Prince of Fools (The Red Queen's War) (16 page)

A short way back the ledge narrowed and a huge rock sealed off all but two or three feet of it, leaving a harrowing stretch where we had had to edge along the boulder beside a drop of ten yards to the ledge below. Snorri crouched down where he would be out of sight of the men as they came along that open and narrow path.

“That’s the plan? You surprise the first one and then it’s just the other nineteen to deal with?”

“Yes.” He shrugged. “I was only running because I knew you’d stay with me and I didn’t want your death on my hands, Jal. Now we’re in it together as the gods must have wanted from the start.” The smile he offered made me really want to punch him.

“We’re out of sight. We could hide. They go past, spread out, lose us, give up. They can’t track us on rock!” I didn’t mention he’d have to carry me.

Snorri shook his head. “They could wait us out. If we tried to leave the ledges they’d see us on the more exposed slopes. Better this way.”

“But . . .”
There’s fucking twenty of them, you moron!

“They’re strung out, Jal. A proper leader would have kept them together, but they’re too confident, eager for the kill. The four or five at the front are nearly a quarter of a mile ahead of the last man.” He spat as if to show his disgust for their poor tactics. I would have spat too, but my mouth was too dry.

“Steady on, let’s think this one through—”

Snorri cut me off with a hiss and a raised hand. A clatter of rock on rock from the ledge below. An oath. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been slowing the Norseman down; our pursuers were only minutes behind. I lay back against the cold rock. My final resting place? I would likely die within a yard of it. At our elevation the mountain held nothing in common with the world I knew, just bare fractured stone, too exposed and too high for lichen or moss, not a twig or scrap of grass or any hint of green to rest the eye upon. As lonely a spot as I’d ever seen. Nearer to God, perhaps, but godforsaken.

In the west the sun dropped towards high and snowcapped peaks, the sky crimson all about them.

Snorri grinned across at me, eyes clear and blue once more, the wind playing raven hair around his neck, across his shoulders. He saw death as a release. I could see that now. Too much had been taken from him. He wouldn’t ever surrender, but he relished the impossibility of the odds. I grinned back—it seemed the only thing to do—that or start crawling away.

The wind brought faint sounds of men climbing now. Stones slipping beneath boots, weapons clattering, curses offered to each other and to the world in general. I tested my ankle and nearly bit my tongue off, but only nearly—so sprained rather than broken. I took the quickest of steps on it and found myself back against the rock, having blacked out for a moment. Perhaps I could hop and stumble on a bit farther, buoyed up with terror, but I’d be caught soon enough and without Snorri for protection. The moment he fell, though, I’d be off, hope or no hope.

Find a happy place, Jalan.
I hopped around my boulder, trying to remember my last moments with Lisa DeVeer. Footsteps sounded along the narrow path between the drop and the boulder. The fall was the least of their worries, though they didn’t know it. Crouching and biting back on the pain, I peered around the edge of my rock to see them arrive. I would have wet myself but the mountain air is very dehydrating.

The first man to come into view was Darab Voir, just as I recalled him from the tavern, a bald-headed bruiser, scar-patterned in the traditions of some Afrique tribes, sweat glistening on his dusky skin. He never saw Snorri. The Norseman’s axe descended in an arc, paralleling the side of the rock as Darab emerged. I’ve always considered a head to be a solid object, but as Snorri’s axe passed through the mercenary’s I had to reconsider. The wedge of his blade entered Darab’s skull at the back, near the top, and emerged beneath his chin. The man’s face literally bulged, the sides of his head seemed to flow outward, and as he toppled away over the drop, without cry or protest, the rocks were drenched with him.

Snorri roared then. The ferocity in it would have given Taproot’s elephant pause, but that wasn’t where the terror lay. The horror was in the simple unabashed joy of it. He didn’t wait for anyone else to emerge. Instead he rounded the corner swinging his axe to cave in the side of the next man’s head and smash him against the rock wall. He ran then, literally ran through them, striking quick short blows as if his axe were a rapier, light as a willow switch. Two, three, four men variously pitched into empty space or slammed against the rock, all of them with a hole in them big enough to put your fist into.

Somewhere out of sight Snorri found a pause and started to declaim, not some Norse battle dirge but ancient verse from the “Lays of Rome.”

