The Collected Joe Abercrombie (132 page)

‘Kill,’ grunted Dow over his shoulder.

That answer, useless though it was, sent a sudden stab of panic through West’s guts. ‘Should I go left or right?’

‘Whichever you like, long as you stay out of my way.’

‘Where will you be going?’

‘Wherever the killing is.’

West wished he had never spoken as he stepped gingerly out onto the bank. He could see the falls just upstream, a wall of dark rock and rushing white water between the black tree trunks, throwing freezing mist and noise into the air.

The river here was no more than four strides across but the water flooded past, quick and dark, frothing round the wet stones at its edges. Dow held his sword and axe up high, waded out steadily, up to his waist in the middle, then crept up onto the far bank, pressing himself dripping against the rocks. He looked round, frowned to see West so far behind, jerked his hand angrily for him to follow.

West fumbled out his own sword and lifted it up, held a deep breath and stepped into the stream. The water flooded into his boot and round his calf. It felt as if his leg had been suddenly clamped in ice. He took a step forward and his other leg vanished up to the thigh. His eyes bulged, his breath came in snorts, but there could be no turning back. He took one more step. His boot slipped on the mossy stones on the bed of the stream and he slid helplessly in up to his armpits. He would have screamed if the freezing water had not hammered the air out of his lungs. He floundered forward, half-stumbling, half-swimming, teeth gritted with panic, sloshed up onto the far bank, breath hissing in shallow, desperate gasps. He staggered up and leaned against the stones behind Dow, his skin numb and prickling.

The Northman smirked at him. ‘You look cold, boy.’

‘I’m fine,’ spluttered West through chattering teeth. He had never been so cold in his life. ‘I’ll do my puh . . . puh . . . part.’

‘You’ll do your what? I’ll not have you fighting cold boy, you’ll get us both killed.’

‘Don’t worry about—’ Dow’s open hand slapped him hard across the face. The shock of it was almost worse than the pain. West gawped, dropping his blade in the mud, one hand jerking up instinctively to his stinging cheek. ‘What the—’

‘Use it!’ hissed the Northman at him. ‘It belongs to you!’

West was just opening his mouth when Dow’s other hand smacked into it and sent him staggering against the rocks, blood dribbling from his lip and onto the wet earth, his head singing.

‘It’s yours. Own it!’

‘You fucking . . .’ The rest was nothing more than a mindless growl as West’s hands closed round Dow’s neck, squeezing, clawing, snarling like an animal, teeth bared and mindless. The blood surged round his body, the hunger, and the pain, and the frustration of the endless freezing march spilling out of him all at once.

But Black Dow was twice as strong as West, however angry he was. ‘Use it!’ he growled as he peeled West’s hands away and crushed him back against the rocks. ‘You hot yet?’

Something flashed overhead and splashed into the water beside them. Dow gave him a parting shove then sprang away, charging up the bank with a roar. West struggled after him, clawing the heavy sword up out of the mud and lifting it high, the blood pulsing in his head, howling meaningless sounds at the top of his lungs.

The muddy ground sped by underneath him. He crashed through bushes and rotten wood into the open. He saw Dow hack a gawping Northman down with his axe. Dark blood leapt into the air, black spots against the tangle of branches and white sky. Trees and rocks and shaggy men jolted and wobbled, his own breath roaring in his ears like a storm. Someone loomed up and he swung the sword at them, felt it bite. Blood spattered into West’s face and he reeled, and spat, and blinked, slid onto his side and scrambled up. His head was full of wailing and crying, clashing metal and cracking bone.

Chop. Hack. Snarl.

Someone staggered near him, clutching at an arrow in his chest. West’s sword split his skull open down to his mouth. The corpse jerked, twisting the blade from his hand. He stumbled in the dirt, half fell, lashed out at a passing body with his fist. Something crashed into him and flung him back against a tree, knocking the air from his lungs in a breathy wheeze. Someone had him fast around the chest, pinning his arms, trying to crush the life out of him.

