Mark Lawrence - The Wheel of Osheim

What Snorri saw in the mists I couldn’t say, but neither of us spoke until the autumn sun unravelled the last white thread from the riverbanks. By that time the current had borne us ten miles and we’d seen no trace of the Dead King’s army at any point.

Murder, sensible horse that he was, proved to be terrified of boats and the process of getting him on to dry land without anyone getting kicked to death proved tricky. It wasn’t far off noon by the time all four steeds had been assembled ashore and we’d checked our gear. Garyus had foisted Luntar’s “box of ghosts” on me, saying it might prove useful in Osheim. I suspected he just didn’t want a box of ghosts any more than I did.

“What is that?” Snorri asked as I carried it away.

“That,” I said. “Holds the ghosts of a million Builders. Aslaug’s in there too.”

“I thought you locked her back in the dark place?” He didn’t look as worried as he should be.

“Well, not Aslaug , the woman who became Aslaug. Her ghost. It’s complicated.”

“Aslaug was human once? What about Baraqel? Is he in there too?”

“Probably. Don’t know. Don’t care. The thing gives me the creeps. None of them have anything useful to say anyway.”

I buried the box deep in a saddlebag on my back-up mount, a chestnut mare with the unreasonable name of Squire, and did my very best to forget about it.

Half an hour found us riding at a measured pace along the road to Verona, two gentlemen about their business on a day as pleasant as any autumn has to offer. The fields lay empty, the richness of their harvest gathered in, each farmhouse stood undisturbed, quiet in the fastness of the land, the honest folk of Red March about their duties. We passed a charcoal yard, a wagon at its gates filling up with sacks, a yellow dog on the step of the owner’s shack, too lazy to chase us. It seemed amazing that life passed so gently here, undisturbed by the horror at Vermillion. Looking back, I couldn’t even see the smoke of the outer city.

“I could almost feel safe out here.” The road wound past a copse of trees all burning with autumn’s fire, only the oaks held to their green against the distant threat of winter and even they were touched with gold. “Almost safe. At least with a good horse under me.” I slapped Murder’s neck. The night’s terror nibbled around the edges of my imagination but sunshine and open country helped me to do what I do best-lock all the bad stuff away and forget it for the moment. “There’s a good inn along this stretch of the road. I’m sure of it. We should stop and get some lunch. Roast pork and ale would do nicely.” The loss of a night’s sleep started to weigh on me, combining with the day’s warmth, and the thought of a good meal, to make me dozy. I fought to keep my eyes open, yawning wide enough to click my jaw.

The next turn of the road brought a sight so unexpected that every ounce of sleepiness dropped away, along with every trace of the sense of security that had been winding around me.

“A very little man on a very big horse, with a sword that’s too long for him,” Snorri stated the obvious.

“And a lot of friends.” I already had Murder turned most of the way around. Why Count Isen might be sat in our path at the head of a column of several hundred men I couldn’t say. The important thing was that I really didn’t want to know. Our duel might have been behind us, but I’d had extensive carnal knowledge of his wife, the eldest of the DeVeer sisters: no doubt the little bastard would find some new way to twist the fact against me.

Snorri leaned from his saddle and caught my reins. “This is your country, Jal. Aren’t these men yours to command?”

“He’s a count,” I said. “His loyalty is to the queen.” I tugged at Murder’s harness, trying to free us from the Northman’s grip. “He’s also a madman who hates me. So I plan on circumnavigating him with the help of some of the local lanes-cross-country if we need to-trust me, it’s not going to end well otherwise. Present ourselves and at the very best we’re delayed, more likely he murders us both.”

Snorri let go with a shrug. “When you put it like that . . .” He started to turn too, then paused. “Kara?”

I glanced back over my shoulder. There was a blonde woman standing in front of the first rank of foot soldiers, Isen on one side of her, four mounted knights to the other side. It couldn’t be Kara, though. “It’s not her.” I set off back along the way we’d come, Squire following dutifully on her rope.

“Prince Jalan!” Count Isen’s voice carried well on the still air. “I have two northlings here that claim to know you.”

“Hennan?” Snorri called out.

“Ah hell.” I turn Murder back. Making a break for it still seemed like the best idea but I knew I wouldn’t be taking Snorri with me, and I had a long, dangerous path ahead. “What do you want, Isen?”

“Perhaps you could do me the honour of approaching so we don’t have to shout down the road at each other like peasants.”

I had a bad feeling about the whole affair but advanced reluctantly, pulling up five yards shy of him. The infantry lining the road behind the count and his knights wore the Isen livery over light chainmail, their spears making a thicket above hundreds of iron skullcaps. Kara and Hennan stood in the shadow of the knights’ horses, both of them travelstained but in better shape than when I left them. It’s hard to look pleased and worried at the same time but the völva and the boy were doing a fine job of it.

Kara opened her mouth but Isen spoke before she got a word out. “I’ve been east, protecting the queen’s supply lines into Slov.” The little count kept those unforgiving beads he’d been given instead of eyes pointed firmly my way. “But word reached me that the city is under siege. Burning, even? I would have cursed the riders for liars but I could see the glow myself last night as we drew nearer.” A tight little smile flickered across Isen’s lips. “I must have been mistaken though. A prince of Red March would not be riding away from the city in its hour of peril!”

“The steward has sent us on an urgent mission.” I indicated Snorri since Isen had singularly ignored him. Perhaps he felt the very existence of so large a man an insult to the short measure allocated to him despite his high station. “And you have been correctly informed-Vermillion stands besieged and the outer city has been burned.”

“By God!” Count Isen stood up in his stirrups as if the news were too galling to take sitting down. “Who the hell would dare? Rhonish coming down the river is it? No! An Adoran revolt! I told Queen Alica a dozen times to watch her back. Any adventure to the east begs treachery in the west. And how in God’s name did they get to the capital so swiftly? Are our border guard so lightly thrown aside?”

“It’s the Dead King who attacks us,” I said. “The troops didn’t cross our borders-they’re the dead of Vermillion, risen from their graves, or from where they were slaughtered yesterday.” Isen opened his mouth, his expression telling me that it would be to object to what would have sounded like nonsense to me as well a year previously. I forestalled him with a raised hand. “Just believe it, Isen, I’m really too tired to argue. Or if you can’t believe then reserve your judgment until you get there-either way, you’ve seen the fire for yourself, so believe that your help is needed and get these men there as quickly as possible.” I drew a deep breath and redirected the conversation by pointing at Kara and Hennan. “So tell me: why is so high a man keeping such low company?”

“Come down off your horse, Prince Jalan, and we’ll discuss the matter.”