Knight's Dawn (3 page)

have the only licence for hanged mens hands. Got it from the queens own chancellor. Im the only seller of this kind of merchandise inside the city walls. You wont find better quality anywhere. Ask anyone. He picked up one of the hands, a rather battered looking specimen, and presented it to Soldier. Grisly objects, I can hear you saying, under your breath. But this macabre-looking item can make you invisible, my friend. If you light the candle, made from the hands own fat, you can freeze your enemies into immobility. A useful tool for a man whose business takes place late at night or in the small hours of the morning. Soldier shook his head. You see this collar? If Im found to be a thief, Ill be expelled from Zamerkand. But with one of these, smiled Spagg, you can come back in again without being seen. If you believe in such things. Spagg carefully put the hideous extremity back in its place on the top of the stall. Ah, theres the rub, friend. You have to believe in it for it to work. Manys the customer who has come back to me and said, Spagg, this here hand-of-glory dont work. And I say to em, the reason is, friend, you got to make it work. You got to put your faith in it, believe in it, or its just another chopped-off bit of body, aint it? Now, what about a straight swap? This genuine hanged mans hand, for that bent old black leather scabbard with its silver tip and band. Spagg pointed to the buckled sword sheath on Soldiers belt. Soldier clutched his sheath. No - no, this stays with me. Spagg shook his head and clucked. You wont get nowhere in life by bein so possessive, friend. Look at you. Youre close to starving ... his eyes suddenly narrowed and he looked to be deep in thought. Then he said, Heres a thing. What about you come to work for me? I cant pay you much, but youll get one good meal a day out of it, at least. What say? What would I have to do? Why, you go out and collect the hands for me, while I stay here and sell em. Whenever I do the collectin meself, I have to close the stall. This way you could keep me supplied and I could be here all the time to do the selling. Soldier said, It wouldnt be because collecting the hands is dangerous work? Spagg, a knotty-looking man with a shapeless ribcage and pointed shoulders, did his best to looked shocked. Me? Scared to go out? Why, youll not find a braver knight within these five miles square. Its not about that, its about business. I need to be here, to do the sellin. Why dont you leave the stall to me, and then youll be free to do the collecting? And trust a stranger with my money? This time he was genuinely shocked. You must have worms in the brain. Listen, iron collar, Ive made you an offer. Do you want to take me up on it, or not? No more arguments, mind. How much then? Spagg shook his head in disgust. Ive never met a man so close to starvin to death who had time to haggle and bargain with his patron. Ill look after you, dont you worry. How much? Two spinza a hand. The left hands more valuable than the right, but Ill pay five spinza for a pair, but theyve got to match, mind. I dont pay anythin for hands with thumbs missing. If they was thieves before they was murderers, then more than likely theyll have had their thumbs chopped off. Tattoos is fine, specially if theyre black arts ones you know, skulls and magic symbols and such. Some of my customers like to collect ones with different tattoos. Scars? Well, if theyre interesting marks. No badly mutilated ones. Any questions? Do I have the use of a horse? Horse? cried Spagg, the look of disgust almost a permanent expression now. You get a donkey and like it. Thus Soldier went to work for Spagg, the hand-of-glory merchant. Spaggs donkey proved to be an ugly and obstinate beast, older than the mountains and often harder to move. It was a gruesome trade, but Soldier was prepared to accept almost anything to provide himself with food.

