Best Served Cold

Soon enough he got to the top, hauled himself over. Monza was there on the walkway, sword already drawn, looking down into the inner ward. He could hear fighting, but not near. There were a few dead men scattered on the walkway, from both sides. A mercenary propped against the stonework had an arm off at the elbow, rope lashed around his shoulder to stop the blood, moaning, “It fell off the edge, it fell off the edge,” over and over. Shivers didn’t reckon he’d last ’til lunch, but he guessed that meant more lunch for everyone else. You have to look at the sunny side, don’t you? That’s what being an optimist is all about.

He swung his shield off his back and slid his arm through the straps. He pulled his axe out, spun the grip round in his fist. Felt good to do it. Like a smith getting his hammer out, ready for the good work to start. There were more gardens down below, planted on steps cut from the summit of the mountain, nowhere near so battered as the ones further out. Buildings towered over the greenery on three sides. A mass of twinkling windows and fancy stonework, domes and turrets sprouting from the top, crusted with statues and glinting prongs. Didn’t take a great mind to spot Orso’s palace, which was just as well, ’cause Shivers knew he didn’t have a great mind. Just a bloody one.

“Let’s go,” said Monza.

Shivers grinned. “Right behind you, Chief.”

– 

T he trenches that riddled the dusty mountainside were empty. The soldiers who had occupied them had dispersed, gone back to their homes, or to play their own small roles in the several power struggles set off by the untimely deaths of King Rogont and his allies. Only the Thousand Swords remained, swarming hungrily around Duke Orso’s palace like maggots around a corpse. Shenkt had seen it all before. Loyalty, duty, pride-fleeting motivations on the whole, which kept men smugly happy in good weather but soon washed away when the storm came. Greed, though? On greed you can always rely.

He walked on up the winding track, across the battle-scarred ground before the walls, over the bridge, the looming gatehouse of Fontezarmo drawing steadily closer. A single mercenary sat slouched on a folding chair outside the open gate, spear leaning against the wall beside him.

“What’s your business?” Asked with negligible interest.

“Duke Orso commissioned me to kill Monzcarro Murcatto, now the Grand Duchess of Talins.”

“Hilarious.” The guard pulled his collars up around his ears and settled back against the wall.

Often, the last thing men believe is the truth. Shenkt pondered that as he passed through the long tunnel and into the outer ward of the fortress. The rigidly ordered beauty of Duke Orso’s formal gardens was entirely departed, along with half the north wall. The mercenaries had made a very great mess of the place. But that was war. There was much confusion. But that was war also.

The final assault was evidently well under way. Ladders stood against the inner wall, bodies scattered in the blasted gardens around their bases. Orderlies wandered among them, offering water, fumbling with splints or bandages, moving men onto stretchers. Shenkt knew few would survive who could not even crawl by themselves. Still, men always clung to the smallest sliver of hope. It was one of the few things to admire in them.

He came to a silent halt beside a ruined fountain and watched the wounded struggling against the inevitable. A man slipped suddenly from behind the broken stonework and almost ran straight into him. An unremarkable balding man, wearing a worn studded-leather jerkin.

“Gah! My most profound apologies!”

Shenkt said nothing.

“You are… are you… that is to say… here to participate in the assault?”

“In a way.”

“As am I, as am I. In a way.” Nothing could have been more natural than a mercenary fleeing the fighting, but something did not tally. He was dressed like a thug, this man, but he spoke like a bad writer. His nearest hand flapped around as though to distract attention from the other, which was clearly creeping towards a concealed weapon. Shenkt frowned. He had no desire to draw undue attention. So he gave this man a chance, just as he always did, wherever possible.

“We both have our work, then. Let us delay each other no longer.”

The stranger brightened. “Absolutely so. To work.”

– 

M orveer gave a false chuckle, then realised he had accidentally strayed into using his accustomed voice. “To work,” he grunted in an unconvincing commoner’s baritone.

“To work,” the man echoed, his bright eyes never wavering.