First the machine would be aligned, the range would be judged. A group of white robed, bearded engineers would argue with one another, peering through eye-glasses of their own, holding up swinging plumb-lines, fiddling with compasses, and papers, and abacuses, making minute adjustments to the huge bolts that held the catapult in place.
Once they were satisfied, the great arm was bent back into position. A team of twenty horses, well-whipped and well-lathered, was required to lift the enormous counterweight, a block of black iron carved in the shape of a frowning Gurkish face.
Next the huge shot, a barrel not much less than a stride across, was painstakingly manoeuvred into the waiting scoop by a system of pulleys and a team of frowning, bellowing, arm-waving labourers. Then men stepped away, hurried back fearfully. A lone slave was sent slowly forward with a long pole, a burning wad at its end. He placed it to the barrel. Flames leaped up, and somewhere a lever was hauled down, the mighty weight fell, the great arm, long as a pine trunk, cut through the air, and the burning ammunition was flung up towards the clouds. They had been flying up, and roaring down, for hours now, while the sun slowly sank in the west, the sky darkened around them, the hills of the mainland became a black outline in the distance.
Glokta watched as one of the barrels soared, searing bright against the black heavens, the path of it a fizzing line burned into his eye. It seemed to hang over the city for an age, as high almost as the Citadel itself, and then tumbled, crackling from the sky like a meteor, a trail of orange fire blazing behind. It fell to earth in the midst of the Lower City. Liquid flames shot upwards, spurted outwards, pounced hungrily upon the tiny silhouettes of the slum-huts. A few moments later, the thunder-clap of the detonation reached Glokta at his window and made him wince. Explosive powder. Who could have supposed, when I saw it fizzing on the bench of the Adeptus Chemical, that it might make such an awesome weapon?
He half-saw, half-imagined, tiny figures rushing here or there, trying to pull the injured from the burning wreckage, trying to save what they could from their ruined dwellings, chains of ash-blackened natives grimly passing buckets from hand to hand, struggling vainly to contain the spreading inferno. Those with the least always lose the most in war. There were fires all across the Lower City now. Glowing, shimmering, flickering in the wind off the sea, reflecting orange, yellow, angry red in the black water. Even up here, the air smelled heavy, oily and choking from the smoke. Down there it must be hell itself. My congratulations once more, Superior Glokta.
He turned, aware of someone in the doorway. Shickel, her slight shape black in the lamplight.
'I'm alright,' he murmured, looking back to the majestic, the lurid, the awful spectacle outside the window. After all, you don't get to see a city burn every day. But his servant did not leave. She took a step forward into the room.
'You should go, Shickel. I'm expecting a visitor, of a sort, and it could be trouble.'
'A visitor, eh?'
Glokta looked up. Her voice sounded different. Deeper, harder. Her face looked different too, one side in shadow, one side lit in flickering orange from the fires outside the window. A strange expression, teeth half-bared, eyes fixed on Glokta and glittering with a hungry intensity as she padded slowly forward. A fearsome expression, almost. If I was prone to fear… And the wheels clicked into place.
'You?' he breathed.
'Me.'
You? Glokta could not help himself. He let out a burst of involuntary chuckling. 'Harker had you! That idiot stumbled on you by mistake, and I let you go! And I thought I was the hero!' He could not stop laughing. 'There's a lesson for you, eh? Never do a good turn!'
'I don't need lessons from you, cripple.' She took one more step. Not three strides away from him now.
'Wait!' He held up his hand. 'Just tell me one thing!' She paused, one brow raised, questioning. Just stay there. 'What happened to Davoust?'
Shickel smiled. Sharp, clean teeth. 'He never left the room.' She stroked her stomach gently. 'He is here.' Glokta forced himself not to look up as the loop of chain descended slowly from the ceiling. 'And now you can join him.' She got half a step forward before the chain hooked her under the chin and jerked up, dragging her off her feet into the air, hissing and spitting, kicking and thrashing.
