The name was not so very difficult for Glokta to recall. “Rews. Salem Rews.”
“Rews, that’s the one! I’d forgotten all about him. Rews! He could tell a story like no one else, that man. We’d sit up all night listening to him, all of us rolling with laughter! Whatever became of him?”
Glokta paused for a moment. “I think he left the army… to become a merchant of some sort.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I heard he moved north.”
Back to the Mud
Carleon weren’t at all how the Dogman remembered it, but then he tended to remember it burning. A memory like that stays with you. Roofs falling in, windows cracking, crowds of fighters everywhere, all drunk on pain and winning and, well, drink—looting, killing, setting fires, all the unpleasant rest of it. Women screaming, men shouting, stinking with smoke and fear. In short, a sack, with him and Logen at the heart of it.
Bethod had put the fires out and made it his. Moved in, then started building. He hadn’t got far when he kicked Logen and the Dogman and the rest of them into exile, but they must have been building every day since. It was twice as big now as it used to be, even before it got burned, covering the whole hill and all the slope down to the river. Bigger than Uffrith. Bigger than any city the Dogman had seen. From where he was, up in the trees on the other side of the valley, you couldn’t see the people, but there had to be an awful lot of them in there. Three new roads leading out from the gates. Two big new bridges. New buildings everywhere, and big ones where the small ones used to be. Lots of them. Built from stone, mostly, slate roofs, glass in some of the windows even.
“They been busy,” said Threetrees.
“New walls,” said Grim.
“Lots of ’em,” muttered the Dogman. There were walls all over. There was a big one round the outside, with proper towers and everything, and a big ditch beyond it. There was an even bigger one round the top of the hill where Skarling’s Hall used to stand. Huge great thing. Dogman could hardly work out where they got all the stone for the building of it. “Biggest damn wall I ever saw,” he said.
Threetrees shook his head. “I don’t like it. If Forley gets took, we won’t never get him out.”
“If Forley gets took there’ll be five of us, chief, and we’ll be looked for. He’s no threat to no one, but we are. Getting him out’ll be the least of our worries. He’ll muddle through, like always. Most likely he’ll outlive the lot of us.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” muttered Threetrees. “We’re in a dangerous line of work.”
They slithered back through the brush, back to the camp. Black Dow was there, looking even worse-tempered than usual. Tul Duru too, working at a hole in his coat with a needle, face all screwed up as his great thick fingers fumbled with the little splinter of metal. Forley was sat near him, looking up at the sky through the leaves.
“How you feeling Forley?” asked the Dogman.
“Bad, but you got to have fear to have courage.”
Dogman grinned at him. “So I heard. Reckon we’re both heroes then, eh?”
“Must be,” he said, grinning back.
Threetrees was all business. “You sure about this, Forley? Sure you want to go in there? Once you get in, there might be no getting out, no matter how good a talker y’are.”
“I’m sure. I may be shittin’ myself, but I’m going. I can do more good there than I can out here. Someone’s got to warn ’em about the Shanka. You know it, chief. Who else is there?”
The old boy nodded to himself, slow as the sun rising. Taking his moment, as always. “Aye. Alright. Tell ’em I’m waiting here, by the old bridge. Tell ’em I’m alone. Just in case Bethod decides you’re not welcome, you understand?”
“I get it. You’re on your own, Threetrees. It was just the two of us made it back over the mountains.”
They’d all gathered now, and Forley smiled round at ’em. “Well then, lads, it’s been something ain’t it?”
“Shut up, Weakest,” scowled Dow. “Bethod ain’t got nothing against you. You’re coming back.”
“In case I don’t, though. It’s been something.” The Dogman nodded to him, awkward. It was the same dirty, scarred-up faces as usual, but grimmer than ever. None of ’em liked letting one of their own put himself in danger, but Forley was right, someone had to do it, and he was the best suited. Sometimes weakness is a better shield than strength, the Dogman reckoned. Bethod was an evil bastard, but he was a clever one. The Shanka were coming, and he needed the warning. Hopefully, he’d be grateful for it.
