The Crimson Shield (33 page)

‘Run!’ Valaric pulled his arm. Gallow bolted down the alley on Valaric’s heels as he raced for an open door. Valaric’s spear was propped beside it; Valaric snatched it
up, turned and hurled it. The first Lhosir dived sideways and the spear hit the one behind him, clattering off the side of the man’s helm, the shaft spinning through the air. The last two
Lhosir batted it aside but by then Gallow was through the door and Valaric was closing it behind them.

‘The table!’ Valaric rammed his shoulder to the door. They were in a kitchen. Gallow dragged the table from the middle of the room. The door shuddered as the first Lhosir outside
kicked at it. Valaric let them force it open a hand’s width and then stabbed his sword through the gap. The Lhosir backed away a moment, long enough for the two of them to push the table
against the door and wedge it against a wall. ‘Come on!’ Valaric ran for a different door.

‘What were you doing out there?’ They ran out into an empty tavern hall.

‘What do you mean?’ Valaric stopped and shouted, ‘Hoy! Any Marroc still here hiding away! Now’s the time, lads! The forkbeards are here and they’re burning our
homes. Take up your arms!’ The tavern remained empty and still. Valaric shrugged and ran to the far door. ‘Good enough. The docks, Gallow. That’s where we’ll be.
That’s where we make our stand. We knew this was coming. We’re as ready as we could ever be.’ He pushed open the door and ran almost straight into another band of Lhosir.

‘Maker-Devourer!’ roared Gallow, raising his shield. The Lhosir ran at them, but as Valaric and Gallow turned their backs and fled, the Lhosir stopped, laughed and turned into the
Grey Man instead.

‘They’ll regret that later when we rip their drunken bellies open,’ snarled Valaric.

‘What were you doing at the gates? Did you think Medrin was going to fight you?’

‘No.’ Valaric darted into an alley that ran steep down the hill towards the Isset, so narrow they had to squeeze along it with their armour and their shields scraping the walls. The
buildings either side blotted out the sun, casting them into gloomy shadow.

‘Well? Then what?’

‘I thought I was going to die.’ Valaric’s words came out through clenched teeth. ‘If your prince was the sort of man to stand up and fight for himself when another man
called him out . . . But he isn’t and he never was, and I knew that. I went there to give myself up to him. Take as many of you with me as I could but let him have the nasty Marroc
who’d stood up to him on the beach. You were right, what you said there. I thought if he had me then he might not burn the whole city. So much for that.’ The alley opened into another
street. It was empty: no Marroc, no Lhosir. Shouting came from further down the hill, the sounds of men fighting. The tang of smoke tainted the air.

‘I fought the Vathen at the Screambreaker’s side. I saw him fight their champion. I saw him take the Sword of the Weeping God.’ He held the blade up so Valaric could see it
clearly. ‘I was beside him when the Vathen broke our line and he fell. Medrin let it happen. He turned the tide of the battle with his men but he waited for the Screambreaker to fall before
he did.’

Valaric stared. ‘The red sword?
That
is the Comforter?’ His face went tight, almost as though he was afraid of it. ‘Modris preserve us!’

‘Solace. The Peacebringer.’

Valaric took a step away. ‘Oh, I know its names. The Edge of Sorrows. The Unholy Comforter. The blade of the Weeping God that struck at Diaran the Lifegiver and would have killed all men
had not Modris the Protector taken the blow on his shield.’ He shook his head and backed further away. ‘That’s a cursed blade, Gallow, and it brings death wherever it goes. You
should never have brought it into my city!’

‘It’s just a sword, Valaric.’ Gallow frowned but Valaric was still shaking his head, fists clenched.

‘No. You know the tale of the Weeping God. You know how he became what he is but it comes from that sword. It’s a pitiless thing. It serves no one, or perhaps everyone with an
even-handed faithlessness. Blood follows that blade, Gallow. And now you’ve brought it here, and look around you.’

‘The Vathen brought it here, Valaric, not me.’

Valaric seized Gallow by the shoulders. ‘But
you
brought it into Andhun. Take it
away
! Ah. Modris preserve us! Forkbeards again!’ He let go of Gallow and ran down
the street towards the harbour. The Lhosir who’d gone into the Grey Man were coming out again. Gallow ran after Valaric for a few paces and then stopped and turned another way. He
didn’t believe in cursed swords just as he didn’t believe in Modris and Diaran and the Weeping God and the rest of them. Stories, that’s all they were. Some swords were better
than others, no more. The skill of the smith and the quality of the metal he worked saw to that, but in the end they were all made from the Maker-Devourer’s cauldron just like everything
else.

