The Crimson Shield Read Free

drawn to the death. He hadn’t bothered much about that
though, because they both had to live through the Vathen first for that to ever happen, and Valaric had been in enough battles to know when victory lay with the enemy. The Marroc were mostly too
stupid and too fresh to fighting to see it, but the forkbeards must have known too, yet they’d faced the enemy anyway. They’d stood and held their shields and their spears and roared
their cries of battle. ‘Is he here then, your general?’
    Gallow crouched beside a man with blood all over his face. He nodded. ‘Yes, Valaric, he is.’ He stood up. He still had his axe, and the way he was looking made Valaric wonder if that
day when they’d face each other wasn’t so far off after all. ‘He’s still alive.’ Gallow’s eyes were right for a forkbeard now. Merciless. Valaric took a step
back. He let his hand sit on the hilt of his own sword. The Nightmare of the North. The man who’d led the forkbeards back and forth across his land and stained it black with ash and red with
blood. Whoever killed the Widowmaker would be a hero among the Marroc, his name sung through the ages. And here he was, helpless, and there was only one forkbeard left standing in Valaric’s
way.
    Gallow met his eye. ‘Now what?’
    Valaric couldn’t draw his sword. Simply couldn’t. Not that Gallow scared him, although it would be a hard fight, that was for sure. Or he could have called the other Marroc and told
them what he’d found, because no forkbeard ever born was strong enough to face nine against one. But he didn’t do that either. The honest truth was that the Nightmare of the North
hadn’t done half the things people said he had. What he
had
done was stand with two thousand Marroc against the Vathen in a battle he must have known he couldn’t win.
He’d done that today. Valaric turned away. ‘They say things about you, Gallow.’
    ‘I’m sure they do.’
    ‘Tavern talk, now and then. They say you’re good to your word. That you work hard. Decent, they say, for a forkbeard. Always with the same words at the end:
for a forkbeard
.
Which is good. Doesn’t serve a man to forget who his enemies are. Why did you fight beside me and not with your own people, eh? Would have been safer, after all. Likely as not they were the
last to break.’ The words were bitter.
Bloody forkbeards
.
    ‘You’re my people now, Valaric.’
    Valaric spat in disgust. ‘No, we’re not. A forkbeard is a forkbeard. Shaving your face changes nothing.’ He stared at Gallow and found he couldn’t meet the Lhosir’s
eyes any more. They were the eyes of a man who would stand without flinching against all nine of his Marroc if he had to because it would never occur to him to do anything else. Valaric shook his
head. ‘I tell you, I got so sick of running away from you lot. Must be a first for you.’
    ‘Selleuk’s Bridge, Marroc.’
    ‘Selleuk’s Bridge?’ Valaric bellowed out a laugh. ‘I missed that. Beat you good, eh?’
    ‘That you did.’ Gallow’s hand still rested on the head of his axe.
    Valaric turned and started to walk away. ‘I’ve done my fighting for today. Best you be on your way. You take more than your share of these horses and we’ll come after you like
the howling hordes of hell. Go. And be quick about it.’

 
     
     
     
3
DEAD WEIGHT
     
     
     
     
    G allow saw to the horses first. Two of them, one for him and one for the Screambreaker. That was fair. A man took what he needed and no more when
times were hard. He chose Lhosir mounts over the Vathan ones. Stamina over speed. He couldn’t see he’d be needing to win any races today but it was a long ride home and there
wouldn’t be any stopping while the sun was up.
    He grimaced as he lifted the general across his shoulders. The Marroc called him the Widowmaker and the Nightmare of the North. To the Lhosir he was Corvin Screambreaker. He was a heavy man,
full of muscle, but old enough to have a