The Court of Broken Knives Page 2

  ‘As the holy man said to the whore.’

  Tiredness was setting in now. Boredom. Fear. They marched and grumbled and it was hot and at night it was cold, and they were desperate to get there, and the thought of getting there was terrifying, and they were fed up to buggery with yellow dust and yellow heat and yellow air. Good lads, really, though, Tobias thought. Good lads. Annoying the hell out of him and about two bad nights short of beating the crap out of each other, but basically good lads. He should be kind of proud.

  ‘The Yellow Empire.’

  ‘The Golden Empire.’

  ‘The Sunny Empire.’

  ‘Sunny’s nice and cheerful. Golden’s a hope. And Yellow’d be good when we get there. In their soldiers, anyway. Nice and cowardly, yeah?’

  Gulius banged the ladle. ‘More porridge, anyone? Get it while it’s not yet fully congealed.’

  ‘I swear I sneezed something recently that looked like that last spoonful.’

  ‘A steak … Quick cooked, fat still spitting, charred on the bone … Mushrooms … Gravy … A cup of Immish gold …’

  ‘I’ll have another bowl if it’s going begging.’

  ‘Past begging, man, this porridge. This porridge is lying unconscious in the gutter waiting to be kicked hard in the head.’

  A crow flew down near them cawing. Alxine tried to catch it. Failed. It flew up again and crapped on one of the kit bags.

  ‘Bugger. Good eating on one of them.’

  ‘Scrawny-looking fucker though. Even for a crow.’

  ‘Cooked up with a few herbs, you wouldn’t be complaining. Delicacy, in Allene, slow-roasted crow’s guts. Better than steak.’

  ‘That was my sodding bag!’

  ‘Lucky, in Allene, a crow crapping on you.’

  ‘Quiet!’ Tobias scrambled to his feet. ‘Something moved over to the right.’

  ‘Probably a goat,’ said Rate. ‘If we’re really lucky, it’ll be that female goa—’

  The dragon was on them before they’d even had a chance to draw their swords. ›

  Big as a cart horse. Deep fetid marsh rot snot shit filth green. Traced out in scar tissue like embroidered cloth. Wings black and white and silver, heavy and vicious as blades. The stink of it came choking. Fire and ash. Hot metal. Fear. Joy. Pain. There are dragons in the desert, said the old maps of old empire, and they had laughed and said no, no, not that close to great cities, if there ever were dragons there they are gone like the memory of a dream. Its teeth closed ripping on Gulius’s arm, huge, jagged; its eyes were like knives as it twisted away with the arm hanging bloody in its mouth. It spat blood and slime and roared out flame again, reared up beating its wings. Men fell back screaming, armour scorched and molten, melted into burnt melted flesh. The smell of roasting meat surrounded them. Better than steak.

  Gulius was lying somehow still alive, staring at the hole where his right arm had been. The dragon’s front legs came down smash onto his body. Plume of blood. Gulius disappeared. Little smudge of red on the green. A grating shriek as its claws scrabbled over hot stones. Screaming. Screaming. Beating wings. The stream rose up boiling. Two men were in the stream trying to douse burning flesh and the boiling water was in their faces and they were screaming too. Everything hot and boiling and burning, dry wind and dry earth and dry fire and dry hot scales, the whole great lizard body scorching like a furnace, roaring hot burning killing demon death thing.

  We’re going to die, thought Tobias. We’re all going to fucking die.

  Found himself next to pretty new boy Marith, who was staring at it mesmerized with a face as white as pus. Yeah, well, okay, I’ll give it to you, bit of a thing to come back to when you’ve been off digging a hole for your superiors to shit in. Looked pretty startled even for him. Though wouldn’t look either pretty or startled in about ten heartbeats, after the dragon flame grilled and decapitated him.

  If he’d at least try to raise his sword a bit.

  Or even just duck.

  ‘Oh gods and demons and piss.’ Tobias, veteran of ten years’ standing with very little left that could unsettle him, pulled up his sword and plunged it two-handed into the dragon’s right eye.

  The dragon roared like a city dying. Threw itself sideways. The sword still wedged in its eye. Tobias half fell, half leapt away from it, dragging Marith with him.

  ‘Sword!’ he screamed. ‘Draw your bloody sword!’

