Gallow (35 page)

‘Next.’ He backed away from the window letting someone he didn’t know, a fisherman, take the next shot. They had five weapons, three windows, seven men. On the other side of the street he had much the same. He left them to it, ran down the stairs and into the alley round the back where a dozen Marroc waited for him. These were soldiers, the few that he had, and Sarvic was with them. He nodded grimly and with a roar they ran out into the street, plunging into the rear of the forkbeards, who were trapped by the barricade and just waking up to the death coming down on them from above. From behind the barricade, bottles of burning fish oil began to fly and suddenly the forkbeards were the ones dying.

His spear sang in his hand.
Three years in the forests, hunting you down. Picking you off one by one. Taking you as I could. You trained me well, you bastards.

Gulsukh Ardshan and his horsemen came over the hill, a solid wall of horse and men and steel. The ground trembled under the pounding of thousands of galloping hooves. He felt a terrible elation as the Lhosir still outside the city looked up and saw what was coming and snatched up their shields and spears and formed into circles but the Vathen didn’t bother with them – they were too few to be any trouble later. Instead, the Vathen swept through the Lhosir camp like a storm. Spears struck men down, javelots arced out from the riders, a steel rain that scythed down those who stood to fight and those who turned and fled alike. The camp was trampled into mud and ruin, the wounded and the stricken crushed underhoof. In a blink the Lhosir were scattered – as easy as that – and as they passed on towards the gates of Andhun, Gulsukh was gritting his teeth.
Why couldn’t it have been that easy before?

The open doors to Andhun keep beckoned Gallow inside. He ran up the steps and into the huge gloomy hall where the Screambreaker had once held his feasts. He paused for a moment there, uncertain which way to go. There were no dead men here – the fighting had been out in the yard. Whoever had come this way must have swept on inside. Somewhere.

He listened, hoping to hear sounds of a fight or cries of victory.
Medrin, where would you go? Where would you hide?

A scream, long and thin, echoed down the far stairs.
Good enough.
Gallow ran through the hall, past the high table with its finery and its silver and leaped up the stairs behind it.

They killed perhaps half the Lhosir before the forkbeards pushed their way through the barricade. The Marroc behind it emptied the last of their oil over the wagon, set it alight and ran. The ones at the windows with their crossbows melted away. Valaric and Sarvic and the other soldiers turned and fled, not up the street but away into the maze of alleys. More forkbeards were coming down from the castle anyway. Time to go. Valaric made sure he was the last, backing down an alley too narrow for the forkbeards to get past him without killing him first. They howled and swore and yelled, but he kept his shield high and backed quickly away, and with his spear jabbing out they couldn’t touch him. He stopped a few feet from the next street.

And now I have you trapped again.
‘Burn, demon-beards!’ he screamed, and shutters opened above and oil and fire rained on the forkbeards.

Tolvis found Medrin where he knew the prince would be. Hiding up in the rooms of the dead duke. He had a good few men with him too, a couple of dozen maybe. A few were faces Tolvis remembered from the monastery and old One-Eye’s ship. They were waiting for him at the top of the spiralling stairs in the doorway, clustered around it so that he couldn’t get through without killing them. Which was fine and fair enough – they couldn’t get down the stairs and go anywhere else after all, not unless they fought their way through every man Tolvis had with him. Still he stopped. Gave them a chance, that was only fair.

‘Fine men of the sea.’ He held his ground carefully out of reach of a spear thrust. Maybe they had a bow of some sort and some arrows up here and maybe they didn’t, but even men like these wouldn’t stoop that low. ‘May I offer you a parley?’

‘Dog’s piss on your parley,
nioingr
!’ Ah. Durlak.

‘Did I hear they’re calling you Durlak Trueshaft now? Horsan was your brother, wasn’t he? Fought well too, what I saw of him. Strong like an ox and he knew how to use a spear and a blade as well as any. So who laid him out? Wasn’t me or any of mine but I’d like to know.’

‘The Foxbeard.’ When Tolvis cocked his head, Durlak added, ‘Gallow.’

‘Ah.’ Tolvis smiled. So Gallow was still in Andhun, was he? That would make one of the many things the Screambreaker had asked of him a little easier.

‘The
nioingr
turned on our prince as you’ve done. There’s a blood feud between us now.’

