Joe Abercrombie - Before They Are Hanged

Ferro shook her head. “You expect too much out of life, pink.”

He grinned. “And here was me thinking you expect too little.”

“Expect nothing and you won’t be disappointed.”

“Expect nothing and you’ll get nothing.”

Ferro scowled at him. That was the thing about talk. Somehow it always took her where she did not want to go. Lack of practice, maybe. She jerked her reins, and nudged her horse off with her heels, away from Ninefingers and the others, out to the side, on her own.

Silence, then. Silence was dull, but it was honest.

She frowned across at Luthar, sitting up in the cart, and he grinned back like an idiot, as wide as he could with bandages over half his face. He seemed different somehow, and she did not like it. Last time she had changed his dressings he had thanked her, and that seemed odd. Ferro did not like thanks. They usually hid something. It niggled at her to have done something that deserved a thanking. Helping others led to friendships. Friendships led to disappointment, at best.

At worst, betrayal.

Luthar was saying something to Ninefingers now, talking up to him from down in the cart. The Northman tipped back his head and roared with stupid laughter, making his horse startle and nearly dump him to the ground. Bayaz swayed contentedly in his saddle, happy creases round the corners of his eyes as he watched Ninefingers fumble with his reins. Ferro scowled off across the plain.

She had much preferred it when no one had liked each other. That was comfortable, and familiar. That she understood. Trust, and comradeship, and good humour, these things were so far in the past for her that they were almost unknown.

And who likes the unknown?

Ferro had seen a lot of dead men. She had made more than her share. She had buried a good few with her own hands. Death was her trade and her pastime. But she had never seen near so many corpses all at once. The sickly grass was scattered with them. She slid down from her saddle and walked among the bodies. There was nothing to tell who fought who, or one side from the other.

The dead all look alike.

Especially once they have been picked over—their armour, and their weapons, and half their clothes taken. They lay heaped thick and tangled in one spot, in the long shadow of a broken pillar. An ancient-looking thing, split and shattered, crumbling stone sprouting with withered grass and spotted with lichen. A big black bird sat on top of it, wings folded, peering at Ferro with beady, unblinking eyes as she came close.

The corpse of a huge man was lying half-propped against the battered stone below, a broken staff still gripped in his lifeless hand, dark blood and dark dirt crusted under the nails. Most likely the staff had held a flag, Ferro thought. Soldiers seemed to care a great deal for flags. She had never understood that. You could not kill a man with one. You could not protect yourself with one. And yet men would die for flags.

“Foolishness,” she muttered, frowning up at the big bird on the pillar.

“A massacre,” said Ninefingers.

Bayaz grunted and rubbed his chin. “But of who, by whom?”

Ferro could see Luthar’s swollen face peering wide-eyed and worried over the side of the cart. Quai was just in front of him on the driver’s seat, the reins dangling loose in his hands, his face expressionless as he looked down at the corpses.

Ferro turned over one of the bodies and sniffed at it. Pale skin, dark lips, no smell yet. “It did not happen long ago. Two days, maybe?”

“But no flies?” Ninefingers frowned at the bodies. A few birds were perched on them, watching. “Just birds. And they’re not eating. Strange.”

“Not really, friend!” Ferro jerked her head up. A man was striding quickly towards them across the battlefield, a tall pink in a ragged coat, a gnarled length of wood in one hand. He had an unkempt head of greasy hair, a long, matted beard. His eyes bulged bright and wild in a face carved with deep lines. Ferro stared at him, not sure how he could have come so close without her noticing.

The birds rose up from the bodies at the sound of his voice, but they did not scatter from him. They flew towards him, some settling on his shoulders, some flapping about his head and round him in wide circles. Ferro reached for her bow, snatching at an arrow, but Bayaz held out his arm. “No.”

“Do you see this?” The tall pink pointed at the broken pillar, and the bird flapped from it and across onto his outstretched finger. “A hundred-mile column! One hundred miles to Aulcus!” He dropped his arm and the bird hopped onto his shoulder, next to the others, and sat there, still and silent. “You stand on the very borders of the dead land! No animals come here that are not made to come!”

“How now, brother?” called Bayaz, and Ferro shoved her arrow unhappily away. Another Magus. She might have guessed. Whenever you put two of these old fools together there were sure to be a lot of lips flapping, a lot of words made.

And that meant a lot of lies.

“The Great Bayaz!” shouted the new arrival as he came closer. “The First of the Magi! I heard tell you were coming from the birds of the air, the fish of the water, the beasts of the earth, and now I see with my own eyes, and yet still I scarcely believe. Can it be? That those blessed feet should touch this bloody ground?”

He planted his staff on the earth, and as he did the big black bird scrambled from his shoulder and grasped the tip with its claws, flapping its wings until it was settled. Ferro took a cautious step back, putting one hand on her knife. She did not intend to be shat on by one of those things.

“Zacharus,” said Bayaz, swinging down stiffly from his saddle, although it seemed to Ferro he said the name with little joy. “You look in good health, brother.”

“I look tired. I look tired, and dirty, and mad, for that is what I am. You are difficult to find, Bayaz. I have been searching all across the plain and back.”

“We have been keeping out of sight. Khalul’s allies are seeking for us also.” Bayaz’ eyes twitched over the carnage. “Is this your work?”

“That of my charge, young Goltus. He is fierce as a lion, I tell you, and makes as fine an Emperor as the great men of old! He has captured his greatest rival, his brother Scario, and has shown him mercy.” Zacharus sniffed. “Not my advice, but the young will have their way. These were the last of Scario’s men. Those who would not surrender.” He flapped a careless hand at the corpses, and the birds on his shoulders flapped with him.

“Mercy only goes so far,” observed Bayaz.

“They would not run into the dead land, so here they made their stand, and here they died, in the shadow of the hundred-mile columns. Goltus took the standard of the Third Legion from them. The very standard that Stolicus himself rode into battle under. A relic of the Old Time! Just as you and I are, brother.”

Bayaz did not seem impressed. “A piece of old cloth. It did these fellows precious little good. Carrying a stretch of moth-food does not make a man Stolicus.”

“Perhaps not. The thing is much faded, truth be told. Its jewels were all torn out and sold long ago to buy weapons.”

“Jewels are a luxury in these days, but everyone needs weapons. Where is your young Emperor now?”

“Already on his way back eastwards with no time even to burn the dead. He is heading for Darmium, to lay siege to the city and hang this madman Cabrian from the walls. Then perhaps we can have peace.”

Bayaz gave a joyless snort. “Do you even remember what it feels like, to have peace?”

“You might be surprised at what I remember.” And Zacharus’ bulging eyes stared down at Bayaz. “But how are matters in the wider world? How is Yulwei?”