them was a ring of archers with bows ready. The fleeing men came to a sudden halt when a single arrow hit the lead knight with an audible thud . For a moment, all they could hear were the cries of the dying, then the men, broken, threw down their weapons and pulled off their helms.
‘My Lord,’ called Vesna from somewhere behind. Isak pulled his own helm off and hung it back on his saddle as he turned to the count.
‘A present, my Lord,’ Vesna continued, prompting laughter from those around him. Beside him, alternately scowling and grimacing with pain, was Karlat Certinse. The young duke clutched at his sword arm as blood ran freely from the elbow joint. He had no helm and his face was streaked in blood and mud, his long black hair matted.
‘Get that wound bound, then his hands and mouth,’ Isak ordered. ‘I want him alive. Better to string him up in Tirah than on a field somewhere.’ Isak nudged his horse closer and saw a flash of fear in Certinse’s eyes before hatred masked everything. Beneath the blood and mud and the purpling bruise swelling the duke’s left cheek, he looked almost absurdly young. What are you , Isak thought, a boy in a man’s armour, playing a game you don’t really understand, or the calculating traitor I’m going to hang you as? In this life, does it matter?
Isak lifted the duke’s chin with his finger and looked into his eyes. ‘What’s more,’ he said quietly, ‘I shall hang your mother beside you, and any other member of your treacherous family that my Chief Steward takes a disliking to on the morning I sign the warrants.’
The only sound that escaped Certinse’s lips was a hiss of pain as a Ghost roughly removed the armour obscuring his wound and tied a tourniquet around the upper part of his arm.
Isak slipped from his horse and began to check the soldiers milling around. Those few knights who had been slow to surrender had been herded into a circle and battered to their knees. Everywhere he looked, men lay contorted in agony, screaming, or moaning softly. A pair of Ghosts appeared on either side of him as he knelt beside one of the injured on the ground, a Lomin hurscal. Isak gently pulled away the helm to reveal a man about Vesna’s age, his eyes wide with fear and pain as he huffed in short sharp breaths, his hands awkwardly clasped about the broken stub of a lance protruding from his side. The bubbling rasp indicated the head of the lance was embedded in the man’s lung. There was no hope for him. Taking the man’s head in his massive hands, Isak ended the pain as quickly and gently as he could.
He looked around at his cream-liveried guards, their emerald dragons easy to pick out. ‘Carel?’ he called, a flutter of anxiety in his heart. He spun around, seeking the veteran’s familiar build, but his old friend was nowhere in sight. Isak stood and took a few steps forward, looking around in increasing panic.
‘Here, my Lord,’ one of the Ghosts called, waving Isak over to where he knelt. Despite the lack of urgency in the man’s voice, Isak ran the twenty yards to his side, a heavy feeling in his gut. Before he got there, he heard a familiar voice swearing, ‘Careful, you ham-fisted bastard!’
Isak smiled with relief as he reached Carel’s side. It was the quiet ones you had to worry about. The soldier was easing off Carel’s cuirass, having already cut away the arm section. There wasn’t much blood; Isak guessed it might be a bad break. Crouching down, he picked up the arm section and ran his finger over the split and dented plate just above the elbow. It had been badly mangled.
‘Fell off your horse, did you, old man?’
‘Piss on you. It was a mace and you know it,’ snapped Carel in reply. He winced again as the cuirass snagged on his tunic. ‘Not everyone’s made of iron, you shit-brained lump. Oh Gods, that hurts! Someone find me a flask of something strong.’
The soldier tending his commander pulled a knife from his belt to cut away the
‘My Lord,’ called Vesna from somewhere behind. Isak pulled his own helm off and hung it back on his saddle as he turned to the count.
‘A present, my Lord,’ Vesna continued, prompting laughter from those around him. Beside him, alternately scowling and grimacing with pain, was Karlat Certinse. The young duke clutched at his sword arm as blood ran freely from the elbow joint. He had no helm and his face was streaked in blood and mud, his long black hair matted.
‘Get that wound bound, then his hands and mouth,’ Isak ordered. ‘I want him alive. Better to string him up in Tirah than on a field somewhere.’ Isak nudged his horse closer and saw a flash of fear in Certinse’s eyes before hatred masked everything. Beneath the blood and mud and the purpling bruise swelling the duke’s left cheek, he looked almost absurdly young. What are you , Isak thought, a boy in a man’s armour, playing a game you don’t really understand, or the calculating traitor I’m going to hang you as? In this life, does it matter?
Isak lifted the duke’s chin with his finger and looked into his eyes. ‘What’s more,’ he said quietly, ‘I shall hang your mother beside you, and any other member of your treacherous family that my Chief Steward takes a disliking to on the morning I sign the warrants.’
The only sound that escaped Certinse’s lips was a hiss of pain as a Ghost roughly removed the armour obscuring his wound and tied a tourniquet around the upper part of his arm.
Isak slipped from his horse and began to check the soldiers milling around. Those few knights who had been slow to surrender had been herded into a circle and battered to their knees. Everywhere he looked, men lay contorted in agony, screaming, or moaning softly. A pair of Ghosts appeared on either side of him as he knelt beside one of the injured on the ground, a Lomin hurscal. Isak gently pulled away the helm to reveal a man about Vesna’s age, his eyes wide with fear and pain as he huffed in short sharp breaths, his hands awkwardly clasped about the broken stub of a lance protruding from his side. The bubbling rasp indicated the head of the lance was embedded in the man’s lung. There was no hope for him. Taking the man’s head in his massive hands, Isak ended the pain as quickly and gently as he could.
He looked around at his cream-liveried guards, their emerald dragons easy to pick out. ‘Carel?’ he called, a flutter of anxiety in his heart. He spun around, seeking the veteran’s familiar build, but his old friend was nowhere in sight. Isak stood and took a few steps forward, looking around in increasing panic.
‘Here, my Lord,’ one of the Ghosts called, waving Isak over to where he knelt. Despite the lack of urgency in the man’s voice, Isak ran the twenty yards to his side, a heavy feeling in his gut. Before he got there, he heard a familiar voice swearing, ‘Careful, you ham-fisted bastard!’
Isak smiled with relief as he reached Carel’s side. It was the quiet ones you had to worry about. The soldier was easing off Carel’s cuirass, having already cut away the arm section. There wasn’t much blood; Isak guessed it might be a bad break. Crouching down, he picked up the arm section and ran his finger over the split and dented plate just above the elbow. It had been badly mangled.
‘Fell off your horse, did you, old man?’
‘Piss on you. It was a mace and you know it,’ snapped Carel in reply. He winced again as the cuirass snagged on his tunic. ‘Not everyone’s made of iron, you shit-brained lump. Oh Gods, that hurts! Someone find me a flask of something strong.’
The soldier tending his commander pulled a knife from his belt to cut away the
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