But Valaric was right – there was a better place for this sword to be.

He turned his back on the docks where Valaric’s men were waiting, and headed towards the keep on the top of the cliffs.

Medrin.

B
y the time Tolvis and the Screambreaker’s men reached Andhun’s gates, whatever had kicked off the fighting was done and over. Lhosir
still trickled into the city, chasing with eager feet and hungry eyes after the scent of plunder and blood. A few of them loitered sulking around the gates, ordered to keep them open.

‘And where are the Vathen?’ Tolvis asked them but they only shrugged.

‘Fled in the night,’ they said. ‘It’s the Marroc against whom we hold the gates.’ They weren’t happy about it either, denied their share of plunder. Men
who’d done something to earn Twelvefingers’ disfavour. Tolvis passed on into the city. The cobbles were littered with bodies. Marroc mostly, from the looks of them, but there were
Lhosir here too. A few of the bodies were soldiers, freshly dead in their mail, even with their swords and spears still lying beside them. Most of the Marroc wore simple clothes, the ordinary folk
of the city in the wrong place at the wrong time. Many had been cut down from behind, stabbed in the back. Only a few had found the courage to die facing their fate.

He found the Marroc duke. When he turned over the bodies of the dead Lhosir to see their faces, he found Horsan. He laughed.
So much for you.

Smoke wafted in wisps from the streets that led down towards the harbour. The Lhosir who came in after Tolvis and the Screambreaker’s men headed that way. A few stopped among the dead,
taking a spear if they didn’t have one, or a sword or a helm. A couple were crouched down, stripping bodies of their mail. The stragglers weren’t Medrin’s men or anyone
else’s so Tolvis paid them no mind. They could head off down the hill towards the harbour – so much the better if they did – but
he
was aiming for the castle.
Twelvefingers wasn’t stupid. You couldn’t come into Andhun and murder their duke and burn the place down without making sure you had the castle first, not if you were planning to stay.
The plunder would be down in the harbour, but Medrin would be up there.

There were going to be some problems later, when it came to explaining to King Yurlak why he’d taken it on himself to hunt down the king’s only son and stick his head on a spike.
The Screambreaker told me to
probably wasn’t going to be good enough. Ah well. He could think of an excuse later.

Valaric ran through the streets to the first barricade. The Lhosir thought the Marroc were sheep and maybe they were; maybe they didn’t have the madness in their blood
that the men from over the sea called courage and bravery and honour. Didn’t make them stupid, though.

‘Valaric!’ Sarvic was there keeping watch, ready for the forkbeards to sweep down the street.

‘You heard then.’ Valaric stopped in front of the barricade. Sarvic nodded. ‘How many men have we got down here?’

‘Hard to say. We had two hundred this morning before you left. When word came of what you did and how it went with the forkbeards . . .’ Sarvic shook his head. ‘It’s gone
through the docks like fire. Most people are running for the sea. There’s boats already leaving.’

Valaric winced. ‘I’d hoped . . .’ But what had he hoped? That thousands of men and women who’d never raised a hand to another soul in their life would suddenly take up
arms against an army of rampaging armoured monsters? Of course they were running for the boats.

‘A few are staying. Hard to know how many.’

‘You told them what they have to do?’ Sarvic nodded. Valaric looked around. Enough men to hold the barricade for a few minutes. He looked at Sarvic long and hard, remembering
Lostring Hill and the scared man he’d seen there. He nodded. ‘Go to the harbour.’ He pointed to three more of them, men he didn’t know, but all soldiers in mail with shields
and axes. ‘Go to the boats. If there are men down there who think they can take everything a family has to let them onto a ship, show them your steel and explain to them why they’re
wrong. Give them a choice: They can keep their weapons and use them on the forkbeards or they can give them to someone else who will. I’ll not have Marroc turning against Marroc.’

The other three turned and left without hesitation, glad to be let go and not to face the forkbeards. Sarvic didn’t move.

‘Well, go on then.’

‘No.’ Sarvic shook his head. ‘I don’t want to run.’

