King of Thorns

5

Four years earlier

“This is a bad idea, Jorg.”

“It’s a dangerous idea, Coddin, but that doesn’t have to mean it’s bad.” I laid my knife on the map to stop it rolling up again.

“Whatever the chances of success, you’ll leave your kingdom without a king.” He set a fingertip to the map, resting on the Haunt as if to show me my place. “It’s only been three months, Jorg. The people aren’t sure of you yet, the nobles will start to plot the moment you leave, and how many men-at-arms will you take with you? With an empty throne the Renar Highlands might look like an easy prize. Your royal father might even choose to call with the Army of the Gate. If it comes to defending this place I don’t know how many of your uncle’s troops will rally to your cry.”

“My father didn’t send the Gate when my mother and brother were murdered.” My fingers closed around the knife hilt of their own accord. “He’s unlikely to move against the Haunt now. Especially when his armies are busy acquiring what’s left of Gelleth.”

“So how many soldiers will you take?” Coddin asked. “The Watch will not be enough.”

“I’m not going to take any,” I said. “I could take the whole damn army and it would just get me into a war on somebody else’s lands.” Coddin made to protest. I cut him off. “I’ll take my Brothers. They’ll appreciate a spell on the road and we managed to traipse to and fro happily enough not so many years ago with nobody giving us much pause.”

Makin returned with several large map scrolls under his arm. “In disguise is it?” he said and grinned. “Good. Truth be told, this place has given me itchy feet.”

“You’re staying, Brother Makin,” I told him. “I’ll take Red Kent, Row, Grumlow, Young Sim…and Maical, why not? He may be a half-wit but he’s hard to kill. And of course Little Rike-”

“Not him,” Coddin said, face cold. “There’s no loyalty in that one. He’ll leave you dead in a hedgerow.”

“I need him,” I said.

Coddin frowned. “He might be handy in a fight, but there’s no subtlety in him, no discipline, he’s not clever, he-”

“The way I’d put it,” said Makin, “is that Rike can’t make an omelette without wading thigh deep in the blood of chickens and wearing their entrails as a necklace.”

“He’s a survivor,” I said. “And I need survivors.”

“You need me,” said Makin.

“You can’t trust him.” Coddin rubbed his forehead as he always did when the worry got in him.

“I need you here, Makin,” I said. “I want to have a kingdom to come back to. And I know I can’t trust Rike, but four years on the road taught me that he’s the right tool for the job.”

I lifted my knife and the map sprung back into its roll. “I’ve seen enough.”

Makin raised his eyes and tipped his maps unopened onto the table.

“Mark me out a decent route will you, Coddin, and have that scribe lad copy it down.” I stood straight and stretched. I’d need to find something to wear. One of the maids had burned my old rags and velvet’s no good for the road. It’s like a magnet for dust.

Father Gomst met Makin, Kent and me on our way to the stables. He’d hurried from chapel, red in the face, the heaviest bible under one arm and the altar cross in his other hand.

“Jorg-” He stopped to catch his breath. “King Jorg.”

“You’re going to join us, Father Gomst?” The way he paled made me smile.

“The blessing,” he said, still short of wind.

“Ah, well bless away.”

Kent went to his knees in an instant, as pious a killer as I ever knew. Makin followed with unseemly haste for a man who’d sacked a cathedral in his time. Since Gomst had walked out of Gelleth by the light of a Builders’ Sun, without so much as a tan to show for it, the Brothers seemed to think him touched by God. The fact we had all done the same with far less time at our disposal didn’t register with them.

For my own part, for all the evils of the Roma church, I could no longer bring myself to despise Gomst as I once had. His only true crime was to be a weak and impotent man, unable to deliver the promise of his lord, the love of his saviour, or even to put the yoke of Roma about the necks of his flock with any conviction.

I bowed my head and listened to the prayer. It never hurts to cover your bases.

In the west yard my motley band were assembled, checking over their gear. Rike had the biggest horse I’d ever seen.

“I could run faster than this monster, Rike.” I made a show of checking behind it. “You didn’t take the plough when you stole it, then?”

“It’ll do,” he said. “Big enough for loot.”

“Maical’s not bringing the head-cart?” I looked around. “Where is he anyway?”

“Gone for the grey,” Kent said. “Idiot won’t ride any other horse. Says he doesn’t know how.”

“Now that’s loyalty for you.” I shot Rike a look. “So where’s this new wife of yours, Brother Rikey? Not coming to see you off?”

“Busy ploughing.” He slapped his horse. “Got a job of it now.”

Gorgoth came through the kitchen gate, looming behind Rike. It’s unsettling to see something on two legs that’s taller and wider than Rike. Gog popped out from behind him. He took my hand and I let him lead me. There’s not many that will take my hand since the necromancy took root in me. There’s a touch of death in my fingers, not just the coldness. Flowers wilt and die.

