Prince of Thorns Page 5

  I reckon more than half of the Count’s men ran. But they weren’t the Count’s men any more. They couldn’t go back.

  Makin came up the hill, blood all over him. He looked like Red Kent the day we found him! Burlow came with him, but he stopped to loot the dead, and of course that involves turning the injured into the dead.

  “Why?” Makin wanted to know. “I mean, superb victory, my prince . . . but why in the name of all the hells run such a risk?”

  I held my sword up. The brothers around me took a step back, but to his credit, Makin didn’t flinch. “See this sword?” I said. “Not a drop of blood on it.” I showed it around, then waved it at the ridge. “And out there there’s fifty men who’ll never fight for the Count of Renar again. They work for me now. They’re carrying a story about a prince who killed the Count’s son. A prince who would not retreat. A prince who never retreats. A prince who didn’t have to blood his sword to beat a hundred men with thirty.

  “Think about it, Makin. I made Roddat here fight like a madman because I told him if they think you’re not going to give up, they’ll break. Now I’ve got fifty enemies who’re out there telling everyone who’ll listen, ‘That Prince of Ancrath, he’s not going to break.’ It’s a simple sum. If they think we won’t break, they give up.”

  All true. It wasn’t the reason, but it was all true.

  9

  Four years earlier

  The baton struck my wrist with a loud crack. My other hand caught hold as it rose. I tried to twist it free, but Lundist held tight. Even so, I could see his surprise.

  “I see you were paying attention after all, Prince Jorg.”

  In truth I had been somewhere else, somewhere bloody, but my body has a habit of keeping watch for me at such times.

  “Perhaps you can summarize my points thus far?” he said.

  “We are defined by our enemies. This holds true for men, and by extension, their countries,” I said. I’d recognized the book Lundist brought to the lesson. That our enemies shape us was its central thesis.

  “Good.” Lundist pulled his baton free and pointed to the tablemap. “Gelleth, Renar, and the Ken Marshes. Ancrath is a product of her environs; these are the wolves at her door.”

  “The Renar highlands are all I care about,” I said. “The rest can go hang.” I rocked my chair onto the back two legs. “When Father orders the Gate against Count Renar, I’m going too. I’ll kill him myself if they let me.”

  Lundist shot me a look, a sharp one, to see if I meant it. There’s something wrong about such blue eyes in an old man, but wrong or not he could see to the heart with them.

  “Boys of ten are better occupied with Euclid and Plato. When we visit war, Sun Tzu will be our guide. Strategy and tactics, these are of the mind, these are the tools of prince and king.”

  I did mean it. I had a hunger in me, an aching for the Count’s death. The tight lines around Lundist’s mouth told me that he knew how deep the hunger ran.

  I looked to the high window where sunlight fingered into the schoolroom and turned the dust to dancing motes of gold. “I will kill him,” I said. Then, with a sudden need to shock, “Maybe with a poker, like I killed that ape Inch.” It galled me to have killed a man and have no memory of it, not even a trace of whatever rage drove me to it.

  I wanted some new truth from Lundist. Explain me, to me. Whatever the words, that was my question, youth to old age. But even tutors have their limits.

  I rocked forward, set my hands upon the map, and looked to Lundist once more. I saw the pity in him. A part of me wanted to take it, wanted to tell him how I’d struggled against those hooks, how I’d watched William die. A part of me longed to lay it all down, that weight I carried, the acid pain of memory, the corrosion of hate.

  Lundist leaned across the table. His hair fell around his face, long in the fashion of Orient, so white as to be almost silver. “We are defined by our enemies—but also we can choose them. Make an enemy of hatred, Jorg. Do that and you could be a great man, but more importantly, maybe a happy one.”

  There’s something brittle in me that will break before it bends. Something sharp that puts an edge on all the soft words I once owned. I don’t think the Count of Renar put it there that day they killed my mother, he just drew the razor from its sheath. Part of me longed for a surrender, to take the gift Lundist held before me.

  I cut away that portion of my soul. For good or ill, it died that day.

  “When will the Gate march?” I left nothing in my voice to say I’d heard his words.

