The Crimson Shield (32 page)

A murmur rose from the far side of the square. Valaric stepped out of his alley to see what it was, but it was only the arse-licker pretend-duke Zardic, come with a bare handful of men to fawn
over Medrin and hand over his castle again. The demon-prince smirked and raised the Crimson Shield high over his head, turning it slowly so that every Marroc could see. ‘The Shield of Modris
the Protector!’ he cried. ‘Returned to you! I, Medrin, have brought it back to the land where it belongs! I, Medrin, have carried it into battle to face your enemies and I, Medrin, have
defeated them! The Vathen! Tens of thousands of them! An army so great their numbers would have filled every street in this great city and still spilled through the gates and into the fields
beyond! I, Medrin, son of Yurlak, have defeated them and I have done this for you.’ Medrin cast his eyes around the square looking for the challenge, for anyone who would meet his gaze, but
no, they all looked away. Even Valaric.
Not yet. Not while there’s still a flicker of hope.

The prince laughed. ‘See,’ he said to the man beside him, quite loud enough for even Valaric to hear. ‘They really are sheep.’

The forkbeards laughed. The pretend-duke walked slowly towards the demon-prince, head bowed. The square fell silent. ‘Prince Medrin, son of Yurlak, king of the Marroc, the people of Andhun
greet and welc—’

Medrin cut him off. ‘When I came to this city two days ago, the people of Andhun set upon me. A goodly number of bodies attest to this. Marroc mostly, but not all. I’m not interested
in your welcome.’ The duke opened his mouth but Twelvefingers waved him away. He pointed into the crowd and singled out two men. ‘Bring those two to me, Duke of Andhun.’

Why are we such cowards?
Valaric looked away. He knew what came next. The men would be dragged from the crowd by Marroc soldiers. They’d be flogged, and it would be Marroc hands
holding the whips. Marroc arms and Marroc tools would build gibbets and these two men would be torn open and staked to wheels like the Vathen outside the city, hung beside the gates as a lesson to
others and not a single forkbeard would even have to raise a hand to do it.

All of a sudden Medrin was shouting into the face of the duke: ‘ . . . until their leaders are found, and I expect you and your soldiers to deal with them as I require! Those soldiers who
should have been out on the battlefield, fighting the Vathen!’ he thundered. ‘Now bring those men to me!’

Valaric picked up his spear and shield and stepped out of the shadows. He pushed his way through the few Marroc who stood around the edges of the square. ‘Oi! Prince Forkbeard.
Twelvefingers. Demon-spawn.’

The closest forkbeards turned and readied their weapons. Valaric stopped. Medrin was still shouting.

‘Medrin! Demon-beard! Prince
nioingr
.’

Now Medrin stopped.

‘I’m the one you want, you pox-scarred prince of filth. Twelve-fingered son of the mother of monsters. I’m the one who stood before you on the beach and I stand before you now.
I, Valaric of Witterslet. I, Valaric of the Marroc. I’m the one you want and here I am. You wouldn’t face me then; do you dare to face me now, or are you the coward that even your own
men know you to be?’

Medrin turned. He faced Valaric with the Crimson Shield held high. ‘A Marroc crippled me some fifteen years ago, Valaric of Witterslet. Men die from such wounds as I took that day, and so
they should, for it left me as weak as a child and what place is there in this world for a weakling warrior? Yet I didn’t die. I fought for my life and I clawed it back again. I’ve
taken this shield and I defeated an army that would have swept across your land. I will face you, Valaric of the Marroc, but only if you will face me as I am.’ His words changed for the duke,
but his eyes stayed on Valaric. ‘Have your soldiers take this man and run a spear through his chest. Close the wound with hot pitch. Then we’ll duel. If he fights well, we’ll say
no more of this. If he fights poorly, I’ll have one man in every twenty taken from your city and sent back across the sea to live as slaves.’

Valaric clenched his hand around his spear. ‘I came here to die so others might live,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll take your challenge, prince of oafs.’

He felt a movement in the Marroc behind him, and then a man come to stand at his side.

‘You try to take this man, Medrin, you come through me first.’

Gallow.

G
allow raised the Sword of the Weeping God high. He’d come to the square behind Andhun’s gates to see what Medrin would do. To stand
against him, to fight and die if he had to. And seen that he wasn’t alone.

‘You’re neither shoeing my horse nor blading my scythe,’ muttered Valaric.

