“Furious!” shouted Dow. “That’s what y’are!”

Grim had already stepped out of the bushes, bow over his shoulder, and was squatting down, dragging a bloody fur from one of the corpses. “Good coat,” he muttered to himself.

West watched them all pick over the campsite, bent over and sick and utterly spent. He listened to Dow laughing. “Furious!” cackled his harsh voice. “That’s what I’ll call you!”

“They got arrows over here.” The Dogman pulled something out of one of the packs on the ground, and grinned. “And cheese. Bit dusty.” He picked some mould off the wedge of yellow with his dirty fingers, bit into it, and grinned. “Still good though.”

“Lots o’ good stuff,” nodded Threetrees, starting to smile himself. “And we’re all still going, more or less. Good day’s work, lads.” He slapped Tul on the back. “We’d best head on north quick before these lot are missed. Let’s get what there is fast and pick up those other two.”

West’s mind was only just starting to move again. “The others!”

“Alright,” said Threetrees, “you and Dow check on them… Furious.” He turned away with half a smile.

West lurched off through the trees the way he’d come, slipping and sliding in his haste, blood pulsing again. “Protect the Prince,” he muttered to himself. He waded across the stream almost without noticing the cold, struggled onto the far bank and back uphill, hurrying towards the cliff where they had left the others.

He heard a woman’s scream, quickly cut off, a man’s voice growling. Horror crept through every part of his body. Bethod’s men had found them. It might already be too late. He urged his burning legs on up the slope, stumbling and sliding in the mud. Had to protect the Prince. The air burned in his throat but he forced himself on, fingers clutching at the tree trunks, scrabbling at the loose twigs and needles on the frosty ground.

He burst out into the open space beside the cliff, breathing hard, the bloody sword gripped tight in his fist.

Two figures struggled on the ground. Cathil was underneath, wriggling on her back, kicking and clawing at someone on top of her. The man had managed to drag her trousers down below her knees and now he was fiddling with his own belt while he struggled to hold his other hand across her mouth. West took a step forward, raising the sword high, and the man’s head snapped round. West blinked. The would-be rapist was none other than Crown Prince Ladisla himself.

When he saw West he stumbled up and took a step back. He had a slightly sheepish expression, almost a grin, like a schoolboy caught stealing a pie from the kitchen. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought you’d be longer.”

West stared at him, hardly able to understand what was happening. “Longer?”

“You fucking bastard!” screamed Cathil, scrambling back and dragging her trousers up. “I’ll fucking kill you!”

Ladisla touched his lip. “She bit me! Look!” He held his bloody finger tips out as though they were proof of an outrage perpetrated against him. West found himself moving forwards. The Prince must have seen something in his face, because he took a step away, holding up one hand while he held up his trousers with the other. “Now hold on, West, just—”

There was no towering rage. No temporary blindness, no limbs moving by themselves, not the slightest trace of a headache. There was no anger at all. West had never in his life felt so calm, so sober, so sure of himself. He chose to do it.

His right arm jerked out and his open palm thumped against Ladisla’s chest. The Crown Prince gave a gentle gasp as he stumbled sharply backwards. His left foot twisted in the mud. He put down his right foot, but there was no ground behind him. His brows went up, his mouth and eyes opened with silent shock. The heir to the throne of the Union fell away from West, his hands clutching vainly, turning slowly to his side in the air… and he was gone.

There was a short, breathy cry, a thumping sound, and another, a long clattering of stones.

Then silence.

West stood there, blinking.

He turned to look at Cathil.

She was frozen, a couple of strides away, eyes gawping wide open.

“You… you…”

“I know.” It hardly sounded like his voice. He edged to the very brink of the cliff, and peered over. Ladisla’s corpse lay drooped face down over the rocks far below, West’s ragged coat spread out behind him, trousers round his ankles, one knee bent back the wrong way, a ring of dark blood spreading out across the stones around his broken head. Never had anyone looked more dead.

West swallowed. He had done that. Him. He had killed the heir to the throne. He had murdered him in cold blood. He was a criminal. He was a traitor. He was a monster.

And he almost wanted to laugh. The sunny Agriont, where loyalty and deference were given without question, where commoners did what their betters told them, where the killing of other people was simply not the done thing, all this was very far away. Monster he might be, but, out here in the frozen wilderness of Angland, the rules were different. Monsters were in the majority.

He felt a hand clap him heavily on the shoulder. He looked up to see Black Dow’s earless head beside him, peering down. The Northman whistled softly through pursed lips. “Well, that’s the end of that, I reckon. You know what, Furious?” And he grinned sideways at West. “I’m getting to like you, boy.”

To the Last Man

General Vissbruck slowly lowered the letter, his jaws locked tight together. “Are we to understand then, Superior, that you are leaving us?” His voice was cracking slightly. With panic? With fear? With anger? Who could blame him, for any one of them?

The room was much the same as it had been the first day Glokta arrived in the city. The superb mosaics, the masterful carvings, the polished table, all shining in the early morning sun streaming through the tall windows. The ruling council itself, however, is sadly reduced. Vissbruck, his jowls bulging over the stiff collar of his embroidered jacket, and Haddish Kahdia, slumped tiredly in his chair, were all that remained. Nicomo Cosca stood apart, leaning against the wall near the window and picking his fingernails.

Glokta took a deep breath. “The Arch Lector wants me to… explain myself.”

Vissbruck gave a squeaky chuckle. “For some reason, the image of rats fleeing a burning house springs to mind.” An apt metaphor. If the rats are fleeing the flames to fling themselves into a mincing machine.

“Come now, General.” Cosca let his head roll back against the wall, a faint smile on his lips. “The Superior didn’t have to come to us with this. He could have stolen away in the night, and no one any the wiser. That’s what I’d have done.”

“Allow me to have scant regard for what you might have done,” sneered Vissbruck. “Our situation is critical. The land walls are lost, and with them all chance of holding out for long. The slums swarm with Gurkish soldiers. Every night we make sallies from the gates of the Upper City. We burn a ram. We kill some sentries while they sleep. But every day they bring up more equipment. Soon, perhaps, they will have cleared space down among the hovels and assembled their great catapults. Shortly thereafter, one imagines, the Upper City will come under sustained fire from incendiaries!” He stabbed an arm at the window. “They might even reach the Citadel from there! This very room may sport a boulder the size of a woodshed as a centrepiece!”