The Broken Empire Series Books 1 and 2: Prince of Thorns, King of Thorns. Mark Lawrence
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and led Gomst back to the West Yard.
‘We should not take this Nuba-man on a mission of diplomacy, Prince. Or any other,’ Gomst whispered as we walked. ‘They drink the blood of Christian priests to work their spells, you know.’
‘They do?’ I think it was the first interesting thing I ever heard Gomst say. ‘I could use a little magic myself.’
The priest paled behind his beard. ‘A superstition, my prince.’
A few more paces and, ‘Even so, were you to burn him, the Lord’s blessing would be upon us and our journey.’
Within the hour, saddlebags bulging, we rode back out into the Old Town. Sageous was waiting for us. He stood alone by the side of the cobbled path. I drew up before him, still uneasy in my mind. He had driven a wedge of doubt into me. I had told myself I’d set Count Renar aside as an act of strength, a sacrifice to the iron will I needed to win the game of thrones. But sometimes, now for instance, I didn’t quite believe it.
‘You should accept my protection, Prince,’ Sageous said.
‘I’ve survived long enough without it.’
‘But now you’re going to Gelleth, bound on a path to strengthen your father’s hand.’
‘I am.’ The brothers’ horses snorted around me.
‘If any had a mind that you might truly succeed, they would stop you,’ Sageous said. ‘The one who has played you these past years will seek to tighten the bonds you have loosened. Perhaps the priest will help you. His presence did before. He has value as a talisman, but past that he is empty robes.’
A horse pushed against Gerrod, the rider moving beside me.
I set my hand on my sword hilt. ‘I don’t like you, pagan.’
‘What do you think scared the marsh-dead, Jorg?’ No ripple in his calm watchfulness.
‘I—’ The boast sounded hollow before I spoke it.
‘An angry boy?’ Sageous shook his head. ‘The dead saw a darker hand upon your heart.’
‘I—’
‘Accept my protection. There are grander dreams you can dream.’
I felt the soft weight of sleep upon me, the saddle unsure beneath me.
‘Dream-witch.’ A dark voice spoke at my shoulder.
‘Dream-witch.’ The Nuban held out his crossbow, black fist curled around the stock, muscle strained against the load. ‘I carry your token, Dream-witch, your magics will not stain the boy.’
Sageous shrank back, the tattooed writings seeming to writhe across his face.
In an instant my eyes were wide. ‘You’re him.’ The clarity of it was blinding. ‘You set my brothers in Father’s dungeon. You sent your hunter to kill me.’
I set a hand upon the Nuban’s bow, remembering how he took it from the man I killed in a barn one stormy night. The dream-witch’s hunter.
‘You sent your hunter to kill me.’ The last tatters of Sageous’ charm left me. ‘And now it’s my hunter who holds it.’
Sageous turned and made for the castle gate, half running.
‘Pray I don’t find you here on my return, pagan.’ I said it quietly. If he heard it, he might follow my advice.
We left then, riding from the city without a backward look.
The rains first found us on the Ancrath Plains and dogged our passage north into the mountainous borders of Gelleth. I’ve been soaked on the road many a time, but the rains as we left my father’s lands were a cold misery that reached deeper than our bones. Burlow’s appetite remained undampened though, and Rike’s temper too. Burlow ate as if the rations were a challenge, and Rike growled at every raindrop.
At my instruction, Gomst took confession from the men. After hearing Red Kent speak of his crimes, and learning how he earned his name, Gomst asked to be excused his duties. After listening to Liar’s whispers, he begged.
Days passed. Long days and cold nights. I dreamed of Katherine, of her face and the fierceness of her eyes. Of an evening we ate Gains’s mystery stews and Fat Burlow tended the beasts, checking hooves and fetlocks. Burlow always looked to the horses. Perhaps he felt guilty about weighing so heavy on them, but I put it down to a morbid fear of walking. We wound further up into the bleakness of the mountains. And at last the rains broke. We camped in a high pass and I sat with the Nuban to watch the sun fall. He held his bow, whispering old secrets to it in his home tongue.
For two days we walked the horses across slopes too steep and sharp with rock for any hooves save the mountain goats’.
A pillar marked the entrance to the Gorge of the Leucrota. It stood two yards wide and twice as tall, a stump shattered by some giant’s whim. The remnants of the upper portion lay all around. Runes marked it, Latin I think, though so worn I could read almost nothing.
We rested at the pillar. I clambered up it to address the brothers from the top and take in the lie of the land.
I set the men to making camp. Gains set his fire and clanked his pots. The wind blew slight in the gorge, the oil-cloth tents barely flapping before it. The rain came again, but in a patter, soft and cold. Not enough to stir Rike lying on the rocks some five yards from the pillar, his snoring like a saw through wood.
I stood looking up at the cliff faces. There were caves up there. Many caves.
My hair swung behind me as I scanned the cliff. I’d let the Nuban weave it into a dozen long braids, a bronze charm at the end of each. He said it would ward off evil spirits. That just left me the good ones to worry about.
I stood with my hands on the Ancrath sword, resting its point before me. Waiting for something.
The men grew nervous, the animals too. I could tell it from their lack of complaint. They watched the slopes with me, toothless Elban as weatherbeaten as the rocks, young Roddat pale and pockmarked, Red Kent with his secrets, sly Row, Liar, Fat Burlow and the rest of my ragged bunch. The Nuban kept close by the pillar with Makin at his side. My band of brothers. All of them worried and not knowing why. Gomst looked set to run if he had a notion where to go. The brothers had a sense for trouble. I knew that well enough to understand that when they all worry together it’s a bad thing coming. A very bad thing.
Transcript from the trial of Sir Makin of Trent:
Cardinal Helot, papal prosecution : And do you deny razing the Cathedral of Wexten?
Sir Makin : I do not.
Cardinal Helot : Or the sack of Lower Merca?
Sir Makin : No, nor do I deny the sack of Upper Merca.
Cardinal Helot : Let the record show the accused finds amusement in the facts of his crime.
Court recorder : So noted.
27
The monsters came when the light failed. Shadows swallowed the gorge and the silence thickened until the wind could barely stir it. Makin’s hand fell on my shoulder. I flinched, edging the fear with momentary hatred, for my own weakness, and for Makin for showing it to me.
‘Up there.’ He nodded to my left.
One of the cave mouths had lit from within, a single eye watching us through the falling night.
‘That’s no fire,’ I said. The light had nothing of warmth or flicker.
As we watched, the source of illumination moved, swinging harsh shadows