Dogman eased himself up slow, peering over the top of the fallen tree trunk. He could see the Flatheads, down in the woods. Sat there in the shadows. Waiting. He didn't like seeing 'em lurking down there. Shanka come at you until they're finished, or they run.
'What are they waiting for?' he hissed. 'When did bloody Flatheads learn to wait?'
'When did they learn to fight for Bethod?' growled Tul, wiping his sword clean. 'There's a lot that's changing, and none of it for the better.'
'When did anything change for the better?' snarled Dow from further down the line.
Dogman frowned. There was a new smell in his nose, like damp. There was something pale, down in the trees, getting paler while he watched. 'What is that? That mist?'
'Mist? Up here?' Dow chuckled harsh as a crow calling. 'This time of day? Hah! Hold on, though…' They could all see it now—a trace of white, clinging to the wet slope. Dogman swallowed. His mouth was dry. He was feeling uneasy, all of a sudden, and not just from the Shanka waiting down there. Something else. The mist was creeping up through the trees, curling round the trunks, rising while they watched. The Flat-heads were starting to move, dim shapes shifting in the grey murk.
'Don't like this,' he heard Dow saying. 'This ain't natural.'
'Steady, lads!' Threetrees' deep voice. 'Steady, now!' Dogman took heart from that, but his heart didn't last long. He rocked back and forth, feeling sick.
'No, no,' whispered Shivers, his eyes sliding around like he was looking for a way out. Dogman could feel the hairs on his own arms rising, his skin prickling, his throat closing up tight. A nameless sort of a fear was taking him, flowing up the hillside along with the mist—creeping through the forest, swirling round the trees, sliding under the trunk they were using as cover.
'It's him,' whispered Shivers, his eyes open wide as a pair of boot-tops, squashing himself down like he was scared of being heard. 'It's him!'
'Who?' croaked Dogman.
Shivers just shook his head and pressed himself to the cold earth. The Dogman felt a powerful need to do the same, but he forced himself to rise up, forced himself to take a look over the tree. A Named Man, scared as a child in the dark, and not knowing why? Better to face it, he thought. Big mistake.
There was a shadow in the mist, too tall and too straight for a Shanka. A great, huge man, big as Tul. Bigger even. A giant. Dogman rubbed his sore eyes, thinking it must be some trick of the light in all that gloom, but it wasn't. He came on closer, this shadow, and he took on more shape, and more, and the clearer he got, the worse grew the fear.
He'd been long and far, the Dogman, all over the North, but he'd never seen so strange and unnatural a thing as this giant. One half of him was covered in great plates of black armour—studded and bolted, beaten and pointed, spiked and hammered and twisted metal. The other half was mostly bare, apart from the straps and belts and buckles that held the armour on. Bare foot, bare arm, bare chest, all bulging out with ugly slabs and cords of muscle. A mask was on his face, a mask of scarred black iron.
He came on closer, and he rose from the mist, and the Dogman saw the giant's skin was painted. Marked blue with tiny letters. Scrawled across with writing, every inch of him. No weapon, but he was no less terrible for that. He was more, if anything. He scorned to carry one, even on a battlefield.
'By the fucking dead,' breathed the Dogman, and his mouth hung wide with horror.
'Steady, lads,' growled Threetrees. 'Steady.' The old boy's voice was the only thing stopping the Dogman from running for it, and never coming back.
'It's him!' squealed one of the Carls, voice shrill as a girl's. 'It's the Feared!'
'Shut your fucking hole!' came Shivers' voice, 'We know what it is!'
'Arrows!' shouted Threetrees.
Dogman's hands were trembling as he took an aim on the giant. It was hard somehow, to do it, even from this distance. He had to make his hand let go the string, and then the arrow pinged off the armour and away into the trees, harmless. Grim's shot was better. His shaft sank clean into the giant's side, buried deep in his painted flesh. He seemed not even to notice. More arrows shot over from the Carls' bows. One hit him in the shoulder, another stuck right through his huge calf. The giant made not a sound. He came on, steady as the grass growing, and the mist, and the Flatheads, and the fear came with him.
'Fuck,' muttered Grim.