Chapter Three

Spagg gave Soldier a wooden baton with a crudely-carved weasel on one end. This symbol was a market-traders credentials. When Soldier was stopped by the imperial guard, or when he wanted to leave or enter Zamerkand, he had to produce the baton to prove his right to move freely as the employee of a citizen. The iron collar remained always a great burden and restriction. City guards continually stopped and searched him. Ordinary citizens kept him at bay with hostile glares and narrowed eyes. He was made to feel aware that he was permitted to stay in the city on sufference. The first time Soldier went outside he found he was quite looking forward to entering the open countryside again. The city was claustrophobic, the atmosphere inside smoky and smelly. Every street in the city was engrimed with faeces from dogs, cats, livestock and birds. Every wall, door and window bore the sooty traces of smoke. Once through the gates the air seemed cleaner and brighter. He breathed deeply as the donkey beneath him ambled along. The raven came with him, for company. Soldier was getting used to having the bird around. Raven, how is that you have human speech? asked the Soldier, as the sky opened up before them. It was a hazy day, the pale sun hanging in the sky like a paper disc. You must have helped a wizard at some time. No, replied the raven. In fact its the opposite. I stole from a witch. And she rewarded you with speech? No, she changed me from a human into a bird. I was a thief, running the streets of the city. When Clegnose caught me stealing from her house, she transformed me into a raven. Then the old cow died, leaving me trapped in the form of a bird. I dont mind. Its easier to find food this way. You can never become a boy again? Only the witch who cast the spell can remove it. Ive noticed that you dont often reveal the fact that you have the power of speech. The raven ruffled its feathers. Why would I, not being a fool? Only problems lie in wait for the raven which goes around bragging it can speak. There are those who would cage me and use me to earn money for them as a curiosity. There are those who would kill me, thinking me a demon. Why choose me? asked Soldier. I might be one of those two kinds of men. You? You are as much a curiosity as I am, with your blue eyes and no name. You have just as many problems. I suppose youre right, sighed Soldier. The donkey was carrying him up a slope now, about two miles beyond the city. It was a grassy hill with smooth granite rocks occasionally rising above the turf, like whales breaking the surface of the sea. Soldier could see a gallows on the crest of the hill, with a hanged figure dangling from a rope. This was his destination, but it seemed he could not get any nearer to it, no matter how hard he tried. After a while Soldier realised that the problem was not one of magic, but one of perspective. The gallows were so tall, the hanged man so large, that Soldier had been further away than he realised. When he reached the corpse he saw that the victim was at least nine feet tall. Not only that, the man had extremities disproportionate even to this large body. The cadavers hands and feet were quite huge. The corpse was in about its third day and therefore relatively fresh. About the same time a hare should be hung before jugging it, said the raven. Three-day-old flesh is sometimes as tasty to humans as it is to birds. You stay away from this corpse, warned Soldier. I dont think I could stomach watching you pick at his eyes. He hasnt got any, pointed out the raven. Nor a few other parts as well. Soldier stared and saw that a particular item of the body had already been cut from its roots. Well, lets get on with it. Soldier opened the bag of tools he had been given by Spagg and took out a pruning saw. He then began the grisly task of sawing off the giants right hand. It was a slow business, for the body kept swaying back and forth. To reach the hand Soldier found he had to sit on the giants right foot, like a child sits on a playground swing. Even so, try as he might he could not get through the thick bone with the saw, and finished up hacking through it with a hand-axe from the bag. Spagg had asked him only to use an axe in an emergency, because it spoiled the look of the goods on display. However, this was definitely an emergency. Soldier was getting hot and thirsty, and this one set of hands was taking up much of his day. He had hoped to return with a whole sackful by the time the evening came around. Finally, both hands had been removed, just as some troops came nding by. What dyou think youre up to? asked the sergeant-at-arms. Official business, said Soldier, producing his baton. I work for Spagg, the hand-of-glory merchant. The sergeant wrinkled his nose. That flea-bitten cur? All right then, but dont hang about here all day. A rogue Hannack has been been seen in the district. A Hannack? You dont know who the Hannacks are? said the sergeant and his men