Read Mark Lawrence_The Broken Empire 01 for Free Online Page B

tired of being a fish on a line. I bit back.
    I saw the first scout on the marsh road an hour later. Others came soon enough, riding up to join him. I made sure they’d seen the seven of us standing on the burgermeister’s steps.
    â€œCompany,” I said, and pointed the riders out.
    â€œShitdarn!” Brother Elban spat on his boots. I’d chosen Elban because he didn’t look like much, a grizzled old streak in his rusty chainmail. He had no hair and no teeth, but he had a bite on him. “They’s no brigands, look at them ponies.” He lisped the words a bit, having no teeth and all.
    â€œYou know Elban, you might be right,” I said, and I gave him a smile. “I’d say they looked more like house-troops.”
    â€œLord have mercy,” I heard old Gomsty murmur behind me.
    The scouts pulled back. Elban picked up his gear and started for the market field where the horses stood grazing.
    â€œYou don’t want to do that, old man,” I said, softly.
    He turned and I could see the fear in his eyes. “You ain’t gonna cut me down is you, Jorth?” He couldn’t say Jorg without any teeth; I suppose it’s a name you’ve got to put an edge on.
    â€œI won’t cut you down,” I said. I almost liked Elban; I wouldn’t kill him without a good reason. “Where you going to run to, Elban?”
    He pointed over the ridge. “That’s the only clear way. Get snarled up elsewise, or worse, back in the marsh.”
    â€œYou don’t want to go over that ridge, Elban,” I said. “Trust me.”
    And he did. Though maybe he trusted me because he didn’t trust me, if you get my meaning.
    We stood and waited. We sighted the main column on the marsh road first, then moments later, the soldiers showed over the ridge. Two dozen of them, house-troops, carrying spears and shields, and above them the colours of Count Renar. The main column had maybe three score soldiers, and following on behind in a ragged line, well over a hundred prisoners, yoked neck to neck. Half a dozen carts brought up the rear. The covered ones would be loaded with provisions, the others held bodies, stacked like cord-wood.
    â€œHouse Renar doesn’t leave the dead unburned. They don’t take prisoners,” I said.
    â€œI don’t understand,” Father Gomst said. He’d gone past scared, into stupid.
    I pointed to the trees. “Fuel. We’re on the edge of a swamp. There’s no trees for miles in this peat bog. They want a good blaze, so they’re bringing everyone back here to have a nice big bonfire.”
    I had an explanation for Renar’s actions but as to my own, like Father Gomst, I wasn’t sure I understood either. Whatever strength I had on the road, it came to me through a willingness to sacrifice. It came on the day I set aside my vengeance on Count Renar as a thing without profit. And yet here I was, in the ruins of Norwood, with a thirst that couldn’t be quenched by any amount of festival beer. Waiting for that self-same count. Waiting with too few men, and with every instinct telling me to run. Every instinct, except for that one to hold or break, but never bend.
    I could see individual figures at the head of the column quite clearly now. Six riders, chain-armoured, and a knight in heavy plate. The device on his shield came into view as he turned to signal his command. A black crow on a red field, a field of fire. Count Osson Renar wouldn’t lead a hundred men into an Ancrath protectorate, so this would be one of his boys. Marclos or Jarco.
    â€œThe brothers won’t fight this lot,” Elban said. He put a hand on my shoulder-plate. “We might fight a path out through the trees if we get to the horses, Jorth.”
    Already twenty of the Renar men hastened toward the treeline, holding their longbows before them so they wouldn’t snag.
    â€œNo.” I let out a long sigh.