Humiliation. The denizens of the tavern had witnessed it, delivered by Serap herself, and Bortan and Skrael were hungry to pass it on.
Parlyn was tired. They’d been given the task of removing what was left of Serap, but it seemed that her energy – what little remained – was trickling away, drip by drip. Even her soldiers stood as if uncertain where to start.
But a vicious fight with the locals would answer their need quickly enough. Sighing, she stirred into motion, stepping into the room. ‘Skrael, find us a sack, for the head. Bortan, take Feled there and go hunt us down a stretcher.’ She paused, glancing across to the last three soldiers in the squad. ‘The rest of you, take station outside, eyes on the street.’
That last command was not well received. It was cold out there. Parlyn scowled until the three soldiers shuffled towards the door. She glanced back to see the barkeep appear from the kitchen with a burlap sack, which he pushed into Skrael’s hands.
Bortan, with a final glare back at the brothers, joined Feled at the door. They exited.
One of the brothers stepped forward, eyes on Parlyn, who raised her brows. The man hesitated, and then said, ‘She did good by us, sir. We’d like to be the ones to carry that stretcher … to wherever it needs going.’
Parlyn frowned. She glanced across at Skrael, who stood near the table, staring down at the severed head. There was no question that he’d heard. The corporal moved close to the farmer and said in a low voice, ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but by the time Bortan gets back, I expect you four to be gone. Our blood’s up, you see. Someone’s murdered a Legion officer. It’s our business now.’
The man looked back at his brothers, and then faced her again. ‘To show our respect, you see.’
‘I understand. If her ghost lingers, she’ll know how you feel. Go home, now.’
‘Well, I hope you catch that murderer, that’s all.’
‘We will.’
The four made their way out of the tavern. Parlyn watched them leave and then turned to see Skrael glaring at her.
‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘it’d be easier, wouldn’t it?’
‘Sir?’
‘If they were the shits you wanted them to be.’
‘Not just me, sir. You called us out this night, to do some hunting.’
‘I did. Turns out, we were hunting the wrong enemy. I’ll accept that, with humility. You might try the same. Now, is that a coin there in the blood?’
He looked down at the table. ‘It is.’
‘Slip it into her mouth and close up that jaw, if you can. Silver eases the ghost.’
Skrael nodded. ‘So they say.’
He collected up the coin and studied it for a moment. ‘Barkeep says this one was Sharenas’s. Paying for the drink, I suppose.’
Parlyn had heard the same. It seemed an odd thing to do. She wondered about the conversation between those two officers, and how it could have led to what had happened here. She wondered, too, how Hunn Raal had known.
The sound the head made when Skrael pulled it free triggered in Parlyn an old memory from her childhood. Out behind the house where the wagon ruts ran down into that dip in the road. Mud that could pull your boot right off if you weren’t careful.
We used to think it was bottomless, that mud, enough to suck you right down, swallow you whole.
Yes, that’s the sound.
Left behind on the tabletop, blood and strands of hair. An empty tankard.
Well, I guess we’re not all going up on report after all. There’s a bright side to everything. And when Raal catches up to Sharenas, why, we’ll see her swing.
Skrael moved past her, the sack clutched in both hands. He grimaced. ‘Heavier than I expected, sir. Where to?’
‘Put it down by the door. We’ll wait for Bortan and Feled with the stretcher.’
She heard him cross the room, but did not turn. He’d pocketed the silver coin, she had seen. But the night was nearly done, and she was past caring.
EIGHT
The two horsemen rode out through the thinning forest. The day was cold, the sky clear but dull, as if hidden behind a veil of soot. They were slumped in their saddles, the horses walking, and, as ever, the two men were engaged in conversation.
‘A most high court, a most select education, and see what it brings us, Dathenar.’
Dathenar rolled his broad shoulders beneath the heavy cloak. ‘Every bridge is but an interlude, Prazek,’ he said. ‘The arc and the span held more worth than we imagined on that dread night of our faltering. We should have stood fast at our station, scowling in each direction. Back to back, and so facing all manner of dire threat.’
‘Dire threat indeed,’ Prazek said, nodding. ‘The treacherous wind, gusting so foul and portentous.’
‘The unleavened night, bitter as black bread.’
‘Fend us, too, Dathenar, from wretched imagination all our own, and the venal thoughts of irate commanders, prone to dancing on our bones. And if we still be clothed around our precious sticks, muscle and gristle bound to honourable purpose, well, that is faint distinction.’
‘You speak ill of Silchas Ruin?’
Prazek worked with his tongue at something stuck between his teeth, somewhere near the back, and then said, ‘I’ve seen white crows with softer regard, and indeed am known to fashion a pleasant disposition from their glittering beads.’
Dathenar reached up and rubbed at his bearded jaw. ‘You liken us to carrion, and our lord’s brother to the winged arbiter of every battlefield. But bleached of hue, you say? In war, I wager, every field is aflutter with black and white. Foe and friend, all those hostile comments and unpleasant looks, and laughter the kind to make you shiver. In all, a misanthropic place, ill suited to civil debate.’
‘I’ve heard tell,’ Prazek said, ‘of a time when we were gentle. Fresh upon the land, behind us some sordid path spewing us out from some forbidden tale of misadventure. But see these majestic trees, we said! Such clear streams! A river like bold sinew to bind the world. Why, here were pits studded with ore, bitumen for the fires, soft hills to welcome sheep and goats.’
‘Even then, I suggest,’ said Dathenar, ‘there were crows of white and crows of black, to keep things simple.’
Prazek shrugged, still trying to dislodge whatever was jammed between two molars. ‘Simple enough for the flames and the forge, the night sky filled with sparks and embers. Simple, too, for the columns of smoke and the sludge to foul every pool, every lake and every stream. Why, we were avatars of Dark even then, though we knew it not. But still, let’s look back on those gentle times, and take note of their myriad instances of gentlest murder.’
‘Destruction is known to thrive in indifference,’ Dathenar said. ‘We are in sleep, calmly, and indeed comely, committed to our placid repose. As you say, these are instances of gentle mayhem, ruckled and ruined, and blissfully innocent the hands gripping the axe.’
‘Weapons needed forging, of course,’ Prazek said, nodding and then spitting. ‘Civilization’s demands are simple ones, after all. Unambiguous, you might say. It is only in the boredom of Kurald Galain’s advanced age, such as we find here, that we tangle the threads, nestle in agitation, and upend our civil simplicity, our simple civility, and like so many turtles on our backs, we flinch at crazed scenes on all sides.’
‘And so you long for simpler times.’
‘Just so. White crows upon one flank, black crows upon the other, and every field a battlefield, and every enemy a foe and every comrade a friend. Decide upon the handshake and dispense with mangling complexity. I long for the rural.’
‘And thus the rural finds you, brother.’
Leaving behind the last of the tree stumps and spindly saplings, they rode out upon the track leading into the hills. Ahead, denuded rock outcroppings and sweeps of winter-dead grass made a rough jumble.