The archers were running, being hacked down, floundering into the stream, and Leo wobbled on towards the bridge.
A man was stumbling away, clutching at his shoulder, blood bubbling between his fingers, and Leo hit him across the side of the head with his sword, caught him with the flat and knocked him sprawling, trampled over him.
His chest was on fire now, his limbs numb and floppy. Every step was a mountain.
Onto the bridge. He could feel the stones slippery with mud and blood, slick with the falling rain.
There were Carls here, desperately trying to organise a shield wall. A Named Man with a fox-fur around his shoulders pointed with a thick finger. Leo didn’t so much charge at him as fall onto him, his weary swing clattering harmlessly off the Named Man’s shield. He caught his chin on the rim, mouth filling with the salt taste of blood.
The Northman lurched back a pace but didn’t fall, and they twisted into an awkward, exhausted embrace, shuffling, snarling, wrestling, shouldering and elbowing while armoured men clobbered away at each other around them.
Leo heard the Northman’s desperate, whistling breath in his ear, grunted and clawed at him, wet fur in his mouth. His sword was tangled with something, couldn’t move it. He managed to draw his dagger with his other hand, stabbed, but the blade only scraped uselessly on mail. No room. No breath. No strength, the dagger twisted from his grip, fell in the mud.
They lumbered about in a pawing circle, bounced off the bridge’s parapet, enough room for Leo to force his free hand up under the man’s chin, push his gauntleted thumb into his mouth, shove it through so he caught a fistful of his cheek, ripping his lip open, tearing his face open, and the man screamed and grabbed Leo’s wrist, letting Leo’s sword loose. With a last growling effort, Leo shoved him away, smashed him on the side of the head, flinched as blood spotted his face, something bouncing off his cheek. A tooth, maybe. The man went reeling over the mossy parapet and splashed into the stream with the other corpses. Bloody thing was more corpse than river now. No corpses, no glory.
Leo flopped down on all fours, clawed up his sword along with a fistful of mud. Up to one knee, with a groan to his feet and he stood swaying, grasping at the slick stones, every muscle throbbing, dragging in air in great wheezing gasps, like a fish hooked and hauled helpless from the river.
“Have… to pull back.” It was Jurand, with hardly the breath to talk. Helmet off and his face spotted with blood. He hugged Leo, half holding him up, half leaning on him. “Get you to safety.”
“No,” growled Leo, gripping him tight, their wet armour scraping, then trying to struggle free, to press on. “We fight.”
The rain was hammering down, pinging and spattering. The empty bridge stretched away, a rutted hump scattered with arrow-pricked and spear-pierced corpses, sprawled beside the parapets, heaped against them, draped over them. And at the far end, beneath that wolf standard, more Northmen were gathered.
A group as muddy, bloody and sodden as Leo, teeth bared with hate but weapons drooping from weariness. They faced each other across the rain-drenched bridge, Leo and his friends at one end, this knot of Named Men at the other, and in their midst a tall man, long hair plastered to his snarling face by the rain.
“Leo dan Brock!” he shrieked, wet eyes wild with battle-madness, and Leo knew from the gold on his sword and the gold on his belt and the gold on his armour who he had to be.
“Stour Nightfall!” Leo roared back, spit flying from his bared teeth. He tried to drag himself forward but Jurand held him back, or maybe held him up, it was only fury stopped Leo’s knees from buckling.
“We won’t settle this on the field!” snarled Nightfall.
That was true enough. They were all fought out. Up on the red hill, vague through the rain, the Union were pulling back, but Stour’s men were in no shape to follow and the rain had turned the battlefield to glue.
Stour fought free of his warriors and stood tall, pointing across the bridge with his blood-slathered sword. “Let’s settle it like men! In the Circle! You and me!”
Leo hardly even gave a shit about the terms. All he wanted was to fight this bastard. To rip him apart with his bare hands. To bite him with his teeth.
