Or dying in one. Not the way we wanted it, maybe, but he is right. Perhaps we might borrow one final shred of Colonel Gloktas dash before the game is over? I hope I can still count on your help?
Cosca clapped him on the shoulder and sent a painful shudder through his twisted back. A noble last effort, against all the odds? Of course! Though I should mention that I usually charge double once the diabolical arts are involved.
How does triple sound? After all, Valint and Balk have deep pockets.
Coscas grin grew wider. It sounds well.
And your men? Are they reliable?
They are still waiting for four fifths of their pay. Until they receive it I would trust any one of them with my life.
Good. Then we are prepared. Glokta worked his aching foot around in his boot. Just a little further now, my toeless beauty. Just a few shuddering steps more, and one way or another, we both can rest. He opened his fingers and let Goyles confession float down to the frosty floor. To the University, then! His Eminence has never liked to be kept waiting.
Open the Box
Logen could feel the doubt in the men around him, could see the worry on their faces, in the way they held their weapons, and he didnt blame them. A man can be fearless on his own doorstep, against enemies he understands, but take him long miles over the salty sea to strange places he never dreamed of, hell take fright at every empty doorway. And there were an awful lot of those, now.
The city of white towers, where Logen had hurried after the First of the Magi, amazed at the scale of the buildings, the strangeness of the people, the sheer quantity of both, had become a maze of blackened ruins. They crept down empty streets, lined with the outsize skeletons of burned-out houses, charred rafters stabbing at the sky. They crept across empty squares, scattered with rubble and dusted with ash. Always the sounds of battle echoed, ghostlynear, far, all around them.
It was as if they crept through hell.
How dyou fight in this? whispered the Dogman.
Logen wished he had an answer. Fighting in forests, in mountains, in valleys, theyd done it all a hundred times, and knew the rules, but this? His eyes flickered nervously over the gaping windows and doorways, the piles of fallen stones. So many places for an enemy to hide.
All Logen could do was aim at the House of the Maker and hope for the best. What would happen when they got there, he wasnt sure, but it seemed a safe bet thered be blood involved. Nothing that would do anyone the slightest good, most likely, but the fact was hed said go, and the one thing a leader cant do is change his mind.
The clamour of fighting was getting louder, now, and louder. The stink of smoke and anger was picking at his nose, scratching at his throat. The scored metal of the Makers sword was slippery in his sweaty palm. He crept low to the ground, over a heap of rubble and along beside a shattered wall, his hand held flat behind him to say go careful. He eased up to the edge, and peered around it.
The Agriont rose up just ahead, great walls and towers black against the white sky, a second set reflected in the moat below. A lot of men were gathered near the water, crowded up and down the cobbled space as far as Logen could see. It didnt take a sharp mind to realise they were Gurkish. Arrows flitted up towards the battlements, bolts flitted back down, spinning from the cobbles, sticking wobbling into wooden screens.
Not thirty strides away theyd drawn up a line, facing into the city. A good, clean line, bristling with spears, set out on either side of a tall standard, golden letters twinkling on it. A tough-looking line of hard men, well armed and well armoured, nothing like the rubbish theyd faced outside the walls. Logen didnt reckon shouting was going to get this lot moving anywhere. Except straight at him, maybe.
Whoa, muttered the Dogman as he crept up. A few more Northmen followed him, spreading out in the mouth of the street, staring stupidly around.
Logen waved an arm at them. Might be best if we stay out of sight for the
An officer in the midst of the Gurkish line barked in his harsh tongue, pointed towards them with his curved sword. Armour rattled as the men set their spears.
Ah, shit, hissed Logen. They came forward, fast, but organised. A mass of them, and bristling with bright, sharp, deadly metal.
There are only three choices when you get charged. Run away, stand, or charge yourself. Running away isnt usually a bad option, but given the way the rest of the boys were feeling, if they ran they wouldnt stop running until they fell in the sea. If they stood, all in a puzzled mess from coming through the city, the chances were good that theyd break, and that would leave some dead and do nothing for the rest. Which left one choice, and thats no choice at all.
Two charges in one day. Shitty luck, that, but there was no use crying about it. You have to be realistic about these things.
Logen started running. Not the way he wanted to, but forward, out from the buildings and across the cobbles towards the moat. He didnt give too much thought to whether anyone was following. He was too busy screaming and waving his sword around. The first into the killing, just like in the old days. A fitting end for the Bloody-Nine. Be a good song, maybe, if anyone could be bothered finding a tune for it. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the terrible impact.
Then a crowd of Union soldiers came pouring from the buildings on the left, shouting like madmen themselves. The Gurkish charge faltered, their line began to break up, spears swinging wildly as men turned to face the sudden threat. An unexpected bonus, and no mistake.
The Union crashed into the end of the line. Men screeched and bellowed, metal shrieked on metal, weapons flashed, bodies dropped, and Logen fell into the midst of it. He slid past a wobbling spear, slashed at a Gurkish soldier. He missed and hit another, sent him screaming, blood bubbling down chain-mail. He rammed into a third with his shoulder and flung him on his back, stomped on the side of his jaw and felt it crunch under his boot.
The Gurkish officer whod led the charge was only a stride away, his sword ready. Logen heard a bow string behind and an arrow took the officer near the collar bone. He dragged in a shuddering breath to scream, half spinning round. Logen chopped a deep gash through his back-plate, spots of blood jumping. Men crunched into the remains of the line around him. A spear shaft bent up and shattered sending splinters flying in Logens face. Someone roared right next to him and made his ear buzz. He jerked his head away to see a Carl throw a desperate hand up, a curved sword sliced into it and sent a thumb spinning. Logen hacked the Gurkish soldier whod swung it in the face, the heavy blade of the Makers sword catching him across the cheek and splitting his skull wide.
A spear flashed at him. Logen tried to turn sideways, gasped as the point slid through his shirt and down his right side, leaving a cold line under his ribs. The man who held it stumbled on towards him, moving too quick to stop. Logen stabbed him right through, just under his breastplate, ended up blinking in his face. A Union soldier with a patchy ginger beard on his cheeks.