Old Men

  Einar Smashednose had known Silker, Silker of Gyle, ever since Jalkabad. A long damn time, two decades, maybe more. If it had been farfetched to say that Einar was a man in his prime then, what was he now? Bloody old. But Silker? He’d been a wet-behind-the-ears opportunist. A noble, hard to think it, from a failing, backwater house in the south of Baidon. The man had come with a dozen fighting men to the great siege camps at Jalkabad, where it seemed that the whole world swelled in one righteous, innumerable army. Silker of Gyle, there to seek his fame and fortune along with kings, princes, would-be nobles and peasants alike.

  Einar had come with a company of sixty longbowmen from Baidon, seeking no fame, only fortune. By rights, they should not have had the least bit to do with each other. Young Silker had nothing in common with a ruthless, seasoned Einar Smashednose, save two things. First, the early realisation that the poxy, writhing siege camp was one lordly grudge away from blowing at the seams and giving way to infighting. The second, the recognition that they were camped outside the walls of a city that was a wonder little of the world had ever seen. The great city of Jalkabad.

  They had entered the city with the help of a mutual connection, Laker. To think there had been a time when Smashednose had seen eye to eye with the prick. That said, even in Jalkabad, it had not lasted long. As far as Smashednose knew, Silker was the only other person who actually knew Larker. Made Smashednose worry Silker could be their traitor, that did. But knowing Larker also meant that Silker should know better, much better, than to trust the man.

  Einar mused on this as he followed Silker through the great hall of what they called the Eastern Keep. It was a shorter, stubbier thing than the true keep that sat on the high point of the city, but this was closer to the gates, had a better roof too.

  They walked past sleeping mats, men oiling weapons, darning holes in clothing and gambling. The quiet murmur of activity was only exceeded by the occasional wail that came from the far end of the hall. Heads turned, eyes watched with uncertainty before they muttered their curses or their prayers. A few idle soldiers had oak sprigs by their feet. One man even had a squash that looked like it was a week past eating, but folks would cling to anything that they thought would tilt the Balance in favour of life.

  There was a rift in the centre of the hall, a moat where the men had separated themselves from the makeshift infirmary. Silker stopped in the middle, keeping himself a good distance from the moaning bodies beyond.

  “How many is that then?” Einar asked.

  “Six more have fallen ill over the last day,” Silker said. “That brings us to a total of twenty-two.”

  There was an older man moving between the ill that lay on the floor, a rag covering his face. Ivan was the closest thing they had to a properly trained physician. He finished mopping a man’s brow, then walked over.

  “You’re at twenty-two now, Ivan,” Smashednose grunted. “I was told that you were only at a dozen yesterday. How did that happen?”

  “Twenty-one, commander.” Ivan smiled. No joy reached the man’s hollow eyes. “A man died last night. As for the discrepancy in numbers, the additional men have come from the wounded that were already in my care and have now caught this plague.”

  “It’s contagious then?” Einar asked.

  “It’s not going to move like wildfire, but it has been spreading.” Ivan pulled up the bottom of his shirt. There was a spotted, red rash that wrapped around his torso like a belt. “Tell the men to look out for rashes like this one. It’s not a death sentence if they’re healthy, but for those already weak in the Balance of Life, it could be deadly.”

  “Our best men will be closer to the Balance of Death, too,” Silker said. “We might want to keep our best killers away from here, Einar.”

  Ivan shrugged at that. “I’ve never been entirely convinced in those sorts of superstitions about warriors and midwives, but I’d keep them out of the graveyard if they don’t need to be there.”

  “The whole city’s a graveyard,” Einar said. “Ivan, I need every man I can fit for fighting. What do you need to make that happen?”

  “I could use a few more aids…”

  “Done,” Einar said. “Silker, I want one man from every band put on duty.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The men need to keep bathing regularly,” Ivan said. “But the main thing…” The man rubbed his forehead with two spindly fingers. “The main issue is that if we really want to stop the spread, I need the hall to myself. I had a hard enough time moving people out of this end. Could you sort that out commander?”

  “Can we not move the infirmary to a different building?” Einar said.

  Silker said, “There may be a few potential…”

  “These men are sick, some deathly ill,” Ivan said. “Not only that, but you think it’s a good idea to parade them through the camp and make sure everyone gets infected?”

  He said the last bit too loud, and a few heads turned with suspicious, unhappy glares.

  There was a little spike of fury in Einar at that. Men raising their voices at him, challenging his authority. It was becoming a tenuous thing already. But Ivan bowed his head low, paid old Einar a little deference.

  “Please, Einar,” Ivan said.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “I’ll think about it,” Smashednose said. “Silker, these are what, Godrum’s men?”

  “Actually, most of them are Osward and Cutha’s levies,” Silker said.

  “Well, those bastards are going to love…” Einar was cut off by a sudden interruption.

  “Sir!” He was a runner, red hair and a pale face, one of Fenris’s lads on double duty? Whoever he was, he liked his lips nervously and continued. “There’s movement across the Daun. Men forming up. I was sent to let you know.”

  “Well then,” Smashednose said. He turned back to the weary healer. “Cutha and Osward be damned, you’ll get the hall to yourself. We might need more space for the infirmary yet.”

  The commanders council met on the top of Einar’s tower. It gave them a good view of the open ground beyond that lay before the eastern gate and a good view of their defences. Men on the walls, ready to repel attackers. Men behind the gate, ready to fight tooth and nail when their tenuous construction gave way. The southern gate would look like something similar, but lesser. They’d see it coming if Larker tried to snake his way to the south. It’d be a shit show and no mistake, not that Einar doubted his enemy wouldn’t try to make an advantage out of it.

  There were plenty of Larker’s men in the field before them, but it didn’t look like they were forming up for a proper assault. They were digging, cutting shafts of wood, building a defensive mound of their own around the catapult under construction. It would be finished soon.