They walked together, down to the edge of the trees, looking out towards the path. It crossed over the old bridge and wound down into the valley. From there to the gates of Carleon. Into Bethod’s fortress.
Forley took a deep breath, and the Dogman clapped him on his shoulder. “Luck, Forley. Good luck.”
“And to you.” He squeezed Dogman’s hand in his for a minute. “To all of you lads, eh?” and he turned and marched off towards the bridge, with his head up high.
“Luck, Forley!” shouted Black Dow, startling them all.
He turned round for a minute, the Weakest, stood on top of the bridge, and he grinned. Then he was gone.
Threetrees took a deep breath. “Weapons,” he said, “just in case Bethod don’t want to hear sense. And wait for the signal, eh?”
It seemed a long time waiting, up in the leaves, staying quiet and still, looking down at all them new walls. The Dogman lay on his belly, bow near at hand, watching, waiting, wondering how Forley was doing in there. A long, tense time. Then he saw them. Horsemen coming out the nearest gate, riding over one of the new bridges, crossing the river. They’d got a cart at the back. Dogman wasn’t sure why they’d have a cart, but he didn’t like it any. No sign of Forley, and he wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad.
They came quick, spurring up the side of the valley, up the steep path towards the trees and the stream and the old stone bridge across it. Right at the Dogman. He could hear the hooves thumping on the dirt. Close enough to count now, and take a good look at. Spears, shields and good armour. Helmets and mail. Ten of ’em, and two others sitting on the cart, either side of the driver, carrying some sorts of things that looked like little bows on blocks of wood. He didn’t know what they were about, and he didn’t like not knowing. He was the one wanted to be giving them the surprises.
He wriggled back through the brush on his stomach, sloshed through the stream and hurried to the edge of the trees, where he could get a good view of the old bridge. Threetrees, Tul and Dow were standing round the near side of it, and he waved over to them. Couldn’t see Grim, he must’ve been off in the woods away beyond. He made the sign for horsemen, held up his fist to say ten, hand flat on his chest to say armour.
Dow took up his sword and axe, ran up into a bunch of broken rocks, high up beside the bridge, keeping low and quiet. Tul slid down the bank into the stream, luckily no more than knee-deep right then, plastered his big self against the far side of the arch with his great long sword held up above the water. Made the Dogman a bit nervous, he could see Tul so clear from where he was sitting. Still, the riders wouldn’t see him at all if they came straight up the path. They’d only be expecting one man alone, and Dogman hoped they wouldn’t come too careful. He hoped, ’cause if they took the time to check it’d be a fucking disaster.
He watched Threetrees strap his shield on his arm, draw his sword, stretch his neck out, then he just stood, waiting, big and solid, blocking the path on the near side of the bridge, seeming all alone in the world.
The Dogman could hear the hoof-beats loud now, and the clattering of the cart’s wheels out beyond the trees. He pulled out a few arrows and planted them in the earth, point down, where he could get to ’em quick. Doing his best to swallow his fear. His fingers were shaking all the while, but that didn’t matter. They’d work alright when they needed to.
“Wait for the signal,” he whispered to himself. “Wait for the signal.”
&nbs
p; He nocked a shaft to his bow and half-drew the string, taking aim down towards the bridge. Damn it but he needed to piss bad.
The first spear-point showed itself over the crest of the hill, then others. Bobbing helmets, mailed chests, horses’ faces, bit by bit the riders came up towards the bridge. The cart rolled behind, with its driver and its two funny passengers, pulled by a big shaggy carthorse.
The rider up front saw Threetrees now, waiting for him, over the hump of the bridge, and he spurred on forward. The Dogman breathed a little easier as the others trotted after him in a clump, all eagerness. Forley must’ve said as he was told—they were expecting only one. Dogman could see Tul peering up from underneath the mossy arch as the horses clopped above him. By the dead, his hands were shaking. He was worried he’d let the arrow fly half-drawn and ruin the whole thing.
