Paul Kearney - The Ten Thousand

The Ten Thousand

The Macht Book 1

Paul Kearney

ForJohn McLaughlin and Charlotte Bruton

Gratefulacknowledgements to:

MarkNewton, Christian Dunn, Patrick St Denis, Darren Turpin and James Kearney. AndMarie of course, as always.

ANTIMONES PITY

THEMEANING OF DEFEAT

By the sea, Rictushad been born, and now it was by the sea that he would die.

He had thrown awayhis shield and sat on a tussock of yellow marram grass, with the cold grey sandbetween his toes and a blinding white lace of foam from the incoming tideblazing bright as snow in his eyes.

If he lifted hishead there was real snow to be seen also, on the shoulders of Mount Panjaeos tothe west. Eternal snow, in whose drifts the god Gaenion had his forge, and hadhammered out the hearts of stars.

As good a place asany to make an end.

He felt the bloodooze from his side, a slow promise, a sneer. It made him smile. I know that, hethought. I know these things. The point has been made. A spearhead from GanBurian has made it.

He still had hissword, such as it was, a cheap, soft-iron bargain hed picked up more out of a senseof decorum than anything else. Like all men, he knew his real weapon was thespear. The sword was for defeat, for the black end when one could no longer denyit.

And he still had aspear, Eight feet tall, the old, dark wood of the shaft scored now with newscars of white. It had been his fathers.

My father. Whosehome, whose life I have now thrown onto the scales.

Again, he smiledunder the heavy helmet of bronze. But it was not a smile. It was the finalbaring of teeth that the bayed animal must show.

And so they foundhim, three winded foot-soldiers of Gan Burian who had also cast aside theirshields, but to aid pursuit, not flight. These too had their spears, everypoint bloodied, and in their eyes there was that glaze which comes to men fromwine, and sex, and killing. They gave a shout as they sighted him, this bowedfigure by the shore of the sea, his tunic bloody at the side. And now theydarted a change of course as swiftly as fish in shoal, teeth bared. Happy. Ashappy as man can be. For what can make man happier than the annihilation of hisenemy when all is at risk: his woman, his child, the place he calls a home? Themen of Gan Burian had defended their city from attack in a wrenched,bowel-draining fight which had lasted all of the morning. They had won. Theyhad won, and now, how bright the sky seemed, and how good did the fine salt airoff the sea taste in their mouths. The sweetest of all dishes. And now, theywould savour a little more of it.

Rictus saw themcome, their feet raising little surfs of sand as they bounded across the dunestowards him. He stood up, ignoring the pain as he had been taught. He filledhis lungs with that good, cold air, that salt, that slake of earth. Closing hiseyes, he smiled a third time; for himself. For the memory of the sea, for thesmell.

Lord, in thy gloryand thy goodness, send worthy men to kill me.

He leaned on thespear a little, digging the spiked butt into the sand, sinking it past thegleam of the bronze. He waited, not even bothering to touch the leatherscabbard wherein lay his contemptible little sword. Past his head there broke ablack and white formation, a piping squadron of birds. Oyster catchers,frightened off the flats of sand by the men who approached. He was as aware oftheir wingbeats as he was of the slow pulse in his side. Deaths abacus, thebeads knocking home ever slower. A moment of strange bliss, of knowing that allthings were the same, or at least could be the same. The drunken clarity ofpain, and fearlessness. It was somethingit truly was somethingnot to beafraid, at this moment.

And they werehere, right before him. He was startled, as he had not been startled all day,not even when the shield-lines met. He had been prepared for that crash all hislife, had expected it, had wanted it to be even grander than it had been. Thiswas different. It was seeing other ordinary men with his murder in their eyes.Not anonymous, but as personal as could be. It shook him a little, and thatuncertainty translated into a white-cold flood of adrenaline through each ofhis nerves. He stood, blinked, forgot the pain and pulse of his life-blood asit trickled out ol him. He was the beast at bay, about to snarl at the hunters.

They spread abouthim; ordinary men who had killed their fellows and found it quite good. A sportalmost. They had come uncertain and apprehensive to battle, and had prevailed.With the breaking of their enemys line they had found themselves heroes, partof what might one day be history. Later they would reform into their phalanxesand would make the light-hearted march to the city of their foes, and wouldthere become conquerors. Thisthis killingwas no more than a garnish on thedish.

Rictus knew this.He did not hate these men who had come to kill him, as he was quite certainthey did not hate him. They did not know that he was an only son, that he lovedhis father with a fierce, never-to-be-spoken adulation. That he would die tosave the least of his familys dogs. They did not know that he loved the sightand smell and sound of the sea as another man might love to let gold cointrickle through his fingers. Rictus was a bronze mask to them. He would die,and they would brag to their children of it.

This is life, theway things work. All these things, Rictus knew. But he had been taught well, sohe took his fathers spear in both fists and ignored the pain and startedthinking about how to kill these smiling men who had come about him.

With a short,yipping yell, the first bounced in to attack, a high-coloured face with a blackbeard framing it, and eyes as bright as frosted stones. He held his spear atthe midpoint of the shaft, and thrust it at Rictuss collarbone.

Rictus had graspedhis own weapon at the balance-point, a short arms length from the butt, andthus had a longer reach. Two-handed, he clapped aside the point of his attackersspear and then reversed the grip of his ownall in a movement which was asbeautiful and fluid as the steps of a dance. As his own spear spun, it made theother two men jump backwards, away from the wicked edge of the aichme, thespearhead. Two-handed again, he lunged with the sauroter, the lizard-stickerthey called it, a four-sided spike of bronze which was the aichmescounterweight. It struck the black-bearded man to the left of his nose, punchedthrough the thin bone there for the depth of a handspan before Rictus jerked itout. The man staggered backwards like a drunkard, blinking slowly. His handcame up to his face, and then he sat down hard on the sand as the blood camespurting from the square-sided hole in it, steam rising in the cold air.

Another of thethree screamed at this, raised his spear over his shoulder and charged. Rictus hadtime only to throw himself aside and went sprawling, his spear levered out ofhis grasp as the aichme plunged in sand. As he got up the third man seemed torouse himself also, and stumped into the fight unwillingly. He was older, agreybeard, but there was a black calm about his eyes. He moved in as thoughthinking about something else.

Rictus rolled asthe second mans spear stabbed the sand at his side. He got his arm about itand clamped the spearhead against his injured ribs, the pain scarcely felt.Then he kicked up with both feet and one heel dunted his attacker in the groin.The mans cheeks filled. Rictus came up off the ground at him, climbing up thespear-shaft, and butted him in the face with all the strength left in historso. The bronze of his helmet rang, and he was glad of it for the first timethat day. The man fell full length on his back and coiled feebly in on himselfand the red ruin of his face.