The Black Hawks

by David Wragg

  It was not the first time Chel had seen someone die, but it was the first time he’d stared into their eyes as they did so. The cold in his gut had become a leaden nausea, a thick, heavy thing that blistered like a bog, sending tendrils of bile up the back of his throat, teasing him to gag. Sweat coated his skin.

  ‘Aye, fuck, man,’ Lemon said.

  ‘What the fuck did he do that for?’ Chel’s throat was thick, his voice cracked.

  Foss stirred. ‘You know the tale of Murendi the Righteous?’

  Chel nodded, his mouth tight. ‘Yeah, survived the murder of her clan by bandits, grew up, trained in the desert, took her revenge years later …’

  The big man nodded. His deep eyes were sad. ‘Can’t risk another Murendi.’

  ‘But we’re not bandits!’

  Foss sighed, his hands instinctively making the sign of the crook. ‘I’m sure that would depend on who you ask.’

  Rennic released the boy, and his lifeless body slumped to the rocky ground and rolled off the trail. Rennic wiped his knife and turned to walk away. Spider knelt over the corpse for a moment, then stood with a jingle as he pocketed the coins.

  Rennic turned back. ‘The fuck are you doing, animal?’

  ‘Get fucked, Beaky. Weren’t me who dumped coin on him then opened him to the winds.’

  Chel wiped the clammy sheen from his brow with his weak hand. ‘We should bury him.’ His voice was trembling at the edges, but he hoped it wasn’t enough to show. ‘We can’t leave him out like this.’

  Lemon cleared her throat. ‘Aye, right, but generally, like, the hunting types are more into burning than burying. Less for the animals to dig up, see?’

  ‘Then we should burn him.’

  Rennic looked up the slope. He looked haggard and bloody, but the ferocity of his gaze was undimmed. ‘You want to build this whelp a pyre, sand-crab, you go right ahead. But you might remember that had things been different, he would have delighted in our slaughter on that mountaintop and would no doubt have feasted on our sweets with the rest of his happy sept.’ He spat off to one side. ‘I’ll not apologize to the likes of you for doing what must be done, when no one else has the stomach for it. So think on that while you gather your pyre-wood, one-armed and whimpering, mourning the loss of a cannibal pirate who has probably gnawed on the bones of more children than you’ve seen summers.’

  Spider nodded with a sneer. The two of them returned to the horses and Palo, who had remained stone-faced throughout.

  ‘Who is that?’ she said as they approached.

  ‘New boy,’ Rennic said before Spider could speak, and Chel felt vaguely warm.

  ‘Andriz, eh? Hot shit, how’d you wind up with this misty shower of piss?’ Dalim had come bounding back up the slope, even as the others were descending. ‘Nothing good will come of travelling with these cast-iron pissants, luck of the sand-flowers be damned. They don’t call me Dalim the Perspicacious for nothing.’

  Loveless looked back over her shoulder. ‘No, they call you Dalim the Slug-Tugger.’

  Dalim flashed back a mirthless smile. ‘She wants me, that one,’ he said, his voice low. ‘I won’t let her get a sniff, that’s why she’s such a dick about everything.’

  Chel nodded, face impassive. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘What’s your name, sand-flower?’

  ‘Chel.’

  ‘And how do you come to be travelling with this reeking failure collective, Chel the Andriz?’

  Chel looked around. His prayer over the boy’s body complete, Foss had joined Lemon and the others, steering Tarfel as he went, and Chel found himself alone with Dalim on the slope. Loveless tossed a glance back at them and waved an arm.

  ‘Get a move on, cub!’

  Chel offered Dalim a gesture of apology and started to pick his way down the trail.

  ‘Just lucky, I suppose.’

  ***

  Tarfel stood before Palo, squinting up at her with Loveless at his back. The rider looked down on him with steady eyes, then swept one leg over her saddle and slid to the ground, keeping the reins in her hand. These she offered to Tarfel.

  ‘Your highness.’

  ‘Thank you, but I prefer to walk.’

  Palo’s eyebrows rose a fraction, the closest thing to a reaction Chel had seen in the time he’d been aware of her. Irked at the prince’s peevishness and still giddy from Rennic’s inclusive dismissal, he called out, ‘He doesn’t even know how to ride!’