A lion fought a wolf in a circle of blood, and the lion won.
“In the Circle!” he bellowed into the rain. “You and me!”
PART III
“Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust; hatred alone is immortal.”
William Hazlitt
Demands
Forest stepped into the room wearing his hallmark fur hat and ruggedly grave expression. The hat he removed. The grave expression he kept in place. “The Breakers should be here soon, Your Highness.”
“Good,” murmured Orso. “Good.” He expressed the exact opposite of his feelings so often, one might have hoped he would be better at it. In fact, the thought of the Breakers’ arrival left him desperately wanting a drink. But dawn was probably considered too early at a peace negotiation, even for a small beer or something. He puffed out a worried sigh.
A local worthy had offered up his dining room as the venue, and though the table was highly polished, Orso found the chairs exceedingly uncomfortable. Or perhaps he simply found himself uncomfortable in the role of negotiator. Or any responsible role, really. He nervously straightened his jacket for the thousandth time. It had fit him perfectly in the safety of Adua, but suddenly it was tight about the throat. He leaned towards Superior Pike with an apologetic smile.
“I think it might be useful if, when they arrive… you were to play the villain?”
Pike subjected Orso to that withering stare. “Because of my hideous burns?”
“That and all the black.”
The faint twisting of Pike’s face might almost have been a smile. “Don’t worry, Your Highness, I have had some practice in the role. Feel free to slap me down if I become too dastardly. I look forward to seeing you as the hero of our little piece.”
“I hope I can convince,” murmured Orso, tugging his jacket smooth yet again. “I fear I missed all the rehearsals.”
The double doors swung open and the Breakers strode in. Orso’s ever-fertile imagination had built them up into red-handed zealots. In the flesh, they were a slightly disappointingly, then perhaps a rather reassuringly, ordinary group.
In the lead came a weighty old man: brawny shoulders, broad hands, heavy-lidded eyes that settled on Orso and stayed there, immovable. Next came a fellow with a scarred face whose eyes settled on nothing, darting twitchily around the room to windows, doors, the half-dozen guards about the panelled walls, meeting no one’s eye. Finally, there was a woman with a stained coat and an unkempt shag of lank hair, one of the hardest frowns Orso ever saw showing beneath. The look of implacable scorn in her blue eyes actually reminded him more than a little of his mother.
“Welcome!” He aimed at a balance between warm indulgence and effortless authority, but no doubt ended up with prickly weakness. “I am Crown Prince Orso, this is Colonel Forest, commander of the four regiments currently encircling Valbeck, and this—”
“We’ve all heard of Superior Pike,” said the old man, dropping heavily into the middle chair and frowning across the table.
“Only good things, I hope,” whispered Pike, oozing menace. Orso felt the hairs on his neck bristling even though he sat on the same side. When it came to playing the villain, he was clearly in the presence of a virtuoso.
“My name is Malmer.” The old Breaker’s voice was as weighty as his frame, each word placed as carefully as a master mason fits his stones. “This is Brother Heron, fought a dozen years in your father’s armies.” He nodded towards the scar-faced man, then to the hard-faced woman, who appeared to be reaching greater heights of epic contempt with every breath Orso took. “This is Sister Teufel, spent a dozen years in your father’s prison camps.”
“Charmed?” ventured Orso, more in hope than expectation, but Pike was already sitting forward, lips curling ba
ck.
“You will address the Crown Prince of the Union as your—”
“Please!” Orso held up a calming hand and made Pike sit back like a hound called off. “No one will die because of a defect of etiquette. It is my ardent hope that no one will die at all. I understand… hostages have been taken?”
“Five hundred and forty-eight at the last count,” grated out the woman, Teufel, as if delivering a mortal insult to a lifelong enemy.
“But we’d like nothing better than to see ’em released,” said Malmer.
