never seen through her until now, carrying a cursed sword and trapped between the Marroc on one side and Medrin on the other, probably with some Vathen still around for good measure and all of them wanting to kill him; and now he had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop himself laughing aloud. He could see her, eyes rolling, shaking her head in disbelief. And there you go, keeping on wondering why it is you can’t leave me be, you great lump of wood. Now get yourself home. You can give Nadric a good shouting at for being such a thistlefinger if you need something to look forward to.
He didn’t, but there was something else to done before he could leave. ‘I have to get into Andhun. I have to warn them. Medrin will slaughter them.’
Naturally I disagree, but I suppose you do. If she’d been there he would have kissed her, and if she’d shaken her head and told him that no, really, he did have to go with her instead, he would have gone.
Only a fool would climb the cliffs in the dark wearing mail and gauntlets, but then again, a Lhosir never abandoned his shield or his weapon, not if he could help it, and the Maker-Devourer preferred fools armed and ready for battle over wise men who came to him old and empty-handed, and Gallow had always been a good climber. It was part of what had started all this in the first place.
Once he was inside, he set about looking for Valaric.
The Vathan camp wasn’t a big one, only a few dozen soldiers and their horses, and Horsan ran right into the middle of it and roared and swung his sword at the first shape he saw, and the Vathen panicked and fled. After they were gone he searched the camp, and that was when they found Dvag, or what was left of him, still alive if only barely. Dvag Bloodbeard they’d call him now, by the looks of him. As names went it wasn’t so bad. Horsan and the others hoisted Dvag between them and limped him home. By the time they got back, the sun was rising and Medrin was up again. He listened to Dvag’s tale as he broke his fast. To the things Dvag had heard around him while the Vathen had flayed his face. It wasn’t much. Something about the sword and a Marroc in An
dhun.
Medrin’s eyes gleamed.
40
THE WALLS OF ANDHUN
Valaric watched the battle from a hill beside the sea. He watched the Vathen break like waves on the wall of forkbeard shields. He watched the wall waver and almost crumble, and then hold and the last forkbeards surge down the hill, and he watched the Vathen turn and flee. He didn’t stay to see what happened after that but walked quickly back to the sea cliffs and down a path that ran to the shore and to the little boat that waited there. A tiny thing, hardly big enough to fit the half a dozen men it had carried out of Andhun. The others looked at him expectantly.
‘Close, but the forkbeards broke them.’
The other Marroc fell to cursing as they pushed the boat out into the waves. Valaric said nothing. What difference did it make whether the invaders were Vathen or forkbeards? Both sides smashed to pieces, that was the best he could hope for. ‘The Vathen are still out there.’ When the waves were breaking around his chest, he hauled himself aboard. ‘We keep the gates closed and the forkbeards have nowhere to go. And they can’t do anything about it while the Vathen are still there.’
‘And if the duke keeps his word and opens them?’
Valaric looked away. He’d felt the change in the city as soon as the demon-prince Twelvefingers had gone off looking for the Crimson Shield and the Nightmare of the North had cut down the gibbets. A few more Marroc had been hung and then the Widowmaker had moved his army out of the city. The killing had stopped. Better for the forkbeards perhaps, not to have their numbers whittled slowly down, but better for the Marroc too. It had taken Valaric a while to see that. And then the Vathen had come, and the puppet Marroc duke who ruled Andhun with Yurlak’s hand shoved up his arse had promised, sworn on everything holy, that Andhun would open its gates to the Screambreaker when the battle was done.