Then out spake brave Horatius,

the Captain of the Gate:

“To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.”

Another grunt of exertion, a clatter of metal on rock. The thump of bodies falling.

“And how can man die better

than by facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his gods.”

Damn the barbarian. He was enjoying this madness! He thought himself Horatius on the narrow bridge before the gates of Rome, holding back the might of the Etruscan army! I started to crawl away. It’s shame that gets us killed. Shame is the anchor, the heaviest burden to carry from the battlefield. Fortunately shame was an affliction I’d never suffered from. I did wonder, though, hearing Snorri move on to the next verse of his epic, whether he might not be able to hold out there indefinitely. Providing they didn’t have bows with them . . . Of course, if that Edris were any kind of a leader he’d have sent men to flank his enemy. No single man can stand against many when they come at him from two sides. I would have flank—

“Hello. What have we here?”

I looked up into the pale staring eyes of Meegan—Edris’s second companion from the night before. The setting sun framed him with a bloody light. He’d struck me back at the tavern as one of the last men on earth I’d want to meet in a dark alley. Like Cutter John he had the look of a man who kept a distance from the world, as if viewing us all from behind the confessional screen. Such men make good torturers.

At Meegan’s shoulder stood a hard-bitten warrior tending to grey with a longsword ready in his hand. More men sent to flank us probably approached along the ledge as Meegan and I blinked at each other, me on all fours, him leaning forwards as if in enquiry.

Whatever you do in dangerous situations, the main thing is to do it quickly. I’ve always maintained just because it’s given to you to be a coward doesn’t mean it’s something you can’t strive to do well. My father used to admonish me to excel in all things. Excellence in cowardice means being quick off the mark. If you want to run away fast, then the first thing to do is take off in whatever direction you happen to be facing.

“Ooof” was the only remark Meegan had an opportunity to make as I ran through him, and that utterance was chosen for him by the fact a lot of air needed to vacate his lungs in a hurry. I launched forwards off my good ankle and put my shoulder into the little bastard. Being a big bastard helps in these exchanges. The man behind him staggered back, tripping.

One good thing about falling over on a mountain—good at least when it’s other people—is that you’re pretty much guaranteed to hit your head on a rock. Meegan showed no signs of wanting to get up again. The other man managed to land on his arse, though, and sprang back up sharpish with a curse. We both found ourselves looking at the gleaming length of my sword between us, held at one end by my hand on the hilt and at the other by the ribs he had wrapped around the blade. I had no memory of drawing it, let alone pointing it at him.

“Sorry.” Don’t ask me why I apologized. In the heat of the moment my ankle’s complaints were ignored and I hurried on past the mercenary, yanking my steel clear of his flesh with a sick-making wet tearing sound and the grate of cutting edge against bone. I saw more figures negotiating the boulder-strewn ledge ahead of me and executed a swift turn on my good ankle before hobbling at speed back towards the ambush point where I’d last seen Snorri.

I met him coming in the opposite direction. Or, more accurately, I threw myself to the ground when he came charging around a corner, drenched in blood, axe held blade to ear, haft to chest. The silent purpose in him was terrifying—and then he roared his battle cry and all of a sudden the silence of his purpose would have been fine. A moment later I worked out that he had been shouting, “Behind you!”

Four men had been practically within stabbing range of my heels. Snorri burst amongst them with reckless disregard for everyone’s safety, including mine and his. His axe head buried itself in one man’s solar plexus on a rising arc that split his sternum. He shoulder-charged another man, a hefty fellow, lifting him off his feet and mashing him against a sharp corner of rock. A third man thrust at Snorri but somehow the twisting giant conspired not to be in the way, the mercenary’s sword tip lancing between the Norseman’s elbow and chest. Snorri’s continuing turn trapped the blade and wrenched the weapon free from his attacker’s grasp. The last of the four had Snorri cold. Axe bedded in one foe, tangled with another, he stood open to the man’s spear thrust.

