Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

“I’ll do whatever I can for her, Collem, you can depend on me. I was once proud to call you my friend and… I would be again.” Strange, but Glokta could almost feel a tear in his own eye. Me? Can it be? Inquisitor Glokta, trustworthy friend? Inquisitor Glokta, protector of vulnerable young women? He almost laughed out loud at the idea, and yet here he was. He never would have thought that he needed one, but it felt good to have a friend again.

“Hollit,” said Glokta.

“What?”

“Those three sisters, their name was Hollit.” He chuckled to himself, the memory filtering through a little clearer than before. “They had a thing about fencing. Loved it. Something about the sweat, maybe.”

“I think that was when I decided to take it up.” West laughed, then screwed up his face as if he was trying to remember something. “What was our quartermaster’s name? He had a thing for the youngest one, was out of his mind with jealousy. What the hell was that man’s name? Fat man.”

The name was not so very difficult for Glokta to recall. “Rews. Salem Rews.”

“Rews, that’s the one! I’d forgotten all about him. Rews! He could tell a story like no one else, that man. We’d sit up all night listening to him, all of us rolling with laughter! Whatever became of him?”

Glokta paused for a moment. “I think he left the army… to become a merchant of some sort.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I heard he moved north.”

Carleon weren’t at all how the Dogman remembered it, but then he tended to remember it burning. A memory like that stays with you. Roofs falling in, windows cracking, crowds of fighters everywhere, all drunk on pain and winning and, well, drink—looting, killing, setting fires, all the unpleasant rest of it. Women screaming, men shouting, stinking with smoke and fear. In short, a sack, with him and Logen at the heart of it.

Bethod had put the fires out and made it his. Moved in, then started building. He hadn’t got far when he kicked Logen and the Dogman and the rest of them into exile, but they must have been building every day since. It was twice as big now as it used to be, even before it got burned, covering the whole hill and all the slope down to the river. Bigger than Uffrith. Bigger than any city the Dogman had seen. From where he was, up in the trees on the other side of the valley, you couldn’t see the people, but there had to be an awful lot of them in there. Three new roads leading out from the gates. Two big new bridges. New buildings everywhere, and big ones where the small ones used to be. Lots of them. Built from stone, mostly, slate roofs, glass in some of the windows even.

“They been busy,” said Threetrees.

“New walls,” said Grim.

“Lots of ’em,” muttered the Dogman. There were walls all over. There was a big one round the outside, with proper towers and everything, and a big ditch beyond it. There was an even bigger one round the top of the hill where Skarling’s Hall used to stand. Huge great thing. Dogman could hardly work out where they got all the stone for the building of it. “Biggest damn wall I ever saw,” he said.

Threetrees shook his head. “I don’t like it. If Forley gets took, we won’t never get him out.”

“If Forley gets took there’ll be five of us, chief, and we’ll be looked for. He’s no threat to no one, but we are. Getting him out’ll be the least of our worries. He’ll muddle through, like always. Most likely he’ll outlive the lot of us.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” muttered Threetrees. “We’re in a dangerous line of work.”

They slithered back through the brush, back to the camp. Black Dow was there, looking even worse-tempered than usual. Tul Duru too, working at a hole in his coat with a needle, face all screwed up as his great thick fingers fumbled with the little splinter of metal. Forley was sat near him, looking up at the sky through the leaves.

“How you feeling Forley?” asked the Dogman.

“Bad, but you got to have fear to have courage.”

Dogman grinned at him. “So I heard. Reckon we’re both heroes then, eh?”

“Must be,” he said, grinning back.

Threetrees was all business. “You sure about this, Forley? Sure you want to go in there? Once you get in, there might be no getting out, no matter how good a talker y’are.”

“I’m sure. I may be shittin’ myself, but I’m going. I can do more good there than I can out here. Someone’s got to warn ’em about the Shanka. You know it, chief. Who else is there?”

The old boy nodded to himself, slow as the sun rising. Taking his moment, as always. “Aye. Alright. Tell ’em I’m waiting here, by the old bridge. Tell ’em I’m alone. Just in case Bethod decides you’re not welcome, you understand?”

“I get it. You’re on your own, Threetrees. It was just the two of us made it back over the mountains.”

They’d all gathered now, and Forley smiled round at ’em. “Well then, lads, it’s been something ain’t it?”

“Shut up, Weakest,” scowled Dow. “Bethod ain’t got nothing against you. You’re coming back.”

“In case I don’t, though. It’s been something.” The Dogman nodded to him, awkward. It was the same dirty, scarred-up faces as usual, but grimmer than ever. None of ’em liked letting one of their own put himself in danger, but Forley was right, someone had to do it, and he was the best suited. Sometimes weakness is a better shield than strength, the Dogman reckoned. Bethod was an evil bastard, but he was a clever one. The Shanka were coming, and he needed the warning. Hopefully, he’d be grateful for it.

They walked together, down to the edge of the trees, looking out towards the path. It crossed over the old bridge and wound down into the valley. From there to the gates of Carleon. Into Bethod’s fortress.

Forley took a deep breath, and the Dogman clapped him on his shoulder. “Luck, Forley. Good luck.”

“And to you.” He squeezed Dogman’s hand in his for a minute. “To all of you lads, eh?” and he turned and marched off towards the bridge, with his head up high.

“Luck, Forley!” shouted Black Dow, startling them all.

He turned round for a minute, the Weakest, stood on top of the bridge, and he grinned. Then he was gone.

Threetrees took a deep breath. “Weapons,” he said, “just in case Bethod don’t want to hear sense. And wait for the signal, eh?”

It seemed a long time waiting, up in the leaves, staying quiet and still, looking down at all them new walls. The Dogman lay on his belly, bow near at hand, watching, waiting, wondering how Forley was doing in there. A long, tense time. Then he saw them. Horsemen coming out the nearest gate, riding over one of the new bridges, crossing the river. They’d got a cart at the back. Dogman wasn’t sure why they’d have a cart, but he didn’t like it any. No sign of Forley, and he wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad.

They came quick, spurring up the side of the valley, up the steep path towards the trees and the stream and the old stone bridge across it. Right at the Dogman. He could hear the hooves thumping on the dirt. Close enough to count now, and take a good look at. Spears, shields and good armour. Helmets and mail. Ten of ’em, and two others sitting on the cart, either side of the driver, carrying some sorts of things that looked like little bows on blocks of wood. He didn’t know what they were about, and he didn’t like not knowing. He was the one wanted to be giving them the surprises.

He wriggled back through the brush on his stomach, sloshed through the stream and hurried to the edge of the trees, where he could get a good view of the old bridge. Threetrees, Tul and Dow were standing round the near side of it, and he waved over to them. Couldn’t see Grim, he must’ve been off in the woods away beyond. He made the sign for horsemen, held up his fist to say ten, hand flat on his chest to say armour.