'You're in the way, Colonel. Again.' Cathil shoved past him, a knife-blade glowing orange in the tongs in one gloved hand. She shoved it into the water, frowning, turning it this way and that while steam hissed up around her. West watched her move, quick and practised, beads of moisture on her sinewy arm, the back of her neck, hair dark and spiky with sweat. Hard to believe he'd ever taken her for a boy. She might handle the metal as well as any of the men, but the shape of her face, not to mention her chest, her waist, the curve of her backside, all unmistakably female…
She glanced over her shoulder and caught him looking. 'Don't you have an army to run?'
'They'll last ten minutes without me.'
She drew the cold, black blade from the water and tossed it clattering onto the heap beside the whetstone. 'You sure?'
Maybe she was right at that. West took a deep breath, sighed, turned with some reluctance, and ventured out through the door of the shed and into the camp.
The winter air nipped at his cheeks after the heat of the smithy, and he pulled up the collars of his coat, hugged himself as he struggled down the camp's main road. It was deathly quiet out here at night, once he had left the rattling of the forge behind him. He could hear the frozen mud sucking at his boots, his breath rasping in his throat, the faint cursing of some distant soldier, grumbling his way through the darkness. He stopped a moment and looked up, arms folded round himself for warmth. The sky was perfectly clear, the stars prickling bright, spread across the blackness like shining dust.
'Beautiful,' he murmured to himself.
'You get used to it.'
It was Threetrees, picking his way between the tents with the Dogman at his shoulder. His face was in shadow, all dark pits and white angles like a cliff in the moonlight, but West could tell there was some ill news coming. The old Northman could hardly have been described as a figure of fun at the best of times, but now his frown was grim indeed.
'Well met,' said West in the Northern tongue.
'You think? Bethod is inside five days' march of your camp.'
The cold seemed suddenly to cut through West's coat and make him shiver. 'Five days?'
'If he's stayed put since we saw him, and that ain't likely. Bethod was never one for staying put. If he's marching south, he could be three days away. Less even.'
'What are his numbers?'
The Dogman licked his lips, breath smoking round his lean face in the chill air. 'I'd guess at ten thousand, but he might have more behind.'
West felt colder yet. 'Ten thousand? That many?'
'Around ten, aye. Mostly Thralls.'
'Thralls? Light infantry?'
'Light, but not like this rubbish you have here.' Threetrees scowled around at the shabby tents, the badly built camp fires, close to guttering out. 'Bethod's Thralls are lean and bloody from battles and tough as wood from marching. Those bastards can run all day and still fight at the end of it, if it's needed. Bowmen, spearmen, all well-practised.'
'There's no shortage of Carls and all,' muttered the Dogman.
'That there ain't, with strong mail and good blades, and plenty of horses into the bargain. There'll be Named Men too, no doubt. It's the pick of the crop Bethod's brought with him, and some sharp war leaders in amongst 'em. That and some strange folk from out east. Wild men, from beyond the Crinna. Must have left a few boys dotted about up north, for your friends to chase around after, and brought his best fighters south with him, against your weakest.' The old warrior stared grimly round at the slovenly camp from under his thick eyebrows. 'No offence, but I don't give you a shit of a chance if it comes to a battle.'
The worst of all outcomes. West swallowed. 'How fast could such an army move?'
'Fast. Their scouts might be with us day after tomorrow. Main body a day later. If they've come right on, that is, and it's hard to say if they will. Wouldn't put it past Bethod to try and cross the river lower down, come round behind us.'
'Behind us?' They were scarcely equipped for a predictable enemy. 'How could he have known we were here?'
'Bethod always had a gift for guessing out his enemies. Good sense for it. That and he's a lucky bastard. Loves to take chances. Ain't nothing more important in war than a good slice o' luck.'
West looked around him, blinking. Ten thousand battle-hardened Northmen, descending on their ramshackle camp. Lucky, unpredictable Northmen. He imagined trying to turn the ill-disciplined levies, up to their ankles in mud, trying to get them to form a line. It would be a slaughter. Another Black Well in the making. But at least they had a warning. Three days to prepare their defences, or better still, to begin to retreat.
