The Collected Joe Abercrombie (27 page)

Dogman took a careful step back. The two of ’em were shaping up for blows alright, and he’d no wish to get a bloody nose in all the confusion. It would hardly have been the first time. Forley took a stab at keeping the peace. ‘Come on boys,’ he said, all nice and soft, ‘there’s no need for this.’ He might not have been much at killing, Forley, but he was a damn good boy for stopping those that were from killing each other. Dogman wished him luck with it. ‘Come on, why don’t you—’

‘Shut your fucking hole, you!’ growled Dow, one dirty finger stabbing savage in Forley’s face. ‘What’s your fucking say worth, Weakest?’

‘Leave him be!’ rumbled Tul, holding his great fist up under Dow’s chin, ‘or I’ll give you something to shout about!’

The Dogman could hardly look. Dow and Threetrees were always picking at each other. They got fired up quick and damped down quick. The Thunderhead was a different animal. Once that big ox got properly riled there was no calming him. Not without ten strong men and a lot of rope. Dogman tried to think what Logen would have done. He’d have known how to stop ’em fighting, if he hadn’t been dead.

‘Shit!’ shouted Dogman, jumping up from the fire all of a sudden. ‘There’s fucking Shanka crawling all over us! And if we get through with them there’s always Bethod to think on! We’ve a world full of scores to settle without making more ourselves! Logen’s gone and Threetrees is second, and that’s the only say I’ll hear!’ He did some jabbing with his own finger, at no one in particular, then he waited, hoping like hell that it had done the trick.

‘Aye,’ grunted Grim.

Forley started nodding like a woodpecker. ‘Dogman’s right! We need to fight each other like we need the cock-rot! Threetrees is second. He’s the chief now.’

It was quiet for a moment, and Dow fixed the Dogman with that cold, empty, killing look, like the cat with the mouse between its paws. Dogman swallowed. A lot of men, most men even, wouldn’t have dared meet no look like that from Black Dow. He got the name from having the blackest reputation in the North, with coming sudden in the black of night, and leaving the villages behind him black from fire. That was the rumour. That was the fact.

It took all the bones Dogman had not to stare at his boots. He was just ready to do it when Dow looked away, eyed the others, one at a time. Most men wouldn’t have met that look, but these here weren’t most men. You could never have hoped to meet a bloodier crowd, not anywhere under the sun. Not a one of them backed down, or even seemed to consider it. Apart from Forley the Weakest, of course, he was staring at the grass before his turn even came.

Once Dow saw they were all against him he cracked a happy smile, just as if there never was a problem. ‘Fair enough,’ he said to Threetrees, the anger all seeming to drain away in an instant. ‘What’s it to be then, chief?’

Threetrees looked over at the woods. He sniffed and sucked at his teeth. He scratched at his beard, taking his moment to think on it. He looked each one of them over, considering. ‘We go south,’ he said.

He smelled ’em before he saw ’em, but that was always the way with him. He had a good nose, did the Dogman, that’s how he got the name after all. Being honest though, anyone could have smelled ’em. They fucking stank.

There were twelve down in the clearing. Sitting, eating, grunting to each other in their nasty, dirty tongue, big yellow teeth sticking out everywhere, dressed in lumps of smelly fur and reeking hide and odd bits of rusty armour. Shanka.

‘Fucking Flatheads,’ Dogman muttered to himself. He heard a soft hiss behind, turned round to see Grim peering up from behind a bush. He held out his open hand to say stop, tapped the top of his skull to say Flatheads, held up his fist, then two fingers to say twelve, and pointed back down the track towards the others. Grim nodded and faded away into the woods.

The Dogman took one last look at the Shanka, just to make sure they were all still unwary. They were, so he slipped back down the tree and off.

‘They’re camped round the road, twelve that I saw, maybe more.’

‘They looking for us?’ asked Threetrees.

‘Maybe, but they ain’t looking too hard.’

‘Could we get around them?’ asked Forley, always looking to miss out on a fight.

Dow spat onto the ground, always looking to get into one. ‘Twelve is nothing! We can do them alright!’

The Dogman looked over at Threetrees, thinking it out, taking his moment. Twelve wasn’t nothing, and they all knew it, but it might be better to deal with them than leave them free and easy behind.

‘What’s it to be, chief?’ asked Tul.

