Honor Among Thieves (29 page)
A
n old fishwife with a face like a rotten parsnip threw herself in front of the Godstone and defied the watchman to strike through her bones. He hesitated a moment, just long enough for Pritchard Hood to grab her and pull her away. She clawed at his eyes and he could do nothing but hold her at arm’s length.
The crowd shouted then, voices blending together: “He’s killing her!”
“He’s manhandling that poor woman!”
“Let her go!”
“Disperse,” Hood said, still struggling with the fishwife. “Damn you—let go of me. You—all of you. Disperse! Go back to your homes.”
The crowd took a step in, toward the stone.
“Back! All of you back!” Pritchard Hood howled. “You, men—keep them back.”
A pick swung round and bit into the side of a thief who had come too close, one of the pickpockets who’d been in the guild longer than Malden. The man screamed. A mallet came around and cracked the skull of a blind beggar.
The crowd screamed with him. It screamed for blood.
It took another step inward.
“Break it! Break it now!” Hood shouted. A watchman lifted his mallet to smash the Godstone—
And a thrown knife entered his throat, dropping him to choke on his own blood. The crowd roared like the ocean in storm and surged toward the stone, grabbing the watchmen and the bailiff even as picks crushed in heads and mallets bashed the sides of old men and lepers.
The crowd could not be stopped. It fell on Hood and his men like the vengeance of the Bloodgod Himself.
“Hold them down!” Malden shouted, but he could barely hear his own voice over the tumult. “Don’t let them fight back—don’t let them kill you!”
The crowd needed no goading, and would heed no advice. Screaming, foaming at the mouth like an enraged bull, it seethed as one creature, unified in bloodlust. A watchman was torn limb from limb as Malden watched in horror, his blood slicking the cobbles underfoot so that many in the crowd slipped and were trampled by the feet of others, trying to get in closer, trying to tear and rend.
The watchmen fought desperately with their tools. The death count was horrible among the poor and the old—it was a massacre, plain and simple—but the watch couldn’t hold out very long. Malden couldn’t see Pritchard Hood under the piling crowd but he shouted anyway, “Seize Hood—we’ll run him out of town on a hurdle!”
Hood might already have been dead before the words escaped Malden’s lips. The bailiff was most certainly dead a moment later, when his broken body was hauled up on the shoulders of a group of whores and carried out of the square. No man could survive with his head barely attached to his body like that, or with his chest caved in at so many places. Blood slicked the bailiff’s unmoving mouth and pooled in an empty eye socket. Malden had to turn away rather than see more.
The crowd wasn’t satisfied, though. It screamed for more. More blood. More vengeance. All the tension of the last few weeks, as Ness waited to be sacked and pillaged by the barbarian horde, was being released in an orgy of rage.
Malden stayed atop the Godstone—trying to climb down would have been suicide—and shouted for order, for reason, for calm. He shouted for civility, for peace, for true justice. His words were completely lost in the din.
When the crowd swept out of the square, headed in the direction of Castle Hill, tears ran down his cheeks. What had he done? What had he set loose? He half expected the mob to burn the city in its rage. To slaughter every man and woman and child it could find, regardless of their guilt or innocence. When the square cleared out enough to make it safe, he slipped down the side of the stone and landed hard on his ankle. His own blood was singing, though with fear rather than anger.
Bodies littered the square. Bodies of the poor, the crippled, of thieves. The crowd had taken the bodies of the watchmen with them, for what purpose Malden did not like to contemplate.
“Lad! Over fucking here!” Slag called. The dwarf had taken shelter in a doorway across the square. “Do you know how fucking dangerous it is to be this fucking short when the fucking world goes mad?” Slag demanded, his face wracked with terror.
“I—I didn’t know they would—”
Slag shook his head. “Listen, Malden. There’s nothing you can do now. Get somewhere safe—wait out this night.” The dwarf peered around the edge of the doorway. “Fuck. Never mind.”
Malden stared at him, deeply confused. Then he leaned out himself and took a look.
Coruth the witch was walking across the square toward them, taking care as she stepped over all the bodies.
“Malden,” the old woman said. “Come with me.”
