Sharp Ends: Stories from the World of The First Law by Joe Abercrombie Page B
Authors: Joe Abercrombie
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deep voice as she leaned to speak in Shev’s ear.
‘Would you like to skip town now?’
Shev nodded. ‘Yes, I think we’d better.’
Dagoska, Spring 576
T emple ran.
It was hardly the first time. He had spent half his life running away from things and most of the rest running back towards them. But he had never run like this. He ran as though hell yawned at his back. It did.
The ground shook again. Light flared in the night, at the corner of Temple’s eye, and he flinched. A moment later came the thunderous boom, so loud it made his ears ring. Fire shot up above the buildings to his left, mad arms of it, reaching out and scattering liquid flame across the Upper City. A piece of stone the size of a man’s head thudded into the road just in front of him, bounced across his path and smashed through a wall in a cloud of dust. Smaller stones rained down, pinging and rattling.
Temple ran on, heedless. If Gurkish fire plunged from the heavens and ripped him to specks that could never be found, there was nothing he could do. Precious few would mourn him. One little drip in an ocean of tragedy. He could only hope God had chosen him for saving, even if he could not think of one good reason why.
There was not much he was certain of, but he knew he did not want to die.
He reeled to a stop against a wall, caught by a sudden coughing fit, his chest raw from breathing smoke. From days of breathing smoke. His eyes ran with tears. From the dust. From the fear. He looked back the way he had come. The walls of the Upper City, broken battlements cut out black against the fire. Men struggled there, tiny figures lit red.
It was hopeless. It had been hopeless for days. But still they fought. Perhaps to protect what was theirs. Their property, their family, their way of life. Perhaps they fought out of love. Perhaps out of hate. Perhaps there was nothing else left.
Temple had no idea what could make a man fight. He had never been much of a fighter.
He scuttled down a rubbish-strewn side street, tripped on a fallen beam and skinned his knees, staggered to the corner, one hand up as a feeble shield against the heat of a burning building, flames crackling, smoke roiling skywards into the night.
Fire, fire everywhere. I have seen hell , Verturio said, and it is a great city under siege. Dagoska had been like hell for weeks. Temple never doubted that he deserved to be there. He just didn’t remember dying.
He saw figures crowding about a door, a man swinging an axe, the sound of wood splintering. Gurkish troops somehow broken through the wall already? Or looters taking their chance to snatch something while there was something still to snatch? Temple supposed he could hardly blame them. He’d snatched plenty in his time. And what did blame mean now, anyway?
When there is no law, there is no crime.
He scurried on, keeping low, torn sleeve across his mouth. You would never have known that his acolyte’s robe had been pure white. It was as frayed and filthy now as the beggar’s rags he had worn before, stained with ash and dirt and blood, his own and that of those he had tried to help. Those he had failed to help.
Temple had lived in Dagoska all his life. Grown up on these streets. Known them like a child knows his mother’s face. But now he hardly recognised them. Houses were blackened shells, bare beams showing like the ribs of desert carcasses, trees scorched stumps, heaps of rubble spilled across the cracked roadways. He kept the rock ahead of him, the lights of the Citadel perched at its top, caught a glimpse of one of the Great Temple’s slender spires above a fallen roof, and hurried on.
Fire raged all across the city, but no more fell from the sky. That only made Temple more fearful. When the fire stopped falling, the soldiers came. Always he was running from soldiers. Before the Gurkish it had been the Union, before the Union it had been the Dagoskans themselves. Give a man a sword and he always acts the same,
‘Would you like to skip town now?’
Shev nodded. ‘Yes, I think we’d better.’
Dagoska, Spring 576
T emple ran.
It was hardly the first time. He had spent half his life running away from things and most of the rest running back towards them. But he had never run like this. He ran as though hell yawned at his back. It did.
The ground shook again. Light flared in the night, at the corner of Temple’s eye, and he flinched. A moment later came the thunderous boom, so loud it made his ears ring. Fire shot up above the buildings to his left, mad arms of it, reaching out and scattering liquid flame across the Upper City. A piece of stone the size of a man’s head thudded into the road just in front of him, bounced across his path and smashed through a wall in a cloud of dust. Smaller stones rained down, pinging and rattling.
Temple ran on, heedless. If Gurkish fire plunged from the heavens and ripped him to specks that could never be found, there was nothing he could do. Precious few would mourn him. One little drip in an ocean of tragedy. He could only hope God had chosen him for saving, even if he could not think of one good reason why.
There was not much he was certain of, but he knew he did not want to die.
He reeled to a stop against a wall, caught by a sudden coughing fit, his chest raw from breathing smoke. From days of breathing smoke. His eyes ran with tears. From the dust. From the fear. He looked back the way he had come. The walls of the Upper City, broken battlements cut out black against the fire. Men struggled there, tiny figures lit red.
It was hopeless. It had been hopeless for days. But still they fought. Perhaps to protect what was theirs. Their property, their family, their way of life. Perhaps they fought out of love. Perhaps out of hate. Perhaps there was nothing else left.
Temple had no idea what could make a man fight. He had never been much of a fighter.
He scuttled down a rubbish-strewn side street, tripped on a fallen beam and skinned his knees, staggered to the corner, one hand up as a feeble shield against the heat of a burning building, flames crackling, smoke roiling skywards into the night.
Fire, fire everywhere. I have seen hell , Verturio said, and it is a great city under siege. Dagoska had been like hell for weeks. Temple never doubted that he deserved to be there. He just didn’t remember dying.
He saw figures crowding about a door, a man swinging an axe, the sound of wood splintering. Gurkish troops somehow broken through the wall already? Or looters taking their chance to snatch something while there was something still to snatch? Temple supposed he could hardly blame them. He’d snatched plenty in his time. And what did blame mean now, anyway?
When there is no law, there is no crime.
He scurried on, keeping low, torn sleeve across his mouth. You would never have known that his acolyte’s robe had been pure white. It was as frayed and filthy now as the beggar’s rags he had worn before, stained with ash and dirt and blood, his own and that of those he had tried to help. Those he had failed to help.
Temple had lived in Dagoska all his life. Grown up on these streets. Known them like a child knows his mother’s face. But now he hardly recognised them. Houses were blackened shells, bare beams showing like the ribs of desert carcasses, trees scorched stumps, heaps of rubble spilled across the cracked roadways. He kept the rock ahead of him, the lights of the Citadel perched at its top, caught a glimpse of one of the Great Temple’s slender spires above a fallen roof, and hurried on.
Fire raged all across the city, but no more fell from the sky. That only made Temple more fearful. When the fire stopped falling, the soldiers came. Always he was running from soldiers. Before the Gurkish it had been the Union, before the Union it had been the Dagoskans themselves. Give a man a sword and he always acts the same,
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