‘Settle that later?’

Valaric nodded. ‘It can wait.’

‘Horsan!’ Gallow called him out. Medrin’s sword-hand. ‘The servant of a man with no honour shares in his shame. The servant of a man with no courage shares in his
cowardice. The servant of a man with no heart shares in his disgrace. You bring shame and dishonour to your kin. You’re a coward.’

Horsan pushed his way out from among the Lhosir, shaking his head, face set hard. ‘I’ll rip you apart,
nioingr.
’

Gallow ran at him. Horsan met him head on. The two crashed into each other and careened sideways. The lunge of Horsan’s spear pierced the air an inch from Gallow’s ear while Solace
skittered off Horsan’s shield.

‘I knew your family from before I crossed the sea,’ said Gallow grimly. ‘Your father always thought you were carrying a bit too much fat on you. Lazy, he said.’

Horsan snarled. He circled more cautiously this time, crouched behind his shield, spear held in one fist over the top, point remorselessly aimed at Gallow’s eyes.

‘I was on the same battlefield as him when he died.’ Gallow circled the other way, careful not to get too close to Medrin’s Lhosir.

‘Spit him, Horsan!’ The Lhosir were cheering and jeering. Gallow glanced around the crowd. The Marroc hadn’t moved but there was a change to them. They were restless. One bent
down. When he stood up again he was holding a stone.

‘I didn’t see him fall. Barely knew him. But we recited the names of the dead that day and everyone who fell was spoken out, their words and their deeds offered up to the
Maker-Devourer. I’ve heard a thousand men spoken out like that, Horsan. Spoken out a good few myself. Last man I spoke for was Jyrdas One-Eye. How many men have you spoken out, Horsan? Any at
all?’

No. He could see that. They probably hadn’t honoured the dead yet. Too busy with Andhun and whether the Vathen would return. Times like this the fallen just had to stay where they fell for
a day or two before they could be properly burned and honoured, but it made the Lhosir uncomfortable to think about it, that was the thing. Made them wonder, for a moment, if they were right. What
if they were all somehow struck down? What if the fallen were never spoken out? What if they were lost, abandoned, alone after all they’d done. Unthinkable. Horrible.

A grim smile set on Gallow’s face. ‘No matter. The Maker-Devourer himself will speak for the Screambreaker and those who stood with him, and there were men there for your father.
Who’s going to speak for you, Horsan? When you stand beside the Maker-Devourer’s cauldron and he turns up his ear to listen, what’s he going to hear? Nothing.’

‘We spoke out the Screambreaker. Every one of us. The rest have to wait.’ Horsan’s mouth twitched; as it did, Gallow leaped. The red sword smashed down onto Horsan’s
shield and split it in two. Horsan jabbed his spear at Gallow’s neck, but Gallow simply lifted his own shield and turned the spear over his head. He kicked at Horsan’s knees and
staggered him. The air hissed as he lunged with Solace. The sword caught Horsan neatly between his hauberk and his helm, driving through the naked flesh of his throat. A great spurt of blood
sprayed across the cobbles. Horsan opened his mouth to say something more but all that came out was a river of red. He fell to his knees and toppled over. Gallow turned to face the rest of
them.

‘So that was the best of you, was it?’ yelled Valaric. ‘You’ve forgotten who you are. Go back where you came from, forkbeards. Go back across the sea and stay
there!’

One or two Marroc among the crowd shouted as well. ‘Go home!’

‘So who fights for Medrin now?’ Gallow lowered Solace and pointed its bloody blade at the Lhosir one by one. They each met his eye but none of them moved.

Medrin’s lips pursed as though he tasted something sour. He cocked his head and turned to the Marroc duke. ‘You’re sheltering a
nioingr
and a traitor. Hang
him.’

‘He’s from across the sea, my lord.’ The duke didn’t move. Neither did any of the Marroc soldiers. ‘My men can’t touch him. A Marroc who lifts a hand against
a Lhosir shall have that hand cut off, as you have commanded.’

‘Gallow? He might have come from across the sea but he stayed and he took one of your women. He’s a Marroc now. Hang him.’

The duke still didn’t move.

‘Hang him, or I will hang you.’

‘No, my lord, I will not.’

Medrin took a spear from the Lhosir beside him, drove it into the duke’s belly and kicked him over. He looked around the crowd and at the Marroc soldiers. ‘So who else wants to be
duke, then? I’ll give it to whichever one of you brings me the head of that man there.’ He pointed at Gallow.

