Prince of Thorns tbe-1 Read online

  44

  They call the castle “The Haunt.” When you ride up the valley of an evening, with the sun going down behind the towers, you can see why. The place has that classic brooding malice about it. The high windows are dark, the town below the gates lies in shadow, the flags hang lifeless. It brings to mind an empty skull. Without the cheery grin.

  “So the plan is?” Makin asked.

  I gave him a smile. We nosed the horses up the road, past a wagon creaking beneath a load of barrels.

  “We seem to have arrived in time for tourney,” Makin said. “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”

  “Well, we’ve come for a test of strength haven’t we?” I’d been trying to make out the pennants on the pavilions lining the east side of the tourney field. “Better to keep incognito for now though.”

  “So about this plan—” The scattered thunder of approaching hooves cut him off.

  We looked back over our shoulders. A tight knot of horsemen was closing fast, half a dozen, the leader in full plate armour, long shadows thrown behind them.

  “Nice bit of tourney plate.” I turned my nag in the road.

  “Jorg—” It was Makin’s day for getting cut off.

  “Make way!” The lead horseman bellowed loud enough, but I chose not to hear him.

  “Make way, peasants!” He pulled up rather than go around. Five riders drew alongside him, house-troops in chainmail, their horses lathered.

  “Peasants?” I knew we looked down-at-heel, but we hardly counted as peasants. My fingers found the empty space where my sword should hang. “Who might we be clearing a path for, now?” I recognized their colours, but asked by way of insult.

  The man on the knight’s left spoke up. “Sir Alain Kennick, heir to the county of Kennick, knight of the long—”

  “Yes, yes.” I held up a hand. The man fell silent, fixing me with a pale eye from beneath the rim of his iron helm. “Heir to the Barony of Kennick. Son of the notoriously blubbery Baron Kennick.” I rubbed at my chin hoping that the grime there might pass as stubble in the half-light. “But these are Renar lands. I thought the men of Kennick weren’t welcome here.”

  Alain drew his steel at that, four foot of Builder-steel cutting a bloody edge from the sunset.

  “I’ll not be debated in the road by some peasant boy!” His voice held a whine to it. He lifted his faceplate, then took the reins.

  “I heard that the Baron and Count Renar made up their differences after Marclos got himself killed,” Makin said. I knew he’d have his hand on the flail we inherited with the horses. “Baron Kennick withdrew his accusations that Renar was behind the burning of Mabberton.”

  “Actually it was me that burned Mabberton,” I said. I had to wonder, though. I might have been the one to put torch to thatch. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But whose good idea was it? Corion’s perhaps.

  “You?” Alain snorted.

  “I had a hand in Marclos’s death too,” I said. I kept his eyes and edged my horse closer. Without weapon or armour I didn’t present much of a threat.

  “I heard that the Prince of Ancrath turned Marclos’s column with a dozen men,” Makin added.

  “Did we have a full dozen, Sir Makin?” I asked in my best court voice. I kept my eyes on Alain and ignored his men. “Perhaps we did. Well, no matter, I like these odds better.”

  “What are—” Alain glanced to either side where the hedgerow seethed with possibilities.

  “You’re worried about an ambush, Alain?” I asked. “You think Prince Honorous Jorg Ancrath and the captain of his father’s guard can’t take six Kennick dogs in the road?”

  Whatever Alain might think, I could tell his men had heard their fill of Norwood stories. They’d heard of the Mad Prince and his road hounds. They’d heard how ragged warriors burst from the ruins, stood their ground, and broke a force ten times their number.

  Something grunted in the gloom to our right. If Alain’s men had any doubt that they were already targeted by bandits in the shadows, the grunt of a small forager hunting grubs was enough to convince them otherwise.

  “Now! Attack!” I yelled it for the benefit of my non-existent ambush party, and flung myself from my saddle, dragging Alain off his horse.

  The fight went out of Alain as soon as we hit the sod, which was good because the fall knocked all the wind out of me, and a clash of heads set me seeing stars.

  I heard the whack of Makin’s flail and the thump of retreating hooves. With a heave and a clatter I disentangled myself from Alain.