Severard sprang up from his hiding-place beneath a table, tried to grab hold of Shickel's flailing legs. He yelped as her bare foot cracked into his face, sent him sprawling across the carpet.
'Shit,' gasped Vitari as Shickel wedged her hand under the chain and began to drag her down from the rafters. 'Shit!' They crashed onto the floor together, struggled for a moment, then Vitari flew through the air, a flailing black shadow in the darkness. She wailed as she crashed into a table in the far corner of the room, flopped senseless on the floor. Severard was still groaning, rolling slowly onto his back in a daze, hands clasped to his mask. Glokta and Shickel were left staring at one another. Me and my Eater. This is unfortunate.
He backed against the wall as the girl sprang at him, but she only got a step before Frost barrelled into her at full tilt, crashed on top of her onto the carpet. They lay there for a moment, then she slowly rolled on to her knees, slowly fought her way up to standing, all of the hulking Practical's great weight bearing down on her, slowly took a shuffling step towards Glokta.
The albino's arms were wrapped tight round her, straining with every sinew to drag her away, but she kept moving slowly forward, teeth gritted, one thin arm pinned to her thin body while her free hand clawed out furiously towards Glokta's neck.
'Thhhhh!' hissed Frost, the muscles in his heavy forearms bulging, his white face screwed up with effort, his pink eyes starting from his head. Still it was not enough. Glokta was pressed back against the wall, watching fascinated as the hand came closer, and closer still, just inches from his throat. This is very unfortunate.
'Fuck you!' screamed Severard. His stick whistled down and cracked into the grasping arm, breaking it clean in half. Glokta could see the bones poking through the ripped and bloody skin, and yet the fingers still twitched, reaching for him. The stick cracked into her face and her head snapped back. Blood sprayed out of her nose, her cheek was cut right open. Still she came on. Frost was gasping with the effort of keeping her other arm pinned as she strained forwards, mouth snarling, teeth bared, ready to bite Glokta's throat out.
Severard threw down his stick and grabbed her round the neck, dragging her head backwards, grunting with the effort, veins pulsing on his forehead. It was a bizarre sight, two men, one of them big and strong as a bull, trying desperately to wrestle a slip of a girl to the ground. Slowly, the two Practicals began to drag her back. Severard had one of her feet off the floor. Frost gave a great bellow, lifted her and with one last effort flung her against the wall.
She scrabbled at the floor, clawing her way up, broken arm flopping. Vitari growled from the shadows, one of Superior Davoust's heavy chairs raised high in the air. It burst apart over Shickel's head with an almighty crash, and then the three Practicals were on her like hounds on a fox, kicking, punching, grunting with rage.
'Enough!' snapped Glokta. 'We still have questions!' He shuffled up beside the panting Practicals and looked down. Shickel was a broken mess, motionless. A pile of rags, and not even a big one. Much as when I first found her. How could this girl almost have overcome these three? Her broken arm was stretched out across the carpet, fingers limp and bloody. Safe to say no threat to anyone, now.
Then the arm began to move. The bone slid back into the flesh, made a sickening crunching sound as it straightened out. The fingers twitched, jerked, scratched at the floor, began to slide toward Glokta, reaching for his ankle.
'What is she?' gasped Severard, staring down.
'Get the chains,' said Glokta, cautiously stepping back out of the way. 'Quickly!'
Frost dragged two pairs of great irons clanking from a sack, grunting with the effort of lifting them. They were made for the most powerful and dangerous of prisoners, bands of blac
k iron, thick as a sapling trunk, heavy as anvils. He squeezed one pair tight shut around her ankles, the other round her wrists, ratchets scraping into place with a reassuring finality.
Meanwhile Vitari had hauled a great length of rattling chain from the sack and was winding it round and round Shickel's limp body while Severard held her up, dragging it tight, winding it round and round again. Two great padlocks completed the job.
They were snapped shut just in time. Shickel suddenly came alive, began thrashing on the floor. She snarled up at Glokta, straining at the chains. Her nose had already snapped back into place, the cut across her face had already closed. As though she was never hurt at all. So Yulwei spoke the truth. The chains rattled as she lunged forward with her teeth, and Glokta had to stumble back out of the way.
