The Crimson Shield (3 page)

‘If you die on me I’ll make a pyre if I can. I’ll miss a few things when I speak you out, I reckon. Forgive me. The sky knows there’s enough that I do know.’ He
took the Screambreaker’s hand and held it in his own.
Talk to a troubled spirit. Helps it to remember who it is
. Some witch had told him that, not long after he’d crossed the
sea. ‘They say you were a farmer once, no better than anyone else. The old ones who knew you before. Thanni Thunderhammer. Jyrdas One-Eye. Kaddaf the Roarer. Lanjis Halfborn. We listened to
all their stories. You were one of them, and you were their god too. Even then people knew you because of what you’d done, not because of a name you carried when you were born. “That a
man should somehow be better than his brothers simply because his father was rich? A Marroc nonsense. Lhosir will never stomach it.” You said that. Do you remember? I think we’d been
talking about Medrin.’ He let the Screambreaker’s hand go and poked at the fire. ‘Things were changing even before I crossed the sea. Some of these Marroc ideas were taking root
and a dozen and more winters have passed since then. Was it all different when you went back? Is that why you sailed again? Or was it simply too hard to resist? One last glorious stand. A battle
you couldn’t possibly win. A hero’s death for a hero’s life.’

He shifted the Screambreaker closer to the fire and settled down on the other side, gazing up at the stars. ‘We weren’t all that far from here when we last parted. Andhun opened its
gates to us, do you remember? You gave your word not to plunder it. We honoured that. By then we just wanted to go home, to get back across the sea and eat proper food again. Drink water that
tasted of mountain ice and marry some big-boned woman who’d bear us lots of sons and sleep in a longhouse with all our kin and not in those stinking Marroc huts. That sort of thing. We talked
about it all the time in those last weeks. Was it all there waiting for you just as we remembered it? It must have gone well enough for you and the others, what with bringing old Yurlak home and
every ship laden with loot and plunder. But I can’t say it’s been too bad here.’

The Screambreaker moaned and shifted, still wandering the Herenian Marches where the lost spirits of those neither alive nor dead were cursed to dwell, spirits like the Aulian shadewalkers.
Gallow patted his hand. ‘I wasn’t going to stay. I was as eager as the rest of you. But then Yurlak fell ill and everyone was sure he was going to die before you reached home and Medrin
would be king in his place. I’m not so fond of Medrin. So I got to thinking that maybe I’d stay and I watched you all go, ship by ship. You took Yurlak back across the sea so he could
die in his own house and among his own people, only then he went and didn’t die after all. If I’d still been in Andhun, I’d have come home when I heard but, as you see, I never
did. I left. Back to the mountains and the giant trees of Varyxhun. I was going to cross the Aulian Way. Go south, to lands we can hardly name, but on my way I found a forge and an old smith who
needed a strong arm to work it, and one of his three dead sons had left a wife behind him and a girl he likely never saw. It was us who left her a widow, us who took the old man’s sons, so I
won’t say they were happy with having a forkbeard around the place. But it felt good to be making things again. I wonder if you can understand that.’ He took a deep breath and touched
his hand to his chest, to the place where the locket lay next to his skin. ‘I took a lock of her hair while she was sleeping. A little luck to carry into battle. I know what you’d say
about that, old man. Laugh and scoff and tell me I was daft in the head, tell me that a man’s fate is written for him before he’s born. But here we are, so perhaps it worked, in its
way. No one would have her, see, because she was another man’s wife and she came with another man’s child to feed when both men and food were scarce, and she was . . . Screambreaker,
you’ll understand if you meet her. The Marroc prefer their women a little more docile.’ He rose and looked up at the stars. ‘A fine woman, Screambreaker. We have two sons of our
own now, and another daughter. You’ll like her if you last long enough to see her. Fierce and speaks her mind as often as she likes and doesn’t give a rat’s arse what anyone else
thinks. She won’t like
you
, sorry to say. Not one bit. Arda. That’s her name.’

He lay down beside the fire and pulled his cloak over himself. ‘Maker-Devourer watch over you, old man. Don’t get yourself lost in the Marches. And don’t tell Arda about the
hair. I’d never hear the end of it.’

Gallow closed his eyes. The Screambreaker was mumbling to himself. He hadn’t heard a word.