C
oruth did not wait to hear if he would follow. She walked across the square and turned herself into a bird.
He’d seen that trick before, but it still made him uneasy. She did not flap her arms, or say a spell, or even shrink in size that he could see. It was like she walked into a shadow and walked out of it with wings and a beak. Then she stretched her new wings and shot up onto the roofbeam of a house, and there waited for him to follow.
Malden climbed the house easily. The shingles of the roof were painted with moonlight and a tinge of red. He didn’t know where that light came from. Coruth didn’t say a word. She just fluttered across the street to the house across the way and sat on a roof there, pecking at her side with her beak as if digging out a mite.
Malden shook his head. He had to follow her, of course. He’d learned enough about witchcraft to know it was unwise to disobey a witch. He ran across the roof, flat-footed to keep his balance, and leapt to the next house. Just in time to see Coruth take to the air and fly on.
He followed her like that halfway across the city. The roofs in this part of the Stink were steeply pitched but all of roughly the same height. It was nothing he had not done a thousand times before to move quickly and silently across that elevated sea of shingles and waterspouts. He swung along the gargoyles of a church. Leapt from a chimney pot to catch a balcony with his hands, and in one easy motion swung himself up to the second floor of a bakery. Eventually Coruth ran out of perches when they came to the Woolcarder’s Bridge. Malden dropped to street level and crossed the bridge even before Coruth could leap into the air again. He knew now where she was leading him.
The Stink gave way to the Golden Slope, the district of mansions once held by the rich merchants of Ness. From the rooftops there was little to mark the change of neighborhood, except that the shingles in the Slope tended not to shift or crack when he landed on them with his full weight. Up ahead, though, lay the Spires, where all the buildings were made of stone, and many had lead-lined roofs to keep out the rain. Still Malden followed, clambering across the many-gabled dome of the counting house until he came to where he could look down on Market Square—and beyond, the wall of Castle Hill.
Now he saw the source of the reddish light. The square was full of firebrands, held aloft by a screaming mob. The crowd had lost none of its rage. The gate leading into Castle Hill was sealed shut, but men who had never lifted a hand in anger before in their entire lives were rushing forward to pile firewood against the gate. Others cracked open casks of lamp oil and splashed it on the wood, on the gate, much of it on themselves.
Clearly the mob intended to burn down the gate and storm the palace.
Up on the wall, a handful of watchmen attempted to repel the invaders. They had bows and were firing recklessly into the crowd, perhaps too afraid to even pick proper targets. Every time an old woman or a one-legged beggar was pierced, the crowd’s howling grew in volume and intensity. The halfhearted defense served only to further incite the crowd.
Malden had never seen anything like it. Always in his experience the people of Ness backed down at the slightest show of force. There had never been a time when the people truly loved the Burgrave, but always they had respected his authority—authority backed up with the point of a sword, or a line of halberdiers wearing cloaks-of-eyes. He had seen plenty of riots in Ness—plenty of moments when the people started picking up cobblestones to throw at their betters. Always before, a man with a sword and a plume on his helmet had taken control of the situation and calmed everything down. Always before, the unrest had been quelled before it could really get started.
This was different. This was outright rebellion.
“You see the power of belief,” Coruth said. She sat atop the dome in her human form again, as if she had climbed down out of the sky in search of a comfortable seat. “Perhaps you made a mistake, Malden, when you took sides with a god.”
“Pritchard Hood used religion against me—I thought only to fight back with the same weapon.”
“It worked.”
The crowd never faltered, even as the watchmen dropped stones over the wall to crush the attackers, as they called for more arrows, even as they tried to reason with the people. No matter what they tried, the defenders failed to keep the mob from lighting their bonfire. The flames licked high at the wall, scorching the stones. The wooden gate held against the conflagration, but it couldn’t stand up to that heat forever.
The archers stopped firing. The watchmen started hauling buckets of water up the wall to douse the flames, though this seemed to achieve nothing but to create great clouds of silvery steam. The watchmen were joined by palace servants and a few guards in green cloaks. The Burgrave had left precious few men behind when he rode out of the city, and now there were not enough for the task at hand.
“You need,” Coruth said, “to start thinking what you’ll do with this new power you possess.”
