by Anthony Ryan
“Brandy,” one called to the tavern-keeper after a scant survey of the shadowed interior. “And best make sure it’s the good stuff, friend.”
He tossed a few sheks on to the counter and the soldiers moved to occupy a set of tables close to the fireplace. The few townsmen seated there fled with markedly more alacrity than the pair of churls Erchel and I had scared away. We watched the soldiers sit in silence while the tavern-keeper poured each a measure of brandy into a clay cup. When he was done, the one who had paid – a burly fellow with a face more creased than his companions’ – solemnly raised his cup and the others followed suit.
“Pray thanks to the Martyrs for a short campaign and beseech them to care for the soul of Duke Rouphon,” he said. “A stout heart gone bad who nevertheless deserved a better end.”
The other soldiers all murmured agreement before draining their cups whereupon their dourness seemed to evaporate all at once. “More!” Crease-face called to the tavern keeper, holding his cup aloft. “And don’t staunch until we tell you.”
As they drank, Erchel and I assumed our roles, huddling close together and barely sipping our ale in a sign that we couldn’t afford a second tankard. I shot guarded glances at the soldiers, leaning closer in an apparent effort to hear the stories they began to tell as brandy lightened their mood and loosened their tongues.
“Saw him at Velkin’s Ford, I did,” one was saying. He was broader than the others, one ear mangled into something that resembled a small pink cabbage. He also seemed to have achieved the required state of inebriation quicker, allowing for a loud recitation of his anecdote. “The duke… former duke. Right at the front of the charge he was, Sir Ehlbert alongside. The water turned white when they charged and red when they came trotting back only a quarter-hour later. Martyrs know how many churls they cut down that day, nary a noble among ’em. Worst day’s looting I ever had.”
“Something interest you, lad?”
My eyes jerked towards Crease-face with a suitably startled blink before I quickly looked away. I knew from experience that one of two things would happen next. Crease-face would either deliver a profane warning to attend to my own business or rise from his table and engage two possible recruits in conversation. It depended on how short of coin this lot might be. Soldiers were usually paid a bounty by their sergeant for any youngsters they could lure to a life beneath the banner. Crease-face clearly had a light purse for he scraped his chair back and sauntered over with a friendly grin.
“Can’t say I blame you for eavesdropping. My friend spins a fair tale, though it’s not his best. Is it, Pots?”
“Not by half,” Pots agreed with a hearty chuckle, though his eyes belied a sudden onset of greed. Plainly he was not so drunk as to miss the opportunity for a share in the sergeant’s bounty. “Was there for the storming of the citadel in Couravel, I was. Last day of the Duchy Wars and what a day it was. Hawker—” he winked at Crease-face “—why not stand these lads an ale and I’ll tell ’em all about it.”
And so it went. Erchel and I sat mostly in wide-eyed, seemingly half-drunk silence as Pots told his tales and Hawker kept the ale coming. As the hours passed stories of battle were leavened by tales of loot and women. “Girls might show favour to a kindly man with a song to sing, but it’s the man with scars and a full purse that really stirs them up.”
I laughed along dutifully, although this man’s broken-nosed, vein-laced features stirred unpleasant memories of the sots who would crowd the whorehouse whenever an army marched through. Such men had scars aplenty, but rarely a full purse, and were far too fond of aiming kicks at small boys who might stray into their path.
“Was the duke at that one too?” Erchel piped up as Pots related another story. I managed to keep the reproachful glare from my face, although the mischievous glint in his eyes made me sorely tempted to launch a punch at him across the table. Erchel had apparently decided the role of wordless simpleton didn’t suit him, which would inevitably make this night a far more complicated affair than it needed to be.
“Former duke,” Hawker stated, his tone hard enough to make Erchel lower his gaze in wary contrition.
