The Colour of Vengeance (26 page)

“Meat is meat,” Thorn said.

Six-Cities Ben stopped smiling, he and Thorn glared at each other hard, Henry could feel what was coming, feel the tension in the air. She felt her blood start to warm

“As you say. The other two brothers well I reckon you might know 'em. Pretty famous here in the wilds. They went by the names of Little Harry and the Saint.”

Now Henry knew those names well enough. Both had been killed by the old crew back in Bittersprings. They were bounty hunters on the trail of the Black Thorn and that damned Arbiter. Henry was about to make a stab at Ben when Thorn laughed.

“Reckon ya might have mistaken me fer someone else, Six-Cities Ben.”

“That so? Because the way I hear it, it were the Black Thorn's crew that killed my brothers an' you bear more than a passing resemblance,” he glanced at Henry. “Know who you are too. Funny thing is word has it both of you are dead but here I find ya. Bad luck for you, I reckon.”

“Says the man sittin' not two feet from my knife,” Henry said, feeling her sneer turn into a grin.

Six-Cities Ben sneered back. “Crossbow.”

Thorn sniffed loudly. “Hows 'bout ya bring ya brother over here, Ben. Reckon I want ta talk ta the brains o' ya crew.”

Ben seemed to think about that for a moment before looking over to his crew and giving a nod. The man with the grey hair, a broad-shouldered, stone-faced man equal in height to Thorn, stood, said something to his companions, unhooked a heavy mace from his belt and approached. He stopped a few paces away, well out of Thorn's striking distance.

“Long time, Joan,” Thorn said.

“I hear you killed my brother, Thorn,” Joan said back, his voice matching Thorn's menace for menace.

“Ya hear wrong. I ain't gonna lie ta ya, I were part o' the crew but none of us here did fer either of your brothers. Saw 'em die but I was busy killin' the Big Mouth.”

Heavy-Hand Joan sniffed loudly. “Can't say that bastard didn't deserve it,” he said in a neutral tone.

“Not many deserved it more, I reckon. Fact is Little Harry was done in by the Boss.”

Heavy-Hand Joan spat onto the straw-covered floor. Henry realised the noise in the tavern had become strangely muted. Folk in the wilds knew a fight when they saw it coming.

“That's a name I've not heard in some time.”

Thorn nodded. “That'd be 'cos he's well an' truly dead. The Saint stuck an arrow in his back, bastard died a few weeks later.”

“From the rot?” Six-Cities Ben asked.

“Aye, well I reckon that helped,” Thorn continued. “Having his face bitten off didn't do him much good neither.”

“Got what was coming to him,” Joan said, his mace still ready in his hand.

Again Thorn nodded. “Well seein' as how the bastard spent two years robbin' me of half my share I'm gonna agree with ya on that one too.”

“And the Saint?” asked Six-Cities Ben.

“He was done in by a lad on our crew went by the name of Swift,” Thorn said. Henry let out a growl. Just the mention of his name was enough to make her angry.

“That's be the same Swift owns half of Chade?” Joan asked.

Thorn nodded. “I hear he's made good fer himself. Somethin' ta do with takin' all the money from our Hostown job.”

Six-Cities Ben whistled. “That were really you? I figured the rumours were shit. Folk say you murdered thousands o' people, half o' them soldiers. Killed the entire H'ost family while you was at it.”

Thorn spat onto the reeds. “Reckon that rumour might be a little bit shit. Some truth ta it, I guess.”

Heavy-Hand Joan let out a loud sigh, grabbed a nearby stool and sat down, laying his heavy mace across the table. “The Saint would never have gone after you if it weren't fer that dumb fuck Big Mouth Cal. Taught him better 'an that.”

Thorn just nodded, seemed he was relaxing a little, seemed him and Joan had some history. Henry kept a tight grip on her knives, just in case.

“Judging by Henry the Red’s face when ya mentioned Swift I'm guessing he ain't exactly liked by your new crew,” Joan said.

It had been a long time since anyone had called her
Henry the Red
. She liked it. A name she'd earned a long time ago.

“Aye,” Thorn said. “Ya could say that. Might be we're lookin' ta get some payback on account of not gettin' our fair share.”

“You heading into the Fade?”

Again Thorn nodded. “Possible we got some folk chasin' us. Blooded folk.”