West craned forward, and sank his teeth into the man’s lip, felt them meet in the middle. He screamed and punched but West hardly felt the blows. He spat out the flap of flesh and butted him in the face. The man squirmed and yelped, blood leaking out of his torn mouth. West clamped his teeth round his nose, growling like a mad dog.

Bite. Bite. Bite.

His mouth filled with blood. He could hear screaming in his ears, but all that mattered was to squeeze his jaws together, tighter and tighter. He twisted his head away and the man reeled back, clutching at his face. An arrow came out of nowhere and thudded into his ribs, he fell to his knees. West dived on him, grabbed hold of his tangled hair with clutching hands and smashed his face into the ground, again and again.

‘It’s done.’

West’s hands jerked back, grasping claws full of blood and ripped-out hair. He struggled up, gasping, eyes bulging.

Everything was still. The world had stopped reeling. Spots of snow filtered gently down into the clearing, settling across the wet earth, the scattered gear, the stretched-out bodies, and the men still standing. Tul was not far away, staring at him. Threetrees was behind, sword in hand. Pike’s pink slab of a face had something close to a wince on it, one bloody fist squeezed round his arm. They were all looking. All looking at him. Dow raised his hand, pointing at West. He tipped his head back and started to laugh. ‘You bit him! You bit his fucking nose off! I knew you were a mad bastard!’

West stared at them. The thumping in his head was starting to subside. ‘What?’ he muttered. There was blood all over him. He wiped his mouth. Salty. He looked at the nearest corpse, face down on the earth. Blood was trickling from underneath its head, running down the slope and pooling around West’s boot. He remembered . . . something. A sudden cramp in his guts bent him over, spitting pink onto the ground, empty stomach heaving.

‘Furious!’ shouted Dow. ‘That’s what y’are!’

Grim had already stepped out of the bushes, bow over his shoulder, and was squatting down, dragging a bloody fur from one of the corpses. ‘Good coat,’ he muttered to himself.

West watched them all pick over the campsite, bent over and sick and utterly spent. He listened to Dow laughing. ‘Furious!’ cackled his harsh voice. ‘That’s what I’ll call you!’

‘They got arrows over here.’ The Dogman pulled something out of one of the packs on the ground, and grinned. ‘And cheese. Bit dusty.’ He picked some mould off the wedge of yellow with his dirty fingers, bit into it, and grinned. ‘Still good though.’

‘Lots o’ good stuff,’ nodded Threetrees, starting to smile himself. ‘And we’re all still going, more or less. Good day’s work, lads.’ He slapped Tul on the back. ‘We’d best head on north quick before these lot are missed. Let’s get what there is fast and pick up those other two.’

West’s mind was only just starting to move again. ‘The others!’

‘Alright,’ said Threetrees, ‘you and Dow check on them . . . Furious.’ He turned away with half a smile.

West lurched off through the trees the way he’d come, slipping and sliding in his haste, blood pulsing again. ‘Protect the Prince,’ he muttered to himself. He waded across the stream almost without noticing the cold, struggled onto the far bank and back uphill, hurrying towards the cliff where they had left the others.

He heard a woman’s scream, quickly cut off, a man’s voice growling. Horror crept through every part of his body. Bethod’s men had found them. It might already be too late. He urged his burning legs on up the slope, stumbling and sliding in the mud. Had to protect the Prince. The air burned in his throat but he forced himself on, fingers clutching at the tree trunks, scrabbling at the loose twigs and needles on the frosty ground.

He burst out into the open space beside the cliff, breathing hard, the bloody sword gripped tight in his fist.

Two figures struggled on the ground. Cathil was underneath, wriggling on her back, kicking and clawing at someone on top of her. The man had managed to drag her trousers down below her knees and now he was fiddling with his own belt while he struggled to hold his other hand across her mouth. West took a step forward, raising the sword high, and the man’s head snapped round. West blinked. The would-be rapist was none other than Crown Prince Ladisla himself.

When he saw West he stumbled up and took a step back. He had a slightly sheepish expression, almost a grin, like a schoolboy caught stealing a pie from the kitchen. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought you’d be longer.’