  “Best get out of here quick, Jorg.” Makin was heading back after the briefest of pursuits. “Won’t take them long to work out we’re alone.”

  I found Alain’s sword. “They won’t be back.”

  Makin frowned at me. “Head-butting a helmed knight scrambled your brains?”

  I rubbed at the sore spot, fingers coming away bloody.

  “We’ve got Alain. A hostage or a corpse. They don’t know which.”

  “He looks dead to me,” Makin said.

  “Broke his neck, I think. But that’s not the point. The point is that they know they’re not getting him back in one piece, so they’ll be looking to their own escape. There’s no going back to Kennick for those lads now. No welcome in The Haunt either. They’ll know Renar won’t want any part of this.”

  “So what now?”

  “We get him off the road. That beer wagon is going to come by here in a few minutes.” I threw a look down the road. “Hitch him to his horse. We’ll drag him into the wheat field.”

  We took the armour off him in the gloom, amongst the wheat still wet from the day’s rain. It stunk a bit—Alain had soiled himself in death—but it was a good fit for me, if a bit roomy around the waist.

  “What do you think?” I stepped back for Makin to admire me.

  “Can’t see a damn thing.”

  “I look good, trust me.” I half-drew Alain’s sword, then slammed it back into its scabbard. “I think I’ll give the jousts a miss.”

  “Very wise.”

  “The Grand Mêlée is more me. And the winner gets his prize from Count Renar himself!”

  “That’s not a plan. That’s a way to get a death so famously stupid that they’ll be laughing about it in alehouses for a hundred years to come,” Makin said.

  I started to clank back toward the road, leading Alain’s horse.

  “You’re right, Makin, but I’m running out of options here.”

  “We could hit the road again. Get a little gold together, get some more, enough to make lives somewhere they’ve never heard of Ancrath.” I could see a longing in his eyes. Part of him really meant it.

  I grinned. “I may be running out of options, but running out isn’t an option. Not for me.”

  We rode toward The Haunt. Slowly. I didn’t want to visit the tourney field yet. We had no tent to pitch, and the Kennick colours would inevitably draw me deeper into the charade than my acting skills could support.

  As we came out of the farmland into the sprawl of houses reaching from the castle walls, a hedge-knight caught up with us and pulled up.

  “Well met, sir . . . ?” He sounded out of breath.

  “Alain of Kennick,” I supplied.

  “Kennick? I thought . . .”

  “We have an alliance now, Renar and Kennick are the best of friends these days.”

  “Good to hear. A man needs friends in times like these,” the knight said. “Sir Keldon, by the way. I’m here for the lists. Count Renar places generous purses where a good lance can reach them.”

  “So I hear,” I said.

  Sir Keldon fell in beside us. “I’m pleased to be off the plains,” he said. “They’re lousy with Ancrath scouts.”

  “Ancrath?” Makin failed to keep the alarm from his voice.

  “You haven’t heard?” Sir Keldon glanced back into the night. “They say King Olidan is massing his armies. Nobody’s sure where he’ll strike, but he’s sent the Forest Watch into a
ction. Most of them are back there if I know anything!” He stabbed a gauntleted finger over his shoulder. “And you know what that meant for Gelleth!” He drew the finger across his throat.

  We reached the crossroads at the town centre. Sir Keldon turned his horse to the left. “You’re to the Field?”

  “No, we’ve to pay our respects.” I nodded toward The Haunt. “Good luck on the morrow.”

  “My thanks.”

  We watched him go.

  I turned Alain’s horse back toward the plains.

  “I thought we were going to pay our respects?” Makin asked.

  “We are,” I said.

  I kicked my steed into a trot. “To Watch Master Coddin.”

  45

  I like mountains, always have done. Big obstinate bits of rock sticking up where they’re not wanted and getting in folk’s way. Great. Climbing them is a different matter altogether though. I hate that.

  “What in feck’s name was the point of stealing a horse if I have to drag the damn thing up the slightest incline we meet?”

  “To be fair, Prince, this is more by way of a cliff,” Makin said.

  “I blame Sir Alain for owning a deficient horse. I should have kept the nag I came in on.”

