“Aye, I remember,” spat Stour. “Remember how he pissed himself and cried like—”
He was an odd-looking bastard, the Nail, all stringy and loose, all shoulders and elbows. But Clover never saw a man hit so fast. From nowhere, his fist crunched into Stour’s ribs and the King of the Northmen doubled up, wheezing out a long string of drool, the diamond on his chain dangling.
“Ow,” said Sholla, deadpan.
“Funny,” said the Nail, back in his floppy slouch already. “Barbs don’t sting so much from a man you can slap whenever you please.”
Seemed that punch knocked out all Stour’s bluster. It can get that way, with men who’re always giving blows but never called upon to take ’em. “Look…” Gulping and glugging as he struggled for his breath. “I’ll give… twice what… she’s giving!”
Clover grinned. “All I’m getting is the chance to butt you in the face. Well, that and the cloak.”
“Fight me, you bastards!” Stour struggled at the ropes round his wrists, provoking nothing but another round o’ chuckles.
“We already fought,” said Clover. “And you lost. You lost everything.”
“I’m the greatest swordsman in the Circle of the World!”
The Nail gave a high little titter. “Can’t see it. To be a swordsman you have to be able to stand up.” And he bent down, grabbed hold of two fistfuls of Stour’s trouser legs and yanked them down hard. Yanked them right down to his ankles.
“What’re you doing?” he squealed, twisting and struggling, but Downside had him under one arm now and the Nail under the other and he wasn’t going far with them two holding on.
Shivers took out a knife. A small knife, it was, with a bright little blade. But a knife don’t have to be big to change things. Stour stared at it, over his shoulder, his eyes wet now, all right, but with fear rather’n threat.
“What’re you doing?”
Clover caught him by the jaw and hissed the words in his face. “Giving you your last lesson. Those big names o’ the past you’re always wanking over. Shama Heartless. Black Dow. The Bloody-Nine. The dead know they were bastards, but they earned those names. They tore ’em from the world with their hands and their will. Nightfall?” Clover turned his head and spat into the sea. “What the fuck is that? You were born with it. All you have you’ve been handed. Well, here’s the thing, boy…” And he caught hold of that big diamond and tore the great chain that Bethod once wore over Stour’s head. “What’s easily given… is easily took away.”
Shivers reached down and with a calm little movement, like peeling an apple, slit the tendons behind the Great Wolf’s knee.
There was a silent pause, like it took a moment for Stour to realise what had happened, then his eyes bulged and he gave a great sobbing shriek, wriggling and twisting, blood running in streaks down his calf. Sholla winced and looked the other way. Downside frowned, and held Stour tight, careless as a shepherd holding a sheep for shearing. The Nail grinned like he’d never heard such a joke.
“Come on,” he called over Stour’s squealing. “Ain’t fair to leave a man lopsided!”
Shivers shrugged, good eye showing no more feeling than his metal one, and he did the same to Stour’s other knee.
Clover tucked the king’s chain into a pocket in his new cloak and watched, arms folded. He didn’t think much of vengeance, in the main, and it had been a long time since he took much pleasure in other men’s pain, but he had to admit this felt good. Not so good as having Wonderful still around might have. But it was something.
“Best get him bandaged.” Shivers carefully wiped his little knife clean on a rag. “Don’t want him bleeding out.” He glanced sideways at Clover and gave him a nod. “Glad you came to see things our way.”
“I always did.” Clover watched as the Nail dragged the King of the Northmen away, squealing and crying, his blood-streaked bare legs dragging and the jewelled buckle on his belt bouncing and clattering after. “Just waiting for my moment.”
A Footnote to History
Climbing the steps to the platform might’ve been the hardest thing Leo had ever done, but he was determined to get there on his own. Determined to salvage that much pride though, the dead knew, pride had done him no favours. Pride had put him here in the first place.
He used to laugh at climbing mountains. Now he had to gather himself for each step, sweat springing from his forehead. The old wound in his right leg still hurt. Hurt worse than ever now it had to bear most of his weight. But it was nothing to the pain in his other leg. An endless, crushing, sickening throb. And the irony was, the leg wasn’t even there.
He kept trying to wriggle his sore toes, work his aching ankle, put his burning foot down to steady himself. Then he remembered they were gone. His leg was crushed, the wreckage sawn off and burned, and everything he’d been was gone with it. No longer a warrior. No longer a leader. No longer a Lord Governor. He’d be a footnote to history. A man who turned himself from hero to villain with his own arrogance, and recklessness, and—
He gave a whoop as his crutch slipped on the top step and spun from his hand. He clutched at nothing, then the side of his face banged hard into the platform. He heard a few gasps, a whimper from somewhere. Maybe him.
His left arm was close to useless. With an agonising effort he could lift the hand, produce the slightest trembling twitch in the first finger, but the rest dangled limp. He barely felt a pin stuck into them. The surgeon said metal blasted from a cannon, along with bits of his shield, had riddled his arm and ruined the nerves. They’d stitched the wounds but there was nothing more to do. And the irony was, they were healing a man they were about to hang.
He worked himself up with his good arm, teeth gritted, managed to ease his right leg under him, groaning as his weight went onto the stump of his left. But once he’d made it to hands and knees—or hand and knee, at any rate—how to get further? He couldn’t reach for the crutch without falling, and even if he could, how would he push himself up? There’d been a time when achieving the impossible for Leo dan Brock had meant besting the greatest swordsman of the age, or breaking an enemy’s line single-handed, or turning the tide of war against the odds. Now achieving the impossible meant standing up.
He felt a firm hand under his elbow and was lifted carefully to his feet. Or foot. “There we go.” The crutch was wedged into his armpit again. He glanced sideways to see one of the executioners. Kind brown eyes through the holes in his black mask as he helped Leo forward.
“I’m fine,” said Leo, weakly shaking the man off.
Fine. Broken, defeated, in constant agony, with a useless arm and an amputated leg, convicted of treason and already on the gallows. Fine.
He blinked about at the ruined town square of Stoffenbeck. The scene of his crime, and now of his punishment. The corpses had been hauled away but there were still heaps of rubble in every corner, only blackened pillars left of the ruined market hall where his last charge foundered. The shattered clock tower loomed above, its one remaining face with hands frozen at the moment of his downfall. The place still smelled faintly of burning.