The Broken Empire Series Books 1 and 2: Prince of Thorns, King of Thorns. Mark Lawrence
Rike shouted the words in his face. ‘Get digging trip-pits, shit-brains.’
They knew how to set up an ambush those lads. No mistake there. No one knew better how to fight in the ruins. Half the time they’d make the ruins themselves, half the time they’d fight in somebody else’s.
‘Burlow, Makin,’ I called them to me as the others set about their tasks. ‘I don’t need you to scout, Makin,’ I said, keeping my voice low. ‘I want you two to go to the thicket by the stream. I want you to hide yourselves. Hide so a bastard could sit on you and still not know you were there. You hide down there and wait. You’ll know what to do.’
‘Prince— Brother Jorg,’ Makin said. He had a big frown on, and his eyes kept straying down the street to old Gomsty praying before the burned-out church. ‘What’s this all about?’
‘You said you’d follow wherever I led, Makin,’ I answered. ‘This is where it starts. When they write the legend, this will be the first page. Some old monk will go blind illuminating this page, Makin. This is where it all starts.’ I didn’t say how short the book might be though.
Makin did that bow of his that’s half a nod, and off he went, Fat Burlow hurrying behind.
So, the brothers dug their traps, laid out their arrows, and hid themselves in what little of Norwood remained. I watched them, cursing their slowness, but holding my peace. And by and by only Father Gomst, my five picked men, and I remained on show. All the rest, a touch over two dozen, lay lost in the ruins.
Father Gomst came to my side, still praying. I wondered how hard he’d pray if he knew what was really coming.
I had an ache in my head now, like a hook inserted behind both eyes, tugging at me. The same ache that started up when the sight of old Gomsty made me think of going home. A familiar pain, one I’d felt at many a turn on the road. Oft times I’d let that pain lead me. But I felt tired of being a fish on a line. I bit back.
I saw the first scout on the marsh road an hour later. Others came soon enough, riding up to join him. I made sure they’d seen the seven of us standing on the burgermeister’s steps.
‘Company,’ I said, and pointed the riders out.
‘Shitdarn!’ Brother Elban spat on his boots. I’d chosen Elban because he didn’t look like much, a grizzled old streak in his rusty chainmail. He had no hair and no teeth, but he had a bite on him. ‘They’s no brigands, look at them ponies.’ He lisped the words a bit, having no teeth and all.
‘You know Elban, you might be right,’ I said, and I gave him a smile. ‘I’d say they looked more like house-troops.’
‘Lord have mercy,’ I heard old Gomsty murmur behind me.
The scouts pulled back. Elban picked up his gear and started for the market field where the horses stood grazing.
‘You don’t want to do that, old man,’ I said, softly.
He turned and I could see the fear in his eyes. ‘You ain’t gonna cut me down is you, Jorth?’ He couldn’t say Jorg without any teeth; I suppose it’s a name you’ve got to put an edge on.
‘I won’t cut you down,’ I said. I almost liked Elban; I wouldn’t kill him without a good reason. ‘Where you going to run to, Elban?’
He pointed over the ridge. ‘That’s the only clear way. Get snarled up elsewise, or worse, back in the marsh.’
‘You don’t want to go over that ridge, Elban,’ I said. ‘Trust me.’
And he did. Though maybe he trusted me because he didn’t trust me, if you get my meaning.
We stood and waited. We sighted the main column on the marsh road first, then moments later, the soldiers showed over the ridge. Two dozen of them, house-troops, carrying spears and shields, and above them the colours of Count Renar. The main column had maybe three score soldiers, and following on behind in a ragged line, well over a hundred prisoners, yoked neck to neck. Half a dozen carts brought up the rear. The covered ones would be loaded with provisions, the others held bodies, stacked like cord-wood.
‘House Renar doesn’t leave the dead unburned. They don’t take prisoners,’ I said.
‘I don’t understand,’ Father Gomst said. He’d gone past scared, into stupid.
I pointed to the trees. ‘Fuel. We’re on the edge of a swamp. There’s no trees for miles in this peat bog. They want a good blaze, so they’re bringing everyone back here to have a nice big bonfire.’
I had an explanation for Renar’s actions but as to my own, like Father Gomst, I wasn’t sure I understood either. Whatever strength I had on the road, it came to me through a willingness to sacrifice. It came on the day I set aside my vengeance on Count Renar as a thing without profit. And yet here I was, in the ruins of Norwood, with a thirst that couldn’t be quenched by any amount of festival beer. Waiting for that self-same count. Waiting with too few men, and with every instinct telling me to run. Every instinct, except for that one to hold or break, but never bend.
I could see individual figures at the head of the column quite clearly now. Six riders, chain-armoured, and a knight in heavy plate. The device on his shield came into view as he turned to signal his command. A black crow on a red field, a field of fire, Count Osson Renar wouldn’t lead a hundred men into an Ancrath protectorate, so this would be one of his boys. Marclos or Jarco.
‘The brothers won’t fight this lot,’ Elban said. He put a hand on my shoulder-plate. ‘We might fight a path out through the trees if we get to the horses, Jorth.’
Already twenty of the Renar men hastened toward the tree line, holding their longbows before them so they wouldn’t snag.
‘No.’ I let out a long sigh. ‘I’d best surrender.’
I held out my hand. ‘White flag if you please.’
The house-troops had deployed by the time I made my way down toward the main column. My ‘flag’ should properly be described as grey. An unwholesome grey at that, torn from Father Gomst’s hassock.
‘Noble born!’ I shouted. ‘Noble born under flag of truce!’
That surprised them. The house-troops, fanned out behind our horses, let me cross the market field unhindered. They looked to be a sorry lot, the metal scales falling from their leathers, rust on their swords. Homebodies they were, too long on the road and not hardened to it.
‘The lad wants to be first on the fire,’ one of them said. A skinny bastard with a boil on each cheek. He got a laugh with that.
‘Noble born!’ I called out. ‘Flag o’ truce.’ I didn’t expect to get this far with my sword.
I caught the stink of the column and could hear the weeping. The prisoners turned blank eyes upon me.
Two of Renar’s riders came forward to intercept me. ‘Where’d you steal the armour, boy?’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ I said. I kept it pleasant. ‘Who’ve you got leading this show then? Marclos?’
They exchanged a look at that. A wandering hedge-knight probably wouldn’t know one son of the House Renar from the next.
‘It doesn’t do to kill a noble prisoner without orders,’ I said. ‘Best let the Count-ling decide.’
Both riders dismounted. Tall men, veterans by the look of them. They took my sword. The older one, dark bearded with a white scar under both eyes, found my knife. The cut had taken the top of his nose too.
‘You’re a bit of an ugly mess aren’t you?’ I asked.
He found the knife in my boot as well.
I had no plan. The pain in my head hadn’t left any room for one. I’d ignored the wordless voice that had led me for so long. Ignored it for the joy of being stubborn. And here I was unarmed amongst too many foes, stupid and alone.