King of Thorns

“Do you like dogs, Maical?” I asked him.

“Beef’s better,” he said, “or mutton.”

I set a grin on my face. “Well, that’s a new perspective. I thought you might like them on account of their stupidity.” Why I was baiting Maical I had no idea. Part of me even liked Maical, almost.

I remembered a time when I came back to camp having scouted out the town of Mabberton down on the soft edge of the Ken Marshes. I’d come up from the bog path, with Gerrod picking his way through the tufts and cotton grass. At first I thought the shrieking was a village girl foolish enough to get snagged by the Brothers, but it turned out just to be two of the lads bent over a tied dog, poking it with something sharp to get a song out of it.

I had slipped off Gerrod and grabbed them by the hair, one black handful, one red, and hauled back, throwing my weight into the motion. Both took to shouting and one even reached for me in his anger. I sliced his palm open for him nice and quick.

“You shouldn’t a-done that, Brother Jorg,” Gemt said, cradling his cut hand with the blood dripping free and fast. “You shouldn’t ah.”

“No?” I had asked, as the Brothers started to gather around us. “And where have I been, Brother Gemt, whilst you hone your battle skills on this useless mutt?”

Jobe stood beside Gemt, rubbing at the spot I’d yanked his hair from. I looked pointedly at the dog and he knelt to cut it free.

“You been watching on that town,” Gemt said, his face a hot red now.

“I’ve been scouting that town, Mabberton, yes,” I said. “So we could come at it with what your idiot brother has been known to call the elephant of surprise. And all I told you lot to do was lie low.”

Gemt had spat and used his left hand to hold closed the cut on his right.

“Lie low, I said, not wake the whole fecking marsh from tadpole to toad with a howling fecking dog. Besides,” I’d said, making a slow turn to see the whole of my little band, “everyone knows that tormenting a dumb dog is bad luck. You’d all know that if you weren’t too damn stupid to read.”

Makin had been one of the first to join the show and a big grin he had on him. “I know my letters,” he said, surprising not a few of the Brothers. “So which book is it that says that then, Brother Jorg?”

“The big book of Go Fuck Yourself,” I told him.

“So hurting dogs is bad luck now, is it?” Still with that grin on him.

“It is near me,” I had said.

Blinking now, I found the rain still rolling down my face on our long trek beside the Rhyme. I shook off the memory. “Do you recall that dog your brother found before we hit Mabberton, Brother Maical?” I asked. He wouldn’t of course. Maical recalled very little about anything.

He looked at me, lips pursed, spitting out the rain. “Putting the hurt on dogs is bad luck,” he said.

“It was for your brother,” I said. “Had himself an accident the next day.”

Maical frowned, confused, and made a slow nod. “Everyone knows not to put the hurt on your food,” he said. “It sours the meat.”

“Another new perspective, Brother Maical,” I sighed. “I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

That dog came back the next morning, just before we hit Mabberton, as if I was its friend or something. Wouldn’t leave until I gave it a good kicking, a free lesson in how the world works, if you like.

Maical just offered a vacant smile and kept on riding.


Heimrift lies in the dukedom of Maladon, a land where the hungry seas washed up what little of the Danelands they couldn’t swallow. From the Renar Highlands it’s a fair old trek by any standards, and given the tortuous routes we had to take, it would be a journey of weeks. On the road you fall into routine. Mine involved a hard hour at sword with Sir Makin every evening before the light failed. I took to the art with new interest. A fresh challenge is often the way to keep from brooding on the past.

I had seen the sword as a means of carrying death through a crowd. With the Brothers I often found myself amongst an unskilled foe, one more interested in running than fighting, and I used my blade for slaughter. I had met more skilful opponents of course, soldiers sent to stop us, well-trained mercenaries set to guard merchants’ wagons, and other bandits with their own brothers on the road, wanting what we had.

When I saw Katherine’s champion fight Sir Makin, and later when I set myself against the Prince of Arrow, I understood the difference between the workman and the artist. Of course there’s time to be an artist when you’re not having to worry about a farmer sneaking up behind you and sticking a pitchfork through your neck whilst you’re showing off your feints and parries.