Authors: Nathan Hawke
‘And you never said a word?’ Arda snapped. ‘Money, that is!’
Nadric waved her away. ‘Ach, you’ve enough to keep this house fed for a good long while.’ He leered at Torvic. ‘She hoards that silver like a squirrel hoards his winter nuts.’
‘And for much the same reason!’
‘Anyway.’ Nadric shrugged her aside. ‘People owed us and there was plenty of old pieces of metal about after all the fighting that summer. Broken bits of this and that. People took to keeping whatever they could find, and that winter it came to me. I thought a fair time about what I might do with it.’ He kicked the box. ‘There you have it. Broad heads mostly, the older ones, but later I took to making them like the Vathen do. Narrow points. Up close they’ll put a hole in a forkbeard, those ones, even if he’s wearing mail.’
Torvic bent down and tried to pick up the box. He heaved and huffed and his face went red.
Nadric laughed. ‘Careful, friend. You’ll do yourself an injury trying to lift that. Needs a wagon, that does. There’s
a few pieces of Vathan mail at the bottom too and some other bits and pieces. I been hoarding it for you, for when the need was right.’
‘Can’t take a wagon into the Crackmarsh.’ Torvic winced. ‘And I’ve only got two mules here and no spare bags.’ He gave Nadric a long look. ‘I’ll come back, old man. I’ll bring more mules and take them off your hands. What do you want for them?’
Nadric shook his head. ‘Nothing. Was forkbeard silver that bought the metal when it comes down to it. Give it back to them, nice and hard. That’ll do nicely.’
Arda stepped between them. ‘I’ll take six sacks of flour and two legs of pork, Torvic.’
‘No, you won’t.’ Nadric glared. Wasn’t like him to stand up for something but he had a fierce look on him now. ‘Forkbeards killed Merethin. Your husband, woman, your first one, and my son in case you’ve forgotten. Forkbeards can have this lot back for nothing.’
Arda’s face tightened but she kept her peace. Torvic looked from one to the other and then nodded to Nadric and backed away. ‘Take me a few days. When I see Mournful I’ll see what he says.’
T
he drunken forkbeard was going to be a problem. Mirrahj watched him, keeping a careful distance. He was sitting in the mud in the middle of Hrodicslet, not doing much except singing to himself, and that was fine until any of her riders got anywhere close, when he stumbled to his feet and lurched and started shouting and swinging his axe. No one wanted to go anywhere near him and Mirrahj Bashar could see why.
‘Let me shoot him,’ grumbled Josper. ‘Put an arrow or two in his legs, that should shut him up.’ Josper was sulking. The rains might have broken the day before but the Marroc town was soaking wet. The streets were rivers of mud and the houses were all built on stilts, as if mud was only the beginning. Josper liked to burn things, but around here he couldn’t even find tinder to start a flame.
‘No.’ Mirrahj waved him off. ‘Circle the place again. Find some Marroc and chase them into the marsh. See which way they go.’ Josper rode away laughing. He’d enjoy himself with that until it got dark and the ghuldogs came out. He’d be back sharp enough then though, tail between his legs.
Which left her with the forkbeard. Other times she’d have let Josper have his way, but this one interested her. A forkbeard on the wrong side of the river. Just the one, not some raiding party, which begged the question: how did he get here? And that in turn begged the answer she was secretly looking for: a southern passage around the Crackmarsh and
across the Isset. Because there had to be one, there simply
had
to, and if the forkbeard knew it then she wanted it out of him.
Mirrahj got off her horse. She checked the buckles on the little round shield strapped to her left arm and headed towards him. Shrajal and two of his riders came out of a house dragging a pair of screaming Marroc children. ‘Don’t get too close!’ He was laughing at her. ‘That one bites.’ He made a show of stringing up his captives but he was watching her all the time. Waiting for her to fail, just like Josper was waiting too.
The forkbeard stopped singing and started staring as Mirrahj came close. He tried to get up, fell over and then finally found his feet. Mirrahj drew the short curved sword at her side and stabbed it into the mud. Her helm followed. She shook her hair, letting the braids fall around her neck. Sometimes men didn’t know what to do when they realised she was a woman. The forkbeard stumbled a step towards her, half drew the axe from his belt and then put it back. ‘Men all too scared, are they? That’s you horse buggerers. No pride.’
She smiled. He was a big one, even for a forkbeard, but it made no difference. The rest of the ride could have him once she’d got what she wanted. She turned to Shrajal. ‘You hear that, Shrajal? Forkbeard says you’re scared of him.’
