Last Argument of Kings by Joe Abercrombie

  'That's not how it was,' growled Logen.

  Bethod's laughter echoed harsh on the wind. 'Is it not? I wanted to talk with Shama Heartless, but you had to kill him! I tried to strike a deal at Heonan, but you had to climb up and settle your score, and start a dozen more! Peace, you say? I begged you to let me make peace at Uffrith, but you had to fight Threetrees! On my knees I begged you, but you had to have the biggest name in all the North! Then once you'd beaten him, you broke your word to me and let him live, as though there was nothing bigger to think about than your damn pride!'

  'That's not how it was,' said Logen.

  'There's not a man in the North that doesn't know the truth of it! Peace? Hah! What about Rattleneck, eh? I would have ransomed his son back to him, and we could all have gone home happy, but no! What did you say to me? Easier to stop the Whiteflow than to stop the Bloody-Nine! Then you had to nail his head to my standard for the whole world to see, so the vengeance would never find an end! Every time I tried to stop, you dragged me on, deeper and deeper into the mire! Until there could be no stopping any longer! Until it was kill or be killed! Until I had to put down the whole North! You made me King, Ninefingers. What other choices did you leave me?'

  'That's not how it was,' whispered Logen. But he knew it had been.

  'Tell yourself that I'm the cause of all your woes if it makes you happy! Tell yourself I'm the merciless one, the murderous one, the bloodthirsty one, but ask yourself who I learned it from. I had the best master! Play at being the good man if you please, the man with no choices, but we both know what you really are. Peace? You'll never have peace, Bloody-Nine. You're made of death!'

  Logen would've liked to deny it, but it would just have been more lies. Bethod truly knew him. Bethod truly understood him. Better than anyone. His worst enemy, and still his best friend. 'Then why not kill me, when you had the chance?'

  The King of the Northmen frowned, as though he couldn't understand something. Then he started to laugh again. He shrieked with it. 'You don't know why? You stood right beside him and you don't know? You learned nothing from me, Ninefingers! After all these years, you still let the rain wash you any way it pleases!'

  'What're you saying?' snarled Logen.

  'Bayaz!'

  'Bayaz? What of him?'

  'I was ready to put the bloody cross in you, sink your carcass in a bog with all the rest of your misfit idiots and was happy to do it, until that old liar came calling!'

  'And?'

  'I owed him, and he wanted you let go. It was that meddling old fuck that saved your worthless hide, and nothing else!'

  'Why?' growled Logen, not knowing what to make of it, but not liking that he was learning about it so long after everyone else.

  But Bethod only chuckled. 'Maybe I didn't grovel low enough for his taste. You're the one he saved, you ask him the whys, if you live long enough. But I don't think you will. I take your challenge! Here. Tomorrow. At sunrise.' He rubbed his palms together. 'Man against man, with the future of the North hanging bloody on the outcome! Just as it used to be, eh, Logen? In the old days? In the sunny valleys of the past? Roll the dice together one more time, shall we?' The King of the Northmen stepped slowly back, away from the battlements. 'Some things have changed, though. I've a new champion now! If I was you, I'd say your goodbyes tonight, and get ready for the mud! After all… what was it you used to tell me… ?' His laughter faded slowly into the dusk. 'You have to be realistic!'

  'Good piece o' meat,' said Grim.

  A warm fire and a good piece of meat were two things to be thankful for, and there'd been times enough when Dogman had a lot less, but watching the blood drip from that chunk of mutton was making him feel sick. Reminded him of the blood that came out of Shama Heartless when Logen split him open. Years ago, maybe, but the Dogman could see it fresh as yesterday. He could hear the roars from the men, the shields crashing together. He could smell the sour sweat and the fresh blood on the snow.

  'By the dead,' grunted Dogman, mouth watering like he was about to puke. 'How can you think about eating now?'

  Dow gave a toothy grin. 'Us going hungry ain't going to help Ninefingers any. Nothing is. That's the point of a duel, ain't it? All about one man.' He poked at the meat with his knife and made the blood run sizzling into the fire. Then he sat back, thoughtful. 'You reckon he can do it? Really? You remember that thing?' Dogman felt a ghost of the sick fear he'd had in the mist, and he shuddered to his boots. He weren't likely ever to forget the sight of that giant coming through the murk, the sight of his painted fist rising, the sound of it crunching into Threetrees' ribs and crushing the life out of him.

