King of Thorns. Mark Lawrence
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this new wife of yours, Brother Rikey? Not coming to see you off?’
‘Busy ploughing.’ He slapped his horse. ‘Got a job of it now.’
Gorgoth came through the kitchen gate, looming behind Rike. It’s unsettling to see something on two legs that’s taller and wider than Rike. Gog popped out from behind him. He took my hand and I let him lead me. There’s not many that will take my hand since the necromancy took root in me. There’s a touch of death in my fingers, not just the coldness. Flowers wilt and die.
‘Where we going, Brother Jorg?’ Still a child’s voice despite the crackle in it.
‘To find us a fire-mage. Put an end to this bed-burning,’ I told him.
‘Will it hurt?’ He watched me with big eyes, pools of black.
I shrugged. ‘Might do.’
‘Scared,’ he said, clutching my hand tighter. I could feel heat rising from his fingers. Maybe it cancelled the cold from mine. ‘Scared.’
‘Well then,’ I said. ‘We’re headed the right way.’
He frowned.
‘You’ve got to hunt your fears, Gog. Beat them. They’re your only true enemies.’
‘You’re not scared of anything, Brother Jorg,’ he said. ‘King J—’
‘I’m scared of burning,’ I said. ‘Especially in my bed.’ I looked back to the brothers, stowing weapons and supplies. ‘I had a cousin who liked to burn people up, did I not, Brother Row?’
‘Ayuh.’ He nodded.
‘My cousin Marclos,’ I said. ‘Tell Gog what happened to him.’
Row tested the point of an arrow with his thumb. ‘Went up to him all on your ownself, Jorg, and killed him in the middle of a hundred of his soldiers.’
I looked down at Gog. ‘I’m scared of spiders too. It’s the way that they move. And the way that they’re still. It’s that scurry.’ I mimicked it with my hand.
I called back to Row. ‘How am I with spiders, Row?’
‘Weird.’ Row spat and secured his last arrow. ‘You’ll like this tale, Gog, what with being a godless monster and all.’ He spat again. Brother Row liked to spit. ‘Spent a week holed up in some grain barns one time. Hiding. We didn’t go hungry. Grain and rats make for a good stew. Only Jorg here wasn’t having any of that. Place was stuffed full of spiders see. Big hairy fellows.’ He spread his fingers until the knuckles cracked. ‘For a whole week Jorg hunted them. Didn’t eat nothing but spider for a week. And not cooked mind. Not even dead.’
‘And rat stew always tasted good after that week,’ I said.
Gog frowned, then his eyes caught the glitter on my wrist. ‘What’s this?’ He pointed.
I pulled my sleeve back and held it up for all to see. ‘Two things I found in my uncle’s treasury that were worth more than the gold around them. Thought I’d bring them along in case of need.’ I made sure Rike caught sight of the silver on my wrist. ‘No need to be going through my saddle bags at night now, Little Rikey. The treasure’s here and if you think you can take it, try now.’
He sneered and tied off another strap.
‘Wossit?’ Gog stared entranced.
‘The Builders made it,’ I said. ‘It’s a thousand years old.’
Row and Red Kent came over to see.
‘I’m told they call it a watch,’ I said. ‘And you can see why.’
In truth, I’d been watching it a lot myself. It had a face on it behind crystal, with twelve hours marked and sixty minutes, and two black arms that moved, one slow, one slower still, to point out the time. Entranced, I had opened it up at the back with the point of my knife and gazed into the guts of the thing. The hatch popped back on a minute hinge as if the Builders had known I would want to see inside. Wheels within wheels, tiny, toothed, and turning. How they made such things so small and so precise I cannot guess but to me it is a wonder past any man-made sun or glow-light.
‘What else you got, Jorg?’ Rike asked.
‘This.’ I took it from the deep pocket on my hip and set it down on the flagstones. A battered metal clown with traces of paint clinging to his jerkin, hair and nose.
Kent took a step back. ‘It looks evil.’
I knelt and released a catch behind the clown’s head. With a jerk and a whir he started to stamp his metal feet and bring his metal hands together, clashing the cymbals he held. He jittered in a loose circle, stamping and clashing, going nowhere.
Rike started to laugh. Not that ‘hur, hur, hur’ of his that sounds like another kind of anger, but a real laugh, from the belly. ‘It’s like … It’s like …’ He couldn’t get the words out.
The others couldn’t hold back. Sim and Maical cracked first. Grumlow snorting through the drowned-rat moustache he’d been working on. Then Red Kent and at last even Row, laughing like children. Gog looked on, astonished. Even Gorgoth couldn’t help but grin, showing back-teeth like tombstones.
The clown fell over and kept on stamping the air. Rike collapsed with it, thumping the ground with his fist, gasping for breath.
The clown slowed, then stopped. There’s a blue-steel spring inside that you wind tight with a key. And when it’s finished stamping and crashing, the spring is loose again.
‘Burlow … Burlow should have seen this.’ Rike wiped the tears from his eyes. The first time I’d heard him mention any of the fallen.
‘Yes, Brother Rike,’ I said. ‘Yes he should.’ I imagined Brother Burlow laughing with us, his belly shaking.
We made our moment then, one of those waypoints by which a life is remembered, the Brotherhood remade and bound for the road. We made our moment – the last good one. ‘Time to go,’ I said.
Sometimes I wonder if we all don’t have a blue-steel spring inside us, like that dena of Gorgoth’s coiled tight at the core. I wonder if we don’t all go stamping and crashing, crashing and stamping in our own little circles going nowhere. And I wonder who it is that laughs at us.
6
Four years earlier
Three months previously I had entered the Haunt alone, covered in blood that was not my own and swinging a stolen sword. My Brothers followed me in. Now I left the castle in the hands of another. I had wanted my uncle’s blood. His crown I took because other men said I could not have it.
If the Haunt reminds you of a skull, and it does me, then the scraps of town around the gates might be considered the dried vomit of its last heave. A tannery here, abattoir there, all the necessary but stinking evils of modern life, set out beyond the walls where the wind will scour them. We were barely clear of the last hovel before Makin caught us.
‘Missing me already?’
‘The Forest Watch tell me we have company coming,’ Makin said, catching his breath.
‘We really should rename the Watch,’ I said. The best the Highlands could offer by way of forest was the occasional clump of trees huddled miserably in a deep valley, all twisted and hunched against the wind.
‘Fifty knights,’ Makin said. ‘Carrying the banner of Arrow.’
‘Arrow?’ I frowned. ‘They’ve come a ways.’ The province lay on the edge of the map we had so recently rolled up.
‘They look fresh enough by all accounts.’
‘I think I’ll meet them on the road,’ I said. ‘We might get a more interesting story