‘Really?’ Tolvis raised an eyebrow. ‘You might want to be careful with that if he killed Horsan. Still.’ He opened his shield a fraction, exposing himself momentarily. A small gesture of peace perhaps, or one to invite a speculative thrust. ‘If it’s a feud you want, don’t let me spoil it. I’m sure he’s not far away. Go and fight him if you like. I’ll not stop you. I’ve no grievance with any man here save one.’ He frowned. ‘No, actually, two. Which one of you was it struck Jyrdas in the back when we were fighting in that dingy little monastery?’

‘Giedac. And Jyrdas killed him right there and then.’

‘Did he? Good for One-Eye. Well that only leaves the coward who told him to do it then. So if you don’t mind letting us pass, we’ll deal with him as is right and proper and leave you to your looting. Must be plenty to be had from a place like this. If you were
permitted
, of course.’

A flash of greed crossed Durlak’s face but his jaw tightened. ‘No, Loudmouth. I already know you killed Latti. How you tried to kill Dvag.’

‘Latti made his own choice. Was a fair fight that. Dvag played me false.
He
was a liar. Did I kill him? He was alive when I left him.’

‘The Vathen found him. And then Horsan and I found the Vathen. And you’ll not pass this door, Loudmouth.’

There didn’t seem to be much to be said after that. Tolvis rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody forkbeards eh?’ he said. ‘All the same. Never know when to give up.’

For a moment Durlak grinned. ‘Secret of who we are, Loudmouth.’

Tolvis nodded. He eased up the last few steps and the two of them set about killing each another.

G
allow ran up the stairs and stopped halfway. A Lhosir faced him, ugly and angry, shield close and spear held out. He kept his distance though, unsure of whom he faced.

‘Who goes there?’

Valaric sprinted down the next street, on towards the harbour. Three forkbeards from the alley were chasing him. They were actually on fire but they were still coming.
Modris!
Were they simply too stupid? He rounded a corner and there was the next barricade waiting for them. And Sarvic.

‘Get down, get down!’ Grumpy Jonnic too. Valaric threw himself to the cobbles, skittering across them, his mail throwing up a shower of sparks. From behind the barricade a dozen men rose and fired a ragged volley of crossbow bolts. The men he’d had beside him overlooking the first barricade. Two of the three burning forkbeards fell and stayed still. The third jerked but stayed on his feet, even with two bolts sticking out of him. Valaric jumped up and stuck him with his spear.

‘You people
really
don’t know when to stop!’ he screamed. He looked back up the street. More forkbeards were coming, dozens of them. Further up the Isset smoke rose over the water and drifted down towards the sea. They were burning things again. He jumped over the barricade and readied his spear for the next fight. Marroc ran screaming through the streets behind him, heading for the sea. A few picked up sticks or knives and joined the barricade. Valaric watched them from the corner of his eye as the forkbeards stormed towards them. Saw their courage fade to fear and watched them melt away. A handful stayed. He admired them, and he pitied them too. They weren’t soldiers and the forkbeards would slaughter them. He shouted at them, waving them away.

‘Go! Go to the ships. Help others get away from here. Live!’ They stared at him, holding their ground. He took a step forward, waving his shield. ‘Go, you stupid Marroc!’ This was the last barricade before the docks. There weren’t any more. He’d stand and fight here until there weren’t any forkbeards left or until they killed him. Or until they found some other way round through the alleys and came at him from behind.

The Marroc, with their leather aprons and padded jackets for armour, with their clubs and knives for weapons, simply stared back at him. A few shook their heads. Stupid fools were going to die.

‘Valaric!’ Jonnic. The forkbeards howled and whooped as they ran down the street towards the barricade, spears high, shields tight. Valaric bared his teeth. There were no bowmen waiting to shoot down from above this time, no men waiting to stab them from behind. He’d make his stand here with whatever men were left who would fight beside him. Behind their barricade they’d hold this street as long as they could. And that was that.

‘Crossbows!’ The Marroc with crossbows rose again from behind the barricade and let loose. Most of the bolts hit the forkbeards’ shields but a couple went down, and then the forkbeards were on the barricade, howling and swinging their axes. Valaric snarled something even he didn’t understand and met them shield to shield, blade to blade, whispering prayers to Modris and Diaran as he did that the fight would be long and hard and he’d at least take a few of the enemy with him before he fell.

