Prince of Fools (The Red Queen's War)

“There are more coming?” I asked.

 

“There are more,” he said. “Whether they’re coming or not is yet to be decided. I think there are eight remaining.” He wiped his face, smearing the crimson. Where clean skin showed he looked far too pale—even for a Norseman. The dark and flowing nature of the gore beneath his ribs on the left suggested that not all the blood belonged to our enemy.

 

“Edris?” I asked.

 

Snorri shook his head. “Him I would remember putting down. He’ll be bringing up the rear, making sure none of his stragglers decide the mountain’s too steep.” He leaned back against the rock, axe dangling from his hand, flesh white beneath the scarlet now, veins curiously dark.

 

“We should give them something to think about,” I said. I knew the power of fear better than most men, and Snorri had left a frightful mess. I took hold of the man Snorri had ripped his axe out of to save himself from the spear thrust. His left boot proved the least slippery part of him and I tugged him towards the drop where our ledge fell away to the next. I’d moved him about six inches before discovering that while blind terror is a great anaesthetic in the moment, once the immediate danger is passed the effect wears off rapidly. I fell back clutching my ankle and inventing new swear words that might more effectively convey my distress. “Bollockeration.”

 

“Toss the corpses over?” Snorri asked.

 

“It might make them think twice.” It would make me think just the once, and the thought would be I’ll come back later.

 

Snorri nodded and, taking two men by the ankle, threw them over the edge. They landed with a sound that was wet and crunchy at the same time, and my stomach lurched. It would be the path the mercenaries’ rear guard would likely take—the route we had taken. Meegan and his companions had only been inspired to the alternative and more difficult ascent by the sounds of battle. The sensible desire to flank Snorri rather than face him one by one in the narrow defence point he’d chosen had driven them up a more dangerous path.

 

Still sat on my backside, I grabbed another man by the wrist, braced my good leg against a ridge of rock, and started to tug him by inches towards the drop. I moved him about a yard in the time it took Snorri to toss all but one of the rest in the area.

 

“This one’s still alive.” Snorri leaned over Meegan and kicked him in the ribs. “Out cold, though.” He looked over at me with an appreciative grin. “You saved a small one for questioning like you promised.”

 

“All part of the plan,” I grunted, shifting my corpse another three inches. He was the spearman. Thankfully he lay facedown. His passage across the rocks had left a red smear where I’d dragged him. I clutched him below the hand, not wanting to touch his warm dead fingers.

 

“I’ll sort out the others.” And Snorri headed off to deal with any of the fallen from his initial attack who hadn’t yet fallen far enough.

 

“No, I’m fine. Don’t trouble yourself.” I got no reply—with Snorri already out of earshot and the rest of my audience dead or unconscious, my sarcasm was wasted. “Heave!” and I heaved again. The corpse slid forwards another three inches. Dead fingers moved against my skin, a convulsion of them like spider legs flexing, stroking down the veins and tendons in my wrist. I nearly let go fast enough, but the hand clasped me as I unclasped it, the dead man lifted his head, and the ruin of his face gaped a crimson grin at me, white skull visible beneath flapping flesh. Fear lends a man strength, but so too does being dead, apparently. I wrenched hard enough to drag the spearman a whole extra yard, but it didn’t win me free, just brought him close enough to reach for my throat. I managed half a scream before dead fingers, still warm, cut it off with an iron grip.

 

It’s not until you’ve actually been throttled that you realize how terrible it is. It doesn’t take enormous strength to seal your air off completely—and the dead man’s strength was enormous. When you’re denied a breath, then all of a sudden breathing is the only thing you’re interested in. I clawed at the wrist beneath my chin, dug at the fingers, but if a face can kiss Snorri’s axe and still find a smile, then fingernails aren’t going to mean much. I planted a foot on the dead thing’s shoulder and pushed for all I was worth. It felt as though my throat would be ripped from my neck, but the grip wasn’t released. Black spots began to grow in my vision, joining at the edges to make a wall of darkness. Blinding cracks ran through the black, my heart hammered behind its cage of ribs, and the stink of burning flesh filled my nostrils even though I could draw no air into them.

 

Lawrence, Mark's books