Joe Abercrombie - Last Argument of Kings

Vallimir gave her a long frown, then he turned to one of his men, a heavy-built veteran with a scar on his cheek. “There is a village just east of here, is there not, Sergeant Forest?”

“Yes, sir. Marlhof is no more than ten miles distant.”

“Will that suit you?” asked Vallimir, raising one eyebrow at Ferro.

“Dead Gurkish suit me. That is all.”

“Carleon,” said Logen. “Aye,” said Dogman. It squatted there, in the fork of the river, under the brooding clouds. Hard shapes of tall walls and towers on the sheer bluff above the fast-flowing water, up where Skarling’s hall used to stand. Slate roofs and stone buildings squashed in tight on the long downward slope, clustered in round the foot of the hill and with another wall outside, everything leant a cold, sharp shine from the rain just finished falling. Dogman couldn’t say he was glad to see the place again. Every visit yet had turned out badly.

“It’s changed some, since the battle, all them years ago.” Logen was looking down at his spread-out hand, waggling the stump of his missing finger.

“There weren’t no walls like that round it then.”

“No. But there weren’t no Union army round it neither.”

Dogman couldn’t deny it was a comforting fact. The Union pickets worked their way through the empty fields about the city, a wobbly line of earthworks, and stakes, and fences, with men moving behind ’em, dull sunlight catching metal now and then. Thousands of men, well-armed and vengeful, keeping Bethod penned up.

“You sure he’s in there?”

“Don’t see where else he’s got to go. He lost most of his best boys up in the mountains. No friends left, I reckon.”

“We’ve all got less than we used to,” Dogman muttered. “I guess we just sit here. We got time, after all. Lots of it. We sit here and watch the grass grow, and we wait for Bethod to give up.”

“Aye.” But Logen didn’t look like he believed it.

“Aye,” said Dogman. But just giving up didn’t sound much like the Bethod he knew.

He turned his head at the sound of hooves fast on the road, saw one of those messengers with a helmet like an angry chicken race from the trees and towards West’s tent, horse well-lathered from hard riding. He reined up in a fumbling hurry, near fell out of his saddle in his rush to get down, wobbled past a few staring officers and in through the flap. Dogman felt that familiar weight of worry in his gut. “That’s got the taste o’ bad news.”

“What other kind is there?”

There was some flutter down there now, soldiers shouting, throwing their arms around. “Best go and see what’s happened,” muttered Dogman, though he’d much rather have walked the other way. Crummock was stood near the tent, frowning at the commotion.

“Something’s up,” said the hillman. “But I don’t understand a thing these Southerners say or do. I swear, they’re all mad.”

Mad chatter came surging out of that tent alright, when Dogman pushed back the flap. There were Union officers all around the place and in a bastard of a muddle. West was in the midst of it, face pale as fresh milk, his fists clenched tight around nothing.

“Furious!” Dogman grabbed him by the arm. “What the hell’s happening?”

“The Gurkish have invaded Midderland.” West pulled his arm free and took to shouting.

“The who have done what now?” muttered Crummock.

“The Gurkish.” Logen was frowning deep. “Brown folk, from way down south. Hard folk, by all accounts.”

Pike had come up now, his burned face grim. “They landed an army by sea. They might have reached Adua already.”

“Hold on, now.” Dogman didn’t know a thing about Gurkish, or Adua, or Midderland, but his bad feeling was getting worse every moment. “What’re you telling us, exactly?”

“We’ve been ordered home. Now.”

Dogman stared. He should’ve known all along it couldn’t be this simple. He grabbed West by the arm again, stabbing down towards Carleon with his dirty finger. “We’ve nothing like the men we need to carry on a siege o’ this place without you!”

“I know,” said West, “and I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do. Get over to General Poulder!” he snapped at a young lad with a squint. “Tell him to get his division ready to march for the coast at once!”

Dogman blinked, feeling sick to his stomach. “So we fought seven days in the High Places for nothing? Tul died, and the dead know how many more, for nothing?” It always took him by surprise, how fast something could fall apart once you were leaning on it. “That’s it, then. Back to woods, and cold, and running, and killing. No end to it.”

“Might be another way,” said Crummock.

“What way?”

The chief of the hillmen had a sly grin. “You know, don’t you Bloody-Nine?”

“Aye. I know.” Logen had a look like a man who knows he’s about to hang, and he’s staring at the tree they’re going to do it from. “When have you got to leave, Furious?”

West frowned. “We have a lot of men and not a lot of road. Poulder’s division tomorrow, I imagine, and Kroy’s the day after.”

Crummock’s grin got a shade wider. “So all day tomorrow, there’ll be piles o’ men sat here, dug in round Bethod, looking like they’re never going nowhere, eh?”

“I suppose there could be.”

“Give me tomorrow,” said Logen. “Give me just that and maybe I can settle things. Then I’ll come south with you if I’m still alive, and bring who I can. That’s my word. We’ll help you with the Gurkish.”

“What difference can one day make?” asked West.

“Aye,” muttered Dogman, “what’s one day?” Trouble was, he could already guess the answer.

Water trickled under the old bridge, past the trees and off down the green hillside. Down towards Carleon. Logen watched a few yellow leaves carried on it, turning round and round, dragged past the mossy stones. He wished that he could just float away, but it didn’t seem likely.

“We fought here,” said the Dogman. “Threetrees and Tul, Dow and Grim, and me. Forley’s buried in them woods somewhere.”

“You want to go up there?” asked Logen. “Give him a visit, see if—”

“What for? I doubt a visit’ll do me any good, and I’m damn sure it won’t do him any. Nothing will. That’s what it is to be dead. You sure about this, Logen?”

“You see another way? The Union won’t stick. Might be our last chance to finish with Bethod. Not that much to lose, is there?”

“There’s your life.”

Logen took a long breath. “Can’t think of too many people who place much value on that. You coming down?”

Dogman shook his head. “Reckon I’ll stay up here. I had a belly full o’ Bethod.”

“Alright then. Alright.” It was as if all the moments of Logen’s life, things said and things done, choices he hardly remembered making, had led him to this. Now there was no choice at all. Maybe there never had been. He was like the leaves on the water—carried along, down towards Carleon, and nothing he could do about it. He gave his heels to his horse and off down the slope alone, down the dirt track, beside the gurgling stream.

Everything seemed picked out clearer than usual, as the day wore down. He rode past trees, damp leaves getting ready to fall— golden yellow, burning orange, vivid purple, all the colours of fire. Down towards the valley bottom through the heavy air, just a trace of autumn mist to it, sharp in his throat. The sounds of saddle creaking, harness rattling, hoofbeats in the soft ground all came muffled. He trotted through the empty fields, turned mud pocked with weeds, past the Union pickets, a ditch and a line of sharpened stakes, three times bowshot from the walls. Soldiers there, in studded jackets and steel caps, watched him pass with frowns on their faces.