David Gemmell - Hawk Queen 01 by Ironhands Daughter

Author:Ironhands Daughter
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Captain Chard led his men down into the valley, riding slowly, stiff-backed in the saddle. Despite the honey salve on his back the whip wounds flared as if being constantly stung by angry wasps. The weight of his chain-mail added tongues of flame to his shoulders, and his mood was foul. He knew that if Obrin had followed the Baron’s orders with more relish he would not now be alive, for the three-pronged whip could kill a man within thirty lashes if delivered with venom. Obrin had been sparing with his strokes, but each of the whip-heads had a tiny piece of lead attached, adding weight to each lash, scoring the skin, opening the flesh. Chard felt sick as he remembered standing at the stake, biting into the leather belt, determined not to scream. But scream he did, until he passed out on the thirty-fourth stroke.

A mixture of honey and wine had been applied to his blood-drenched back. Three of the deeper cuts had needed stiches, twenty-two in all. Yet here he was, within a fortnight, sitting his saddle and leading his men.

He did not question the Baron’s change of heart, and had accepted the commission with a burbled speech of gratitude that the Baron had cut short. “Do not fail me again, Chard,” he had warned. “How many men will you need?”

“Three hundred, sir.”

The Baron had laughed at him. “For a village? why not take a thousand?”

“There are nearly two hundred of them, sir!”

The Baron had lifted a sheet of paper. “One hundred and fifty, approximately. Fifty of them are children under the age of twelve. Around forty are women. The remainder are men. Farmers, cattle-herders—not a good sword among them. Take one hundred and fifty men. No prisoners, Chard. Hang all the bodies so they can be clearly seen. Burn the buildings.”

“Yes, sir. When you say no prisoners … you mean the men?”

“Kill them all. I have chosen the men you will have with you. They are mercenaries, scum mostly. They’ll have no problem with the task. When they’re finished let them loot. They will also—most certainly—keep some of the younger women alive for a while. Let them have their enjoyment, it’s good for morale.” The Baron’s cold eyes fixed on Chard. “You have a problem with this?”

Chard wished he had the courage to tell the man just how much a problem he had with butchery. Instead he had swallowed hard and mumbled, “No, sir.”

“How is your back?”

“Healing, sir.”

“You won’t fail me again, will you, Chard?”

“No, sir.”

The sun was high and sweat trickled down on to the whip wounds. Chard groaned. An officer rode alongside as they reached the valley floor.

“Beyond that line of hills, isn’t it?” the man asked and Chard turned his head. The officer was thin-faced, with protruding eyes, his face marred by the scars of smallpox. Several white-headed pimples showed around his nostrils and a boil was beginning on the nape of his neck. “Many women there?” asked the officer, as Chard ignored the first question.

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