Mark Lawrence - Prince of Fools

Snorri bellowed his wordless challenge, but he held his ground: No charging against this foe. It overreached him by a yard and more. The dead thing extended an arm, talons questing for Snorri, then snatched the hand back. A grey skull, filled with new wetness, craned down on a neck that was once the entirety of a man’s spine. And it spoke! Though it had no lungs for bellows, no tongue to shape its words, it spoke. The unborn’s voice squealed like tooth on tooth, grated bone on bone, and somehow carried meaning.

“Red Queen,” it said.

Snorri took a pace back, sword raised. The skull swivelled and those awful wet pits that served for eyes found me, barefoot, weaponless, and scooting away on my backside.

“Red Queen.”

“Not me! Never heard of her.” The strength went from my legs and I stopped trying to escape, although it was the only thing I wanted to do.

“You carry her purpose,” it said. “And her sister’s magic.” It swung its head towards Snorri and I could breathe again. “Or you,” it said. “And you?” The unborn returned its gaze to me, now on my feet. Under that inspection I started to die once more. “Hidden?” The skull tilted in query. “How is it hidden?”

Snorri attacked. As the unborn’s attention pinned me he leapt forwards, sword in his off hand, and hacked at its narrow waist of bone, dry skin, old gristle. The thing lurched alarmingly, recovered itself, and slapped him away with a lazy backhand that lifted the Norseman from his feet and sent him sprawling, his sword flying past me, lost in the night.

Battles are all about strategy, and strategy pivots on priorities. Since my priorities were Prince Jalan, Prince Jalan, and Prince Jalan, with “looking good” a distant fourth, I took the opportunity to resume running away. I find that the main thing about success is the ability to act in the moment. A hero attacks in the moment; a good coward runs in it. The rest of the world waits for the next moment and ends up as crow food.

I made it ten yards before nearly slicing my foot off on Snorri’s sword, which had ended its trajectory point first. Nine inches of the blade lay buried in the hard earth, the rest jutting up dangerously. Even in my terror I recognized the value in three foot of cold steel and paused to haul it clear. The action spun me around and I could see the unborn looming over Snorri, ghostly in the starlight. Weaponless, he refused to run and held what looked to be a gravestone above him like a shield. The stone shattered beneath the unborn’s descending fist. A thin hand of many bones encircled the Viking’s waist-in another moment he would be gutted or have his head torn off.

Something huge and dark and wailing like a banshee swept towards me from the camp. Rather than be flattened beneath its ground-shaking bulk I ran, selecting the direction I happened to be pointing in. I needed all my speed to keep clear of the massive pounding feet behind me, and screaming, I charged directly at the unborn, desperately trying to find the extra legs to veer to the side.

At the last moment, with pants-wetting haste, I dived left, narrowly missing Snorri, rolled, rolled again, and somehow avoided skewering myself on the sword. I rose to watch in astonishment as Cherri bounced past atop an enraged elephant. The unborn went down with the sound of a hundred wet sticks snapping, ground to pieces beneath blunt feet the size of bucklers. The elephant thundered on into the night, still bearing the girl, and trumpeting loud enough to wake the dead, if any had still been asleep.

Snorri landed close by with a thud that made me wince. He lay without moving for five beats of my heart, then levered himself up on thick arms. I held his sword out to him and he took it.

“My thanks.”

“Least I could do.”

“Not every man would run off to recover a comrade’s weapon, then charge an unborn single-handed.” He got to his feet with a groan and stared off into the night. “Elephant, eh?”

“Yup.”

“And a woman.” He went to the fire and started kicking embers over the unborn’s remains.

“Yup.”

Circus folk were streaming towards us now, dark shapes against the night.

“Think she’ll be all right?”

I considered the matter, having spent some time between her thighs myself. “I’m more worried for the elephant.”

By first light the circus camp had been half packed away. None of them held any desire to remain, and I expected Dr. Taproot would have to find a new stopover the next time they passed this way.

Cherri returned with the elephant as I waited for Snorri by the field gate. The dwarf had returned to his post and we were both trying to cheat each other at cards. I stood and waved. Cherri must have had to wait for dawn to find her way back. She looked worn out, her face paints smeared, dark streaks around her eyes. A gentleman pretends not to notice these things, and I hastened over to catch her as she slipped from the creature’s back. She felt good enough in my arms to make me regret the need to leave.

“My thanks, lady.” I set her down and backed away from the elephant’s questing trunk. The beast made me seven kinds of nervous and smelled of farms to boot. “Good boy!” I slapped its wrinkled flanks and dodged towards the gate again.

“She’s a girl,” Cherri said. “Nelly.”

“Ah. What else could she be called?” Saved by a dancing girl on a female elephant. I wouldn’t be adding that to the tale of the hero of Aral Pass.

Cherri took the elephant’s halter rope and led her off into the camp, shooting me one last wicked glance that made me wish for another night, at the least.

Snorri arrived moments later. “Hell of a thing.” He shook his head. “Elephants!”

“You could take one home,” I suggested.

“We have mammoths! Even bigger, but in fur coats. I’ve never seen one, but I want to now.” He looked back into the camp. “I paid my respects to the mother. There’s nothing to say at such times, but it’s better to say something than nothing even so.” He slapped an overly familiar hand to my shoulder. “We should go, Jal, our welcome’s worn thin. Unless you wanted to barter for horses?”

“With what?” I pulled out my pockets. “They sucked me dry.”

Snorri shrugged. “That locket you’re always fiddling with would buy ten horses. Fine ones.”

“I hardly ever touch it.” I blinked at him, telling myself to remember his sharp eyes. I didn’t recall looking at it once since we met. “And it’s of no value.” I doubted the old man on the road would have swapped his donkey for the locket and a silver crown.

The Norseman shrugged and made to leave. I nudged his arm as he passed. “Taproot’s come to see us off.”

Dr. Taproot approached. He looked uncomfortable in the open air, removed from his desk. Two men flanked him, leading their horses, a pale gelding and a dun mare. The first the lion tamer we met in the blueness of Taproot’s tent, the second a hugely built man who was obviously occupying the strongman job that Snorri had initially been taken to be an applicant for. I wondered if the good doctor was expecting trouble of some kind.

“Taproot.” Snorri inclined his head. The stolen sword hung at his hip now, depending from an arrangement of rope and leather strips.

“Aha! The travellers!” Taproot looked up at his strongman as if weighing him in the balance with Snorri. “Heading north now. Watch me!”

Neither of us had an answer to that. Taproot continued. “Dogged by ill fortune perhaps? The kind of misfortune that fills and empties graves. Watch me!” His hands moved as if performing each task while he described it. “That would have been valuable information. At yesterday’s noon that information would have earned its keep.” The sorrow on his long features seemed almost too perfect, almost caricature. It worried me that I couldn’t tell if the baby’s death had meant anything to him or not. “In any case, the milk was spilt.” He trailed off, then turned to go but caught himself and spun once more to face us. “Unborn!” Almost a shout now. “You bring unborn into the world? How-” He found his control once more and carried on, his voice conversational again. “This was not well done. Not well done at all. You must go far from here. And fast.” He indicated the two horses and his companions stepped forwards, holding the reins out towards us. I took the gelding. “Twenty crowns on your debt slate, my prince.” Taproot inclined his head a fraction. “I know you will be good for it.”