Honor among thieves abt-3

by David Chandler

  Morget’s axe came down and chopped a scroll of wood off the side of the pell. His back ached with the effort. He prepared for another blow.

  Before he could strike, however, he heard a hollow voice echo up from a hole in the ground near his feet.

  “-mud in places I can’t wash,” the voice grumbled. “Mud so far down my ears it’s coming out my arse.”

  Morget set down the axe.

  Balint and her sappers emerged from the hole, climbing wearily up a ladder to the surface. The dwarf’s men were westerners-thralls now, recruited from the great mass of prisoners taken at Helstrow. They looked like their souls hurt worse than their backs. They carried mattocks and picks that they tossed on the grass as if they loathed the very touch of their tools.

  “It’s done?” Morget asked.

  Balint hauled the end of a rope out of the hole. “I used to live in this city, you know. There’s a whole colony of dwarves in there, maybe twenty of ’em, all living together in a palace all their own. This is the only place in Skrae you can get proper dwarven ale before it goes flatter than a spinster’s chest.”

  “Were you successful?” Morget asked again.

  Balint reached up to touch the spiked iron collar around her throat. Morget had fastened it there himself, after he spared her life.

  “Aye,” she said softly. She handed him the end of the rope.

  Morget hurried to attach the line to the harness of a team of oxen, big woolly beasts he’d had brought over from the eastern steppes. They could haul away the ocean, he’d been told, if you could find a way to chain it. Their drover lowered his goads and they started stumbling forward.

  “You’re a bastard, you know that?” Balint asked.

  Morget frowned, unsure of what she meant by that. Marriage was a rare occurrence in the East, and most children were born of passion, not wedlock.

  “You know. A son of a bitch,” Balint tried.

  Morget shrugged. He knew very little about his mother, actually. “The woman who birthed me was a thrall from the North. When they brought me to her, moments after I came howling into this world, she turned her face away, and then she died.”

  “After giving birth to a pillock as big as you,” Balint said, “I would want to die.”

  “Death is my mother now,” Morget said. He turned away from this cryptic debate and roared at the drover to redouble his efforts.

  The rope Balint had brought him led down into a tunnel she’d been digging for three days. Its far end was attached securely to a series of supports directly under the wall of Redweir. She had so thoroughly excavated down there that the supports were the only thing holding that wall up.

  The oxen hauled on the taut rope, digging their feet deep into the reddish soil. The rope creaked. The oxen lowed. If the rope broke-ah-but suddenly it went slack and the oxen hurried away.

  For a moment it seemed the rope had simply snapped, and achieved nothing. Then he began to feel the ground roll under his feet. Very good-it was done.

  Morget turned to face his army. He lifted Dawnbringer over his head, and to a man, no matter how drunk they might be, the barbarians gathered their weapons and stirred. “Now,” he said, as a deep rumbling noise began to sound from the tunnel.

  The barbarians screamed and rushed toward the wall. The defenders, jumping up and down in their bewilderment, rushed to the battlements and started drawing their bows. A random volley of arrows swept toward the horde and a few barbarians were knocked down and trampled. Still, Morget’s army howled toward the impenetrable wall. They weren’t even headed toward one of the gates-just an unbroken stretch of red sandstone brick, as if they meant to dash their heads against it.

  Before they reached the wall, it was gone.

  It came down in a spectacular cascade of falling masonry and red dust. They swept through a cloud that choked them and brought tears to their eyes. They stormed over a pile of rubble that was still settling.

  Of what happened then, numbers speak louder than words.

  The garrison at Redweir numbered less than five hundred. Even the best-trained serjeant in that company had been a professional soldier for less than a year, and had held his command position for only a few months. At least a third of the defenders perished in the collapse of the wall.

  Inside the town lived five thousand souls-workmen, scholars, children. These defended themselves to the best of their ability with whatever tools and cutlery they could find. None of them had any military training at all.

