The Colour of Vengeance (17 page)

“Wonder what it tastes like. Wouldn't mind some meat tonight.” This came from one of the ex-Long Tooth mercs, a man with a giant nose and a broad spotty forehead. “Something fresh. Get sick of dried salt-beef af’er a while.”

“Don't reckon ya wanna try it,” Betrim said grinning at the man. “Them things is poisonous.”

“Those things are venomous,” Anders said his voice sounding strained. Since they had stopped to look at the giant lizard he had taken the opportunity to slouch over in his saddle and glare at everybody through heavily lidded eyes.

“Eh?” Betrim grunted.

“I was simply correcting you, boss,” Anders said. “They have a venomous bite, they are not poisonous.”

“Didn't realise there was a difference.”

“Well there is,” Anders shook his head and shifted his body to stare in the other direction.

One day out of Solantis, Anders had become irritable. He had begun to shake a little, sweat profusely and sigh a lot. Three days out of Solantis and Anders had become intolerable. Now the man shook all the time, slept little, if at all and vomited back up most of what he ate, when he ate at all but the thing that was really making the Black Thorn want to hit Anders was his constant corrections. It seemed that almost every time Betrim spoke these days he was being corrected, both in language and, as Anders pointed out, sentence structure. Betrim wasn't even certain what sentence structure meant but whatever it was he was about ready to beat Anders to a bloody mess over it. Even the mercs had had enough; each day they rolled dice to see who would have to ride with the blooded bastard. On the fifth day Kain had gagged Anders but today he was allowed full use of his mouth again and he seemed determined to make everyone regret the decision.

Henry was faring a lot better. She rode in silence every day despite never having sat a horse before, and glowered at any merc who came within ten feet of her. Most had learned to keep their distance after the first of the mercs to
accidentally
touch her had ended curled up in a ball on the floor with Henry kicking him despite him being armed and twice her size and her being chained.

Betrim decided to take the opportunity of the mercs being distracted by the giant lizard and steered his horse towards Anders. Truth was he didn't really know how to steer a horse so he just leaned in the direction he wanted to go and waited for the beast to oblige.

“Anders, you alright?” Betrim asked in a whisper.

Anders shifted his weight again and turned to face Betrim. He was pale as a ghost and dripping sweat. “How do I look?”

“Like someone who really don't wanna be sober.”

Anders opened his mouth to speak then closed it again, rolled his eyes and sighed.

“I've been there,” Betrim confided. “Gets better. Just try not ta get ya face broken by these lads 'fore...”

“I really don't think I'm going to have time to get over my alcoholism, boss. You see, this time tomorrow we will be in Crucible and I have this strange feeling that Lord Brekovich is going to give us a little bit more than a mild telling off.” Anders face contorted into something resembling a smile. “But I suppose it will all be over soon. Something to look forward to.”

“Aye, well. Reckon I been in worse situations. Somethin'll turn up,” Betrim said, determined to stay positive.

Anders stared at Betrim for a moment then groaned and buried his face in the hair around the horse's neck. The creature turned its head and looked at Betrim through dull, emotionless eyes. Some men might have joined suit with Anders in this situation but Betrim Thorn was not one of those men. When the going got tough, the Black Thorn got tougher.

The thing about the wilds was it seemed to stretch on forever. Betrim had never tried to walk from one end to the other, and truth was this was about as far north as he'd ever been, but he was told it could take years without the aid of a horse. Up here the weather got cold and the rivers ran slow, none more so than the mighty Greywash; as wide as the Jorl and as deep as the God's Eye mountain was tall but also as sluggish as a calm breeze. Betrim had even been told once that during the winters the surface of the Greywash could freeze. Frozen water was a peculiar mystery to the Black Thorn and one he'd rather never need learn the truth of.

Rocks and boulders dotted the barren landscape and slight hills often gave way to sheer cliffs in an instant or, even worse, something the more learned folk called
scree
; slopes of tiny, jagged stones that shifted and turned and ran underfoot. It was impossible to stop moving on scree, once the stones started cascading they'd carry you all the way down, often depositing a man at the bottom and then burying him for good measure. Thankfully the mercs that kept Betrim and his little crew prisoner seemed to have some knowledge of the surrounding terrain and led them through a twisted route, always sticking to the valleys and troughs, only braving the hills when there was no other choice.