“Where we going, Brother Jorg?” Still a child’s voice despite the crackle in it.

“To find us a fire-mage. Put an end to this bed-burning,” I told him.

“Will it hurt?” He watched me with big eyes, pools of black.

I shrugged. “Might do.”

“Scared,” he said, clutching my hand tighter. I could feel heat rising from his fingers. Maybe it cancelled the cold from mine. “Scared.”

“Well then,” I said. “We’re headed the right way.”

He frowned.

“You’ve got to hunt your fears, Gog. Beat them. They’re your only true enemies.”

“You’re not scared of anything, Brother Jorg,” he said. “King J-”

“I’m scared of burning,” I said. “Especially in my bed.” I looked back to the brothers, stowing weapons and supplies. “I had a cousin who liked to burn people up, did I not, Brother Row?”

“Ayuh.” He nodded.

“My cousin Marclos,” I said. “Tell Gog what happened to him.”

Row tested the point of an arrow with his thumb. “Went up to him all on your ownself, Jorg, and killed him in the middle of a hundred of his soldiers.”

I looked down at Gog. “I’m scared of spiders too. It’s the way that they move. And the way that they’re still. It’s that scurry.” I mimicked it with my hand.

I called back to Row. “How am I with spiders, Row?”

“Weird.” Row spat and secured his last arrow. “You’ll like this tale, Gog, what with being a godless monster and all.” He spat again. Brother Row liked to spit. “Spent a week holed up in some grain barns one time. Hiding. We didn’t go hungry. Grain and rats make for a good stew. Only Jorg here wasn’t having any of that. Place was stuffed full of spiders see. Big hairy fellows.” He spread his fingers until the knuckles cracked. “For a whole week Jorg hunted them. Didn’t eat nothing but spider for a week. And not cooked mind. Not even dead.”

“And rat stew always tasted good after that week,” I said.

Gog frowned, then his eyes caught the glitter on my wrist. “What’s this?” He pointed.

I pulled my sleeve back and held it up for all to see. “Two things I found in my uncle’s treasury that were worth more than the gold around them. Thought I’d bring them along in case of need.” I made sure Rike caught sight of the silver on my wrist. “No need to be going through my saddlebags at night now, Little Rikey. The treasure’s here and if you think you can take it, try now.”

He sneered and tied off another strap.

“Wossit?” Gog stared entranced.

“The Builders made it,” I said. “It’s a thousand years old.”

Row and Red Kent came over to see.

“I’m told they call it a watch,” I said. “And you can see why.”

In truth, I’d been watching it a lot myself. It had a face on it behind crystal, with twelve hours marked and sixty minutes, and two black arms that moved, one slow, one slower still, to point out the time. Entranced, I had opened it up at the back with the point of my knife and gazed into the guts of the thing. The hatch popped back on a minute hinge as if the Builders had known I would want to see inside. Wheels within wheels, tiny, toothed, and turning. How they made such things so small and so precise I cannot guess but to me it is a wonder past any man-made sun or glow-light.

“What else you got, Jorg?” Rike asked.

“This.” I took it from the deep pocket on my hip and set it down on the flagstones. A battered metal clown with traces of paint clinging to his jerkin, hair and nose.

Kent took a step back. “It looks evil.”

I knelt and released a catch behind the clown’s head. With a jerk and a whir he started to stamp his metal feet and bring his metal hands together, clashing the cymbals he held. He jittered in a loose circle, stamping and clashing, going nowhere.

Rike started to laugh. Not that “hur, hur, hur” of his that sounds like another kind of anger, but a real laugh, from the belly. “It’s like…It’s like…” He couldn’t get the words out.

The others couldn’t hold back. Sim and Maical cracked first. Grumlow snorting through the drowned-rat moustache he’d been working on. Then Red Kent and at last even Row, laughing like children. Gog looked on, astonished. Even Gorgoth couldn’t help but grin, showing back-teeth like tombstones.

The clown fell over and kept on stamping the air. Rike collapsed with it, thumping the ground with his fist, gasping for breath.

The clown slowed, then stopped. There’s a blue-steel spring inside that you wind tight with a key. And when it’s finished stamping and crashing, the spring is loose again.

“Burlow…Burlow should have seen this.” Rike wiped the tears from his eyes. The first time I’d heard him mention any of the fallen.

“Yes, Brother Rike,” I said. “Yes, he should.” I imagined Brother Burlow laughing with us, his belly shaking.

We made our moment then, one of those waypoints by which a life is remembered, the Brotherhood remade and bound for the road. We made our moment-the last good one. “Time to go,” I said.

Sometimes I wonder if we all don’t have a blue-steel spring inside us, like that dena of Gorgoth’s coiled tight at the core. I wonder if we don’t all go stamping and crashing, crashing and stamping in our own little circles going nowhere. And I wonder who it is that laughs at us.