  Nothing but the labour of Makin’s breath.

  “I’m going to have to see Baron Kennick about that boy of his one day,” I said.

  At that point a stone turned under my foot and I fell in a clatter of what little armour I’d kept on.

  “Easy now, you’ve three bows on each of you.” The voice came from further up the slope where the moonlight made little sense of the jumbled rock.

  Makin straightened up slow and easy, leaving me to find my own way to my feet.

  “Sounds like a good Ancrath man to me,” I said, loud enough for any on the slopes. “If you’re going to shoot anyone, might I suggest this horse here, he’s a better target and a lazy bastard to boot.”

  “Lay your swords down.”

  “We’ve only got one between us,” I said. “And I’m not inclined to lose it. So let’s forget about that now and you can take us to see the Watch Master.”

  “Lay down—”

  “Yes, yes, so you said. Look.” I stood up straight and turned to try and catch the moonlight. “Prince Jorg. That’s me. Pushed the last Watch Master over the falls. Now take me to Coddin before I lose my famously good temper.”

  We reached an understanding and before long I had two of them leading Alain’s horse, and another lighting the way for us with a hooded lantern.

  They took us to an encampment a couple of miles further on, fifty men huddled in a hollow just below the saddle of a hill. Brot Hill, according to the leader of the band taking us in. Nice to know somebody had a clue.

  The watch brought us in with whistled signals to the guards. The camp lay dark, which was sensible enough given they weren’t ten miles from The Haunt.

  We stumbled in amongst sleeping watchmen, tripping over the guys of various tents set up for command.

  “Let’s have some light!” I made enough noise to wake the sleepers. A prince deserves a little fanfare even if he has to make it himself. “Light! Renar doesn’t even know you’ve crossed the borders yet, he’s holding a tourney in the shadow of his walls for Jesu’s sake!”

  “See to it.” I recognized the voice.

  “Coddin! You came!”

  Lanterns began to be lit. Fireflies waking in the night.

  “Your father insisted on it, Prince Jorg.” The Watch Master ducked out of his tent, his face without humour. “I’m to bring your head back, but not the rest of you.”

  “I volunteer to do the cutting!” Rike stepped into the lantern glow, bigger than remembered, as always.

  Men stepped aside, and Gorgoth came out of the gloom, huger than Rike, his rib-bones reaching from his chest like a clawed hand. “Dark Prince, a reckoning is due.”

  “My head?” I put a hand to my throat. “I think I’ll keep it.” I turned to see Fat Burlow arrive, a loaf in each hand.

  “I believe my days of pleasing King Olidan are over,” I said. “In fact I’m even tired of waiting for him to die. The next victory I take will be for me. The next treasure I seize will stay in these hands, and the hands of those that serve me.”

  Gorgoth looked on, impassive, little Gog watching from his shadow. Elban and Liar elbowed their way through the growing ring of watchmen.

  “And what treasure would that be, Jorth?” Elban asked.

  “You’ll see it when the sun rises, old man,” I said. “I’m taking the Renar Highlands.”

  “I say we take him in.” Rike loomed behind me. “There’ll be a price on his head. A princely price!” He laughed at his own joke, coughing on that fishbone again, the old “hur! hur! hur!”

  “Funny you should mention Price, Brother.” I kept my back to him. “I was reminiscing with Makin down at The Three Frogs just the other day.”

  That stopped his laughing.

  “I won’t lie to you, it’s not going to be easy.” I turned nice and slow to address the whole circle of faces. “I’m going to take the county from Renar, and make it my kingdom. The men that help make that happen will be knights of my table.”

  I found Coddin in the crowd. He’d brought the brothers to me on the strength of my message, but how much further he’d follow me was another matter: he was a hard man to predict.

  “What say you, Watch Master? Will the Forest Watch follow their prince once more? Will you draw blood in the name of vengeance? Will you seek an accounting for my royal mother? For my brother who would have sat upon the throne of Ancrath had I fallen?”

  The only motion in the man lay in the flicker of lamplight along the line of his cheekbone. After too long a wait, he spoke. “I saw Gelleth. I saw the Castle Red, and a sun brought to the mountains to burn the rock itself. Mighty works.”

