Richard Morgan - The Steel Remains

Ringil stared bleakly down at him.

“I’ve had better than you drunk in a Yhelteth back alley,” he said coldly, and chopped Seethlaw’s head and face open with the Ravensfriend.

Withdrew the blade, brandished it high and screamed.

A dark lord will rise.

Yeah, right.

Then he set his boot on the dying dwenda’s chest and shoved him aside. He took two suddenly shaky steps down into the street and what remained of the battle. The roar of the remaining men went on, the dwenda looked to be falling back. Ringil blinked to clear vision which had suddenly, unaccountably gone blurred. He stared around him.

“ Who’s fucking next? ” he screamed.

And crumpled bleeding into the mud.

The road northwest out of Pranderghal rose into the hills on slow, looping hairpin turns, fading finally to a thin, pale gray line as it disappeared over the saddle between two peaks. On a day with clear weather—like today—you could see riders coming for a good two or three hours before they hit town.

Or you could watch a couple of them riding away.

Archeth and Egar sat out drinking tankards of ale in the garden of the Swamp Dog Inn, still slightly disbelieving that the warmth and good weather could hold up this long. There was a sporadic, ruffling breeze out of the north that robbed the sun of some of its comfort whenever it gusted, but it was tough to see how that would have justified complaint. Mostly, they were both just glad to be alive when so many others they knew were not. It was, Egar supposed, much the same feeling Marnak had talked about— you start wondering why you made it to the end of the day, why you’re still standing when the field is clogged with other men’s blood and corpses. Why the Dwellers are keeping you alive, what purpose the Sky Home has laid out for you —but mellowed into a slightly numb bliss beyond caring, beyond worrying much about the why.

“Swamp dog,” said Archeth, tapping idly at the raised emblem on her tankard. It was a crude miniature copy of the painted sign that hung on the street side of the inn, and showed a monstrous-looking hound, up to its belly in swamp water with a dead snake in its jaws and a spiked collar around its neck. “Always wondered about that. First thing Elith said to me— get between a swamp dog and its dinner, I had no idea what she meant.”

Egar snorted. “Seems pretty fucking obvious to me.”

“Yeah, but you were out here working scavenger crews for months, working with swamp dogs day in, day out probably.”

“Working a month before you showed up, a single month, and that was only because Takavach told me I had to. Not like I exactly took to the trade. Anyway.” He spread his hands, gestured at her tankard. “Swamp. Dog. Got a sort of self-evident ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Ah, fuck you then.”

“Yeah, you keep promising, I keep waiting.”

She kicked him under the trestle. But her grin smeared away almost immediately, and she grew serious again.

“This Takavach. You say he wore a leather cloak and a brimmed hat.”

“Yeah. Always does, it’s in all the stories. He’s from, uhm.” Egar frowned, groping for a decent translation from the Majak. “ ‘All the places the ocean will always be heard.’ Something like that. Cavorts with mermaids in the surf and so forth. Cloak and hat’s like a symbol for it; it’s like a northern ship captain’s rig.” Egar propped himself up a little in his seat and peered at her. “Why?”

Archeth shook her head. “Forget it.”

“C’mon. Why?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. Just, the day Idrashan got better, got back on his feet again, one of the stable boys swore to me he’d walked in on some guy in a hat and cloak like that. Apparently, he was leaning over the rail of Idrashan’s stall and talking to him in some weird foreign language. And I remember now, there was some talk of the same figure walking the streets at evening in Beksanara when we first arrived. Thought it was just the usual swamp horseshit at the time.”

They looked at each other for a few moments in silence. For Archeth at least, it seemed that the breeze chose just that moment to chill the air, and a cloud wiped out the sun. But Egar only shrugged.

“Sure, could have been.”

“Could have been what? Horseshit?”

“No, could have been that fucker Takavach.”

Archeth blinked. “You believe that?”

Egar leaned forward a little. “Look, if he took the trouble to save my arse and magic me all the way down to Ennishmin, just so I could procure our old pal Angeleyes for the battle of Beksanara . . .” A shrug. “Well then, he’s certainly not going to balk at feeding your horse a few rotten apples to keep you pinned there for the same reason, is he? Or are you going to tell me you don’t believe in gods and demons and dwenda?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” she muttered.

“Believe it, if it’s cruel and unjust and brutal on the weak,” said a somber voice behind her. “That way, you won’t be far out.”

They both turned to look at him, and it was still a struggle for Archeth not to catch her breath at the sight.

He stood in the knee-deep grass of the garden, clad mostly in black that made even his southern-blooded skin seem yellowish pale. His right arm was bound up in a gray cloth sling, the black cotton stitches were still in the wound along his jaw, and the other bruises and scrapes on his face had not yet faded fully away. But mostly, it was the eyes that told the story, that made her think Ringil Eskiath had not, after all, survived the dwenda encounter at Beksanara the way she and Egar had.

The pommel of the Ravensfriend jutted up over his shoulder like a spike driven into him.

“All set?” she asked, with a breeziness she didn’t much feel.

“Yeah. Sherin’s with the horses. Turns out, she’s pretty good with them. Used to keep quite a stable apparently, back before Bilgrest pissed all their money away.”

“You—” Archeth stopped herself. “She going to be okay?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“The doctor says she hadn’t been harmed physically, at least not in the recent past. He’s a good man, Gil, I know him. I asked for him specifically when we sent to Khartaghnal. If he says she’s unharmed—”

“He’s used to dealing with soldiers.” There was a floating emptiness in Ringil’s tone, as if none of this really mattered anymore. “With men grateful just because they can still walk out of his tent on two feet. Doesn’t matter how good a man he is, his opinion’s not going to be worth a harbor-end fuck. Sherin screams in her dreams, all the time. She flinches at the mention of Poppy Snarl’s name, which I imagine means it was Snarl’s company that bought her at the Chancellery clearinghouse. She’s been a slave , Archeth. I know you imperials don’t think that’s any big deal, but—”

“Hoy!” She stood up to face him. “It’s me you’re talking to here, Gil.”

The confrontation lasted a couple of moments longer than it should have. She felt a faint chill on her neck as she stared into her friend’s eyes. Then he looked away, past her to the road and the hills it led into.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right, of course. You’re not like the rest of them.”

But Ishgrim’s lush pale form floated through her mind, and Archeth was suddenly terrified that Ringil could see into her head and know what she was thinking.

“Don’t suppose the swamp time did her any favors, either,” Egar rumbled with what was, for him, an oddly deft diplomacy. “Stuck out there with the dwenda and those ruins and all those fucking heads fencing her in night and day.”