Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [85]
‘All the way from the emperor’s own Summer Palace,’ Grech announced. ‘Mauler of four wolves and three score Evensraum warriors. Devourer of devourers. Dragon bane. The only war hound to have survived four full seasons in the Contest Pits with nary a scratch. Long of tooth and wild of temper. The emperor gives you . . . the Beast Arun!’
The handler alternately pushed and dragged the hound towards the bone enclosure, whereupon Maskelyne’s Hookmen reopened the gate. By shoves and kicks they forced the snapping animal into the pen and loosed it from its leash.
It crouched before Granger, drooling and snarling through its bared teeth, and regarding him with baleful eyes. Granger backed away towards the water’s edge.
The hound rushed at him.
The crowd roared with anticipation.
The hound leaped.
Granger stepped sideways.
The hound disappeared over the edge of the dock and splashed into the brine below. It managed one pitiful yelp, before the burning waters closed over its body.
Silence. All eyes turned from Granger to Emperor Hu.
Hu could not contain his rage. He jerked to his feet and roared at the soldiers waiting beside the tents, ‘The next one! Bring the next one!’ Administrator Grech cowered at his side, speaking hurriedly in a voice Granger could not hear, but the emperor just batted him away, returned to his seat and glared at Granger.
Granger took a deep breath. He looked for Briana Marks again, but she was still nowhere to be seen. By now the sun had risen high above the Administration Buildings and beat down mercilessly on him. He wiped sweat from his brow and turned to see who or what his next opponent would be.
Administrator Grech stood up. ‘For your amusement,’ he said, ‘brought to Ethugra from the emperor’s own dungeons . . . despised by all who hear of their deeds . . . petty thieves, arsonists, traitors, and defilers of women . . .’
Three soldiers stepped out of the tent. They wore Imperial steel hauberks over boiled leathers and plain cap helmets with nose- and cheek-guards, and each carried a standard-issue short sword in his left hand and a light buckler strapped to his right forearm. Two were tall but stooped, somewhat hesitant and shambling in the way they moved, but the third, shorter man walked with a litheness that implied youth.
‘The cunning behind Imperial Infiltration Unit Seven . . . the most bloodthirsty and the most notorious men in all of history . . . responsible for three thousand allied deaths at Weaverbrook . . . Emperor Hu gives you . . . the last of the infamous Grave-diggers.’ Grech took a breath. ‘Gerhard “The Rook” Tummel, Swan “The . . . eh . . . Swan” Tummel, and Merrad “Grave-digger” Banks!’
Swan? Tummel? Banks?
The corral gate opened, and the three men walked in. The younger man took off his helmet, blinked up at the sky and then smiled meekly. ‘Bastard of a day for it, Colonel, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Banks looked as if he had been wandering the borderlands of death. His cheeks were hollow, his skin anaemic but bruised under his eyes, his hair lank and uneven. But his eyes still brimmed with the same quick humour Granger had known him for. After a moment, his two companions also removed their helmets, and Granger recognized them for who they were.
Swan and Tummel had appeared old and wretched when Granger had last seen them six years ago, and yet now they looked like they had lived their lives all over again since then. Swan was toothless with a sagging, stubbled face and rheumy eyes – the sort of visage one expected to find in a coffin. His brother, Tummel, looked ten years older.
‘Petty thieves?’ Granger said. ‘Arsonists?’ He paused. ‘Defilers of women?’
‘That last one’s pretty good,’ Swan said. ‘I quite like it.’
‘That’s because it’s the only one you haven’t done,’ Tummel said.
‘I could have if I’d wanted to.’
Tummel grunted. ‘You couldn’t run fast enough.’ He turned to Granger. ‘He did, however, burn down a grog shop.