“Killed?” he whispered.
She nodded slowly, and put her face in her hands.
Cold Comfort
West peered out of the bushes, through the drifting flakes of snow, down the slope toward the Union picket. The sentries were sat in a rough circle, hunched round a steaming pan over a miserable tongue of fire on the far side of the stream. They wore thick coats, breath smoking, weapons almost forgotten in the snow around them. West knew how they felt. Bethod might come this week, he might come next week, but the cold they had to fight every minute of every day.
“Right then,” whispered Threetrees. “You’d best go down there on your own. They might not like the looks of me and the rest of the boys, all rushing down on ’em from the trees.”
The Dogman grinned. “Might shoot one of us.”
“And that’d be some kind o’ shame,” hissed Dow, “after we come so far.”
“Give us the shout when they’re good and ready for a crew of Northmen to come wandering out the woods, eh?”
“I will,” said West. He dragged the heavy sword out of his belt and handed it to Threetrees. “You’d better hold on to this for me.”
“Good luck,” said the Dogman.
“Good luck,” said Dow, lips curling back into his savage grin. “Furious.”
West walked out slowly from the trees and down the gentle slope towards the stream, his stolen boots crunching in the snow, his hands held up above his head, to show he was unarmed. Even so, he could hardly have blamed the sentries if they shot him on sight. No one could have looked more like a dangerous savage than he did now, he knew. The last tatters of his uniform were hidden beneath a bundle of furs and torn scraps, tied around his body with twine, a stained coat stolen from a dead Northman over the top. He had a few weeks’ growth of scraggy beard across his scabby face, his eyes were sore and watering, sunken with hunger and exhaustion. He looked like a desperate man, and what was more, he knew, he was one. A killer. The man who murdered Crown Prince Ladisla. The very worst of traitors.
One of the sentries looked up and saw him, started clumsily from his place, knocking the pan hissing into the fire, snatching his spear out of the snow. “Stop!” he shouted, in slurred Northern. The others jumped up after him, grabbing at their weapons, one fumbling at the string on his flatbow with mittened fingers.
West stopped, flecks of snow settling gently on his tangled hair and across his shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he shouted back in common. “I’m on your side.”
They stared at him for a moment. “We’ll see!” shouted one. “Come on across the water, but do it slow!”
He crunched on down the slope and sloshed out into the stream, gritted his teeth as the freezing water soaked him up to his thighs. He struggled up the far bank and the four sentries shuffled into a nervous half circle around him, weapons raised.
“Watch him!”
“It could be a trick!”
“It’s no trick,” said West slowly, keeping his eyes on the various hovering blades and trying to stay calm. It was vitally important to stay calm. “I’m one of you.”
“Where the hell have you come from?”
“I was with Prince Ladisla’s division.”
“With Ladisla? You walked up here?”
West nodded. “I walked.” The bodies of the sentries started to relax, the spear-points started to waver and drift upwards. They were on the point of believing him. After all, he spoke the common tongue like a native, and certainly looked as if he had slogged a hundred leagues across country. “What’s your name, then?” asked the one with the flatbow.
“Colonel West,” he muttered, voice cracking. He felt like a liar even though it was true. He was a different man from the one who set out for Angland.
The sentries exchanged worried glances. “I thought he was dead,” mumbled the one with the spear.
“Not quite, lad,” said West. “Not quite.”
Lord Marshal Burr was poring over a table covered in crumpled maps as West pushed through the flap into his tent. It seemed in the lamplight that the pressures of command had taken their toll on him. He looked older, paler, weaker, his hair and beard wild and straggling. He had lost weight and his creased uniform hung loose, but he started up with all his old vigour.
“Colonel West, as I live and breathe! I never thought to see you again!” He seized West’s hand and squeezed it hard. “I’m glad you made it. Damn glad! I’ve missed your cool head around here, I don’t mind telling you.” He stared searchingly into West’s eyes. “You look tired, though, my friend.”
There was no denying it. West had never been the prettiest fellow in the Agriont, that he knew, but he had always prided himself on having an honest, friendly, pleasant look. He had scarcely recognised the face in the mirror once he had taken his first bath in weeks, dragged on a borrowed uniform, and finally shaved. Everything was changed, sharpened, leached of colour. The prominent cheekbones had grown craggy, the thinning hair and brows were full of iron grey, the jaw was lean and wolf-like. Angry lines were cut deep into the skin down the pale cheeks, across the narrow bridge of the sharp nose, out from the corners of the eyes. The eyes were worst of all. Narrow. Hungry. Icy grey, as though the bitter cold had eaten into his skull and still lurked there, even in the warmth. He had tried to think of old times, to smile and laugh, and use the expressions he had used to use, but it all looked foolish on that stone wall of a face. A hard man had glared back at him from the glass, and would not go away.
“It was a difficult journey, sir.”
Burr nodded. “Of course it was, of course. A bastard of a journey and the wrong time of year for it. A good thing I sent those Northmen with you, eh, as it turned out?”
“A very good thing, sir. A most courageous and resourceful group. They saved my life, more than once.” He glanced sideways at Pike, loitering behind him in the shadows at a respectful distance. “All our lives.”
Burr peered over at the convict’s melted face. “And who is this?”
“This is Pike, sir, a Sergeant with the Stariksa levies, cut off from his company in the battle.” The lies spilled out of West’s mouth with a surprising ease. “He and a girl, I believe a cook’s daughter who was with the baggage, joined us on the way north. He has been a great help, sir, a good man in a tight spot. Wouldn’t have made it without him.”
“Excellent!” said Burr, walking over to the convict and seizing his hand. “Well done. Your regiment is gone, Pike. Not many survivors, I’m sorry to say. Damn few survivors, but I can always use trustworthy men here at my headquarters. Especially ones who are good in a tight spot.” He gave a long sigh. “I have few enough of ’em to hand. I hope that you’ll agree to stay with us.”
The convict swallowed. “Of course, Lord Marshal, it would be an honour.”
“What about Prince Ladisla?” murmured Burr.
West took a deep breath and looked down at the ground. “Prince Ladisla…” He trailed off and slowly shook his head. “Horsemen surprised us, and overran the headquarters. It happened so fast… I looked for him afterwards, but…”
“I see. Well. There it is. He should never have been in command, but what could I do? I’m only in charge of the damn army!” He laid a fatherly hand on West’s shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself. I know you did everything you could.”
West dared not look up. He wondered what Burr would have said had he known what really happened, out there in the cold wilderness. “Have there been any other survivors?”
“A handful. No more than a handful, and a sorry one at that.” Burr burped, grimaced and rubbed at his gut. “I must apologise. Damn indigestion simply will not go away. Food up here and all… ugh.” He burped again.
“Forgive me, sir, but what is our situation?”