  The dragon’s front claws were bucking and rearing inches from his face. It turned in a circle, clawing at itself, tail and wings lashing out. Spouted flame madly, shrieking, arching its back. Almost burned its own body, stupid fucking thing. Two men went up like candles, bodies alight; a third was struck by the tail and went down with a crack of bone. Tobias rolled and pulled himself upright, dancing back away. His helmet was askew, he could see little except directly in front of him. Big writhing mass of green dragon legs. He went into a crouch again, trying to brace himself against the impact of green scales. Not really much point trying to brace himself against the flames.

  A man came in low, driving his sword into the dragon’s side, ripping down, glancing off the scales but then meeting the softer underbelly as the thing twisted up. Drove it in and along, tearing flesh. Black blood spurted out, followed by shimmering white and red unravelling entrails. Pretty as a fountain. Men howled, clawed at their own faces as the blood hit. And now it had two swords sticking out of it, as well as its own intestines, and it was redoubling its shrieking, twisting, bucking in circles, bleeding, while men leapt and fell out of its way.

  ‘Pull back!’ Tobias screamed at them. ‘Get back, give it space. Get back!’ His voice was lost in the maelstrom of noise. It must be dying, he thought desperately. It might be a bloody dragon, but half its guts are hanging out and it’s got a sword sunk a foot into its head. A burst of flame exploded in his direction. He dived back onto his face. Found himself next to new boy Marith again.

  ‘Distract it!’ Marith shouted in his ear.

  Um …?

  Marith scrambled to his feet and leapt.

  Suddenly, absurdly, the boy was balanced on the thing’s back. Clung on frantically. Almost falling. Looked so bloody stupidly bloody small. Then pulled out his sword and stabbed downwards. Blood bursting up. Marith shouted. Twisted backwards. Fell off. The dragon screamed louder than ever. Loud as the end of the world. Its body arched, a gout of flame spouted. Collapsed with a shriek. Its tail twitched and coiled for a few long moments. Last rattling tremors, almost kind of pitiful and obscene. Groaning sighing weeping noise. Finally it lay dead.

  A dead dragon is a very large thing. Tobias stared at it for a long time. Felt regret, almost. It was beautiful in its way. Wild. Utterly bloody wild. No wisdom in those eyes. Wild freedom and the delight in killing. An immovable force, like a mountain or a storm cloud. A death thing. A beautiful death, though. Imagine saying that to Gulius’s family: he was killed fighting a dragon. He was killed fighting a dragon. A dragon killed him. A dragon. Like saying he died fighting a god. They were gods, in some places. Or kin to gods, anyway. He reached out to touch the dark green scales. Soft. Still warm. His hand jerked back as if burnt. What did you expect? he thought. It was alive. A living creature. Course it’s bloody soft and warm. It’s bloody flesh and blood.

  Should be stone. Or fire. Or shadow. It wasn’t right, somehow, that it was alive and now it was dead. That it felt no different now to dead cattle, or dead men, or dead dogs. It should feel … different. Like the pain of it should be different. He ached the same way he did after a battle with men. The same way he did the last time he’d got in a fight in an inn. Not right. He touched it again, to be sure. Crumble to dust, it should, maybe. Burn up in a blaze of scented flame.

  If it’s flesh and blood, he thought then, it’s going to fucking stink as it starts to rot.

  There was a noise behind him. Tobias spun round in a panic. Another dragon. A demon. Eltheia the beautiful, naked on a white horse.

  New boy Marith. Staring at the dragon
like a man stares at his own death. A chill of cold went through Tobias for a moment. A scream and a shriek in his ears or his mind. The boy’s beautiful eyes gazed unblinking. A shadow there, like it was darker suddenly. Like the sun flickered in the sky. Like the dragon might twitch and move and live. Then the boy sighed wearily, sat down in the dust rubbing at his face. Tobias saw that the back of his left hand was horribly burnt.

  ‘Pretty good, that,’ Tobias said at length.

  ‘You told me to draw my sword.’

  ‘I did.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘You killed it,’ said Tobias.

  ‘It was dying anyway.’

  ‘You killed a bloody dragon, lad.’

  A bitter laugh. ‘It wasn’t a very large dragon.’

  ‘And you’d know, would you?’

  No answer.

  ‘You killed it, boy. You bloody well killed a bloody dragon. Notoriously invulnerable beast nobody really believed still existed right up until it ate their tent-mate. You should be pleased, at least. Instead, you’re sitting here looking like death while Rate and the other lads try to get things sorted out around here.’ Wanted to shake the boy. Moping misery. ‘At least let me have a look at your hand.’