'It's a devil!' one of the Carls screeched. 'A devil from hell!' Dogman was starting to think the same thing. He felt the fear growing up all round him, felt the men starting to waver. He felt himself edging backwards, almost without thinking about it.
'Alright, now!' bellowed Threetrees, voice deep and steady as if he felt no fear at all. 'On the count of three! On the count of three, we charge!'
Dogman stared over as if the old boy had lost his reason. At least they had a tree to hide behind up here. He heard a couple of the Carls muttering, no doubt thinking much the same. They didn't much like the sound of this for a plan, charging down a hill into a great crowd of Shanka, some unnatural giant at the heart of 'em.
'You sure about this?' Dogman hissed.
Threetrees didn't even look at him. 'Best thing for a man to do when he's afeared is charge! Get the blood up, and turn the fear to fury. The ground's on our side, and we ain't waiting here for 'em!'
'You sure?'
'We're going,' said Threetrees, turning away.
'We're going,' growled Dow, glaring round at the Carls, daring 'em to back down.
'On three!' rumbled the Thunderhead.
'Uh,' said Grim. Dogman swallowed, still not sure whether he'd be going or not. Threetrees peered over the trunk, his mouth a hard, flat line, watching the figures in the mist, and the great big one in the midst of 'em, his hand down flat behind him to say wait. Waiting for the right distance. Waiting for the right time.
'Do I go on three?' whispered Shivers, 'or after three?'
Dogman shook his head. 'Don't hardly matter, as long as you go.' But his feet felt like they were two great stones.
'One!'
One already? Dogman looked over his shoulder, saw Cathil's body lying stretched out under his blanket near the dead fire. Should have made him feel angry maybe, but it only made him feel more scared. Fact was, he'd no wish to end up like her. He swallowed and turned away, clutched tight to the handle of his knife, to the grip of the sword he'd borrowed off the dead. Iron felt no fear. Good weapons, ready to do bloody work. He wished he was halfway as ready himself, but he'd done this before, and he knew no one was ever really ready. You don't have to be ready. You just have to go.
'Two!'
Almost time. He felt his eyes opening wide, his nose sucking in cold air, his skin tingling cold. He smelled men and sharp pine trees, Shanka and damp mist. He heard quick breath behind, slow footsteps down below, shouts from along the line, his own blood thumping in his veins. He saw every bit of everything, all going slow as dripping honey. Men moved around him, hard men with hard faces, shifting their weight, pushing forward against the fear and the mist, making ready. They were going to go, he'd no doubt left of it. They were all going to go. He felt the muscles in his legs begin to squeeze, pushing him up.
'Three!'
Threetrees was first over the trunk and the Dogman was just behind, men all round him charging, and the air full of their shouts and their fury and their fear, and he was running, and screaming, feet pounding and shaking his bones, breath and wind rushing, black trees and white sky crashing and wobbling, mist flying up at him and dark shapes inside the mist, waiting.
He swung his sword at one as he roared past and the blade chopped deep into it and threw it back, turned the Dogman half round and he went along, spinning, falling, shouting. The blade hacked deep into a Shanka's leg and snatched it off its feet, and Dogman spilled down the slope, slithering around in the slush, trying to right himself. The sounds of fighting were all round, muffled and strange. Men bellowing curses, and Shanka snarling, and the rattles and thuds of iron on iron
and iron in flesh.
He spun about, sliding between the trees, not knowing where the next Flathead might come from, not knowing whether he might get a spear in his back any minute. He saw a shape in the murk and sprang forward at it, shouting as hard as he could. The mist seemed to lift away in front of him, and he slithered to a horrified stop, the sound rattling out in his throat, nearly falling over backwards in his hurry to get away.
The Feared was no more than five strides from him, bigger and more terrible than ever, broken arrows sticking from his tattooed flesh all over. Didn't help that he had a Carl round the neck, out at arm's length, kicking and struggling. The painted sinews in his forearm twisted and squirmed and the huge fingers tightened, and the Carl's eyes bulged, and his mouth opened and no sound came out. There was a crunch, and the giant tossed the corpse away like a rag and it turned over and over in the snow and the mud, head flopping about, and lay still.