“Power? Me? I have never felt more helpless in my life,” Malden insisted.
Coruth laughed. “That’s one of the first lessons I had to learn as a witch. The world is large, and the forces arrayed against us are numerous and vast. You do not gain power by opposing them. You gain it by becoming one with them. Every victory is a surrender to inevitability.”
“Please, Coruth—no riddles, not now. I am sickened by this. I want no part in it. You speak of power! If I had any, I’d use it to stop this!”
The witch shrugged.
In the square, the gate began to shift on its hinges. Perhaps they were melting—or perhaps the wood of the gate was warping in the heat. Soon it would fall, and nothing would stand in the way of the mob.
Coruth turned to face him. “Tomorrow the people will own this city. There will be no civil authority left. I do not know if they will slaughter the Lady’s priests. Their anger seems directed more toward the Burgrave who abandoned them. It matters little. Tomorrow they will look for someone else to lead them. To tell them what to do. Someone who has already demonstrated that their cause is his own. Someone who can take action, and speak pretty words, and convince them they were blameless for what happened tonight.”
“Blameless! What they’ve done already sickens me.”
“Best you don’t tell them as much. They need someone to forgive them. They need someone to tell them what to do next.”
“But that can’t be me,” Malden said. “I’m just a thief! No,” he said, looking inward. “No, I won’t do it. I can’t.”
“Be careful, Malden. If you will not take on that role, someone else surely will. Someone not of your choosing. You will do what you must do, Malden. No point in fighting it, not any more. When you need my help, come to me, and I will give it freely.” She rose grumbling to her feet. He knew she was about to turn back into a bird and fly away, fly somewhere he couldn’t follow.
Now there was power worth having.
“Wait,” he called. He had to know something. “At least tell me how I should—” he began, but Coruth was already gone.
He stayed atop the counting house all night, until the scene below him played itself out. The gate fell. The defenders made a valiant stand. They were well-trained and well-armed. For every one of them, the mob could send fifty men and women against them. And the mob didn’t care how many of its individual members died.
By dawn fire licked from the stone windows of the palace, and the roof of the barracks had been pulled down, and its stones broken.
Castle Hill was a ruin. Everything it stood for was gone.
I
n a muddy field just off the Helstrow road, Baron Easthull’s plan was to be tested. In a few short hours it would be seen whether the rabble of deserters and bandits could destroy a small force of barbarians.
Croy was not particularly hopeful for success.
Vapor twisted along the old furrows of the field, coiled around the stubble that was all that remained of the wheat stalks that had grown there all summer. Birds wheeled over the mud, looking for any bit of grain dropped by the gleaners. At the edge of the field, where trees shadowed the soil, early frost made a crust on the water of an irrigation ditch.
The wound on Croy’s arm was bandaged tight, and hidden by a broad shield he could just lift. The wound ached, but not as much as it would after a long day of fighting.
Perhaps he wouldn’t live long enough for that to become a problem.
He looked out over a sea of expectant faces and wondered what he should say to them. He did not believe many of them would survive the first wave of the attack. Scouts reported that a force of barbarians on foot had left Helstrow before dawn. The scouts said they numbered more than one hundred, and were led by Mörgain herself.
Arrayed against her, he had three hundred and sixty men. Every warm body he could find. They’d had minimal training, their weapons were of the poorer sort of steel, and they had never fought for their lives before. He’d seen them fight against a handful of scouts when they completely outnumbered their foes and still made no headway. This time he expected most of them to turn and run when battle was truly joined. Which, ordinarily, might not have been so bad. Retreat was a valid stratagem on the battlefield—if you were outmatched, or unable to press a fight, it was always better to turn and run than to stand and be cut down. Against barbarians, though, retreat was suicide. The barbarians could run faster than the men of Skrae, and they didn’t understand the concept of quarter.
Croy walked his horse back and forth across the line. Serjeants with green and yellow ribbons on their helmets struck at their men and bellowed curses at them to make them form up properly. He pretended not to hear the complaints and protests. He nodded at each man who met his eye. Then he rode back to the head of the column and stood up in his stirrups. The serjeants bellowed for silence.
