Last Argument of Kings (13 page)

Beloved of the Moon

The Dogman stood, squinting into the sun, and watched the Union lads all shuffling past the other way. There’s a certain look the beaten get, after a fight. Slow-moving, hunched-up, mud-spattered, mightily interested in the ground. Dogman had seen that look before often enough. He’d had it himself more’n once. Sorrowful they’d lost. Shamed they’d been beaten. Guilty, to have given up without getting a wound. Dogman knew how that felt, and a gnawing feeling it could be, but guilt was a sight less painful than a sword-cut, and healed a sight quicker.

Some of the hurt weren’t so badly off. Bandaged or splinted, limping with a stick or with their arm round a mate’s shoulders. Enough to get light duty for a few weeks. Others weren’t so lucky. Dogman thought he knew one. An officer, hardly old enough for a beard, his smooth face all twisted up with white pain and shock, his leg off just above the knee, his clothes, and the stretcher, and the two men carrying him, all specked and spattered with dark blood. He was the one who’d sat on the gate, when Dogman and Threetrees had first come to Ostenhorm to join up with the Union. The one who’d looked at ’em like they were a pair of turds. He didn’t sound so very clever now, squealing with every jolt of his stretcher, but it hardly made the Dogman smile. Losing a leg seemed like harsh punishment for a sneering manner.

West was down there by the path, talking to an officer with a dirty bandage round his head. Dogman couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could guess the gist. From time to time one of ’em would point up towards the hills they’d come from. A steep and nasty-looking pair, wooded mostly, with a few hard faces of bare rock showing. West turned and caught the Dogman’s eye, and his face was grim as a gravedigger’s. It hardly took a quick mind to see that the war weren’t won quite yet.

“Shit,” muttered the Dogman, under his breath. He felt that sucking feeling in his gut. That low feeling he used to get whenever he had to scout out a new piece of ground, whenever Threetrees called for weapons, whenever there was nothing for breakfast but cold water.

Since he was chief, though, he seemed to have it pretty much all the time. Everything was his problem now. “Nothing doing?”

West shook his head as he walked up. “Bethod was waiting for us, and in numbers. He’s dug in on those hills. Well dug in and well prepared, between us and Carleon. More than likely he was ready for this before he even crossed the border.”

“He always did like to be ready, did Bethod. No way round him?”

“Kroy’s tried both the roads and had two maulings. Now Poulder’s tried the hills head on and had a worse one.”

Dogman sighed. “No way round.”

“No way that won’t give Bethod a nice chance to stick the knife right into us.”

“And Bethod won’t be missing no chance like that. It’s what he’ll be hoping for.”

“The Lord Marshal agrees. He wants you to take your men north.” West glared out at the grey whispers of other hills, further off. “He wants you to look for a weakness. There’s no way Bethod can cover the whole range.”

“Is there not?” asked Dogman. “I guess we’ll see.” Then he headed off into the trees. The boys were going to love this.

He strode up the track, soon came up on where his crew were camped out. They were growing all the time. Might’ve been four hundred now, all counted, and a tough crowd too. Those who’d never much cared for Bethod in the first place, mostly, who’d fought against him in the wars. Who’d fought against the Dogman as well, for that matter. The woods were choked up with ’em, sat round fires, cooking, polishing at weapons and working at gear, a couple having a practice at each other with blades. Dogman winced at the sound of steel clashing. There’d be more of that later, and with bloodier results, he didn’t doubt.

“Chief!” they shouted at him. “Dogman! The chief! Hey hey!” They clapped their hands and tapped their weapons on the rocks they sat on. Dogman held up his fist, and gave the odd half-grin, and said “aye, good, good,” and all that. He still didn’t have the slightest clue how to act like a chief, if the truth be told, so he just acted like he always had. The band all seemed happy enough, though. He guessed they always did. Until they started losing fights, and decided they wanted a new chief.

He came up on the fire where the pick of his Named Men were passing the day. No sign of Logen, but the rest of the old crew were sat round it, looking bored. Those that were still alive, leastways. Tul saw him coming. “The Dogman’s back.”

“Uh,” said Grim, trimming at some feathers with a razor.

Dow was busy mopping grease out of a pan with a chunk o’ bread.