The Feared stood, mist flowing round him, looking down at the Dogman from behind his black mask, and the Dogman looked back, halfway to pissing himself.
But some things have to be done. Better to do 'em, than to live with the fear of 'em. That's what Logen would have said. So the Dogman opened his mouth, and screamed as loud as he could, and he charged, swinging the borrowed sword over his head.
The giant lifted his great iron-plated arm and caught the blade. Metal clanged on metal and rattled the Dogman's teeth, tore the sword away and sent it spinning, but he stabbed with his knife at the same moment and slipped it under the giant's arm, ramming it right to the hilt in his tattooed side.
'Hah!' shouted the Dogman, but he didn't get long to celebrate. The Feared's huge arm flashed through the mist, caught him a backhand across the chest and flung him gurgling through the air. The woods reeled and a tree came out of nowhere, crashed into his back and sent him sprawling in the mud. He tried to get a breath and couldn't. Tried to roll over and couldn't. Pain crushed his ribs, like a great rock pressing on his chest.
He looked up, hands clutching at the mud, hardly enough breath in him even to groan. The Feared was walking to him, no rush. He reached down and pulled the knife out of his side. It looked like a toy between his huge finger and thumb. Like a tooth-pick. He flicked it away into the trees, a long drip of blood going with it. He lifted his great armoured foot, ready to stomp down on the Dogman's head and crush his skull like a nut on an anvil, and Dogman could only lie there, helpless with pain and fear as the great shadow fell across his face.
'You bastard!' And Threetrees came flying out of the trees, crashed into the giant's armoured hip with his shield and knocked him sideways, the huge metal boot squelching into the dirt just beside the Dogman's face and spattering him with mud. The old boy pressed in, hacking away at the Feared's bare side while he was off balance, snarling and cursing at him while the Dogman gasped and squirmed, trying to get up and only making it as far as sitting, back to the tree.
The giant threw his armoured fist hard enough to bring a house down, but Threetrees got round it and turned it off his shield, brought his sword up and over and knocked a fearsome dent in the Feared's mask, snapping his great head back and making him stagger, blood splattering from the mouth hole. The old boy pressed in quick and slashed hard across the plates on the giant's chest, blade striking sparks from the black iron and carving a great gash into the bare blue flesh beside it. A killing blow, no doubt, but only a few specks of blood flew off the swinging blade, and it left no wound at all.
The giant found his balance now, and he gave a great bellow that left Dogman trembling with fear. He set his huge foot behind him, lifted his massive arm and hurled it forward. It crashed into Threetrees' shield and ripped a chunk out of the edge, split the timbers and went on through, thudded into the old boy's shoulder and flung him groaning onto his back. The Feared pressed in on top of him, lifting his big blue fist up high. Threetrees snarled and stabbed his sword clean through his tattooed thigh right to the hilt. Dogman saw the point slide bloody out the back of his leg, but it didn't even slow him. That great hand dropped down and crunched into Threetrees' ribs with a sound like dry sticks breaking.
Dogman groaned, clawing at the dirt, but his chest was on fire and he couldn't get up, and he couldn't do anything but watch. The Feared lifted up his other fist now, covered in black iron. He lifted it up slow and careful, waited up high, then brought it whistling down, smashed it into Threetrees' other side and crushed him sighing into the dirt. The great arm went up again, red blood on blue knuckles.
And a black line came out of the mist and stabbed into the Feared's armpit, shoving him over sideways. Shivers, with a spear, jabbing at the giant and shouting, pushing him across the slope. The Feared rolled and slithered up, faked a step back and flicked out his hand quick as a massive snake, slapped Shivers away like a man might swat a fly, squawking and kicking into the mist.
Before the giant could follow him there was a roar like thunder and Tul's sword crashed into his armoured shoulder and flung him down on one knee. Now Dow came out of the mist, slashed a great chunk out of his leg from behind. Shivers was up again, snarling and jabbing with his spear, and the three of 'em seemed to have the giant penned in.