  “The Army of the Gate won’t march,” Lundist said. His shoulders held a slump, tiredness or defeat.

  That hit me in the gut, a surprise shot passing my guard. I jumped up, toppling the chair. “They will!” How could they not?

  Lundist turned toward the door. His robes made a dry sound as he moved, like a sigh. Disbelief pinned me to the spot, my limbs strangers to me. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “How could they not?” I shouted at his back, angry for feeling like a child.

  “Ancrath is defined by her enemies,” he said, walking still. “The Army of the Gate must guard the homeland, and no other army would reach the Count in his halls.”

  “A queen has died.” Mother’s throat opened again and coloured my vision red. The hooks burned in my flesh once more. “A prince of the realm, slain.” Broken like a toy.

  “And there is a price to pay.” Lundist paused, one hand against the door, leaning as if for support.

  “The price of blood and iron!”

  “Rights to the Cathun River, three thousand ducats, and five Araby stallions.” Lundist wouldn’t look at me.

  “What?”

  “River trade, gold, horses.” Those blue eyes found me over his shoulder. An old hand took the door-ring.

  The words made sense one at a time, not together.

  “The army . . .” I started.

  “Will not move.” Lundist opened the door. The day streamed in, bright, hot, laced with the distant laughter of squires at play.

  “I’ll go alone. That man will die screaming, by my hand.” Cold fury crawled across my skin.

  I needed a sword, a good knife at least. A horse, a map—I snatched the one before me, old hide, musty, the borders tattooed in Indus ink. I needed . . . an explanation.

  “How? How can their deaths be purchased?”

  “Your father forged his alliance with the Horse Coast kingdoms through marriage. The strength of that alliance threatened Count Renar. The Count struck early, before the links grew too strong, hoping to remove both the wife, and the heirs.” Lundist stepped into the light, and his hair became golden, a halo in the breeze. “Your father hasn’t the strength to destroy Renar and keep the wolves from Ancrath’s doors. Your grandfather on the Horse Coast will not accept that, so the alliance is dead, Renar is safe. Now Renar seeks a truce so he may turn his strength to other borders. Your father has sold him such a truce.”

  Inside I was falling, pitching, tumbling. Falling into an endless void.

  “Come, Prince.” Lundist held out a hand. “Let’s walk in the sunshine. It’s not a day for desk-learning.”

  I bunched the map in my fist, and somewhere in me I found a smile, sharp, bitter, but with a chill to it that held me to my purpose. “Of course, dear tutor. Let us walk in the sun. It’s not a day for wasting—oh no.”

  And we went out into the day, and all the heat of it couldn’t touch the ice in me.

  Knife-work is a dirty business, yet Brother Grumlow is always clean.

  10

  We had ourselves a prisoner. One of Marclos’s riders proved less dead than expected. Bad news for him all in all. Makin had Burlow and Rike bring the man to me on the burgermeister’s steps.

  “Says his name is Renton. ‘Sir’ Renton, if you please,” Makin said.

  I looked the fellow up and down. A nice black bruise wrapped itself halfway round his forehead, and an over-hasty embrace with Mother Earth had left his nose somewhat
flatter than he might have liked. His moustache and beard could have been neatly trimmed, but caked in all that blood they looked a mess.

  “Fell off your horse did you, Renton?” I asked.

  “You stabbed Count Renar’s son under a flag of truce,” he said. He sounded a little comical on the “stabbed” and “son.” A broken nose will do that for you.

  “I did,” I said. “I can’t think of anything I wouldn’t have stabbed him under.” I held Renton’s gaze; he had squinty little eyes. He wouldn’t have been much to look at in court finery. On the steps, covered in mud and blood, he looked like a rat’s leavings. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about my own fate than whether Marclos was stabbed in accordance with the right social niceties.”

  That of course was a lie. If I were in his place, I’d have been looking for an opportunity to stick a knife in me. But I knew enough to know that most men didn’t share my priorities. As Makin said, something in me had got broken, but not so broken I didn’t remember what it was.

  “My family is rich, they’ll ransom me,” Renton said. He spoke quickly, nervous now, as if he’d just realized his situation.