  A small contingent marched out beyond these defences. They were led by a man on a horse, cantering forward like he owned the place. Larker the Hound. They stopped just before Einar’s old mound, or what was left of it.

  “That might be within an arrow’s shot,” Whiteeyes said with one foot on the parapet.

  Godrum chuckled, and even Hessen released a short squeaking laugh at the idea of putting an arrow through Larker.

  “You would never live it down if you missed the cunt,” Borke said.

  The other members of the commanders council were not so amused. Lord Cutha looked anxiously at the archer, and Lord Osward’s face was slowly becoming blister red with frustration. For a man of such seemingly small consequence, Lord Osward was becoming eager to have his voice heard. But they were a pair of sorts, Einar Smashednose thought, Osward said what the more docile Cutha would not, what the rest would not.

  Standing beside Einar, Silker was a harder man to read. The man’s dark, greasy hair was pulled back in a tail. He had a slight frown between the patches of his beard. Disapproving? Yes. But also, pondering, weighing the odds of Fenris doing anything rash. Einar sometimes forgot that the man was an eager gambler and good at it.

  “Don’t shoot him!” Osward said. “He is here to speak, obviously. Don’t, Fenris. Now, get down from there.”

  Fenris Whiteeyes didn’t move, but nor did he nock an arrow in the bow that he held. There was part of Einar that wished he would shoot. Nothing good could come from talking with Larker. This was his move, and Larker knew that Einar was limited on what he could do in response.

  Smashednose wanted to tell them to leave Larker waiting, to ignore the prick. That was his right move. Once, they would have listened to him. Einar Smashednose had spat in the faces of more than a few messengers and told them to fuck off with their messages unsaid. But he had been a victorious man then.

  The old warrior rubbed his hands, running callus over callus. He thought. He counted the ballots before they were cast. Whiteeyes would back the decision not to talk. Godrum Goldmane would take some convincing, but he was wiser than most and saw dangers in things other men did not. Silker knew the real Larker, knew the snake. That left Hessen, Borke, Osward and Cutha. Cutha and Osward would want to talk. Borke and Hessen were unknowns, but he should assume they would want to hear what Larker had to say. Including Einar’s vote, that put them at even odds, a vote of four against four, but… There was a traitor in their midst. The traitor was likely a member of the commanders council. He would be encouraging them to do whatever Larker wanted. Einar didn’t know who, but if he counted that vote, it made it three against five.

  Saints, Einar thought, I’m counting votes, like this was ever a voting matter.

  He was the commander. This army, this ruined city, should have been his. But they were passed that. He had had their obedience when they had been beaten back from Telburh, when they’d occupied the walls of Vannarbar that night. Both events had cost them dearly. It was almost gone now. The best he could do would be to keep up the illusion.

  “Whiteeyes,” Einar barked. “Put the bow down. We’ll go down and meet him. I’ll take Silker and Godrum.” Einar paused. Osward looked like he was about to protest at the selection. Smashednose would carve his leg off before he took the brat down with him, but he’d throw the dog a bone if it kept him quiet. “And Lord Cutha will be coming with me.”

  It had been a long time since Einar Smashednose had seen Larker the Hound face-to-face. A long damn time, but the years had been kinder to the Hound than they had been to Einar. Larker sat on his horse, plump and happy. The vibrant reds of his hair that Einar had remembered were replaced by silver, everywhere except his beard, which was patched with them both. One jewelled hand rested on the hilt of a curved sword that was not forged in Baidon. He was flanked by a guard of ten men, and a single, twitching arcanist stood by his side.

  Einar didn’t go any further than the old mound, and he stood on it so that they were almost eye level. The twenty men he’d brought with him, including a few bowmen, spread out behind the bank. Godrum, Silker and Cutha were at his rear. Larker smiled at them like they were guests at his wedding feast.

  “It’s good to see you, Einar,” Larker said. “I hope your new loggings are to your liking. I’ve had to put up with a tent for weeks now.”

  What are you here for, Einar thought. Will you be offering us terms of surrender or baiting us into a trap? It would be something to throw fuel on the already burning inner turmoil of the camp. It made Einar nervous not know what. Beneath his cloak, he rubbed his old hands, running callus over callus.

  “March your arse to Telburh and get back on your ships while you’ve still got time,” Einar said it loud, loud enough that they should have been able to hear it on the city walls past the ruins. “You’ll get no further than Vannarbar.”

  “Time?” Larker kept his voice even, his attention only on Einar. “We’ve got plenty of that. He gestured to the half-built catapult behind him. “There’s still some time before that’s finished. Unfortunately, as good as they are, these arcanists can’t knock down walls. Can they?”

  The arcanist by Larker’s side made no reply. The man stood proud with his robes and long dark hair, but his posture was betrayed by the spasms that periodically erupted across his face and shoulders. The arcanist was something barely contained, like a ferret in a sack.

  Einar snorted. “I’ve killed three of your arcanists so far. How many more of them do you have? They must have cost you dearly.”

  That drew a sharp, pained laugh from Larker. “They have their uses, Einar. What of your men with the walls of the haunted city? I am surprised you went inside. Have you seen any…”

  No, Smashednose wouldn’t play this game. Whatever Larker was here to say, he’d make him say it now. Perhaps he could blunt the strike by denying the man his theatrics.

  “Do you have something to say, or are you just wasting my time?” Einar interrupted. “Spit it out, cunt.”

  “Very well. I came to tell you that Lord Herik is dead,” Larker boomed. His voice was now a sombre tone, like the village criers that announced the death of the king. He made sure his words reached the walls. “Lord Herik is dead, slain by Philippe in battle. He is dead, and there is no help coming for you, Einar Smashednose.”