Joan glanced at Anders. Anders grinned at Joan. “'Cos of him or 'cos of Solantis.”

“Little bit o' both, I reckon.”

Joan grunted. “Heard what happened there was the Black Thorn's fault. Little bit at odds with the rumour of you being dead. Either way figured we should come this way looking fer you. Someone needs ta pay the price fer the Saint after all.”

Henry sniffed. She didn't really like being reminded of her part in the slave uprising. The odd murder was one thing but what happened in Solantis was something else, something that made even her pale to think about its scale. Thousands dead because she’d set loose a few slaves and told them to fight. She shuddered and forced her attention back to the conversation.

“We could use a hand in Chade, Joan,” Thorn said. “My guess is Swift ain't gonna be easy ta get ta.”

A quick grin spread across Joan's face and then was gone again. “Aye. Seems we got a reason ta crew together again, Thorn. Lucky for you the rest of our boys don't know about ya bounty. Luckier for you me and Ben care more about seeing the Saint ain't lonely in the afterlife.”

Thorn nodded to that but his face was hard. “An' what 'bout after we done fer Swift?”

Joan chuckled. “Won't be no one ta collect from after we're done. Who do ya think placed the bounty on ya head, Thorn?”

By the end of the first day in the Fade Betrim was nervous. Every sound echoed around him eerily so he couldn't tell where it had come from; he stared in every direction, his head darting one way and then the other like a bird but he could barely see more than a few feet. By the end of the second day he was quickly approaching something akin to a wreck. By the fourth day he was so tired he was seeing shapes in the mist; shadows gliding around just beyond the edge of his vision.

He didn't sleep, couldn't sleep. They set watches, three sets of eyes per watch and they all slept close, almost on top of each other. Betrim gave up trying to get any rest and stood every watch, axe in one hand while the other clutched to the charm he wore around his neck, he rubbed the small circle of wood so much he picked up splinters but it didn't stop him.

None of the others believed in the wraiths, they all thought if anything it would be bandits that attacked them; robbers who preyed on the unwary foolish enough to enter the Fade alone or unprepared. If that were the case they wouldn't find this group easy pickings; a more dangerous group of folk Betrim had rarely travelled with. None of the others believed in the wraiths but none of the others had been to the Five Kingdoms. Betrim had, he had seen the dead walk, seen what they did to the living, seen the living turn dead and rise again.

At the end of the fourth day Joan came to Betrim, gave him a real intense look. “How longs it been since we last crewed together, Thorn?”

Betrim stared at Joan with one tired eye; he could feel the lid drooping even now. “How longs it been since you stopped playin' the game an' started huntin' those that do?”

“Good few years. Ten maybe.”

“'Bout that then, I reckon, Joan,” Betrim answered.

“In all those ten years I ever hunted you?”

Betrim spat. “Don't reckon so. If ya had I reckon I might'a been caught a whiles back.”

Joan nodded. “One of us would have ended up dead an' no mistake. So why ain't you trusting me? I gave my word none of me or mine would try for ya.”

“Eh?”

“I hear ya standing every watch. Makes my boys a little nervous that ya ain't willing ta let 'em watch ya back whiles ya sleep. Now I understand if ya wanna have one of yours on every watch but...”

“Ya got it wrong, Joan,” Thorn interrupted him. “Ain't that. It's the bloody wraiths. I can hear 'em out there in the fog.”

Joan looked around. Not that there was anything to see. Fog was so thick five feet was something approaching a blessing and while walking if you lost track of the man in front of you there was a good chance you'd never find them again. There was nothing to see above them; just a blanket of shifting grey and below the ground was damp soil, sometimes mud but always brown. There was a marsh somewhere in the Fade, Betrim had been told, but at the moment they weren't in it. Occasionally they'd come across a corpse tree, stark white against the grey and reaching towards the sky. No leaves ever grew on corpse trees, no fruit ever spouted. They grew from the bodies of the dead, or so it was said, and the tree was as barren as the corpse below it.

“Been in the Fade four times myself,” Joan was saying. “One of those times I was alone an' trying ta chase a particularly slippery murderer by the name of Coball, one of the black skins from the far south and partial ta eating his victims. Filed his teeth ta points.” Joan paused as if remembering and then shook his head. “Been here four times an' never once have I seen a wraith. Ain't nothing here but fog an' Fogwatch... an' more fog.”