  At the heart of a circle of vocal expressions of amused, derisive astonishment, Tarfel turned back to Chel. His shattered look of betrayal stilled any residual excitement Chel felt, the warm feeling expunged and supplanted by the cold of misjudgement.

  ‘As his highness wishes,’ Palo said, and slung herself back onto the horse. The general mirth fell away beneath the sweep of her humourless stare. ‘We should be on our way.’

  They trudged away down the trail as a column, while high above, circling buzzards gathered against silver-veined clouds.

  ***

  ‘Would you rather be a tarantula, or a hairless cat?’

  Lemon had returned to one of her old favourites as she and Foss marched alongside the pack ponies. Chel walked in their footsteps, listening but holding his peace. Tarfel was ahead of them, almost striding, keeping pace between the lead riders and Rennic and Spider, who seemed in competition to establish ownership over the prince.

  ‘What’s a tarantula?’

  ‘Great big fucken spider, hairier than your mam’s arsehole.’

  ‘Please, Lemon.’

  ‘Go on, choose!’

  ‘The cat, then. Spiders are disgusting creatures—’ All three of them flicked their glances to their eponymous colleague, who remained out of earshot. ‘—with disgusting habits. Even a hairless cat has poise.’

  ‘Aye, right, and you’re all about poise, big man. Your turn.’

  ‘Hmm. Would you rather be … a king, or a warlord?’

  ‘What kind of warlord?’

  ‘One of the Horvaun. You know: dreadstone fortress, reaver army, swathes of blood tithes, temples to demon gods.’

  ‘Piece of piss, man. Warlord every time. I bet they have some mega-feasts.’

  ‘But you’d be illegitimate in God’s eyes. You’d have no support from the Church, no Shepherd’s grace.’

  ‘Hells, man, when were those last the same thing?’

  They fell quiet, and Chel heard snatches of the conversation at the head of the column. ‘… has made the most of events in the north, after Omundi’s fall,’ Palo was saying. ‘A royal decree, issued, of course, with the blessing of the Holy Church.’

  ‘A royal decree? From Lubel?’

  ‘In name only, as ever. Lubel lies yet inert, and the oaf Mendel delights in his instruction by Primarch Vassad’s pet prelate.’ Chel thought once more of his sister, prayed she had somehow escaped da Loran’s attention. ‘The decree demands new levies, a banding together to repel the foreign invaders. Even the Free Companies must contribute.’

  ‘They mean to march on the Norts?’ Rennic sounded sceptical.

  ‘It is doubtful; their blockade seems, on the face of it, genuine. But the structures are in place for a massing of forces. The workshops and forges in Roniaman are frenzied. Black Rock teems. Come the thaw, the kingdom will be on a war footing once again.’

  ‘He’ll never keep the Names together. It will dissolve. Too many agendas.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘So we can look forward to another two decades of spite-fighting, or Vassad rolls a giant force over the Territories and the last of the free cities then finally crowns himself? Is there a third option?’

  Palo’s voice was quiet but clear.

  ‘We perform our duty.’

  Chel’s skin prickled at her words.

  PART III

  EIGHTEEN

  Sea salt laced the breeze by the time they slowed their pace. The stockade ahead of them girdled the crest of a cliff overlooking the churning grey expanse of the
western sea, the ordered plantation at its walls in stark contrast to the half-cultivated scrubland that surrounded it. While they’d seen the odd goatherd on their descent, Palo had swung them well wide of what might have been considered civilization on this side of the mountains. Abandoned villages, broken walls and ruins had littered the landscape. The structure before them now was the first inhabited building of any size they’d encountered since the huts by the lake. A handful of guards lurked on the walls, their longbows starkly outlined against the ashen sky. No pennant flew overhead.

  ‘Where are we?’ Chel asked.

  Whisper walked closest, her loping stride curtailed to keep pace with the remaining ponies. She gestured, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘Water … Top?’

  ‘Wavecrest,’ Foss said from ahead. He looked relieved. ‘Not far now.’

  The guards waved them through. Inside, low stone structures with flat roofs surrounded a wide courtyard; a few rows of olive and skeletal cherry trees stretched away downslope within the walls. Gulls circled overhead, and a stiff breeze blew over them from the cliff-top. Palo walked her horse to a hewn-timber stable block, followed by Dalim and his henchmen, where they dismounted and gave their reins to a waiting groom.