He should've been dead, however big he was. The wounds Threetrees, and Shivers, and Dow had given him, he should have been mud. Instead he rose up again, six arrows and Threetrees' sword stuck through his flesh, and he let go a roar from behind his iron mask that made Dogman tremble to his toes. Shivers fell back on his arse, going white as milk. Tul blinked and faltered and let his sword drop. Even Black Dow took a step away.
The Feared reached down and took hold of the hilt of Threetrees' sword. He slid it out from his leg and let it drop bloody in the dirt at his feet. It left no wound behind. No wound at all. Then he turned and sprang away into the gloom, and the mist closed in behind him, and the Dogman heard the sounds of him crashing away through the trees, and he was never so glad to see the back of anything.
'Come 'ere!' Dow screamed, making ready to tear down the slope after him, but Tul got in his way with one big hand held up.
'You're going nowhere. We don't know how many Shanka there are down there. We can kill that thing another day.'
'Out o' my way, big lad!'
'No.'
Dogman rolled forward, wincing all the way at the pain in his chest, started clawing his way up the slope. The mist was already spilling back, leaving the cold clear air behind. Grim was coming down the other way, bow string drawn back with an arrow nocked. There were a lot of corpses in the mud and the snow. Shanka mostly, and a couple of Carls.
Seemed to take the Dogman an age to drag himself up to Threetrees. The old boy was lying on his back in the mud, one arm lying still with his broken shield strapped to it. Air was snorting in shallow through his nose, bubbling back out bloody from his mouth. His eyes rolled down to Dogman as he crawled up next to him, and he reached out and grabbed a hold of his shirt, pulled him down, hissing in his ear through clenched tight, bloody teeth.
'Listen to me, Dogman! Listen!'
'What, chief?' croaked Dogman, hardly able to talk for the pain in his chest. He waited, and he listened, and nothing came. Threetrees' eyes were wide open, staring up at the branches. A drop of water splattered on his cheek, ran down into his bloody beard. Nothing else.
'Back to the mud,' said Grim, face hanging slack as old cobwebs.
West chewed at his fingernails as he watched General Kroy and his staff riding up the road, a group of dark-dressed men on dark horses, solemn as a procession of undertakers. The snow had stopped, for now, but the sky was angry black, the light so bad it felt like evening, and an icy wind was blowing through the command post making the fabric of the tent snap and rustle. West's borrowed time was almost done.
He felt a sudden impulse, almost overpowering, to turn and run. An impulse so ludicrous that he immediately had another, equally inappropriate, to burst out laughing. Luckily, he was able to stop himself from doing either. Lucky to sto
p himself laughing, at least. This was far from a laughing matter. As the clattering hooves came closer, he was left wondering whether the idea of running was such a foolish one after all.
Kroy pulled his black charger up savagely and climbed down, jerked his uniform smooth, adjusted his sword belt, turned sharply and came on towards the tent. West intercepted him, hoping to get the first word in and buy a few more moments. 'General Kroy, well done, sir, your division fought with great tenacity!'
'Of course they did, Colonel West.' Kroy sneered the name as though he were delivering a mortal insult, his staff gathering into a menacing half circle behind him.
'And might I ask our situation?'
'Our situation?' snarled the General. 'Our situation is that the Northmen are driven off, but not routed. We gave them a mauling, in the end, but my units were fought out, every man. Too weary to pursue. The enemy have been able to withdraw across the fords, thanks to Poulder's cowardice! I mean to see him cashiered in disgrace! I mean to see him hanged for treason! I will see it done, on my honour!' He glowered around the headquarters while his men muttered angrily amongst themselves. 'Where is Lord Marshal Burr? I demand to see the Lord Marshal!'
'Of course, if you could just give me…' West's words were smothered by the mounting noise of more rushing hooves, and a second group of riders careered around the side of the Marshal's tent. Who else but General Poulder, accompanied by his own enormous staff. A cart pulled into the headquarters along with them, crowding the narrow space with beasts and men. Poulder vaulted down from his saddle and hastened through the dirt. His hair was in disarray, his jaw was locked tight, there was a long scratch down his cheek. His crimson entourage followed behind him: steels rattling, gold braid flapping, faces flushed.
Before They Are Hanged Page 56