  Against these forces were arrayed two thousand screaming barbarians, each of whom had been fighting since the day he escaped from the womb.

  The streets of Redweir, cobbled in the ubiquitous red sandstone, ran bright with blood that day. The town had been built on top of a massive dam with a wide spillway. It would be an exaggeration to say the river Strow ran red as far as the sea-but it was definitely tinged with pink.

  The fighting-the slaughter-went on for hours. It would not, truly, stop for days. Morget led the way down the town’s sole high street to the spiritual center of Redweir-its famous library, the largest collection of books and scrolls and manuscripts outside of the Old Empire. He had been there once before, long before Cloudblade fell and the barbarians swept into Skrae. He had come seeking knowledge, and offered violence to no man. At that time he’d been treated as a curiosity, an exotic figure of disdain, because he had come alone.

  Now he was feared more than all the demons in the pits.

  The massive doors of the library were not built for defense. Morget’s men hewed them down with axes in a matter of minutes.

  Inside, a monk of the Learned Brethren stood waiting for him. He bore no weapons-such were forbidden to holy brothers-but he raised his hands in a gesture of defiance.

  “You must not defile this place!” the monk shrieked. “If you burn this building to the ground, the knowledge of a thousand years will be lost! The works collected here can never be replaced. I warn you, barbarian. It would be a sin of the greatest magnitude.”

  Morget laughed his booming, wicked laugh. “Fear not, little man,” he said. “My father, the Great Chieftain, has already declared your books sacrosanct. He is a lover of learning, and I am bidden not to harm one page, not to deface one word of your precious collection. We need every book you possess.”

  The monk slowly lowered his hands. His face trembled with relief.

  “We don’t need any monks, though,” Morget went on. And then he brought his axe down in a whistling sweep, as he had a million times before.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The bandit camp proved a sorry affair. Two dozen men holed up in a gorge, their weapons piled in a heap by a fire pit. Broken bottles and gnawed bones littered the main entrance to the defile, a midden that would foul the only route of escape. High mossy walls of rock stood over the camp, making the screams of the captive women echo and resound.

  The leader of the bandits was a big man with the soot-stained face of a former blacksmith. He had a bad scar under one eye that looked especially bright under the grime. He wore a leather vest over his tunic that was studded with iron rivets. Perhaps he thought of this as armor.

  His men debauched themselves around the fire, too drunk to notice anything but their sport. They had stolen two women from a nearby village-after slaughtering the elderly menfolk-and brought them here for purposes Croy could guess at but didn’t wish to. The bandits had tied together the women’s braids in a complicated knot so they were bound together. It seemed to amuse the bandits to watch the women struggle and pull at each other.

  Kneeling atop the rock wall behind the camp, Croy lifted one hand, two fingers outstretched. With his other hand he pointed at the leader of the bandits. Then he dropped both hands.

  Nothing happened.

  Croy closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. His soldiers had not been properly trained. There had been no time. They probably weren’t even watching for his signal. It occurred to him that the men he now led were little bette
r than the bandits they were about to ambush.

  He had not been given much choice while recruiting his company. His little band of deserters, Gavin and his men, had been the first and among the best organized. Most of the others he’d found, soldiers in the farmland around Helstrow, had been alone or working with a single partner, and they were near death from starvation or exposure. A little salt pork had been enough to buy their loyalty.

  Croy stood up slowly, careful not to let his knees creak. He turned around and looked for the pair of archers-his entire missile corps-who he had stationed in the branches of a tree that leaned out over the gorge. The two men were chatting quietly, their bows not even strung.

  Given six months and the proper equipment, he was certain he could turn these men into an effective fighting force. Lacking either of those things, he had to fall back on the last refuge of desperate serjeants everywhere-bullying his men into a pale semblance of proper order. He pulled Ghostcutter from its scabbard and hacked at the tree trunk. The branches shook and a few twigs fell from the upper boughs.