'It's persistent,' muttered Vitari, shoving her back against the wall with her boot. 'You'd have to give it that.'
'Fools!' hissed Shickel. 'You cannot resist what comes! God's right hand is falling upon this city, and nothing can save it! All your deaths are already written!' A particularly bright detonation flared across the sky, casting orange light onto the Practicals' masked faces. A moment later the thunder of it echoed around the room. Shickel began to laugh, a crazy, grating cackle. 'The Hundred Words are coming! No chains can bind them, no gates can keep them out! They are coming!'
'Perhaps.' Glokta shrugged. 'But they will come too late for you.'
'I am dead already! My body is nothing but dust! It belongs to the Prophet! Try as you might, you will learn nothing from me!'
Glokta smiled. He could almost feel the warmth of the flames, far below, on his face.
'That sounds like a challenge.'
* * *
One of Them
« ^ »
Ardee smiled at him, and Jezal smiled back. He grinned like an idiot. He could not help it. He was so happy to be back where things made sense. Now they need never be parted. He wanted only to tell her how much he loved her. How much he missed her. He opened his mouth but she pressed her finger to his lips. Firmly.
'Shhh.'
She kissed him. Gently at first, then harder.
'Uh,' he said.
Her teeth nipped at his lip. Playful, to begin with.
'Ah,' he said.
They bit harder, and harder still.
'Ow!' he said.
She sucked at his face, her teeth ripping at his skin, scraping on his bones. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. It was dark, his head swam. There was a hideous tugging, an unbearable pulling on his mouth.
'Got it,' said a voice. The agonising pressure released.
'How bad is it?'
'Not as bad as it looks.'
'It looks very bad.'
'Shut up and hold that torch higher.'
'What's that?'
'What?'
'That there, sticking out?'
'His jaw, fool, what do you think it is?'
'I think I'm going to be sick. Healing is not among my remarkable—'
'Shut your fucking hole and hold the torch up! We'll have to push it back in!' Jezal felt something pressing on his face, hard. There was a cracking sound and an unbearable lance of pain stabbed through his jaw and into his neck, like nothing he had ever felt before. He sagged back.
'I'll hold it, you move that.'
'What, this?'
'Don't pull his teeth out!'
'It fell out by itself!'
'Damn fool pink!'
'What's happening?' said Jezal. But all that came out was a kind of gurgle. His head was throbbing, pulsing, splitting with pain.
'He's waking up now!'
'You stitch then, I'll hold him.' There was a pressure round his shoulders, across his chest, folding him tight. His arm hurt. Hurt terribly. He tried to kick but his leg was agony, he couldn't move it.
'You got him?'
'Yes I've got him! Get stitching!'
Something stabbed into his face. He had not thought the pain could grow any worse. How wrong he had been.
'Get off me!' he bellowed, but all he heard was, 'thugh.'
He struggled, tried to wriggle free, but he was folded tight, and it only made his arm hurt more. The pain in his face got worse. His upper lip, his lower lip, his chin, his cheek. He screamed and screamed and screamed, but heard nothing. Only a quiet wheezing. When he thought his head would surely explode, the pain grew suddenly less.
'Done.'
The grip was released and he lay back, floppy as a rag, helpless. Something turned his head. 'That's good stitching. That's real good. Wish you'd been around when I got these. Might still have my looks.'
'What looks, pink?'
'Huh. Best get started on his arm. Then there's the leg to set an' all.'
'Where did you put that shield?'
'No,' groaned Jezal, 'please…' Nothing but a click in his throat.
He could see something now, blurry shapes in the half-light. A face loomed towards him, an ugly face. Bent and broken nose, skin torn and crossed with scars. There was a dark face, just behind it, a face with a long, livid line from eyebrow to chin. He closed his eyes. Even the light seemed painful.
'Good stitching.' A hand patted the side of his face. 'You're one of us, now, boy.'