  Around the circle men nodded, feet stamped approval. Coddin held up a hand.

  “But the mark of a king is to be seen in those closest to him. A king needs be a prophet in his homeland,” he said.

  I didn’t like where we were going.

  “The watch will serve if these . . . road-brothers stay true, once you have told them of their task,” he said, eyes on me all the while, steady and calm.

  I made another half circle, until Rike filled my vision, my eyes level with his chest. He smelled foul.

  “Christ Jesu, Rike, you stink like a dung heap that’s gone bad.”

  “Wh—” He furrowed his brow and jabbed a blunt finger toward Coddin. “He said you had to win the brothers to the cause. And that’s me that is! The brothers do what I say now.” He grinned at that, showing the gaps where I’d knocked out teeth under Mount Honas.

  “I said I wouldn’t lie to you.” I spread my hands. “I’m done with lying. You men are my brothers. What I would ask of you would leave most in the grave.” I pursed my lips as if considering. “No, I won’t ask it.”

  Rike’s frown deepened. “What won’t you ask, you little weasel?”

  I touched two fingers to my chest. “My own father stabbed me, Little Rikey. Here. A thing like that will reach any man.

  “You take the brothers to the road. Break a few heads, empty a few barrels, and may whatever angel is set to watch over vagabonds fill your hands with silver.”

  “You want us to go?” He spoke the words slowly.

  “I’d make for the Horse Coast,” I said. “It’s that way.” I pointed.

  “And what’ll you be doing?” Rike asked.

  “I’ll go with Watch Master Coddin here. Perhaps I can make peace with my father.”

  “My arse you will!” Rike hit Burlow in the arm, no malice in it, just an over-boiling of his natural violence. “You’ve got it all planned out, you little bastard. Always playing the odds, always with the aces hidden away. We’ll be slogging through dust and mud to the Horse Coast, and you’ll be lording it here with a gold cup in your hand and silk to wipe your shit. I’m staying
right where I can see you, until I get what’s mine.”

  “I’m telling you as a brother, you big ugly sack of dung, leave now while you’ve a chance,” I said.

  “Stuff it.” Rike allowed himself a triumphant grin.

  I gave up on him.

  “Coddin’s men can’t get near that tourney. Men such as us though, we drift into every muster, we lurk at the edges of any place where there’s blood and coin and woman-flesh. The brothers could slip into tourney crowds unseen.

  “When I make my move I need you to hold until the watch can reach us. I need you to hold The Haunt’s gates. For minutes only, but make no mistake, they’ll be the reddest minutes you’ve seen.”

  “We’ll hold,” Rike said.

  “We will hold.” Makin raised his flail.

  “We’ll hold!” Elban, Burlow, Liar, Row, Red Kent, and the dozen brothers left to me.

  I faced Coddin once again.

  “I guess they’ll hold,” I said.

  46

  “Sir Alain, heir to the Kennick baronetcy.”

  And there I was, riding onto the tourney field to take my place, accompanied by a scatter of half-hearted applause.

  “Sir Arkle, third son of Lord Merk.” The announcer’s voice rang out again.

  Sir Arkle followed me onto the field, a horseman’s mace in hand. Most of the entrants for the Grand Mêlée had can-openers of one sort or another. The axe, the mace, the flail, tools to open armour, or to break the bones closeted within. When you fight a man in full plate, it’s normally a matter of bludgeoning him to a point at which he’s so crippled you can deliver the coup de grâce with a knife slipped between gorget and breastplate, or through an eye-slot.

  I had my sword. Well, I had Alain’s. If he had a weapon more suited to the Mêlée, then it left with his guards when they rode off.

  “Sir James of Hay.”

  A big man in battered plate, heavy axe at the ready, an armourpiercing spike on the reverse.

  “William of Brond.” Tall, a crimson boar on his shield, spiked flail.

  They kept coming. A baker’s dozen. At last we were all arrayed upon the field. A lucky thirteen. Knights of many realms, caparisoned for war. Silent save for the gentle nicker of horses.