The Black Hawks. David Wragg

saw the big man, Foss, stiffen at that. He guessed that their destination was not intended to be divulged.

      Spider was back at his ear, and this time the knife was in his hand. ‘The Spider notes with disappointment that you still haven’t answered his question. Why are you here, sand-crab rat-bear?’

      Chel’s mouth felt suddenly dry, and he swallowed. ‘If you don’t know, I sure as snake-shit can’t tell you.’

      ‘He’s here because I want him here.’ No one had heard the door open this time, but there the old beggar stood, head ducked below the low lintel. He walked slowly into the hold and into the light. His rag-bundle clothes were streaked in grime: dust, soot, blood and who knew what else, his hair hanging in great ashen strings before his face. ‘Get to your duties. We’re not away clean yet.’

      Foss gave him a sharp glance. ‘The river dock closed as we left it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘A sail?’

      ‘Not yet,’ the beggar said, then turned to the rest of the hold. ‘Was I mumbling? Get to it! Not you, Lemon – you’ll be keeping our friends company for now.’ Lemon started to protest, but he held up a hand. ‘You need the practice. The rest of you, out.’

      As the other mercenaries shuffled out, the beggar marched to a water basin in the corner of the hold. He reached down and dragged his rotten clothes over his head, discarding layers of rags at his feet, then leaned forward and dunked his head. Chel watched through narrowed eyes as he splashed the water over himself, washing away coats of filth, then stood again, water cascading over his bared torso. Chel’s good hand was back on his ruined shoulder. Who was this brutal old bastard who had done him such damage?

      The man before him had jet-black hair and skin the colour of sand, and was nowhere near as aged as Chel had thought. His body was sharp-edged and thickly muscled, and criss-crossed with more scarring and tattoos than Chel had ever seen on a single human. His upper arms cascaded with markings, some no doubt Free Company, but none Chel could distinguish or recognize. What kind of man could serve in that many companies anyway? An alarming collection of knives belted at the man’s waist glittered in the lantern light.

      The beggar turned back to the hold, and at last Chel saw his face in the dim light. He was prow-faced, his nose a sharp, brutal beak, his dark and heavy features following in its wake. He seemed surprised that Chel and Tarfel were still there. He looked like a furious eagle.

      He pinned Chel with a glare. ‘Got something you want to call me?’ Then he grinned, short and sharp. ‘Lemon! Get those fuckers locked away.’ With that, he scooped up a shirt and strode for the door.

      A moment later the hold was empty, but for the disconsolate, muttering Lemon. ‘Aye, right. Practice, is it? Fuck’s sake, like I had any fucken alternative. Would he have me shit my breeches on duty? I ask you.’

      Tarfel had already wandered back into the store in anticipation of being bolted away. Lemon checked over Chel’s bandages and strapping, while he lay piled where Spider had left him.

      ‘The tall one,’ Chel said. ‘With the nose. He’s the brains?’

      ‘The brains? Maybe the spleen, or wherever bile comes from. Right, you’ll live. Now get yourself back in there, wee bear, or ancestors-take-me I’ll fuck you right up with a hammer.’

      Chel looked up at her. Buried in the matted fur and leather of Lemon’s outfit was an array of ironmongery, small hammers, axes and picks. ‘Are you a miner?’

      She half smiled. ‘Once, maybe. In a sense.’

      ‘It doesn’t work, you know.’ It was Tarfel, from within the store’s gloom. ‘Your name, I mean.’

      ‘Oh aye?’

      ‘Lemons. They’re not bitter, they’re sour. That’s different.’

      ‘You’re telling fucken me! I’ve been telling those half-wits forever! Oh, but it’s all “Ah Lemon, what’s the difference, you’re a shite-heap either way”.’

      Chel sensed an opening. Lemon seemed grateful to have someone to talk to. ‘They don’t sound like they’re very nice to you.’

      Lemon frowned. ‘Are you joking? They’re the best bunch of bastards I ever rode with. Not that they know the value of an education, mind.’

      ‘You’re educated?’

      ‘I may not have attended a fancy Hacademy, but knowledge is power, wee bear, as the powerful know. Like me.’ She jabbed a thumb at herself. ‘For example, these folk we saw earlier today.’

      ‘Who? The prince and I didn’t really—’

      ‘Hush and listen, this could save your life some day.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Aye, “oh”. See, thing is, most people, they don’t get hit by arrows much.’

      ‘That so?’

      ‘Indeedy. So, if and when they do, they don’t know what to do. They think that’s it, and they should just keel over, curl up their toes, back to the ancestors.’

      ‘Whereas …?’

      ‘Ah, you can fight on with an arrow in you! You can fight on with a dozen, like a fucken pin-cushion. I knew a fella, a Clydish man, mark you, not like one of you northern piss-sheets, fought on with sixteen arrows, two spears and a sword in him. Carried on for hours, cracking heads and ripping limbs.’

      ‘And he lived?’

      ‘Well, no, but he didn’t lie down and die at the first blow, did he?’

      ‘So what’s the big secret? If you’re hit by an arrow, don’t die?’

      ‘Aye. That’s the secret: don’t die. Now budge your skinny arse, before I help you along.’ She gave a meaningful wave with a fat-headed hammer, and Chel began to drag himself back into the store. The door closed behind them, and Lemon bolted it.

      ‘Hey, Lemon?’

      ‘What do you want, bugger-bear?’

      ‘What about the big guy? He got any names?’

      ‘Oh, Rennic? Hundreds. More than the rest of us combined.’

      ‘And what do you call him?’

      ‘We call him boss.’