  'If anyone can do it,' he growled through his gritted teeth, 'I reckon Logen can.'

  'Uh,' grunted Grim.

  'Aye, but do you think he will? That's my question. That, and what happens if he don't?' It was a question that Dogman could hardly bear to think up an answer to. Logen would be dead, for a first thing. Then there'd be no siege of Carleon anymore. Dogman had too few men left after the mountains to keep a piss-pot surrounded, let alone the best walled city in the North. Bethod could do as he pleased—seek out help, and find new friends, and set to fighting again. There was no one tougher in a tight corner.

  'Logen can do it,' he whispered, bunching his fists and feeling the long cut down his arm burning. 'He has to.'

  He nearly fell in the fire when a great fat hand thumped him on the back. 'By the dead but I never seen such a fire-full o' long faces!' Dogman winced. The crazy hillman was hardly what he needed to lift his mood, grinning out of the night with his children behind him, great big weapons over their shoulders.

  Crummock was down to just the two now, since one of his sons got killed up in the mountains, but he didn't seem so upset about it. He'd lost his spear too, snapped off in some Easterner, as he was fond of saying, so he still didn't have to carry aught himself. Neither one of the children had said much since the battle, or not in the Dogman's hearing, anyway. No more talk about how many men folk might've killed. The seeing of it close up could be a woeful drain on your enthusiasm for the business of war. Dogman knew well enough how that went.

  But Crummock himself had no trouble keeping cheerful. 'Where's Ninefingers got himself off to?'

  'Gone off on his own. Always liked to do that, before a duel.'

  'Mmm.' Crummock stroked at the fingerbones round his neck. 'Speaking to the moon, I'll be bound.'

  'Shitting himself is closer to it, I reckon.'

  'Well, as long as you get the shitting done before the fight, I don't reckon anyone could grumble.' He grinned all across his face. 'No one's loved of the moon like the Bloody-Nine, I tell you! No one in all the wide Circle of the World. He's got some kind of chance at winning a fair fight, and that's the best a man could hope for against that devil-thing. There's only one problem.'

  'Just one?'

  'There'll be no fair fight as long as that damn witch is alive.'

  The Dogman felt his shoulders slump even further. 'How d'you mean?'

  Crummock spun one of the wooden signs on his necklace round and around. 'I can't see her letting Bethod lose, and herself along with him, can you? A witch as clever as that one? There's all kinds of magic she could mix. All kinds of blessings and curses. All kinds of ways that bitch could tilt the outcome, as though the chances weren't tilted enough already.'

  'Eh?'

  'My point is this. Someone needs to stop her.'

  Dogman hadn't thought he could feel any lower. Now he knew better. 'Good luck with that,' he muttered.

  'Ha ha, my lad, ha ha. I'd love to do it, too, but they've got an awful stretch of walls down there, and I'm not much for climbing over 'em.' Crummock slapped one fat hand against his fat belly. 'Twice too much meat for that. No, what we need for this task is a small man, but with great big fruits on him. No doubt we do, and the moon knows it. A man with a talent for creeping about, sharp-eyed and sure-footed. We need someone with a quick hand and a quick mind.' He looked at the Do
gman, and he grinned. 'Now where is it that we'd find a man like that, do you reckon?'

  'You know what?' Dogman put his face in his hands. 'I've no fucking idea.'

  Logen lifted the battered flask to his lips and took a mouthful. He felt the sharp liquor tingling on his tongue, tickling at his throat, that old need to swallow. He leaned forward, pursed his lips, and blew it out in a fine spray. A gout of fire went up into the cold night. He peered into the darkness, saw nothing but the black outlines of tree-trunks, the shifting black shadows that his fire cast between them.

  He shook the flask back and forth, heard the last measure sloshing inside. He shrugged his shoulders, put it to his mouth and tipped it all the way, felt it burn down to his stomach. The spirits could share with him tonight. Chances were good that, after tomorrow, he wouldn't be calling on them again.