“How’d the Union get on with them hills, then?” And he had a sneer to his voice that said he knew the answer already. “Make a shit from it, did they?”

“Well, they came out second, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Second o’ two sides is what I call shit.”

Dogman took a deep breath and let it pass. “Bethod’s dug in good, watching the roads to Carleon. No one can see an easy way to come at him, or an easy way around him neither. He was good and ready for this, I reckon.”

“I could’ve bloody told you that!” barked Dow, spraying out greasy crumbs. “He’ll have Littlebone on one o’ them hills, and Whitesides on the other, then he’ll have Pale-as-Snow and Goring further out. Those four won’t be giving anyone any chances, but if they decide to, Bethod’ll be sat behind with the rest, and his Shanka, and his fucking Feared, ready to snuff ’em out double-time.”

“More’n likely.” Tul held his sword up to the light, peered at it, then set to polishing up the blade again. “Always liked to have a plan, did Bethod.”

“And what do them that hold our leash have to say?” sneered Dow. “What sort of work’s the Furious got for his animals?”

“Burr wants us to move north a way, through the woods, see if Bethod’s left a weak spot up there.”

“Huh,” snorted Dow. “Bethod ain’t in the habit of leaving holes. Not unless he’s left one he means for us to fall into. Fall into and break our necks.”

“Well I guess we’d better be careful where we tread then, eh?”

“More bloody errands.”

Dogman reckoned he was getting about as sick of Dow’s moaning as Threetrees used to be. “And just what else would it be, eh? That’s what life is. A bunch of errands. If you’re worth a shit you do your best at ’em. What’s got up your arse anyway?”

“This!” Dow jerked his head into the trees. “Just this! Nothing’s changed that much, has it? We might be over the Whiteflow, and back in the North, but Bethod’s dug in good and proper up there, with no way for the Union to get round him that won’t leave their arses hanging out. And if they do knock him off them hills, what then? If they get to Carleon and they get in, and they burn it just as good as Ninefingers did the last time, so what? Don’t mean nothing. Bethod’ll keep going, just like he always does, fighting and falling back, and there’ll always be more hills to sit on, and more tricks to play. Time’ll come, the Union will have had their fill and they’ll piss off south and leave us to it. Then Bethod’s going to turn around, and what d’you know? He’ll be the one chasing us all the way across the fucking North and back. Winter, summer, winter, summer, and it’s more of the same old shit. Here we are, fewer of us than there used to be, but still pissing around in the woods. Feel familiar?”

It did, somewhat, now it was mentioned, but Dogman didn’t see what he could do about it. “Logen’s back, now, eh? That’ll help.”

Dow snorted again. “Hah! Just when did the Bloody-Nine bring anything but death along with him?”

“Steady now,” grunted Tul. “You owe him, remember? We all do.”

“There’s a limit on what a man should owe, I reckon.” Dow tossed his pan down by the fire and stood up, wiping his hands on his coat. “Where’s he been, eh? He left us up in the valleys without a word, didn’t he? Left us to the Flatheads and pissed off halfway across the world! Who’s to say he won’t wander off again, if it suits him, or go over to Bethod, or set to murder over nothing, or the dead know what?”

Dogman looked at Tul, and Tul looked back, guilty. They’d all seen Logen do some damn dark work, when the mood was on him. “That was a long time ago,” said Tul. “Things change.”

Dow only grinned. “No. They don’t. Tell yourselves that tale if it makes you sleep easier, but I’ll be keeping one eye open, I can tell you that! It’s the Bloody-Nine we’re talking of. Who knows what he’ll do next?”

“I’ve one idea.” The Dogman turned round and saw Logen, leaning up against a tree, and he was starting to smile when he saw the look in his eye. A look Dogman remembered from way back, and dragged all kind of ugly memories up after it. That look the dead have, when the life’s gone out of ’em, and they care for nothing any more.

“You got a thing to say then you can say it to my face, I reckon.” Logen walked up, right up close to Dow, with his head falling on one side, scars all pale on his hanging-down face. The Dogman felt the hairs on his arms standing up, cold feeling even though the sun was warm.

