The Broken Empire Series Books 1 and 2: Prince of Thorns, King of Thorns. Mark Lawrence

      24

      ‘What ho! Captain Coddin!’ I came down the stairs in remarkably good spirits shortly before noon.

      The Captain gave me a stiff bow, his lips pressed into a tight line. In a far corner the younger brothers, Roddat, Jobe, and Sim nursed hangovers. I could see Burlow under a table, snoring.

      ‘I’d have thought you’d be back at Chelny Ford, Captain, protecting our borders from the predations of villains and rogues,’ I said, all cheery-like.

      ‘There was some dissatisfaction with my performance in the role. Certain voices at court maintained that I’d let a sight too many villains and rogues past my garrison of late. I’m assigned to escort duty in Crath City.’ He gestured to the street-door. ‘If Prince Jorg is ready?’

      I decided I liked the man. That surprised me. I’m not given to liking people as a rule. I blamed it on my mood. Nothing like a night of whoring to turn a man soft.

      So Coddin and his four soldiers led us out through the West Gate. I had Makin with me of course, and Elban because old though he was, there weren’t many among the brothers with more than half a brain. I brought the Nuban along too. Not sure why, but he’d been sat by the bar eating an apple, with that crossbow of his across his lap, and I thought I’d have him along.

      We took the Old Road toward Rennat Forest, twelve miles or so as the crow flies, and of course the Old Road flies like a crow, following the line laid down by men of Rome an age upon an age ago.

      Coddin rode at the fore, flanked by his boys, us behind enjoying the day. Makin nudged Firejump up alongside Gerrod and the two of them exchanged whatever threats pass between stallions.

      ‘You should have left me to Sir Galen, Jorg,’ Makin said.

      ‘You think you could have taken him?’ I asked.

      ‘No. He knew his swordwork, that Teuton,’ Makin said, and he wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘I’ve never crossed blades with a better man.’

      ‘He wasn’t the better man,’ I said.

      A silence fell between us for a moment. Elban broke it.

      ‘Makin found a man he couldn’t beat? Sir Makin? I don’t believe it.’ His lisp made a wet ‘Thur’ of ‘Sir’.

      Makin turned in the saddle to face Elban. ‘Believe it. The King’s champion had me cold. Jorg beat him, though.’ He nodded toward the Nuban. ‘With a crossbow. You’d have been proud.’

      The Nuban ran a soot-black hand over the iron-work of his bow, touching the faces of his pagan gods. ‘There’s no pride in this, Makin.’

      I could never read the Nuban. One moment he’d seem as simple as Maical, the next, deeper than a deep well. Sometimes both at once.

      ‘Maical,’ I said, remembering. ‘What happened to our pet idiot in the end? Did he die? I forgot to ask.’

      ‘We left him in Norwood, Jorth. He should have been dead, with that gut-wound, but he just hung on, moaning all the time,’ Elban said. He wiped the spittle from his chin.

      ‘Too stupid to die,’ Makin said. He grinned. ‘We had to drag him off to a house at the edge of town. Little Rikey was all for finishing him off, just to shut him up.’

      We had us a chuckle over that.

      ‘Seriously though, Jorg, you should have left Galen to it,’ Makin said. ‘If you had, you’d be sitting pretty at court. You’re still heir to the throne. You’d have got that saucy princess in time. The Castle Red is a death sentence for smashing that stupid tree. That and calling his wife a Scorron whore. Your father is not a forgiving man.’

      ‘You’d be right in all that, Makin,’ I said. ‘If my ambition were limited to “sitting pretty”, I’d have let the Teuton do his worst. Luckily for you, I want to win the Hundred War, reunite the Broken Empire, and be Emperor. And if I’m going to stand any chance of that, then taking the Castle Red with two hundred men will be a piece of cake.’

      We had our lunch at a milestone on the margins of the forest. Mutton, swiped from the kitchens at The Falling Angel. We were still wiping the grease from our fingers when we rode in under the trees – big oaks and beeches in the main – blushing crimson with the kiss of autumn frost. Riding under those branches, with the crunch of hoof on leaves, and the breath of horses pluming before us, I felt it again, that sweet hook sinking beneath the skin. They say a man can travel a lifetime and not escape the spell of the Ancrath valleys.

      I yawned, cracking my jaw. It hadn’t been a night for sleeping. Warm in my cloak I let Gerrod’s gentle gait rock me.

      I found myself thinking of smooth limbs and softness. My lips spoke her name as if to taste it.

      ‘Katherine?’ Makin asked. I jerked my head up to find him watching me, with an eyebrow raised in that irritating way of his.

      I looked away. To our left a long sprawl of hook-briar writhed around the boles of three elms. I’d learned a hard lesson among the hook-briar one stormy night. It wasn’t just the beauty of the land that had its hooks in me.

      Kill her.

      I turned round in the saddle, but Makin had fallen back to joke with the Nuban.

      Kill her, and you’ll be free forever.

      It seemed that the voice came from the darkness beneath the briar’s coils. It spoke under the crunching of hooves in the dry leaf-fall.

      Kill her. An ancient voice, desiccated, untouched by mercy. For a moment I saw Katherine, blood welling over her white teeth, her eyes round with surprise. I could feel the knife in my hand, hilt against her stomach, hot blood running over my fingers.

      Poison would be quieter. A distant touch.

      That last voice – it could have been mine, or the briar, they started to sound the same.

      Strength requires sacrifice. All weakness carries its cost. Now that was me. We’d left the briar behind and the day had grown cold.

      The Forest Watch found us quick enough, I’d have been worried if they hadn’t. A six-man patrol, all in blacks and greens, came out of the trees and bade us state our business on the King’s road.

      I didn’t let Coddin introduce me. ‘I’ve come to see the Watch Master,’ I said.

      The watchmen exchanged glances. I’m sure we seemed a ragged bunch, only Makin with any courtly touch about him, having polished up to see Father Dear. I had my old road plate on, and Elban and the Nuban, well their looks would earn them a bandit’s noose without the tedium of a trial.

      Coddin spoke up then. ‘This is Jorg, Prince of Ancrath, heir to the throne.’

      His words, hard to swallow as they might be, had the weight of a uniform behind them. The watchmen looked dumbfounded.

      ‘He’s come to see the Watch Master,’ Coddin