  This finally seemed to get Marith’s attention. He stared down at his burns. ‘This? It doesn’t really hurt.’

  ‘Doesn’t hurt? Half your hand’s been burnt off. How can it not hurt? It’s the blood, I think. Burns things. It’s completely destroyed my sword. Damn good sword it was, too. Had a real ruby in the hilt and all. Bloke I got it off must have thought it was good too, seeing as I had to kill him for it.’ Rambled on, trying to relieve his racing mind. At the back of his racing mind this little voice basically just shouting ‘fuck fuck fuck fuck’.

  ‘The blood is acid,’ Marith said absently. ‘And boiling hot. Once it’s dead it cools, becomes less corrosive.’ He turned suddenly to Tobias, as if just realizing something. ‘You stabbed it first. To rescue me. I did nothing, I just stood there.’

  Absurd how young the boy seemed. Fragile. Weak. Hair like red-black velvet. Eyes like pale grey silk. Skin like new milk and a face like a high-class whore. Could probably pass for Eltheia the beautiful, actually, in the right light. From the neck up at any rate.

  Couldn’t cook. Couldn’t start a fire. Couldn’t boil a sodding pot of tea. Could just about use a sword a bit, once someone had found him one, though his hand tended to shake on the blade. Cried a lot at night in his tent. Emit had ten in iron on him one day breaking down crying he wanted his mum. Eltheia the beautiful might have made the better sellsword, actually, in the right light.

  ‘You just stood there. Yeah. So did most of them.’ And, oh gods, oh yeah, it’s the squad commander pep talk coming unstoppably out. Let rip, Tobias me old mucker, like finally getting out a fart: ‘Don’t worry about it. Learn from your mistakes and grow stronger and all that. Then when we next get jumped by a fire-breathing man-eating dragon, you’ll be right as rain and ready for it and know exactly what to do.’

  Marith shook himself. Rubbed his eyes. ‘I could really, really do with a drink.’

  Tobias got to his feet. Sighed. Boy didn’t even need to ask things directly for you to somehow just do them. A trick in the tone of voice. Those puppy-dog sad eyes. ‘You’re not really supposed to order your squad commander around, boy. And we haven’t got any booze left, if that’s what you mean. There’s water for tea, as long as it’s drawn well up river of … that. Seeing as you’re a hero and all, I’ll go and get you some.’ He started off towards the camp. ‘Want something to eat while I’m at it?’

  An attempt at drinks and dinner. Get the camp sorted so someone with a particularly iron stomach could get a bit of sleep in that wasn’t mostly full of dreams of blood and entrails and your tent- mate’s face running off like fat off a kebab. The final butcher’s bill on file: Jonar, the man who had hacked the thing’s stomach open, had disappeared completely, his body totally eaten away; four others were dead including Gulius; one was dying from bathing in fire and hot steam. Skie finished this last off cleanly by taking off his crispy melted black and pink head. Another four were badly wounded: Tobias suspected two at least would be lucky to survive the night. One, a young man called Newlin who was a member of his squadron, had a burn on his right leg that left him barely able to stand. Tobias had already decided it would be a kindness to knife him at the earliest opportunity. One of the other lads was bound to make a botch of it otherwise.

  They’d only lost three men in the last year, and they had largely been the victims of unfortunate accidents. (How could they have known that pretty farmer’s daughter had had a pruning hook hidden under her cloak? She hadn’t even put up much resistance until that point.) Losing ten was a disaster, leaving them dangerously approaching being under-manned.

  Piss poor luck, really, all in all, sitting down for lunch in front of a convenient bit of rock and it happening to have a dragon hiding behind it. Even if it wasn’t a very large one.

  They were still pitching the tents when Skie’s servant Toman appeared. Reported that Skie wanted to see Marith Dragon Killer for a chat.

  ‘Hero’s welcome,’ said Tobias with a grin. Though you never could tell with Skie. Could just be going to bollock the boy for not killing it sooner.

  Marith got up slowly. Something like fear in his eyes. Or pain, maybe.

  Tobias shivered again. Funny mood, the boy was in.

