Prince of Thorns

Berrec shrugged. “Getting caught.”


Lundist spoke from the doorway. “I believe . . . Jorg, that all of the prisoners for execution are bandits, captured by the Army of the March. The King ordered the action to prevent raids across the Lichway into Norwood and other protectorates.”

I broke my gaze from the Nuban’s, and let it slide across the marks of his torture. Where the skin remained unburned, patterns of raised scars picked out symbols, simple in design but arresting to the eye. A soiled loincloth hung across his hips. His wrists and ankles were bound with iron shackles secured with a basic pin-lock. Blood oozed along the short chains anchoring them to the table.

“Is he dangerous?” I asked. I moved close. I could taste the burned meat.

“Yes.” The Nuban smiled as he said it, his teeth bloody.

“You shut your heathen hole, you.” Berrec yanked the iron from the coals. A shower of sparks flew up as he lifted the white-hot poker to eye-level. The glow made something ugly of his face. It reminded me of a wild night when the lightning lit the faces of Count Renar’s men.

I turned to the Nuban. If he’d been watching the iron, I’d have left him to it.

“Are you dangerous?” I asked him.

“Yes.”

I pulled the pin from the manacle on his right wrist.

“Show me.”





13


Four years earlier




The Nuban moved fast, but it wasn’t his speed that impressed, it was his lack of hesitation. He reached for Berrec’s wrist. A sudden heave brought the warder sprawling across him. The poker in Berrec’s outstretched hand skewered Grebbin through the ribs, deep enough so that Berrec lost his grip on it as Grebbin twisted away.

Without pause, the Nuban lifted himself halfway to sitting, as close to upright as his manacled wrist would let him. Berrec slid down the Nuban’s chest, sliding on sweat and blood, into his lap. He started to raise himself. The Nuban’s descending elbow put an end to the escape attempt. It caught Berrec on the back of the neck, and bones crunched.

Grebbin screamed of course, but screams were common enough in the dungeon. He tried to run, but somehow lost his sense of direction and slammed into a cell door, with enough force to drive the point of the poker out below his shoulder blade. The impact knocked him over and he didn’t get up again. He twisted for a moment, mouthing something, with only wisps of smoke or steam escaping his lips.

A cheer went up from those cells containing occupants too stupid to know when to stay silent.

Lundist could have run. He had plenty of time. I expected him to go for help, but he was halfway to me by the time Grebbin hit the ground. The Nuban pushed Berrec clear, and freed his other wrist.

“Run!” I shouted at Lundist in case it hadn’t occurred to him.

Actually, he was running, only in the wrong direction. I knew the years lay less heavy on him than an old man had a right to expect, but I didn’t think he could sprint.

I moved to put the table, and the Nuban, between Lundist and me.

The Nuban unpinned both ankles as Lundist reached him. “Take the boy, old man, and go.” He had the deepest voice I’d ever heard.

Lundist fixed the Nuban with those disconcerting blue eyes of his. His robes settled, forgetting the rush from the doorway. He held hands to his chest, one atop the other. “If you go now, man of Nuba, I will not stop you.”

That brought a scatter of laughter from the cells.

The Nuban watched Lundist with the same intensity I’d seen earlier. He had a few inches on my tutor, but it was the difference in bulk that made it seem a contest between David and Goliath. Where Lundist stood slender as a spear, the Nuban had as much weight again, and more, corded into thick slabs of muscle over heavy bone.

The Nuban didn’t laugh at Lundist. Perhaps he saw more than the prisoners did. “I’ll take my brothers with me.”

Lundist chewed on that, then took a pace back. “Jorg, here.” He kept his gaze on the Nuban.

“Brothers?” I asked. I couldn’t see any black faces at the bars.

The Nuban gave a broad smile. “Once I had hut-brothers. Now they are far away, maybe dead.” He spread his arms, the smile becoming half grimace as he felt his burns. “But the gods have given me new brothers, road-brothers.”

“Road-brothers.” I rolled the words across my tongue. An image of Will flickered in my mind, blood and curls. There was power here. I felt it.

“Kill them both, and let me out.” A door to my left rattled as if a bull were worrying at it. If the speaker matched his voice, there was an ogre in there.

“You owe me your life, Nuban,” I said.

“Yes.” He jerked the keys from Berrec’s belt and stepped toward the cell on my left. I stepped with him, keeping him between Lundist and myself.

“You’ll give me a life in return,” I said.

He paused, glancing at Lundist. “Go with your uncle, boy.”