A Circle of Iron

Chapter 12

Redmourn came for him at midday. Thorn had spent most of the night and much of the morning puking his guts into a chamber pot. By the time an excited scav burst into the Duck and announced the wight’s arrival, Thorn felt just about ready to die.

Mara grabbed his chin roughly and studied his face. “If you weren’t so damn sweaty, I’d think you were a corpse.”

“Don’t know why I’m sweating when I feel so cold.”

“Can you do this, Caleb? You won’t kill Redmourn by puking on his shoes.”

“Well, he’s here. I guess it won’t make much difference to him if I’m feeling poorly.” Thorn pushed himself up from the table and checked his weapons, and then pulled the iron torq from his neck and set it on the table. He looked at Mara and held her gaze. “If it turns out I ain’t up to it, you run like hell and don’t look back.”

Thorn pushed the bearskin aside and walked out into the middle of the street. Where it passed through the camp, the old stone road was covered over with hard-packed dirt and manure, and the rain had turned it to mud. He looked around at the tents and shanties that pressed in close, saw a few faces peering out at him. Thorn wasn’t sure whether he should hate them or be grateful they even cared enough to be curious.

Finally, he looked down the street towards the ruins and saw Redmourn standing there. The wight didn’t look any different than he had before, red paint and all. He stood in the middle of the street with his hands at his side, waiting patiently. Thorn drew his sword and his iron knife, and gestured for the wight to come on. Redmourn flashed a grin and advanced.

Thorn knew it the moment the wight stepped inside the hexing circle. Redmourn bent over, clutching his middle like he was about to heave his breakfast onto the dirt. After the morning he’d had, Thorn knew just how he felt. The wight’s legs trembled, then buckled, and he fell to his knees. He raised his head, and Thorn was surprised to see a look on his face that wasn’t rage or hatred. He had a little smile that crooked one corner of his mouth, and it was only the exposed fang that made it look like a snarl. It was a look that said, “I can’t believe I just fell for that.”

“The stones are strong,” Redmourn said. “Star-metal, buried in the mud, black as night, and cold. But something else…”

“My wizard rubbed some magic on them.”

“Ah, of course,” the wight said. “The magic of my fallen city.”

“It ain’t really yours. Not anymore.”

“No, you are right, it is not mine. Not anymore.”

“I guess you know I mean to kill you. That’s what we came here for, the both of us, and we might as well get to it.” Thorn gripped his sword and took a step towards the wight.

“You mistake…discomfort…for incapacitation,” said Redmourn. He climbed slowly to his feet and drew the bronze sword and hatchet from his belt. He cocked his head and looked at Thorn. “For that matter, you do not look entirely well yourself. I believe we can still have our fight, you and I.”

Thorn could have counted the number of duels he’d been in on one hand, and the counting would have left a couple of fingers unused. When he was a soldier, a battle always began with formations, maneuvers and bright banners waving, and it ended in a chaotic melee. The lines met, they merged like vicious, rutting beasts, and before long it was hard to tell friend from foe and even harder to care.

In a melee, a soldier’s most valuable skill wasn’t strength or speed or endurance—it was awareness. If you knew who would try to kill you next, where they were and what they were doing, you’d know how to deal with the man in front of you. You’d see a comrade sink his blade into the enemy, and you’d know he was just moments from turning and putting that steel in your adversary’s back. No need to take any chances—you just had to buy a few seconds until it was time for your opponent to die. Or you’d see an enemy do the same to your ally, and you’d know you had to strike quickly before you got a blade in your own back.