  I yawned. “No, they’re not. If they were rich, you wouldn’t be riding in chain armour as one of Marclos’s guards.” I yawned again, stretching my mouth until my jaw cracked. “Maical, get me a cup of that festival beer, will you?”

  “Maical’s dead,” Rike said, from behind Sir Renton.

  “Never?” I said. “Idiot Maical? I thought God had blessed him with the same luck that looks after drunkards and madmen.”

  “Well, he’s near enough dead,” Rike said. “Got him a gut-full of rusty iron from one of Renar’s boys. We laid him out in the shade.”

  “Touching,” I said. “Now get my beer.”

  Rike grumbled and slapped Jobe into taking the errand. I turned back to Sir Renton. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t look as sad as you might expect a man in such a bad place to look. His eyes kept sliding over to Father Gomst. Here’s a man with faith in a higher source, I thought.

  “So, Sir Renton,” I said. “What brings young Marclos to Ancrath’s protectorates? What does the Count think he’s up to?”

  Some of the brothers had gathered around the steps for the show, but most were still looting the dead. A man’s coin is nice and portable, but the brothers wouldn’t stop there. I expected the head-cart to be heaped with arms and armour when we left. Boots too; there’s three coppers in a well-made pair of boots.

  Renton coughed and wiped at his nose, spreading black gore across his face. “I don’t know the Count’s plans. I’m not privy to his private council.” He looked up at Father Gomst. “As God is my witness.”

  I leaned in close to him. He smelled sour, like cheese in the sun. “God is your witness, Renton, he’s going to watch you die.”

  I let that sink in. I gave old Gomsty a smile. “You can look after this knight’s soul, Father. The sins of the flesh though—they’re all mine.”

  Rike handed me my cup of beer, and I had a sip. “The day you’re tired of looting, Little Rikey, is the day you’re tired of life,” I said. It got a chuckle from the brothers on the steps. “Why’re you still here when you could be cutting up the dead in search of a golden liver?”

  “Come to see you put the hurt on Rat-face,” Rike said.

  “You’re going to be disappointed then,” I said. “Sir Rat-face is going to tell me everything I want to know, and I’m not even going to have to raise my voice. When I’m done, I’m going to hand him over to the new burgermeister of Norwood. The peasants will probably burn him alive, and he’ll count it the easy way out.” I kept it conversational. I find it’s the coldest threats that reach the deepest.

  Out in the marshes I’d made a dead man run in terror, with nothing more than what I keep inside. It occurred to me that what scared the dead might worry the living a piece too.

  Sir Renton didn’t sound too scared yet though. “You stabbed the better man today, boy, and there’s a better man before you. You’re nothing more than shit on my shoe.” I’d hurt his pride. He was a knight after all, and here was a beardless lad making mock. Besides, the best I’d offered was an “easy” burning. Nobody considers that the soft option.

  “When I was nine, the Count of Renar tried to have me killed,” I said. I kept my voice calm. It wasn’t hard. I was calm. Anger carries less horror with it, men understand anger. It promises resolution; maybe bloody resolution, but swift. “The Count failed, but I watched my mother and my little brother killed.”

  “All men die,” Renton said. He spat a dark and bloody mess onto the steps. “What makes you so special?”

  He had a good point. What made my loss, my pain, any more important than everyone else’s?

  “That’s a good question,” I said. “A damn good question.”

  It was. There weren’t but a handful of the prisoners we’d taken from Marclos’s train who hadn’t seen a son or a husband, a mother or a lover, killed. And killed in the past week. And this was my soft option, the mercies of these peasants compared to the attention of a young man whose hurt stood four years old.

  “Consider me a spokesman,” I said. “When it comes to stageacting, some men are more eloquent than others. It’s given to particular men to have a gift with the bow.” I nodded to the Nuban. “Some men can knock the eye out of a bull at a thousand paces. They don’t aim any better for wanting it, they don’t shoot straighter because they’re justified. They just shoot straighter. Now me, I just . . . avenge myself better than most. Consider it a gift.”

