Prince of Thorns. Mark Lawrence
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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.
I wondered if my brother William was watching me. I hoped my mother wasn’t.
I wondered if I was going to die. If they’d burn me, or leave me as a maimed thing for Father Gomst to cart back to the Tall Castle.
‘Everyone has doubts,’ I said as Scar-face finished his search. ‘Even Jesu had his moment, and I ain’t him.’
The man looked at me as if I were mad. Maybe I was, but I’d found my peace. The pain left me and I saw things clear once again.
They led me to where Marclos sat on his horse, a monstrous stallion, twenty hands if it was one. He lifted his visor then and showed a pleasant face, a bit fat in the cheeks, quite jolly really. Looks, of course, can be deceiving.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.
He had a nice bit of plate on, acid etched with a silver inlay and burnished so it shone even in the dreariest of light.
‘I said who the hell are you?’ He got some red in his cheeks then. Not so jolly. ‘You’ll sing on the fire, boy, so you may as well tell me now.’
I leaned forward as if to hear him. The bodyguards reached for me but I did the old shake and twist. Even with me in armour they were too slow. I used Marclos’s foot as a step, where it stuck out from the stirrup, and got up alongside him in no time at all. He had a nice stiletto in a sheath set handy in the saddle, so I had that out and stuck it in his eye. Then we were off. The pair of us galloping out across the market field. How to steal a horse is the first thing you learn on the road.
We bounced along, with him howling and shaking behind me. A couple of the house-troops tried to bar the way but I rode them down. They weren’t going to get up again either; that stallion was fearsome big. The archers might have taken a shot or three, but they couldn’t make sense of it from that distance, and we were headed into town.
I could hear the bodyguard thundering along behind. It sounded as if they knocked a few men down themselves. They came close, but we’d taken them by surprise, me and Marclos, and got a start on them. And as we reached the outskirts of Norwood they drew up short.
At the first building I wheeled sharply, and Marclos obliged by falling off. He hit the ground face first. Another one that wouldn’t be getting up again. It felt good, I won’t lie about that. I imagined the Count getting the news as he broke his fast. I wondered how he’d like the taste of it. Would he finish his eggs?
‘Men of Renar!’ I shouted it hard enough to hurt my lungs. ‘This town stands under the Prince of Ancrath’s protection. It will not be surrendered.’
I turned the horse again and rode on. A few arrows clattered behind me. At the steps I drew up and dismounted.
‘You came back…’ Father Gomst looked confused.
‘I did,’ I said. I turned to face Elban. ‘No fighting a retreat now eh, brother?’
‘You’re insane.’ The words escaped in a whisper. For some reason he didn’t lisp when he whispered.
The riders, Marclos’s personal guard, led the charge. Now that they had fifty foot soldiers around them, they had found their courage. Up on the ridge the two dozen house-troops took their cue and began to run with the slope. The archers started to emerge from the thicket for better aim.
‘These bastards will burn you alive if they take you that way,’ I said to the five brothers I had with me. Then I paused and I looked them in the eye, each one. ‘But they don’t want to die. They won’t want to go back to the Count either way. Would you take old bonfire-Renar his dead son back, and smooth it over with an “oh yes, but we killed scavengers … there was this boy … and an old man with no teeth…”?’
‘So mark me now. You fight these tame soldiers, and you show them hell. Show them enough of it and the bastards’ll break and run.’ I paused and caught Brother Roddat’s eye, for he was a weasel and like to run, sense or no sense. ‘You stick with me, Brother Roddat.’
I looked to the thicket, over the heads of the men surging up from the market field and saw an archer fall among the trees. Then another. An armoured figure emerged from the undergrowth. The archers in front of him still had their eyes on the advance. He took the head from the first