David Wragg - The Black Hawks

Contents

Dave Wragg really got into writing stories just as he finished his English GCSE, then took about twenty years to get back to it. In the meantime, he studied software engineering, worked in global shipping and technical consultancy, and once spent a year in the Foreign Office hiding in the basement.

Dave lives in Hertfordshire with his wife, two small daughters, and two smaller cats.

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This book would not exist without the support, hard work, and enthusiasm of a great many people, and I would like to use this space to distribute a plethora of vast and resonant Thank Yous. First and tallest, to my literary agent Harry Illingworth, who leapt on the manuscript with the tenacity of some kind of small Yorkshire dog and dragged it into the publishing world by his teeth. Harrys youthful vigour has served as an inspiration to a jaded and disintegrating husk like me. Cheers, boss.

To my editor, the peerless Natasha Bardon, who carved a bloodier and more commanding swathe through the text than the Black Hawk Company ever managed; to Jack Renninson (who picked a far better title and wrote much better copy than I ever managed) and Vicky Leech; to the wise and measured Caroline Knight; to superlative cover artist Richard Anderson (hot DAMN is he good); and to all the production staff at HarperVoyager: you have made the book, in some cases literally. Thanks to the bally lot of you. (Any lingering typos and mistakes are, of course, all mine.)

To Francesca Haig, who donated her time and energies to the Authors for Grenfell auction and who, when I was lucky enough to win her lot, went far, far beyond the norm in her level of review, feedback, enthusiasm, and absolute loveliness: I cannot thank you enough. (And anyone reading this should rush out to buy Francescas magnificent books.) To Kat Howard, for most excellent editorial feedback (Kats books are also stellar).

To my advance readers, cultural companions, sounding-boards, and suggesters-in-chief: Adam Iley, James G Smith and Laz Roberts. Thanks, chaps, couldnt have done it without you. Youll get yours.

To everyone who suffered through my early work and provided feedback and encouragement (or insufficient discouragement to stop me): Adam King, Bambos Xiouros, CP Grisold, Claire Gavin, DBF, Damian Francis, Dan Williams, David Winchurch, Ed Sayers, Jon Global Head Brierly, Lexie Harrison-Cripps, Lisa Perry, Paul Bridges, Paul Fallon, Paul McEwan, and Paul Restall. Your mental and emotional sacrifices were not in vain.

To my colleagues, past and present, sadly too numerous to name (although a special shout-out to Steph Brown and Jon Atkins for inspiring parts of Foss and Lemons travel banter): I wonder what it was about working with you lot that led me to write about a bunch of shiftless, morally ambiguous mercenaries devoid of loyalty and compassion and perennially doomed to fail? We may never know. And no, none of you is Lemon.

To my parents, and my teachers, who razed me and tort me to rite gud. To my remaining friends and family, for maintaining an appropriate level of polite interest. To my daughters, for eventually going to sleep and giving me a chance to write anything at all.

Finally, and most wholeheartedly, to my wife Sarah, to whom this book is dedicated. For encouraging me, supporting me (always emotionally, often financially, occasionally physically), gracefully handling both my absences and my presences, and for shouldering so many burdens; for being the person who told me to stop wittering on about maybe writing a book and get on with it; for being my absolute rock, and the greatest source of fun Ive ever known: thank you. You are the single best thing in the world. MWAH.

Chel ran. His feet slapped against the dusty pale stone of the winter palace ramparts, blood thumping at his temples and breath rasping his throat, while gulls wheeled above and the sleepless harbour bustled beneath. He rounded a corner, the yawning guards on the tower watching his progress with vague interest at best.

A mound of refuse lay stacked against the sea wall, a pile of ashen rags with a long stick propped beside it. Chel shifted to round it, teeth gritted, when the pile moved. It became abruptly man-shaped, and its stick swung out into his path. Before he could react, the stick smashed into his shin. He tumbled, arms outstretched, and sprawled head-first into the stones. A blast of pain tore up his shoulder.

Cursing and swearing vengeance, he tried to whirl, but his vision went purple and the combination of running, falling, and a pounding hangover sent him retching back into the dust. By the time the convulsions passed, the rag-pile man and his stick were gone, the ramparts empty.

Thrice-damned pig-fucker! Chel spat onto the ground, still leaning on one arm.

A pair of boots stepped to fill his vision, their laces intricately bound, the soft leather grime-free.

I admit it, I did not expect to find you on the walls this time.

He squinted up at the figure blotting the pink-flecked morning sky. Marekhi, he coughed. Was just on my way to you.

His lieges first sworn regarded him steadily. Her face was placid, her tone light. What did they challenge you with this time? A brandy cask? The barrel-dregs? Did you even make it back to the barracks?

Chel coughed again by way of answer, wiped at his mouth as he pushed back on his haunches. His shoulder throbbed in time with his headache.

The slightest lip-curl marred Marekhis flawless cheek, although her tone remained even. Lord Sokol will be expecting to see his festival robes at ten bells. You will be present, as will the robes, and you will look as though you belong.

Oh, hell be up by then, will he?

Your odour will also be much improved. Am I understood, Master Chel?

He sat back against the flagstones, no longer trying to stand. Her silhouette glowed golden in the morning light. Come on, Marekhi, wheres your festival spirit? he croaked.

These petty defiances are a stain on our lieges name, Master Chel. Her chin tilted. Her voice was quiet but carried clear over the sounds of the clamour of the port below. You are a man in sworn service to a lord who is a guest at this palace, and your deeds and presentation are those of our liege. Its time you acted like it.

I can take a beating, if Sokol wishes to make me an example.

That should not be a point of pride, she said, her voice steel-edged. You swore an oath. This behaviour shames your uncle and your family.