  Renton laughed at that and spat again. This time I saw part of a tooth in the mess. “You think you’re worse than the fire, boy?” he asked. “I’ve seen men burn. A lot of men.”

  He had a point. “You’ve a lot of good points, Sir Renton,” I said.

  I looked around at the ruins. Tumbled walls in the most, and blackened timber skeletons where roofs had kept a lid on folk’s lives for year after year. “It’s going to take a lot of rebuilding,” I said. “A lot of hammers and a lot of nails.” I sipped my beer. “A strange thing—nails will hold a building together, but there’s nothing better for taking a man apart.” I held Sir Renton’s rat-like eyes, dark and beady. “I don’t enjoy torturing people, Sir Renton, but I’m good at it. Not world-class you understand. Cowards make the best torturers. Cowards understand fear and they can use it. Heroes on the other hand, they make terrible torturers. They don’t see what motivates a normal man. They misunderstand everything. They can’t think of anything worse than besmirching your honour. A coward on the other hand; he’ll tie you to a chair and light a slow fire under you. I’m not a hero or a coward, but I work with what I’ve got.”

  Renton had the sense to pale at that. He reached out a muddy hand to Father Gomst. “Father, I’ve done nothing but serve my master.”

  “Father Gomst will pray for your soul,” I said. “And forgive me the sins I incur in detaching it from your body.”

  Makin pursed those thick lips of his. “Prince, you’ve spoken about how you’d break the cycle of revenge. You could start here. You could let Sir Renton go.”

  Rike gave him a look as if he’d gone mad. Fat Burlow covered a chuckle.

  “I have spoken about that, Makin,” I said. “I will break the cycle.” I drew my sword and laid it across my knees. “You know how to break the cycle of hatred?” I asked.

  “Love,” said Gomst, all quiet-like.

  “The way to break the cycle is to kill every single one of the bastards that fucked you over,” I said. “Every last one of them. Kill them all. Kill their mothers, kill their brothers, kill their children, kill their dog.” I ran my thumb along the blade of my sword and watched the blood bead crimson on the wound. “People think I hate the Count, but in truth I’m a great advocate of his methods. He has only two failings. Firstly, he goes far, but not far enough. Secondly, he isn’t me. He taught me valuable lessons though. And when we meet, I will thank him for it, wi
th a quick death.”

  Old Gomsty started at that. “Count Renar did you wrong, Prince Jorg. Forgive him, but don’t thank him. He’ll burn in Hell for what he did. His immortal soul will suffer for eternity.”

  I had to laugh out loud at that. “Churchmen, eh? Love one minute, forgiveness the next, and then it’s eternity on fire. Well, rest at ease, Sir Renton. I’ve no designs on your immortal soul. Whatever happens between us, it will all be over in a day or two. Three at most. I’m not the most patient of men, so it will end when you tell me what I want to know, or I get bored.”

  I got up from my step and went to crouch by Sir Renton. I patted his head. They’d tied his hands behind him, and I had my chainmail gauntlets on, so if he had a mind to bite, it’d do him no good.

  “I swore to Count Renar,” he said. He tried to pull away, and he craned his neck to look at old Gomsty. “Tell him, Father, I swore before God. If I break my vow, I’ll burn in Hell.”

  Gomst came to lay his hand on Renton’s shoulder. “Prince Jorg, this knight has made a holy vow. There are few oaths more sacred than that of a knight to his liege lord. You should not ask him to break it. Nor should any threat against the flesh compel a man to betray a covenant and forever place his soul in the fires of the Devil.”

  “Here’s a test of faith for you, Sir Renton,” I said. “I’ll tell you my tale and we’ll see whether you want to tell me the Count’s plans when I’m done.” I settled down on the step beside him and swigged my beer. “When I first took to the road I was, oh, ten years of age. I’d a lot of anger in me then, and a need to know how the world worked. You see, I’d watched the Count’s men kill my brother, William, and slit Mother open. So I knew that the way I’d thought things were supposed to work was wrong. And of course, I fell in with bad sorts—didn’t I, Rikey?”

  Rike gave that laugh of his: “hur, hur, hur.” I think he just made the sound when he thought we expected a laugh. It didn’t have any joy in it.