‘Forkbeard can come here and say that if he wants. I’m not going anywhere.’
They both laughed. Mirrahj turned back. ‘They’re not scared of you. They’re waiting for me to tell them what to do with you. What are you doing here? There aren’t any forkbeards on this side of the Isset.’
He seemed to forget she was there. He tipped back his head and howled. ‘Medrin? Medrin! Waiting for you. Here I am! Come and get me!’ His eyes dropped suddenly back to Mirrahj again. ‘I’m the one who took his hand.’
‘You took King Sixfingers’ hand? I don’t believe you.’
‘Believe what you like, Vathan.’
‘You were in Andhun when we stole it from you, then?’ She took a slow step closer. ‘I was there too.’ Another step. ‘How did you get across the Crackmarsh, forkbeard? Did you walk or did you ride? How did you get past the ghuldogs and the Marroc who live in there?’
The forkbeard sat down with a heavy
splat
in the mud. ‘I didn’t. I came through the caves and down the mountains like everyone else.’ He rocked back and put a finger to his lips and a lazy smile moved over his face. ‘But don’t tell the other forkbeards.’
So he does know!
A surge of anticipation sparked through her. Behind the forkbeard another handful of men spilled into the mud from the big hall at the heart of the town. They were whooping and cheering. A moment later a curl of smoke followed them out through the door. Mirrahj laughed. Someone had finally got a fire going and Josper had missed it. She took another step closer. ‘Tell me about these caves and this path down the mountains.’ When he didn’t answer, she stifled a flash of irritation. ‘You were in Andhun, were you? Does that make you a soldier?’
‘Always a soldier.’ The forkbeard laughed. ‘Too much of one.’ He started to rise, slipped in the mud and fell flat on his back and then finally stood up again. ‘You look mighty fine for a Vathan.’
‘And you’re ugly even for a forkbeard. If you’re a soldier, how many came with you? Where are they?’ There were flames under the eaves of the burning hall now. A haze of smoke and steam hung over its thatched roof. More of her riders were coming, looking to light a brand and see if they could fire a few of the other houses too. They were watching her.
The forkbeard rubbed his misshapen nose. ‘Soldier? I’m not anything. Nothing.
Nioingr
. That’s what they call me.
You can say it three times if you like. Then I have to kill you.’
Nioingr
. A traitor and an outcast. In that case, maybe he’d tell her what she wanted freely. ‘What’s your name, outcast?’
‘Gallow Foxbeard.’ He grinned at her as though that was supposed to mean something.
‘You’re a long way from home, Gallow Foxbeard.’
‘Home?’ The forkbeard howled with bitter laughter. Mirrahj took another step closer. ‘Careful, Vathan. I’ve killed plenty of your kind.’
‘I’m unarmed, forkbeard.’
‘Lhosir don’t make war on women and children.’ He spat. ‘Didn’t used to, anyway.’
‘You’re a strange one.’ And not much use drunk. She’d have him alive and let him sober up in a cage and then she’d set about finding out whether he knew a way across the Isset or not. Or maybe Josper would find one for her after all, or one of the Marroc prisoners would know of one and the forkbeard wouldn’t matter any more. Either way her ride would take some pleasure from a forkbeard’s screams. Another scratch of vengeance for what they’d done outside Andhun.
She walked towards him with purpose now. He cocked his head and his face screwed up, trying to make sense of it. He waved his axe at her. ‘Piss off, Vathan.’
‘I don’t think I will.’ She stopped right in front of him, so close he could have swung at her, but he didn’t. ‘Well, forkbeard, whatever you think, you’re going to fight a woman today. Look.’ She threw aside her shield. ‘I’ve made it easy for you. Fists. No steel.’
‘Girl, I’m twice your size.’
But he was steaming drunk too. Mirrahj stood in front of him.
‘Leave me alone. Go away.’
‘Make me.’
Down the street behind him there were about a dozen of her men watching them now. Even the ones who’d lit brands were waiting. ‘My men are watching us, forkbeard. I’m their bashar.’ Which made it a matter of pride and face. He had to understand
that
, didn’t he?
He closed his eyes. For a long time he stood like that, head tipped back to the clouds, and Mirrahj reckoned she could have just walked up behind him, wrapped an arm around his neck and choked him and he wouldn’t even have noticed. But she waited. Eventually he looked at her again and groaned because she hadn’t vanished like she was supposed to. He sighed and threw down his axe and his shield. ‘Maker-Devourer, girl. Come on then. I’m going to pull those leathers down and spank your arse.’