Orso burned to ask whether Savine was among them but, incompetent negotiator though he was, even he saw that could only put her in more danger. He had to bite down on it. Had to stop following his cock from one disaster to another and use his head for once. “In which case you could simply release them?” he ventured.
Malmer gave a sad smile, leathery skin creasing about his eyes. “I’m afraid we’ve got some demands first.”
“The Crown does not negotiate with traitors,” grated out Pike.
“Please, gentlemen, please.” Orso held up that calming hand again. “Let us set the blame aside and concentrate on a resolution that gives everyone some of what they want.” He was surprised by how well that came out. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad at this after all. “By all means, present your demands—”
His satisfaction was quickly cut off as Teufel flung a folded paper so it spun across the polished table and into his lap. He winced as he unfolded it, expecting insults scrawled in blood.
But there was only small, neat writing in a tightly controlled hand.
Show no surprise. Pretend you are looking at a list of demands. In spite of appearances, I am your friend.
Caught off guard, Orso glanced up at the woman. She glared back at him even more angrily than before, hard lines forming between her brows.
“You can read, can’t you, Your Highness?” she sneered.
“I must have worn out a dozen tutors, but my mother was most insistent that I learn.” Orso frowned down at the paper, trying to look like a man baffled by what he saw there. It required no great effort of acting on his part.
Superior Risinau was the prime instigator of the uprising but fled the city before you arrived, along with the Burners, who caused most of the death and damage. Malmer is in charge now, if anyone is. He is not a bad man. He does not wish to see the hostages hurt. His main concern is for the safety of civilians, and for the Breakers and their families. He has demands but he is becoming desperate. Food is scarce and order is collapsing.
This information was, to say the least, as useful as it was unexpected, but Orso kept his face carefully blank. He acted as if he had drawn a winning hand at the gaming table, and now had only to drag the biggest bets possible from the other players.
Malmer knows he has little left to bargain with. Offer him too much and he will become suspicious. He feared you would attack at once. Now he fears you will surround the city and starve the Breakers out. He expects you to be an arrogant liar. My advice is to treat him with honesty and respect. To seek a peaceful solution and avoid bluster. But to firmly refuse any demands and make him aware that you know time is on your side. If you were to offer amnesty for the Breakers, I believe he could be persuaded to surrender. He knows that is more than he could hope for.
The Breakers’ demands were laid out next: changes to labour laws, controls on wages and the price of bread, sanitation and housing, things Orso scarcely understood, let alone could grant.
Superior Pike held out his melted glove of a hand. “May I, Your—”
“You may not.” Orso folded the paper, sharpened the crease in it with his thumbnail and slipped it inside his jacket.
Then he smiled—always begin with a smile—and he leaned towards Malmer as though sharing a confidence with an old friend. As though the fates of thousands in no way hinged on their coming to an agreement.
“Master Malmer, I judge you to be an honest man, and I want to be honest in return. It would be easy for me to offer you the world, but I do not wish to insult you. The truth is, the Closed Council is in no mood to negotiate and, even if I agreed to all your demands…” He spread his hands in the same gesture of cavalier helplessness he used with jilted lovers, frustrated creditors and outraged officers of the law. “I’m the crown prince. There would be nothing to stop my father or his advisors refusing to honour my promises. I suspect, frankly, that’s the very reason they sent me. And I suspect, frankly… you’re well aware of that.”
“Then why are we even here?” snapped Heron.
Forest had managed to crank his scarred face a notch graver. “Troops stand ready to move into the city at your order, Your Highness—”
“The very last thing we want is further bloodshed, Colonel Forest,” said Orso, giving him the calming palm now. He had enough calming palm for everyone. “We are all citizens of the Union. We are all subjects of my father. I refuse to believe we cannot find a peaceful solution.”
He might not have spent much time negotiating for hostages, but at convincing people he could be trusted, whether in a gaming hall, a lady’s bedroom or a moneylender’s shop, he had almost bottomless experience to draw on. He softened his voice, he softened his face, he softened everything. He held Malmer’s eye and made himself all syrupy sympathy.
