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Then something pulled him away, made him continue on, to take his place in the gap between the men and the women. As he turned to face his brothers of the pit, resting the shovel on one shoulder, he saw Rebble emerging, carrying a bulker’s pick. The third man to appear, also armed with a shovel, was Listar. Quiet and shy, his crime was a lifelong abuse of his wife that ended in her strangulation. But questions remained whether the cord had been in his hands. Questions, too, on that charge of abuse. But Listar would say nothing, not even to plead innocence. Wareth could never be sure of the man, yet here he was, ready to give his life in defence of unarmed women.
Rebble was tall and wiry. He had not cut the hair on his head and face since arriving at the mine, seven years past. His dark eyes glittered amidst a black, snarled nest, showing everyone that his temper was close. Once unleashed, the man knew not how to stop that rage. He had killed four men, one of whom had possibly insulted him. The other three had tried to intervene.
No others joined Wareth, and he saw men finding their own picks and shovels, and then making their way forward. One of them pointed a shovel at Wareth. ‘Ganz never even saw you coming. The coward strikes again. Rebble, Listar, look to this man who holds your centre, and when I go to him, watch him run!’
Wareth said nothing, but even he could feel how their moment of bold chivalry was fast fading. Neither Rebble nor Listar could count on him, and they had just realized it. He turned to Rebble and spoke under his breath. ‘Break open the women’s shed. Let them arm themselves.’
Rebble’s smile was hard and cold. ‘And you’ll do what, Wareth? Hold them here?’
‘He may not, but I will,’ said Listar. ‘This is a day of justice. Let me face it and be done with.’ He glanced over at Wareth. ‘I know you hated Ganz. His mouth always got him in trouble. But this stand here, Wareth? It’s not like you.’
Listar spoke the truth, and Wareth had no answer to give.
Ganz’s friend was edging closer, with his companions drawing up behind him.
Wareth had hoped that some old feuds would erupt among the men. Explosions of violence to distract them – acts of vengeance such as his attack on Ganz. Instead, he had caught their collective attention. A mistake, and one likely to see him killed. A pick between my shoulder blades.
As I run.
With a curious glance at Listar, Rebble moved off.
Ganz’s friend laughed. ‘The bold line collapses!’
The heat was building in Wareth despite the chill, an old familiar fire. It pooled and dissolved his insides. He could feel it burning his face and knew that for shame. His heart pounded fast and a weakness took his legs.
A loud crack startled everyone, and then the squeal of the shed door sounded behind Wareth.
‘Shit,’ someone swore. ‘We’re too fucking late now. Wareth, you’ll pay for this. Cut him down, Merrec. The chase will make it a fine game, hey?’
Men laughed.
Wareth turned to Listar. ‘Not today, then, your justice.’
Listar shrugged, stepping back. ‘Then another. So, best you start running.’
Merrec advanced on Wareth. ‘You’ve killed enough people from behind. All these years. Stand still now, rabbit.’ He raised the shovel.
Wareth tensed, terror rising up from his stomach to grip his throat. He prepared to throw the shovel, before bolting.
There was a solid thud and Merrec halted suddenly, looked down at the arrow buried deep in his chest.
Someone shouted.
Merrec sank to the ground, disbelief giving way to agony on his face.
The guards were now descending from the rim of the bowl, and on the gatehouse ramp there stood a dozen soldiers, and from them came a thin moaning sound.
Wareth knew that sound. He knew it well. He flinched back, dropping his shovel.
* * *
‘That was dishonourable,’ said Seltin Ryggandas, glaring at Galar Baras. ‘By this craven murder, with a hunter’s arrow at that, we are to see the rebirth of Hust Legion?’
Dishonour. Now there’s a word. Dry as tinder, needing only the hint of a spark to flare up, burn bright, rage incandescent. Dishonour. The stake pinning us all to the ground, and see us now. You, Hunn Raal, with your poisoned wine
, and me, here, both of us writhing in place. Galar Baras drew off his gauntlets and carefully folded them, before tucking them behind his sword-belt. ‘Quartermaster, even honour must, on occasion, surrender to timing.’
Seltin’s expression of disgust was unchanged. ‘Timing? You waited too long to intervene.’