West stared at him, hardly able to understand what was happening. ‘Longer?’

‘You fucking bastard!’ screamed Cathil, scrambling back and dragging her trousers up. ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’

Ladisla touched his lip. ‘She bit me! Look!’ He held his bloody finger tips out as though they were proof of an outrage perpetrated against him. West found himself moving forwards. The Prince must have seen something in his face, because he took a step away, holding up one hand while he held up his trousers with the other. ‘Now hold on, West, just—’

There was no towering rage. No temporary blindness, no limbs moving by themselves, not the slightest trace of a headache. There was no anger at all. West had never in his life felt so calm, so sober, so sure of himself. He chose to do it.

His right arm jerked out and his open palm thumped against Ladisla’s chest. The Crown Prince gave a gentle gasp as he stumbled sharply backwards. His left foot twisted in the mud. He put down his right foot, but there was no ground behind him. His brows went up, his mouth and eyes opened with silent shock. The heir to the throne of the Union fell away from West, his hands clutching vainly, turning slowly to his side in the air . . . and he was gone.

There was a short, breathy cry, a thumping sound, and another, a long clattering of stones.

Then silence.

West stood there, blinking.

He turned to look at Cathil.

She was frozen, a couple of strides away, eyes gawping wide open.

‘You . . . you . . .’

‘I know.’ It hardly sounded like his voice. He edged to the very brink of the cliff, and peered over. Ladisla’s corpse lay drooped face down over the rocks far below, West’s ragged coat spread out behind him, trousers round his ankles, one knee bent back the wrong way, a ring of dark blood spreading out across the stones around his broken head. Never had anyone looked more dead.

West swallowed. He had done that. Him. He had killed the heir to the throne. He had murdered him in cold blood. He was a criminal. He was a traitor. He was a monster.

And he almost wanted to laugh. The sunny Agriont, where loyalty and deference were given without question, where commoners did what their betters told them, where the killing of other people was simply not the done thing, all this was very far away. Monster he might be, but, out here in the frozen wilderness of Angland, the rules were different. Monsters were in the majority.

He felt a hand clap him heavily on the shoulder. He looked up to see Black Dow’s earless head beside him, peering down. The Northman whistled softly through pursed lips. ‘Well, that’s the end of that, I reckon. You know what, Furious?’ And he grinned sideways at West. ‘I’m getting to like you, boy.’

To the Last Man

To Sand dan Glokta,
Superior of Dagoska, and for his eyes alone.

It is clear that, in spite of your efforts, Dagoska cannot remain in Union hands for much longer. I therefore order you to leave immediately and present yourself to me. The docks may have been lost, but you should have no trouble slipping away by night in a small boat. A ship will be waiting for you down the coast.

You will confer overall command on General Vissbruck, as the only Union member of Dagoska’s ruling council left alive in the city. It need hardly be said that the orders of the Closed Council to the defenders of Dagoska remain the same.

To fight to the last man.

Sult
Arch Lector of his Majesty’s Inquisition.

G
eneral Vissbruck slowly lowered the letter, his jaws locked tight together. ‘Are we to understand then, Superior, that you are leaving us?’ His voice was cracking slightly.
With panic? With fear? With anger? Who could blame him, for any one of them?

The room was much the same as it had been the first day Glokta arrived in the city. The superb mosaics, the masterful carvings, the polished table, all shining in the early morning sun streaming through the tall windows.
The ruling council itself, however, is sadly reduced.
Vissbruck, his jowls bulging over the stiff collar of his embroidered jacket, and Haddish Kahdia, slumped tiredly in his chair, were all that remained. Nicomo Cosca stood apart, leaning against the wall near the window and picking his fingernails.

Glokta took a deep breath. ‘The Arch Lector wants me to . . . explain myself.’

Vissbruck gave a squeaky chuckle. ‘For some reason, the image of rats fleeing a burning house springs to mind.’
An apt metaphor. If the rats are fleeing the flames to fling themselves into a mincing machine.