“Ya ever seen a dragon?” Betrim asked.

“No.”

“Me either. Got it on pretty good authority they do exist though.”

Joan sighed. “You need ta sleep, Thorn. Got at least two days before we make it ta Fogwatch, if we make it at all. Ben's pretty damned good at getting us where we need ta go but... no guarantees in this place.”

Betrim knew Joan was right. Lack of sleep could do funny things to a man. Make him see things, hear things that weren't there. Make him slow when he needed to be fast. Make him fall when he needed to stay on his feet.

Betrim nodded. “I'll try.”

He did manage to sleep that night. Huddled close to Anders who was in turn huddled close to a wine skin. Henry watched over them both on that watch and Betrim had to admit there weren't many folk left alive he trusted more than her, possibly even none.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Betrim stood over the body wearing the coat of an Arbiter. He pulled his axe free and rolled the body over to get a good chop in on the neck; sever the head, the best way to be sure. It wasn't Kessick.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A hand grabbed hold of Betrim's shoulder. Pulled him to his feet and span him around. A fist exploded into Betrim's jaw.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Kessick spoke, saying something Betrim couldn't hear. He watched the handsome face; the dark oak hair, the piercing Green eyes. The Black Thorn charged. Kessick caught his wrist, pulled the axe free and pushed Betrim to the floor.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Betrim drew a dagger into his right hand and his left whipped a throwing knife at Kessick. The knife stuck in the Arbiter's leg but it made no difference. Kessick caught Betrim's wrist in one hand and his throat in the other.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Kessick plucked the dagger from the Black Thorn's hand and stabbed him four times in the chest. Betrim toppled backwards and hit the ground heavy.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Kessick was standing over the Black Thorn. He was speaking again, one tooth glinting in the moonlight. Then he reached down and Betrim saw fingers closing around his left eye.

Thump. Thump. Scream.

Betrim sat bolt upright. He was drenched in sweat and shaking from head to toes. His right hand had managed to find his axe and his left went straight to his eye, to his eye-patch. It took him a moment to realise something was wrong. He wasn't the only one awake. Everyone was up, everyone was silent, tense, and everyone looked scared.

“You alright, boss?” Anders asked in a whisper.

Betrim shook his head. He could still remember the dream, still remember the
thumping
, but the scream wasn't there, it hadn’t happened in his dream, it wasn't his voice. Then the sobbing started.

It was a terrifying thing to hear. Long, pain-filled wails echoing all around them. A single cry as if from a woman's lips so sad it brought tears to Betrim's eye. He quickly wiped the water on his hand and looked for the source. He couldn't find it; the noise just seemed to drift out at them from the fog

Another wail started just as the first one died down; this one seemed to come from the other side of the small group. A cry of pure terror, fear and pleading and hopelessness all rolled into one.

“What the fuck is it?” asked one of Joan's bounty hunters. Betrim seemed to remember he had named himself Davet Wolfsbane.

“Where's it comin' from?” Henry asked, her eyes wide and her jaw clenched.

The wail died down and everything went silent save the occasional scuffing of boots on the ground. Betrim stared off into the dark fog, into the swirling, shifting void. He was slick with sweat, could feel it beading and dripping down his face. Still there was nothing, no sound and no sight of whatever was out in the fog. Betrim almost believed it was over.

A high-pitched hissing noise drifted out of the fog and it took a moment for Betrim to realise it sounded like a woman saying
pleeeeease
. It was so quiet and so urgent that Betrim had the sudden urge to wander off into the fog to search for the voice, search for the woman who needed his help. Something bumped into his left arm and Betrim jumped, pointing his axe in the general direction. It was Joan, come to stand next to the Black Thorn. Betrim reckoned he'd never seen Heavy-Hand Joan look scared before, he certainly had now.

“What do we do, Thorn?” Joan asked.

“Eh?”

Another wailing sob started up and Thorn saw something. A faint blue light, a dark shadow drifting by in the fog. He felt his eye start to well up again and sniffed.

Heeeeeeeeeeelllllllllppp
, the hissing voice drifted out of the fog. Betrim spun around towards the source of the voice. He caught a glimpse of a shape again and then it was gone.

“You know what ta do with the dead right?” Joan asked.