She crept closer, one shuffle at a time until he lunged and she ducked and darted behind him, and it was even easier than she’d hoped. She jumped onto his back and wrapped her legs around his waist and one arm around his neck, gripped it with the other and squeezed as tight as she could. He staggered, turning round and round as though he didn’t quite understand that she wasn’t simply behind him. Damned forkbeard was built like a bull, with a neck so strong that she had a moment of doubt. Shrajal was watching her though, and the others who weren’t out chasing Marroc. She’d staked her right to be their bashar on taking this forkbeard down, and that made it a bit late for doubts.
‘I had a daughter like you,’ slurred the forkbeard. ‘Like a bloody limpet. Could never shake her off.’ He didn’t do any of the obvious things, like run backwards and smash her into the wall of a hut or throw himself down on his back and try to drown her in the mud. If he did, she wasn’t sure she could hold on. Wasn’t sure her ribs wouldn’t snap, if it came to it, but then it had always been a gamble. He was stinking drunk and it made him stupid.
One hand tried to get a grip on her arm. The other pawed over his shoulder, trying to grab her face. ‘I had brothers,’ she said. ‘Lots of brothers.’ She grunted at the effort. The muscles in her arms were burning at the pressure she was putting on the forkbeard’s neck, and he was still talking? She squeezed harder. ‘Lots of brothers. All bigger than I was.’
‘No brothers, me.’ The forkbeard was losing his strength. ‘Made my own. All brothers. Before . . .’ He stumbled and sank to his knees.
‘Well I had lots.’ Mirrahj forced herself to keep her arms tight. ‘I had a man as well, and he was big like you, and I always beat him even so.’
‘I had a wife.’ The forkbeard’s arms dropped to his sides. ‘So where is he, your man?’ Another few seconds and he finally went limp and toppled over into the mud.
‘He died,’ she said quietly. ‘Fighting forkbeards like you.’ She stayed on his back, squeezing until she’d counted to twenty in her head. Then, only then, she let go and stepped back. Her furs were covered in mud. It was oozing through the forkbeard’s fingers. He was face down and so heavy that she almost couldn’t roll him over onto his back to stop him from drowning. She did, though, and then put an ear to his chest. He was still breathing.
‘Shrajal! Bind him and get him out of here.’ She made a sharp gesture to the riders who’d stopped to watch. They turned and set about what they’d come to do: looting everything they could carry and burning whatever would burn in this godforsaken swamp. Mirrahj climbed back onto her horse and rode among them, watching, shouting encouragement here and there. Her arms were still burning.
They dragged the last few Marroc out of their homes. There wasn’t much worth taking and only a little food this far towards the backside of winter. The sky was darkening, more rain on its way. As it started they rounded up the Marroc animals they’d taken. They’d slaughter themselves a
feast before they moved on, sleep in the houses they didn’t burn, warmed by the fires of the ones they had, and tomorrow they’d leave. Deeper into the mountains or further around the fringes of the Crackmarsh, one or the other, looking for the south passage across the Isset. They wouldn’t stray far though, not for another day or two. Josper deserved his chance with the Marroc.
‘Bashar!’ It was almost dark when Shrajal caught up with her again. As he reined in his horse he was brandishing something that looked like a sword but wasn’t. A scabbard.
‘Shrajal.’ Mirrahj let her face settle into an amused disdain. Shrajal was young and eager – a little too eager.
He thrust the scabbard at her. ‘Look! Look!’
She looked, and at first there was nothing to see. A scabbard for a Vathan sword. An ornate one, and she wondered for a moment if he meant it as a courting gift, which made him more stupid than she’d thought. But the scabbard was too long for a Vathan blade, and then the designs in the metal around the top of the sheath caught her eye, and she knew she was wrong and Shrajal was sharper than he looked. ‘Where did you get this?’
He answered with a grin. ‘The forkbeard.’ He probably hadn’t ever even seen it before but he still knew what it was. Mirrahj, who
had
seen it, had no doubt at all. He was holding the scabbard they’d lost at Andhun. The Peacebringer’s scabbard, and if the forkbeard carried that then maybe he knew the fate of the red sword itself and Shrajal had every right to look pleased with himself because nothing mattered to the Vathen more than the Sword of the Weeping God.
Mirrahj nudged her horse a step closer so her mount was almost touching his and leaned over. ‘Spread the word and then go after Josper and bring him back. After we’re done here we head straight back for the ardshan in Andhun.’
She smiled. ‘Have some fun with Josper. Tell him what you found.’