Before They Are Hanged

lecture on the
qualities of great leadership, qualities which seemed markedly absent
in himself. Longfoot was off scouting out the route, only appearing
every day or two to let them know how skilfully he was doing it.
Ferro frowned at everything as though it was her personal enemy, and
at Jezal most of all, it sometimes seemed, her hands never far from
her weapons. She spoke rarely, and then only to Ninefingers, to snarl
about ambushes, or covering their tracks better, or the possibilities
of being followed.
    The Northman
himself was something of a puzzle. When Jezal had first laid eyes on
him, gawping at the gate of the Agriont, he had seemed less than an
animal. Out here in the wild, though, the rules were different. One
could not simply walk away from a man one disliked, then do one’s
best to avoid him, belittle him in company, and insult him behind his
back. Out here you were stuck with the companions you had, and, being
stuck with him, Jezal had come slowly to realise that Ninefingers was
just a man, after all. A stupid, and a thuggish, and a hideously ugly
one, no doubt. As far as wit and culture went, he was a cut below the
lowliest peasant in the fields of the Union, but Jezal had to admit
that out of all the group, the Northman was the one he had come to
hate least. He had not the pomposity of Bayaz, the watchfulness of
Quai, the boastfulness of Longfoot, or the simple viciousness of
Ferro. Jezal would not have been ashamed to ask a farmer his opinion
on the raising of crops, or a smith his opinion on the making of
armour, however dirty, ugly or lowborn they might have been. Why not
consult a hardened killer on the subject of violence?
    â€œI
understand that you have led men in battle,â€

One Hundred Words
    There was
something peculiar afoot, that was sure. Colonel Glokta tested his
limbs, but he appeared unable to move. The sun was blinding bright in
his eyes.
    â€œDid we
beat the Gurkish?â€

The Blind Lead the Blind
    The First of the
Magi lay twisted on his back in the cart, wedged between a water
barrel and a sack of horse feed, a coil of rope for his pillow. Logen
had never seen him look so old, and thin, and weak. His breath came
shallow, his skin was pale and blotchy, drawn tight over his bones
and beaded with sweat. From time to time he’d twitch, and
squirm, and mutter strange words, his eyelids flickering like a man
trapped in a bad dream.
    â€œWhat
happened?â€

Prince Ladisla’s Stratagem
    â€œYou
really should spend less time in here, Colonel West.â€

Until Sunset
    â€œOy.â€

Long Odds
    The hill rose
out of the grass, a round, even cone like a thing man-made. Strange,
this one great mound standing out in the midst of the level plain.
Ferro did not trust it.
    Weathered stones
stood in a rough circle around its top and scattered about the
slopes, some up on end, some lying on their sides, the smallest no
more than knee high, the biggest twice as tall as a man. Dark, bare
stones, standing defiant against the wind. Ancient, cold, angry.
Ferro frowned at them.
    It felt as
though they frowned back.
    â€œWhat is
this place?â€

The Road to Victory
    West stood by a
clump of stunted trees, in the cutting wind, on the high ground above
the river Cumnur, and watched the long column move. More accurately,
he watched it not move.
    The neat blocks
of the King’s Own, up at the head of Prince Ladisla’s
army, marched smartly enough. You could tell them from their armour,
glinting in the odd ray of pale sun that broke through the ragged
clouds, from the bright uniforms of their officers, from the red and
golden standards snapping at the front of each company. They were
already across the river, formed up in good order, a stark contrast
with the chaos on the other side.
    The levies had
started eagerly, early that morning, no doubt relieved to be leaving
the miserable camp behind, but it hadn’t been an hour before a
man here or a man there, older than the others, or worse shod, had
started to lag, and the column had grown ragged. Men slipped and
stumbled in the half-frozen muck, cursing and barging into their
neighbours, boots tripping on the boots of the man in front. The
battalions had twisted, stretched, turned from neat blocks into
shapeless blobs, merged with the units in front and behind, until the
column moved in great ripples, one group hurrying forward while the
next was still, like the segments of some monstrous,