  Figures had emerged from the largest of the stone buildings, heading across the courtyard as Palo walked bandy-legged toward them. A youngish woman, perhaps a year or two younger than Loveless, led the group, her pregnant belly swaying as she strode. She carried a small child against one hip, while four others of varying ages orbited her. Two men and three women followed, their clothes thick and worn, their faces similar. Their expressions suggested muted surprise.

  ‘Bouncing ball-bags,’ Lemon muttered. ‘Are all those babbies hers?’

  Foss chuckled. ‘Not much else to do out in the middle of nowhere, perhaps?’

  Palo and the younger woman embraced, then began talking in a dialect that Chel gave up trying to follow. Gestures and sharp looks followed in their direction, especially toward Tarfel who remained stiff between Rennic and Spider. Chel hadn’t shared a word with the prince since the mountainside, but Tarfel’s sharp and jealous looks in his direction as he’d walked with the mercenaries had been impossible to miss.

  The conversation at the courtyard’s centre ceased, and the pregnant woman turned toward them, a broad smile on her face. Chel realized with surprise that Palo was deferring to her. He began to wonder exactly who these people were.

  ‘Friends,’ the woman said. Her accent was thick, unfamiliar but clear. The toddler at her hip was grinning in parallel. ‘You are welcome to our home. Rest yourselves. We will prepare water and food.’

  ‘Aye, right,’ Lemon said, her voice low. ‘About time someone did something nice for us.’

  Chel gave a rueful nod. ‘Let’s hope nobody tries to eat us this time.’

  ***

  ‘Right, let’s see how she fares. You’ve had long enough now.’

  The last of the strapping was off, and after soaking his arm in a wooden tub of hot water, Chel’s shoulder was back beneath Lemon’s bony grip. She held his spindly arm with firm, cold fingers, moving it slowly one way, then the other, testing the movement and his response. Her mountain of hair was tied back from her face, which was still streaked with travel dust. Apparently, she’d not yet found time for a wash herself.

  ‘How long have you been an— Ah!’

  ‘Stop moaning.’

  He blinked fresh tears from his eyes. The sudden sharpness of the pain had almost floored him. ‘—an independent contractor?’ he finished.

  ‘A freelancer?’ She wrinkled her nose in thought, the freckles dancing. ‘Hard to say exactly, as – ah, still your whining – I’m not sure where I’d draw the line. It’s not like I woke up one day and said to myself, “Today I shall become a mercenary, thank you, world.” You know what it’s like, when you’re just doing something on the side while you make your plans, keep you ticking over, like, and then, well … Girl’s got to eat, eh?’

  Chel nodded. He had no idea what she meant. His shoulder was pulsing like an angry star. The wind blew in cold over the cliff-top, autumnal and gusty, making him shiver.

  Lemon sat back and puffed out her cheeks. ‘Well, you’ve made a right fucken mess of this, wee bear. Told you not to dick it about, didn’t I?’

  ‘What? What’s wrong? Won’t it heal?’

  ‘Oh aye, it’ll heal all right, but the joint’s going to be weak, brittle. You’ll need to behave yourself, do nothing silly, and we both know that’s asking too much of you, isn’t it?’

  He flapped his mouth in protest.

  ‘Aye, it’ll probably ache in cold weather or when there’s rain coming or some such shite. My congratulations, wee bear, on your first old man’s hurt. It will no doubt be the first of many. Assuming your luck holds.’

  She stood and turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait! What do I do now?’

  She cocked her head. ‘Now? Get some clothes on and get Fossy to teach you how to get some strength back in that wanking claw of yours. My bit’s done.’ She shook out her hair, sending a cloud of dust and twig fragments into the air. ‘Got to be some fucken booze in this slice of paradise.’

  ***

  Foss was sitting in a shaft of narrow autumn sunlight between the thick roots of a great round tree at the courtyard’s edge, his braids splayed over his shoulders and a carpet of fallen leaves beneath him. Loveless and Whisper sat close by; Whisper was shaving her head with a narrow, curved blade of fearsome sharpness.

  ‘Wise to come to me, my friend.’

  ‘It was Lemon’s suggestion.’