G
ulsukh Ardshan’s horse shifted beneath him, impatient to move. From where he sat, the battlefield looked as though the Weeping God had
reached down from the sky and picked the Marroc legion up to the clouds, shaken them fiercely and let them go, scattering them to fall as they may. The light was fading but he still watched from
where the Marroc line had stood and looked down the gentle slope of the hillside. His riders swarmed over the dead, the dark litter of mangled shapes that had once been proud Marroc men. Looting
mostly, but it served a purpose. His horsemen needed their javelots, those that could be thrown again. There were spears and axes and shields and helms and perhaps even a few swords and pieces of
mail for the soldiers of the Weeping Giant, the ones who fought on foot. And, too, he was looking for someone.

In the failing light a dozen riders emerged from the trees at the bottom of the hill. Their horses looked tired, Gulsukh thought. They trotted closer up the slope and he saw that one of them had
a body slung over his saddle. Watching them weave their way in and out of the piles of naked corpses and the fires that were just being lit, he felt a hungry thrill of hope, but it died as they
approached. The lead horseman stopped in front of him, clenched his fist across his chest and bowed his head.

‘And what did you find, Krenda Bashar?’ Gulsukh peered at the body. A Lhosir, yes, but from a distance there was no telling who, other than it wasn’t the man he was looking
for.

The bashar kept his head bowed. He spoke loudly and quickly and a little too abruptly. ‘Ardshan! Beymar Bashar is dead. We followed his trail. He caught up with the Lhosir and tried to
take them but he was beaten. The men with him were killed. Most of the Lhosir too.’

‘But not the Widowmaker.’ The ardshan turned away. Failure was in the bashar’s voice.

‘The Widowmaker wasn’t there, Ardshan. But . . .’ Krenda Bashar looked up with a furrowed brow. ‘Ardshan, I would like to pursue this further. The tracks are unclear but
the Lhosir bodies were left where they fell. Whatever happened, too few survived to take their dead with them. I . . . I think the Widowmaker may have been killed too, and the last of his men took
the body with them. They must have been in a hurry.’

Gulsukh shrugged. ‘It means nothing without his body.’

‘And so I beg your leave to pursue. Ardshan, the Lhosir don’t leave their dead, not like this. At the very least they would lay out the bodies and leave weapons in their hands. There
were no weapons at all. Further . . .’ Krenda’s frown deepened. ‘There is this.’ He turned and led over the horse with the dead body across its back, bringing it close so
that Gulsukh could see the dead Lhosir’s face. ‘Lanjis . . .’

‘Lanjis Halfborn.’ The ardshan stared at a face he hadn’t seen for ten years.

‘We found him. Lying dead as he fell. The Widowmaker would not have left him so if he was alive to do otherwise.’

Gulsukh nodded. ‘They were like brothers.’

‘We found a handful of horses but most were gone. The trail leads inland. We followed it a short way. They weren’t heading for Fedderhun.’

The ardshan closed his eyes. Even one last Lhosir would have laid out their fallen, and they surely wouldn’t have have left one like Lanjis Halfborn behind, even dead. They must have had a
very good reason to leave in haste and he could only think of one. To take the Widowmaker out of danger.

Krenda coughed. ‘I think we weren’t the first to find the Lhosir. Some of the Marroc fled through the same woods. They would have followed the same trails. It would explain the
looting.’

The ardshan opened his eyes. ‘Marroc aid the Widowmaker? I doubt
that
.’

‘They’d most likely kill him. Or ransom him, Ardshan, and even his body would be worth a great deal. Perhaps they know that. Or perhaps they simply took him to strip him later, in a
quieter safer place.’

‘Yes.’ Gulsukh smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, and even dead they might do that. Then go and follow and see if you can find them, and make sure that every Marroc knows there’s a
price on the Widowmaker’s head, dead or alive. Take some silver to show them. That should make them happy to see you.’

Krenda Bashar nodded. They might have talked more, but Gulsukh’s son, Moonjal Bashar, was riding up the hill at a gallop now. The ardshan rolled his eyes. Krenda bowed. ‘The Weeping
Giant calls again?’

The ardshan nodded. ‘Doubtless to debate when we shall press on to Fedderhun. Go. Perhaps while you’re looking you could save us all some bother, Bashar. You could probably seize
Fedderhun yourself while the Weeping Giant muses.’

T
he sun rose. Gallow shook the dew off his blanket and fetched water up from the nearby stream. He pissed on the last smoking remnants of his fire
and checked to see if the Screambreaker had died in the night; but the old man was still breathing so he sat and ate breakfast and waited. The sky was a cold blue but the late spring sun was
already warm on his skin and chasing away the chill of the night. The sun would have to be enough. Out here on the open downs the smoke of a fire would be seen for miles and the Vathen he
remembered had been a restless people. Always with their horses and they liked to roam.