'We must speak to the Prince at once,' he said.
Soft music and warm light washed out into the chill night air as West jerked back the tent flap. He stooped through, reluctantly, with the two Northmen close behind him.
'By the dead…' muttered Threetrees, gaping round.
West had forgotten how bizarre the Prince's quarters must appear to a newcomer, especially one who was a stranger to luxury. It was less a tent than a huge hall of purple cloth, ten strides or more in height, hung with Styrian tapestries and floored with Kantic carpets. The furniture would have been more in keeping in a palace than a camp. Huge carved dressers and gilt chests held the Prince's endless wardrobe, enough to clothe an army of dandies. The bed was a gargantuan four-poster, bigger than most tents in the camp on its own. A highly polished table in one corner sagged under the weight of heaped-up delicacies, silver and gold plate twinkling in the candlelight. One could hardly imagine that only a few hundred strides away, men were cramped, and cold, and had not enough to eat.
Crown Prince Ladisla himself sat sprawled in a huge chair of dark wood, a throne, one could have said, upholstered in red silk. An empty glass dangled from one hand, while the other waved back and forth to the music of a quartet of expert musicians, plucking, fiddling, and blowing gently at their shining instruments in the far corner. Around his Highness were four of his staff, impeccably dressed and fashionably bored, among them the young Lord Smund, who had perhaps become, over the past few weeks, West's least favourite person in the entire world.
'It does you great credit,' Smund was braying loudly to the Prince. 'Sharing the hardships of the camp has always been a fine way to win the respect of the common soldier—'
'Ah, Colonel West!' chirped Ladisla, 'and two of his Northern scouts! What a delight! You must take some food!' He made a floppy, drunken gesture towards the table.
'Thank you, your Highness, but I have eaten. I have some news of the greatest—'
'Or some wine! You must all have wine, this is an excellent vintage! Where did that bottle get to?' He fumbled about beneath his chair.
The Dogman had already crossed to the table and was leaning over it, sniffing at the food like… a dog. He snatched a large slice of beef from the plate with his dirty fingers, folded it carefully and stuffed it whole into his mouth, while Smund looked on, lip curled with contempt. It would have been embarrassing, under normal circumstances, but West had larger worries.
'Bethod is within five days march of us,' he nearly shouted, 'with the best part of his strength!'
One of the musicians fumbled his bow and hit a screeching, discordant note. Ladisla jerked his head up, nearly sliding from his seat. Even Smund and his companions were pulled from their indolence.
'Five days,' muttered the Prince, his voice hoarse with excitement, 'are you sure?'
'Perhaps no more than three.'
'How many are they?'
'As many as ten thousand, and veterans to a—'
'Excellent!' Ladisla slapped the arm of his chair as if it were a Northman's face. 'We are on equal terms with them!'
West swallowed. 'Perhaps in numbers, your Highness, but not in quality.'
'Come now, Colonel West,' droned Smund. 'One good Union man is worth ten of their kind.' He stared down his nose at Threetrees.
'Black Well proved that notion a fantasy, even if our men wer
e properly fed, trained, and equipped. Aside from the King's Own, they are none of these things! We would be well advised to prepare defences, and make ready to withdraw if we must.'
Smund snorted his contempt for that idea. 'There is nothing more dangerous in war,' he disclaimed airily, 'than too much caution.'
'Except too little!' growled West, the fury already starting to pulse behind his eyes.
But Prince Ladisla cut him off before he had the chance to lose his temper. 'Gentlemen, enough!' He sprang up from his chair, eyes dewy with drunken enthusiasm. 'I have already decided on my strategy! We will cross the river and intercept these savages! They think to surprise us? Hah!' He lashed at the air with his wine glass. 'We will give them a surprise they will not soon forget! Drive them back over the border! Just as Marshal Burr intended!'