  ‘Then doubly so. Best not to anger the little orange one.’ He ignored the shout from the courtyard’s far side. ‘Let your friend Foss show you some simple movements. It’s going to take time, and repetition. Do you have the will, and do you have the patience?’

  The smile on his face vanished. His eyes were dark and unblinking. Chel felt suddenly exposed, inadequate. Sweat prickled on his back. ‘Well, I—’

  Foss grinned again, breaking the spell. ‘We’ll see how you go, friend. Nobody’s perfect, eh?’

  Foss took him through a series of repetitive motions, some with a branch in his hand, most with the support of the other arm, while Chel grunted and sweated and swore through what should have been trivial endeavours. Whisper and Loveless watched, a mixture of amusement and sympathy on their faces, exchanging half-audible quips at his expense. Soon he was doubled over, feeling ready to vomit.

  ‘It’s no use. This arm is ruined. Lemon told me as much,’ he gasped.

  Foss chuckled. ‘Really, my friend, have a little faith. Once I had an injury much like yours. And now …’ He reached up one slab of hand, then the other, and gripped the branch above him. The tree creaked as he hauled himself upward, braids flying loose. Chel felt something stir behind him and looked down to see the stockade’s children had appeared. Their gazes fell on the man heaving himself slowly up and down from the branch, their faces clouded in confusion. Then, as one, they ran forward and grabbed hold of Foss’s clothes and legs, dangling from him as he pulled himself away from the ground.

  ‘Hey! Ho! Where did you come from?’

  Still, Foss pulled himself upward, as the hanging children shrieked and giggled. Chel found himself laughing as well, their mirth infectious, and Foss seemed to see the funny side as he dragged four extra little people up and down from the tree.

  Chel looked over to Whisper and Loveless to share the laughter. Whisper was watching the scene with a sad smile, her eyes misty with private melancholy, while Loveless was staring at the children with obvious discomfort. She shifted to her feet, then strode away, her eyes averted. As she passed, she muttered something about alchemy, and then she was halfway across the courtyard.

  ‘Fuck’s this?’ Rennic was beside him, silent in his approach, his hawk face clouded with the customary displeasure he wore like a favoured hat. Foss shooed away the giggling children and sat
back down, coughing and self-conscious. Whisper barely acknowledged his presence.

  ‘We were—’

  ‘Don’t care. Where’s Loveless?’

  Chel tried not to answer too quickly. ‘She wandered off, said something about regents.’

  ‘Reagents,’ Foss corrected gently.

  Rennic bared his teeth and nodded. It didn’t seem to surprise him, and it certainly didn’t please him. ‘Lemon?’

  ‘Hunting for booze.’

  The air had taken on the nip of evening, the redoubled sea-wind whispering through the grove behind them, sending the lingering foliage dancing. Rennic’s expression chilled the atmosphere a little further. He motioned to Whisper.

  ‘Would you mind retrieving our illustrious colleagues?’

  She blinked, her reverie dissipating, then the familiar, dispassionate professionalism returned. She nodded, and with loping strides set off across the courtyard.

  Chel watched her go, scanning the open ground and the buildings around them. There was no sign of Spider. Palo and the others were somewhere inside the big house, while Dalim was sparring with his two confederates, twirling a long, plain staff as they took turns to swing training blades at him. His gloating laughter carried over the sound of the wind in the trees. ‘Where’s the prince? Where’s Tarfel?’

  Rennic didn’t look at him. ‘Inside.’

  ‘Is he safe?’

  ‘If he keeps his mouth shut.’

  Chel opened his mouth to speak, then said nothing.

  Whisper reappeared, Lemon slinking behind her. She had washed her face, but her expression suggested she’d found nothing to drink. Rennic turned as they approached.

  ‘Loveless?’

  ‘Indisposed,’ Lemon said, her tone acid.

  ‘Very well. Pay attention, fuckers. For all that fulsome ham-slapper’s blithering—’ he waved a hand in Dalim’s direction, ‘—he’s right about one thing. We have been lax, these past few weeks. We have been sloppy and weak. We have lost one of our number, Spider’s hire or no. We have fucked up, and hard. That meat-pile confessor, white wolves, cannibal outcasts. That fucking princeling would be six times dead already, the rest of you not far behind, were it not for the boy.’