By the next morning the World's End mountains were looming up large and foreboding in front of the little band of sell-swords, mercs and criminals. Betrim wasn't so foolish to believe the mountains really did mark the end of the world but neither did he have even the slightest clue as to what lay beyond them. Truth was he wasn't even certain he wanted to know. The World's End mountains marked the northern end of the untamed wilds and as far as the Black Thorn cared that meant the end of his world and, seeing as how Crucible was nestled just a stone's throw from those mountains and there was a good chance he was going to be executed, today really could mark the end of his world. It was not a comforting thought to be in Betrim's head as the city of kings appeared on the horizon for the first time in his life.

Crucible was said to be the oldest city in all the wilds. Rumour had it the family line that had ruled the Five Kingdoms for thousands of years had originally come from Crucible. Now the Black Thorn knew better than most that rumours tended toward being on the shit side of truth but one thing everyone agreed on was that Crucible had been the place D'oro had united the wilds; the site where he'd brought all the warlords of the wilds together under a banner of truce and then brutally murdered half of them while forcing the other half into loyalty through kidnapping family members, forced marriage, and employing the use of a strange poison that would kill the victim if they did not receive regular doses of antidote.

Betrim was not a scholar but from everything he had heard King D'oro was perhaps the one name in the history of the wilds with a reputation blacker than his own.

Considering Crucible was known as the city of kings it was not what Betrim expected. Truth was he found himself a little disappointed when it came to it. He had expected a grand city like Sarth with dazzling buildings and majestic towers. What he saw was cold, grey, stone walls staring back at him and guards that looked more like barbarians dressed in armour that was a strange combination of leather, metal and fur. Some of those guards atop the wall pointed dangerous-looking longbows down at the mercs and Betrim's little crew. Four more, all on horses and with a mean-tempered pack of dogs in tow moved from the guardhouse to surround them.

The burliest of the four guards carried a battleaxe and had a face near as scarred as the Black Thorn's. His helm had the skull of some large animal fixed atop it and he wore a long fur cloak over his armour. As the man's horse trotted about he glared at each of the group in turn through wide eyes that Betrim reckoned had a touch of madness about them.

“Strange ta get visitors up so far north. 'Specially those we don't recognise,” the man's voice grated on every nerve the Black Thorn had left.

Anders groaned from his slumped position and went back to sweating and looking pale as a ghost. The dogs barked and snarled and the horses whinnied and looked as nervous as a mindless beast could.

The merc, Kain edged his horse forwards a little; making sure to keep his hands as far from his weapons as was possible. The big guard with the battleaxe looked like the type who'd be more than happy to remove a head or two for somewhere short of no reason at all.

“Might be you've heard o' the trouble in Solantis, friend?” Kain asked.

“Uh.”

“Right. Well these three are the ones that caused it all. They set loose the slaves. They're behind the whole damned revolt. All the blood is on their hands,” Kain said.

Betrim wasn't sure they should really take all of the blame but he didn't reckon arguing would do much in the way of good. His current plan for freedom consisted of convincing Lord Brekovich they were falsely accused. Protesting his innocence at this stage, he was well aware, would be pointless so instead he decided to keep his mouth shut.

The big, battleaxe-wielding barbarian took another good look at Betrim then turned his gaze on Henry who glared back with the same glint of madness, then he looked at Anders.

“Sit up,” the barbarian ordered.

Anders let out a long sigh and pushed himself up into a sitting position. “I suppose it's too late to take a nasty fall from my horse and mysteriously break my neck?”

The big guard snorted and shook his head in disgust. “Coward.” Then he turned his horse around and made for the gate into the city. “Come.”

