Guilty

  Einar Smashednose sat in his tower during the early hours of the morning, looking at his maps by the light of a stubby tallow candle. He hadn’t been able to get much sleep. That wasn’t unusual. During calmer times, Einar would struggle to make it through the night without several goblets of wine weighing him down. Now, making it through the night was impossible. Getting a few hours was a struggle. Every time he closed his eyes and began slipping away, the old warrior heard Larker’s pronouncement. Herik is dead. There is no help coming for you, Einar Smashednose.

  If Larker had intended to toy with Einar’s emotions, he had succeeded. Worse yet, he had infected the rest of the sorry company.

  Einar measured the distance from Vannarbar to Lynetor with a grey finger, rasping as he slid it across the map. It was a four-day journey for a man on a horse. It was seven days to march an army up to Vannarbar from Lynetor, but the fighting should be happening even further south. Breyford, maybe, or thereabouts if Herik had pushed Philippe up against the River Brey. If Herik had allowed himself to be drawn across the Brey and into the Southlands, he could be near Bris. Too far south.

  Smashednose swore. Speculating that far was a fool’s errand. Herik had some good lords advising him, Becker was capable, and even the prick, Lord Jung, wasn’t an imbecile. They wouldn’t leave the Middle Kingdom while Larker was attempting to break through to Highvale. Cut off as he was, the only safe assumption he could make was that they still had control of Lynetor and the army was somewhere between it and the River Brey.

  Next, Einar traced his way from Vannarbar to the Kings Pass and then onto Highvale. It would take the company almost a week to get to the Kings Pass, then another week to get to Highvale, and that was only if the weather was good going through the Beorgens. Most likely, they’d find themselves forced into a field battle they couldn’t win. With a spy in their midst, it was almost certain. Never before had Fenris’s tactic of leaving men behind to cover their retreat been so enticing. The other commanders would be thinking similarly, but there was not a man or rat amongst them that would agree to be the sacrifice. They would have to win or die together in Vannarbar. Bloody Vannarbar.

  Einar needed two things: the truth about Herik and some small but aggressive victory to keep the company unified until help came. He looked through the slotted window by his side. It was still dark. A soft dawn teased at the edge of the horizon. There was little life across the Duan. The cooking fires of Larker’s men had died. But he could see the dim shape of Larker’s trebuchet in the field outside the walls.

  He clenched an old hand tight. Perhaps the catapult was bait set by Larker. But by Saint Briht’s breath, Smashednose wanted to see it burn.

  As Einar looked out his window, the door creaked open. The old man was swift. He ripped the sword that sat by his table out of its scabbard. No sooner did he have it in his hand than the tip was levelled at the face of his visitor. Silker’s dour eyes stared down the tip and at Smashednose. He was briefly surprised, but regained his composure.

  “Commander,” Silker said. “I came to speak with you.”

  “It’s good manners to knock before entering,” Einar said. He lowered the sword slowly. “Come in.”

  Silker entered, looked down at the map. The man made pointed, judging looks at the short candle that betrayed Einar’s lack of sleep, but did not say anything.

  Einar put his sword on the table. “Our idleness is going to get us killed, Silker. How much longer can we keep the other commanders in line before we fracture? I heard about Osward and his secret fucking meeting.”

  Silker snorted. It was the type of scoff that reminded Smashednose that Silker had come from noble birth. “Osward wouldn’t be able to lead a drove of pigs with a cart full of muck, and Saint’s know if there is anything intelligible between Cutha’s ears. I worry more about the Kostians. Larker might just let them pass if they promise to get on the next ship from Telburh”

  “You may be thinking too little of them,” Smashednose said. “The Kostians are harsh men, and they want action. I say we give it to them. I want to burn Larker's trebuchet to the ground, or do a raid on his camp.”

  “We’d be exposing ourselves,” Silker said.

  “We fought hard to get to Vannarbar. So much so that I lost sight that we’re a field army, not a garrison,” Einar said. “Even Larker won’t expect us to sally out. We don’t have to crush him at once, but we could gouge the bastard. It could even the odds something mighty.”

  Silker nodded at that. “It’s dangerous, particularly when there’s a spy about. You’ll need men you trust. You’ll need someone you trust manning the walls while you’re away, and you’ll need a good second in command on the battlefield, keeping you alive. But that means that you’ll be bringing the traitor to battle with you.”

  “I pray that we’ll have the git before then,” Einar said. “This stays between us. I don’t want word getting out, nor do I want the others to have time to get cold feet.” Einar looked out the window for a moment. Then, “You came to speak to me, Silker? It’s bloody early.”