‘My helm, man! My helm!’ The cry jerked Gallow away from burying the traces of their camp. The Screambreaker was sitting up and staring blankly at the sky, one hand on his head. He
looked at Gallow. ‘Who are you? What have you done with my helm?’

Gallow took his own off the ground and offered it but the Screambreaker threw it away. ‘That’s not my helm. Where’s my helm? Where is it?’

‘Fell off your head when someone whacked you one, I’d say. Wasn’t anywhere near when I found you. Probably some Marroc has it now. Glad you’re awake.’ Gallow
rummaged among the saddlebags and pulled out a piece of dirty cloth, something used for polishing saddle leathers by the looks of it. It would have to do. He dipped it in water and crouched in
front of Corvin. ‘You’ve got blood all over you. I’m going to wash it off. Should have done that last night.’ Except last night it had been dark and he’d half thought
the Screambreaker wouldn’t live to see the morning.

He leaned forward but Corvin lunged and pushed him away. ‘Get off me!’

‘Suit yourself.’ Gallow squeezed the water out of the cloth and hung it over his saddle. ‘There’s a horse there. It’s yours now.’

The Screambreaker didn’t move. He lay where he was, panting with his head twisted to one side. ‘You’re not a Vathan. You’re not Marroc either. I don’t know you. Who
are you?’

‘I was with you at Vanhun.’ Gallow stood up. ‘Most of the times afterwards as well, for that matter, until you went back across the sea. Gallow. No particular reason
you’d remember me.’

‘Gallow?’ The old man wrinkled up his face. ‘Where are the Vathen? This isn’t Fedderhun! Where’s the sea? The Marroc won’t last the first charge! Where are
they? They need their spirit!’

Gallow pointed to the rise behind them. ‘See that hill? Good view from up there. I’m going to go and have a look and see if anyone’s following us. Doubt it, but you never know.
You led us against the Vathen yesterday, Screambreaker. The battle’s been and gone. The Marroc held the first charge but it was never going to last. The second one broke them. You don’t
remember, do you? Thump round the head can do that.’ He walked away, leaving the general to gather his thoughts, to sort his memories and get up off the ground and maybe come up and look too,
but Corvin did none of those things. When Gallow came back the Screambreaker was asleep again, snoring loudly. Gallow lifted him up and flopped him into his saddle. ‘There’s smoke a way
to the north. Probably not Vathen on our tracks but best be on our way.’ Corvin didn’t wake. The wound on his head was oozing again. At least the old man still knew who he was.

They rode through gentle hills down into the sweep of the Fedder valley and forded the river. The shape of the land grew more familiar. Gallow started to see places he knew – a lone tree
here, the crook of a stream there, a particular hilltop – until early in the afternoon he looked down on the little Marroc village that had been his home for the last nine years. He left the
horses beside Shepherd’s Tree, a tall old broadleaf that stood on its own at the top of the hill where Vennic the shepherd watched his flock. There was no sign of Vennic today, nor of his
sheep. There was no one in the village either, no fire lit in the forge, not even any animals, no clucking and snuffling of chickens and pigs wandering free. He walked back to Shepherd’s Tree
and climbed into the lower branches and peered out across the hills but there was no sign of anyone for miles.
Strange
. Something had made the villagers run but there was no trace of it
now.

Corvin was still asleep as Gallow led the horses round to the forge yard. There were no stables in Middislet but Nadric had his workshop, one side open to the sky, big enough to tie up two
horses and keep them at least half out of sight. He hauled the Screambreaker down and laid him on the hard earth and set to work on the old man’s armour, one piece at a time, laying each
carefully out beside the horses. A man could hardly lie in his sickbed all dressed up in mail and leather, not unless he had one foot already in the Herenian Marches and his eyes already set on the
Maker-Devourer’s cauldron. He smiled to himself. Nadric would rub his hands with glee if he ever saw all this metalwork. ‘Better come out from wherever you’re hiding then,
eh?’ He loosened the buckles on Corvin’s leather undercoat and slowly eased him out of it. When that was done he lifted the general over his shoulder as gently as he could and carried
him into the house, into the tiny night room where he and Arda slept. It was just a corner close to the hearth fire with curtains of rough-spun wool hanging around it to separate it from the rest
of the house, but it would do. In the gloom with the curtains closed no one would see the Screambreaker as long as he was quiet. He set the old man down on the bed of straw and furs, shook him and
offered him water.