  Chapter Three

  Skie’s tent was beautiful old leather, well cured, unlike the smelly, greasy cloth things the men slept under, embossed with a design of looping flowers. The colours of the paint still showed in places, even some touches of gold leaf. Looted from somewhere, Marith was certain. Probably part of a lady’s hunting pavilion. Although they usually had a little jewelled flag on the top. Skie’s had a skeletal hand.

  Skie himself was a small, thin man, grey and hard, his head bald. A straggly grey beard, which he’d look much better without, a scar across the bridge of his nose. Nothing exceptional, until he moved, and you saw he had lost his left arm at the elbow. Marith looked down at the ragged burns on his own left hand.

  ‘So.’ Skie fixed him with cold eyes. ‘The dragon killer himself. I suppose we all owe you our lives.’ He gestured to Marith to sit down opposite him outside the tent entrance. ‘Rather more than I assumed you were capable of when I first encountered you, I must admit. Out of interest, how’d you know where to stab it?’

  ‘I know how to kill dragons.’

  ‘That seems unarguable. I was asking how you knew. Not a common piece of knowledge.’

  ‘I’d have thought that was obvious.’

  Skie made a snorting sound, possibly a laugh. ‘You’re either a very determined liar or the worst fool I have ever met, dragon killer. And watch how you speak around me, lad.’ Marith shrank for a moment under his gaze. The dark eyes stared at him, measuring him. Mocking him. The look his father used to give him. Judging. Knowing. Scornful. Don’t judge me, he thought bitterly. You’ve not exactly made much of life yourself, from the look of you.

  There was a small leather book on the ground between them, very old, battered and ripped in places, the thick leather cover faded to an indeterminate shade of brown-green-grey. Skie licked his fingers, began thumbing through it carefully. Some of the tension between them released; Marith looked at the book with interest, breathing in its musty scent. A memory: curling into a chair with a pile of old books, stories, poems, histories, travelogues. Simple pleasures. Good, honest things. He shook his head and the memory faded. At least the geography might finally start coming in useful, he thought. Almost laughed in pain.

  Skie expertly manipulated the book with his one hand until he found the right page. He produced a pen and an ink stone from his pack. Licked the pen to begin.

  ‘What is it?’ Marith asked.

  The grey face creased in an angry frown. ‘You don’t ask questions of your commander, boy. You need to remember that. S
peak when spoken to. Otherwise, shut up and obey. It’s a record of the company’s more notable deeds. Battles won, cities looted, that kind of thing. It’s not been written in much in the last few years. “Small village pillaged, two old men killed” isn’t exactly the stuff of legends. The Long Peace hasn’t been kind to the likes of us. But I think a dragon and a dragon killer deserve noting.’

  Skie’s writing was blotchy, the careful, uncertain script of a man who was only semi-literate. Though, actually, thinking about it, that was perhaps unfair. Perhaps impressive he could write at all, especially one-handed. Marith’s own hand itched with impatience watching the shaky progress of the words across the page.

  ‘Lundra, twenty-seven Earth,’ said Skie slowly, sounding out every word. Marith pulled his mouth closed over the misspelling of the word ‘Erth’. ‘On this day, did Marith, the newest recruit to the noble Company, valiantly slay a dragon in the deserts east of Sorlost. Reward: six iron pennies’. Should be a silver mark, but we’re down on provisions and there’s nothing to spend it on out here anyway.’ He smiled coldly at Marith. ‘Certainly nothing that would interest you, boy. Go and see Toman about the money. He might even give it to you.’

  I killed a dragon, Marith thought bitterly as he walked back to his own tent. I killed a dragon, you ungrateful old man. You should be thanking all your gods and demons for it. Not laughing at me. There was an itchy feeling in his body, he felt raw and sick. Shut his eyes, breathed deeply. Keep calm, he thought. Just keep calm. Everything will be all right. When he opened his eyes again the light was brilliant, leaving him momentarily blind. Blinked, staring, rubbed at his eyes. It’s all right. It’ll be all right. It’s better than it was. It is. The harsh dun landscape seemed almost unreal. He looked around the encampment. Fires were being tended, more soupy porridge prepared. Someone with more luck than Alxine had caught and butchered a crow and was trading it for tea and salt. Two men sat dicing in the shade of a scrubby thorn tree; another two argued heatedly over the price of a battered cook pot. The six iron pennies were sticky in his hand. He sighed and shoved them into his jacket pocket. There was indeed nothing to spend them on out here.