Threetrees set his jaw. ‘Weapons.’

A fighting man’s a fool that don’t keep his weapons clean and ready. Dogman had been over his no more’n an hour before. Still, you won’t be killed for checking ’em, while you might be for not doing it.

There was the hissing of steel on leather, the clicking of wood and the clanking of metal. Dogman watched Grim twang at his bowstring, check over the feathers on his shafts. He watched Tul Duru run his thumb down the edge of his big heavy sword, almost as tall as Forley was, clucking like a chicken at a spot of rust. He watched Black Dow rubbing a rag on the head of his axe, looking at the blade with eyes soft as a lover’s. He watched Threetrees tugging at the buckles on his shield straps, swishing his blade through the air, bright metal glinting.

The Dogman gave a sigh, pulled the straps on his guard tighter round his left wrist, checked the wood of his bow for cracks. He made sure all his knives were where they should be. You can never have too many knives, Logen had told him once, and he’d taken it right to heart. He watched Forley checking his short-sword with clumsy hands, his mouth chewing away, eyes all wet with fear. That got his own nerves jumping, and he glanced round at the others. Dirty, scarred, frowns and lots of beard. There was no fear there, no fear at all, but that was nothing to be shamed at. Different men have different ways, Logen had told him once, and you have to have fear to have courage. He’d taken that right to heart as well.

He walked over to Forley and gave him a clap on the shoulder. ‘You have to have fear to have courage,’ he said.

‘That so?’

‘So they say, and it’s a good thing too.’ The Dogman leaned close so no one else could hear. ‘Cause I’m about ready to shit.’ He reckoned that’s what Logen would have done, and now that Logen had gone back to the mud it fell to him. Forley gave half a smile, but it slumped pretty fast, and he looked more scared then ever. There’s only so much you can do.

‘Right, boys,’ said Threetrees, once the gear was all checked and stowed in its proper places, ‘here’s how we’ll get it done.

Grim, Dogman, opposite sides of their camp, out in the trees. Wait for the signal, then shoot any Flathead with a bow. Failing that, whatever’s closest.’

‘Right you are, chief,’ said the Dogman. Grim gave a nod.

‘Tul, you and me’ll take the front, but wait for the signal, eh?’

‘Aye,’ rumbled the giant.

‘Dow, you and Forley at the back. You come on when you see us go. But this time you wait for us to go!’ hissed Threetrees, stabbing with his thick finger.

‘Course, chief.’ Dow shrugged his shoulders, just as though he always did as he was told.

‘Right then, there it is,’ said Threetrees, ‘anyone still confused? Any empty heads round the fire?’ The Dogman mumbled and shook his head. They all did. ‘Fair enough. Just one more thing.’ The old boy leaned forward, looking at each of them one by one. ‘Wait . . . for . . . the . . . fucking . . . signal!’

It wasn’t ’til the Dogman was hid behind a bush with his bow in his hand and a shaft at the ready that he realised. He’d no idea what the signal was. He looked down at the Shanka, still sat there all unwary, grunting and shouting and banging about. By the dead he needed to piss. Always needed to piss before a fight. Had anyone said the signal? He couldn’t remember.

‘Shit,’ he whispered, and just then Dow came hurtling out from the trees, axe in one hand, sword in the other.

‘Fucking Flatheads!’ he screamed, giving the nearest a fearsome big blow in the head and splattering blood across the clearing. In so far as you could tell what a Shanka was thinking, these ones looked greatly surprised. Dogman reckoned that would have to do for a signal.

He let loose his shaft at the nearest Flathead, just reaching for a big club and watched it catch it through the armpit with a satisfying thunk. ‘Hah!’ he shouted. He saw Dow spit another through the back with his sword, but there was a big Shanka now with a spear ready to throw. An arrow came looping out of the trees and stuck it through the neck, and it let go a squeal and sprawled out backwards. That Grim was a damn good shot.

Now Threetrees came roaring from the scrub on the other side of the clearing, catching them off guard. He barged one Flathead in the back with his shield and it sprawled face-first into the fire, he hacked at another with his sword. The Dogman let go a shaft and it stuck a Shanka in its gut. It dropped down on its knees and a moment later Tul took its head off with a great swing of his sword.