Time to say something. Anything to give these men courage.
“You are men of Skrae,” Croy told them, standing upright in his stirrups. “You fight under the Lady’s watchful gaze. She will not desert you now, when you need Her the most.”
He expected a cheer, but received none. Frowning, he watched their faces, looking for any sign of enthusiasm. If only Malden were here, he thought. Malden had always been good with words. He’d probably know a few sneaky tricks to even the odds. And having a second Ancient Blade would make a big difference.
Croy shook his head. “All right. You know what to do. Hold your lines. Stand your ground. If you get any chance to hurt a barbarian—any chance—hurt him grievously.”
That actually got a faint chuckle out of the men. Croy wasn’t sure why—he hadn’t been trying to be funny.
“Keep yourselves alive. Do not forget to parry and block their blows. I’m sure you’ll all do fine.”
He sat back down in his saddle. Some of the serjeants turned to stare at him, as if to ask if he was really finished. If that was it.
Croy raised a hand and dropped it. His one trumpeter blew an off-key fanfare, and then his handful of drummers started the march.
Once on the road they made good time, though Croy did not push the pace. No need to tire his men when the enemy was coming straight at them. He led them north, following the dusty ribbon of the road as it wound through a series of small bogs. Trees lined the road on either side, their dead leaves fluttering down in front of Croy like a grim echo of rose petals strewn before a conquering hero. He brushed them away from his eye slits as they flapped against his helmet.
The marching army made enough noise that he did not hear Mörgain and her company until they were nearly face-to-face. He lifted his sword hand, fingers spread, and the drummers ceased their beating. His little army took their time stopping behind him, men colliding with each other and grumbling about it. In time they formed up and brought their weapons around.
Mörgain sat her horse wearing no armor, but a fur cloak. The paint on her face was freshly done and shockingly white. Behind her, scores of barbarians jogged on foot. According to the scouts, they had been running all morning, and would already be tired, ready to take a rest. That was something, at least.
Mörgain spat out a word Croy couldn’t make out. The barbarians stopped in mid-stride. They stopped as one, without a sound or wasted movement. Mörgain’s eyes narrowed, making her face more skull-like than ever. She studied the army facing her but said nothing.
There was no need to state the terms of their meeting. Everyone knew why they were there, and that this would be a battle to destruction. No parley was necessary, for there was nothing to bargain for, or with.
Croy hesitated before he gave the order to charge, however. He had something he wanted to try first.
“I understand,” he shouted, “that among your people, there is a law of champions. That when two clans meet in battle, their leaders may agree to single combat. A duel, to the death, between the best warriors from either side.”
Mörgain frowned and stroked the neck of her horse. “That is our way.”
“Also, that when a champion loses such a contest, his clan must lay down their arms and surrender. They are bound by the terms of the duel.”
“You know much of us.”
Croy shrugged. “I knew your brother, once, in another time. I called him brother myself then, and listened when he spoke of your land and your people. I came to respect some of your traditions. Only some. But this one appeals to me. Dismount, and face me, one on one.”
Mörgain shook her head. “Both parties must agree. You cannot force my hand, Sir Croy.”
Croy’s heart sank. It had been his best chance. “In my land, only a churl would call a woman a coward,” he tried.
“In my land, no man would dare,” Mörgain replied.
“You have much to gain, milady. There are three of us for every one of your men.”
“I came ready for more.”
Croy bit his lip. “Very well, then. If a lady wishes for battle, a gentleman must oblige her. Let us waste no more time . . .
Princess
Mörgain.”
Mörgain’s teeth gnashed under her painted lips and she tore Fangbreaker from its scabbard. She was half out of her saddle—and Croy was getting ready to charge her—when her eyes went wide and she began to laugh.
“Very clever, Sir Croy!” she called. “But you cannot goad me to—”
Croy snapped his fingers.
He had spent enough time with Malden to have learned a little deceit.
From either side of the road, hidden by the trees, a dozen archers let fly. Behind Mörgain barbarians screamed and fell, their legs and arms and necks pierced by arrows. At that range, and with so many potential targets, even poorly trained archers couldn’t miss.
“Charge them!” Croy shouted, and behind him his men started to run.