The Complete Broken Empire Trilogy: Prince of Thorns, King of Thorns, Emperor of Thorns. Mark Lawrence
knuckles crunched into Rike’s bull-throat. I may not have been thinking with my head, but thankfully some part of me hadn’t abandoned all sense. Punching Rike’s blunt face would have probably broken my fist and just tickled him a little.
He gave a kind of grunt and stood there, looking slightly bewildered. I supposed the idea that I’d just committed suicide in such grand style took some getting used to.
Somewhere in the back of my mind it dawned on me that I’d made a very big mistake. The rest of me didn’t much care. I think blind rage, and the pure enjoyment of using Rike as a punch-bag, figured in equal measure.
Since I’d been offered a second free blow, I took two. An iron-clad knee driven accurately into the groin will give pause for thought even to a seven foot maniac who’s twice your weight. Rike folded up obligingly and I brought both fists down together on the back of his neck.
I studied the fighting arts of the Nippon with Tutor Lundist. He brought a book on the subject with him from the Utter East. Page upon rice-paper page of fighting stances, kata moves, and anatomical diagrams to show the pressure points. I’m sure I hit the two stun points on the back of Rike’s neck, and I know I hit hard.
I blame him for being too stupid to know how they work.
Rike swung at me. A lucky thing, because if he’d grappled me he’d have twisted my head off in no time. His vambrace caught my ribcage. I guess if I’d not been wearing that breastplate all my ribs would have broken, rather than just the two. The force took me off my feet and sent me sliding among the bones. I fetched up against one of those pillars with a painful little clang.
I could have drawn my sword then. It would have been the only sensible decision. Against all the unwritten rules, of course. I started it with a punch and that was the way the thing should have ended. But when you weigh a loss of face with the brothers against having Rike actually rip your face off, well it’s not a hard decision.
I picked myself up. ‘Come here, you fat bastard.’
The words emerged without a by-your-leave. The anger spoke for me. Anger at having lost control, more that now than anger at him calling the Nuban a coward. The Nuban didn’t need Rike beaten bloody to prove his courage. Angry at being angry – there’s a worm that will eat its tail and no mistake. I should have Oroborus on my family crest.
Rike rushed me with that wordless howl of his. He reached a fair clip. Not many castle doors would stop Little Rikey at that speed. Pretty scary, unless you know he can’t turn corners.
I stepped aside nice and sharp, cursing at my ribs. Rike hit the pillar and bounced off. To his credit several bits of stone came loose. I picked up a good stout thigh-bone and smacked him around the head with it as he tried to get up. The thing cracked almost in two, so I finished the job and had myself two knob-ended clubs.
The single most depressing thing about fighting Rike would have to be the way he’d never stay down. He came at me, a bit woozy now, but snarling dire threats and meaning every one of them.
‘Gonna feed you your own eyeballs, boy.’ He spat out a tooth.
I danced back and hit him in the face with the longer of my two clubs. He spat out another tooth at that. I had to laugh. The anger left me and it felt good.
So Rike lumbered after me, and I kept my distance, clouting him a good one when I could. The closest thing I can think of is bear-baiting. Whack! Growl. Clang! Snarl! I had the giggles, which was a bad thing, because one slip and he really would have me. If he got just one of those paws of his on me and got a grip … well I would be eating my own eyeballs. He did things like that.
The brothers started to lay bets and clap the sport.
‘I’ll pull your guts out.’ Rike seemed to have an endless supply of threats.
Unfortunately he seemed to have an endless supply of energy too, and my dancing days were coming to an end, my footwork getting a little clumsy.
‘Break every little bone in that pretty face o’ yours, Jorgy.’
Our circle took us back to where I threw the first blow.
‘Pull those skinny arms out of their sockets.’ He looked an evil sight with blood spilling down his chin.
I saw my chance. I ran straight at him, taking him by surprise yet again. In the long run it promised to be a pushing contest as unequal as Rike against the pillar, but he gave a step. A step gave me all I’d hoped for. He hit Makin’s legs, stumbled and went over backward. I scooped up the Nuban’s bow, and before Rike could get up I was over him. I had the snout of the bow, a heavy iron falcon, poised above Rike’s face.
‘What’s it going to be, Little Rikey?’ I asked. ‘I think I can crush your skull like an egg before you get your hands on me. Should we try it and see? Or do you want to take that back?’
He gave me a blank look.
‘About the Nuban,’ I said. Rike had genuinely forgotten what he’d said.
‘Uh.’ Doubt crinkled his brow. He tried to focus on the bow. ‘I take it back.’
‘Christ bleeding!’ I sagged, exhausted, clothed in sweat. The brothers surged round us then, a new life in them, paying their bets, reliving the moment when Rike charged the pillar. I made note of who backed me, Burlow, Liar, Grumlow, Kent, the older men who could look past youth. Makin even went so far as to get up off the floor. He clapped a hand to my shoulder. ‘You and the Nuban, you caught her?’
I nodded.
‘I hope she went to Hell screaming,’ Makin said.
‘She died hard,’ I said. An easy lie.
‘The Nuban …’ Makin had to hunt for the words. ‘He was better than the rest of us.’
I didn’t have to hunt. ‘Yes.’
Gorgoth hadn’t stirred while I fought Rike. He sat on the cold stone, legs crossed under him. Here and there the ghost-flesh of skeletal fingers had marked his hide with dead spots, little white fingerprints where the flesh had died. He didn’t move, but he watched me with those cat’s eyes of his.
A yard or two from Gorgoth I could make out a small dark huddle, Gog and Magog clutched one to another.
‘A fine fight, lad,’ I called to Gog. ‘You were as good as your word.’
Gog lifted his face to me. Magog’s head flopped back, rolling on a neck scored by white lines, dead white lines across his tiger stripes.
I found myself kneeling beside them. Gog snarled when I touched his brother, but he didn’t stop me. Magog felt so light in my hands, a curious mix of bony starvation and child softness.
‘Your brother,’ I said. For the longest moment I had nothing else to say, as though my throat closed away all my words. ‘So little.’ I remembered him scampering up those endless stairs. In the end I had to press on my broken ribs to let the pain sharpen me and chase out the stupidity.
I set the dead child down, and stood. ‘You fought for him, Gog. Stupid, but maybe you’ll find comfort in it.’ Maybe his reproach won’t follow you the length of your days.
‘We have a new mascot!’ I announced to the brothers. ‘Gog here is now part of our merry band.’
Gorgoth started up at that. ‘The necromancers—’
I stepped in before he rose to his feet, the iron face of the Nuban’s crossbow three inches from his ridged forehead. ‘What’s it going to be, Gorgoth?’ I asked. He sat himself back down.
I turned away. ‘We burn the dead. I’m not having them come back to say hello.’
‘Burn ’em with what?’ Red Kent wanted to know.
‘Bones is poor kindling, Jorth.’ Elban hawked a wad of phlegm into the nearest pile as if to prove his point.
‘We’ll