The Burning Kingdoms Page 6

  “When we find the army, at least we’ll have food,” Sam said, poking at the fire.

  March nodded. “Food and fighting.”

  Sam frowned at March. “What’s wrong with that? I want to fight for Brigant and Aloysius. It’s my country; he’s my king. Why do you want to fight for him?”

  March had been thinking of this. He needed a good story, and he’d have to convince more people than Sam of his new allegiance. “I’m homeless, Sam. I’ve no family, no country. Nothing. But I hate the Calidorians more than any other people. I want to fight against them.” He remembered that people said he sounded evil when he spoke Abask, so he added in his old language, “And I made a mistake and I must do what I can to remedy it, even if it’s in vain, even if I die.”

  March looked toward Abask, the hills dark against the sky. He might have had a home in those hills, living a peace-ful life, if it wasn’t for King Aloysius and the men who fought for him. And if it hadn’t been for Prince Thelonius and his betrayal. The two royal brothers hated each other, but to-gether they had caused the death of March’s whole family, his whole people. They had torn March’s life completely from what it might have been. He’d never get that back. All he could do was take each day and try to do what was right. He’d do what he could to help Edyon. Edyon was the only loyalty he had now.

  As he looked to the hills, March saw a faint spot of light. He got to his feet, and as he watched, two more lights ap-peared. Fires?

  Sam came to stand next to March. “Do you think it’s them?”

  “Dunno, but it’s someone. And if we can see them, they can see us.” March stomped on their own fire, putting it out. “We’ll go over there when it’s light. I don’t think it’s a good idea to wander into someone’s camp in the dark.”

  Sam was grinning with excitement. “We could be joined up by this time tomorrow.”

  “Let’s hope they want new recruits.”

  “Every army wants recruits.”

  Let’s hope they want me.

  * * *

  • • •

  As soon as it was light they set off. By midmorning they found the remains of the campfires they’d seen in the night, but all the boys—if it was the boys—had gone.

  Sam walked around, peering at the ground. “I’m sure it’s them. There were a lot of people here, and, look, they’ve left footprints going that way.”

  “Yes, funny how they’ve done that. And how they lit fires for us to see. Almost like they want us to find them.”

  But Sam was already following the trail. March hurried after him, scanning around all the time. Soon they entered a narrow, wooded valley that was still and silent. They contin-ued alongside a stream, making slow but steady progress, until Sam stopped abruptly and pointed up to his left.

  A boy was silhouetted against the skyline. He pointed his spear across the valley—and there was another figure, also holding a spear. They both gave quick, short, whooping shouts and ran down the valley sides. It was an impossibly dangerous and stupid thing to do. They’ll trip and break their necks, March thought.

  But that didn’t happen. Instead the boy on the right leaped off a rock, turning in the air and hanging upside down, so it looked like he’d land on his head.

  Sam gasped.

  The figure flipped upright at the last moment, landing on his feet and speeding away, up the far side of the valley. The other boy leaped down, performing a cartwheel in the air, and then he too was running away. A moment later they had both vanished into the distance.

  “Did you see that boy on the right? It was almost as if he was flying! I can’t wait to do that.”

  “We’re joining the army, not the circus, Sam.”

  “I know. I know, but still—they looked great.” Sam set off after the boys. “I think they’re showing us the way to go.”

  March looked behind and saw another boy high up on the valley side. He had a feeling there was no going back now. But almost immediately Sam came to another halt. “Shits. The trail leads up that cliff.”

  “We’ll have to find another way.” March looked around and was reminded of something. The silence and stillness—it was as if they were being watched. No, it wasn’t just that they were being watched. It felt like when the sheriff’s men had been following him and Edyon and Holywell. Just like when Holywell got killed with a spear. Nothing happened. Not a leaf moved, not a bird sang.

  Nothing.

  Perhaps March was just imagining it all.

  But then he heard a bird.

  No, not a bird—a flapping noise.

  Sam yelped and grabbed March, pulling him to the side as a spear pierced the ground a pace away. Attached to the end of the spear was a piece of fabric. It had flapped as the spear flew and made the noise. On the material was the figure of a bull’s head.

  There was more flapping coming from March’s left.

  March pulled Sam back as another spear with a flag hit the ground where Sam had been standing.

  Then another flapping noise from behind. Now Sam pushed March out of the way and a spear landed at Sam’s feet.

  They moved to the cliff. More spears were coming all the time. They were being forced up to the rock face.

  “We have to go up. That’s what they want us to do.” March found a handhold in the cliff and began climbing. Sam followed. The handholds became harder to reach the higher March climbed. And he felt totally exposed. The boys might throw a spear into his back at any moment. His life was theirs to take if they wanted.

  March cursed but continued on, his fingertips finally reaching the top of the cliff. His legs were shaking with the strain as he reached up, felt around, found a tiny hold, and, gripping it desperately, pulled himself up.

  Standing ahead of him at the cliff top was a boy, no older than himself and as thin, though his bare arms were muscled and wiry. He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin with a red and black badge depicting a bull’s head sewn over the heart. And attached to his leather belt was a leather-covered bottle, a cut in the leather revealing a sliver of purple glow. Most impor-tantly the boy was holding a spear, which he now lowered so that its sharp tip was a finger’s width from March’s right eye.