“Snorri!” Why I shouted a useless warning, I don’t know. Snorri could see the problem well enough. The spearman hesitated for a split second. I don’t think my cry distracted him. Most likely he was intimidated by the blood-soaked giant before him, his scarlet battle-mask divided by a fierce and broad grin. A split second should not have been enough, but with a roar Snorri impossibly powered his axe through his victim’s chest, splattering the varied insides of the man in the process, and cut away the spear’s head just before it reached his neck. The backswing broke open the spearman’s face with the blunt reverse of the blade. And I swear to you the iron trailed darkness as it cut the air. Swirls of night left in its wake, fading like smoke. The last man, now swordless, spun away and ran for it. Snorri turned to me, eyes wholly black, panting, snarling, unseeing.

I rolled to my feet—well, foot—sword hanging from my hand, and for a moment we faced each other. Over Snorri’s left shoulder the last burning scrap of the sun fell behind the mountains.

“You’ve got a bit of . . .” I mimed with my hand, scraping at my chin. “Um . . . something in your beard. Lung, I think.”

He reached up, a slow movement, eyes clearing as he did so. “Could be.” He flicked the gobbet of flesh away. A grin. Snorri again.

“There are more coming?” I asked.

“There are more,” he said. “Whether they’re coming or not is yet to be decided. I think there are eight remaining.” He wiped his face, smearing the crimson. Where clean skin showed he looked far too pale—even for a Norseman. The dark and flowing nature of the gore beneath his ribs on the left suggested that not all the blood belonged to our enemy.

“Edris?” I asked.

Snorri shook his head. “Him I would remember putting down. He’ll be bringing up the rear, making sure none of his stragglers decide the mountain’s too steep.” He leaned back against the rock, axe dangling from his hand, flesh white beneath the scarlet now, veins curiously dark.

“We should give them something to think about,” I said. I knew the power of fear better than most men, and Snorri had left a frightful mess. I took hold of the man Snorri had ripped his axe out of to save himself from the spear thrust. His left boot proved the least slippery part of him and I tugged him towards the drop where our ledge fell away to the next. I’d moved him about six inches before discovering that while blind terror is a great anaesthetic in the moment, once the immediate danger is passed the effect wears off rapidly. I fell back clutching my ankle and inventing new swear words that might more effectively convey my distress. “Bollockeration.”

“Toss the corpses over?” Snorri asked.

“It might make them think twice.” It would make me think just the once, and the thought would be
I’ll come back later
.

Snorri nodded and, taking two men by the ankle, threw them over the edge. They landed with a sound that was wet and crunchy at the same time, and my stomach lurched. It would be the path the mercenaries’ rear guard would likely take—the route we had taken. Meegan and his companions had only been inspired to the alternative and more difficult ascent by the sounds of battle. The sensible desire to flank Snorri rather than face him one by one in the narrow defence point he’d chosen had driven them up a more dangerous path.

Still sat on my backside, I grabbed another man by the wrist, braced my good leg against a ridge of rock, and started to tug him by inches towards the drop. I moved him about a yard in the time it took Snorri to toss all but one of the rest in the area.

“This one’s still alive.” Snorri leaned over Meegan and kicked him in the ribs. “Out cold, though.” He looked over at me with an appreciative grin. “You saved a small one for questioning like you promised.”

“All part of the plan,” I grunted, shifting my corpse another three inches. He was the spearman. Thankfully he lay facedown. His passage across the rocks had left a red smear where I’d dragged him. I clutched him below the hand, not wanting to touch his warm dead fingers.

“I’ll sort out the others.” And Snorri headed off to deal with any of the fallen from his initial attack who hadn’t yet fallen far enough.

“No, I’m fine. Don’t trouble yourself.” I got no reply—with Snorri already out of earshot and the rest of my audience dead or unconscious, my sarcasm was wasted. “Heave!” and I heaved again. The corpse slid forwards another three inches. Dead fingers moved against my skin, a convulsion of them like spider legs flexing, stroking down the veins and tendons in my wrist. I nearly let go fast enough, but the hand clasped me as I unclasped it, the dead man lifted his head, and the ruin of his face gaped a crimson grin at me, white skull visible beneath flapping flesh. Fear lends a man strength, but so too does being dead, apparently. I wrenched hard enough to drag the spearman a whole extra yard, but it didn’t win me free, just brought him close enough to reach for my throat. I managed half a scream before dead fingers, still warm, cut it off with an iron grip.