Glokta shuffled out of his room, grumbling, stretching his neck to either side, rubbing his sore palms, working his aching shoulders round his ears and hearing the joints click. A difficult interrogation. Severard was sitting cross-legged on the floor opposite, his head resting against the dirty wall. “Has he signed?”
“Of course.”
“Lovely. Another mystery solved, eh, chief?”
“I doubt it. He’s no Eater. Not like Shickel was, anyway. He feels pain, believe me.”
Severard shrugged. “She said the talents were different for each of them.”
“She did. She did.” But still. Glokta wiped at his runny eye, thinking. Someone murdered the Prince. Someone had something to gain from his death. I would like to know who, even if no one else cares. “There are some questions I still need to ask. The guard at the Prince’s chambers last night. I want to speak to him.”
The Practical raised his brows. “Why? We’ve got the paper haven’t we?”
“Just bring him in.”
Severard unfolded his legs and sprang up. “Alright, then, you’re the boss.” He pushed himself away from the greasy wall and sauntered off down the corridor. “One Knight of the Body, coming right up.”
Holding the Line
“Did you sleep?” asked Pike, scratching at the less burned side of his ruined face.
“No. You?”
The convict turned Sergeant shook his head.
“Not for days,” murmured Jalenhorm, wistfully. He shaded his eyes with a hand and squinted up towards the northern ridge, a ragged outline of trees under the iron grey sky. “Poulder’s division already set off through the woods?”
“Before first light,” said West. “We should hear that he’s in position soon. And now it looks as if Kroy’s ready to go. You have to respect his punctuality, at least.”
Below Burr’s command post, down in the valley, General Kroy’s division was moving into battle order. Three regiments of the King’s Own foot formed the centre, with a regiment of levies on the higher ground on either wing and the cavalry just behind. It was an entirely different spectacle from the ragged deployment of Ladisla’s makeshift army. The battalions flowed smoothly forwards in tightly ordered columns: tramping through the mud, the tall grass, the patches of snow in the hollows. They halted at their allotted positions and began to spread out into carefully dressed lines, a net of men stretching right across the valley. The chill air echoed with the distant thumping of their feet, the beating of their drums, the clipped calls of their commanders. Everything clean and crisp and according to procedure.
Lord Marshal Burr thrust aside his tent flap and strode out into the open air, acknowledging the salutes of the various guards and officers scattered about the space in front with sharp waves of his hand.
“Colonel,” he growled, frowning up at the heavens. “Still dry, then?”
The sun was a watery smudge on the horizon, the sky thick white with streaks of heavy grey, darker bruises hanging over the northern ridge. “For the moment, sir,” said West.
“No word from Poulder yet?”
“No, sir. But it might be hard-going, the woods are dense.” Not as dense as Poulder himself, West thought, but that hardly seemed the most professional thing to say.
“Did you eat yet?”
“Yes, sir, thank you.” West had not eaten since last night, and even then not much. The very idea of food made him feel sick.
“Well at least one of us did.” Burr placed a hand sourly on his stomach. “Damned indigestion, I can’t touch a thing.” He winced and gave a long burp. “Pardon me. And there they go.”
General Kroy must finally have declared himself satisfied with the precise positioning of every man in his division, because the soldiers in the valley had begun to move forward. A chilly breeze blew up and set the regimental standards, the flags of the battalions, the company ensigns snapping and fluttering. The watery sun twinkled on sharpened blades and burnished armour, shone on gold braid and polished wood, glittered on buckles and harness. All advanced smoothly together, as proud a display of military might as could ever have been seen. Beyond them, down the valley to the east, a great black tower loomed up behind the trees. The nearest tower of the fortress of Dunbrec.
“Quite the spectacle,” muttered Burr. “Fifteen thousand fighting men, perhaps, all told, and almost as many more up on the ridge.” He nodded his head at the reserve, two regiments of cavalry, dismounted and restless down below the command post. “Another two thousand there, waiting for orders.” He glanced back towards the sprawling camp: a city of canvas, of carts, of stacked-up boxes and barrels, spread out in the snowy valley, black figures crawling around inside. “And that’s without counting all the thousands back there—cooks and grooms, smiths and drivers, servants and surgeons.” He shook his head. “Some responsibility, all that, eh? You wouldn’t want to be the fool who had to take care of all that lot.”
West gave a weak smile. “No, sir.”
“It looks like…” murmured Jalenhorm, shading his eyes and squinting down the valley into the sun. “Are those…?”
“Eye-glass!” snapped Burr, and a nearby officer produced one with a flourish. The Marshal flicked it open. “Well, well. Who’s this now?”
A rhetorical question, without a doubt. There was no one else it could be. “Bethod’s Northmen,” said Jalenhorm, ever willing to state the obvious.
West watched them rush across the open ground through the wobbling round window of his own eye-glass. They flowed out from the trees at the far end of the valley, near to the river, spreading out like the dark stain creeping from a slit wrist. Dirty grey and brown masses congealed on the wings. Thralls, lightly armed. In the centre better ordered ranks took shape, dull metal gleaming, mail and blade. Bethod’s Carls.
“No sign of any horse.” That made West more nervous than ever. He had already had one near-fatal encounter with Bethod’s cavalry, and he did not care to renew the acquaintance.
“Feels good to actually see the enemy, at last,” said Burr, voicing the exact opposite of West’s own feelings. “They move smartly enough, that’s sure.” His mouth curved up into a rare grin. “But they’re moving right where we want them to. The trap’s baited and ready to spring, eh, Captain?” He passed the eye-glass to Jalenhorm, who peered through it and grinned himself.
“Right where we want them,” he echoed. West felt a good deal less confident. He could clearly remember the thin line of Northmen on the ridge, right where Ladisla had thought he wanted them.
Kroy’s men halted and the units shuffled into perfect position once again, just as calmly as if they stood on a vast parade ground: lines four ranks deep, reserve companies drawn up neatly behind, a thin row of flatbowmen in front. West just made out the shouted orders to fire, saw the first volley float up from Kroy’s line, shower down in amongst the enemy. He felt his nails digging painfully into his palm as he watched, fists clenched tight, willing the Northmen to the. Instead they sent back a well organised volley of their own, and then began to surge forward.
Their battle cry floated up to the officers outside the tent, that unearthly shriek, carrying on the cold air. West chewed at his lip, remembering the last time he heard it, echoing through the mist. Hard to believe it had only been a few weeks ago. Again he was guiltily glad to be well behind the lines, though a shiver down his back reminded him that it had done little good on that occasion.
“Bloody hell,” said Jalenhorm.
No one else spoke. West stood, teeth gritted, heart thumping, trying desperately to hold his eye-glass steady as the Northmen charged full-blooded down the valley. Kroy’s flatbows gave them one more volley, then pulled back through the carefully prepared gaps in the carefully dressed ranks, forming up again behind the lines. Spears were lowered, shields were raised, and in virtual silence, it seemed, the Union line prepared to meet the howling Northmen.