  “Silver eyes. Nice! Thought you Abasks were all dead or slaves.”

  “You thought wrong, then.”

  “Not the first time.” And the boy lowered his spear and held his hand out. “Here, let me help you.”

  March ignored the hand, not trusting the boy at all, and pulled himself to standing.

  “Lovely day for a bit of climbing. My name’s Rashford, by the way.”

  “I’m March.” He turned and looked over the cliff, adding, “That’s Sam.”

  Rashford peered over the edge too. “Seems that Sam’s struggling a bit.”

  March wasn’t sure what to do. “You could help him.”

  “You mean catch him if he falls?” Rashford smiled and stepped back, raising his spear to March’s chest again. “I’m not really the helping sort. What sort are you, March?”

  “Generally pissed off. And really pissed off when people point spears at me.”

  “I can see that.” Rashford pushed his spear toward March so that he had to step back to the edge of the cliff. “But I get pissed off too. Pissed off by people following us.” And he jabbed the spear at March, who wobbled on the cliff edge. “Spying on us.” He jabbed the spear again and March had to grab it to stop from falling.

  “We’re not spying. We heard about an army of boys. Me and Sam want to join up.”

  “An army of boys? Only boys? No lords? No men?”

  “They’re strong, fast, good at throwing spears.” He waved down to the ground and saw that the spears had been picked up by many boys who stood below him. “Good at sneaking up on folks. Good at hiding their trail when they want to.”

  “I like the sound of them
already.” And Rashford moved back a little, giving March a bit more space. “But what is it you’re good at, March? What can you offer this army of boys? Are you strong? Fast? Good with a spear?”

  March shrugged. “I’m good at pouring wine.”

  Rashford laughed. “Not got much wine on me and I reckon if I did have, I could pour it myself.”

  “I poured wine for Prince Thelonius. I’ve traveled in Calidor and Pitoria. I know about the purple demon smoke. I know it makes you stronger and faster. And I know it heals too. I’ve been healed myself by it. I’m betting that’s what’s in that bottle you’ve got there.”

  Rashford raised his spear so the point was just in front of March’s right eye again. “You certainly know plenty, March. Maybe a bit too much for your own good. And I wouldn’t go bragging about Prince Thelonius. You’re in Brigant. Thelo-nius is the enemy, you know.”

  “And I’m Abask. Everyone’s victim, everyone’s slave. But Abasks aren’t victims or slaves at heart—we’re fighters. I won’t be made a victim or slave to anyone anymore, but I will fight.”

  Rashford smiled. “Now that’s what I call attitude. Course, if you want to join us, you’re going to have to prove yourself. We’re gonna have to see some fighting spirit for real.” Rashford backed off, adding, “Why don’t you give your friend a hand up? You shouldn’t leave him dangling there.”

  Just then, Sam’s fingers reached the top of the cliff, and March grabbed his wrists, pulling him the rest of the way. When March turned back to Rashford, he saw that the other boys had joined him. They were wearing leather jerkins with red and black bull’s head badges, all holding spears with flags, some with short swords and knives strapped around their waists. Some seemed to have red and black war paint on their faces, some grinned, some scowled; all were skinny, none looked old enough to shave.

  “Come forward, March. Don’t be shy!” Rashford shouted.

  One other boy called out, “Don’t look so scared. We won’t hurt you—much.” There was laughter, jeering, and some wolf whistles as the boys closed in around them—there was no escape, though really, with the speed of these boys, there was never going to be a chance of escape. March and Sam were now surrounded by a ring of boys—perhaps a hundred of them.

  Rashford stepped forward. “As leader of the Bulls, the best and most honorable of the boys’ brigades, I invite you to demonstrate your fighting skills to see if you’re worthy of joining us.”

  Sam nodded and smiled. “Yeah, sure. How?”

  Rashford smiled back. “By beating the shit out of each other, of course!”

  The boys around them had started up a chant. “Fight. Fight. Fight.”

  Sam turned to March. “They’re serious. You up for it?”

  “I don’t think we’ve got any choice. Just don’t use your knife. We stick to fists.”

  “Definitely. I’ll try not to hurt you too much,” Sam re-plied, and backed away, getting in a rather absurd stance with his fists stiffly raised.

  “You serious?” March asked.

  Rashford, who was walking around the inside of the circle of boys, yelled, “Come on, March. My money’s on you.”

  March raised his guard and moved forward. He was older and taller than Sam. He’d win this easy.

  Sam grinned at him, rolled his head, and beckoned March forward.

  Cocky little shit!

  March drew his fist back and sent a hard punch to Sam’s jaw. But Sam dodged his head to the side. March punched again—Sam moved and punched March in the stomach, and he doubled over in pain.

  The boys were cheering louder. Rashford was shouting, “March! You’d better not let me down here.”

