Prince of Thorns (The Broken Empire 1)

“So,” Makin said. “This Corion just had to click his fingers on your first meeting, and you and the Nuban keeled over. What’s to stop him doing it again?”

“Maybe nothing.”

“Even a gambler likes to stand a chance, Prince.” Makin took two glazed jugs from the serving wench, both over-running with foam.

“I’ve grown a bit since we last met,” I said. “Sageous didn’t find me so easy.”

Makin drank deep.

“But there’s more. I took something from that necromancer.” I could taste his heart, bitter on my tongue. I swigged from my jug. “Bit off something to chew on. I’ve got a pinch of magic in me, Makin. Whatever runs in the veins of that dead bitch who did for the Nuban, that little girl too, who ran with the monsters, whatever kept her glowing, well, I’ve got a spark of it now.”

Makin wiped the foam from his dungeon-grown moustache. He managed to convey his disbelief with the slightest arching of a brow. I hauled up my shirt. Well, not my shirt, but something Katherine must have selected for me. Where Father’s knife had found me, a thin black line ran across my hairless chest. Black veins ran from the wound, reaching out over my ribs, up for my throat.

“Whatever my father is, he isn’t inept,” I said. “I should have died.”

44

They call the castle “The Haunt.” When you ride up the valley of an evening, with the sun going down behind the towers, you can see why. The place has that classic brooding malice about it. The high windows are dark, the town below the gates lies in shadow, the flags hang lifeless. It brings to mind an empty skull. Without the cheery grin.

“So the plan is?” Makin asked.

I gave him a smile. We nosed the horses up the road, past a wagon creaking beneath a load of barrels.

“We seem to have arrived in time for tourney,” Makin said. “Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”

“Well, we’ve come for a test of strength haven’t we?” I’d been trying to make out the pennants on the pavilions lining the east side of the tourney field. “Better to keep incognito for now though.”

“So about this plan—” The scattered thunder of approaching hooves cut him off.

We looked back over our shoulders. A tight knot of horsemen was closing fast, half a dozen, the leader in full plate armour, long shadows thrown behind them.

“Nice bit of tourney plate.” I turned my nag in the road.

“Jorg—” It was Makin’s day for getting cut off.

“Make way!” The lead horseman bellowed loud enough, but I chose not to hear him.

“Make way, peasants!” He pulled up rather than go around. Five riders drew alongside him, house-troops in chainmail, their horses lathered.

“Peasants?” I knew we looked down-at-heel, but we hardly counted as peasants. My fingers found the empty space where my sword should hang. “Who might we be clearing a path for, now?” I recognized their colours, but asked by way of insult.

The man on the knight’s left spoke up. “Sir Alain Kennick, heir to the county of Kennick, knight of the long—”

“Yes, yes.” I held up a hand. The man fell silent, fixing me with a pale eye from beneath the rim of his iron helm. “Heir to the Barony of Kennick. Son of the notoriously blubbery Baron Kennick.” I rubbed at my chin hoping that the grime there might pass as stubble in the half-light. “But these are Renar lands. I thought the men of Kennick weren’t welcome here.”

Alain drew his steel at that, four foot of Builder-steel cutting a bloody edge from the sunset.

“I’ll not be debated in the road by some peasant boy!” His voice held a whine to it. He lifted his faceplate, then took the reins.

“I heard that the Baron and Count Renar made up their differences after Marclos got himself killed,” Makin said. I knew he’d have his hand on the flail we inherited with the horses. “Baron Kennick withdrew his accusations that Renar was behind the burning of Mabberton.”

“Actually it was me that burned Mabberton,” I said. I had to wonder, though. I might have been the one to put torch to thatch. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But whose good idea was it? Corion’s perhaps.

“You?” Alain snorted.

“I had a hand in Marclos’s death too,” I said. I kept his eyes and edged my horse closer. Without weapon or armour I didn’t present much of a threat.

“I heard that the Prince of Ancrath turned Marclos’s column with a dozen men,” Makin added.

“Did we have a full dozen, Sir Makin?” I asked in my best court voice. I kept my eyes on Alain and ignored his men. “Perhaps we did. Well, no matter, I like these odds better.”

“What are—” Alain glanced to either side where the hedgerow seethed with possibilities.

“You’re worried about an ambush, Alain?” I asked. “You think Prince Honorous Jorg Ancrath and the captain of his father’s guard can’t take six Kennick dogs in the road?”

Whatever Alain might think, I could tell his men had heard their fill of Norwood stories. They’d heard of the Mad Prince and his road hounds. They’d heard how ragged warriors burst from the ruins, stood their ground, and broke a force ten times their number.

Something grunted in the gloom to our right. If Alain’s men had any doubt that they were already targeted by bandits in the shadows, the grunt of a small forager hunting grubs was enough to convince them otherwise.

“Now! Attack!” I yelled it for the benefit of my non-existent ambush party, and flung myself from my saddle, dragging Alain off his horse.

The fight went out of Alain as soon as we hit the sod, which was good because the fall knocked all the wind out of me, and a clash of heads set me seeing stars.

I heard the whack of Makin’s flail and the thump of retreating hooves. With a heave and a clatter I disentangled myself from Alain.

“Best get out of here quick, Jorg.” Makin was heading back after the briefest of pursuits. “Won’t take them long to work out we’re alone.”

I found Alain’s sword. “They won’t be back.”

Makin frowned at me. “Head-butting a helmed knight scrambled your brains?”

I rubbed at the sore spot, fingers coming away bloody.

“We’ve got Alain. A hostage or a corpse. They don’t know which.”

“He looks dead to me,” Makin said.

“Broke his neck, I think. But that’s not the point. The point is that they know they’re not getting him back in one piece, so they’ll be looking to their own escape. There’s no going back to Kennick for those lads now. No welcome in The Haunt either. They’ll know Renar won’t want any part of this.”

“So what now?”

“We get him off the road. That beer wagon is going to come by here in a few minutes.” I threw a look down the road. “Hitch him to his horse. We’ll drag him into the wheat field.”

We took the armour off him in the gloom, amongst the wheat still wet from the day’s rain. It stunk a bit—Alain had soiled himself in death—but it was a good fit for me, if a bit roomy around the waist.

“What do you think?” I stepped back for Makin to admire me.