'But, your Highness,' stammered West, feeling slightly queasy, 'the Lord Marshal explicitly ordered that we remain behind the river—'
Ladisla flicked his head, as though bothered by a fly. 'The spirit of his orders, Colonel, not the letter! He can hardly complain if we take the fight to our enemy!'
'These men are fucking fools,' rumbled Threetrees, luckily in the Northern tongue.
'What did he say?' inquired the Prince.
'Er… he concurs with me that we should hold here, your Highness, and send to Lord Marshal Burr for help.'
'Does he indeed? And I thought these Northmen were all fire and vinegar! Well, Colonel West, you may inform him that I am resolved on an attack, and cannot be moved! We will show this so-called King of the Northmen that he does not hold a monopoly on victory!'
'Good show!' shouted Smund, stamping his foot on the thick carpet. 'Excellent!' The rest of the Prince's staff voiced their ignorant support.
'Kick them back across the border!'
'Teach them a lesson!'
'Excellent! Capital! Is there more wine?'
West clenched his fists with frustration. He had to make one more effort, however embarrassing, however pointless. He dropped to one knee, he clasped his hands together, he fixed the Prince with his eye and gathered every ounce of persuasiveness he possessed. 'Your Highness, I ask you, I entreat you, I beg you to reconsider. The lives of every man in this camp depend on your decision.'
The Prince grinned. 'Such is the weight of command, my friend! I realise your motives are of the best, but I must agree with Lord Smund. Boldness is the best policy in war, and boldness shall be my strategy! It was through boldness that Harod the Great forged the Union, through boldness that King Casamir conquered Angland in the first place! We will get the better of these Northmen yet, you'll see. Give the orders, Colonel! We march at first light!'
West had studied Casamir's campaigns in detail. Boldness had been one tenth of his success, the rest had been meticulous planning, care for his men, attention to every detail. Boldness without the rest was apt to be deadly, but he saw that it was pointless to say so. He would only anger the Prince and lose whatever influence he might still have. He felt like a man watching his own house burn down. Numb, sick, utterly helpless. There was nothing left for him to do but to give the orders, and do his best to see that everything was conducted as well as it could be.
'Of course, your Highness,' he managed to mutter.
'Of course!' The Prince grinned. 'We are all in agreement, then! Capital! Stop that music!' he shouted at the musicians. 'We need something with more vigour! Something with blood in it!' The quartet switched effortlessly to a jaunty martial theme. West turned, limbs heavy with hopelessness, and trudged out of the tent into the icy night.
Threetrees was hard on his heels. 'By the dead, but I can't work you people out! Where I come from a man earns the right to lead! His men follow because they know his quality, and respect him because he shares their hardships with 'em! Even Bethod won his place!' He strode up and down before the tent, waving his big hands. 'Here you pick the ones who know the least to lead, and fix on the biggest fool o' the whole pack for a commander!'
West could think of nothing to say. He could hardly deny it.
'That prick'll march the lot o' you right into your fucking graves! Back to the mud with you all, but I'm damned if I'll follow, or any of my boys. I'm done paying for other folks' mistakes, and I've lost enough to that bastard Bethod already! Come on, Dogman. This boat o' fools can sink without us!' And he turned and stalked away into the night.
The Dogman shrugged. 'Ain't all bad.' He closed to a conspiratorial distance, reached deep into his pocket and pulled something out. West stared down at an entire poached salmon, no doubt pilfered from the Prince's table. The Northman grinned. 'I got me a fish!' And he followed his chief, leaving West alone on the bitter hillside, Ladisla's martial music floating through the chill air behind him.
* * *
Until Sunset
« ^ »
'Oy.' A rough hand shook Glokta from his sleep. He rolled his head gingerly from the side he had been sleeping on, clenching his teeth at the pain as his neck clicked. Does death come early in the morning, today? He opened his eyes a crack. Ah. Not quite yet, it seems. Perhaps at lunch time. Vitari stared down at him, spiky hair silhouetted black in the early morning sun streaming through the window.
'Very well, Practical Vitari, if you really can't resist me. You'll have to go on top, though, if you don't mind.'