Jezal lay there, his face a mass of agony, and the horror crept slowly through every limb.
'One of us.'
PART II
'He is not fit for battle that has
never seen his own blood flow,
who has not heard his teeth
crunch under the blow of an
opponent, or felt the full weight
of his adversary upon him.'
Roger of Howden
* * *
Heading North
« ^ »
So the Dogman was just lying there on his face, wet to the skin and trying to keep still without freezing solid, looking out across the valley from the trees, and watching Bethod's army marching. He couldn't see that much of them from where he was lying, just a stretch of the track over a ridge, enough to see the Carls tramping by, painted shields bright on their backs, mail glistening with specks of melted snow, spears sticking up high between the tree trunks. Rank after rank of 'em, marching steady.
They were a good way off, but he was taking quite a risk even getting this close. Bethod was just as careful as ever. He'd got men out all around, up on the ridges and the high points, anywhere where he thought someone could get a sight of what he was up to. He'd sent a few scouts south and some others east, hoping to trick anyone was watching, but he hadn't got the Dogman fooled. Not this time. Bethod was heading back the way he'd come. He was heading north.
Dogman breathed in sharp, and gave a long, sad sigh. By the dead, he felt tired. He watched the tiny figures filing past through the pine branches. He'd spent all those years scouting for Bethod, keeping an eye on armies like this one for him, helping him win battles, helping to make him a King, though he'd never dreamed it at the time. In some ways everything had changed. In others it was just the same as ever. Here he was still, face down in the muck with a sore neck from looking up. Ten years older and not a day better off. He could hardly remember what his ambitions used to be, but this hadn't ever been among 'em, he was sure of that. All that wind blown past, all that snow fallen, all that water flowed by. All that fighting, all that marching, all that waste.
Logen gone, and Forley gone, and the candle burning down fast on the rest of 'em.
Grim slithered through the frozen scrub beside him, propped himself on his elbows and peered out towards the Carls moving on the road. 'Huh,' he grunted.
'Bethod's moving north,' whispered Dogman.
Grim nodded.
'He's got scouts out all over, but he's heading north, no doubt. We'd best let Threetrees know.'
Another nod.
Dogman lay there in the wet. 'I'm getting tired.'
Grim looked up, lifted an eyebrow.
'All this effort, and for what? Everything the sam
e as ever. Whose side is it we're on now?' Dogman waved his hand over at the men slogging down the road. 'We supposed to fight all this lot? When do we get a rest?'
Grim shrugged his shoulders, squeezed his lips together like he was thinking about it. 'When we're dead?'
And wasn't that the sorry truth.
Took Dogman a while to find the others. They were nowhere near where they should've been by now. Being honest, they weren't far from where they were when he left. Dow was the first one he saw, sat on a big stone with the usual scowl on his face, glaring down into a gully. Dogman came up next to him, saw what he was looking at. The four Southerners, clambering over the rocks, slow and clumsy as new-born calves. Tul and Threetrees were waiting for them at the bottom, looking mighty short on patience.
'Bethod's heading north,' said Dogman.
'Good for him.'
'Not surprised?'
Dow licked his teeth and spat. 'He's beat every clan that dared face him, made himself a King where there wasn't one before, gone to war with the Union and he's giving 'em a kicking. He's turned the world on its head, the bastard. Nothing he does surprises me now.'
'Huh.' Dogman reckoned he was right enough there. 'You lot ain't got far.'
'No we ain't. This is some right fucking baggage you've saddled us with here, and no mistake.' He watched the four of 'em fumbling their way down the gully below, shaking his head like he'd never seen such a waste of flesh. 'Some right fucking baggage.'
'If you're telling me to feel shamed 'cause I saved some lives that day, I don't. What should I have done?' asked Dogman. 'Left 'em to die?'
'That's one idea. We'd be moving twice the speed without 'em, and eating a deal better and all.' He flashed a nasty grin. 'There's only one that I could find a use for.'
Before They Are Hanged Page 28