The cart stopped on the far bank, the two men on it stood up and pointed their strange bows at Threetrees. The Dogman got himself a nice aim on one of ’em, and drew the string back all the way. Most of the riders were on the bridge by now, horses shying and stirring about, unhappy at being packed in so tight. The one at the front reined up in front of Threetrees, spear pointing at him. The old boy didn’t back away a step, though. Not him. He just frowned up, not giving the riders any room to get around him, keeping ’em choked up on the bridge.
“Well, well,” the Dogman heard their leader saying. “Rudd Threetrees. We thought you was long dead, old man.” He knew the voice. One of Bethod’s Carls, from way back. Bad-Enough they called him.
“Reckon I’ve got a fight or two left in me,” said Threetrees, still giving no ground.
Bad-Enough took a look about him, squinting into the trees, sense enough to see he was in a poor position, but not too careful. “Where’s the rest of you? Where’s that fucker Dow, eh?”
Threetrees shrugged. “There’s just me.”
“Back to the mud, eh?” The Dogman could just see Bad-Enough grinning under his helmet. “Shame. Hoped I’d be the one to kill that dirty bastard.”
Dogman winced, half expecting Dow to come flying out of those rocks right then, but there was no sign of him. Not yet. Waiting for the signal, for once.
“Where’s Bethod?” asked Threetrees.
“The King don’t come out for the likes of you! Anyhow, he’s off in Angland, kicking the Union’s arses. Prince Calder’s taking care of things while he’s gone.”
Threetrees snorted. “Prince is it, now? I remember him sucking on his mother’s tit. He could scarcely do that right.”
“A lot’s changed, old man. All kind of things.”
By the dead, Dogman was wishing they’d get on with it, one way or another. He could hardly keep the piss in. “Wait for the signal,” he was mouthing to himself, just to try and keep his hands steady.
“The Flatheads are everywhere,” Threetrees was saying. “They’ll be coming south by next summer, sooner maybe. Something needs doing.”
“Well, why don’t you come with us, eh? You can warn Calder yourself. We brought a cart, for you to ride in. Man of your age shouldn’t have to walk.” A couple of the other riders laughed at that, but Threetrees didn’t join ’em.
“Where’s Forley?” he growled. “Where’s the Weakest?”
There was more sniggering from the horsemen. “Oh, he’s nearby,” said Bad-Enough, “he’s real close. Why don’t you get in the cart, and we’ll take you right to him. Then we can all sit round and talk about Flatheads, nice and peaceful.”
The Dogman didn’t like this. Not at all. He’d got a nasty feeling. “You must take me for some new kind o’ fool,” said Threetrees. “I’m going nowhere ’til I’ve seen Forley.”
Bad-Enough frowned at that. “You’re in no state to be telling us what you’ll do. You might have been the big man once, but you’re come to less than nothing, and that’s a fact. Now give up your blade and get in the fucking cart like I told you, before I lose my temper.”
He tried to nudge his horse forward again but Threetrees wasn’t budging. “Where’s Forley?” he growled. “And I’ll have a straight answer or I’ll have your guts.”
Bad-Enough grinned over his shoulder at his mates, and they grinned back. “Alright, old man, since you’re asking. Calder wanted us to wait for this, but I’ve got to see the look on your face. The Weakest’s in the cart. Leastways, most of him is.” He smiled and let something drop from his saddle. A canvas sack, with something in it. Dogman could guess already what it was. It hit the ground near Threetrees’ feet. The something rolled out, and the Dogman could see on the old boy’s face that he’d guessed right. Forley’s head.
Well that was it, o’ course. Fuck the signal. Dogman’s first arrow stuck one of the men on the cart right through his chest, and he screamed and tumbled over into the back, dragging the driver with him. It was a good shot, but there was no time to think on that, he was far too busy fumbling for another arrow, and shouting. Didn’t even know what he was shouting, just that he was. Grim must’ve been shooting as well, one of the Carls on the bridge gave a yell, fell off his horse and splashed into the stream.
Threetrees was down in a crouch, hiding behind his shield, backing off while Bad-Enough prodded at him with his spear, kicking his horse off the bridge and onto the path on our side.
The rider behind pushed around the side of him, keen to get off the bridge, coming close beside the rocks.