  “It’s Fenris,” Silker said. “He thinks that he’s found our spy last night, woke me up and told me so. He even made me take my shirt off to check for a wound. You need to get involved before things come to blows with the other commanders.”

  “Whiteeyes has got a way with words, doesn’t he?” Einar said. “Only he could piss everyone off by telling them good news.”

  They found Fenris and Hessen staring each other down outside the cellar that Hessen had occupied. Fenris had a dozen men with him, including an anxious-looking Borke. The Kostian mercenaries camped around the spot had been roused from their sleep by the argument. They gathered in a tired mob around Fenris’s men, hurling Kostian insults into the mix. Fenris’s lads had come armed, and that didn’t do much to calm the flames.

  “If you try to put a hand on me again, Whiteeyes, you’ll lose it,” Hessen said.

  “You’ll lose your head first,” Fenris said. “Now take your shirt off. What were you doing out at this time of night?”

  “Inspecting my guard posts, Fenris.” Hessen spat a curse in Kostian at the man. “I’ll not move an inch for you.”

  Smashednose pushed his way through the gathering crowd. The Kostians looked annoyed at first but were then cowed by the old man’s glare. He made it to the front of the mob with Silker in tow. They were not a moment too soon, as one of Hessen’s men hefted an axe up and made a step towards Fenris.

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  “What is going on?” Smashednose snapped.

  Fenris and Hessen were surprised by Einar’s arrival. He could tell that he’d dulled their anger, but only by a small degree. Einar was becoming a man of fading authority. He doubted that there was anything he could do to stop the two commanders if they ignored him, but perhaps he could give them an easy out. With Einar present, it gave both men the opportunity to back down and still save face.

  Hessen took the opportunity, but not without getting a last kick in. “Your rat came up on me as I returned from the walls. He’s tried to make foolish demands, Smashednose.”

  “Fenris,” Einar said. “That’s a lot of armed men to be walking around with at this time of night. You had better have a good reason for this.”

  “That, I do,” Fenris said. “Borke and I found the traitors at a meeting place, an old ruin in the west quarter. I didn’t see their faces, and they got away from us. But I marked one of them with my dagger. One of the spies will have a fresh wound on their body. Hessen refuses to show me his.”

  Einar grunted, rubbed his forehead. Fenris had a way of making reasonable things worse.

  “Hessen,” Smashednose said. “Fenris is being a prick about it, but his demands aren’t unreasonable.”

  The Kostian glared at Einar for that, was about to say something, but Smashednose raised his hand. “Here.”

  Einar pulled his shirt off. His body was saggy and pale in the muted light of early dawn. He had a broad chest, but few of the muscles remained from when he had been a younger man.

  “Now you,” Einar commanded the Kostian.

  “Fine.”

  Hessen pulled his tunic off, took the next layer off beneath that. A small, silver amulet hung from his neck, and a dark trail of hair sprouted from his belly button and rose across his chest. Though tall and lanky, Hessen was not an unimpressive figure. He turned in a slow circle with his arms open. He stopped and faced Fenris.

  “Happy?”

  “Not yet,” Fenris said. “I’ve got nine hundred more men to inspect today.”

  “Eight,” Silker said, dryly. “Eight hundred and nine.”

  For over two hours in the morning, men filed in and out of the East Keep. The excuse they had been given was that old Ivan, the camp physician, was checking them for signs of the plague. It was hardly a lie at that, for Ivan took the roll seriously. He poked and prodded at the men and sent them away, scorning them if they hadn’t washed recently.

  To make matters more uncomfortable, the inspected soldiers walked into Ivan’s infirmary only to find that every member of the commander’s council was there. Smashednose, Silker, Hessen, Borke, Fenris, Godrum, Cutha and Osward sat, leaned and stood silently, watching the inspections.

  When young Ruhner walked in, the lad had a mighty confused look on his face, but said nothing and took his chiding like the rest of the men and then left. Finally, after two hours, Ivan said, “That’s it.”

  Borke cursed under his breath. They had found plenty of scars, strange bumps, but no fresh knife wounds.

  “That’s it?” Fenris said. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s it, Fenris,” Silker said. “That’s everybody.”

  Hessen got off the box he had been sitting on. “A waste of my time…”

  “No,” Fenris said. “You said eight-hundred and nine men. That wasn’t eight-hundred by my count.”

  “Nor mine,” Godrum said.

  Einar eyed Ivan. He trusted the man, well enough, but he trusted Whiteeyes’s instincts even more.

  “Explain yourself,” Smashednose said.

  Ivan threw his hands up in the air. “You have seen every healthy man in this camp, including me, half-naked! If you want any more, find a brothel. You might be lucky and see some womenfolk too.”