“I am aware that the author of this unfortunate situation… was Superior Risinau. I note that he has not come forward to negotiate, however. Perhaps as the danger grew, his commitment to his own cause shrivelled?” Did Orso detect the slightest twitch on Malmer’s stony face? “I know that type of man. Let us be honest, I have often seen him in the mirror. A man who makes a mess and leaves others to mop up.”
Nobody leaped to his defence, which was disappointing, but nor did they leap to Risinau’s.
“I understand what it’s like…” he gave his three opponents each a sympathetic look, “to be left with the blame. I appreciate that those of you still in the city are those who chose to stay and try to salvage the situation. The authors of this disaster will be tracked down and punished, of that I assure you.”
“Of that there is no question,” hissed Pike.
“But I have no interest in punishing you for their crimes,” said Orso. “My concern—my only concern—is the safety of the men, women and children of Valbeck. All of them, regardless of where their loyalties may have lain. I can bring your demands to my father. I can relay your demands to the Closed Council. But, in the end, you and I both know I cannot promise to meet them.” Orso took a long breath and gave a long sigh. “I can, however… promise you amnesty. A full pardon to every Breaker who surrenders themselves and their weapons by sunset tomorrow, along with all your hostages, unharmed. Supplies of food will then immediately be allowed into the city.”
“Your Highness,” broke in Pike. “We cannot allow traitors to—”
Orso silenced him with that raised hand, without taking his eyes from Malmer’s. “I fear the alternative is that I order Colonel Forest to surround the city and let nothing in or out. I have quite cleared my calendar and can wait as long as it takes. When you surrender, which you surely must, it will not be to me, but to Superior Pike.”
It hardly needed to be said that there was no comfort to be found in the Superior’s melted face. Malmer slowly sat back and gave Orso weighty consideration. “Why should we trust you?”
“I can understand why you wouldn’t. But in light of the circumstances, I believe this to be a generous offer. I know it to be the very best you can hope for.”
Malmer glanced at Heron. Then at Teufel. Neither gave anything away. “I’ll need to discuss it with my people.”
“Of course,” said Orso, standing. He offered his hand as Malmer got to his feet. The old Breaker frowned at it for a moment, then folded it in his big paw.
Orso held on firmly. “But I must insist on an answer by sundown today.”
“You’ll have it.” Malmer considered him a moment longer. “Your Highness.” He strode weig
htily from the room, his twitchy friend at his back. Teufel’s chair screeched on the tiled floor as she stood, gave Orso one last blast of scorn, then turned her back on the meeting. The door clicked shut.
“That was well done, Your Highness.” There was the faintest suggestion of surprise about Superior Pike’s hairless brows, and who could blame him? Orso had been diligently fostering low expectations for the past decade. “Quite masterfully done.”
“I must confess, I had considerable help.” Orso fished the list of demands from his jacket. “From the woman with the face like a pickaxe.”
Pike blinked down at Orso’s entire negotiating strategy, arranged in careful blocks of neat writing. “She must be the Arch Lector’s agent within the city.”
“I cannot see another explanation. It appears she has worked her way into a position of some trust among the Breakers.”
“Impressive.” Pike frowned towards the door. “A great deal now hangs on her assessment.”
“It does indeed, Superior.” Orso felt a sting of worry as he thought about Savine. Alone in the city. A hostage? A corpse? He grimaced. He had a bastard of a headache coming up behind the eyes.
Perhaps it wasn’t too early for that drink after all.
Taking the Reins
Rikke’s nose tingled with the chill before dawn, and the breath of the wounded men made plumes of smoke.
She wondered how many were laid out in that glade. Maybe a hundred. Maybe more. Hunched and bloodstained healers moved among them, stitching, bandaging, setting, giving food and water and what comfort they could. It wasn’t much.
A Little Hatred Page 37