‘Everyone who stays is going to die. Our lives buy time for the others, that’s all.’

‘I said I don’t want to run.’ When Sarvic’s eyes didn’t falter, Valaric clapped him on the shoulder.

‘You want to kill forkbeards? Then come with me. Not long now.’

Tolvis looked over the litter of bodies in Castle Square. Marroc mostly. They’d put up some sort of fight in the end. Too little too late though, because there were
hardly any Lhosir among the dead and the men at the castle gates had forked beards and waved at Tolvis as he came forward. Half a dozen of them. They looked tense, stamping their feet, eyes
constantly roving. Tolvis grinned at them. He recognised this lot. Medrin’s men, every one of them.

‘A fine morning for sacking a city!’ He waved back as he got up close. ‘Wish you were down there, eh?’

The gate guards snorted. Who wouldn’t really? Nothing to do up here. They’d had a great big fight yesterday and they’d won, but they’d all lost friends and half of them
had lost family, some cousin or other at the very least, and what came after a big fight was a couple of days plundering to make up for it. And here they were, missing it. Tolvis nodded. He
understood perfectly.

‘The Maker-Devourer sends you some luck then.’ He nodded back at the men he had behind him. Fifty or so Lhosir. The Screambreaker’s men, what was left of them. Men who’d
fought a dozen battles and lived through them all. ‘We’re here to relieve you. Go and have some fun. Kill some Marroc and get drunk.’

He had their attention now. He could see the thoughts running through their minds.
That would be nice, but Twelvefingers told us to guard the gate.
‘Prince Medrin ordered us to
stay,’ said the first man doubtfully.

Tolvis shrugged. ‘Stay then. When the other guards on the inside come out to go off a-looting don’t take it too personal if they laugh at you.’

The man shook his head. ‘That won’t happen. You can’t go inside.’

Tolvis took his time over his next words. ‘Thing is, you see, that
is
where we’re going. Sure you don’t want us to take over at the gate here? It was the Screambreaker
himself said we should.
You’ve seen enough over the years. Let the young ones have their share of the plunder.
Or something a bit like that anyway.’ Tolvis laughed. ‘Me?
I’m so old and bashed around the head, I can’t remember
exactly
what he said. I probably couldn’t remember how to plunder a Marroc city either. Best you lot get on and do
it. Make a proper job of it.’

Medrin’s men shuffled their feet. ‘And you’d give us your word over the Maker-Devourer’s cauldron that you’d all just stand here and not let anyone into the castle,
eh? You included. You’d have to share blood with us about that.’

Tolvis shrugged. ‘Not sure I could do
that
.’

The man let out a great sigh. ‘Thought not.’ He drew his sword and shook his head. ‘Can’t let you in, Loudmouth.’

Tolvis raised his shield and his spear. ‘Ah well. Pity. I salute you. I’ll speak you out to the Maker-Devourer myself when the time comes. Anything you want me to mention?’

‘How about you just shut up and we get on with it?’

Tolvis took a deep breath. ‘Fine, fine. I’m just trying to make it a bit easier for everyone.’ He lunged with his spear, quick as a snake. The man caught the point on his
shield and stepped back. In half a blink the six of them were in a circle, shields locked together. Tolvis left a dozen of the Screambreaker’s Men to deal with them and moved on into the
castle yard. Another handful of Medrin’s men were lounging there, bored and not sure what to do with themselves. They found an answer to that quickly enough. After the gate guards, Tolvis
didn’t bother trying to talk his way past the rest.

They fought well. He’d give them that as he stepped over the bodies. They even managed to take a few of his men with them. Not many, but what did you expect when you put boys against men?
Still, he’d speak out their names if he had the chance when all this was done. Brave men, all of them. Foolish, perhaps, but then the Maker-Devourer had never cared about
that.
Just
as well really.

On a hill not far from the battlefield where the Screambreaker had killed the Weeping Giant and set his fellow Vathen to flight, Gulsukh Ardshan watched from the back of his
horse.

‘Bashar,’ he said without taking his eyes from the city.

‘Ardshan?’ Behind him, hidden by the bulk of the hill from the Lhosir who’d stayed outside Andhun’s walls, two thousand Vathen were waiting for his order. A pitiful
fraction of the army that had marched to sweep the Marroc aside, but here and now it would do.