laughed. You will know, if any of them find you, especially with that beard you seem to love so much. What does that mean? The sergeant said, You notice me and my men have smooth shiny chins? Theres a reason for that. Hannacks dont fight so hard when a mans clean-shaven. You still look puzzled. Well, youll find out. Tell that whoreson Spagg to employ someone with a bit of nonce in future. Idiots like you should not be wandering about out here. Not that it matters. One blue-eyed stranger more or less makes no difference to me. With that the sergeant-at-arms called his troops to follow him and they rode back towards the city. Soldier spent the remainder of the day gathering more hands from various corpses. Not as many as he would have liked, but then the giant had taken up a good deal of his time and energy. Towards evening the sun turned to blood again. As the donkey was plodding along, back down a track towards the castle, a figure appeared on horseback to the west. Soldier saw the horseman ride to the top of a ridge, where he sat and stared at the hand-gatherer on his slow-moving donkey. Hannack, said the raven. Now youre for it! Soldier bristled with annoyance. People keep telling me that, but who or what in Guthrum is a Hannack? At that moment the bareback rider spurred his horse and came charging down the ridge towards Soldier. Soldier noticed that the Hannack was riding a wild horse, hairier and stockier than those mounts used by Guthrumite troops. The rider himself looked just as savage as his mount. He appeared naked, but strangely his skin was loose on his body. It seemed wrinkled and folded, and it rippled in the wind. In the warriors left hand was a warhammer, one side blunt, the other side spiked. His expression was formed into a brutal mask: his battle face. He handled his mount with accomplished ease, as if the beast were joined to him at the thighs and shared the same brain. His head was startlingly bald. Here he comes, cried the raven, wearing the skin of a defeated enemy. So thats what it is, thought Soldier, a cape of human skin. What does he want from me? cried Soldier. Im obviously very poor. Your chin, replied the raven. He wants your lower jaw, Soldier. Warriors were warriors, but there were those who tried to look handsome and bold, and those who tried to look as fearsome as possible. Hannacks were obviously into the more gory side of war. The city below was agonisingly close. The red pavilions of the Carthagans even closer. Soldier attempted to spur the donkey on to greater speeds than the languid step it had been giving him until now. The donkey was not used to such treatment. When riders kicked it in the ribs it was inclined to stop and fume at the mistreatment. It did so now. Soldier yelled at it, kicking harder. It grew mental roots from its hooves and prepared to lock itself to the earth. Soldier leaped from the animals back and with his tools in one fist and sack of severed hands in the other, he began running down towards the gates. There were guards there who stared at him, being run down by a savage horseman, but they made no effort to send out help. They simply watched, with horrified interest, as the thundering hooves of the Hannacks mount gained on Soldier. Some of the Carthagans had come out of their pavilions and were pointing and gesticulating, yelling for their comrades to come and watch the single combat. One of them cried that it was not so much a combat as a murder. They were convinced the Hannack would kill the dark-haired man with the thick black beard. Soldiers breath came out in short bursts. He knew he was not going to make it through the gates. Nowhere near. He dropped the sack of hands and reached into the bag of tools. There he grasped the hand-axe he had used to chop the extremities from the giants arms. With this weapon in his grasp he took a firm stance and waited for the horseman. There was the thought in his mind that he was a hardened veteran of war. He should know what to do in these circumstances. And indeed, he did. He could not go for the man with a small weapon. He had to hit the mount, wound it, bring it down and the man with it. The Hannack bore down on him with ferocious intent. There was no savage glee or joy-of-battle in his face: only concentrated sense of purpose. Soldier could see this fierce lone warrior was set on killing him. As the speed of the Hannacks charger increased, the warriors second skin flapped in the wind. He looked like some horrible dead man, risen from the grave. Soldier set his feet squarely on the ground and swung his hand-axe back and forth, ready to deliver a blow. His fear was now gone and had been replaced by a coolness. What remained was a keen series of thoughts, assessing the situation as it progressed. Yes, he knew he had always been a soldier, for though his memory had gone the skills of his trade remained. Well done, friend, yelled one of the guards at the gate in admiration. It would have been useless to run. The