“Not that day, no,” Pots said. His story was one I had already heard. The tale of the Battle of the Brothers was well known: a grand clash of armies led by two noble siblings who had chosen different sides in the Duchy Wars. At the battle’s end, one brother held the other as he lay dying, weeping piteous tears and beseeching the Martyrs for forgiveness. In truth, I had been assured by Deckin, himself a veteran of the Duchy Wars, that this apparently tragic epic had been little more than a large, inconclusive skirmish after which the surviving brother pissed on his slain kin’s corpse, for they had hated each other all their lives.
“In truth, I only ever saw him fight at Velkin’s Ford,” Pots continued. “But I saw enough to know he was as fine a knight as I was ever likely to clap eyes on.” His face clouded as he gulped more brandy, adding in a mutter, “Not like that shit-sack skulking up north. Fine fucking duke he’s going to make.”
“Shit-sack?” I asked, careful to slur my words and furrow my brow to indicate only slight interest and a diminished capacity to recall anything I might learn.
“Duke Rouphon’s second cousin twice removed, or somesuch,” Pots replied. “Only noble-arse with any blood-claim to this duchy they could find, Martyrs help them.”
“Pots,” Hawker said, voice hardening.
Pots, however, was too lost in his cups to heed a cautionary word. “Duke Elbyn Blousset, they made us call him. Like tying a gold ribbon to a dead hog. Caught a few words ’twixt him and Sir Ehlbert when we were billeted in that shitheap castle of his.” He burped out a humourless laugh before adopting a high, whiny voice. “‘But I am not a man of war, good sir. I leave such things to you…’”
I had wanted to enquire as to the exact location of this shitheap castle, but Hawker’s hand came down hard on the table along with a stern command to silence. Pots curled his lip but wasn’t sufficiently drunk to risk a brawl so fell quiet, leaving the task of regaling his two young friends with the delights of a soldier’s life to his companion.
“I reckon you lads are no strangers to toil, as I was once,” Hawker observed. “Years I spent apprenticed to a cruel master, my back aching from his cane and the endless slog he set me to. None of that when you swear to the banners.”
“Thought soldiers were flogged all the time,” Erchel commented in a slow, befuddled drawl, a convincing lack of focus to his eyes. He was enjoying this role, taking delight in the success of his deceit. I found it worrying, for with Erchel deceit was always a prelude to darker acts.
“Only cowards taste the whip in our company,” Hawker assured him, jostling our shoulders. “And I can tell two such stout fellows would never run from a battle…”
The day wore into night. Pots and Hawker were kind enough to invite us to visit their company where plentiful drink and more stories were to be had. I knew how this went for those unfortunates foolish enough to put their feet in the snare. They would wake with an aching head come the morn, manacled to a cartwheel with a silver sovereign shoved into their mouth. A sergeant-at-arms would relieve them of the sovereign with firm assurances that it would be returned along with another when their five years under the banner were done. With the Pretender’s War raging, plus all the camp fevers, poxes and sundry dangers of a soldier’s life, the chances of collecting both coins were slim. The days when youths flocked to the banners with visions of glory were long over, hence the need to resort to such villainous tactics to maintain the strength of a company.
There’s two types of willing soldier, Deckin had told me once, the mad and the desperate. All others are no more willing than some poor bastard toiling in the Pit Mines.
“Need to piss first,” I said, getting unsteadily to my feet. The plan was for Erchel and I to stumble to the slurry pit at the rear of the tavern and simply vanish. The soldiers would curse their luck at having let us slip the snare and probably
forget us soon enough. By dawn we would be back at camp telling Deckin all we knew.
“We’ll piss on the way,” Erchel declared loudly, rising to his feet and downing the dregs of his ale. “Ye have brandy, y’say?”
“A whole cask of the stuff,” Hawker assured him with a clap to the shoulder, leading him towards the door. “Courtesy of the Pretender himself. The bastard ran off and left us all his grog.”