  Sam sent a punch to March’s jaw. March staggered back. The boys were shouting louder. March put his guard farther up, but another punch hit his ear. And then another to his stomach bent him over. Sam danced back and March could just see his feet moving around. Somehow Sam knew how to fight and March had nothing to offer in return. He had to show his toughness, though. He straightened up and ran at Sam, who dodged out of the way. March tried again and the same thing happened. Rashford came to him and turned him round to face Sam, shouting, “Don’t make a fool of me as well as yourself, March.” Then quietly added, “Get him this time. On the nose.”

  And this time, two boys had hold of Sam and pushed him to March as Rashford pushed March to Sam. March just raised his fist, and it was more like Sam’s face hitting his fist rather than the other way round. But the result was the same—blood exploded from Sam’s nose. Sam staggered to the side, grabbing his face, and March leaped at him, knocking him to the ground and kicking him in the back.

  Sam rolled over and tried to get away, but March fell on him, pinning his arms down with his legs and punching his face again and again. Eventually Rashford shouted, “Enough, March. Enough.” And he was dragged off Sam, who rolled over and tried to get up, but then collapsed again.

  Rashford ignored this and said, “We can see that both these boys are fighters. They can join us. There’s just one thing left to do.”

  And faster than March could think about these words, Rashford’s fist hit him and pain filled his head, blood filled his mouth, and the sounds of the boys’ laughing and cheering faded as he let darkness fold around him.

  TASH

  DEMON TUNNELS

  FIRST COMES a vision. Shades of red are wrapping you up, soothing your muscles, and warming your bones. It makes you feel wanted, makes you feel strong. And it makes you want to go back. You want to reach out as you tumble through it, through the red smoke. You are returning.

  Returning where?

  You open your eyes. There is no red. There is only black.

  Black envelops everything, blacker than the blackest night. But this is not night, not day, not anything.

  And it’s cold. Stone, stone cold.

  And silent. Not a sound.

  Except . . . except for this sound, this voice in your head.

  But do you even have a head?

  Do you have a body?

  Can you feel anything?

  Are you alive?

  How do you know what you are when there is nothing to see or hear or feel?

  Perhaps this darkness, this coldness, this silence is death.

  It’s certainly shitting bad enough.

  CATHERINE

  NORTHERN PITORIA

  Money is as vital as swords in any war.

  War: The Art of Winning, M. Tatcher

  THE SIDES of Catherine’s tent were drawn back so that she could make use of the early morning sunshine as she sat at her desk. She could also look out over the camp, which had been moved to open, green meadows uphill from the old one. It lay between two streams, which provided clean water but no risk of flooding. Davyon had selected the location and organized the move, ensuring the prince was disturbed as little as possible and keeping Catherine informed of progress. At least that had gone well.

  Catherine dragged her gaze from the view and back to her desk, which was covered with papers. She picked up the first and glanced through it—a bill for provisions. And underneath—another bill, more provisions. And another under that. Running a war wasn’t only about fighting and tactics; it depended on food to ensure all the men were well fed, and that depended on money.

  And then there was the issue of the men’s health— so far the Pitorian army had lost more men to disease than to fighting. The red fever had spread through the camp quickly, killing several hundred. But the move had been the right decision. The new camp was cleaner and better organized, with animals and latrines away from the sleeping quarters. There were fewer new cases of fever reported every day. But no sooner was that problem dealt with than Catherine had to move on to the next one, and the next . . .

  This was her job now—to take each problem, deal with it as well as she could, and then move on
to the next. Logically, she knew that if she could just keep going, then—step by step—she’d get there. But the steps seemed never-ending and the problems needed solving two or three—or twenty—at a time. Catherine’s mind was overloaded. She needed help to think straight. She looked over to her maid.

  “I’m going to give you a new job title, Tanya.”

  “Lady Tanya of Tornia?” was the reply, said with a smile as she gave an elaborate curtsy.

  Catherine smiled but shook her head. “No. I said job title.”

  “Chief dogsbody? Head dogsbody?”

  “You are the chief of my maids. In fact, you are much, much more than just a maid and you are definitely not a dogsbody. I want you to do what you’ve always done for me, only under a different title.”

  “So what title will I receive?”

  “Dresser.”

  “Hairdresser? A vital role in a country so obsessed with hair as this one.”

  Catherine smiled again. “No, Tanya, your new title is not hairdresser. I said dresser. The same title as General Davyon.”

  “Oh, I see. Thank you.” Tanya nodded thoughtfully, then added, “Sounds like I’ll get a pay raise.”

  “Why does everything come back to money?” Catherine snapped. “Do you want to take my last kopek too?” She felt tears of frustration fill her eyes. She wanted to knock the whole pile of papers on the floor and just walk out.

  Tanya stepped closer. “I apologize, Your Majesty.”

  “No, I apologize. I’m tired. But I shouldn’t take it out on you.” She’d been sitting with the king most of the night, but Tanya had hardly slept either.

  “I’m honored that you’ve given me any thought at all,” Tanya continued. “And I’m honored to have a new job title. And dresser is a good one. If I can be thought of anywhere near as highly as Davyon, I’ll be doing well.”

  “The point is that I already think of you as highly as him, and I want everyone to do the same. We have been through so much together, Tanya. I want the world to know how much I value you.”