“Fucking bastards!” Dow flew out of the stones above him, barrelled into the rider. They tumbled down together, a mess of limbs and weapons, but the Dogman could see that Dow was on top. His axe went up and down a couple of times, quick. One less to worry on.
Dogman’s second arrow went well wide of the mark, he was so busy shouting his head off, but it stuck one of the horses in the rump, and that turned out better than anything. It started rearing and thrashing about, and soon all the horses were milling and crying while their riders cursed and bumbled around, spears going every which way, noise and mess on all sides.
The horseman at the back split in half, all of a sudden, blood spraying everywhere. The Thunderhead had come up from the stream, got round behind them. There’s no armour that could stop a blow like that. The giant roared and swung the great length of bloody metal over his head again. The next in line got his shield up in time, but he might as well not have bothered. The blade hacked a big chunk out of it, tore his head open and hammered him out of the saddle. The blow was that strong it clubbed the horse down too.
One of them had got his mount turned now, bringing up his spear to stab at Tul from the side. Before he could he grunted and jerked, arching his back. Dogman could see the feathers sticking from his side. Grim must’ve shot him, and he tumbled down. His foot caught in the stirrup and he hung there, swinging. He was groaning and moaning and trying to right himself, but his horse was plunging now along with the others, making him dance, wrong way up, smacking his head against the side of the bridge. He dropped his spear in the stream, tried to pull himself up, then his horse half landed a kick on his shoulder and knocked him free. He went down under the milling hooves and the Dogman paid him no more mind.
The second archer was still sitting up on the cart. He was getting over his shock now, and lining up his funny bow on Threetrees, still squatting down behind his shield. Dogman shot at him but he was hurrying, and yelling, and his shaft missed and hit the driver beside him in his shoulder, just got up from the back of the cart, knocked him back down again.
The weird bow twanged and Threetrees jerked back from his shield. The Dogman was worried for a minute, then he saw that the arrow split the heavy wood and punched on through, but stopped just short of catching Threetrees in the face. It was lodged there through his shield, feathers sticking out one side, point out the other. That’s an evil little bow, Dogman thought.
He heard Tul roar and saw another rider fly off into the stream. Another dropped with one of Grim’s arrows in his back. Dow turned and chopped the back legs out from under Bad-Enough’s horse
with his sword, and it stumbled and slid, pitching him off onto the ground. The last couple were trapped. Dow and Threetrees at one end of the bridge, Tul at the other, too tight with frightened, riderless horses for them to turn around or nothing, at the mercy of Grim out in the woods. He wasn’t in a merciful mood, it seemed, and it didn’t take him long to pick ’em off.
The one with the bow tried to make a break for it, chucking his bit of wood away and jumping down from the cart. Dogman thought nice and careful about his aiming this time, and his shaft got the archer right between the shoulders and knocked him on his face before he could get more than a few paces. He had a go at crawling, but he wasn’t crawling far. The driver of the cart showed his face again, groaning and grabbing at the arrow in his shoulder. The Dogman didn’t usually kill men that were down, but he reckoned today was an exception. His arrow got the driver through the mouth, and that was him dealt with.
Dogman could see one of the riders limping away, one of Grim’s arrows in his leg, and lined him up with his last shaft. Threetrees got there first though, and stuck him through the back with his sword. There was another one still moving, struggling up to his knees, and the Dogman took an aim on him. Before he could loose, Dow stepped up and hacked his head off. Blood everywhere. Horses still milling, screaming, slipping on the slick stones of the bridge.
Dogman could see Bad-Enough now, the last one going. He must’ve lost his helmet when he fell off his horse. He was struggling in the stream on his hands and knees, slowed up by all that weight of mail. He’d dropped his shield, and his spear, to make better time running for it, but he hadn’t realised he was coming right at the Dogman.
“Get him alive!” shouted Threetrees. Tul set off down one bank, but he was making slow progress, slipping and sliding in the mud the cart churned up. “Get him alive!” Dow was after him too, splashing and cursing in the water. Bad-Enough was close now. The Dogman could hear his scared gasping as he struggled down the stream.
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