  'Ninefingers.' The voice rustled at him like the leaves falling.

  One spirit slid out from the shadows, came up into the light from the fire. There was no trace of recognition about it, and Logen found he was relieved. There was no accusation either, no fear and no distrust. It didn't care what he was, or what he'd done.

  Logen tossed the empty flask down beside him. 'On your own?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well, you're never alone if you bring laughter with you.' The spirit said nothing. 'Reckon laughter's a thing for men, not for spirits.'

  'Yes.'

  'Don't speak much, do you?'

  'I did not call on you.'

  'True.' Logen stared into the fire. 'I have to fight a man tomorrow. A man called Fenris the Feared.'

  'He is not a man.'

  'You know of him, then?'

  'He is old.'

  'By your reckoning?'

  'Nothing is old by my reckoning, but he goes back to the Old Time and beyond. He had another master, then.'

  'What master?'

  'Glustrod.'

  The name was like a knife in the ear. No name could've been less expected, or less welcome. The wind blew cold through the trees, and memories of the towering ruins of Aulcus crowded in on Logen, and made his back shiver. 'No chance it's some different Glustrod than the one came close to destroying half the world?'

  'There is no other. He it was that wrote the signs upon the Feared's skin. Signs in the Old Tongue, the language of devils, across his left side. That flesh is of the world below. Where the word of Glustrod is written, the Feared cannot be harmed.'

  'Cannot be harmed? Not at all?' Logen thought about it a moment. 'Why not write on both sides?'

  'Ask Glustrod.'

  'I don't think that's likely.'

  'No.' A long pause. 'What will you do, Ninefingers?'

  Logen peered off sideways into the trees. The notion of setting off running, and never looking back, seemed a pretty one, right then. Sometimes it can be better to live with the fear of it, than to die doing it, whatever Logen's father had told him.

  'I ran before,' he muttered, 'and I only ran a circle. For me, Bethod's at the end of every path.'

  'Then that is all our talk.' The spirit stood up from the fire.

  'Perhaps I'll see you again.'

  'I do not think so. The magic leaks from the world, and my kind sleep. I do not think so. Even if you beat the Feared, and I do not think you will.'

  'Message o' hope then, eh?' Logen snorted. 'Luck go with you.'

  The spirit faded back into the darkness, and was gone. It did not wish Logen luck. It did not care.

  * * *

  Authority

  « ^ »

  It was a dour and depressing meeting, even for the Closed Council. The weather beyond the narrow windows was sullen and overcast, promising storms but never delivering, casting the White Chamber into a chill gloom. From time to time heavy gusts of wind would rattle the old window panes, making Jezal start and shiver in his fur-trimmed robe.

  The grim expressions of the dozen old faces did little to warm his bones. Lord Marshal Varuz was all clenched jaw and harsh determination. Lord Chamberlain Hoff clutched his goblet like a drowning man clinging to the last fragment of his boat. High Justice Marovia frowned as though he were about to pronounce the death sentence on the entire gathering, himself among them. Arch Lector Sult's thin lip was permanently curled as his cold eyes slid from Bayaz, to Jezal, to Marovia, and back.

  The First of the Magi himself glared down the table. 'The situation, please, Lord Marshal Varuz.'

  'The situation, honestly, is grim. Adua is in uproar. Perhaps one third of the population has already fled. The Gurkish blockade means that few supplies are making it to the markets. Curfews are in place but some citizens are still seizing the opportunity to rob, steal and riot while the authorities are occupied elsewhere.'

  Marovia shook his head, grey beard swaying gently. 'And we can only expect the situation to deteriorate as the Gurkish come closer to the city.'

  'Which they are,' said Varuz, 'at the rate of several miles a day. We are doing all we can to frustrate them, but with our resources so limited… they may well be outside the gates within the week.'

  There were a few shocked gasps, breathed oaths, nervous sideways glances. 'So soon?' Jezal's voice cracked slightly as he said it.

  'I am afraid so, your Majesty.'

