Prince of Thorns. Mark Lawrence
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priest, Brother Jorg?’ Makin said. He was asking me not to go; only he couldn’t come out and say it.
‘You still want to burn him up?’ Even the mud couldn’t hide Rike’s sudden cheer.
‘I do,’ I said. ‘But that’s not why I’m getting him.’ And I set off back along the Lichway.
The rain and the darkness wrapped me. I lost the brothers, waiting on the road behind. Gomst and the gibbets lay ahead. I walked in a cocoon of silence, with nothing but the soft words of the rain, and the sound of my boots on the Lichway.
I’ll tell you now. That silence almost beat me. It’s the silence that scares me. It’s the blank page on which I can write my own fears. The spirits of the dead have nothing on it. The dead one tried to show me hell, but it was a pale imitation of the horror I can paint on the darkness in a quiet moment.
And there he hung, Father Gomst, priest to the House of Ancrath.
‘Father,’ I said, and I sketched him a bow. In truth though, I was in no mood for play. I had me a hollow ache behind my eyes. The kind that gets people killed.
He looked at me wide-eyed, as if I was a bog-spirit crawled out of the mire.
I went to the chain that held his cage up. ‘Brace yourself, Father.’
The sword I drew had slit old Bovid Tor not twenty-four hours before. Now I swung it to free a priest. The chain gave beneath its edge. They’d put some magic, or some devilry, in that blade. Father told me the Ancraths wielded it for four generations, and took it from the House of Or. So the steel was old before we Ancraths first lay hands upon it. Old before I stole it.
The birdcage fell to the path, hard and heavy. Father Gomst cried out, and his head hit the bars, leaving a livid cross-work across his forehead. They’d bound the cage-door with wire. It gave before the edge of our ancestral sword, twice stolen. I thought of Father for a moment, imaged his face twist in outrage at the use of so high a blade for such lowly work. I’ve a good imagination, but putting any emotion on the rock of Father’s face came hard.
Gomst crawled out, stiff and weak. As the old should be. I liked that he had the grace to feel the years on his shoulders. Some the years just toughened.
‘Father Gomst,’ I said. ‘Best hurry now, or the marsh dead may come out to scare us with their wailing and a-moaning.’
He looked at me then, drawing back as if he’d seen a ghost, then softening.
‘Jorg,’ he said, all full of compassion. Brimming with it, spilling it from his eyes as if it wasn’t just the rain. ‘What has happened to you?’
I won’t lie to you. Half of me wanted to stick the knife into him there and then, just as with red-faced Gemt. More than half. My hand itched with the need to pull that knife. My head ached with it, as if a vice were tightening against my temples.
I’ve been known to be contrary. When something pushes me, I shove back. Even if the one doing the pushing is me. It would have been easy to gut him then and there. Satisfying. But the need was too urgent. I felt pushed.
I smiled and said, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’
And old Gomsty, though he was stiff from the cage, and sore in every limb, bowed his head to hear my confession.
I spoke into the rain, low and quiet. Loud enough for Father Gomst though, and loud enough for the dead who haunted the marsh about us. I told of the things I’d done. I told of the things I would do. In a soft voice I told my plans to all with ears to hear. The dead left us then.
‘You’re the devil!’ Father Gomst took a step back, and clutched the cross at his neck.
‘If that’s what it takes.’ I didn’t dispute him. ‘But I’ve confessed, and you must forgive me.’
‘Abomination…’ The word escaped him in a slow breath.
‘And more besides,’ I agreed. ‘Now forgive me.’ Father Gomst found his wits at last, but still he held back. ‘What do you want with me, Lucifer?’
A fair question. ‘I want to win,’ I said.
He shook his head at that, so I explained.
‘Some men I can bind with who I am. Some I can bind with where I’m going. Others need to know who walks with me. I’ve given you my confession. I repent. Now God walks with me, and you’re the priest who will tell the faithful that I am His warrior, His instrument, the Sword of the Almighty.’
A silence stood between us, measured in heartbeats.
‘Ego te absolvo.’ Father Gomst got the words past trembling lips.
We walked back along the path then, and reached the others by and by. Makin had them lined up and ready. Waiting in the dark, with a single torch, and the hooded lantern hung up on the head-cart.
‘Captain Bortha,’ I said to Makin, ‘time we set off. We’ve got a ways before us till we reach the Horse Coast.’
‘And the priest?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps we’ll detour past the Tall Castle, and drop him off.’
My headache bit, hard.
Maybe it was something to do with having an old ghost haunt its way through to the very marrow of my bones, but today my headaches felt more like somebody prodding me with a stick, herding me along, and it was really beginning to fuck me off.
‘I think we will call in at the Tall Castle.’ I ground my teeth together against the daggers in my head. ‘Hand old Gomsty here over in person. I’m sure my father has been worried about me.’
Rike and Maical gave me stupid stares. Fat Burlow and Red Kent swapped glances. The Nuban rolled his eyes and made his wards.
I looked at Makin, tall, broad in the shoulder, black hair plastered down by the rain. He’s my knight, I thought. Gomst is my bishop, the Tall Castle my rook. Then I thought of Father. I needed a king. You can’t play the game without a king. I thought of Father, and it felt good. After the dead one, I’d begun to wonder. The dead one showed me his hell, and I had laughed at it. But now I thought of Father, and it felt good to know I could still feel fear.
Chapter 7
We rode through the night and the Lichway brought us from the marsh. Dawn found us at Norwood, drear and grey. The town lay in ruin. Its ashes still held the acrid ghost of smoke that lingers when the fire is gone.
‘The Count of Renar,’ said Makin at my side. ‘He grows bold to attack Ancrath protectorates so openly.’ He shed the roadspeak like a cloak.
‘How can we know who wrought such wickedness?’ Father Gomst asked, his face as grey as his beard. ‘Perhaps Baron Kennick’s men raided down the Lichway. It was Kennick’s men who caged me on the gibbet.’
The brothers spread out among the ruins. Rike elbowed Fat Burlow aside, and vanished into the first building, which was nothing but a roofless shell of stone.
‘Shit-poor bog-farmers! Just like fecking Mabberton.’ The violence of his search drowned out any further complaint.
I remembered Norwood on fete day, hung with ribbons. Mother walked with the burgermeister. William and I had treacle-apples.
‘But these were my shit-poor bog-farmers,’ I said. I turned to look at old Gomsty. ‘There are no bodies. This is Count Renar’s work.’
Makin nodded. ‘We’ll find the pyre in the fields to the west. Renar burns them all together. The living and the dead.’
Gomst crossed himself and muttered a prayer.
War is a thing of beauty, as I’ve said before, and those who say otherwise are losing. I put a smile on, though it didn’t fit me. ‘Brother Makin, it seems the Count has made a move. It behoves us, as fellow soldiers, to appreciate his artistry. Have yourself