We emerged from the tavern to be greeted by chill air and a freshly frosted ground. It helped to dispel the effects of the night’s drink. A hard knot formed in my gut as we sauntered along with Hawker and Pots, born of the knowledge that there was now no chance of avoiding an ugly conclusion to the evening’s events. The other soldiers had stayed behind, which was fortunate for us but not these two. While Crown Company had been billeted in Castle Ambris, the duchy companies were encamped on the far side of the river, presumably as a guard against possible trouble from the townsfolk. Erchel waited until we had crossed the narrow wooden bridge to the far bank before coming to a halt. He swayed back and forth, face drawn in the befuddled discomfort of the overly drunk.
“I’m…” he muttered before staggering off to the thick blanket of reeds at the river’s edge. Soon after there came the sounds of a youth at retch.
“This one needs a little tempering,” Pots commented cheerfully as Erchel continued his spewing, loud enough to capture the full attention of both soldiers. “Few years under the banner and you’ll have a gut like iron.” Fortunately, their captain had neglected to post a guard on the bridge and the pickets patrolling the camp were too distant to take note of what happened next.
My sap was concealed at the small of my back, a tight-wound, six-inch column of leather encasing a ball of melted sheks at one end. No good in a brawl where a knife or a cudgel worked better, but in skilled hands it did very nicely at times like this, and my hands were well practised. The weighted end caught Hawker behind the ear, the blow sending him straight down as if every tendon in his legs had been cut at once. His collapse drew a puzzled grunt from Pots who turned to stare at me with eyes that refused to widen thanks to the liquor in his veins, although they did consent to do so when Erchel thrust a small dagger into the base of his skull.
“What the shitting fuck!?” I demanded in a furious hiss, advancing to grab hold of Erchel’s coarse-woven shirt. His face formed a familiar half-contrite, half-smirking mask as I dragged him close, tempting me to plant the sap firmly between his eyes.
“They’ve seen our faces,” he said, thin shoulders shrugging. “Dead men’s tongues don’t wag.”
“We were supposed to have fucked off well before now, you mad bastard.” The smug cast to his eyes, resembling a boy caught with his finger in a fresh-baked pie, made me want to exchange my sap for my knife. I could stab him here and be on my way, and I doubted Deckin would mind if I had. I was aware that this was partially my doing. Having cheated Erchel of one murder a few nights before, he had been nursing his need until now. Although resistant to grudges, it seemed he was not fully immune to revenge. It would be me who had to explain things to Deckin. But it was not the awareness of my unwitting complicity that stilled my hand. I had known Erchel from boyhood. For all his awfulness, he was still of the band. Besides, he had a knife too.
“Their whole fucking company will be hunting us come the morn,” I grated, shoving him away.
“Waylaid by footpads.” Erchel flicked blood from his blade and shrugged. “Woods are thick with outlaws.”
“We were seen leaving the tavern with them, you shithead! Soldiers waylaid and robbed by those they’re trying to slip the sovereign is one thing – happens all the time. Murder’s another. You can fucking well tell Deckin and don’t expect me to lie for you.”
His half-smirk became a weak tremulous smile as he regarded my increasingly hard gaze. Only now the thrill of murder had begun to fade did he begin to contemplate the consequences. The moment stretched then broke when Hawker let out a faint groan, reminding us both that time was short.
“I should see to him,” Erchel said.
“No.” Stoking his madness with another killing so soon would not be wise. “I’ll do it. Search that one and drag him into the river. With luck the current’ll carry him off.”
I finished Hawker with one of his own daggers, a swift, deep thrust to the neck, holding it and twisting until he shuddered and lay still. He had another knife tucked into his boot which I shoved into my own before rifling his corpse, finding a light purse and a Covenant medallion. It was a roughly hammered bronze sun, the motif of Martyr Hersephone, the first Resurrected Martyr whose blessings were said to bestow good fortune. I gave a faint, bitter laugh as I regarded the trinket, a poorly crafted thing of little worth. I kept it anyway, hooking the chain over my head before taking hold of Hawker’s legs and dragging him to the river.
We were obliged to wade into the ball-shrivelling current to make sure it carried them away. We had no time to gather stones to weigh them down; soon their comrades would vacate the tavern and wend their way to camp. Water filled the corpses’ pockets and boots, drawing them under the surface before the river took them, but I knew the humours birthed by their dead flesh would soon bring them back up.