None of the Marroc moved. Gallow felt the tension in the air, unbearable. They were on the brink of turning.

‘Marroc! Be free!’ Valaric hurled his spear at Medrin. The prince lifted the Crimson Shield, instinct saving him. Valaric’s spear struck the wood hard, but when Medrin lowered
the shield, it wasn’t even scratched.

A Marroc raised his arm and threw a stone. Then another and another did the same. Medrin howled and the Lhosir burst out of their circle around him. Valaric and Gallow launched themselves
forward. The Marroc soldiers lifted their shields and their spears to face the Lhosir, the men and women around the square throwing stones and whatever else they could find. The first Lhosir hit
Valaric head on, shield on shield, spear points lunging. Everything narrowed to sharpened points of steel. And over it all he heard Medrin roaring, ‘Kill them all! Burn their city! Leave
nothing standing but bare stone walls!’

L
hosir poured through the gates of Andhun. The Marroc who’d thrown stones lay dead now, broken dolls, limp and ragged, trampled underfoot
when Medrin’s men let loose their charge. The rest had fled after the initial surge, and now Gallow and Valaric were side by side, pinned into an alley narrow enough for them to block with
just the two of their shields, a dozen Lhosir pressing them.

‘What happened to . . .’ Valaric twisted as the Lhosir in front of him hooked his shield with an axe while the next one back jabbed with his spear. ‘ . . . going to
Varyxhun?’ He ducked another swing. The man in front of him howled as Valaric stamped on his foot.

Gallow barely heard. He could see Arda’s face. She was smiling but she looked sad.
Pig-headed forkbeard.
In his hand Solace felt as light as a feather and the air hummed as the
sword cut through it. In Marroc stories the red sword cut through shield and mail like an axe through cheese. The Lhosir still standing in front of him proved the lie of that, but it still moved
with a life of its own, as though it was a part of him, and it had already split a couple of badly made shields. He lunged over a shield now, the sword biting at the neck of the Lhosir in front of
him. It had a knack, it seemed, for finding the gaps in a man’s armour. The Lhosir lurched away and then came back at him, forced by the press of men behind.

‘You know what us forkbeards are like: can’t resist a good fight.’ Gallow stepped back. The Lhosir in front of him stumbled forward, lowered his shield for a moment to support
himself and died as the red sword tore out his throat. ‘I came to tell you to run away.’ He lunged as the next Lhosir came, reached over the man’s shield and stabbed, slicing his
cheek.

Valaric ducked and stabbed beneath the next man’s shield. He sheathed his own sword and snatched the dead man’s spear as he fell. ‘They’ll get behind us soon.’

The next Lhosir didn’t have a helm. Stupid, and Solace quickly split his skull. ‘Then this will become a very bloody alleyway.’

‘Hold them for a moment.’ Valaric lunged and then leaped back and ran down the alley, leaving Gallow facing two at once. They pressed in on him hard then, swords stabbing around his
shield while the men behind lunged with spears. A Lhosir learned to fight as soon as he was old enough to stand and hold a weapon. They learned to guard one another, how one man could hook away a
shield and make an opening for another to lunge at unguarded skin, sometimes the man beside them with a sword or an axe, but more often the man pressed up close behind with a short spear. They
learned how three or four together, if they worked as one, could kill almost any number of enemies until they tired, and now they turned that knowledge against Gallow. His own childhood had been
the same: after the hook came the lunge, after the jab the thrust and then the swing. He knew where the spear thrusts and sword cuts would come, had honed all these in five years of war with the
Marroc, but against four Lhosir, even ones who’d never faced a real enemy before the Vathen, he could barely keep them at bay. He retreated back down the alley, one step at a time, one lunge
after another.

‘Valaric!’

No answer and he couldn’t look back. Didn’t dare.

‘Valaric?’ A spear point sliced the skin of his neck. ‘Valaric!’

Then he heard a roar behind him. For a moment the Lhosir faltered and then Valaric barged into the back of Gallow and splashes of something hot spattered his arms. ‘You bastards like what
comes out of the Grey Man’s kitchens so much?’ yelled Valaric ‘Have some!’ He hurled a cauldron past Gallow’s head. The Lhosir bellowed and recoiled and the air filled
with steam and the smell of boiled cabbage. For a moment Gallow was free.