The fight was joined and moving quick – chop, grunt, scrape, rattle. There was blood flying and weapons swinging and bodies dropping too fast for the Dogman to try an arrow at. The three of them had the last few hemmed in, squawking and gibbering. Tul Duru was swinging his big sword around, keeping them at bay. Threetrees darted in and chopped the legs out from under one, and Dow cut another down as it looked round.

The last one squawked and made a run for the trees. Dogman shot at it, but he was hurrying and he missed. The arrow almost hit Dow in the leg, but luckily he didn’t notice. It had almost got away into the bushes, then it squealed and fell back, thrashing. Forley had stabbed it, hiding in the scrub. ‘I got one!’ he yelled.

It was quiet for a moment, while the Dogman scrambled down toward the clearing and they all looked round to see if there was anything left to fight, then Black Dow gave a great bellow, shaking his bloody weapons over his head. ‘We fucking killed ’em!’

‘You nearly killed us all, you damn fool!’ shouted Threetrees.

‘Eh?’

‘What about the fucking signal?’

‘I thought I heard you shout!’

‘I never!’

‘Did you not?’ asked Dow, looking greatly puzzled. ‘What was the signal anyhow?’

Threetrees gave a sigh and put his head in his hands.

Forley was still staring down at his sword. ‘I got one!’ he said again. Now that the fight was over, the Dogman was about ready to burst, so he turned round and pissed against a tree.

‘We killed ’em!’ shouted Tul, clapping him on the back.

‘Watch out!’ yelled Dogman as piss went all down his leg. They all had a laugh at him over that. Even Grim had himself a little chuckle.

Tul shook Threetrees by the shoulder. ‘We killed ’em, chief!’

‘We killed these, aye,’ he said, looking sour, ‘but there’ll be plenty more. Thousands of ’em. They won’t be happy staying up here neither, up here beyond the mountains. Sooner or later they’ll be going south. Maybe in the summer, when the passes clear, maybe later. But it’s not long off.’

The Dogman glanced at the others, all shifty and worried after that little speech. The glow of victory hadn’t lasted too long. It never did. He looked round at the dead Flatheads on the ground, broken and bloody, sprawled and crumpled. It seemed a hollow little victory they’d had now. ‘Shouldn’t we try and tell ’em, Threetrees?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t we try and warn someone?’

‘Aye.’ Threetrees gave a sad little smile. ‘But who?’

The Course of True Love

J
ezal trudged miserably across the grey Agriont with his fencing steels in his hand: yawning, stumbling, grumbling, still horribly sore from his endless run the day before. He hardly saw anyone as he dragged himself to his daily bullying from Lord Marshal Varuz. Apart from the odd premature tweeting of some bird in amongst the gables and the tired scraping of his own reluctant boots, all was quiet. No one was up at this time. No one should be up at this time. Him least of all.

He hauled his aching legs through the archway and up the tunnel. The sun was barely above the horizon and the courtyard beyond was full of deep shadows. Squinting into the darkness he could see Varuz sat at the table, waiting for him. Damn it. He had hoped to be early for once. Did the old bastard sleep at all?

‘Lord Marshal!’ shouted Jezal, breaking into a half-hearted jog.

‘No. Not today.’ A shiver crept up Jezal’s neck. It was not the voice of his fencing master, but there was something unpleasantly familiar about it. ‘Marshal Varuz is busy with more important matters this morning.’ Inquisitor Glokta was sitting in the shadows by the table and smiling up with his revolting gap-toothed grin. Jezal’s skin prickled with disgust. It was hardly what one needed first thing in the morning.

He slowed to a reluctant walk and stopped next to the table. ‘You will doubtless be pleased to learn that there will be no running, or swimming, or beam, or heavy bar today,’ said the cripple. ‘You won’t even be needing those.’ He waved his cane at Jezal’s fencing steels. ‘We will just be having a little chat. That is all.’

The idea of five punishing hours with Varuz seemed suddenly very appealing, but Jezal was not about to show his discomfort. He tossed his steels onto the table with a loud rattle and sat down carelessly in the other chair, Glokta regarding him from the shadows all the while. Jezal had it in mind to stare him into some kind of submission, but it proved a vain attempt. After a couple of seconds looking at that wasted face, that empty grin, those fever-bright sunken eyes, he began to find the table top most interesting.