  'What is the Gurkish strength?' asked Marovia.

  'Estimates vary wildly. At present however…' and Varuz sucked worriedly at his teeth, 'it appears they field at least fifty thousand.'

  There were further sharp intakes of breath, not least from Jezal's own throat. 'So many?' muttered Halleck.

  'And thousands more landing every day near Keln,' put in Admiral Reutzer, doing nothing to lift the mood. 'With the best part of our navy on its way to retrieve the army after its northern adventure, we are powerless to stop them.'

  Jezal licked his lips. The walls of the wide room seemed to close in further with every moment. 'What of our troops?'

  Varuz and Reutzer exchanged a brief glance. 'We have two regiments of the King's Own, one of foot and one of horse, some six thousand men in all. The Grey Watch, tasked with the defence of the Agriont itself, numbers four thousand. The Knights Herald and of the Body form an elite of some five hundred. In addition, there are non-combat soldiers—cooks, grooms, smiths, and so forth—who could be armed in an emergency—'

  'I believe this qualifies,' observed Bayaz.

  '—perhaps some few thousand more. The city watch might be of some use, but they are hardly professional soldiers.'

  'What of the nobles?' asked Marovia. 'Where is their aid?'

  'Some few have sent men,' said Varuz grimly, 'others only their regrets. Most… not even that.'

  'Hedging their bets.' Hoff shook his head. 'Brock has let it be known there will be Gurkish gold for those who help him, and Gurkish mercy for those who stand with us.'

  'It has ever been so,' lamented Torlichorm. 'The nobles are interested only in their own welfare!'

  'Then we must open the armouries,' said Bayaz, 'and we must not be shy with their contents. We must arm every citizen who can hold a weapon. We must arm the labourers' guilds, and the craftsmens' guilds, and the veterans' associations. Even the beggars in the gutters must be ready to fight.'

  All well and good, Jezal supposed, but he hardly cared to trust his life to a legion of beggars. 'When will Lord Marshal West return with the army?'

  'If he received his orders yesterday, it will be a month at the very least before he is disembarked and ready to come to our aid.'

  'Which means we must withstand several weeks of siege,' muttered Hoff, shaking his head. He leaned close to Jezal's ear and spoke softly, quite as if they were schoolgirls trading secrets. 'Your Majesty, it might be prudent for you and your Closed Council to leave the city. To relocate your government further north, outside the path of the Gurkish advance, where the campaign can be conducted in greater safety. To Holsthorm, perhaps, or—'

  'Absolutely not,' said Bayaz sternly.

  Jezal could scarcely deny that the notion
held its attractions. The island of Shabulyan at that moment seemed an ideal place to relocate his government to—but Bayaz was right. Harod the Great would hardly have entertained the idea of retreat, and neither, unfortunately, could Jezal.

  'We will fight the Gurkish here,' he said.

  'Merely a suggestion,' muttered Hoff, 'merely prudence.'

  Bayaz spoke over him. 'How do the defences of the city stand?'

  'We have, in essence, three concentric lines of defence. The Agriont itself is, of course, our last bastion.'

  'It will not come to that, though, eh?' chuckled Hoff, with far from total conviction.

  Varuz decided not to answer. 'Arnault's Wall is beyond it, enclosing the oldest and most crucial parts of the city—the Agriont, the Middleway, the main docks and the Four Corners among them. Casamir's Wall is our outermost line of defence—weaker, lower, and a great deal longer than Arnault's. Smaller walls run between these two, like the spokes of a wheel, dividing the outer ring of the city into five boroughs, each of which can be sealed off, should it be captured by the enemy. There are some built-up areas beyond Casamir's Wall, but those must be immediately abandoned.'

  Bayaz planted his elbows on the edge of the table, his meaty fists clasped together. 'Given the number and quality of our troops, we would be best served by evacuating the outer quarters of the city and concentrating our efforts around the much shorter and stronger length of Arnault's wall. We can continue to fight a rear-guard action in the outer boroughs, where our superior knowledge of the streets and buildings stands in our favour—'

  'No,' said Jezal.

  Bayaz fixed him with a brooding stare. 'Your Majesty?'