  The archers grabbed tight to the tree and stared down at him as if he was mad. Croy stared back up at them in such a way to confirm that impression. Then he slowly repeated his hand signals.

  One of the archers nodded and strung his bow. The other, wanting to be helpful, handed his fellow an arrow from his own quiver.

  Croy turned to look back down into the gorge. The leader of the bandits was urinating into the narrow creek that ran through the defile. The arrow took him in the neck, passing through his voice box before it hit the stone wall behind the dead man and clattered noisily to the ground.

  Croy’s original order had been to put the arrow between the leader’s feet, as a warning. He supposed he shouldn’t be overly angry with this result.

  The leader slumped forward into the water without making a sound. One of his followers, a gap-toothed bandit in a potter’s smock, pointed and laughed. Maybe he thought his chief had passed out from strong drink. It was a dark night, and visibility would be limited away from the fire. Perhaps the bandit couldn’t see the blood gushing from either side of the leader’s neck. Or maybe he could and still thought it was funny.

  Croy called out, “Seize them!” At the trash-strewn opening to the gorge, his ten biggest men came rushing in with weapons bared. They roared like he’d taught them, a horrifying noise that sent some of the bandits sprawling in terror.

  A few of the bandits had the presence of mind to make a dash for their own weapons. Before they could get there, Croy slid down a rope and met them with the point of Ghostcutter.

  They surrendered on the spot, kneeling before the Ancient Blade. Their eyes could not have been wider, and their teeth chattered in their heads, even though the fire did a passable job of dispelling the night’s chill.

  “I am the king’s man, and you have broken the king’s peace,” Croy told them. He sent one of his men to untie the women from each other. “In less chaotic times I would march you all to the nearest manor and have you tried for what you did today in the village. You would all be found wanting and you would all hang.”

  One of the bandits vomited down the front of his own shirt. His eyes never stopped watching Croy.

  “Right now, however, we are at war. There are rogues and cutthroats worse even than your sorry selves out there. I aim to drive them out of Skrae. To that end, I need your help. If you’re with me, come forth and kiss the sword.”

  Their greasy lips defiled Ghostcutter’s blade. Croy’s conscience cringed at what he was doing. But it didn’t matter. A sword could be cleaned with water, or sand, or by wiping it on a cloth. A kingdom could be cleansed only by the blood of its brave sons-and for now, this lot would have to do.

  Chapter Fifty

  Barbarian pickets controlled the road between Helstrow and Redweir, but at night they were few and far between. Croy led his rabble over the road under a thin crescent of moon and hurried them through the fens toward Easthull, home of the last living member of the king’s privy council.

  No lights showed on the manor-the windows had all been covered in sackcloth, and the fires inside kept damped to minimize the smoke they made. The track that split off from the main road and headed to the Baron’s house had been carefully covered with autumn leaves so it could not be found unless you knew what to look for. On their way to conquer Redweir, Morget and his troops had passed right by all of Greenmarsh without stopping. The Baron didn’t want to give them a reason to come calling on their way back. Even Croy didn’t see the manor house of Easthull until he was a hundred yards from its low wall. He ignored the gate, chained shut with rusted locks to look like it hadn’t been opened in years. Instead he helped his men hop over the wall like they were climbing a stile. Once on the other side, he signaled them to stop in place and make no sound.

  A serjeant with a loaded crossbow came out of the dark and studied Croy’s face carefully before nodding them in.

  They went through the stables, where the last six trained warhorses in Skrae-as far as Croy knew-watched them with suspicious eyes. Once into the great hall, he breathed a sigh of relief and told his men to rack their weapons by the door and find something to eat. There was plenty of bread, and great cauldrons of pottage and bacon water. Simple stuff, but nourishing. His best tactic for recruiting was the promise of a full belly, and so far he’d been able to deliver. Time, always the greatest enemy in war, had smiled on him in a small way. The law of Skrae held that the king could not conscript his subjects in autumn until the harvest was in. It was a close thing, but the fields of Greenmarsh had been emptied of their bounty before the barbarians invaded. Now the Baron had full granaries that would see them through a winter campaign.

