King of Thorns

“No?” Sindri’s mouth stayed open.

“We are not friends, Jorg of Ancrath,” Gorgoth said, deeper than he’d ever spoken. “But we both loved the boy. You loved him first. You named him. That means something.”

I would have told him what rubbish he was speaking but my face hurt too much for more words.

“I will stay in the Heimrift, in the caves.”

I would have said, I hope the troll-stink chokes you, but the price for opening my mouth was too high. I just raised my hand. And Gorgoth raised his. And we parted.

Sindri closed his mouth, then opened it again. “Ferrakind’s gone?”

I nodded.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

I shrugged and lay back in the bracken. Maybe I could. Maybe I couldn’t. I wasn’t going to, and that was the main thing.

“I’ll get help. Horses,” he said. “Wait there.” He held out both hands as if to stop me standing, then turned on a heel and sprinted away. I thought the news drove him more than any of my needs. He wanted to be the one to tell it. Which was fair enough.

I watched the blue sky and prayed for rain. Flies buzzed about me, drawn by the raw pink, the skinless muscle and fat on offer. They wanted to lay their eggs. After a while I stopped trying to wave them away. I lay a-moaning, twisting one way and another as if there might be a way that helped. From time to time I fainted and in the afternoon a light rain did come and I prayed it would stop. Each drop burned like acid.

In the evening clouds of mosquitoes rose from wherever it is that mosquitoes hide. The Dane-lands were thick with the things. Probably why the folk are so pale. The blood’s been sucked from them. I lay there, letting them eat me, and eventually I heard voices.

Makin came and I wanted to beg for death, but my face hurt too much. It would crack apart if I opened my mouth, all the wounds oozing. Then Rike stepped up, black against the deep blue of the sky and a little strength flowed into me. It doesn’t pay to be weak in front of Rike, and there’s something about Rike that makes me forget all about dying and want to do a bit of killing instead. “I knew I brought you along for a reason, Rike.” Each word an agony, edged with murder.

We stayed five days in Alaric Maladon’s hall. Not in the guest hall but in his great hall. They put a chair for me on the dais, nearly as grand as the Duke’s own, and I sat there wrapped in furs when I shivered and stripped to the waist when I sweated. Makin and the Brothers celebrated with Maladon’s people. Women appeared for the first time in any number, carrying the ale in flagons and horns from the storehouse, knives at their hips, eating at the long tables like the men, drinking and laughing almost as loud. One, near as tall as me, blond as milk and handsome in a raw-boned way, came up to my chair as I huddled in my furs. “My thanks, King Jorg,” she said.

“I could be making it all up,” I said. Feeling rotten and ugly made me want to sour the day.

She grinned. “The ground hasn’t shaken since they brought you back. The sky is clear.”

“What’s that?” I asked. She had a clay pot in one hand, filled with black and glistening paste, a twist of hide next to it.

“Ekatri gave it to me. A salve for the burns, and a powder to swallow in water to fight the poison in your blood.”

I managed half a laugh before the pain stopped me. “The old witch who keeps predicting my failures? There’ll be poison in me if I take anything she sends all right. It’s probably how the future turns out the way she says it will.”

The woman—girl maybe—laughed. “That’s not how v?lvas are. Besides, my father would take it in poor humour if you died here. It would reflect badly upon him, and Ekatri depends upon his favour.”

“Your father?” I asked.

“Duke Maladon, silly,” she said and walked away leaving the pot and wrap in my lap. I watched her backside as she went. I thought perhaps I wouldn’t die if I could still find time to watch a well-crafted bottom.

She looked over her shoulder and caught me watching. “I’m Elin.” And she walked on, lost in the crowd and the smoke.