Struggling free of the water we set off at a steady run for the trees, fleeing into the dark and welcome embrace of the woods. As we ran, I considered and abandoned different schemes to murder Erchel. There was no time and no surety of success. As you continue to partake of the tale set down in these pages, dear reader, you will fully understand why there hasn’t been a day since when I haven’t regretted not contriving a means of cutting his throat that night.
CHAPTER FIVE
“So, a killing then?” Deckin asked, voice flat and lacking emotion. “Two killings in fact,” he added, unblinking eyes flicking to me.
“If one fell the other had to,” I replied, trying to match his flat tone with my own. I had said little until now, letting Erchel stumble over his report in the faint hope any blame would fall entirely on his shoulders.
“Right,” Deckin said, voice softer now. “Except I don’t recall ordering one killing, never mind two. Lorine—” his voice rose a fraction as he glanced at where she stood, leaning against a nearby tree, arms crossed and features grim “—is my recollection at fault? Did I order a killing?”
“No.” Lorine’s voice was flat and her expression remained dark, either with judgement or disappointment. “I don’t believe you did, my love.”
“But surely, I must have.” Deckin’s bushy brows twisted as he frowned in apparent puzzlement. “For a killing has been done by one of this band. So—” he shifted his gaze to address the others, the entire band standing in silence among the surrounding trees “—I must have ordered it, must I not?”
One of his overlarge hands shot out, snake swift, to enclose Erchel’s neck. His eyes bulged as the hand squeezed, Deckin’s arm stiffening to raise Erchel up so that his toes scraped the earth.
“For those who honour me with their loyalty know better,” Deckin continued with barely a pause, voice counterpointed by Erchel’s increasingly loud chokes. “Do they not?”
When the monster that was Deckin’s rage got loose it was best not to make him repeat a question and the chorus of agreement was quick, my own voice perhaps loudest among it.
“Was I not kindly in allowing you into this band?” His voice took on a quivering, growling quality as he dragged Erchel closer. “A rat-faced, worthless turd dragged to my camp by his own kin who could no longer tolerate his habits? My heart is too soft, is it not, Lorine?”
At first, Erchel had been wise in keeping his hands dangling at his sides, but his air-starved lungs had them clutching at Deckin’s wrist, without particular effect. They reminded me of wet leaves clinging to a branch when the wind drives rain through the trees, while the crack that came from within his gullet as something gave way under the pressure recalled a creaking tree limb.
“Your generosity is properly f
amous, my love.” I noticed how Lorine’s features had taken on a frown as Deckin’s grip tightened yet further. Her gaze slipped from Erchel’s feeble struggles to fix on me then flicked towards Deckin’s now-snarling face. It was a clear instruction to speak up. I wasn’t aware she held any particular fondness for Erchel, none of us did, and put her concern down to a desire to maintain the band’s numbers. Her urging was not the only reason I stirred my tongue, however. Once Deckin was done with one unsanctioned killer, what was to stop him turning on the other?
“They said he died well,” I said after a hard swallow to quell any treacherous quaver. “The duke, I mean to say.”
Deckin’s hand stopped its tightening as his small eyes flicked to me, Erchel continuing to choke in his grasp. “Did he now?” Deckin enquired. “And with what fine words did he meet his end?”
“The fellow we spoke to wasn’t close enough to hear his testament.” I found I had to swallow again but did manage to contain a cough before continuing. “But he was brave. He didn’t beg.”
Deckin’s small eyes narrowed a fraction, nostrils flaring as he drew in a deep breath. Erchel chose this moment to cough a glob of reddened spit onto Deckin’s hand, an involuntary consequence of his strangling rather than a gesture of defiance for, even in the face of imminent death, he knew that to be a very poor notion.
Deckin grunted in disgust and cast Erchel away, his slight frame colliding with the trunk of a nearby birch before slipping to the ground. “Gauntlet,” Deckin said, casting his voice at the whole band.