  His men would not starve to death. It was something.

  Croy shrugged off his heavy mantle and left it to dry on a peg by the hearth. Taking up a slice of bread smeared with butter and honey, he headed into the private chambers off the great hall and announced himself to the Baron’s herald.

  “Milord is still awake, and would receive you,” the herald told him, “when you are fed and rested, of course.”

  “I’m ready now,” Croy said, finishing his humble meal. Rested he was not, but then he hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night since fleeing Helstrow. He was getting used to fatigue. He headed through the door to the Baron’s closet, where the king lay on a camp bed, still unconscious. Ulfram’s daughter Bethane knelt by his side, praying for his recovery. She was a good girl, as far as Croy was concerned, though her sheltered youth had left her ill-prepared for the role she now played.

  “Is there any change?” Croy asked as softly as he could.

  Bethane shook her head. Rising to her feet, she gave him a warm smile and opened her arms. He embraced her fondly.

  He had never met her until a week ago, when he first discovered that Easthull remained untaken. She had been hidden there before the invasion and was crouching in a back kitchen, surrounded by old men and women armed with rolling pins. They thought Croy and his recruits were reavers come to raid and pillage them, and Bethane wept and wailed when he came and knelt before her, thinking he was simply mocking her before he cut her down. Even when he’d proven his bona fides to the Baron, still Bethane had feared him-he smelled of death, no matter how he smiled. Yet time had passed since then, and the fortunes of war make fondness grow even in hearts that cannot afford to be gentle.

  “Was there any more fighting?” Bethane asked. “How many men do you bring tonight? Did you get close enough to see how Helstrow fares? Is there any news of my mother?”

  Croy smiled and stroked the girl’s hair. A month ago Bethane’s greatest concern in life had been with what color ribbons the ladies of the court should use to tie their sleeves. She was learning very quickly. He answered her questions as best he could, leaving out no details. She would be queen some day, and perhaps soon, if her father’s condition did not improve. She deserved to hear everything. “I recruited another crew of band
its. Rougher than the usual sort I bring in, but they’ll serve. After that we set an ambuscade for some of Morg’s farther-reaching scouts. I took two of them, though one of my men lost an arm and probably won’t survive. Helstrow seems unchanged. The fires there have all been put out, at least. Your mother… remains unaccounted for.”

  When Helstrow was first threatened, Ulfram’s wife had headed to Greenmarsh by a different route than the princess. The intention was to make sure at least one of them got through. There had been no word from the queen since. Perhaps she heard that the king was dead and went into hiding.

  It was something to hope for, anyway.

  The inner door of the closet opened and Baron Easthull entered carrying a taper. He beckoned for Croy to step into his withdrawing chamber. Croy knelt quickly before Bethane and kissed her hand, but she bade him to go and join the Baron. He knew she would not follow-she rarely left her father’s side these days.

  The withdrawing chamber was a small room filled with simple furniture, a place where in better days guests would come after dining to sit and talk over a bottle of brandy. Now its wide tables were littered with maps and written reports, a great hoard of words for the Baron to pore over while Croy went out every night looking for more men. From this room the only legitimate authority in Skrae was organized. It bore no comparison to the privy chamber in Helstrow, but it served.

  “It’s good of you to comfort the princess,” the Baron said. He was a thin man with very bushy eyebrows, and he dressed always in linen. To Croy’s knowledge, he had never swung a sword in his life, though he always wore one at his belt. Yet when Croy had shown up in his dooryard, haggard and bramble-torn and lugging a wounded king, the Baron took him in, and for that Croy owed him much gratitude. “She talks of nothing but your exploits, you know.”

  “It helps keep her mind off her father’s condition,” Croy suggested.