Hannack was almost upon him. Soldier swung sideways with the little axe, aiming for the horses outstretched nose. The Hannack was lightning fast and swerved to protect his mount. Soldiers swing carried through, missing his original target, but striking the Hannacks thigh. There came a yell of pain from the attacking warrior, who turned on his mount to a position where he could strike down. However, Soldiers left arm went up to protect his vulnerable temple. This left the lower part of Soldiers face as the only real target. For reasons of his own the Hannack stayed his hand, did not smash his warhammer into Soldiers hairy jaw. Instead, the frustrated warrior tried for Soldiers right shoulder. He missed, because at that moment the donkey, either terrified by the fracas, or simply enraged by all this unnecessary activity, charged past the steeds flank and lashed out with his hind hooves. He struck the Hannacks mount on the rump. The horse shied and bolted forwards, causing the Hannack clutch at the reins. In doing so the warrior dropped his warhammer. Soldier immediately picked up this weapon, longer than the hand-axe and far more deadly, and began wielding it himself. The horseman saw that he had to arm himself again and drew a broadbladed sword slung from the side of his charger. As he did so, he found himself in a storm of arrows, which were now coming from the direction of the nearest red pavilion. Carthagan archers had fetched their weapons and were raining missiles down on the Hannack. One struck him in the shoulder. He pulled it out, gave Soldier a frustrated, if not longing look, and then rode off towards the hill country to the north. Soldier breathed a sigh of relief as he watched the dust clouds fly from the horses hooves in the blood-red light of the dying sun. He patted the donkey on the rump. You saved my skin there, old fellah. Extra hay for you tonight. An extra something for your other helper? suggested the raven, who had flown back again. I was going to fly at the face of that Hannack, but the donkey got in the way. Oh, Im certain you were, said Soldier, sarcastically. No, really, I was. Lets forget it, shall we? Soldier wrapped the Hannacks warhammer in a piece of sacking. He would keep this prize. It might come in useful to him later, since his empty scabbard attested to the fact that his own sword was lost. Soldier then led the donkey towards the city gates. On the way he expressed his appreciation to the stocky Carthagan archers, who had assisted him. I owe you my life, Soldier shouted. One of the archers shook his head. Courage needs assistance from time to time. You are no Guthrumite, for otherwise you would have fled the Hannack. Soldier went over to this short, square, narrow-eyed man. His chest was bare and the muscles stood so proud of his form they might have been embossed by a sculptor used to working in bronze. Soldier was quite envious of his physique, yet he was only one of hundreds of others with similar physical qualities. You dont think much of Guthrumites then? The other replied. They make fine cooks and clerks. But not fighters. There have been some, but not many. Tell me, said Soldier, what did the Hannack want of me? He seemed so anxious for the kill. The Carthagan stroked his chin and smiled. Your beard. Soldier saw that the other man was clean shaven, like most people he had met within the castle too. What about my beard? You cant take another mans chin fuzz. What would you do with it? He wanted your mandible. Didnt you notice he avoided smashing in your face? Thats because he didnt want to damage your lower jaw bone. Hannacks are all as bald as boulders in a stream. They take the bearded mandibles of their enemies and wear them on their heads, to cover their hairless pates. He might have skinned you too, if you hadnt been so close to the castle. Just because he was wearing the skin of one enemy, does not mean he wouldnt take a spare. Youre very lucky, friend. Soldier left the Carthagan and went to the gates. There the Guthrumite guards underlined the Carthagans words, telling him he was a lucky so-and-so. Soldier was more inclined to think that his skill as a fighter had more to do with it than luck. When he got through the gate he was again pounced on by four guards of the inner ward, who viewed his iron collar with distaste. When he produced Spaggs baton they sneered. The hand-seller. Is that whats in the sack? asked one of the guards, a tall fellow with a thin nose. Yes, the hands of hanged people. Soldier opened the sack so that the guard could peer inside. Whats that? cried the tall, thin man, pointing. Theres a big one in there. He reached in and pulled out the giants hand. By Theg, said an older guard, thats the hand of Jankin the giant. Has he been hung then? He was hung, sniggered another of the guards. Very well hung, so Im told. That was the reason Queen Vanda ordered his neck to be stretched. He impregnated one of her plain cousins, so I heard the captain say. The