The closer Betrim came to the walls of Crucible the more it was impressed upon him just how big they were. He guessed them to be at least twenty times higher than a man was tall but it wasn't until they passed under the first portcullis that he realised they were a good twenty paces thick of solid, grey, unyielding rock. Past the second portcullis and he realised there were two walls; an outer and an inner. After passing underneath the outer wall they found themselves on a wooden drawbridge maybe fifty feet long with cold-looking, blue-grey water underneath and, by the looks of things, running all the way around between the two walls. Betrim looked up and could see that the inner wall was even taller than the outer wall though but by how much he couldn't guess. Then they were passing underneath yet another portcullis and into the gate through the inner wall. This wall was even thicker, maybe twice so, Betrim reckoned and, looking up, he spotted more murder holes than he could count. A lot more than he could count.

Inside the city limits there wasn't a single building within fifty feet of the inner walls and when those buildings did start they were large, fortified stone monstrosities with arrow slits on most and even a few ballista on others all pointed towards the fifty feet of killing ground.

From everything he was seeing Betrim was certain that any army wishing to storm Crucible would take unacceptable losses. Not that the Black Thorn had ever been part of a city siege, on either the giving or the receiving end, he'd never had any cause to. He had, however, been witness to a few and even the cause of one.

Just a few years ago he'd been captured by the magistrate of the Ylanos province while at the same time he was being hunted by an old friend; a warlord going by the name of Three Slits Pim. The magistrate had holed himself, and Betrim, up in the city of Slimtown and Three Slits Pim had arrived not a day later demanding the Black Thorn be released to him for execution. The magistrate had refused and insisted the Black Thorn would be tried in accordance with the province laws due to his murder of a blooded man from the Fanklin family. Three Slits had wasted no time in storming Slimtown and within hours half the city was on fire and the other half was awash with the blood and shit that always accompanies folk fighting. Ironically, while the two sides were fighting over which would get to execute the Black Thorn, Betrim slipped the lock to his cell, disabled a couple of terrified guardsmen and managed to sneak out of the city dressed as a soldier from Three Slits' own army. Last Betrim had heard, Pim had given up the title of warlord and had gone back to bandit and was busy robbing folk from their hard earned bits somewhere on the Jevari plains. The Black Thorn had of course been blamed for the whole Slimtown affair.

Past the killing ground and past the fortified guard buildings Crucible started to look much like any city. Squat homes made from wood for the poorer folk interspersed with larger buildings, some of wood and some of stone, that were likely taverns or workshops. A number of busy wells fed the city with water and merchants were confined to stores or the occasional small market. Betrim spotted no thieves, no beggars and no sell-swords. The only folk armed were the guards and of them there were plenty and all dressed in a similar fashion to the big, mad-eyed barbarian currently escorting them.

“Lord Brekovich ain't too kind-lookin' on criminal activity,” Lucky said with a smile from Betrim's left. Seems the fool had guessed the Black Thorn's thoughts.

Betrim fixed the fat merc with a one-eyed glare. “Then how d'ya explain Solantis? Most lawless, crime-filled city in the wilds. More so even than Korral.”

“A man can overlook almost anything as long as you throw enough money his way,” Anders said in a defeated tone. “Even a man like Niles Brekovich, it seems.”

“Quiet!” the mad-eyed barbarian ordered in a commanding voice.

Anders smirked at the man's back and mock saluted. “Aye, Captain.”

As they continued on into the heart of the city the dwellings grew larger and of more elaborate design but still kept an austere feel about them when compared to many of the other blooded folk's capital cities. To Betrim's knowledge this should be the section of the city where the lords and ladies, the richer merchants, the city officials, the army commanders and the lesser blooded folk were living but, while the dwellings were still large, they weren't extravagant. There were no high walls around each home, no fancy gardens full of pointless colours, no hordes of grounds keepers and, most strange of all, no slaves.

“Rumour has it Lord Brekovich isn't like most of the blooded folk in the wilds,” Anders confided, moving his horse closer to Betrim's and speaking in a quiet voice. “Values strength, not extravagance. A hard man who takes a hard line with his people. Fair but firm. Steal and he takes a hand, murder and he takes a life and that's just the criminals. If his lords start spending bucket loads of bits on their property he takes it to mean they have too much money and raises taxes. If the poor folk start to starve he raises wages to help them pay for food.