  “You said healthy,” Einar said. He looked towards the back hall of the hall, to the stretchers and mats on the ground filled with groaning men. “The rest of the men would be over there.”

  Ivan had a deep scowl. “Yes. We can inspect them too, but do not blame me if you catch something.”

  They crossed to the far end of the hall. Einar followed close behind Ivan, but the others stayed back. They stood at the edge of where the sleeping mats and stretchers of the sick began. Even Fenris, who had been keen to find the spy, licked his lips nervously and watched from a distance.

  Smashednose snorted at that. He didn’t care. If the old warrior caught something, he might be lucky enough to become delirious as everything went to shit. It would all be someone else’s problem then.

  They didn’t do much inspection of the first few men. The soldiers were pale, beads of sweat rolling over their heads as they tossed in their sleep. Ivan simply said, “If it were any of these men, then I am a much better healer than I think I am, or there are devils playing tricks on me.”

  They inspected a few men who were more conscious. Ivan treated it much the same as before, using it as an opportunity to inspect their rashes and scabs, and make sure they weren’t succumbing to infection. For a few others, he placed young oak sprigs in their hands to tilt the Balance in favour of life. As it went on, Einar grew more and more grim. If they had to escape Vannarbar, none of these men would survive being moved.

  The search went on until they came to a corner with a man sheepishly looking up at them as they approached.

  “How long has this one been here?” Einar whispered.

  “The early hours of this morning,” Ivan said. “This morning.” Ivan slapped a withered across his forehead in realisation.

  Smashednose didn’t hold it against the man. Ivan had his plate full enough. The old warrior marched right up to the man and tore his thin blankets off him.

  He was white, trembling and curled in a ball.

  “What put you in here?” Smashednose growled.

  “Fever,” the man said. “Woke up awful hot with a fever.”

  There was a stain seeping through the man’s shirt, and Einar pulled it up. Sure enough, there was a dark cut across the man’s shoulder. Smashednose jabbed it with a finger. The man howled.

  “I think I’ve found the cause of your fever,” Einar growled.

  “Gone bad fast,” Ivan muttered. “Very fast for a wound that has only been open for a few hours.”

  Ivan trailed off muttering about the peculiarity of the infection, and Einar left him to it. The old warrior grinned. It had been a while since he’d had a reason to. They would get their answers and blood aplenty out of the man.

  He glanced over his shoulder, and the rest of the commanders council were there. There was finally a good reason to walk amongst the sick.

  “Dane, you’re a mut, and you’ll die for this,” Whiteeyes spat and then said to Einar. “He was the man who was on watch with Talen when he died.”

  “It seems that the problem is in your part of the camp,” Hessen said.

  “Watch yourself…”

  “Quiet, both of you,” Smashednose said. “Get him up and take him to my tower.”

  They dragged Dane to his feet and began walking him out of the hall. He tried to tear his arm away from Hessen, and the Kostian slapped him across the cheek. Lord Osward winced at the sudden violence. Godrum and Borke watched on with the grim knowledge that what was to come would be much worse. Torture and a slow death. Silker came and took the man by the scruff of his shirt and helped Fenris and Hessen move him.

  He had incredible energy for a man that been curled into a ball just moments ago. His feet slapped at the old stone floor, and he yelled. It became nauseating, and old Einar Smashednose didn’t know why. They passed between the last of the sleeping mats, and Einar was stung by the smell of rot and decay.

  Behind Einar, the prisoner was panting and sweaty, trying to pull his wet arms free.

  As they approached the entrance to the hall, the nauseating, stomach-curdling feeling grew in Einar. The old, white hairs on Einar’s neck stood up.

  “You’ll help me,” Dane whimpered to no one in particular. “You’ll help me, won’t you…”

  The nausea peeked and Smashednose realised that the Balance was shifting. He knew the feeling from the miracle of the medicus in Lynetor, from the work of Larker’s arcanists, from the strange folk the old warrior had met in his travels, from the spirits of Vannarbar and the priest. The Balance shifted, but this time it was something harsher and viler than ever before.

  Dane moaned, hoarse and loud. Einar turned around. The prisoner’s face was red, and the tendons of his neck stuck out like lute strings. He ripped free from his captors, twisting awkwardly. He croaked, took one free step and then collapsed.

  The men around Dane staggered away. Lord Osward heaved his guts up. It made an orange-green puddle on the stone floor. Cutha was suddenly flush and Godrum looked like he might faint. The men who had been holding Dane stared down in a mixture of horror and fascination. Einar himself fought the urge to puke.

  Only Ivan had the wherewithal to move. He grabbed Dane’s head and stopped it from smashing against the stone as the body writhed. The physician held Dane until he was still.

  “He’s dead,” Ivan said.