“Come on, Logen,” wheedled Tul, trying to sound like the whole business was all a laugh when it was plain as a slow death it was no such thing. “Dow didn’t mean nothing by it. He’s just—”

Logen spoke right over him, staring Dow in the face with his corpse’s eyes all the long while. “I thought when I gave you the last lesson that you’d never need another. But I guess some folk have short memories.” He came in even closer, so close that their faces were almost touching. “Well? You need a learning, boy?”

Dogman winced, sure as sure they’d set to killing one another, and how the hell he’d stop ’em once they started he hadn’t the faintest clue. A tense moment all round, it seemed to last for ever. He wouldn’t have taken that from any other man, alive or dead, Black Dow, not even Threetrees, but in the end he just split a yellow grin.

“Nah. One lesson’s all I need.” And he turned his head sideways, hawked up and spat onto the ground. Then he backed off, no hurry, that grin still on his face, like he was saying he’d take a telling this time, maybe, but he might not the next.

Once he was gone, and no blood spilled, Tul blew out hard like they’d got away with murder. “Right then. North, was it? Someone better get the lads ready to move.”

“Uh,” said Grim, sliding the last arrow into his quiver and following him off through the trees.

Logen stood there for a moment, watching ’em walk. When they’d got away out of sight he turned round, and he squatted down by the fire, hunched over with his arms resting on his knees and his hands dangling. “Thank the dead for that. I nearly shit myself.”

Dogman realised he’d been holding onto his breath the whole while, and he let it rush out in a gasp. “I think I might’ve, just a bit. Did you have to do that?”

“You know I did. Let a man like Dow take liberties and he won’t ever stop. Then all the rest of these lads will get the idea that the Bloody-Nine ain’t anything like so frightening as they heard, and it’ll be a matter of time before someone with a grudge decides to take a blade to me.”

Dogman shook his head. “That’s a hard way of thinking about things.”

“That’s the way they are. They haven’t changed any. They never do.”

True, maybe, but they weren’t ever going to change if no one gave ’em half a chance. “Still. You sure all that’s needful?”

“Not for you maybe. You got that knack that folk like you.” Logen scratched at his jaw, looking sadly off into the woods. “Reckon I missed my chance at that about fifteen years ago. And I ain’t getting another.”

The woods were warm and familiar. Birds twittered in the branches, not caring a damn for Bethod, or the Union, or any o’ the doings of men. Nowhere had ever seemed more peaceful, and Dogman didn’t like that one bit. He sniffed at the air, sifting it through his nose, over his tongue. He was double careful these days, since that shaft came over and killed Cathil in the battle. Might have been he could’ve saved her, if he’d trusted his own nose a mite more. He wished he had saved her. But wishing don’t help any.

Dow squatted down in the brush, staring off into the still forest. “What is it, Dogman? What d’you smell?”

“Men, I reckon, but kind of sour, somehow.” He sniffed again. “Smells like—”

An arrow flitted up out of the trees, clicked into the tree trunk just beside Dogman and stuck there, quivering.

“Shit!” he squealed, sliding down on his arse and fumbling his own bow off his shoulder, much too late as always. Dow slithered down cursing beside him and they got all tangled up with each other. Dogman nearly got his eye poked out on Dow’s axe before he managed to push him off. He shoved his palm out at the men behind to say stop, but they were already scattering for cover, crawling for trees and rocks on their bellies, pulling out weapons and staring into the woods.

A voice drifted over from the forest ahead. “You with Bethod?” Whoever it was spoke Northern with some strange-sounding accent.

Dow and Dogman looked at each other for a minute, then shrugged. “No!” Dow roared back. “And if you are, you’d best make ready to meet the dead!”

A pause. “We’re not with that bastard, and never will be!”

“Good enough!” shouted Dogman, putting his head up no more’n an inch, his bow full drawn and ready in his hands. “Show yourselves, then!”

A man stepped out from behind a tree maybe six strides distant. Dogman was that shocked he nearly fumbled the string and let the shaft fly. More men started sliding out of the woods all round. Dozens of ’em. Their hair was tangled, their faces were smeared with streaks of brown dirt and blue paint, their clothes were ragged fur and half-tanned hides, but the heads of their spears, and the points of their arrows, and the blades of their rough-forged swords all shone bright and clean.