Tolvis was breathing heavily and bleeding from where one of Durlak’s lunges had ripped open his face before Tolvis’s sword had skewered him. A flap of skin hung off his cheek. The hole went right through; he could touch his tongue with his finger. If he’d had any looks before, they were gone now. The whole side of his head felt as if it was on fire.

He stepped over Durlak’s body and the handful of Medrin’s men who’d stayed to hold the doorway. In the small space of the spiral stairs and the tiny room beyond, spears and axes had no space to move. It came down to thrusting swords. They didn’t like that. Tolvis didn’t like it either and he was glad when Medrin’s last few guards retreated into the space of the old duke’s chamber. He stopped for a moment, turned back and rolled Durlak over. The dead man’s eyes were still open. Sign of a good spirit. Tolvis dragged him away. ‘I want to speak this one out,’ he said to the Lhosir coming up from the stairs. ‘They fought well. Brave. I owe it to him. Go and find Medrin.’

The Screambreaker’s men nodded grimly. Most of them had blood on their swords and on their mail now. Lhosir blood. Medrin might rail at them for killing their own kin, but these were men who remembered how it was when Yurlak had first taken the throne, before the Screambreaker and the Marroc and crossing the sea.
How we used to fight and feud among ourselves. Like it was. The old way.
Maybe they’d wait or maybe they’d just kill Medrin without him. Most of them had known the Screambreaker better than he had. Some of them had been in the wood with him but there were some too who had fought beside the Screambreaker against the Vathen and watched him fall. Men who hadn’t died while Twelvefingers had stayed on the top of his hill, watching and doing nothing – they had a grudge of their own to feed. Maybe they had spirited the Screambreaker’s body away. It felt right that someone had done that. A dozen men had seen him fall and no one ever said he wasn’t dead, but this way it was the Maker-Devourer himself who’d come away from his cauldron for the old Nightmare of the North. Made for a good story. A legend, even.

When he had Durlak in a corner out of the way, he crouched beside the dead man. ‘Durlak. Don’t know his father, don’t know his family, don’t have their roll of deeds to lay out beside him. I don’t know what else he did in his life, fair or foul, but I was the one who fought him and I was the one who killed him, and I’ll say to any who’ll listen that he faced me without fear, that he fought fiercely and that he died bravely. Maker-Devourer, I offer you this man for your cauldron for he will enrich it with his spirit.’ He screwed up his eyes, growling at the pain from his cheek.

‘Tolvis?’

He looked up. A last pair of soldiers had come up the stairs. Stragglers from the fighting outside in the yard or at the gates perhaps. For a moment his eyes wouldn’t focus in the gloom. He recognised the voice, though.

‘Gallow?’

Gallow looked down at Tolvis crouching over a dead Lhosir wearing a bracer that marked him as one of Medrin’s men. Loudmouth had blood all down the side of his face and over his neck and shoulder. ‘You look a mess.’

Tolvis snorted then winced in pain. He stood. ‘Nothing that won’t heal, Truesword.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘And it’s good to see you too. And how was the battle for you and so on and so on? Finishing Medrin, that’s what.’

‘Where is he?’

Tolvis nodded towards the door that led to the duke’s chamber. ‘Hear all that ruckus? Take a guess. He’s got nowhere left to run.’

Gallow frowned, struggling to understand the mangled words that came out of Tolvis’s mouth. ‘I’d see someone about that mess of a face,’ he said and turned towards the sounds of fighting.

‘Nothing like a good scar to add to my fine looks, eh?’

Tolvis stayed where he was. Gallow couldn’t make himself look any more. Wound like that didn’t kill you straight away, but more often than not it went bad and green and oozed pus and rotted and then there was nothing to do but cut out whatever had gone bad. Not much to be done when it was a man’s face.
Maker-Devourer spare him that. Let it heal clean or give him a good death first.

The old Marroc duke’s room wasn’t anything more than a big open space with a bed and a few hangings, a place for dressing, a hole in the corner for shitting and pissing, a table by the window with a quill and ink, a chest and a few piles of furs on the floor. Medrin and the last of his Lhosir were backed into a corner. Three of them and the prince himself, though they were far from finished. Medrin still had the Crimson Shield strapped to his arm, a short stabbing blade held high and ready over the top of it. A dozen or more Lhosir penned him in, holding him at bay. They shouted at him while Medrin and his three bared their teeth and hurled back taunts and insults, challenging the Screambreaker’s men to come forward and finish what they’d started.