'Ha ha. The Gurkish ambassador is here.'
'The what?'
'An emissary. From the Emperor himself, I hear.'
Glokta felt a stab of panic. 'Where?'
'Here in the Citadel. Speaking to the ruling council.'
'Shit on it!' snarled Glokta, scrambling out of bed, ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg as he swung his ruined left foot onto the floor. 'Why didn't they call for me?'
Vitari scowled down at him. 'Maybe they preferred to talk to him without you. You think that could be it?'
'How the hell did he get here?'
'He came in by boat, under sign of parley. Vissbruck says he was duty bound to admit him.'
'Duty-bound!' spat Glokta as he struggled to pull his trousers up his numb and trembling leg, 'That fat fucker! How long has he been here?'
'Long enough for him and the council to make some pretty mischief together, if that's their aim.'
'Shit!' Glokta winced as he shrugged his shirt on.
The Gurkish ambassador was, without doubt, a majestic presence.
His nose was prominent and hooked, his eyes burned bright with intelligence, his long, thin beard was neatly brushed. Gold thread in his sweeping white robe and his tall head-dress glittered in the bright sun. He held his body awesomely erect, long neck stretched out, chin held high, so that he looked always down at everything he deigned to look upon. Hugely tall and thin, he made the lofty, magnificent room seem low and shabby. He could pass for an Emperor himself.
Glokta was keenly aware of how bent and awkward he must look as he shuffled, grimacing and sweating, into the audience chamber. The miserable crow faces the magnificent peacock. Still, battles are not always won by the most beautiful. Fortunately for me.
The long table was surprisingly empty. Only Vissbruck, Eider, and Korsten dan Vurms were in their seats, and none of them looked pleased to see him arrive. Nor should they, the bastards.
'No Lord Governor today?' he barked.
'My father is not well,' muttered Vurms.
'Shame you couldn't stay and comfort him in his illness. What about Kahdia?' No one spoke. 'Didn't think he'd take to a meeting with them, eh?' he nodded rudely at the emissary. 'How lucky for everyone that you three have stronger stomachs. I am Superior Glokta and, whatever you might have heard, I am in charge here. I must apologise for my late arrival, but no one told me you were coming.' He looked daggers at Vissbruck, but the general was not interested in meeting his eye. That's right, you blustering fool. I won't forget this.
'My name is Shabbed al Islik Burai.' The ambassador spoke the common tongue perfectly, in a voice every bit as powerful, as authoritative, as
arrogant as his bearing. 'I come as emissary from the rightful ruler of all the South, mighty Emperor of mighty Gurkhul and all the Kantic lands, Uthman-ul-Dosht, loved, feared, and favoured above all other men within the Circle of the World, anointed by God's right hand, the Prophet Khalul himself.'
'Good for you. I would bow, but I strained my back getting out of bed.'
Islik gave a delicate sneer. 'Truly a warrior's injury. I have come to accept your surrender.'
'Is that so?' Glokta dragged out the nearest chair and sank into it. I'm damned if I'm going to stand a moment longer, just for the benefit of this towering oaf. 'I thought it was traditional to make such offers once the fighting is over.'
'If there is to be fighting, it will not last long.' The ambassador swept across the tiles to the window. 'I see five legions, arrayed in battle order upon the peninsula. Twenty thousand spears, and they are but a fraction of what comes. The troops of the Emperor are more numerous than the grains of sand in the desert. To resist us would be as futile as to resist the tide. You all know this.' His eyes swept proudly across the guilty faces of the ruling council and came to rest on Glokta's with a piercing contempt. The look of a man who believes he has already won. No one could blame him much for thinking so. Perhaps he has.
'Only fools or madmen would choose to stand against such odds. You pinks have never belonged here. The Emperor offers you the chance to leave the South with your lives. Open the gates to us and you will be spared. You can leave on your little boats and float back to your little island. Let it never be said that Uthman-ul-Dosht is not generous. God fights beside us. Your cause is lost.'
Before They Are Hanged Page 21